summary: you were supposed to stay behind the camera until cam made it impossible to stay out of the story.
word count: 3.7k words
a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! CAM IS AN ALL STAR AHHHH, ik it was coming but i'm so excitedd and proud of him. thank you for reading, i love youuu!!
⸻
The first time Cam Schlittler really looks at you, it's because you stop filming.
Most of the Yankees social team won't, not right away. There's always another angle, another reaction clip, another awkward half second to mine for content later.
But Cam's standing under fluorescent lights outside the clubhouse, one hand rubbing the back of his neck, shoulders tight. He looks like he's being held hostage.
"So," you say, lowering the camera, "favorite postgame meal?"
He blinks. "Food."
You bite back a smile. "Very helpful."
"You asked." His look is so dry it almost counts as humor.
Ben laughs loud enough for both of you. "He's crushing it."
Cam's ears go pink.
You know the type players who light up under a lens, who get louder and bigger and more themselves. Cam folds in instead, like attention lands too heavy on him.
So you lower the camera all the way.
"We can do this another day. It's not urgent."
That makes him look at you. Not through you, not past you. At you.
"You're not posting that?"
You glance at the blank monitor. "Unless you want a riveting seven second clip of you saying 'food,' probably not."
His mouth twitches but it's the first time he looks anything close to comfortable around you.
That's how it starts.
Not with flirting or dramatic tension, just you choosing not to use the footage.
After that, Cam gets easier. Not easy he's still quiet, still private, still more likely to shrug than give a soundbite. But he stops looking like he wants to bolt every time you approach with a camera, and on content days he drifts closer before you even ask.
You notice things.
The way he relaxes when you explain what you're filming before hitting record. The way he hates being surprised on camera. The way his eyes find your face, not the lens, when he's unsure if you're serious. The way he talks more with the camera off than on.
You start saving the softer moments.
Cam leaning against the dugout rail while you swap batteries, asking in that low voice if social ever gets a day off.
Cam standing still while you clip a mic to his waistband, both of you suddenly aware of how close your hands are.
Cam lingering after a shoot wraps, watching footage over your shoulder, his shoulder brushing yours.
He never apologizes for it.
You never move away.
It becomes a rhythm.
You film, edit, travel, eat stadium food, answer messages, and spend half your life making chaos look polished in under sixty seconds.
Cam starts fitting into the edges of your days without either of you acknowledging it.
He appears with coffee one morning and sets it down beside your laptop.
"Is this yours?" you ask.
He shakes his head. "For you."
"How do you know what I order?"
He looks mildly annoyed that you asked. "You get the same thing every road trip."
Then he walks away before you can respond.
You spend the rest of the morning pretending that doesn't do something embarrassing to your heart.
By midseason, people have noticed.
Not enough to be a thing, but enough for Ben to smirk when Cam moves your bag before anyone else can take the seat beside him on the bus.
Enough for Will to say, leaning against the tunnel wall, "You know, if you keep hovering around social like that, people are gonna start talking."
Cam, holding a water bottle and pretending not to wait for you, says flatly, "People already talk."
Will grins. "Yeah, but this is more fun."
Max walks past, calm as ever. He glances between you both, takes in your camera bag and Cam standing just a little too close to it, and nods. "He's got the stare for it."
"The stare?" Cam looks genuinely offended.
"The one where you act like being perceived is a personal attack."
Ben nearly chokes laughing.
Even Cam cracks a smile.
You catch it without a camera for once, and something warm blooms low in your chest.
This should probably scare you, you think.
Instead, it feels easiest.
What scares you comes later.
⸻
It starts small.
A comment under a behind-the-scenes post: admin got favorites?
no literally why is she always posting him lmao
girl on yankees media team wants him BAD
You've dealt with fan comments before, but they multiply.
Under interviews, travel posts, candid dugout shots.
People speculate like they know you, like they know him. Like every frame is evidence of something.
You stop reading comments.
Then you start again, against your better judgment.
One night in your hotel room on a road trip, you sit on the mattress edge with your laptop open, letting harsh blue light wash over you while your group chat with the other social coordinators buzzes.
Ignore it. People are weird. Occupational hazard.
You know they mean well.
But your face burns anyway.
Because it isn't just the comments.
It's the teasing.
Ben bumping your shoulder, "Want me to leave you two alone or—"
Will walking into the media room, seeing Cam at your desk, backing out with both hands up.
Even harmless jokes feel sharp. You're already trying so hard to stay professional, and suddenly everyone is looking at you like they see right through your skin.
Cam notices before you say anything.
You're in the editing room late after a home game, stadium quiet except for cleanup crews down the hall. Your laptop is full of timeline cuts, but you've been staring at the same clip for three minutes.
Cam appears in the doorway, silent enough to make your heart skip.
"You're still here."
"So are you."
"Lift ran late," he says. "You okay?"
The question is soft enough to nearly undo you.
You laugh once. "Yeah. Just tired."
He studies your face. Cam doesn't push usually, which makes it worse when he does.
"That's not it."
You lean back in your chair. For one stupid second, because it's him, because you're tired, because the room is dim and no one's here, you let the truth show.
"It's just a lot. The comments, people joking around, feeling like if I breathe wrong someone's gonna make it weird."
His jaw shifts. "It matters if it's making this harder for you."
The word this hangs between you heavier than it should.
"Cam—" Your chest tightens.
He steps closer. "I don't like that you're dealing with that."
The air turns fragile.
He's close enough that if either of you leaned, the distance would be nothing.
You swallow. "You're the only part of it that doesn't feel hard."
He exhales, slow and shaky.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "You too."
It's not quite a confession, but it feels like one.
He braces one hand on the desk, not touching you but close enough that your skin prickles. His eyes flick to your mouth and back, and your pulse goes wild.
You think he's going to kiss you.
Then voices sound from the hallway, and the moment shatters.
Cam straightens.
You look away first.
⸻
The next few days are softer but more dangerous. He looks at you like he's thinking too much. He finds reasons to stop by. Once, during batting practice, he passes behind you and his fingertips skim your lower back just long enough to steady you.
It would be nothing to anyone else.
It feels like everything to you.
Which is why the crash hurts as much as it does.
A video goes up from a road trip harmless, just airport clips and bus arrivals and players half asleep in hoodies. Cam's in it for maybe four seconds.
By the time you see the comments, there are too many.
There's a screenshot of a coworker's tweet making a joke about certain pitchers volunteering for extra content if a certain social admin is working. It's supposed to be funny.
You're in the service hallway when Cam finds you, he looks tense in a way you haven't seen before.
"Did you see that?"
"Yeah."
His mouth hardens. "So this is just what it is now?"
You stare at him. "What?"
He gestures at the invisible mess surrounding you both. "People talking. Making it into something public before we even knew what it was."
Your stomach drops. "You think I wanted that?"
"I think maybe lines got blurred somewhere."
The words land like a slap.
For a second your brain refuses to understand them.
Then it does.
"Blurred," you repeat.
Cam's expression flickers he knows he said it wrong. But fear got there first.
"You're around players all the time," he says, digging in instead of stopping. "This is your job. Cameras, content. And now everyone thinks—"
"Wow."
He stops.
"That's what you think this is?" You laugh once, small and wrecked. "You think I'm blurring lines for content?"
"No, that's not—"
"Because of my job."
He says nothing.
You nod slowly, throat burning. "Okay."
His whole body tenses like he wants to reach for you, but you step back.
"Don't," you say.
"I didn't mean it like that."
"But you said it like that."
You walk past him before he can respond.
⸻
After that, you become very good at your job.
Professional. Polite. Efficient.
You film him like you film everybody else, you say thanks and step aside. You don't linger, don't look longer than necessary, don't soften.
If he comes near your desk, you move.
If he stands in the doorway of the media room, you keep your eyes on your screen until he leaves.
Ben notices first.
You're packing up after a clubhouse feature when he leans on the table. "Okay. What happened?"
"Nothing."
He snorts. "Sure."
"Ben."
His humor fades. "He looks miserable."
You zip your camera bag. "That's a him problem."
He watches you. "Yeah. Probably."
Will is less subtle.
A week later he catches Cam after a game and says loudly enough for you to hear, "You could just apologize instead of standing around looking haunted."
It would be easier if anger burned clean, you think. Easier if humiliation killed the feeling.
Instead you're left with hurt and missing him and the constant ache of knowing he saw how overwhelmed you were and still made it worse.
Weeks pass.
The season keeps moving. Games, flights, deadlines, edits done from hotel lobbies at midnight. Your life doesn't stop just because your chest feels bruised.
But the absence of him changes everything.
You still look for him without meaning to.
Still feel the hole where his coffee cups and doorway silences used to be.
Sometimes you catch him looking at you from across the clubhouse, expression raw enough to make you look away.
He tries, once or twice, to say something.
After an interview, he lingers while you disconnect his mic.
"Can we talk?"
You keep your hands steady. "No."
Outside the bus on a road trip.
"You're avoiding me."
You give him a tired look. "I'm working."
His jaw tightens. "That's not what I mean."
You shoulder your bag and step around him. "Doesn't matter what you mean."
You leave him standing there.
⸻
The breaking point comes on a gray afternoon in Boston.
You're in a cramped hallway with your supervisor, talking about coverage assignments.
"I can take Ben for the player feature," you say. "Or Max, if you need that pitching piece."
Your supervisor nods. "And Cam?"
Your stomach twists.
"It might be better if someone else handles him for a while."
Silence.
Then, from behind you, the sharp sound of someone stopping short.
You turn.
Cam is standing at the end of the hall, duffel over one shoulder, face gone blank.
Your supervisor, not stupid, disappears into the room.
You and Cam stare at each other in the empty hallway.
"You're switching off me," he says.
"I'm requesting space."
His voice is rough. "Because of me."
"What do you want me to say, Cam?"
He takes a step closer. "That you don't mean it."
The hurt is almost enough to cover the exhaustion. "You don't get to ask me for that."
He looks wrecked.
"I know."
You wait.
He swallows hard. "I know."
Something in the way he says it makes your chest constrict.
He glances down the hallway, then back at you. "Please."
Just a plea.
You should walk away.
"Five minutes," you say instead.
He nods once, sharp.
You follow him to the far end of the tunnel near the service exit where it's cooler and darker, just the faint hum of the stadium around you.
Cam turns to face you. For a second he says nothing, like he's trying to figure out how to begin without hiding behind the wrong words.
Finally he exhales.
"I was scared."
You fold your arms.
He keeps going. "I saw everything getting worse for you. The comments, the jokes, people making it into something public before…" He breaks off, presses a hand to the back of his neck. "Before we even knew what it was."
Your eyes sting.
"And I told myself if I pulled away, it would make it easier on you." He laughs once, bitter. "That's not true. It was easier for me. I was freaking out."
His gaze lifts to yours and doesn't look away.
"You were already overwhelmed, and I made it worse. I took the one thing that was real and acted like it wasn't." His throat works. "That was cruel."
You swallow against the lump in your throat.
He steps closer, carefully, like you might still leave.
"I never thought your feelings weren't real." His voice nearly breaks. "Not for your job. Not for anything."
"Then why did you say it?"
His face twists. "Because it was the worst thing I could think of."
The honesty knocks the air out of you.
He shakes his head, angry at himself. "I wanted distance. I wanted it to stop feeling like if I wanted you this much, everyone else would get a piece of it too. Instead of saying that, I said the thing that would hurt enough to push you away."
Tears burn at your eyes. "It worked."
"I know." He sounds devastated. "I know."
For a second all you hear is the hum of the lights.
Then you say, quietly, "Do you have any idea what that felt like?"
He nods, but you keep going because he needs to hear it.
"You made me feel stupid. And humiliated. Like every comment and joke was right, and I was some girl who got too attached because it was convenient." Your voice shakes. "I was already drowning, Cam, and you looked at me like I was part of the problem."
His face goes pale.
"I cared about you," you say. "For real. And you made it sound like that was just my job."
"It wasn't." He says it instantly, fiercely. "It wasn't."
You look at him for a long moment.
Tears are in your eyes now, and you hate that he gets to see them, but maybe he should.
"If you want someone," you say, "you have to trust them. Not just when it's quiet and easy. All the time."
He nods immediately. "I know."
"No. You know now."
He takes that. Doesn't argue. Doesn't defend himself.
"Yes," he says. "I know now."
Your breath leaves you slowly.
He steps closer, still leaving space for you to stop him.
"When you said you wanted off my coverage," he says, voice rough, "that was the first time I believed I could actually lose you."
You close your eyes briefly.
"I thought giving you space would make things safer," he admits. "But these last few weeks have been…" He shakes his head. "Worse. Just worse."
When you look at him again, he's staring at you like the answer to something he's been getting wrong.
"I'm sorry," he says. "Not in a way that asks you to get over it. Just… I'm sorry. I was scared, and I let that make me mean, and you didn't deserve any of it."
The quiet that follows feels different.
Just waiting.
"I want a real chance. If you can still give me one."
Your heart trips over itself.
He doesn't reach for you. Doesn't try to make the choice for you. He just stands there with his shoulders tense and his expression open, and waits.
You think about the weeks of missing him. About the way he showed up in your days before either of you knew what to call it. About the coffee and doorway pauses and the almost kiss in the editing room. About the pain, yes, but also about how plainly he is standing in it now.
When you speak, your voice is barely above a whisper.
"One chance."
His whole face changes.
Not into relief exactly, but into something softer and stunned, like he didn't let himself believe you would say yes.
"One," you repeat.
He nods fast. "One."
"And if you freak out again—"
"I won't."
You raise an eyebrow.
He huffs a breath that is almost a laugh. "Okay. I might. But I won't do that to you again."
That feels more honest.
You let out a shaky breath.
Then Cam does something he hasn't done once this entire conversation.
He lifts his hand, slowly, carefully. Giving you every second to pull away.
When his fingers brush yours, you nearly break all over again.
You don't pull away.
His hand closes around yours like he's been wanting to for months.
For a minute you just stand there in the quiet tunnel, fingers tangled, no cameras, no comments, no one looking.
Then he says, almost sheepish, "Can I kiss you now, or is that too soon for the one chance?"
You laugh through your tears. "That was a terrible question."
"Yeah," he says. "I know."
You step closer anyway.
This time when he kisses you, there's nothing hesitant about it. One hand warm against your jaw, the other holding yours, mouth soft and certain and apologetic all at once. The kiss is not dramatic, just relief and honesty and finally stopping the bleeding.
When you pull back, his forehead rests briefly against yours.
"You still switching off my coverage?" he murmurs.
You give him a look. "That depends. You gonna make my job harder?"
His mouth brushes the corner of yours. "I'll try to be less hauntingly in love with you in hallways."
You stare at him.
He freezes. "I—"
But you're already smiling.
Pink rises up his neck.
From down the tunnel, a voice rings out.
"Okay," Ben calls, "I know I said I'd give you privacy, but this is taking forever."
You jolt back just enough to see him leaning around the corner with a smug grin. Max stands behind him, expression composed, while Will looks delighted.
"Oh my god," you mutter.
Will points at Cam. "Told you haunted."
Max nods. "He does look better now."
Ben squints at both of you. "Are we all emotionally stable again, or do I need apology witness duty?"
Cam, still red from the ears down, says flatly, "Go away."
Ben beams. "That's basically a yes."
You cover your face with your free hand.
But when Cam's fingers tighten around yours, hidden by the angle and shadows, you don't let go.
⸻
Later, things settle.
Not all at once.
You still work and he still pitches. The comments don't vanish, and the world doesn't stop being nosy just because you finally got honest.
But the difference is trust.
He doesn't pull away when it gets messy. You don't have to guess where you stand when the room gets loud.
At first you keep it private in the way it deserves, not hidden in a way that hurts. A hand brushing yours beneath the table in the media room. His shoulder finding yours in an empty hallway. Coffee appearing by your laptop every morning.
Ben notices and acts insufferable.
Will notices and acts worse.
Max only gives you one calm look over the rim of his cup and says, "He smiles more now."
You glance across the field where Cam is stretching near the foul line, head bent while a coach talks to him.
"Yeah," you say softly. "He does."
One night back at Yankee Stadium, you're filming a postgame clip near the dugout while players mill around. The game was good, energy is loose.
Cam passes just out of frame.
To anyone watching, it means nothing when his hand brushes lightly at the back of yours.
It lasts less than a second.
Just enough.
You don't look up right away because you're still excellent at your job.
But your mouth betrays you anyway, curving before you can stop it.
From behind you, Ben's voice drifts over.
"There it is," he says to no one and everyone.
You hear Will laugh.
Max, calm as ever, says, "Leave them alone."
And for once, the teasing doesn't cut.
Because when the camera lowers and the work is done and the stadium begins its slow exhale into night, Cam is waiting for you at the edge of the dugout with that quiet look in his eyes that no longer makes you afraid.
You go to him.
No rushing. No panic. No one pushing anyone away.
Just his hand finding yours out of frame, exactly where it belongs.
⸻
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summary: before the cameras flash, bryan has one problem he can’t keep his hands off the one person he’s supposed to pretend isn’t driving him crazy.
word count: 3.5k words
a/n: this was a request i hope you enjoy! life has been lifeing lately but i'm still alivee! thank you for reading, i love youuu!!
warning: SMUT
⸻
The late afternoon light filtered through the hotel suite’s floor-to-ceiling windows, casting everything in gold. You stood at the vanity, fingers steady as you applied the final touch of lipstick a deep, confident shade that made you feel like you could handle anything the night would throw at you.
Behind you, reflected in the mirror, Bryan sat on the edge of the bed. He was already dressed, scrolling through his phone and adjusting his cufflinks, pretending he wasn’t watching your every move. But you could feel his attention like a physical thing, warm and weighted, tracking the curve of your neck as you tilted your head, the way your hands moved as you smoothed down the fabric of your dress.
You took your time, on purpose.
When you finally stood and turned to face him fully, the air in the room shifted.
Bryan looked up and his phone slipped from his hand onto the bed. His lips parted slightly, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything at all. His gaze traveled slowly from your heels to the way the dress hugged every curve, to the bare line of your collarbone, to your face.
“You look…” His voice came out rougher than usual. He cleared his throat and shook his head slightly. “Damn.”
Heat bloomed in your chest, spreading outward. You bit back a smile.
“That’ll work.”
He stood then, crossing the space between you in three strides, and suddenly he was right there. You held still as he moved behind you, his presence filling the mirror.
His hands found your waist first, fingers spreading wide, thumbs pressing gently into the small of your back. The touch was warm even through the fabric, possessive in a way that made your breath hitch. His jaw came to rest against your shoulder, the slight scratch of stubble sending a shiver down your spine.
“You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, his voice low and intimate, meant only for you.
You met his eyes in the mirror, your pulse quickening.
“I haven’t even done anything yet.”
“Exactly.” His hands tightened slightly at your waist. “That’s the problem.”
The energy between you was charged, electric, like the moment before a storm breaks. You could feel the tension in the way he held himself controlled, restrained, but barely.
You turned your head just enough to catch his profile.
“We have to leave soon.”
“I know.”
“Cameras. Red carpet. Hundreds of people.”
His thumb traced a slow circle against your hip, and your stomach flipped.
You were about to say something teasing, something to push him just a little further—when a sharp knock sounded at the door.
“Mr. Woo! We need to go, we’re already five minutes behind!”
The PR team, of course.
Bryan’s jaw tensed. He exhaled slowly, his breath warm against your neck, and then reluctantly he stepped back, his hands sliding away from your waist.
You turned to face him fully, and for a moment, you just looked at each other.
His eyes were dark, intent, full of promises he couldn’t make yet.
You smiled slow, knowing.
Later, that look said.
His answering gaze confirmed it. Then he grabbed his jacket, you picked up your clutch, and the two of you headed for the door.
⸻
The black SUV was waiting at the curb, engine idling, tinted windows reflecting the city skyline. The driver held the door open, and you slid into the backseat first, the leather cool against your legs.
Bryan followed, and immediately you realized the problem.
There wasn’t much space.
The backseat was generous by normal standards, but with Bryan’s frame broad shoulders, long legs and the way you’d positioned yourself, a choice had to be made.
You made it.
Without hesitation, you shifted, sliding smoothly onto his lap, your dress riding up slightly as you settled against him.
His hands came to your waist immediately, steadying you or maybe just needing to touch you. One hand rested on your thigh, warm and deliberate, fingers splayed wide. His other hand pressed against your lower back, holding you close.
“Comfortable?” His voice was low, amused, but there was an edge to it.
“Very.” You shifted slightly, adjusting your position, and felt him tense beneath you.
The driver closed the door, sealing you in dim, tinted privacy. Outside, the city lights began to blur as you pulled into traffic, but inside, the world narrowed to just the two of you.
You turned your head to look at him and found him already watching you, his gaze heavy lidded and intent.
“Hi,” you whispered.
“Hi.”
When he leaned in, you met him halfway.
The kiss started slow a gentle press of lips, a soft exhale, the kind of kiss that could stay innocent if they let it.
Neither of you let it.
His hand slid higher on her thigh, fingers pressing into soft skin. You cupped his jaw, deepening the kiss, parting your lips, tasting him.
He made a low sound in the back of his throat, and suddenly the kiss wasn't slow anymore.
His mouth moved against yours with purpose, with hunger barely restrained. The hand on your back pressed you closer, and you could feel his heartbeat fast, matching yours.
"You're making this impossible," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough.
"Good," you breathed back and kissed him again.
His breathing changed deeper, less controlled. His fingers flexed against your thigh, and you felt the tension in every line of his body, the way he was holding himself back even as he pulled you closer.
You shifted in his lap, and his grip tightened, a warning and a plea all at once.
The driver cleared his throat.
Loud. Pointed. A reminder that you were not, in fact, alone.
You pulled back just enough to catch your breath and found Bryan staring at you with dark, dilated eyes. His lips were slightly swollen, his hair messed up where your fingers had tangled in it.
You couldn’t help it, you smirked.
His eyes darkened further. He leaned in close, his lips brushing your ear.
“Wait until later.”
The words sent heat pooling low in your stomach.
“Later,” you agreed, your voice barely steady.
But you didn’t move from his lap.
⸻
The moment the SUV door opened, the world exploded into noise and light.
Camera flashes erupted like lightning, a constant strobe that made you blink. Voices called out Bryan’s name, questions, requests to look left, look right, over here, one more.
Bryan stepped out first, then turned and offered his hand.
You took it, letting him help you out, and immediately felt his other hand settle at the small of your back.
As you stepped onto the red carpet together, the noise intensified.
“Bryan! Over here!”
“Who’s your date tonight?”
“Both of you, look this way!”
His hand never left your back. If anything, it pressed more firmly, his fingers splayed wide, a silent claim that made you hyperaware of every point of contact between you.
They moved slowly down the carpet, pausing for photos. When you stopped, he leaned in close, his lips near your ear, whispering things that had nothing to do with the cameras.
“You okay?”
“You’re stunning.”
“I can’t stop looking at you.”
The whispers sent shivers down your spine and made it harder to maintain the polite, camera ready smile.
You wanted to kiss him, badly. Wanted to turn your head and capture his mouth with yours, forget about the cameras and the crowd and the fact that you were supposed to be professional.
But you couldn’t.
So instead, you leaned into him slightly, let your hand rest on his chest, felt his heartbeat strong and fast beneath your palm.
An interviewer stepped into your path, microphone extended, camera crew flanking her.
“Bryan! So excited to see you here tonight. Who are you most excited to see at the ESPYs?”
Bryan’s hand tightened slightly at your back. He glanced down at you, and the look in his eyes made your breath catch.
Then he turned back to the interviewer with an easy smile.
“I already brought my favorite person,” he said simply.
The interviewer beamed, and warmth flooded through your chest, spreading outward, making you feel like you were glowing from the inside out.
You looked up at him, and he looked back, and for a moment, the cameras didn’t matter.
You wanted to kiss him so badly it hurt.
Later, you reminded yourself.
Later.
⸻
The venue’s interior was all low lighting and elegant ambiance, a stark contrast to the chaos of the red carpet. Your table was positioned among other athletes and actors, people whose faces you recognized from screens and headlines.
But you only cared about the man sitting next to you.
Bryan pulled out your chair, waited until you were seated, then settled beside you close. Way closer than strictly necessary.
Your knees touched under the table.
Neither of you moved away.
As the ceremony began, the lights dimmed further, and the room settled into a quieter energy. Awards were announced, speeches given, applause rippling through the crowd.
And under the table, hidden from view, Bryan’s hand found your thigh.
The touch was light at first, just his fingers resting above your knee, warm through the thin fabric of your dress. It seemed casual, innocent even.
Except it wasn’t.
His thumb began to trace slow circles, a deliberate pattern that made you hyperaware of every nerve ending in your body.
You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. He was watching the stage, expression attentive, like he was completely focused on the ceremony.
But his hand never stopped moving.
You slid your own hand down, covering his, and felt his fingers flex beneath yours.
You sat like that, hands layered together, hidden beneath the tablecloth, while cameras panned across the audience and award categories were announced.
To anyone watching, you looked perfectly composed.
Underneath, tension coiled tighter with every passing moment.
Then the presenter announced.
“And now, for Best Breakthrough Athlete…”
Bryan’s posture straightened slightly.
His category.
Camera operators moved into position, ready to capture reactions.
But his hand never left your leg. If anything, his grip tightened, his fingers pressing more firmly into your thigh, like he needed the anchor.
You turned your hand over, lacing your fingers through his, and squeezed gently.
I’m here, the gesture said.
His thumb brushed across your knuckles in response.
⸻
The room fell into that particular kind of hush that comes right before an announcement anticipatory, breath-held, everyone waiting.
The presenter opened the envelope with theatrical slowness.
Bryan leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath, the slight movement of his jaw as he spoke.
His voice was low and rough, meant only for you.
“If we weren’t in public right now…”
He paused.
“You know exactly what I’d be doing.”
Your breath caught in your throat. Your pulse jumped, suddenly loud in your ears, drowning out everything else. Heat flooded through you, making you acutely aware of every point where your bodies touched his hand on your thigh, his shoulder against yours, his breath on your neck.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.
They were dark and intense.
You held his gaze, letting him see the effect his words had on you, letting him see the promise in your expression.
Later.
His jaw clenched as his fingers pressed harder into your thigh.
“And the winner is…”
⸻
“Bryan Woo!”
The room erupted into applause.
For a moment, Bryan didn’t move. He just stared at you, like he was memorizing this moment, this feeling.
Then he lifted your hand from where it rested on his, brought it to his lips, and kissed your knuckles.
He stood, buttoned his jacket, and made his way to the stage.
You watched him go, your hand still tingling where his lips had been.
He accepted the award, shook hands with the presenter, and stepped up to the microphone. The speech was gracious and humble, thanking his team and his family and everyone who’d supported him.
But then, right at the end, he paused and looked directly at you.
The look lasted only a few seconds but it felt like longer.
Thank you. I see you. Later.
When he returned to the table, the ceremony continued around you, but you barely registered it.
All you could think about was the weight of his hand returning to yours, the promise in his eyes, and the fact that soon, finally you’d be alone.
⸻
The ceremony ended in a blur of applause and movement. People stood, mingled, congratulated Bryan as they passed. He accepted it all with grace, with smiles and handshakes and thank-yous, but his hand never left your back.
The car ride to the hotel was different from the one that brought you to the venue. The tension had shifted no longer restrained anticipation, more urgent.
They didn’t speak.
They didn’t need to.
When you finally arrived at the hotel, Bryan helped you out of the car with a hand that lingered at your waist, then guided you through the lobby. The elevator ride felt endless.
The moment you reached your suite, he had the key card out and the door open.
It closed behind you with a soft click.
He turned to you, eyes dark with intent.
“No more waiting.”
You smiled, slow and knowing.
“No more waiting,” you agreed.
Then his mouth was on yours. The kiss was nothing like the one in the car this wasn't restrained or careful. This was hunger unleashed, all the tension from the entire evening finally breaking free. His hands came up to frame your face, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and you opened for him immediately, tasting him, feeling the groan that rumbled through his chest.
Your hands found his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders. He shrugged out of it without breaking the kiss, letting it fall to the floor. His tie came next, your fingers fumbling with the knot until it loosened and you could pull it free.
"You've been driving me crazy all night," he murmured against your lips, his voice rough and low. His hands slid down your sides, tracing the curves of your body through the fabric of the dress. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"
"Show me," you breathed.
His eyes flashed dark, and then he was kissing you again, walking backward until yours legs hit the edge of the bed. He found the zipper at the back of the dress, sliding it down slowly, deliberately, his knuckles brushing against your bare skin and leaving trails of heat in their wake.
The dress pooled at your feet, and you stepped out of it, standing before him in just lingerie and heels.
Bryan pulled back just enough to look at your, his gaze traveling over every inch of exposed skin. "Fuck," he whispered. "You're perfect."
Heat flooded through you at the raw desire in his voice, in his eyes. You reached for his shirt, unbuttoning it with fingers that trembled slightly not from nervousness, but from anticipation.
When you pushed the shirt off his shoulders, your hands explored the planes of his chest, the defined muscles, the warmth of his skin. He was beautiful, and he was yours.
Bryan guided you back onto the bed, following you down, his body covering yours. The weight of him, the heat, the way he fit against you, it was overwhelming in the best way.
He kissed your neck, sucking at the sensitive skin there, and you arched into him, fingers tangling in his hair. He worked his way down, trailing kisses along her collarbone and the swell of your boobs above your bra.
"Bryan," you gasped, and he hummed against your skin.
"I've been thinking about this all night," he murmured, sliding his hands behind you to unhook the bra. He pulled it away slowly, then took a moment just to look at you. "Thinking about touching you. Tasting you."
His mouth found your boob, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it into his mouth, as you cried out, her back arching off the bed. He palmed the other, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak, and pleasure shot straight through your core.
Then he kissed his way down your stomach, sliding your panties down your legs. He helped you kicked off your heels, and then you were completely bare before him.
Bryan settled between your thighs, his hands spreading them wider, and the look he gave you was pure hunger. "I need to taste you," he said, his voice rough. "Need to make you come on my tongue."
"Please," you said and then his mouth was on you.
The first touch of his tongue made you gasp, hips jerking involuntarily. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks of pleasure through your entire body. He worked slowly at first, knowing what made you gasp, what made her moan, what made your fingers tighten in his hair.
When he found the rhythm that had you trembling, he kept going. His tongue circled your clit with perfect pressure, and when he slid two fingers inside, curling them just right, till you saw stars.
"Bryan—oh god—I'm—"
"Come for me," he murmured against you, and the combination of his words, his tongue, his fingers sent you over the edge.
The orgasm crashed through you, wave after wave of intense pleasure that had you crying out his name, body arching, thighs trembling around his head. He helped with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs.
When he finally moved back up your body, his lips were glistening, and the satisfied look in his eyes made you want him even more.
⸻
You reached for his belt, unbuckling it with shaking hands. He helped you, pushing his pants and boxers down and kicking them off. When he settled back over you, you could feel him, hard and hot against your thigh, and you reached down to wrap a hand around him.
He groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder. "Fuck, baby."
You stroked him slowly, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, the way he pulsed against your touch. After a moment, though, he caught your wrist, pinning it gently above your head.
"I need to be inside you," he said, his voice strained. "I've been thinking about this all night. About how you'd feel."
"Then stop thinking," you whispered, "and fuck me."
Something in his eyes went molten. He reached for his discarded pants, pulling out a condom from his wallet. You watched as he rolled it on, pulse racing with anticipation.
He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you, and you both groaned at the contact.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch was perfect, the fullness exactly what you needed. When he was fully inside of you, he paused, his forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing hard.
"You feel incredible," he murmured. "So fucking perfect."
He started to move, setting a rhythm that was deep and deliberate, each thrust hitting exactly where you needed him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, changing the angle, and you both moaned at the sensation.
"Yes," you gasped. "Just like that—don't stop—"
He kept that perfect rhythm, his hips rolling against yours, one hand gripping your hip while the other braced beside your head. He kissed you deeply, swallowing your moans, and you could taste herself on his tongue.
The pleasure built steadily, coiling tighter in your core. You could feel another orgasm approaching, could feel it in the way your body tensed, the way your inner walls tighten around him.
"I can feel you getting close," Bryan groaned. "You're squeezing me so tight. Come for me again, baby. I want to feel you come on my cock."
His words pushed you closer to the edge. You reached down between the two of you, your fingers finding your clit, and the added stimulation was exactly what you needed.
"Bryan—I'm—oh fuck—"
The orgasm hit like a tidal wave, even more intense than the first. You cried out, your body clenching around him, pleasure flooding through every nerve ending.
"Fuck, yes," Bryan groaned, and his rhythm faltered, became more urgent. "You're so beautiful when you come. I'm close—"
"Come for me," you whispered, still trembling with aftershocks. "I want to feel you."
He thrust into you hard, once, twice, and then he was coming with a groan that sounded like your name, his body shuddering above yours, his face buried in your neck.
You stayed like that for a long moment, both breathing hard, bodies still joined. You could feel his heart pounding against your chest.
He lifted his head to look at you and the tenderness in his eyes made your chest ache.
"That was…" He shook his head, smiling. "I don't even have words."
You smiled back, reaching up to brush his hair back from his forehead. "Worth the wait?"
"Worth everything," he murmured, and kissed you softly.
He pulled out carefully, disposing of the condom before returning to gather you in his arms. You shifted together until you were lying side by side, your head on his chest, his arms wrapped around you.
The room was quiet except for your gradually slowing breaths. Outside, the city lights glittered, but inside there was only warmth and satisfaction and the feeling of being exactly where you were meant to be.
"Stay," he whispered into your hair.
You pressed a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. "I'm not going anywhere."
summary: for years, your birthday meant a new haircut. this year, it means something more.
word count: 3k words
a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoyyy!! inspired by the headcanonn, thank you for reading!!! i love youuu!!!
⸻
"You've been staring at that picture for ten minutes."
Ana's voice cut through your thoughts. Across the small table, she raised an eyebrow before taking a sip of her iced coffee.
"I have not."
"You absolutely have."
Your eyes dropped back to the screen. The picture staring back at you was a hairstyle you'd saved three weeks ago then another, and another. All different versions of the same thing, shorter. Much shorter.
A sigh escaped before you could stop it. "I don't know if I want to do it."
Ana nearly choked. "Excuse me?"
"I just...I don't know."
"You've been talking about cutting your hair since January. You've shown me at least forty seven pinterest pictures. You literally booked the appointment." She set down her coffee with a decisive clink. "So what's the problem?"
Slumping further into your chair seemed like the only reasonable response. The problem was currently at Yankee Stadium, probably in the bullpen or the locker room, sending you increasingly dramatic texts about why you'd disappeared with your best friend on your birthday.
Despite everything, a smile tugged at your lips. You opened the most recent message.
max <3: Are you alive?
max <3: This is suspicious
max <3: I know you're plotting
Ana leaned across the table, craning her neck to see your screen. "Oh."
"What?"
"That's the problem."
Heat crept up your neck. "It's not a problem."
"It's Max."
"It's not Max," you groaned.
"It's Max."
Unfortunately, she was right.
Birthday haircuts had been your thing for years your fresh start, your tradition. While other people bought themselves expensive gifts or took trips, you changed your hair. Sometimes dramatically, sometimes not. It was yours. The difference was that this was the first year you'd had a boyfriend on the other side of it. And not just any boyfriend Max. Sweet, thoughtful, ridiculously observant Max who absentmindedly played with your hair whenever you watched movies, who tucked loose strands behind your ear, who once spent ten minutes untangling your necklace because your hair kept catching in it.
The same Max who had casually mentioned three separate times that he liked how long it was.
"He likes it," you said quietly.
Ana's eye roll was immediate and dramatic. "He likes you."
"That's not the same thing."
"It literally is."
The look you gave her was unconvinced.
She pointed at your phone. "If that man showed up tomorrow bald—like, completely bald—you'd still look at him like he invented sunshine."
Laughter burst out before you could stop it. "That's dramatic."
"Is it?"
A pause stretched between you. "...No."
"Exactly." Ana reached across the table and squeezed your hand. "You're not cutting your hair because Max wants you to, and you're not keeping it because Max wants you to. So stop overthinking it."
Your eyes found the photo again. The haircut you'd been considering for months. The one you'd almost chickened out of three separate times. The one you knew you'd regret not getting.
But something else nagged at you, something that had been creeping into your thoughts more and more lately.
Next year.
The phrase kept appearing in your mind without permission. Next year's haircut. Next year's birthday. Next year with Max. Like he'd just...be there. Like that was a given. Five months wasn't very long everyone said so, but somehow your brain had already started building a calendar that included him in every month of it. That should've felt terrifying, but instead it just felt right. Which was possibly more terrifying.
Ana was watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read. Then her face softened into something knowing, something almost smug.
"What?" you asked.
"Nothing."
"That's not nothing."
"It's just..." She tilted her head, a smile playing at her lips. "You're doing that thing where you're thinking about him and trying not to smile and failing miserably at it." Ana's grin widened. "You know what I realized the other day? You've started saying 'we' instead of 'I' when you talk about plans. Like, 'we're thinking about trying that new place' or 'we might go upstate in the fall.' You don't even notice you're doing it."
Your mouth opened, then closed. She was right.
Ana squeezed your hand again, gentler this time. "That man is so gone for you it's actually ridiculous. And you're just as gone for him. So maybe stop worrying about whether he'll like your hair and start trusting that he's not going anywhere."
The words settled somewhere deep in your chest—not going anywhere, five months that somehow felt like the beginning of next year and the year after that—and slowly, a smile spread across your face.
Ana grinned immediately. "There she is."
Laughter bubbled up. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay."
She pointed toward the salon across the street, visible through the café window. "Let's go make questionable decisions."
"That's what birthdays are for."
⸻
Three hours later, your reflection stared back at you from the salon mirror.
And you couldn't stop smiling.
Your hair brushed your shoulders now. Nearly eight inches, gone. The difference was startling. Lighter, softer, that made you keep looking because you couldn't quite believe it was you.
"Oh, he's going to lose his mind," Ana said from the chair beside you.
A laugh escaped. "You think?"
"I know."
Your phone buzzed against the counter.
max <3: Mission update?
The smile appeared immediately, involuntary.
You: Still alive
Three dots appeared instantly.
max <3: THAT'S ALL I GET?
You: Yep
max <3: You're the worst
You: ❤️
max <3: I don't trust that heart.
The laughter that burst out made the stylist start laughing too.
⸻
Max stood outside your apartment building with flowers in one hand and a gift bag in the other.
For the first time all day, nerves twisted in his stomach. Not because of dinner or the birthday, but because of you.
Five months wasn't very long at least that's what everyone said. But somehow five months with you had become the easiest thing he'd ever done. You fit into his routines, his days, his life. And somewhere along the way, he'd stopped picturing next week and started picturing next year. Next month. Next season. Next birthday. The realization felt dangerous and exciting and terrifying all at once.
The front door opened, and every thought in his head vanished.
You were still inside the building, only your head poking around the corner.
"Don't look."
Max blinked. "What?"
"Don't look."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
Laughter escaped before he could stop it. "You realize that's not a reason."
"Close your eyes."
"You're impossible."
"Max."
He sighed dramatically, then closed his eyes. "Happy?"
"Very."
A few seconds passed. Then more. Then—
"Okay."
His eyes opened, and every coherent thought he'd ever had disappeared.
For a second he genuinely just stared. The haircut was beautiful. The dress was beautiful. You were beautiful. But somehow that still wasn't quite it. It wasn't what had knocked the air from his lungs.
It was the smile the excited, nervous one that appeared whenever you cared about something. The one he was rapidly becoming addicted to seeing.
"You cut it." His voice came out softer than he intended as he stepped closer, still processing. "You really cut it."
Your laugh was breathless. "You knew I was going to."
"I know." His hand lifted, fingers brushing the ends, softer than he expected. When he looked up and caught your expression shifting, uncertainty creeping in, he knew what you were thinking before you even asked.
"Do you hate it?"
Horror crossed his features. "Hate it?" He actually laughed, shaking his head. "No. You look beautiful."
The nervous knot that had followed you through the salon, through dress shopping, through the entire afternoon seemed to disappear all at once. A smile bloomed across your face.
Max returned it, tilting his head slightly. "What?"
"You keep staring."
His grin widened. "You started it."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did." He held out the flowers. "Happy birthday."
Your face immediately softened. "They're beautiful."
"So are you."
"Okay, now you're laying it on thick."
"I'm serious."
Unfortunately, that was the problem. Max never sounded like he was trying to be charming. He just sounded honest, which was somehow worse. The flowers found their way into your hands before he could see your face heating up.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
He couldn't stop looking at you the new length, the way it framed your face, how different and somehow exactly right it all was.
You caught him staring again and laughed. "You're obsessed."
"I'm processing."
"Still?"
"You cut off a lot."
"I know."
His hand found yours, fingers threading through with easy familiarity. "Ready?"
You squeezed back.
"Yeah."
And just like that, your birthday officially started.
⸻
Dinner was perfect.
Not extravagant or flashy. Just one of those places tucked between two buildings in Manhattan that somehow felt like a secret. Warm lighting spilled across small tables. Through tall windows, the street outside moved at its own pace while inside, nobody rushed you.
The kind of restaurant where conversations lasted longer than meals. By the time dessert arrived, neither of you had touched it. Too busy talking. Max was halfway through a story about growing up in California when you cut him off.
"No."
Laughter lit up his face. "What?"
"You're telling me you broke your arm because you jumped off a roof?"
"I was ten."
"You jumped off a roof."
"I thought I could make it."
Staring at him seemed like the only appropriate response. "You thought you could fly?"
"I didn't say that."
"You implied it."
Max shook his head, still grinning. "You're impossible."
A smile tugged at your lips. "I know."
The waiter appeared with your dessert and a candle.
You groaned immediately.
Max's face lit up. "Oh, this is happening."
"Don't you dare—"
"It absolutely is."
The waiter started singing before you could protest further. Your face found your hands while Max looked happier than he'd looked all night, which was really saying something considering how long he'd stared at your haircut earlier.
When the waiter finally left, you pointed your spoon at him. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Very much," he agreed, still grinning.
"I hate you."
"No, you don't." He sounded entirely too confident about that.
Unfortunately, he was right.
⸻
The city felt different after dinner, like the entire world had slowed down just for you. Neither of you wanted the night to end. So instead of calling a car, you started walking. Hand in hand. No destination. No plan. Just wandering.
The streets were busy enough to feel alive but quiet enough that you didn't have to raise your voice. At one point, you stopped outside a bookstore. Then a bakery. Then a little gift shop where Max spent five minutes making fun of a mug that said World's Okayest New Yorker.
"You should buy it."
"No way."
His laughter echoed down the sidewalk, and the sound made your chest warm.
The farther you walked, the easier the conversation became little stories bleeding into childhood memories, then drifting toward future plans in that natural way that happens when two people like each other enough to assume they'll still be around.
"Next year," you said casually, "I'm making you come to the haircut appointment."
Horror crossed Max's face. "No."
"Why?"
"Because that's stressful."
"You literally sit there."
"Exactly."
"You don't even have to do anything."
"I'd have to watch."
Laughter burst out of you. "You survived professional baseball."
"This is different."
"How?"
"I know what's happening during baseball."
A few people turned at your laughter. You didn't care. Neither did he.
But the words stuck with you longer than they should have. Next year. You'd said it so easily, like it was obvious, like there was never another possibility. Ana's words from earlier echoed back—you've started saying 'we' instead of 'I'—and suddenly you realized she was right about more than just pronouns. You'd been building a future in your head without even noticing: next year's haircut, next year's birthday, the year after that. All of them included him. Not as a maybe or a hope, just as a given.
Five months shouldn't feel this certain, but it did.
Eventually you found yourselves near the water. City lights reflected off the river, everything glittering, everything calm. For a while neither of you spoke. You simply stood there together, your shoulder pressed against his, his hand wrapped around yours.
Comfortable silence, the best kind. Then you pulled out your phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Showing you something."
Max leaned closer as you opened your photos birthday pictures spanning years. Every haircut, version, and phase of yourself documented across the years in a digital timeline.
You scrolled to the first one and immediately cringed. "The bangs."
"Criminal," he said without hesitation.
"You are so dramatic."
"They were bad."
"They were not."
"They were."
You kept scrolling through the years. A shorter cut that barely touched your ears. Then longer hair cascading past your shoulders. Highlights you'd regretted within a week. Layers that had seemed like a good idea at the time. Another dramatic chop that made your mother cry.
Max watched every single one, his expression softening with each swipe. "This one was cute," he said, pointing to a photo from three years ago. Then as you continued, "I like this one too. And this one. Oh, definitely this one."
You paused, laughter bubbling up. "Max."
"What?"
"That's all of them."
He looked up, genuinely confused. "What?"
"You've liked every single one."
"Oh." A small smile appeared, like he'd been caught at something. "Yeah."
The simple answer hit harder than it should have. Because he wasn't lying, you could tell. Every version of you across every year and every photo. He'd meant all of them.
And suddenly the conversation from earlier came back. The one with Ana. He'll love it no matter what.
The realization made your chest ache in the best possible way. You slipped your phone back into your purse, and the two of you started walking again, slowly. Your hand found his immediately, like it belonged there.
"Guess you'll find out what happens next year."
The words left your mouth without thought. Max's steps slowed.
Next year. The phrase settled somewhere deep in his chest, not because of the haircut, but because of how effortlessly you'd said it. Like he'd be there. Like that was obvious. Like there was never another possibility. The future: next year, the year after, and every year beyond.
The realization hit him so hard he stopped walking entirely.
You turned. "What?"
For a second Max just looked at you. The shorter hair. The smile he'd spent all evening staring at. The woman who had somehow become his favorite part of every day. The person he wanted to call first. Text first. See first. The person he'd started building future plans around without even noticing.
Five months. Only five months. And somehow none of that mattered because the feeling had been there long before he'd found the courage to name it.
Your expression softened. "What?" This time quieter.
Max opened his mouth, then closed it, his heart hammering against his ribs. The words were right there, but what if it was too soon? What if you weren't ready? What if saying it out loud changed everything?
But then he looked at you again. Really looked. At the way you were watching him with those eyes that saw through every defense he'd ever built. At the way your hand was still holding his like you had no intention of letting go.
The scariest part wasn't saying it. The scariest part was how much he meant it.
He took a breath, then another, and let the words come.
"I love you."
The words hung between you, the city disappeared, traffic disappeared, and everything disappeared. For one terrifying second, nobody moved.
Then your eyes widened. "Oh."
Max winced immediately. "Oh?"
You started laughing, one hand covering your mouth as tears instantly filled your eyes.
"No." You shook your head. "No, no, that's not a bad 'oh.'"
Relief flooded his chest.
You laughed again, breathless and a little emotional, then stepped closer.
"I love you too."
All his nervousness, his fear, his uncertainty dissolved in an instant. His forehead fell against yours, and the biggest smile you'd ever seen spread across his face.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His hands settled on your waist. "Good."
"Good?"
"I was trying really hard to play it cool."
You stared at him. Then burst out laughing. "You?"
"I know."
"You were not playing it cool."
"I thought I was."
"You stared at me for thirty seconds when you saw my haircut."
"I was processing."
A smile bloomed across your face. "There he is."
Max leaned down and kissed you softly, sweetly, like he had all the time in the world.
When he pulled back, neither of you moved very far. You stayed there, smiling, happy, completely ridiculous.
After a moment, you nudged his shoulder. "So."
"So?"
"What's your favorite birthday haircut?"
Max pretended to think, glancing toward the skyline
before looking back at you with a grin.
"This one."
You rolled your eyes. "You're biased."
"Probably."
He squeezed your hand and started walking again, leading you toward home, toward next week, next month, next year, and every version of you he hadn't met yet, knowing he'd love those too.
⸻
taglist (lmk if you want to be added!!): @diorjtrk @wildlaufey3 @graceeehhhh @hotwheels1108 @you-got-me-star-lost-16 @thelunarbar @hockeygirlyyyy @quinnintheabyss @peachmango-kombucha @boybandbaby @divinedelusional @hockey-racing-fubol @melsgf @anonymousie @refinedanimal @spooky-newt @selv1sh @twistedprincess-92 @earthlings0000 @strigiform-titan
summary: a simple cup in cody’s kitchen should not be enough to make you feel like an outsider, but somehow it is.
word count: 6.5k words
a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! please remember this is FICTION, i mean no disrespect to any of these people. thank you for reading! i love youu!!!
⸻
You like him more than you meant to.
That's the problem.
Cody doesn't know how to sit still. He'll stretch out on your couch, swearing he's fine with a lazy day. Twenty minutes later, he's tapping his foot, reaching for his phone. Then comes, "You hungry?" even though you just ate. Followed by, "We should go somewhere."
And you always end up going.
Coffee. A walk. A bookstore where he pretends he's not following you around. A grocery run where he buys every snack you so much as glance at.
The relationship is new enough that you still notice everything. How he opens doors without thinking. How his hand finds the small of your back in crowds. How he texts in short bursts that somehow say exactly enough.
You home?
Bring a jacket, it's freezing.
Saw this and thought of you.
You eating real food today or pretending coffee counts?
You didn't plan on this happening so fast.
It started casual. A friend of a friend. A dinner you almost canceled. Cody showed up in a dark shirt leaned back like he had nowhere better to be, watching you with this lazy amusement that should've annoyed you more than it did.
He made you laugh, not politely actually laugh. The kind that made you look down after because you felt too seen.
After that, he kept finding reasons to talk to you.
Then see you. Then close the distance until one night you were standing in his kitchen in mismatched socks, watching him burn toast because he was too busy looking at you.
"You're bad at this," you told him.
"At toast?"
"At pretending you know what you're doing."
He grinned, scraping at the burnt edge. "I know what I'm doing."
"You set off your smoke alarm."
"It was being dramatic."
You laughed, and he turned toward you, his expression softening before he seemed to catch himself.
"What?" you asked.
He shook his head. "Nothing."
But then he crossed the kitchen and kissed you anyway, one hand at your waist, the other still holding the ruined toast out to the side.
That was Cody, funny when things got too real, gentle when he thought you weren't looking. Easy in a way that made you want to trust him before you were sure you should.
And then there were the parts that didn't feel easy at all.
Early on, Cody mentioned his two daughters not as a warning, but not casually either. His voice shifted when he talked about them, enough for you to understand that part of his heart wasn't something anyone got to touch carelessly. Then came Chase, his ex-wife, their mother.
"She's good," he'd said over takeout. "We're good. Not like—" He made a face. "Not together good. Just... we figured out how to be decent for the girls."
You nodded. "That's good."
"It matters."
"I know."
All of that appealed to you the way he talked about Chase without bitterness, how his daughters had parents who could still communicate, how he remained steady where others became messy.
Knowing all that was one thing, living inside it was something else.
At first, Chase was mostly a name on his phone. Sometimes his screen would light up while you were watching a movie.
Chase
He'd glance at it. "Probably about the girls." Then he'd step into the kitchen to answer.
You never minded. Or you told yourself you didn't.
The calls were practical, school pickups, weekend schedules, dance class, a lost jacket. One daughter refusing to wear shoes because they were "too squeaky."
"Cy's right," he said once. "They are kind of squeaky."
"You tested them?"
He shrugged. "Had to verify the complaint."
You laughed, and he smiled like that had been the whole point.
It was fine. Chase wasn't a threat. She wasn't rude or trying to pull him back. She was simply there because she had to be, because there were two little girls between them who needed schedules and snacks and two parents who remembered which one hated peas and which one only pretended not to be scared of thunderstorms.
Which was why it felt so stupid when understanding didn't stop the sting.
⸻
The first time Cody asked you to be there when the girls came over, you were in your bathroom, phone balanced against the mirror.
His name appeared.
"Hi."
"Hey." His voice was warm, a little distracted. You could hear movement in the background. "You busy this week?"
You paused. "Depends."
"On?"
"Whether this is you asking me to help you move furniture."
He laughed. "No furniture."
"Then maybe."
A brief silence. Not awkward, just enough for your hand to still.
"The girls are coming over," he said. "Chase is dropping them off around six."
"Oh."
"You can say no. Seriously. No pressure. I was just thinking maybe you could come by earlier and stay for dinner."
You stared at your reflection.
Earlier. Stay for dinner. The girls. Chase. Cody's actual life.
"With them?" you asked.
"Yeah." His voice softened. "Only if you want to."
Wanting to wasn't the issue. Wanting to was the terrifying part.
"I'd like that," you said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah. I'm sure."
His relief was audible. "Good."
That word stayed with you. Good. Like he'd been hoping you'd say yes.
You changed your shirt three times and talked yourself out of bringing anything four times before showing up with cookies anyway.
Cody opened the door before you could knock twice.
Barefoot, gray sweatpants, faded sweatshirt, hair slightly messy in that annoyingly perfect way. His gaze dropped to the container in your hands.
"You brought something."
"I panicked."
He grinned. "You panic-baked?"
"Let's not oversell my abilities."
He stepped aside, still smiling. "Noted."
His house felt different. You'd been there before, plenty of times. Enough to know where he kept the glasses and which blanket was softest and that the bathroom door stuck unless you pushed it with your hip.
But tonight, he'd prepared the house for them.
Two small pairs of shoes by the door. A purple backpack leaning against the wall. Coloring books stacked on the coffee table. A half built lego structure in the corner, surrounded by tiny pieces he'd clearly been careful not to disturb.
On the kitchen counter, two plastic cups sat beside the plates. One pink. One blue.
Something in your chest went soft, then tight.
Cody set the cookies down. "You okay?"
Your gaze darted up too quickly. "Yeah." His eyes narrowed not suspicious, just reading you.
"Too much?"
"No. It's sweet."
He glanced around, gave a small, almost shy smile.
"It gets less sweet when there are crayons in places crayons should not be."
"That sounds like a personal problem."
"It's a serious household crisis."
⸻
You laughed, and he seemed to relax. For a while, it was okay, more than okay. You helped him finish dinner because Cody insisted he had it under control, then immediately asked where the measuring cups were. He stood too close behind you when you chopped vegetables, his chin almost brushing your shoulder.
"You're in my way," you said.
"I live here."
"I'm holding a knife."
He kissed the side of your head and stepped back, hands raised. "Fair."
The nerves loosened a little. You were still you. He was still Cody. The kitchen smelled like garlic and warm bread, and the music made everything feel softer.
Then you heard the key.
Not fumbling or searching. Just the smooth slide of metal into metal, the door swinging open with practiced ease.
Cody looked up. "Hey, come in."
It was such a small thing. So small you hated yourself for noticing.
But Chase walked into his house with the kind of comfort that didn't ask permission because it had never needed to. She came in carrying a tote bag and two jackets, moving with the tired efficiency of someone who'd already handled six tiny emergencies before dinner. Behind her, two little girls tumbled inside, talking over each other.
"Dad!"
"Daddy, look!"
"No, I was gonna tell him first—"
Cody was already moving. He dropped the spoon and crouched just in time for both girls to crash into him. His arms went around them automatically, his face transforming into something softer, completely open.
You stood near the island and felt your heart do something painful.
Because he was beautiful like this and this part of him had nothing to do with you.
Chase smiled at you. "Hi. It's good to see you again."
"You too," you said. And meant it.
She was pretty in a natural, effortless way hair pulled back, minimal makeup, warm but busy. She didn't look like someone trying to intimidate you. She looked like a mom trying to remember if she'd packed the math worksheet.
That somehow made it worse.
"There's a folder in Caiden's backpack," Chase told Cody as he stood, Cy still clinging to his leg.
"Permission slip. And Cy needs her medicine after dinner, but only if she starts coughing again."
Cody nodded. "Purple bag?"
"Front pocket."
"Got it."
"And the birthday party invite is in the folder because I know if I text it, you'll lose it."
Cody gave her a look. "I don't lose texts. Not important ones."
"Cody."
You laughed before you could stop yourself. His eyes
flicked to you, pleased with himself.
Cy peeked around Cody's leg. "Are those cookies?"
You looked down. "They are."
"Did you make them?"
Cody answered before you could. "She did."
"Yes," you admitted.
Cody smiled at you like he couldn't help it.
For a few minutes, you felt okay again.
Caiden needed help with her jacket zipper while Cy decided you liked cats and would be getting a drawing regardless of your actual feelings on the matter. Cody moved between the girls and the stove and Chase's updates with surprising ease.
Then Chase set one of the plastic cups beside Cy's place and paused.
"Oh, Caiden's blue cup should still be in the same cabinet, right?"
Cody didn't even look up. "Yeah. Same spot."
Same spot.
The words landed quietly, no one else noticed. Why would they? Chase opened the cabinet, found the blue cup exactly where she expected it, and filled it at the sink.
You stood there holding napkins and felt suddenly ridiculous.
Because of course she knew where the cup was.
She'd probably bought the cup, washed it a hundred times, packed it in moving boxes, found it wedged under the couch. She knew where it belonged because she had belonged here once too. Not in the vague, painful way you kept trying not to think about.
The napkins found their place on the counter as you smiled, settling into the seat Caiden had saved for you.
Dinner was loud, but not unpleasantly, just full. The full you weren't used to sharing with Cody. Usually, his house with you was quiet music, low conversations, his knee bumping yours, a movie neither of you finished. Tonight, the room belonged to everyone else.
Cy dropped her fork twice during dinner. Caiden told a rambling story about a girl at school who lied about owning a horse. Chase stayed a few extra minutes because Cy wanted to show her the cat drawing she'd made. Cody got up three times before he actually took a bite of anything.
Everyone was nice. That was the worst part.
Chase thanked you for helping with the dishes. Caiden asked if you wanted to see her room later. Cy offered you half a cookie she hadn't touched.
Cody kept glancing at you. Not constantly, not enough for anyone else to notice but you noticed. A brush of his fingers against your chair when he passed. A soft, "You good?" when you both reached for the sink at the same time. His eyes finding yours after Cy announced she hated broccoli "except not always, just emotionally."
Your smiles landed at the right moments, your nods perfectly timed, your laughter obedient.
You were fine.
Then Caiden pointed at the chair beside Cody.
"Mommy used to sit there."
The table went quiet for half a second.
Chase said, "Caiden," softly. Not scolding, just careful.
Cody's eyes went straight to you.
And something about that made your face burn.
You stood halfway before you could think better of it. "Oh, I can move—"
"No," Cody said. "You're okay."
You're okay.
He meant it kindly, you knew he did. But something in your chest went soft, then tight, because you realized what he was really saying that you were allowed to feel this way. That sitting in a chair that once belonged to someone else didn't make you wrong for being here.
Back in the chair, you forced a smile. "It's fine."
Chase's look held sympathy, which only tightened your chest because pity from Cody's ex-wife, offered in Cody's kitchen while you sat among his daughters, felt like proof that you didn't belong.
You wanted normalcy, maturity, to be the kind of woman who understood that people had pasts without feeling swallowed by them.
Your fingers found the seam of your sleeve under the table and rubbed back and forth. You caught yourself and folded your hands in your lap. They started again almost immediately.
Don't make him regret inviting you here.
Across the table, Cody was listening to Caiden explain something about her project, his head tilted, mouth curved into a patient smile. He looked natural here, of course he did. This was his life his table, his daughters, his ex-wife by the counter, his kitchen.
And you were sitting there trying to figure out what parts of him you were allowed to touch without leaving fingerprints on something that didn't belong to you.
Chase finally left. She hugged both girls, told Cody she'd text about the weekend, smiled once more at you. "It was nice seeing you."
"You too," you said. You meant it. That was what twisted your stomach.
She hadn't done anything wrong, nobody had.
⸻
After dinner, the girls ran upstairs, Caiden dragging her backpack, Cy yelling that she needed pajamas "immediately, but not the itchy ones."
Cody stood at the bottom of the stairs. "Two minutes. Brush teeth first."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Dad!"
"You heard me."
You smiled faintly despite yourself, then turned to the sink because standing still felt dangerous.
The dishes weren't even that bad, but you needed something to do with your hands. You rinsed plates one by one, focusing too hard on water, soap, the clink of silverware. The water ran too hot-scalding, actually but you didn't adjust it. Your hands turned pink, then red, the heat spreading until your fingers went numb. You kept them there anyway.
You pulled out your phone at the sink, your hands shaking.
You dried your hands and pulled out your phone, your heart pounding for reasons you couldn't explain.
You stared down at your phone until the screen blurred.
The urge to flee warred with the need to stay, leaving you paralyzed terrified of proving you couldn't handle this life, equally terrified of standing there any longer, your chest tight and your mind cycling through the same fear, you didn't belong here.
Upstairs, Cody laughed at something. Cy shrieked. Caiden said, "Dad, no, you're doing it wrong."
You looked down at your phone again. Your thumb opened his contact before you could talk yourself out of it.
please please can you come here
You stared at it, horrified. Too needy. Too dramatic.
You deleted it, then typed again.
i'm trying so hard not to be weird
You almost deleted that too. Instead, because some part of you was still clinging to humor as a life raft.
also please don't make me talk yet
You sent it before you could change your mind.
Immediately, your stomach dropped. "Oh my god," you whispered.
Upstairs, Cody's voice paused mid-sentence.
A few seconds later, you heard his footsteps coming down. Not rushed, not enough to alarm the girls but purposeful.
He entered like he'd simply remembered something, his expression calm and neutral except for his eyes which found you immediately. No questions, no expressions of concern, no glances at phones. He just crossed to the sink, picked up the dish towel, and reached for the plate you were holding.
"Hey," he said quietly.
That was all. One word, and your eyes burned.
You looked down. "I'm sorry."
"Don't." The word came fast but soft.
You let out a breath that almost shook. "I'm being weird."
"You're not."
"Cody."
He dried the plate like that was the only reason he'd come down. Like this was normal. "You asked me to come here. I'm here."
Your fingers tightened on the counter. "I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Nothing's wrong with you."
You laughed once, quiet and embarrassed. "You don't even know what I'm thinking."
"I know enough."
Upstairs, one of the girls called, "Dad?"
Cody looked toward the stairs, then back at you.
You immediately straightened. "Go. It's fine."
He didn't move.
"Seriously. Go."
His gaze dropped to your hands, where your fingers were gripping the dish towel. Of course he saw it.
"I'll be right back," he said.
"I know."
He hesitated.
"Cody," you said, lighter this time. "She needs you."
That did it. Not because he wanted to leave, but because he was a dad and one of his daughters was calling.
He stepped closer before he went, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours.
"You're not leaving while I'm upstairs," he said quietly.
You blinked. It wasn't an order, it was too soft to be an order. It sounded almost like fear.
"Please," he added.
Your chest ached.
You nodded once. He studied your face for another second, then went upstairs. The kitchen felt different without him. You stood there and tried to breathe normally.
⸻
The house carried sound in layers a faucet running upstairs, Cody's low voice, Cy insisting something was itchy, Caiden asking where her folder went, the hum of the refrigerator, your own pulse in your ears.
You looked at the counter. His phone lay faceup near the sink. Your message was still open on the screen.
please please can you come here
i'm trying so hard not to be weird
also please don't make me talk yet
You covered your face with both hands. Humiliation washed through you, hot and immediate.
You were too much. That was the fear underneath everything. Not Chase. Not the blue cup. Not the chair. You.
You were new in Cody's life and already sending desperate little SOS texts from his kitchen because you couldn't handle a normal co-parenting night. You were supposed to be easy, understanding, cool about all of this.
Instead, you were standing beside his sink trying not to cry because his ex-wife knew which cabinet held a cup.
By the time Cody came back downstairs, you'd finished the dishes and wiped the counter even though it hadn't needed wiping.
He stopped at the edge of the kitchen. You felt him before you looked up.
"They asleep?" you asked.
"Almost. Caiden's pretending she isn't tired."
You nodded. "Sounds serious."
"Very."
Silence settled between you, not cold but waiting.
You put the towel down carefully. "I think I should go."
Cody's expression shifted. "What?"
"Not in a dramatic way." You hated how quickly you said it. "I just think maybe this was too much too soon, and I don't want to make it a whole thing."
He stepped farther into the kitchen. "Did Chase say something?"
"No. She was nice. Everyone was nice. That's why I
feel stupid."
"You don't have to feel stupid."
"I know. That doesn't really help."
He was quiet for a moment. Then, gently, "Talk to me."
You pressed your lips together. The words were right there. You just didn't want to hand them over. Because once you said them out loud, you wouldn't be able to pretend this was just a weird little moment you could shake off in the car.
"I don't know how to be here yet," you said finally.
Cody went very still.
You swallowed and kept your eyes on the counter.
"And I know that's not your fault. I know Chase is their mom. I know she's going to be around. I know she knows things—routines and cabinets and cups and all these pieces of your life that I don't."
Your voice cracked slightly. You hated it.
"I'm not mad about it."
"I know," he said softly.
"No, I need you to understand. This isn't about jealousy or wanting her erased from your life—not her, not the girls talking about her, none of it. I know what I signed up for."
Cody's jaw tightened not with anger, but with attention.
You laughed once, small and miserable. "I just didn't realize knowing it would feel different from standing in the middle of it."
His face changed, and you looked away before you could read too much into it.
"She knows where everything is. She knows the cups. She knows the medicine and the schedule and the little things that make this house work when they're here. And the girls talk about memories because of course they do—that's their life. And then Caiden said her mom used to sit there, and I felt like—"
You stopped.
Cody stepped closer. "Like what?"
You blinked hard. "Like I was sitting in a place that wasn't mine."
The kitchen went quiet. Cody didn't answer right away, and for one terrible second, you thought maybe you'd finally said the thing that was too much.
Then he exhaled slowly and ran one hand over his mouth.
"I should've checked in before tonight."
You shook your head. "You did. You asked if I was okay."
"That's not what I mean."
He leaned back against the opposite counter, giving you space even though everything about him looked like he wanted to come closer.
"I should've talked to you about what tonight might feel like. Not just asked if you wanted to come over and hoped it would work itself out."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"I invited you into a complicated part of my life and acted like because I'm used to it, you should just know how to be, too."
Your eyes lifted to his. He looked tired suddenly, emotionally stripped down in a way you hadn't seen from him before.
"I know this house has history in it. Chase is always gonna be part of the girls' lives, and because of that, part of mine in some way. I can't change that, and I wouldn't want to for them."
"I'm not asking you to."
"I know." His voice softened. "But that doesn't mean there isn't room for you."
Your throat tightened.
He took a careful step closer. "And I don't want you sitting in my kitchen feeling like you have to earn your place here."
You looked down quickly. "It felt like she already knew how to be here."
"She does," Cody said, and the honesty hurt more than you expected. Then he continued, "In one way."
You looked back up, and his gaze held yours.
"But she doesn't know how to be here with me now." He swallowed, like the words mattered enough to make him careful. "You do."
Your chest ached.
"Cody..."
"I mean it." He came closer, slow enough that you could move away if you needed to. You didn't. "Chase knows the girls' routines. She knows where their cups are. She knows the history because she lived it. I'm not going to pretend that isn't true."
You nodded, your eyes burning.
"But I'm not asking you to fill her space or slide into her old spot. I don't want that."
You let out a shaky breath. "I don't even know what my spot is."
His expression softened so much it nearly undid you. "Then we'll figure it out together."
You pressed your lips together as he reached for your hand, slow and gentle, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn't. His thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
"You think I asked you here because it was convenient?" he asked.
"I don't know." The words came out small.
Cody's face fell a little, and you hated that, too.
"I don't know," you repeated, more honestly this time. "I think part of me is scared that I'm just... around. Like I'm here because it works right now. Because it's offseason and things are calm and you have time. And when real life shows up, I don't know where I fit."
"You fit with me."
You looked at him. He said it so simply, like it wasn't complicated. Like the answer had been there all along and he was sorry he hadn't said it loud enough for you to hear.
"You fit with me," he repeated. "Not because the girls like you, even though they do. Not because you helped with dinner. Not because you're easy to have around. With me."
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to manage me around your own life."
Cody's brows pulled together. "Paying attention to you isn't managing you."
The words landed too directly.
You looked away, but he squeezed your hand gently.
"You're new to something that's not easy. That doesn't make you difficult."
Something close to a sob escaped before you could stop it. "I'm trying really hard not to be."
"I know." His thumb moved over your hand again. "I saw."
That made it worse and better at the same time. He saw. He'd seen you smiling too quickly, holding yourself too carefully, trying to disappear without leaving.
"I was nervous too," he admitted.
You blinked. "You were?"
He gave a small laugh. "Yeah. I wanted tonight to go well. I wanted them to like having you here. I wanted you to see this part of my life and not run for the door."
You gave a wet little laugh. "I almost did."
"I know." His mouth curved faintly. "But you texted me instead."
You covered your face with your free hand. "Oh my god."
"There it is."
"Please don't."
"The 'please please' was very persuasive."
"I was in distress."
"I could tell."
"That makes it worse."
"It makes it honest."
You lowered your hand and looked at him. The teasing had softened the moment, but his face was serious again.
"Next time, you don't have to sit there trying to be okay until you can't breathe."
"I wasn't that bad."
His look said he didn't believe you.
You sighed. "Fine. I was maybe a little that bad."
"Text me. Look at me. Pull me aside. Whatever you need."
"And if Chase is there?"
"Then Chase can wait two minutes."
You looked at him carefully. "Cody."
"I'm serious. The girls come first. Always. You know that. But that doesn't mean you come nowhere."
Your throat closed.
He seemed to catch the exact second those words landed.
"You're not nowhere," he said quietly.
You nodded, but the tears slipped anyway.
Cody's face softened. "Come here."
This time, you did. He pulled you into him carefully at first, like he was afraid you might break if he held too tightly. Then your arms went around his waist, your cheek pressed against his sweatshirt, and his hand settled at the back of your head. Your breathing shook against his chest.
"I'm sorry," you whispered.
His hand stilled. Then he sighed, almost like the
apology hurt him. "No."
You let out a small laugh into his sweatshirt. "You don't even know what I'm apologizing for."
"I do."
"You can't just no all my apologies."
"I can when they're bad."
You pulled back enough to look at him. "Bad?"
"Unnecessary," he corrected, brushing his thumb near your cheek. "You don't owe me an apology for having feelings in a situation I should've helped you through better."
"You did help."
"After you had to ask."
"But I did ask."
His mouth softened. "Yeah. You did."
For a while, neither of you moved. Then your stomach made a small, deeply humiliating sound.
Cody looked down at you, and you closed your eyes. "I'm leaving the country."
He laughed, quiet and warm, the sound rumbling through you. "Did you actually eat dinner?"
"Yes."
He stared at you.
"I had some," you amended.
"How much?"
"A respectable emotional amount."
"That means no."
"Not no."
"Barely yes."
You sighed. "Fine. Barely yes."
He nodded like this confirmed a serious suspicion. "Sit."
"Cody—"
"Sit. I'm making you something."
"The girls are asleep."
"Which is why I'm not using the blender."
Despite yourself, you laughed.
He glanced over his shoulder, pleased. "There's the laugh."
"Don't start."
"I'm just saying. Big improvement from crying over cabinet geography."
Your mouth fell open. "I was not crying over cabinet geography."
"You were cabinet-adjacent emotional."
"I hate you."
"No, you don't."
"No, I don't," you admitted, and his smile softened
before he turned back to the fridge.
You sat at the island while Cody moved around the kitchen in low light, quiet for the sake of the sleeping girls. He pulled out bread, cheese, butter, then paused and looked back at you.
"Grilled cheese?"
You blinked. "That's your big plan?"
"It's a strong plan."
"It's an elite athlete dinner?"
"It's offseason."
You laughed again, and he looked pleased with himself.
The room felt different now. Not magically fixed, but smaller. Manageable.
The house still held everything it held before Chase's familiar footsteps, the girls' laughter, the blue cup in the cabinet, the chair Caiden remembered her mother sitting in. None of it had disappeared. But Cody was standing at the stove in sweatpants making you grilled cheese because he'd noticed you hadn't eaten enough, and you'd been trying not to fall apart in his kitchen.
And somehow, that helped.
By the time he slid the plate toward you, the sandwich cut diagonally because "that's objectively better," you'd tucked yourself onto the stool with one knee pulled up, his hoodie sleeves covering half your hands. He leaned against the counter opposite you while you ate.
"This is better," you admitted quietly.
His eyes lifted to yours. "Yeah?"
You nodded. "Much."
His expression softened. "Good."
You ate in comfortable silence. Cody reached over and stole the corner of your sandwich despite having made it for you.
You stared at him.
"What?" he whispered.
"That was mine."
"I made it. For you, so obviously I have final tasting authority."
He grinned and slid the plate closer to you like he was being magnanimous.
There it was. That little bit of normal. The part of the night you'd thought you lost.
After a while, your gaze drifted toward the cabinet.
You didn't mean for it to.
Cody saw anyway. Of course he did.
He set his glass down.
"You know, the blue cup thing got me too for a while."
You looked at him. "What?"
He shrugged, but his face was serious. "After the divorce. First few times the girls came here, I'd open a cabinet and see their stuff and just..." He exhaled. "I don't know. It messed with me. Like I was supposed to know how to make a home feel normal when everything about it had changed."
Your chest tightened.
"You never said that."
His mouth lifted faintly. "You didn't know me then."
"That's not what I mean."
"I know." He leaned his forearms on the counter. "I'm not as good at this as it probably looked tonight. The routines, the schedules, all of it—I mess stuff up. Chase remembers things I forget. I overthink everything. The girls ask questions I don't always know how to answer."
You watched him quietly.
"I just know how to look calmer than I feel."
The words landed gently. You thought of him earlier, moving through the chaos with ease answering Chase, catching the girls, remembering medicine and folders and cups. You'd looked at him and seen someone perfectly at home in a life that made you feel outside of it. But maybe he was still learning too.
"The difference is," Cody said, voice softer, "I want you in the messy parts. Not just the easy ones."
Your throat tightened. "You say that now."
His eyes stayed on yours. "I said it tonight."
"When?"
"When I asked you to stay."
You looked down, he came around the island slowly and stood beside you.
"I'm going to keep saying it. As many times as you need."
You gave a weak smile. "That sounds exhausting."
"You've met my kids. I can handle repetitive questions."
That pulled a laugh out of you. He smiled, but his gaze stayed tender.
"You don't have to embrace every part of this right now, or be okay with everything at once, or pretend it all feels natural."
Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. "I just don't want to make things harder."
"You're not."
"It feels like I am."
He shook his head. "Tonight was hard because it matters. Not because you made it hard."
You looked at him then, at the tiredness in his face, the concern, the affection he wasn't trying to hide anymore. He reached up and brushed your hair back from your cheek.
"You can go if you need to. I'll understand." Your heart dropped before he continued. "But I want you to stay."
The words came out quiet, without pressure or expectation.
You swallowed hard. "Even after tonight?"
His expression softened. "Especially after tonight."
That undid something inside you.
Cody leaned closer, his hand resting lightly on your knee. "I don't want you here because you're perfect at this. I want you here because you're you. Even when you're overthinking my cabinets."
A watery laugh escaped. "You're never letting that go."
"Probably not."
His smile was gentle. "But I mean it. Next time, you don't have to sit there feeling like you're borrowing someone else's spot."
Your breath caught. "No?"
"No." His thumb brushed over your knee. "We'll find yours."
You nodded, unable to find the words.
"Okay," you whispered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lifted back to your eyes asking permission.
You leaned in first.
The kiss was soft and slower than the others you'd shared. There was no teasing in it, no rush. Just his hand at your cheek, your fingers curling into the front of his sweatshirt, and the quiet relief of being wanted in the middle of something complicated.
When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "You staying?"
You nodded. "Yeah."
His smile was small, almost relieved. "Good."
⸻
After the kitchen was cleaned and the lights were turned low, Cody gave you one of his shirts and pointed you toward the bathroom like he was trying not to make staying feel like a big deal.
It was a big deal. You both knew that. But he let it be quiet.
When you came back out, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, brow furrowed slightly as he stared at his phone.
"What are you doing?" you asked.
He looked up. "Nothing."
"That is obviously a lie."
"Barely."
You walked closer, suspicious. "Cody."
He turned the phone toward you. Your text was still there.
please please can you come here
i'm trying so hard not to be weird
also please don't make me talk yet
Under it, he'd typed.
Always.
Your vision blurred before you could stop it.
Cody watched your face carefully.
"I know it's not the same as fixing everything."
You shook your head. "It's not supposed to fix everything."
"No?"
You looked at the screen again. Always. Your heart squeezed.
"No," you whispered. "It helps."
He reached for your hand and pulled you gently between his knees.
You stood there, looking down at him, and for the first time all night, you didn't feel like you were standing in the wrong place. His hands settled at your waist.
"I don't want you to feel like you have to be quiet to stay."
Your throat tightened. "I don't know how to do this yet."
"Me neither."
You laughed softly. "That's comforting."
"Honesty usually is."
"Debatable."
He smiled and pulled you closer until your knees brushed his.
"We'll figure it out. The Chase stuff. The girls. The routines. All of it."
"You make it sound simple."
"It's not." He squeezed your waist gently. "But I still want to."
That was the part that mattered. Not that it would be easy. Not that you'd never feel strange again. Just that Cody wanted to figure it out with you.
You bent and kissed him once. Then again.
When you pulled back, he smiled against your mouth. "You done trying to flee my house?"
"For tonight."
"I'll take it."
You laughed, and he pulled you down beside him.
The house was quiet except for the occasional sound from upstairs when one of the girls shifted in sleep. Cody turned off the lamp and drew you into him under the blankets, his arm heavy around your waist, his breathing warm against the back of your neck. You stared into the dark, listening. To the house. To Cody. To the strange, full, complicated life around you.
Eventually, Cody's thumb moved once against your stomach.
"You awake?" he whispered.
"Yeah."
"You okay?"
You thought about lying, then you didn't.
"Getting there."
His arm tightened slightly. "Okay."
No fixing. No pressing. Just okay.
You closed your eyes and that helped too.
⸻
The next morning started with a crash. Not a dangerous crash, a child crash. Something plastic hit the floor downstairs, followed by a very loud whisper.
"Cy, you did it too loud."
"No, I didn't."
"That was so loud."
"You're so loud."
Cody groaned into the pillow. "I'm asleep."
You smiled before opening your eyes. "Convincing."
"I'm not here."
Another crash.
Cody exhaled slowly. "They've found the cereal."
"You should probably go."
"They respect independence."
"They're children, Cody."
"Small independent people."
You laughed, and he turned toward you, eyes still half closed but mouth curving. For a second, it felt almost normal. Then you remembered where you were. His house. His bed. His daughters downstairs. Everything that had happened. Your body tensed before you could stop it. Cody noticed immediately, his eyes opening fully.
"Hey. You good?"
You nodded, then corrected yourself. "Nervous."
His expression softened. "Okay."
He didn't offer false comfort, just sat up with messy hair and held out his hand.
"Come on."
⸻
Downstairs, the kitchen was bright with winter light. Caiden sat at the table with a cereal box in front of her. Cy stood on a stool at the counter, very seriously inspecting the toaster.
Cody stopped short. "Why are you near my toaster?"
Cy looked offended. "I was supervising."
"Absolutely not."
Caiden looked at you and smiled. "Hi."
"Hi," you said, suddenly shy.
Cy turned too, her expression brightening. "You stayed."
The sentence hit you somewhere tender.
Cody glanced at you. You smiled carefully. "I did."
"Good," Cy said, as if that settled something.
Then she opened the cabinet, and your breath caught. She reached for the blue cup.
For half a second, your chest tightened in the same place it had the night before.
Then Cy held it out to you.
"Do you want this one? It's the best one."
The room went very still inside you.
Outside, everything kept moving. Cody poured coffee. Caiden dug through the cereal box. Cy waited impatiently for your answer.
But inside, something paused.
The cup that had made you feel like an intruder was being offered to you by a little girl who didn't know anything except that she liked you enough to give you the best one. From beside the coffee maker, Cody watched you with quiet understanding not rescuing the moment or explaining it away, just seeing you completely.
You turned back to Cy and smiled. "Sure. Thank you."
Cy handed it over proudly. "It has a scratch on the bottom. But it's still good."
You looked down at the cup in your hand. "Still good works for me."
Cody's mouth curved faintly. Breakfast was messy. Cody burned the first piece of toast because apparently that was a recurring theme in his life. Caiden told you about her school project in extreme detail. Cy asked if you knew how to braid hair, then decided you looked like someone who probably did but maybe needed practice.
Chase texted. Cody glanced at his phone, then showed you the screen without making it weird. Just a schedule reminder. Nothing secret. He answered while standing beside you, his shoulder brushing yours, then set the phone down and went back to helping Caiden open the jam.
A small thing. But you felt it.
When the girls were arguing cheerfully in the living room over what movie to watch, Cody came up beside you at the sink.
"You okay?" he asked.
You looked toward the living room, then at the blue cup beside your hand, then at him.
This time, you didn't say fine just because it was easier.
You said, "Yeah. I think I am."
His shoulders loosened. "Good."
You nudged him lightly with your elbow. "You say that a lot."
"When I mean it."
You smiled despite yourself.
He leaned down, voice low enough that only you could hear. "You know, technically, you're in the way of the cabinet."
You looked up at him. "Are you asking me to move?"
"No." His hand brushed your lower back, warm and sure. "Just saying I'm aware of the geography."
You laughed softly, shaking your head. Cody's smile softened. Then he kissed the side of your head, quick and quiet, before stepping around you to grab another plate.
From the living room, Cy's voice rose in mock outrage over something Caiden had said. Cody glanced that direction with the kind of smile that belonged only to them.
His hand was still warm on your back.
You didn't know if this would last, if six months from now you'd still be standing in this kitchen or if the careful balance everyone was trying to maintain would eventually tip in a direction you couldn't predict. But right now, his daughters were arguing over a movie in the next room, and his hand was warm and steady against your spine. That was enough to stay for.
⸻
taglist (lmk if you want to be added!!): @diorjtrk @wildlaufey3 @graceeehhhh @hotwheels1108 @you-got-me-star-lost-16 @thelunarbar @hockeygirlyyyy @quinnintheabyss @peachmango-kombucha @boybandbaby @divinedelusional @hockey-racing-fubol @melsgf @anonymousie @refinedanimal @spooky-newt @selv1sh @twistedprincess-92 @earthlings0000
summary: hanging the painting is easy, figuring out what it means now that giancarlo is back in your life is harder.
word count: 3.9k words
a/n: it's been a minute, i miss big g sm! i hope you enjoy! thank you for reading!! i love youuu!!
read chapter 8 here
⸻
Giancarlo's hands are steady on the wheel, but his mind is still in your studio.
The kiss, your lips, the way you'd melted into him like coming home it's all he can think about.
"Daddy, did you SEE the painting?" Mikey's voice cuts through the fog, bright and insistent from the backseat. "It was SO big! And it had me in it! And you! And Mama!"
"I saw it, bud." His voice comes out rougher than he means it to. He clears his throat, glances at Mikey in the rearview mirror. "It was beautiful."
"Mama said we're gonna hang it! All three of us! Like a team!"
A team. The word settles warm and terrifying into his chest.
He'd offered to help without thinking, the words tumbling out before he could second-guess them. I could help. I mean, if you want. I have the SUV now. And you'd said yes. You'd looked at him with those eyes that see too much and said yes.
And then he'd kissed you.
Or you'd kissed him. He's not sure who moved first, only that suddenly you were there, your hands on his chest, his fingers in your hair, and everything else had fallen away. The studio. The painting. Mikey playing in the corner. All of it disappeared until there was only you and the taste of your mouth and the way you'd sighed against him like you'd been holding your breath for years.
I see you now, he'd said, and he'd meant it. The light turns green and he drives on. He drives, the city sliding past the windows in shades of grey and gold. The afternoon sun catches the buildings just right, making everything look softer than it is.
Mikey's still chattering in the backseat, something about dinosaurs and volcanoes, but Giancarlo's only half listening. His mind keeps circling back to that moment in your studio the way you'd looked at him after, eyes wide and uncertain, like you couldn't quite believe what had just happened.
He can't quite believe it either.
Two years. Two years of careful distance, of polite handoffs and coordinated schedules, of pretending he didn't still love you.
And now this. Now your lips on his and the promise of tomorrow hanging between you like something fragile and precious.
He glances at Mikey in the rearview mirror again. His son is holding a small plastic t-rex, making it walk across the car seat, completely oblivious to the way Giancarlo's world has just tilted on its axis.
A team, Mikey had said. Like it was the simplest thing in the world maybe it should be.
⸻
"Pizza?" Mikey asks hopefully as they step inside, kicking off his shoes in the entryway with the kind of enthusiasm that sends one flying into the hallway.
"We can do pizza." Giancarlo sets down the overnight bag, already pulling out his phone to order. "What do you want on it?"
"Cheese! And pepperoni! And—can we put the little tomatoes?"
"We can put whatever you want, buddy."
The apartment feels different today. Or maybe that's just him. Maybe everything feels different now that he's kissed you, now that tomorrow is a promise instead of just another day.
While they wait for delivery, Mikey sprawls on the living room floor with his dinosaurs, narrating an elaborate story about a t-rex who discovers a volcano. Giancarlo sits on the couch, half-listening, his mind still circling back to the studio. To the way you'd looked at him when he said he wanted to help. To the painting, those three figures reaching toward each other, the crack of gold running through the center.
Is this us? he'd asked, and you hadn't answered with words. But your eyes had said everything.
His phone buzzes. For a wild second, he thinks it's you. But it's just the pizza place confirming the order. Thirty minutes.
He stares at your contact for a long moment, thumb hovering over your name. He wants to text you. Wants to say, what? I can't stop thinking about you. About the kiss. About tomorrow. But that feels like too much, too soon.
You've spent two years building careful distance, and he doesn't want to push too hard, too fast. Doesn't want to scare you away when you've only just started letting him back in.
So he sets the phone down and watches Mikey play instead, committing this moment to memory. The way the evening light slants through the windows, painting everything gold. The sound of his son's voice, high and bright and full of joy. The feeling of standing on the edge of something that could be everything or nothing, depending on how carefully he moves.
He thinks about the painting again. About the way you'd looked at it when you thought he wasn't watching like it held all your secrets, all your hopes, all the things you were too afraid to say out loud.
Tomorrow, he'll help you hang it. Tomorrow, he'll be in your space again, building something together. The thought makes his chest tight with anticipation and fear in equal measure.
⸻
They eat pizza at the dining table, Mikey's legs swinging beneath his chair, tomato sauce smeared on his cheek. Giancarlo wipes it away with a napkin, and Mikey giggles, squirming away.
"Daddy, is the painting gonna be really big on the wall?"
"Yeah, bud. It's gonna look perfect up there."
"And we're all gonna hang it? Like a team?"
"Like a team," Giancarlo confirms.
Mikey grins, satisfied, and takes another enormous bite of pizza. Cheese stretches from the slice to his mouth, and he has to use both hands to break it.
Giancarlo watches him and thinks about the way you'd looked at the painting yesterday like it held all the things you couldn't say out loud. Like it was a map of where you'd been and where you might go.
Somewhere between everything we were and everything we're trying to be now.
He'd said that to you this morning, standing in your doorway, and you'd understood. He'd seen it in your eyes, the way they'd softened, the way you'd whispered yeah.
"Daddy?" Mikey's voice pulls him back.
"Yeah, buddy?"
"Do you think Mama liked the kiss?"
Giancarlo nearly chokes on his pizza. "What?"
"I saw you," Mikey says matter-of-factly, reaching for another slice. "In the studio. You kissed Mama."
Heat creeps up Giancarlo's neck. He should have known Mikey would notice. His son doesn't miss much, even when he's supposed to be playing.
"Yeah," he says carefully. "I did."
"Good." Mikey nods, satisfied. "Because Mama smiles different now. Like she's happy and sad."
Giancarlo's throat tightens. Happy and sad. Yeah. He knows exactly what Mikey means.
⸻
After dinner, they clean up together. Mikey helps load the dishwasher, standing on his step stool, handing Giancarlo plates one at a time with intense concentration. His tongue pokes out between his teeth the way it always does when he's focused, and Giancarlo has to resist the urge to pull out his phone and take a picture.
"Good job, buddy," Giancarlo says, ruffling his hair.
"I'm a good helper!"
"The best."
They wipe down the table together, Mikey using a damp cloth to make elaborate swirls across the surface while Giancarlo follows behind him, actually cleaning. It's inefficient, but Giancarlo doesn't care.
These moments these small, ordinary moments are what he missed most during those two years when he was too focused on his career to see what was right in front of him, and he's not missing them anymore.
⸻
Bath time is a production.
Mikey insists on bringing three dinosaurs into the tub, and Giancarlo lets him, kneeling beside the tub with his sleeves rolled up. The bathroom fills with steam and the scent of strawberry bubble bath Mikey's favorite, the kind that turns the water pink and makes mountains of bubbles.
He washes Mikey's hair carefully, one hand shielding his eyes from the water, the other working shampoo through his curls. Mikey tilts his head back trustingly, eyes squeezed shut, and something in Giancarlo's chest cracks open.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?"
"Are you happy?"
The question catches him off guard. Giancarlo pauses, his hand stilling in Mikey's hair for just a moment.
"Yeah, buddy," he says finally, his voice thick with emotion. "I'm really happy."
"Because of Mama?"
Giancarlo's throat tightens. "Yeah. Because of you and Mama both."
Mikey seems satisfied with this answer, turning back to his dinosaurs and the elaborate story he's constructing in the bathwater.
He rinses Mikey's hair, watching the suds slide down his small back, and thinks about the painting. About those three figures reaching toward each other across a canvas of gold and shadow. About the crack running through the center not breaking them apart, but somehow holding them together.
Is this us? Yeah. It is.
After the bath, they go through the bedtime routine: pajamas with dinosaurs on them, teeth brushing with the electric toothbrush that plays a song, one story about a bear who can't sleep. Mikey's room is small but warm, glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling, a nightlight shaped like a moon casting soft shadows across the walls.
Giancarlo tucks him in, pulling the blanket up to his chin, smoothing his damp curls back from his forehead. Mikey's eyes are already heavy, his small body relaxing into the mattress.
He stays until Mikey's breathing evens out, until his small body goes slack with sleep. Then he stands carefully, turns on the sound machine white noise that sounds like rain and slips out of the room, leaving the door cracked just enough to let in a sliver of light from the hallway.
⸻
The space feels too quiet without Mikey's voice filling it.
Giancarlo sits on the couch, his phone in his hand, staring at your contact. The screen casts a pale glow across his face in the darkening room. He wants to text you. Wants to say something about today, about the kiss, about tomorrow. But every message he types feels wrong too much or not enough, too casual or too intense.
Hey. Can't stop thinking about today. Delete. Looking forward to tomorrow. Delete. I meant what I said. I see you now. Delete.
Finally, he just sets the phone down and leans back against the cushions, closing his eyes. The city hums beyond his windows traffic and sirens and the distant sound of someone's music playing too loud. But inside, everything is still.
He can still feel you. The weight of you against him. The way your hands had fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you trembled. The soft sound you'd made when he'd deepened the kiss, like you'd been waiting for this as long as he had.
I see you now, he'd said. And he does.
He sees the way you've built a life without him, the way you've carried everything alone, the way you've turned pain into art. He sees the exhaustion in your eyes and the hope you're trying not to feel. He sees the way you look at him when you think he's not watching like you're trying to decide if it's safe to let him back in.
He wants to be safe for you. Wants to prove he's not the man who left, who chose his career over his family, who didn't see you until it was too late.
Tomorrow, he'll help you hang the painting.
Tomorrow, he'll show up the way he should have been showing up all along.
He falls asleep on the couch with that thought, still dressed, city lights filtering through the windows and painting patterns across his closed eyelids.
⸻
The apartment feels too big after they leave.
You stand in the entryway for a long moment, your fingertips pressed to your lips, trying to hold onto the feeling of him. The kiss. God, the kiss. It wasn't like the kisses you remember from before rushed and hungry and always leading somewhere. This was different. Slower. Intentional.
I see you now, he'd said, and you'd believed him.
You move through the apartment in a daze, touching things without really seeing them. The couch where you'd sat together years ago, when everything was new and easy. The kitchen where you'd made breakfast while he stood behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. The hallway where you'd fought and cried and finally said the words that broke everything, I can't do this anymore.
But that was then, this is now.
And now, he kissed you in your studio, surrounded by your work, and said he wanted to help. Said he wanted to be there.
The late afternoon light slants through your windows, painting everything in shades of amber and gold. Dust motes dance in the air, and you watch them for a moment, your mind still back in the studio. Still feeling his hands in your hair, his lips on yours, the way he'd pulled back just enough to look at you like you were something precious.
You try to work on something pull out your sketchbook, uncap a pen but your hands won't cooperate. They're shaking slightly, whether from nerves or exhaustion or the sheer weight of what just happened, you're not sure.
Your mind keeps looping back to the studio. To the way he'd looked at the painting, really looked at it, like he was seeing all the things you'd been too afraid to say out loud.
Is this us? he'd asked.
And you hadn't been able to answer, because yes, it was you. It was all of you the distance and the longing and the hope that maybe, just maybe, you could find your way back to each other.
You set the sketchbook down and move to the window instead, pressing your forehead against the cool glass. The city stretches out below you, alive with evening traffic and people heading home from work.
Somewhere out there, Giancarlo is with Mikey, probably making dinner, probably thinking about tomorrow the same way you are.
Tomorrow. When he'll be here, in your space, helping you hang the painting that's about all three of you.
The thought makes your chest tight with anticipation and fear in equal measure.
⸻
You take a shower, letting the hot water wash away the paint and the exhaustion and the nervous energy thrumming under your skin. The bathroom fills with steam, and you stand under the spray longer than necessary, trying to quiet your racing thoughts.
When you get out, you catch sight of yourself in the mirror flushed cheeks, damp hair, eyes that look too bright. You look different. Or maybe you just feel different, and it's showing on your face.
He kissed you.
And tomorrow, he's coming back. To help hang the painting. To be in your space again. To keep building whatever this is between you.
You pull on an old t-shirt one of his, actually, from years ago, so worn and soft and climb into bed. But sleep feels impossible, your mind won't quiet.
You keep replaying the kiss, the way his hands had cupped your face, the way he'd pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours like he was asking permission to keep going.
You'd given it. You'd pulled him back, kissed him
harder, let yourself feel everything you'd been holding back for two years.
And now you're lying in bed alone, wondering if he's awake too. Wondering if he's replaying the same moments. Wondering if tomorrow will change everything or if you're both just standing on the edge of something you're too afraid to name.
Your phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent. You reach for it, pull up his contact, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. The screen illuminates your face in the darkness, casting shadows across the ceiling.
But what would you even say?
I can't stop thinking about you. About the kiss. About what happens next.
You type it out, then delete it. Type something else, delete that too. Finally, you set the phone down without sending anything.
Tomorrow. You'll see him tomorrow.
You close your eyes and try to sleep, but all you can feel is the ghost of his lips on yours, the promise of something new beginning. The sheets smell like lavender fabric softener, and somewhere outside, a car alarm goes off and then stops. The city never really sleeps, and tonight, neither do you.
⸻
You wake to sunlight streaming through the windows and the immediate, visceral memory of yesterday's kiss.
For a moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, your heart already racing.
He's coming today. He's going to be here, in your apartment, helping you hang the painting.
The thought sends a flutter of nerves through your stomach. You press your hand against your chest, feeling your heartbeat, trying to calm yourself. It's just hanging a painting. It's just Giancarlo. Except it's not just anything, and you both know it.
You get up and move through your morning routine on autopilot coffee first, always coffee, the familiar ritual of grinding beans and waiting for the machine to hiss and gurgle. Shower next, standing under the spray and trying to wash away the nervous energy.
Then pulling on jeans and an old paint-stained t-shirt, the uniform of your everyday life.
Your hands are steadier than yesterday, but there's a nervous energy humming under your skin that won't settle. You catch yourself checking the clock every few minutes. 7:23. 7:31. 7:45.
The painting leans against the living room wall where you left it, six feet tall and impossible to ignore. The three figures reaching toward each other. The crack of gold running through the center, catching the morning light and throwing it back in shades of amber and honey.
You're pouring a second cup of coffee when you hear them in the hallway Mikey's excited chatter,
Giancarlo's lower voice responding. Your heart kicks hard against your ribs, and you have to set the coffee pot down carefully to keep from spilling it.
The knock comes, and you take a breath before opening the door.
⸻
Giancarlo stands there with Mikey at his side, and the sight of him hits you like a physical thing. He's in jeans and a dark shirt that fits him in a way that makes your mouth go dry, his hair still damp from a shower, and when his eyes meet yours, there's a heat there that makes your stomach flip.
"Hey," he says, his voice rough like he hasn't used it much this morning. "Hey."
For a moment, you just look at each other. The air between you feels charged, electric, full of everything that happened yesterday and everything that might happen today.
"MAMA!" Mikey barrels past him, wrapping his arms around your legs and breaking the moment. "We're here to hang the painting! Daddy brought tools!"
You laugh, crouching down to hug him properly. He smells like syrup and strawberry shampoo, and his curls are still damp against your cheek. "I see that."
When you stand, Giancarlo is still watching you, something soft and uncertain in his expression. Like he's not sure if yesterday was real or if you've both woken up and decided to pretend it didn't happen.
You step closer, and his eyes track the movement. You can see the moment he stops breathing, the way his shoulders tense slightly.
"I'm glad you're here," you say quietly.
His shoulders relax, and that small, careful smile appears the one that makes your chest ache because it's so different from the cocky grin he used to wear. This smile is real. Vulnerable.
"Me too."
Mikey is already running toward the painting, and you and Giancarlo follow. There's a charge in the air between you, an awareness that wasn't there before.
Everything has shifted. The kiss changed things, and you're both trying to figure out what that means.
"Where do you want it?" Giancarlo asks, his voice low.
You point to the wall above the couch, where morning light hits first. "There. So the light catches it right."
He nods, already measuring with his eyes, already problem solving. You can see him calculating angles and weight distribution, his mind working through the logistics. "I'll need to find the studs. Make sure it's secure."
"I have a toolbox in the bedroom closet."
He disappears down the hallway, and you're left standing with Mikey, who's bouncing on his toes with excitement.
"We're gonna be a team, Mama! All three of us!"
"Yeah, baby," you whisper, your throat suddenly tight. "All three of us."
You hear Giancarlo moving around in your bedroom, the sound of the closet door opening, tools shifting. It feels intimate, him in your space like this. Not just visiting, but helping. Building something together.
When he returns with the level and stud finder, he moves with quiet competence, checking the wall, marking spots with a pencil. You watch him work, and it feels different than it would have a week ago.
There's an intimacy to it now him in your space, helping you with something that matters, both of you building toward something you're not quite ready to name.
"Hand me that bracket?" he asks, and you do, your fingers brushing his as he takes it.
The touch lingers longer than it needs to. His eyes flick to yours, and you see the same awareness there the memory of yesterday, the promise of what might come next.
He positions the bracket carefully, checking the level, adjusting until it's perfect. His forearms flex as he holds it steady, muscles shifting under tanned skin, and you remember those arms around you, the weight of him, the way he'd held you.
"You okay?" he asks, catching you staring.
Heat creeps up your neck. "Yeah. Just...watching you work."
He smiles, something private and warm, and keeps going. The drill whirs as he makes pilot holes, the sound loud in the quiet apartment. Mikey has settled on the couch, watching with wide eyes, his dinosaurs forgotten for once.
It takes an hour, maybe less. He works methodically, drilling holes, inserting anchors, positioning the brackets with care.
You hand him tools when he asks, hold the level when he needs a second pair of hands, stand close enough that you can smell his soap and feel the warmth radiating off his body.
When everything is secured, he steps back and nods, satisfaction clear on his face. "That should hold it."
"Help me lift it?"
You both move to the painting, positioning yourselves on either side. Your hands find the frame, and you realize they're trembling slightly.
"On three," he says, his voice steady and sure. "One... two... three."
You lift together, your bodies moving in sync. The painting is heavier than you expected, or maybe you're just more tired than you realized. Your arms shake with the effort, and you have to lean slightly against Giancarlo's shoulder for support. He takes more of the weight without comment, his hands steady as he guides the painting upward.
The painting rises, and Giancarlo guides it onto the brackets, his hands steady, his attention complete.
You close your eyes for just a moment, fighting to stay present, to not let the exhaustion pull you under.
When you open them again, Giancarlo is looking at you with concern.
"You sure you're okay?" he asks, his voice low. "You look—"
"I'm fine," you say, but your voice wavers slightly. "Just...it's heavier than I thought."
The painting settles into place with a soft click, perfect. The painting hangs on your wall like it was always meant to be there the three figures arranged between your couch and the window, where the morning light can find them. Where you'll see them every day. Where the crack of gold can catch the light and remind you that sometimes the broken places are where light gets in.
Giancarlo steps back, and you step back with him. You're standing very close his shoulder nearly touching yours, your hands nearly touching. Your legs feel unsteady, and you're grateful for his proximity, for the solid warmth of him beside you.
"It's beautiful," he murmurs.
"It's about us," you say quietly.
He turns to look at you, and his eyes are so full of hope and fear and love that you can barely breathe.
Mikey crashes into both of you, wrapping his arms around your legs, and you both laugh, the tension breaking into something lighter.
Giancarlo scoops him up, settling him on his hip, and for a moment, you're all standing there together in front of the painting the three of you, reaching toward each other, trying to close the distance.
And for the first time since everything broke, it doesn't feel like you're standing in the wreckage, it feels like you're building something new.
⸻
taglist (lmk if you want to be added!!): @diorjtrk @wildlaufey3 @graceeehhhh @hotwheels1108 @you-got-me-star-lost-16 @thelunarbar @hockeygirlyyyy @quinnintheabyss @peachmango-kombucha @boybandbaby @divinedelusional @hockey-racing-fubol @melsgf @anonymousie @refinedanimal @spooky-newt @selv1sh @twistedprincess-92 @earthlings0000
summary: cam spends the whole day watching you like he’s trying to behave, but the second the villa door closes, you realize his silence was never calm.
word count: 6.7k words
a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoy!! cam is stressing me out rn but as promised cam smut! thank you for reading!! i love youuu!!
warnings: SMUT
⸻
The first thing you notice is how different Cam looks when baseball isn't dictating his life.
He's sprawled out on the towel next to yours, one arm thrown over his eyes to block the sun, his other hand resting on his stomach. His hair's messy from the saltwater, sticking up in the back, and there's sand dusted across his shoulder. His breathing is slow and even, like he might actually fall asleep right here on this quiet stretch of beach in Turks and Caicos. That alone feels like a small miracle.
During the season, Cam runs on a clock. Every day is mapped out down to the hour, wake up, work out, eat, stretch, throw, review film, sleep, repeat. You've watched him set alarms for naps and turn down dinner invitations because his routine doesn't bend for spontaneity.
But here, there's no schedule. No bullpen sessions or reporters or pressure. It's just the two of you with an entire week and nowhere to be.
He'd slept until ten this morning and when he finally rolled over to find you already awake, scrolling through your phone, he'd smiled and pulled you back down into the sheets. You'd ordered room service for breakfast and eaten it on the balcony in your pajamas while the ocean glittered below. He'd kissed your shoulder and said, "We should do this more often."
You'd agreed.
Now it's late afternoon, and you've been at the beach for hours. The sun is golden and gentle, the kind of light that sinks into your skin and makes you feel lazy in the best way. A few other people dot the sand, but it's quiet. Private. Peaceful.
Cam shifts beside you, and you glance over.
He's not sleeping. He's watching you.
You catch his eyes just before he looks away, and something about how quickly he does it makes you pause. He reaches for the water bottle between your towels like that's what he was doing the whole time, but you saw the way his gaze had been resting on you, steady and focused, a little too intense for a lazy beach day.
"You're staring," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow.
Cam takes a sip of water, his expression unreadable. "I'm allowed."
"At what?"
He sets the bottle down and looks at you again, and this time he doesn't look away.
"You."
It's such a simple answer, but the way he says it makes your stomach flip. There's weight behind it, something simmering under the surface that wasn't there this morning.
You laugh, trying to shake off the sudden warmth in your chest. "I've been here the whole time, Cam."
"I know."
He says it quietly, almost like he's admitting something, and then he leans back on his towel and closes his eyes. But you can tell he's not relaxed his jaw is tight, his fingers drumming once against his thigh before he stills them.
That's when you realize he's been quiet today. Not in a bad way, not distant or upset, just... quiet. The kind that means he's thinking too hard about something he's not saying.
You let it go for now and lie back down, but you're suddenly aware of him in a way you weren't before. The space between your towels feels smaller. Every time you shift or stretch or reach for your phone, you can feel his attention on you like something tangible.
⸻
An hour later, you get up to go into the water, and Cam follows without a word.
You just stand, brush the sand off your legs, and start walking toward the ocean. When you glance back, he's already on his feet.
The water is perfect warm and clear, the kind of blue that doesn't look real. You get in up to your waist, then dive under, letting the salt wash over you.
When you surface, Cam is a few feet away, watching you.
"What?" you ask, smoothing your hair back.
He shakes his head, smiling a little. "Nothing."
But it's not nothing. You can see it in the way he's looking at you, like he's trying to commit this moment to memory.
A wave rolls in, and you brace yourself, laughing as it lifts you off your feet for a second. Cam moves closer, his hands finding your waist to steady you, and suddenly the playful moment shifts into something else entirely.
You're chest deep in the water now, far enough from shore that no one's nearby. His hands stay on your waist, his thumb brushing the skin just above your swimsuit line, and the touch is so deliberate it makes your breath catch.
"You know what you're doing, right?" he says, his voice lower than before.
You tilt your head, playing innocent. "I'm swimming."
His mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile. "Sure."
He's close enough now that you can see the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes, the way his chest rises and falls a little faster than it should. For a second, you think he's going to kiss you. His eyes drop to your mouth, and his grip on your waist tightens just slightly—
And then someone laughs loudly from the beach. A jet ski roars past in the distance. Cam pulls back not far, but just enough. His jaw tightens, and he lets out a slow breath through his nose, like he's forcing himself to behave.
"Come on," he says, his voice rough. "Let's go back."
⸻
Back on the sand, the tension doesn't break. If anything, it gets worse.
Cam stays calm about it, which somehow makes it more unbearable. He's not obvious, not doing anything anyone else would notice. But you notice.
His hand settles on your lower back as you walk to the towels, palm warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress. When he hands you a drink from the cooler, his thumb brushes your hip and lingers just a second too long.
When you pull the cover up over your head, his eyes follow you the way his gaze drags over your shoulders, your waist, your legs before he looks away and takes a long drink of his beer makes your pulse skip.
Later, when you bend down to grab your sunglasses from the beach bag, he goes completely still. His hand tightens around the bottle.
It's maddening.
The worst part? He's not even trying to hide it anymore. Every time you catch him looking, he holds your gaze for a beat longer than necessary, like he's daring you to say something.
So you do.
You wait until you're sitting next to him under the cabana at the beach bar, the sun starting to dip lower in the sky, everything bathed in gold. He's nursing a drink, eyes on the horizon, and you finally call him out.
"You've been quiet today."
Cam glances at you, then back at his glass. "Have I?"
"Yeah."
He shrugs, but there's something deliberate about the casualness of it. "Didn't realize."
"Is something wrong?"
That makes him pause. He sets his drink down and reaches for your hand, fingers curling around yours. When he lifts your knuckles to his mouth and presses a kiss there, it's so gentle it almost makes you forget the tension from earlier.
Almost.
"Nothing's wrong," he says quietly.
You wait for him to continue.
He sighs, thumb tracing slow circles on the back of your hand. "I just like looking at you."
The honesty in his voice makes your chest tighten, but before you can respond, he keeps going.
"You look happy here. Relaxed. I don't get to see you like this enough."
God, that shouldn't hit you as hard as it does.
He's right, though. During the season, you're both always moving, always busy, always trying to fit your lives around his schedule. Here, there's no rush. No pressure. Just the two of you, and the ocean, and all the time in the world.
"Cam," you start, but he's not done.
His gaze drops just for a second to your mouth, then lower, to where the strap of your swimsuit peeks out from under the wrap. When his eyes meet yours again, there's a heat in them that wasn't there before.
"And I've been trying to be good about it," he adds, his voice rougher now.
Your pulse kicks up. "Trying?"
Cam leans closer, and the air between you feels charged, heavy with everything he's been holding back all day.
"Trying really hard."
The words land like a match struck in the dark, and suddenly you understand everything.
He hasn't been quiet because something's wrong. He's been quiet because he's been holding himself back all day wrestling with the need to touch you, forcing his hands to stay to himself in public, pushing through every moment when all he wanted was to pull you somewhere private and show you exactly what's been on his mind.
You can't stop looking at him now the tension coiled in his shoulders, his fingers tightening around his glass, the hunger in his eyes as they keep drifting back to you like he can't help himself.
"We should head back," you say softly.
His gaze sharpens, and for a moment, he doesn't move. Then he nods, drains the rest of his drink in one swallow, and stands.
He offers you his hand.
When you take it, you feel the barely restrained control in the way his fingers close around yours.
⸻
The walk back to the villa feels longer than it should.
You don't say much to each other. The silence between you is thick and heavy, charged with anticipation.
The sun has dipped low enough that the sky is painted in shades of orange and pink, but you barely notice. All you can focus on is the warmth of Cam's palm against your lower back, steady and possessive through the thin fabric of your cover up.
His touch isn't casual anymore. There's intention behind it his fingers spread wide, his thumb brushing against your spine with every step.
You try to focus on the path ahead, the ocean behind you, anything other than the way your body is hyperaware of every point of contact between you.
But it's impossible.
Cam is right there, close enough that his arm brushes yours. You can smell the salt and sunscreen on his skin. When you glance up at him, you can see the tension in his jaw.
He's not looking at you, though. His eyes are fixed straight ahead, like he's concentrating on something, and that somehow makes it worse.
Because you know exactly what he's concentrating on. You know he's counting down the seconds until you're alone.
You reach the private path that leads to your villa, and there's no one else around now just the two of you, the fading light, and the sound of your sandals on the stone walkway.
"You're still quiet," you say, trying to break the silence.
Cam's hand tightens on your back, and he finally looks at you. The intensity in his eyes makes your stomach flip.
"Not for long," he says, his voice low and rough.
The promise in those three words sends heat flooding through you, and suddenly you're walking faster, your pulse racing as the villa comes into view. Cam keeps pace with you easily, his hand never leaving your back, and when you reach the door, he pulls out the key.
His hands are steady as he unlocks it, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the way his breathing has gone just slightly uneven. He pushes the door open and steps back to let you in first, ever the gentleman, but the second you cross the threshold, everything changes.
The door closes behind you with a soft click, and then Cam is there his hands on your waist, spinning you around to face him.
You barely have time to register the look in his eyes before his mouth is on yours.
This kiss is nothing like the sweet, lazy ones from this morning. It's all hunger and need, every ounce of restraint he's been holding onto all day finally snapping. It steals the breath from your lungs, his lips demanding as his tongue slides against yours with a desperation that makes your knees weak. One hand cups the back of your neck, holding you exactly where he wants you, while the other grips your hip hard enough that you feel the pressure of each finger through the fabric.
You make a sound something between a gasp and a moan and Cam swallows it, kissing you deeper, harder, like he's trying to make up for every moment he couldn't touch you today.
The beach bag hits the floor with a dull thud, forgotten.
"Cam—" you start, but he cuts you off with another kiss, somehow even more intense than the last.
"I've been thinking about this all day," he murmurs against your mouth, his voice rough and low. His hands slide down to your thighs, and then he's lifting you, walking you backward until your back hits the wall near the entryway.
The cool surface shocks your sun warmed skin, but it only lasts a second before Cam presses against you, his body hot and solid and everywhere. You feel the hard planes of his chest, the strength in his arms as he holds you up, the way his hips pin yours to the wall.
"All day?" you manage, breathless, your fingers tangling in his hair.
"Since you walked out in that swimsuit," he says, his mouth moving to your neck, kissing and biting the sensitive skin just below your ear. "Since I watched you put sunscreen on. Since you bent over to grab your sunglasses and I had to sit there and pretend I wasn't losing my mind."
His teeth graze your pulse point, and you arch into him, a whimper escaping your throat. Your cover up has ridden up, and his hands are on your bare thighs now, his palms rough and warm as they slide higher.
"You were staring," you say, trying to sound teasing, but it comes out shaky.
"I was." He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heated. "Couldn't help it. You looked too good."
His hand moves to the tie at your waist and tugs it loose with one smooth motion. The fabric falls open, and his gaze drops, taking in the swimsuit underneath the one that's been driving him crazy all day.
"This," he says, his fingers tracing the edge of the fabric at your hip, "has been a problem."
You laugh, but it turns into a gasp when his thumb hooks under the strap and pulls it aside, his mouth following the path his fingers just traced. He kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the swell of your boob just above the swimsuit's neckline, and every touch feels like fire.
"You okay?" you tease, breathless. "Need a cold shower?"
Cam's hands tighten on your thighs, and he lifts his head to look at you. There's something feral in his expression now, something that makes your pulse stutter.
"Showers are done," he says, his voice rough and low. "Only thing that's gonna help now is you." His thumb digs into the soft flesh of your thigh, possessive and deliberate. "And you knew exactly what you were doing out there. Every time you stretched. Every time you smiled at me like that. You wanted this."
Before you can answer, he's kissing you again, and this time there's no gentleness to it. It's all heat and need and barely controlled desire, and you meet him with the same intensity, your nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer.
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat and then he's moving, carrying you away from the wall. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, and you feel the flex of his muscles, the way his hands grip you like he's afraid to let go.
He only makes it a few steps before he stops, pressing you against the back of the couch instead. His mouth never leaves yours, and his hands are everywhere sliding up your sides, tangling in your hair, gripping your ass and pulling you tighter against him.
The evidence of his desire is unmistakable, pressing against you through the thin fabric of his swim trunks, and it makes you dizzy with want.
"Cam," you breathe, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.
His hair is a mess from your fingers, his lips swollen, his chest heaving as he takes you in completely wrecked, and you've barely even started.
"You're impatient," you say, trying to catch your breath.
Something flashes in his eyes amusement mixed with heat and he leans in, his lips brushing against your ear.
"I waited," he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel as much as hear. "That was me being patient."
His mouth finds your neck again, and his hands slide up to push your cover up off your shoulders. The fabric pools at your elbows before falling to the floor, leaving you in just your swimsuit.
Cam's hands map every inch of newly exposed skin your shoulders, your arms, your waist like he's been dying to touch you without barriers. His fingers trace the line of your spine, and when you arch into him, he makes that sound again, the one that tells you he's barely holding on.
"Bedroom," you manage between breaths, and he nods, though he doesn't move right away.
Instead, he kisses you again slower this time but no less intense. His tongue slides against yours while his hands cup your face, tilting your head to exactly the angle he wants. It's possessive and tender all at once, and it makes your heart stutter in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are so dark they're nearly black, and he says roughly, "Bedroom."
He sets you down but keeps one hand at your waist while the other tangles with yours, walking you backward through the villa. You barely register the open floor plan or the ocean view through the balcony doors.
All you can focus on is Cam how he's looking at you like you're the only thing that exists, how his thumb strokes your hip, how he keeps stopping every few steps to kiss you again like he can't help himself.
You bump into the doorframe, and Cam steadies you with a hand on your waist, a small smile tugging at his lips.
"Careful," he murmurs, but there's heat in his eyes that says he's anything but careful right now.
"Your fault," you shoot back, and he laughs a low, rough sound that makes your toes curl.
"Yeah, it is," he agrees, backing you through the doorway.
The bedroom is bathed in the last golden light of sunset, the sheer curtains billowing slightly from the open balcony doors. You can hear the ocean, smell the salt in the air, feel the lingering warmth of the day.
But all of that fades when Cam's hands slide up your sides again, when his mouth finds yours, when he walks you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his hands framing your face.
"Tell me if you want me to slow down," he says, and despite the urgency thrumming through both of you, there's genuine concern in his voice.
You shake your head, your hands sliding up his chest to curl around the back of his neck.
"I don't want you to slow down." The words come out steadier than you expected. "I want you."
Something in his eyes shifts softens and intensifies all at once and then he's kissing you again. This time there's no more stopping, no more waiting.
⸻
Cam's hands move to the straps of your swimsuit, sliding them down your shoulders with a deliberate slowness that contradicts the urgency from moments ago. Now that you're here, now that he finally has you alone, he's savoring every second.
"You have no idea," he murmurs against your lips, his fingers tracing the line where fabric meets skin, "what you do to me."
He kisses you again, deep and slow, his tongue sliding against yours as his hands work the swimsuit down your body. The fabric peels away from your skin, and when it falls to the floor, Cam pulls back to look at you.
The way he looks at you makes your breath catch. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and there's something almost reverent in his gaze even as electricity radiates from him.
"So fucking pretty," he says, his voice rough. His hands map your body your shoulders, your boobs, your waist, your hips like he's memorizing every curve. "You were killing me out there today."
"Was I?" you ask, trying for teasing, but it comes out breathless.
"You know you were." His thumbs brush over your nipples, and you gasp. "Stretching out on that towel, coming out of the water with your hair wet and that smile on your face. Looking at me like you didn't know exactly what you were doing."
His lips trail down your throat, across your collarbone, and then lower. He kisses the swell of your breast, his tongue flicking over your nipple before he takes it into his mouth. The sensation makes your knees weak, and you reach for him, fingers threading through his hair.
"Cam—" you start, but he's already guiding you down onto the bed, his body following yours.
The sheets are cool against your back, a sharp contrast to the heat of his skin as he settles between your thighs. He's still wearing his swim trunks, and you can feel how hard he is through the fabric, the pressure making you ache.
But he doesn't rush. Instead, he kisses your mouth, your jaw, your neck, working his way down your body with a focus that makes you dizzy. His teeth graze the sensitive peak of your other breast before soothing it with his tongue, and you arch into him with a moan.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let me hear you."
His hands slide down your sides, tracing patterns that make you shiver. When he reaches your hips, he pauses, thumbs brushing over the sensitive skin there before his forehead comes to rest against your stomach. His breath is warm on your skin.
"I kept thinking about this all day," he says, his voice lower and rougher than before. "About getting you alone."
He lifts his head, and when his eyes meet yours, there's something raw beneath the hunger something vulnerable that makes your chest tighten.
"I was scared," he admits, the words coming out like a confession. "Scared that if I touched you the way I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to stop. That I'd lose it right there on the beach in front of everyone."
His thumb traces a slow circle on your hip.
"You have no idea what you do to me. How hard it is to keep my hands to myself when all I want is you."
The honesty in his voice, the way he's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters it breaks something open in your chest.
He kisses your stomach, just below your navel, and then lower. Your breath hitches as his intentions become clear. When his mouth finds the inside of your thigh, you can't hold back the whimper that escapes.
"Cam, please—"
"I know," he says, and there's something almost smug in his tone. "I've got you."
Then his mouth is on you, and coherent thought becomes impossible.
The first touch of his tongue makes you cry out, your hands flying to his hair. He groans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body as he devours you like a man starving.
There's no hesitation, no tentative exploration. He knows exactly what you need, exactly how to make you fall apart, and he uses that knowledge without mercy. His tongue moves in slow, deliberate strokes, alternating between broad licks and focused attention on your clit that makes your thighs shake.
"Fuck," you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair. "Cam, oh my god—"
He hums in approval, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you open. The salt from the ocean is still on your skin, mixing with the taste of you, and he can't get enough. His tongue circles your clit before he sucks it gently, and the sensation makes you buck against his mouth.
"Stay still," he murmurs, his voice muffled but commanding, and the authority in it makes you clench around nothing.
He slides one finger inside you, then two, curling them until stars burst behind your eyelids. His mouth and fingers work together, building pleasure in waves that threaten to pull you under.
"You're so wet," he says, pulling back just enough to speak. His lips are slick, his eyes dark as he watches you. "So perfect. I could do this all night."
"Don't stop," you beg, and he gives you that dangerous, quiet smile you've been seeing all day.
"Wasn't planning on it."
He doubles down with renewed intensity, his tongue working your clit while his fingers pump in and out. The sounds are obscene wet and desperate but you're too far gone to care. All you can focus on is the pleasure building in your core, the way his fingers hit that spot inside you that makes you see white, the way his mouth feels like heaven and sin all at once.
"Cam, I'm—" you start, but you can't finish the sentence.
"I know," he says against you. "Come for me. Let me feel it."
His words push you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you with an intensity that steals your breath, your body arching off the bed as waves of pleasure roll through you. Cam doesn't stop, working you through it until you're trembling and oversensitive, until you're pulling at his hair to make him stop.
He presses one last kiss to your inner thigh before crawling back up your body, and when he kisses you, you can taste yourself on his lips.
"You're so beautiful when you come," he murmurs, his forehead resting against yours. "I love watching you fall apart."
You're still catching your breath, but you manage to reach between your bodies, your hand finding the waistband of his swim trunks. "Your turn."
He helps you push them down, kicking them off the rest of the way, and then he's naked above you all lean muscle and sun kissed skin. His cock is hard and heavy between you, and when you wrap your hand around him, he groans, his hips jerking forward.
"Fuck," he breathes, his eyes falling closed. "You're gonna kill me."
You stroke him slowly, your thumb brushing over the head, and he shudders. After only a few moments though, he catches your wrist and stills your hand.
"I need to be inside you," he says, his voice strained. "Right now."
He reaches for the nightstand and pulls out a condom, rolling it on with shaking hands. The fact that he's barely holding on sends your pulse racing all over again.
When he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, he pauses. His eyes find yours, and despite the desperation written all over his face, there's tenderness there too.
"You okay?" he asks.
"More than okay," you tell him, hands sliding up his back. "I need you."
That's all the permission he needs. He pushes forward slowly, and the stretch of him filling you makes you both moan. Even though you're soaked from your orgasm, it takes a moment for your body to adjust.
"Jesus," he grits out, jaw clenched. "You feel so good."
He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and stays there for a moment, letting you adjust. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath hot against your skin, and you can feel the tension in every muscle as he fights for control.
"Move," you whisper, and he does.
His first thrust is slow and deep, pulling a moan from both of you. He drives in harder the second time, more desperate, and then he's setting a rhythm that makes your toes curl. Each stroke hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.
"Fuck, yes," you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders. "Just like that."
Cam's control is slipping. You can see it in the way his movements become less measured, more frantic. His hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sounds he's making low groans and muttered curses send heat racing through you.
"You're mine," he says, his voice rough and possessive. "Say it."
"Yours," you breathe, and the word seems to break something in him.
He shifts the angle, one hand sliding under your knee to push your leg higher, and the new position tears a cry from your throat. He's deeper now, hitting places that make your vision blur, and you can feel another orgasm building already.
His eyes lock on your face, dark and hungry.
"Let me see you," he murmurs, his voice strained. "Let me watch you come on my cock."
He slows, his movements becoming deliberate and controlled. Before you can protest, he pulls out and sits back on his heels, then his hands find your waist. In one smooth motion, he's pulling you up and into his lap.
"Come here," he says, his voice rough with need.
You straddle him, your thighs bracketing his hips, and the new angle makes you both groan. When you sink down onto him fully, his head falls back.
"Fuck," he breathes, his hands gripping your hips to guide you. "That's perfect."
You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips in a rhythm that makes his fingers dig into your skin. This position puts you in control, but the way he's looking at you like he's completely undone, like you're the only thing in the world that matters makes you feel anything but.
"Look at me," he says, one hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.
When your eyes meet his, the intensity there steals your breath.
"Don't look away. I want to see everything."
Being this close, this connected, watching each other fall apart it's almost too much. You can feel every breath he takes, see every flicker of pleasure that crosses his face, the way his body responds to yours.
His words and the relentless rhythm push you closer to the edge. Your hands scramble for purchase on his back, your nails leaving red lines on his skin, and he groans at the sting.
"So close," you manage to say, and he nods, reaching between your bodies. His thumb finds your clit, and the added stimulation is all it takes. Your second orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave, your body clenching around him as pleasure floods every nerve. You cry out his name, your back arching, and watching you come undone sends Cam over the edge.
He buries himself deep with a low groan, his hips stuttering as he comes. You feel him pulsing inside you, see the way his face contorts with pleasure, and it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
For a long moment, neither of you moves. You're both breathing hard, your bodies slick with sweat and still tangled together. The room has gone dark now, the sunset faded to night, and the only light comes from the moon reflecting off the ocean outside.
Cam's weight is heavy on top of you, but you don't mind. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the way his heart races against your chest, and he turns his head to press a kiss to your shoulder.
The kiss lingers there, soft and unhurried, and you feel the shift in him immediately. The urgency that had driven him since the door closed is gone, replaced by something gentler that makes your chest feel warm and full.
He lifts his head to look at you, and even in the dim moonlight, you can see the softness in his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone, and he smiles a real smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes.
"You okay?" he asks quietly.
"More than okay," you tell him, and it's the truth. You feel boneless and satisfied, your body still humming with aftershocks.
He presses another kiss to your forehead before carefully pulling out, and you immediately miss the closeness. After disposing of the condom in the bathroom, he returns and slides back under the sheets, pulling you into his arms without hesitation.
You go willingly, your head finding its place on his chest, right over his heart, while his arms wrap around you like he's trying to keep you as close as possible.
⸻
For a while, neither of you speaks.
There's only the sound of your breathing gradually evening out, the distant crash of waves against the shore, and the rustle of palm trees in the warm breeze drifting through the open balcony doors. Cam's fingers start tracing patterns on your back lazy lines that make you shiver despite the warmth. His touch is feather light, almost absent minded, like he's not even aware he's doing it.
You're aware of every point of contact between your bodies, every gentle brush of his fingertips, every rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek.
"So," you say eventually, your voice soft in the darkness. "That's what all the staring was about."
You feel more than hear his laugh, a low rumble in his chest. His hand pauses on your back for just a moment before resuming its gentle exploration.
"Yeah," he admits, shameless. "That's what it was about."
You tilt your head to look up at him, propping your chin on his chest. Even in the low light, you can see the hint of a smirk on his lips.
"You were really staring," you tease. "Like, a lot. I thought maybe I had something on my face."
"You did," he says, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. "That smile you get when you're completely relaxed and happy." His thumb strokes the sensitive skin there, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine. "Drives me crazy."
Your heart does a little flip at the honesty in his voice. "You could've just said something."
"We were in public," he points out, his other hand finding your hip beneath the sheets. "And I was trying to behave."
You can't help the laugh that escapes. "That was you behaving?"
He exhales slowly, and when he speaks, there's something raw underneath the humor. "That was me being a goddamn saint. Every time I looked at you, I forgot to breathe. Sitting there pretending to be casual while all I could think about was getting you alone."
"Poor baby," you say, your tone teasing even as you press a kiss to his chest. "Had to spend the day at the beach with your girlfriend."
His hand tightens on your hip, pulling you closer.
"Had to spend the day watching you in that swimsuit, all gorgeous, knowing I couldn't do anything about it until we got back here."
"You did plenty in the water," you remind him.
"That wasn't nearly enough." He shifts, rolling slightly to look at you better and brushing a strand of hair from your face. His expression is so tender it makes your breath catch. "I wanted to memorize you today, the way you looked so happy and free. I don't get to see you like that enough during the season."
Your chest aches in the best way. You reach up to trace the line of his jaw, feeling the slight stubble there. "I'm always happy with you."
"I know," he says softly. "But this is different. This is you without any stress or worry. Just... you."
He leans down to kiss you, slow and sweet. "This version of you, completely relaxed—I love seeing it." He trails off for a moment, like he can't quite find the words. "I love all of you, but this..."
"I love this version of you too," you tell him. "Relaxed Cam. Off-season Cam. The one who sleeps in and walks around barefoot and doesn't check his phone every five minutes."
He smiles against your lips. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." You kiss him again, just because you can.
"Though I have to say, I also love the version of you that spent all day trying not to jump me and then completely lost it the second we were alone."
His laugh is warm and genuine. "You should be proud of me for lasting as long as I did."
"Oh, I'm so proud," you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm. "You made it a whole thirty seconds after the door closed."
"Thirty seconds of incredible restraint," he argues, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your spine. "I deserve a medal."
"You deserve something," you mutter, and he grins.
He shifts slightly, reaching for the water bottle on the nightstand, and when he brings it to your lips, his hand cups the back of your head with such careful tenderness it makes your throat tight. "Drink," he says softly, watching you take a few sips while his thumb strokes your temple.
After setting the bottle aside, he pulls the sheet up around your shoulders, tucking it against your skin like you're something precious. He presses a kiss to your forehead the same spot he always kisses when he's trying to tell you something he doesn't have words for and you settle back against his chest, your body molding to his.
The contentment you feel is almost overwhelming, the kind of bone deep satisfaction that comes from being exactly where you're supposed to be.
After several minutes of comfortable silence, your stomach decides to make its presence known with a low, unmistakable growl.
Cam's chest shakes with laughter beneath you. "Hungry?"
"We never ordered dinner," you realize, lifting your head to meet his eyes.
"We got distracted," he says, completely unrepentant.
"You distracted me."
"You distracted me first," he counters. "Walking around all day looking like that."
You roll your eyes, but you're smiling. "So what now? I'm starving."
Cam reaches for his phone on the nightstand, squinting at the screen. "Room service is still open for another hour. We could order something."
"In bed?"
"In bed," he confirms, already pulling up the menu.
"We're not leaving this room for the rest of the night."
You glance toward the door, where your beach bag and both swimsuits lie in a heap where they were hastily discarded. "We should probably at least pick those up."
"Later," Cam says dismissively, his attention still on the phone. "What do you want to eat?"
You list off a few things, and he adds them to the order along with his own. When he's done, he sets the phone aside and pulls you back into his arms.
"Thirty minutes," he says, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"What are we supposed to do for thirty minutes?" you ask innocently.
His hand slides down your back, and you can feel his smile against your hair. "I'm sure we'll think of something."
But despite his words, neither of you moves. You're both too comfortable, too content to do anything but lie there wrapped up in each other. The ocean continues its steady rhythm outside, and moonlight paints silver patterns across the sheets.
Cam's fingers find your hair, combing through it gently. You close your eyes at the sensation. This quiet intimacy might be even better than what came before the urgency has faded, leaving only tenderness and the simple pleasure of being close to someone you love.
"Hey," Cam says softly, and you open your eyes to find him watching you.
There it is. That look from the beach, from the water, from the walk back to the villa. But now you understand what it means when his eyes go dark and focused, when his gaze traces over your face like he's trying to memorize every detail. It's not just desire, though that's part of it. It's love and possession and wonder all mixed together the look of someone who can't quite believe you're real, that you're his.
"What?" you ask, even though you already know.
He doesn't answer with words. Instead, he cups your face in both hands and kisses you, slow and deep and full of everything he can't say.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and his eyes are still on you, unguarded in a way that takes your breath away.
The beach had never been the dangerous part, you realize. Privacy was.
"Holy shit," he finally says, his voice muffled against your skin.
You laugh, breathless and satisfied. "Yeah."
He lifts his head to look at you, and there's something soft in his expression now, the earlier intensity replaced with tenderness. He kisses you slowly, sweetly, and the contrast to moments ago makes your chest ache.
"You're incredible," he murmurs against your lips.
"So are you."
You curl into his side, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it gradually slows.
Outside, the ocean continues its rhythm while the warm breeze drifts through the open doors, carrying salt and night blooming flowers. Cam's fingers trace lazy patterns on your back, and you feel completely content.
"Still think I was being patient?" he asks after a while, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
You tilt your head to meet his eyes. "Barely."
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest as he pulls you closer. "I'll take it."
⸻
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i am, but just a lot slower than it was. i'm in my last semester this summer so i am honestly more focused on that and updating when i can! if you have sent one i more than likely already planned it or have started it! <33
their reaction to you cutting your hair: yankees edition
a/n: this was a request! i hope you enjoy!!! thank you for reading, i love youuu!! also i think this is my first spencer appearance!!!
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Max Fried:
Max would notice immediately, but he would not react in a huge way right away.
He'd look at you for a second longer than usual, quietly taking in the change before stepping a little closer. Not loud, not dramatic just observant in that very Max way.
"You cut it."
If it was a really dramatic change, he'd probably study your face more than the haircut itself, because that's what would get him most how much more visible you are now.
And if you asked if he liked it, he'd probably make you wait a second just to annoy you.
"Yeah."
A pause.
"You look really pretty."
And because he's Max, that would be the part that actually gets you the fact that he says it so plainly, like it's obvious, while still looking at you like he's more affected than he wants to admit.
He'd probably touch a piece of it once, almost absentmindedly.
"It looks good on you. Really good."
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Ben Rice:
Ben would have one of the most immediately readable reactions.
He'd look up, blink, and his whole face would soften right away.
"Oh, wow."
Not bad wow. Very much good wow.
He'd smile almost instantly and walk closer without even thinking about it.
"You really cut it."
Ben feels like the type to ask before touching it, because he'd want to but he'd still be sweet about it.
"Can I?"
And once his hand is in it, he's done for. Smiling, staring, clearly trying to process how different you look.
"No, you look so pretty."
"Like…really pretty."
If you seemed even a little nervous, he'd reassure you immediately.
"I'm serious. It looks so good."
Then, because he's Ben, he'd immediately care more about whether you feel good in it.
"Do you like it?"
And if you said maybe, he'd just smile and shake his head.
"Well, I love it."
⸻
Jazz Chisholm Jr.:
Jazz would notice, obviously, but not in the way where he's standing there analyzing layers or acting like he suddenly became a hairstylist.
He'd look at you, clock that something changed, and just shrug a little like,
"Oh, you cut it."
If you asked, "Do you like it?" he'd probably look at you like that's a silly question.
"Yeah, you still fine."
Then with a grin, "You think I was about to say no?"
Jazz feels like the type who cares way more about your energy than the hair itself. If you walked in feeling yourself, that's what he'd react to. Not the inches gone.
And if you kept fishing for a bigger reaction, he'd probably laugh and say,
"Baby, it's hair. You still look good."
⸻
Giancarlo Stanton:
Giancarlo would not react loudly, but he'd react.
You'd walk in, he'd look up, and there'd be that pause that extra second where he says nothing because he's taking in the whole picture.
Then he'd stand up.
That's how you'd know it got him.
He'd come closer, touch the ends or the back of your neck, and if it exposed more skin your neck, your shoulders, your collarbone he'd absolutely notice that too.
"That's different."
Which might make you nervous for half a second until he looked at you again and added, lower,
"Looks good on you."
"Real good."
Giancarlo feels like the type to be more affected by the confidence of it than the haircut alone. Like the second you walk in carrying yourself differently, he notices.
"You look sexy."
Very calm. Very direct.
⸻
Anthony Volpe:
Anthony would notice and think you looked good, but he would not be passionately invested in the haircut itself.
"Oh, you cut it."
If you asked, "Do you like it?" he'd say yes right away, but not in a way that sounds like he has strong opinions about the hair specifically.
"Yeah, of course."
"You look pretty."
Anthony feels like the type who would care more about whether you like it than about the haircut itself. So his follow up would probably be: "Do you like it?"
And if you said yes, that would pretty much settle it for him.
He's not the guy who's gonna be obsessed with the chop. He's the guy who's gonna think you're pretty regardless and then move on.
⸻
Jasson Domínguez:
Jasson would be quieter about it at first.
He'd look at you, take a second to figure out what changed, and then that little smile would show up.
"Oh. You cut your hair."
He feels like the type who doesn't always react loudly when he really likes something. Instead, he'd get more focused. More attentive. He'd step closer, touch the ends, glance at your face again, then smile like he already knows you know it looks good.
If you asked, "What?" he'd probably say something annoying and flattering at the same time like,
"You know it looks good."
And if you tried to act unsure, I think he'd get more direct.
"No. It does."
"You look really pretty."
Jasson feels like he'd adjust fast and then act like this version of you makes too much sense for him to even miss the old one.
⸻
Aaron Judge:
Aaron would notice, but he would not make a huge deal out of it.
You'd walk in, he'd take a look, and he'd just go,
"You cut your hair."
Very matter-of-fact.
If you asked whether he liked it, he'd answer honestly, but calmly.
"Yeah. It looks nice."
He's not the type to act like a haircut changed the earth's rotation. Aaron feels more like the type who loves you consistently, so whether your hair is long, short, curled, straight, whatever, his reaction would mostly be "you're still you, and you still look good to me".
If you kept pressing him for more, he'd probably smile a little and say.
"You want a bigger reaction than you're gonna get."
Then kiss your forehead, "You look beautiful. I'm just not dramatic."
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Cody Bellinger:
Cody would make it feel easy.
He'd look up, grin, and go, "Oh, wow."
And you'd know right away it was a good wow.
Cody feels like the type to get up, touch it, smile again, and say exactly what he means without making it weird.
"I like it."
If it was really dramatic, he might laugh a little just because he's surprised by how different it is.
"You look like a whole different person."
Then, because he'd know how that sounded.
"In a good way."
He'd definitely be one of the more casually reassuring ones.
"You look really pretty."
He'd make it feel safe to have done something bold.
⸻
Carlos Rodón:
Carlos would notice, but I don't think he'd care in some huge way.
He'd probably glance at you and go,
"Oh, you cut your hair."
And that would be it at first.
If you asked whether he liked it, he'd be honest, but casual.
"Yeah, it looks good."
Carlos feels more like the type who might joke about how much you cut off or how different it is, but not because he's deeply attached to your hair more because he likes reacting to things.
So if you were expecting him to be all emotional over it, he probably wouldn't be.
He'd just look at you, shrug a little, and say,
"Baby, you always look good. I'm not doing a whole reveal over a haircut."
Then probably kiss you and keep it moving.
⸻
Oswaldo Cabrera:
Oswaldo would react with his whole heart.
You'd walk in and he'd light up immediately.
"Ohhh!"
"You look so pretty!"
Big smile, big energy, immediate hype.
Oswaldo feels like the type who would absolutely want to see it from every angle, would definitely touch it gently, and would gas you up so hard that any nerves you had would disappear within thirty seconds.
If you did something dramatic, he'd love that you did something bold.
"No, I love this."
"You look beautiful."
"So, so pretty."
He'd make you feel like getting the haircut was the best idea you've ever had, and he'd be so sincere about it that you couldn't even roll your eyes properly.
⸻
Amed Rosario:
Amed would be more subtle at first, but not hard to read if you know him.
He'd look at you, pause, and give that small nod like he's taken in the change and made a decision.
"Okay."
Which, from him, would already mean something.
Amed feels like the type to not gush immediately, but to show how much he likes it by staying focused on you a little too long, touching it once, and then saying something simple that lands because he doesn't waste words.
"It looks good."
If you asked him to elaborate, he'd probably give you a look like you were asking for too much and then still do it.
"It really does."
A beat.
"You look good, mami."
That would be more his speed lowkey, confident, direct.
And what would feel most like him is that he'd get more visibly into it later than in the first second. Once the surprise wore off, he'd keep noticing it. Keep touching it. Keep looking at your face a little longer.
⸻
Ryan McMahon:
Ryan would react with dry honesty.
You'd walk in, he'd look up, and after a beat he'd say,
"That's definitely different."
And because Ryan feels like the type to not sugarcoat the surprise factor, you'd probably have to wait a second before he clarified.
Then he'd look at you again and go,
"Looks good, though."
Very straightforward. Very normal about being surprised by a big change.
Ryan feels like the type who wouldn't oversell it, but that doesn't mean he wouldn't mean it. If he kept glancing at you after, or touched the ends while you were talking, that would tell you more than a huge speech would.
And if you teased him for not being dramatic enough, I think he'd just look at you and say,
"What, you want me to lie? You look really good."
Plain, but real.
⸻
Trent Grisham:
Trent would care the least in the most Trent way possible.
He'd look at you, notice it, and go,
"You cut it."
That's it.
If you asked, "Do you like it?" he'd probably give you a look and say,
"I did not have prior attachment to the old one, so yes."
Which is such an annoying answer that you'd have to laugh.
Trent feels like the type who would genuinely not care much about the haircut itself because, to him, it's still your hair and you still look like you. He's not gonna act like it's life-changing.
If you kept pushing for more, he'd probably sigh and give you a real answer just to get you to stop.
"Yes, it looks good."
Then after a beat:
"You look good. The hair is fine."
Which is honestly the most Trent version possible.
⸻
Cam Schlittler:
Cam would be one of the sweetest.
You'd walk in and he'd just stop for a second, smile slowly, and go,
"Whoa."
Not performative. Not dramatic. Just genuinely surprised.
Cam feels like the type to react very sincerely. So if you asked whether he liked it, he wouldn't make you work for the answer.
"Yeah."
"You look really good."
And if you seemed even a little unsure, he'd get even more earnest.
"No, seriously."
"You look really pretty."
"It really looks good on you."
He'd probably ask if you were nervous before you did it, if you liked it, if it felt weird getting used to it because he feels like someone who'd be tuned into whether you were okay, not just whether the haircut was pretty.
And once he got used to it, I think he'd quietly get very into it.
⸻
José Caballero:
José would make it into a full reveal.
You'd walk in and he'd react like he just witnessed a before-and-after transformation in real time.
"Oh my God."
"Wait, wait, wait."
He'd absolutely be loud, dramatic, delighted, probably moving closer immediately to inspect it like this is breaking news.
José feels like the type who'd make you spin, ask why you suddenly look like a totally different person, and hype you up at a volume that makes the whole room aware you got a haircut.
But underneath the performance, he'd genuinely love it.
"No, this is good."
"This is really good."
"You look gorgeous."
And if you laughed at him, he'd just double down.
"What? You do."
"You look sexy too, don't play with me."
He'd make it impossible for you to feel insecure about it for even a second.
⸻
Spencer Jones:
Spencer would have a really sincere reaction.
You'd walk in, he'd look up, and he'd pause for just a second too long not because anything is wrong, but because he's genuinely thrown off by how different you look.
Then he'd smile.
"Whoa."
That would probably come out before anything else.
Spencer feels like the type to be a little stunned at first and then very straightforward once you asked what he thought. Not overly slick, not too dramatic, not trying to tease you just for the sake of it.
"You really changed it."
He'd probably step closer, look at it properly, maybe brush a piece back or touch the ends carefully, still taking it in.
And if you asked whether he liked it, I don't think he'd hesitate long.
"Yeah."
"You look really good."
If you were nervous, he'd pick up on that fast and get even softer about it.
"No, seriously."
"You look amazing."
"Really pretty."
He'd be more quietly affected than loud about it, but you'd absolutely be able to tell he was very into it.
⸻
taglist (lmk if you want to be added!!): @diorjtrk @wildlaufey3 @graceeehhhh @hotwheels1108 @you-got-me-star-lost-16 @thelunarbar @hockeygirlyyyy @quinnintheabyss @peachmango-kombucha @boybandbaby @divinedelusional @hockey-racing-fubol @melsgf @anonymousie @refinedanimal @spooky-newt @selv1sh @twistedprincess-92 @earthlings0000
summary: cam gets the call he’s been waiting for and while you’re getting dragged to a game you almost skipped, neither of you knows what you’re about to find.
word count: 3.8k words
a/n: ahhhhh, i hope you enjoy!! thank you for reading! i love youu!!
read part 3 here
⸻
By early July, Cam gets the call. He's at practice when his phone buzzes in the pocket of his shorts while he's halfway through stretching, but at first he ignores it like he always does agents call, coaches text, family checks in, friends send dumb things at the worst times. Most of it can wait. But then it buzzes again, and again, and he sits up with something already shifting in his chest before he even looks at the screen.
His agent.
Cam stares at the name for a minute before answering, sweat cooling against the back of his neck, his heart kicking hard enough to make him feel unsteady. "Hey," he says, trying and failing to sound normal.
On the other end, his agent doesn't waste time. "They want you."
Cam goes very still.
"The Yankees," his agent says, and even through the phone Cam can hear the grin in his voice. "You're being promoted. You're going to the majors."
For a second, Cam honestly can't breathe. The whole world narrows into that sentence. Everything he's worked for his entire life, every decision, every sacrifice it all comes down to this moment. He sits down hard on the bench behind him because his legs stop feeling reliable all at once. The gym around him keeps moving weights clanking, somebody laughing across the room, trainers calling to each other but everything sounds far away now, like he's hearing it from underwater.
Every bullpen, every bus ride, every hotel room, every morning waking up sore and doing it all again anyway has led to this one phone call. He's going to wear pinstripes for real. He's going to stand on a Yankees mound.
And the first stupid thought that cuts through the shock is not about the mound, or the uniform, or the media, or the fact that everything in his life is about to change. It's I hope she comes to a game, and the thought is so immediate and so ridiculous that he almost laughs.
Because he doesn't know your last name. Doesn't know where you work, even if he suspects it has something to do with law or professionalism based on the way you carried yourself. Doesn't know if you live in Manhattan or Brooklyn or somewhere outside the city entirely. Doesn't know if you even think about him at all anymore. All he has is the memory of a Yankees cap, a pink bow, and one conversation at Fanatics Fest that somehow never left him.
"You still there?" his agent asks.
"Yeah," Cam says quickly. "Yeah, I'm here."
His agent starts talking details after that timing, travel, reporting, who's been told, what happens next but Cam hears it in flashes. Enough to answer, enough to keep up, enough to understand the facts of his own life as it rearranges itself around him in real time. When the call ends, he just sits there for a second before calling Ben.
Ben answers on the first ring. "Hey"
"I got it."
There's a moment of silence, then Ben actually shout not just says something excited or laughs, but shouts loud enough that Cam has to pull the phone away from his ear. "No way."
"Yeah."
"Cam."
"Yeah."
Ben's voice goes a little rough when he says, "Oh my God, man," and Cam laughs then, helpless and overwhelmed and shaky with it. Ben starts demanding details immediately, and by the time they hang up, Sarah already knows too. By that night they've dragged him out to celebrate, and it's good really good. Ben is too loud and Cam lets himself be happy with them because he is happy, because he's wanted this for too long not to be.
But under all of that, there's still one irritating, impossible thought sitting in the center of him.
There's somebody else he wants to tell, somebody he can't.
⸻
Meanwhile, your day at the courthouse is so bad it starts feeling almost personal mission against you. Not because anything huge goes wrong no catastrophic disaster, no screaming match, nothing dramatic enough to make a good story later just the slow grind of one of those days where everything and everyone seems determined to wear you down piece by piece.
Your supervisor is in one of his moods, and everyone in the office can tell by nine thirty. He walks faster when he's like this, talks shorter, finds fault in tiny things because he's already irritated before anyone else has had their coffee. It's not really about you, you learned that a long time ago. Men like him don't wake up planning to ruin your specific day. They just move through the world like their frustration is a climate everybody else has to live in. Knowing that does not make it any less exhausting.
He snaps at you over a transcript issue that started with a lawyer mumbling through testimony and somehow became your fault by the time the document reached his desk. Then it's the formatting on a filing, then the pace of your work, then the way you organized a stack of notes he probably won't look at again after today. By three in the afternoon, you feel hollowed out not teary or dramatic, just wrung thin. The kind of tired that doesn't sit in your body so much as in your patience, in your sense of self, in the little private place where confidence lives and suddenly feels more fragile than it did that morning.
Your phone buzzes just as you're trying to force yourself through one more note. It's Riley.
the game your dad got tickets for is tonight btw
You stare at the text for a second too long, then realize you forgot. Your dad had bought the tickets days ago, you'd known that. You'd been excited about it even, but somewhere between work, class, your paper due tomorrow, and your supervisor turning the office into a hostile environment, the game got buried under everything else. oh my god, i forgot
yeah exactly
You let your head fall back against your chair and close your eyes.
i don't think i can do it tonight
Her reply comes immediately.
absolutely not. your dad already bought the tickets and also you need this more than anyone i know
You huff out a tired laugh despite yourself.
work was horrible. i still have that constitutional law paper. i'm behind already
okay and if you go home right now you're going to stare at your laptop feeling miserable and get maybe three paragraphs done max. or you can go to yankee stadium with me and your dad like you were supposed to and remember you're a person
You bite the inside of your cheek, staring down at the screen. Because she's right, which is always more annoying than if she were just pushy for no reason.
i feel bad because i literally forgot until just now
good thing i remembered for the both of us. come on. the game your dad got us tickets for is tonight. stop being responsible for like five seconds and let us drag you to baseball
You smile, even though the day still feels terrible.
you are so irritating
and yet i'm right
You look around your office at the fluorescent lights and stacks of paper and the version of your day that has already taken enough from you, then you type, okay. fine. i'm in.
Riley's response is immediate and obnoxiously triumphant, that's my girl
⸻
The game is Cam's first. Officially. Major leagues. Yankee Stadium. His name on the lineup card in a way that changes everything. He knew it was coming before the public did, but the reality of it doesn't fully hit until he steps into the stadium and feels the difference in the air. Everything is sharper here, bigger, louder without even being loud yet. The walls feel heavier with history and expectation.
He should be consumed by the moment, and he is, mostly. But somewhere underneath the nerves and adrenaline and disbelief, the same thought keeps surfacing.
Maybe she'll be here. It's stupid, he knows it's stupid. Fanatics Fest was months ago, New York is huge, baseball fans are everywhere, and there is absolutely no reason to believe the girl in the Yankees cap and pink bow will just materialize in the stands on the night of his debut.
Still, while he warms up, he catches himself scanning the crowd. Not obviously, not enough for anyone to say anything, just little glances when he can get away with them. Ben notices anyway, of course.
"You looking for your girl?" he murmurs just under his breath.
Cam snorts. "Shut up."
Ben grins. "That's a yes."
Cam doesn't answer, because yes, absolutely yes.
⸻
By the time you get to the stadium, the worst of the courthouse day has started to fade.
That's what baseball does for you. It gives your brain somewhere else to live for a little while, somewhere cleaner. Count, pitch, inning, score. Simple in the best way, even when the game itself is complicated.
Riley is in a much better mood than you by default, all quick commentary and motion and dramatic reactions to everything around her, while your dad is calm in the way dads like his tend to be, already settled into the night before first pitch, happy in that quiet, unfussy way people get when they're exactly where they want to be. You'd caught the lineup on the way in Yankees versus the Mariners, a July night that feels electric with possibility. The three of you find your seats, and you feel that familiar little thrill in your chest. No matter how bad the day has been, Yankee Stadium still does this to you.
The first pitch is thrown, and you know immediately. Not in a vague, maybe that guy looks familiar way, but immediately. Your whole body goes still because it's him tall in that same impossible way, dark hair, the same shoulders, the same profile, only sharper now under stadium lights and concentration and the pressure of a major league mound. There is no easing into the realization, no second guessing for long enough to feel safe.
It's him.
"Riley," you say, already half laughing and half in shock. "That's him."
She turns to you. "What?"
You point toward the mound without looking away. "That's the guy from Fanatics Fest."
She blinks once, then squints out toward the field, and there's maybe a second where she's quiet before she grabs your arm so hard it almost hurts. "Oh my god. What?"
"Oh my god, that is literally him."
"The guy from Fanatics Fest."
"Yes, Riley."
"The tall one."
"There was only one."
Your dad looks between the two of you, confused. "What am I missing?"
Riley points dramatically toward the mound like she's announcing breaking news. "That's the guy from Fanatics Fest."
Your dad blinks once, then looks back out at the field with a much more interested expression. "The one from the jersey story?"
You close your eyes for a second. "Please don't call it the jersey story."
Riley is still staring, delighted beyond reason. "He's a Yankee."
"A rookie," your dad says, glancing up at the board.
You look too, and there it is his name, his debut, real in a way that makes the whole thing feel almost surreal. "He told me his name was Cam," you say, like that helps your brain catch up.
"Well, Cam is currently pitching at Yankee Stadium," Riley says. "So I'd say things are going pretty well for him."
You can't stop staring, and on the mound, he looks up toward the stands, right toward your section, and your stomach flips so hard it almost makes you dizzy.
On the mound, between pitches, Cam's eyes scan the upper deck out of habit something he's been doing all night without even realizing it. He doesn't expect to find anything. He's not actually looking for anything. But then his gaze catches on a familiar shape, a familiar angle, and his whole body goes still in a way that has nothing to do with baseball.
It's you. Pink bow. Yankees cap. Exactly as he remembers, only somehow more real than memory should allow. For a second he can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but stare. And then you're looking back at him, and the recognition is so immediate and so complete that it feels like the entire stadium falls away.
Because the second his eyes catch there, catch you, something changes in his face. Recognition. He knows it's you too.
Riley is vibrating in the seat beside you. "He sees you. Oh my god, he sees you."
"Keep your voice down."
"Do not tell me to keep my voice down during the most important moment of my life."
"Your standards are horrifying."
Your dad is openly amused now, which somehow makes it worse. You try to focus on the game, you really do, but now everything is layered with something else.
Every pitch feels more personal than baseball has any right to be. Every glance toward the mound feels charged, and from where you're sitting, it looks like after seeing you, Cam somehow gets even sharper, more locked in, more dangerous like recognition lit something in him instead of rattling it.
At the break before the top of the second, you and Riley go for snacks and drinks because Riley insists she's starving and because the first inning alone has burned through all her patience. You come back with overpriced drinks, dumplings, and a ice cream your dad claims he didn't want until you hand it to him.
By the time Giancarlo Stanton comes up in the top of the second, Riley is already perched on the edge of her seat. "Oh, let's go," she says, like she's personally sending him strength. "Come on, Giancarlo. Please. I'm asking nicely."
You laugh despite yourself. "Your devotion to this man is becoming embarrassing."
"She gets it," Riley says, pointing at herself like the answer is obvious.
The next pitch comes in and the crack of the bat is instant and unmistakable. Riley screams before the ball is even halfway gone. "Oh my god! Oh my god!"
Your dad is laughing now, clapping as the crowd erupts around you, and Riley is actually losing her mind. "That's my man! I knew it. I literally knew it."
You're laughing too and for a minute the whole bad day at the courthouse falls completely out of you.
That's the thing about baseball sometimes it gives you back to yourself before you even realize you needed it.
The game rolls on, and every time Cam resets on the mound, you feel yourself pulled right back into him.
It's not just that he's good, it's that now the whole night feels impossible. The guy from Fanatics Fest, the one you walked away from and then tried not to think about too much after because what was the point, the one you'd turned into a harmless little almost memory, is very much not a memory. He is pitching in front of you, and every so often, when he looks up, you can feel the thread of it pull tight all over again.
Around the fourth inning, Riley's phone rings. She checks the screen and groans immediately. "No."
You glance over. "What?"
She already looks annoyed. "Work."
Your dad gives her a look. "At this hour?"
She makes a face. "Apparently we live in hell."
She steps away to answer it, and when she comes back a few minutes later, she already looks like the night has changed. "I have to go," she says, disgusted. "There's some stupid emergency with the campaign draft and Maya's freaking out and needs me to jump on it now."
Your dad exhales through his nose, but not surprised enough to be shocked, and asks if she wants him to go with her. Riley shakes her head. "No, I can get there. It's fine." Then she turns to you, eyes widening all over again because apparently remembering Cam exists has made this harder for her to leave.
"You're staying," she says immediately.
Your eyebrows lift.
Your dad laughs softly while Riley points at you. "You are not leaving. Absolutely not. If I have to suffer through a work emergency, one of us should at least get baseball and whatever this is."
"Oh my god."
"I'm serious."
She hugs you quickly before you can argue much more, then leans back just enough to say, "Text me immediately if anything happens. Immediately."
"Nothing is happening," you insist.
Riley gives you a deadpan look. "Sure." And then she's gone.
You stay with your dad after Riley leaves, the two of you settling back into the game as if nothing about the night has turned strange and cinematic. But it has.
Every time Cam comes set on the mound, every time the crowd swells around another strike, you feel it again that impossible, electric awareness that the guy from Fanatics Fest is somehow right there, real and pitching his debut under stadium lights.
By the time Cam comes off the mound in the sixth, the whole stadium is on its feet. The crowd is loud in that specific way Yankee Stadium gets when it knows it's watching something special happen in real time, and people around you are already talking over each other, replaying pitches, calling it a debut to remember. Beside you, your dad just shakes his head a little, impressed in that quiet way he gets.
"Kid's got something," he says.
You don't answer right away because all you can think is, Cam.
By the end of the seventh, with Cam long since out of the game and the crowd still riding the high of what he did, your dad checks the time and glances toward the aisles already filling with people thinking ahead.
"I think I'm gonna head out now," he says.
You turn toward him. "Now?"
He nods, already apologetic. "I want to beat the crowd, and the ride is long." That lands immediately because New Haven isn't exactly around the corner, and if he waits until the stadium empties, the whole trip gets harder. "You should stay, though," he adds. "No point both in all of us missing the rest."
You hesitate because now, if you stay, you'll actually be staying alone. But then you look back at the field, at the night you almost didn't come to, and the choice feels obvious in a way it didn't a few minutes ago.
"Okay," you say. "I'll stay."
He smiles, squeezes your shoulder, and says, "Good. Enjoy it for both of us," and then suddenly you are alone. You settle back into your seat, feeling self conscious for maybe thirty seconds before the game reminds you it doesn't care whether you came with people or not.
It just asks if you're paying attention, and you are, very much so.
By the time the game ends Yankees 9, Mariners 6, the scoreboard still glowing with the final numbers the whole stadium is still alive with the energy only a debut like that can create. People around you are talking over each other, replaying his pitches, already telling the story of where they were when they saw it. Cam's line: 5.1 innings, 7 strikeouts, 3 earned runs. The win. And all you can think about is Cam. You sit there after the game ends, trying to decide if you're insane.
This is already more than enough, isn't it? You came to a game because Riley remembered what you forgot, Riley got called away, your dad left because he wanted to beat the crowd, and you stayed because you were too stubborn and too tired and too sad to do anything else. And somehow that led to this, which should be enough. And yet when the stadium starts to empty, your body doesn't quite move toward the exit the way it should.
You linger, just enough to let the crowd thin, to hang back by the concourse longer than necessary, half pretending you're checking your phone. Your screen lights up with Riley.
WHAT HAPPENED.
You laugh under your breath and type nothing yet, also i hate you for being right.
Her response is immediate.
you're welcome. now go talk to your baseball man.
You nearly choke before you can answer, but then a voice says, "Hey," and you turn.
There he is. Still tall enough to make your first reaction physical, still broad shouldered and unfairly composed even with his hair a little damp and the edges of the night still clinging to him. He's changed since Fanatics Fest only in the ways that matter least. The biggest difference now is context the uniform, the reality of what you just watched him do but it's still him. Same face, same eyes, same feeling somehow, that he's paying more attention to you than the moment should allow.
For a second, all you can do is stare, "Hi."
There's surprise all over your own voice because what else could there be?
He smiles, just a little, like he's relieved you said anything at all.
"Hi," he says again. "So apparently I left one pretty big detail out at Fanatics Fest."
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "You think?"
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, and for the first time all night he actually looks nervous. "I was going to tell you," he says.
"Were you?"
"Eventually."
"That's convenient."
He laughs softly at that, and there it is the same exact laugh from Fanatics Fest, warm and immediate and somehow enough to make this feel less insane than it should.
"I'm Cam," he says, like you don't already know, like maybe he needs to reset the moment.
You tell him your name again too, even though you know he remembers. You can tell by the way he says it back.
"I've been hoping I'd see you again," he says, and there's no polish to it, no line, just honesty. "For a while, actually."
That catches you more off guard than the pitching did.
You look at him for a second, at the aftermath of adrenaline still sitting in his frame, at the way he's trying to act casual and failing just enough to make it endearing, at the fact that he found you in a stadium full of people and came over anyway.
"I didn't know you were a pitcher," you say finally, because it's the only thing your brain can land on without short circuiting. "I thought you were just some guy at a festival."
He smiles at that. "I was just some guy at a festival."
"And also secretly a Yankee."
You blink at him. "That's kind of insane."
"Yeah," he says. "It is."
A few people pass behind you, the sound of the stadium still echoing through the concourse. For one second neither of you says anything, but unlike at Fanatics Fest, this silence doesn't feel like the end of something.
It feels like both of you standing on the edge of it instead.
He shifts his weight, then says, "I really don't want to do the thing where we have one weirdly memorable conversation and then lose each other again. So can I get your number this time? And maybe take you out somewhere that isn't a convention center or a baseball concourse?"
You look at him, the rookie pitcher who spent the night under stadium lights and is somehow standing here looking more nervous asking for your number than he did throwing his debut, at the same man from Fanatics Fest, just suddenly more real than either of you meant for him to be.
Then you smile. "Okay," you say. "Yeah. You can have my number."
The relief that crosses his face is so immediate and boyish it almost gets you.
He grins and it's the exact same grin from Fanatics Fest, the one that made you think maybe he was interesting before you knew anything else about him.
This time, neither of you walks away first.
⸻
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a/n: this was a request, i hope you enjoy! this was my first blurb lol, if you like these send in requests i loved writing it!! thank you for reading, i love youuu!!!
⸻
When you’re half asleep:
You’re barely awake, still tucked under the blankets with your face pressed into his pillow, one leg tangled with his. The room is dim and quiet and warm, early enough that neither of you should be conscious yet.
You feel him move before you really open your eyes.
Just enough to turn toward you.
His fingers brush messy hair back from your face, slow and lazy, and when you squint up at him, Bryan’s already looking at you.
Really looking at you.
You frown a little. “What?”
His thumb drags once over your cheek.
“Nothin’,” he murmurs.
Your voice comes out scratchy. “Then why’re you staring at me?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just smiles a little, that sleepy, soft one that barely lifts one corner of his mouth.
“You’re pretty.”
You let out the tiniest groan and pull the blanket higher over your face. “I literally just woke up.”
“I know.”
“I look scary.”
“No.” His hand slips under the blanket, settling warm at your waist. “You don’t.”
You peek at him over the edge of the comforter.
He’s still looking at you like he means it too much.
“Bryan,” you mumble.
“What?”
“Go back to sleep.”
He leans in anyway, presses one slow kiss to your forehead, and pulls you closer until your face is tucked into his chest.
“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says quietly. “Sleep.”
And with him saying it like that, like it’s the easiest truth in the world, you actually do.
⸻
In the middle of you trying to be mad at him:
You’re standing in his kitchen with your arms crossed, trying very hard to stay annoyed.
He’s late. Not horribly late, not enough to start a fight, but enough that you had time to work yourself up while waiting on his couch for the last twenty minutes.
And now he’s standing there in front of you with that calm expression that only makes it worse.
“You could’ve texted,” you say.
“I know.”
“I was waiting.”
“I know.”
You narrow your eyes. “That’s all you have to say?”
Bryan opens his mouth like he’s about to answer, then pauses.
His gaze shifts over your face.
You already know that look.
“Don’t,” you warn.
His mouth twitches.
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever you’re about to do.”
He steps closer anyway, hands sliding into the pockets of his sweats. “You’re pretty when you’re mad.”
You just stare at him.
“Bryan.”
“What?”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
That’s the problem. He does sound serious. Way too serious for someone who should be apologizing instead of making your stomach flip.
You huff and turn away, but he’s there in a second, hand catching lightly at your wrist.
“Hey,” he says, softer now.
You don’t look at him.
“I’m sorry.”
You go quiet.
His thumb brushes the inside of your wrist once. “Should’ve texted.”
You finally look up, and his face is closer than you expected.
All soft edges. Low voice. Warm hand.
“Still pretty, though,” he murmurs.
You hate how fast your anger starts slipping.
“You’re the worst.”
He nods once, like he’ll accept that. Then leans down and kisses you anyway, smiling when you kiss him back.
⸻
When you’re wearing his clothes:
You’re standing in his kitchen in one of his hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, making coffee like you’ve done it there a hundred times before.
The sleeves are too long.
The neckline slips a little.
It smells like him.
Bryan walks in half awake, hair messy, rubbing a hand over his jaw, and stops the second he sees you.
You notice from the corner of your eye. “What?”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Just leans against the counter and looks at you for a second too long.
“You look pretty in my stuff.”
You snort softly. “It’s an old hoodie.”
“Mhm.”
“And I’m making coffee with dragon breath.”
He steps closer, hand settling low on your back.
“Still.”
You look up at him and immediately wish you hadn’t, because his face is all soft and sleepy and sincere in that way that makes every compliment hit harder.
“Really pretty,” he adds.
And now suddenly making coffee is the hardest thing you’ve ever done.
⸻
In the middle of a completely normal conversation:
You’re sitting next to him on the couch, fully invested in telling him a story.
Something about your day.
Something that annoyed you.
You’re talking with your hands and everything.
Bryan’s listening.
Mostly.
Until he isn’t.
Because at some point he stops paying attention to the story and starts paying attention to your face instead.
The way your mouth moves when you’re rambling.
The way your brows pull together when you’re making a point.
The way you glance at him to make sure he’s still following.
You stop mid-sentence.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
He blinks once, like he got caught.
Then, without even trying to save himself, he says, “Sorry. You’re pretty.”
You just stare at him.
“That’s not a normal thing to say in the middle of me talking.”
“Felt relevant.”
You laugh despite yourself, already feeling your face get warm.
Bryan smiles a little and reaches over to push a strand of hair behind your ear.
“Keep going,” he says. “I’m listenin’.”
You know for a fact he is not.
⸻
After kissing you:
It starts soft.
It always starts soft with him.
You’re standing between his knees while he sits at the edge of the bed, your hands loose around his shoulders, his resting warm and steady at your hips. One kiss turns into another and then another, until you can’t really tell who leaned in first anymore.
When he finally pulls back, it’s only enough to breathe.
Your forehead stays pressed to his.
His thumbs rub once against your sides.
You open your eyes and Bryan’s already looking at you.
Really looking.
The kind of look that makes you feel seen down to your bones.
Then, all low and quiet, like it belongs only to this moment, he murmurs, “Pretty girl.”
Your heart does something awful in your chest.
You let out the smallest laugh and try to duck your face, but one of his hands slides up your back, holding you there.
“What?” he asks.
You shake your head, too flustered to say anything useful.
His mouth brushes yours again, soft and lingering.
“C’mere,” he murmurs, even though you’re already there.
Then he kisses you again like he has all the time in the world.
⸻
When you’re not Feeling like yourself:
You’ve been off all day.
Quiet.
A little withdrawn.
Not upset exactly, just not quite there.
By the time you’re getting ready for bed, the feeling’s only worse. You catch your reflection in the mirror and linger too long, picking yourself apart in ways Bryan immediately notices.
He’s leaning in the doorway, watching.
“What?” you ask, already defensive.
He doesn’t bite.
Just walks over and stops right in front of you.
His hand comes up, brushing your hair back from your face with this kind of care that makes your throat feel tight.
“Don’t do that.”
You look away. “Do what?”
“Talk to yourself like that.”
You let out a quiet breath, but you don’t argue.
Bryan tips your chin up just enough to make you look at him.
“You’re pretty,” he says softly.
Your eyes sting a little, which is embarrassing.
His thumb strokes over your cheek once.
“Alright?”
You nod.
He leans down and kisses your forehead, then your temple, then the corner of your mouth.
“C’mon,” he murmurs. “Let’s go to bed.”
And later, when you’re tucked into his side and his hand is rubbing slow circles over your back, he says it one more time into your hair.
“Pretty girl.”
Like he needs you to hear it again.
⸻
When he thinks you’re not paying attention:
You’re both in the car, music low, his hand resting loose over yours on the center console.
The sun is starting to set and you’re turned toward the window, watching everything go gold.
You can feel him glance over every so often, but you don’t say anything.
Then, under his breath, quiet enough that he might not have meant for you to catch it, he goes, “So pretty.”
You turn your head immediately. “What?”
His ears go a little pink.
Just a little.
“Nothin’.”
You smile. “No, what did you say?”
He keeps his eyes on the road this time, but his fingers lace through yours a little tighter.
After a second, he admits it.
“Said you look pretty.”
Your stomach flips so hard it’s ridiculous.
“You’re so random.”
“Was just thinkin’ it.”
And then he says nothing else, which somehow makes it worse, because now you’re left sitting there with his hand in yours and that one simple little confession lodged in your chest for the rest of the drive.
⸻
When you’re laughing so hard you can barely breathe:
You’re in his kitchen laughing at something stupid.
Really laughing.
The kind where you have to grab the counter, where your shoulders shake, where every time you start calming down you look at him again and it starts all over.
Bryan’s laughing too at first.
Then he stops.
Not because the moment ends.
Because he gets distracted.
You notice it when you glance at him and he’s just standing there looking at you, this soft little expression on his face like he forgot what was happening two seconds ago.
You wipe under your eyes. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”
He shrugs, but there’s this quiet fondness all over him now.
“You’re pretty when you laugh.”
Your whole face warms.
“That was rude.”
“How’s that rude?”
“Because now I’m embarrassed.”
One side of his mouth lifts. “Still pretty.”
You turn away so he doesn’t see you smiling harder, and he just steps in closer behind you, chin brushing your shoulder while he laughs quietly to himself.
⸻
While he keeps you exactly where he wants you:
You try to get up.
Maybe because you need a second.
Maybe because the way he’s looking at you is getting unbearable.
You barely make it off his lap before his hand catches your thigh and drags you right back down.
Easy.
Firm.
Like it was never really your choice.
You end up right where he wants you, chest rising too fast, hands braced on his shoulders while his arm wraps around your waist to keep you there.
“Where d’you think you’re goin’?” he asks.
You can’t answer.
His fingers spread against your back, holding you closer while he studies your face like he’s checking exactly how affected you are.
Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because his hand moves up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek once.
“Pretty when you’re overwhelmed,” he says quietly.
Then, with that awful calm certainty he gets.
“Prettier when you stay put.”
⸻
After you’ve been talking big and then fall apart the second he touches you:
You were so confident a minute ago.
Running your mouth, teasing him, acting like you were fully in control of the situation.
Then Bryan’s hand slides to your waist, fingers digging in just enough, and the sound that leaves you is small, involuntary, humiliating.
His head tilts.
That dark little look in his eyes gets worse immediately.
“Oh,” he says.
You already regret everything.
He does it again, same spot, same pressure, and watches your whole body give you away.
“There it is.”
You try to turn your face, too embarrassed to let him see how fast he got to you, but his hand comes up to hold your jaw still.
“Don’t hide.”
Your pulse is going insane.
His gaze drops to your mouth, then lifts back to your eyes.
“Pretty thing,” he murmurs. “All that talk and you still come apart this easy.”
⸻
When you’re desperate and trying not to show it:
You’re in his lap, already annoyed because he keeps stopping right before you want him to.
Every kiss is too short on purpose.
Every touch feels like he’s dragging it out just to watch you lose patience.
“Bryan,” you say, and it comes out thinner than you want.
“What?” he asks, like he doesn’t know.
You glare at him, which only makes his hand tighten on your waist.
His eyes flick over your face, taking in every bit of frustration, the way your breathing’s gone uneven, the way you can’t quite hold his stare for long.
Then he says it, low and rough enough to make your stomach twist.
“Pretty when you’re desperate.”
You freeze.
He leans in closer, mouth brushing yours without actually kissing you.
“Pretty when you’re trying not to beg, too.”
And suddenly glaring at him is not nearly as easy as it was five seconds ago.
⸻
While he’s got you pinned against the wall:
You were talking too much.
That’s the problem.
Smart little comments, that smile on your face, brushing past him like you didn’t know exactly what it was doing. Bryan lets it go for longer than you expect, right up until the second he doesn’t.
One hand on your waist and suddenly your back’s against the wall, his body crowding into yours before you can think of a single thing to say.
Except he doesn’t kiss you.
He just stands there, one hand holding your waist in place, looking at you.
Really looking at you.
Your pulse is loud enough you’re sure he can hear it.
“What?” you ask, but it comes out weaker than you want.
His eyes drag over your face, then back up again.
“Pretty like this,” he says quietly.
Your stomach flips.
“Bryan—”
His thumb moves once against your side. “All that attitude, and you still look pretty when I shut you up.”
That does something awful to your ability to think.
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