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fashphotolife · 6 days ago

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‘Movie Night’

Summary: If only life was like the movies. For years, you’d flirted with the idea of something more with Trent, your brother’s best friend. You'd always danced around the edges of something more with him, sharing flirty moments that felt like scenes straight from the cinema. You had been silently desperate for the main character of your life’s film to finally get the boy but you knew moments like that were saved for Hollywood. The lines were clear; you were always going to be his mate’s little sister. So what happens when you go off script? In a whirlwind of passion, secrets, and stolen moments, you're left wondering: will you and your brother's best friend get the happy ending you've been waiting for, or was it never meant to be more than a fantasy?

Index:

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, dv, loss of a parent, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!

Note: Thank you for reading! Please be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series!

Disclaimer: Still the same.

Chapter 29- 'Silver Linings' | ‘Movie Night'

word count - 13.3 k

The day was warm enough to justify iced coffee, the first sign that summer was creeping in, even if your heart still felt winter-cold in places. The condensation of the cup, the only thing tethering you to reality as Trent circled around his big black Range Rover, his strides casual, confident. He pulled the door open for you with a smooth ease, leaning in slightly, his hand outstretched.

“Thank you,” you mumbled softly, your fingers slipping into his, reluctant to leave the cocoon of the leather seats, the faint hum of the car still lingering.

“The world for you,” he whispered like a promise, pulling you gently into his space. His arms wrapped around your waist, anchoring you to him for a brief second, his lips pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “Look so good today, pretty girl.” He cooed. You couldn’t help but let out a small sigh, your heart fluttering even as anxiety gripped the edges. His hand found yours again, fingers laced perfectly, grounding you as you made your way through the quiet streets, iced coffees in hand. The coolness of the drink was refreshing, but your nerves were sharp, your senses on high alert. Every passerby felt like a shadow lingering too long, every sudden sound making you flinch ever so slightly. Trent noticed—he always noticed. Without a word, he gently tugged your hand, steering you off the main path.

“T…” you pouted, your voice small. “Please, can we just go home?” You begged. His grin was boyish, cheeky, the kind that always chipped away at your walls.

“Nah, nah, nah. A few errands for me.” He said. You shot him a skeptical glance, his playful smirk giving him away. These weren’t errands. Still holding your hand, he led you down a quieter street, your steps syncing with his as you approached a small, tucked-away flower shop. The door chimed softly as he pushed it open, the faint scent of fresh blooms and damp earth greeting you like a gentle wave. The cool, dewy air inside was oddly comforting, mingling with the sweet floral notes that softened the ache in your chest. Trent didn’t say much as he browsed, his fingers trailing over petals like they were fragile treasures. You watched him from a few steps behind, his athletic frame moving with an ease you envied. He stopped at a bunch of carnations, glancing over his shoulder with a cute smile. You shrugged, your lips betraying you with a small curl, warmth creeping in despite yourself. He turned back around to continue browsing, walking past your favorite flowers without pause. You felt your face fall into an unintentional pout, a quiet disappointment tugging at your heart. But, of course, Trent knew that. He let out a soft, cheeky giggle—the kind that made your heart ache in the best way—and doubled back, heading straight to the colorful peonies he pretended to ignore. His fingers plucked two bouquets, holding one higher than the other, inspecting them like a man making the most important decision of his life. He switched them, furrowed his brows dramatically, then shot you a sideways glance. “I think a pretty girl like you would tell me she wants the white ones…” he mused, his grin spreading. “But I know you better than that. I know you want pink. So tell me I’m right.” You giggled softly, unable to resist, your heart warming under the fragile armor you’d built. You nodded, reaching for the pink peonies as he tucked the white bouquet back into its water-filled bucket.

“Thank you,” you whispered quietly, your voice softer now, less guarded. He leaned down, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, his lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

“Alright, let’s go,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a soft anchor. “Got a lot of errands to run.” You smiled as he kissed your nose, then your lips—a fleeting press that felt like sunshine breaking through clouds. The bouquet crinkled softly between you, a small, beautiful thing blooming in your hands, just like the space he’d carved out in your heart.

The bell above the tiny flower shop chimed softly as you stepped out, the fresh bouquet cradled gently in your arms like it was a fragile piece of your heart. The delicate pink peonies brushed against your chest, their scent a subtle comfort, grounding you in the moment. Trent reached around you to hold the door, his arm brushing past you, his hand braced above your head in an effortlessly sexy way. The stretch of his toned forearm, the casual strength in his stance—it was enough to make your heart skip, even now. You giggled softly, a sound Trent immediately turned towards, flashing you that boyish grin that melted through your nerves. But unbeknownst to you both, just beyond the safety of your shared bubble, cameras waited. Subtle clicks hidden in the sounds of the street. Lenses trained on you like shadows you couldn’t quite shake. Trent didn’t notice—or maybe he didn’t care. He pulled you into his arms unphased, wrapping you up against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hands slid to your waist as he swayed you back and forth gently, humming some mindless tune against your temple. It wasn’t about showing off, or proving anything, he was completely consumed by you there at this moment. It was just Trent being Trent—soft, playful, yours. You sniffled, your eyes betraying you as gratitude welled up. It wasn’t just the flowers—it was the way he got you out of the house without making it feel like a task, how he’d been patient with your nerves, never once letting go of your hand like it was his own anchor too. You let out a soft giggle, muffling it into his chest, your words spilling out before you could catch them.

“I love you,” you whispered, raw and real, your voice trembling slightly. Trent froze just for a second, like those words hit differently today. Then he cupped your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he always showed you. His lips met yours in a kiss that was slow and soft, filled with everything he couldn’t put into words. The cameras caught it all—the bruises still marring his knuckles from the fight with Josh, the faint sheen of tears in your glassy eyes, the vulnerability stitched between you like invisible thread. When he pulled back, his hand stayed on your cheek, his thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye as a single tear betrayed you, slipping down.

“One more thing, that okay?” he whispered, his forehead pressed lightly against yours. You nodded, a tear sliding over your lash line. Trent caught it with the pad of his thumb, his touch feather-light. “No more, please,” he cooed gently, his voice a balm against the ache.

“Sorry,” you giggled softly, shaking your head, embarrassed by your own emotions. Trent just smiled, lacing his fingers with yours again, tugging you gently down the street. The city blurred around you as you followed him, his warmth a constant at your side. A few steps later, you noticed a shimmer—a familiar glint catching the sunlight from a shop window.

“Gotta getcha some new wings,” Trent murmured behind you, his breath warm against your ear as he pressed soft kisses along your neck playfully.

“What are you on about?” you asked, turning to face him with a confused smile. But Trent just grinned wider, spinning you back around with a gentle tug on your shoulders. His arms wrapped tight around you from behind, his chest firm against your back.

“Trust me,” he whispered, guiding you step by step toward the door; the logo etched in elegant script on the glass: Van Cleef & Arpels causing your heart to skip. The logo etched in elegant script on the doors: Van Cleef & Arpels. Your heart skipped.

The soft slide of the boutique door faded quickly, swallowed by the plush quiet of the boutique, where the air was thick with understated luxury—hints of polished marble, fresh-cut florals, and the faintest trace of expensive perfume. Trent’s large frame moved effortlessly beside you, his presence grounding even in the delicate chaos of your thoughts. Without missing a beat, his hand slid low around your waist, fingers curling over the swell of your ass in a way that felt more protective than cheeky, though with Trent, it was always a little of both. His grip anchored you, steady and familiar.

“I’m here to meet with Melissa,” Trent murmured to the associate standing near the door, his voice low, smooth, and effortlessly charming. The name lingered in the air, unfamiliar to you, and you turned slightly in his arms with a furrowed brow, your curiosity piqued. Trent just smirked, his thumb tracing lazy, comforting circles over the fabric of your dress where his hand rested. His grin was the kind that told you he was up to something, but you couldn’t yet piece it together. The associate led you toward a sleek elevator, the soft hum of instrumental music filling the quiet as you both stepped inside. Trent’s hand never left your body, his thumb’s gentle rhythm on your hip a silent reassurance. The ride was brief, yet your mind raced with questions, each floor you passed adding another layer of anticipation. When the doors slid open, a chic woman with sleek, dark hair and an effortless air of sophistication greeted Trent like an old friend.

“Hello, love,” she beamed, leaning in to give him a quick hug, her lips brushing his cheek with the kind of ease that spoke of familiarity. Your brow furrowed again, a flicker of something unfamiliar rising in your chest—not jealousy, exactly, but confusion mixed with a fragile vulnerability. “And you, hun. Nice to meet you, finally,” Melissa added, turning her warm smile toward you. Finally? You wondered, still you managed a polite, shy smile.

“Nice to meet you,” your voice soft, the words sticking slightly in your throat. Trent’s hand tightened gently on your waist, as if sensing the shift in your mood. He didn’t offer an explanation, just guided you forward with that same easy confidence, his thumb now stroking soft, invisible patterns against your skin. Melissa led you both into a private room tucked away from the boutique’s bustling floor. The space was intimate yet extravagant—plush velvet chairs, delicate crystal glasses filled with sparkling water, and the faint glimmer of jewelry cases lining the walls like hidden treasures. Despite the beauty around you, your mind was tangled in quiet confusion.

Trent settled into one of the velvet chairs with an ease you envied, his legs sprawling slightly, into a mildly inappropriate yet still sexy and charming spread, reaching one hand to rest casually on your thigh, grounding you. Melissa chatted with him effortlessly, catching up on details you weren’t privy to, her laughter soft and melodic. You sat quietly beside him, your fingers nervously tracing the condensation on your glass, your heart beating in time with the steady rhythm of his thumb against your skin. Then Melissa’s tone shifted, her voice softening as she turned to you.

“So, I’ve had been speaking with Trent, and hun, I’m sorry you lost your favorite necklace,” she said gently. Your heart clenched, the words landing like a quiet echo against the fragile walls you’d built around that memory. Lost. Such a simple word, yet it held none of the violence that had stolen it from you. The ghost of that night flashed behind your eyes—Josh’s anger, the sharp yank, the sound of metal snapping against skin. You swallowed hard, the memory bitter on your tongue, but you nodded with a tight smile, understanding. Trent wouldn’t have told her the truth. Some things were meant to be buried under softer words. Melissa’s hands moved with practiced grace as she slid a small, velvety green box across the polished table toward Trent.

“Trent…” she paused, her voice soft with something like reverence. Trent’s fingers brushed over the box before he opened it with delicate care, as if the contents were fragile enough to break under the weight of anything less.

“Baby…” His voice dropped to a whisper, rough around the edges in a way that made your chest tighten. You couldn’t help it—your eyes shut, your head shaking slightly as a soft sniffle escaped you. The emotion crept up faster than you could control, knotting itself somewhere between your throat and heart. The box, the weight of this moment, the realization of what he’d done—it all pressed against you. Melissa, sensing the shift, stood quietly.

“I’ll give you a moment,” she whispered, her exit as graceful as her entrance, leaving you in the cocoon of Trent’s unwavering presence. Trent didn’t hesitate. His hand reached for the arm of your chair, pulling it closer until your knees bumped his. His other hand slid up your thigh, warm and steady, his thumb tracing slow, soothing lines like he could rub away the ache beneath your skin. His eyes searched yours, soft and filled with that kind of love that didn’t need words to be felt. He turned the box toward you, revealing the delicate white gold butterfly pendant filled with diamonds nestled inside. It caught the light, glinting softly, beautiful in its simplicity. Just like your old necklace—but different. New. A symbol of something that had been broken and made whole again, even if the scars still lingered.

“I thought maybe… it’d be best if we got you this one,” Trent whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Silver linings and that.” Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached out, brushing over the pendant with a touch so light it barely made contact. The tears welled, uninvited but undeniable, blurring the edges of the world around you.

“Silver linings,” you echoed softly, your voice a fragile thread woven between the past and this tender present. Trent’s hand slid higher, cupping your face with a tenderness that made your heart ache. His thumb brushed over your cheek, catching a tear before it could fall.

“Under all the clouds, there’s still us,” he whispered, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve got you. You’ve always got me to be that shimmering silver lining in your life. So I know this is something new, a little different than the last one, but…” His voice faltered, catching on the weight of his own emotions.

“It’s perfect,” you whispered, cutting him off gently, your fingers curling around his wrist. “It’s somehow even better.” You said inspecting the necklace, it was the same but incredible different, it was no longer gold, no, but a tangible silver lining like he said. His eyes met yours then, locking in that quiet way that made the world disappear. It was just you and him, suspended in this fragile, beautiful moment where nothing else mattered. “T…” you breathed, your hand sliding up to rest against his cheek, your thumb tracing the faint stubble there. His eyes softened even more, if that was possible, like your voice alone could steady his heart. “You’ve always been my silver lining,” you whispered, your forehead pressing against his, your breath mingling with his. A soft laugh escaped him, low and filled with a warmth that wrapped around you like a blanket.

“Yeah, I know, baby. And you’ve always been mine. My perfect, beautiful girl.” His lips found yours then, a kiss so soft, so full of unspoken promises, that it felt like another thread weaving the two of you together. When he pulled back, his thumb was already there, chasing the tears that slipped free despite your best efforts.

The door clicked softly behind Melissa as she returned, her heels a faint rhythm against the polished marble floor. But Trent didn’t move. His hand stayed on your cheek, his eyes still on you, as if he needed just one more second to memorize the way you looked in this moment—heartbare and beautiful, the reflection of everything he’d ever wanted. The gentle hum of the luxury boutique’s private room seemed to fade into the background as she crossed the room, her hands cradling a smaller green box this time—sleek, square, and impossibly delicate in her grasp. She moved with the effortless grace of someone who’d done this a thousand times, but there was something different in her smile now, something softer, knowing.

“And I think we need this too, right?” Melissa teased lightly, breaking the still silence, her eyes flicking between you and Trent, carrying a warmth that suggested she was more than just a sales associate in this moment. She knew. Maybe she always had. Trent reached for the box without hesitation, his hand brushing hers briefly, his fingers steady despite the soft tension hanging in the air. The box was small—too small—and your heart did something funny, a fluttering, anxious skip like it wasn’t sure whether to brace for impact or melt on the spot. Logically, you knew what it wasn’t. But that didn’t stop your mind from racing, imagining a future that didn’t feel so distant anymore. A future where he’d hold a box like this for a different reason. But when he flipped it open, the breath you’d been holding escaped in a quiet gasp—not of disappointment, but awe. Inside, nestled against the plush black velvet, was a ring. A breathtaking, delicate piece that caught the light and scattered it like fragments of a dream. Two diamond-encrusted butterflies, their wings spread as if mid-flight, perched side by side but so they’d sit between your fingers on a slim band of white gold—the perfect match to your new necklace. It was more than beautiful; it was symbolic. A quiet echo of resilience, transformation, and the way Trent always saw the best in you, even when you couldn’t.

“Yeah, we need this, hmm?” Trent murmured, his voice lower now, intimate, like it was just for you. He lifted the ring from its cushion carefully, like it was fragile, sacred. His fingers, rough with faint bruises still healing from that night, contrasted against the delicate shimmer of the diamonds. And then he reached for your hand. His touch was featherlight, almost reverent as he cradled your smaller hand in his. His thumb brushed over the back of it softly, tracing invisible lines, as if memorizing the feel of your skin. Then, with a tenderness that made your chest ache, he slid the ring onto your index finger. But he didn’t let go. Instead, his hand lingered, his thumb drifting down, trailing along the soft curve of your ring finger. His touch was deliberate now, not just affectionate but meaningful, charged with something deeper. You looked up at him, curiosity blooming in your eyes, only to find him already staring at you—his gaze steady, warm, and filled with an intensity that stole the breath right from your lungs.

“Pretty girl,” he whispered, his voice rough around the edges, thick with emotion. His thumb grazed over the bare skin of your ring finger, slow and deliberate, like he was anchoring himself to this moment. “Promise me you’ll let me put a ring on this finger one day instead.” The words hit you like a soft crash—gentle but overwhelming. Your chest tightened, your throat closing up as tears prickled behind your lashes. You could barely breathe, could barely think beyond the pounding of your heart in your ears. But somehow, you managed to nod, your chin trembling just slightly as your eyes filled with tears. A soft sniffle escaped, unintentional and fragile. And then—from across the room—a second sniffle. But it wasn’t yours. You both turned your heads, and there was Melissa, trying to discreetly wipe the corner of her eye with the edge of her manicured finger, her composure cracking just enough to make you both laugh softly through your tears.

“Sorry! Sorry!” she blurted out, her face flushed with embarrassment, though her smile was warm and genuine. She waved her hand dismissively, trying to play it off. “It’s just… he’s been coming here for years, buying and buying for this dream girl, talking and talking about this dream girl. He really loves you, sweetheart.” Her words hung in the quiet room like a tender thread, pulling at something deep inside you. Your chest ached, but it was the good kind—the kind that made you feel like you might burst from how full your heart was.

“And I really love him,” you whispered, the words slipping out effortlessly, like they’d been sitting on the edge of your heart, just waiting for the right moment to fall. Your voice wobbled slightly with the weight of emotion, but you didn’t care. Trent’s face softened even more—if that was possible—and he reached for you, his hand cupping your cheek with the same gentleness he’d held the ring. His thumb brushed away a stray tear that had escaped, his touch warm and grounding. He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the small space between you.

“Yeah, I know, baby,” he whispered softly, his eyes closing for just a second, like he needed to absorb your words, let them settle in his heart. “And you’ve always been mine. My perfect, pretty girl.” His lips found yours then, soft and warm, tasting faintly of lingering coffee and something sweeter—like promises woven into quiet moments and futures not yet spoken aloud. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was an anchor, grounding you both to this exact moment, where love wasn’t just said—it was felt, deep and undeniable. When he finally pulled back, his thumb traced the curve of your jaw, his eyes never leaving yours. “We’re gonna get out of this together,” he whispered, and somehow, you believed him completely.

Trent’s jaw clenched as he stared at his phone, the harsh glow of the screen reflecting in his dark eyes. The headline glared back at him like an accusation:

'Trent Alexander-Arnold, Seen Amidst Rumors: The Liverpool Right Back Involved in Cheshire House Party Bust-Up with Manchester United Players.'

His thumb hovered over the screen, hesitating before he zoomed in on the photos attached. There you were—his girl—captured unknowingly, your smile soft, bouquet of flowers clutched to your chest like a fragile shield. It should’ve been tender, beautiful even, but all he could see were the faint bruises along your neck and the healing cuts on his knuckles, marking the war you’d been through. He sighed, his chest tightening, a cocktail of frustration and guilt swirling inside him. The world had no idea what really happened. They’d never understand the layers beneath a headline or the story behind a photograph. You glanced up from where you sat at the foot of the bed, your fingers gently massaging his feet, grounding yourself in the simple act of touch. Lately, it was the only thing that kept you steady—skin against skin, reassurance nestled in every brush of your fingertips. But you noticed the shift in his demeanor immediately, the tension rolling off of him in waves. Your heart stuttered with that familiar pang of anxiety, the fragile part of you whispering he’s mad. You didn’t know why—that voice rarely had a reason—but it was loud enough to hollow your chest.

“What?” you asked softly, your voice a fragile thread in the quiet room. Trent’s eyes snapped to you, and his heart clenched at the look on your face—wide, innocent, unsure. He wasn’t mad. He could never be mad at you. But there was something else lingering beneath the surface—worry. A gnawing, relentless worry that had been camped out in his chest since that night. He quickly softened his expression, masking the heaviness with a small smile, trying to tuck away the frustration for later.

“Nothing, pretty girl. Just read a shit article,” he murmured, tossing his phone to the side like it didn’t matter, even though it did. Not the words, but the way they made him feel—powerless to protect you from the narratives spun outside of their little bubble. You nodded, lips parting slightly with a quiet ‘Oh,’ your gaze dropping, the innocence in your face pulling at something deep inside him. It hit him like a punch—the way you shrank inward, even slightly, made his heart ache. He hated that. Hated seeing you fold into yourself like that. Fix it, his mind screamed.

“Hey,” Trent said softly, reaching down to brush his knuckles against your cheek, “how come your hands feel so good on me, huh?” His smirk was lazy, playful, but there was an undercurrent of desperation to make you smile. Your giggle came like a balm, soft and airy, melting the tension just a little. You ran your hands up from his shins, over his knees, and up his strong thighs, tracing the muscles beneath the fabric. You hummed softly, letting your hands slide back down to his ankles with a teasing grin.

“Maybe because they’re meant to be on you,” you whispered, a playful glint in your eyes as you leaned down to press a kiss against his ankle. Trent groaned dramatically, throwing his head back against the pillows, his grin widening.

“Yeah? That’s interesting because I’m certain mine are meant to be all over you.” He reached for you then, his fingers curling in that familiar come here motion that you never could resist. “C’mere, baby.” You didn’t hesitate. You crawled up the bed, straddling his hips, desperate to be wrapped in his warmth, to feel his gaze on you like it was the only thing anchoring you to the world. His hands found your waist instantly, fingers splayed wide, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your shirt. He tugged you closer until your chest pressed against his, your heartbeats syncing like they always did. His hand trailed up your back, fingers slipping beneath the fabric to touch your skin directly, his warmth seeping into you. His other hand cupped the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheekbone softly, as if you were something fragile he was terrified to break. “You okay?” he whispered, his forehead resting against yours. You nodded, but the truth was tangled somewhere between yes and I don’t know. Trent’s lips found yours before you could overthink it—soft, slow, patient. Like he had all the time in the world to kiss away your fears, to rewrite every ugly headline and shadow with nothing but his touch. His fingers tangled in your hair, his other hand anchoring you to him, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go. You melted into him, letting his warmth seep into all the broken places, his love pouring into the cracks. You didn’t need to say anything. You didn’t need to explain the ache in your chest or the fear in your heart. Because he already knew. He felt it too as he kissed down your jaw, moving further down. Trent's breath was warm against your neck, his stubble grazing your skin as he nuzzled in deeper, his hands sliding down the curve of your back until they found their destination-palming your ass with a possessive, gentle firmness that made your breath hitch. His grip was grounding yet electrifying, sending a pulse through you that left your skin tingling. "Mmm, yeah, see," he hummed against your skin, his voice low and rough with desire alluding that he was right, your hands on him felt good, and his on you…even better.You tilted your head, giving him more access, your fingers gripping his curls, tugging just enough to earn a soft groan from his chest.

"Yeah, perfect. Made just to be in your hands," you whispered back, your lips brushing the shell of his ear before your teeth grazed it, nibbling softly. Your hips instinctively rolled into his, the heat between you both igniting like a spark to dry timber. Trent was losing it. You were fucking him up, and bad. He tried-God, he tried-to keep his mind organized, to compartmentalize everything. To stay in control. But with you, there was no control. You unraveled him. Every. Single. Time. His brain was a mess: he was worried about you, scared because he cared so deeply it terrified him, angry at the world for hurting you, sad because of the weight you both carried... and yet, under all of that, simmering like a steady flame, was the ache-the raw, desperate need to have you. Every time you pouted at him, every time your hands wandered like they were now, sliding under his shirt, tracing the taut muscles of his abdomen, he crumbled like a man undone. A poor soul under the spell of love. And it wasn't just lust. It was deeper. It was you.

Trent's hands dragged back up, fingers splaying across your ribs, moving higher until they cradled your face with a reverence that made your chest tighten. His thumbs brushed over your cheekbones, as if memorizing the feel of you, anchoring himself. Then his lips found yours again, and it wasn't soft—not this time. It was desperate, messy, like he was trying to kiss every thought from your mind, to replace every scar with his touch. His tongue met yours, and the world disappeared. There was no worry, no fear, no past-just the heat of his mouth, the taste of him, the way he felt like home. All of Trent's worrisome thoughts washed away, replaced by you. With ease, he rolled you over, his strong arms guiding you until your back hit the mattress, his body hovering above yours. His knees bracketed your hips, his hands on either side of your head, caging you in, but not in a way that felt confining. No, it felt safe, like he was shielding you from the world. You opened your eyes briefly, needing to see him, to take him in. The hallway light bled into the room, casting a soft, golden glow over his face. His features were carved in shadow and light-the sharp lines of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the dark, intense focus in his eyes as he looked at you. He looked like something celestial, like an angel who'd somehow fallen into your bed.

"I wanna feel you," you whispered, your voice breathless, trembling with emotion and need. You reached for him, pulling him back down, desperate for his lips, his weight, his warmth.

"I'm right here, baby," he murmured against your mouth, the words a vow. As if to prove it, his hand slid under your shirt, fingertips grazing the soft skin of your stomach, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. His touch wasn't rushed. It was patient, intentional, like he was writing love letters across your skin with nothing but his hands. There was something sacred in the way he touched you-gentle yet with purpose, as if to say these hands, his hands, would never hurt you. Trent's weight settled more fully against you, grounding you, his chest pressed to yours, heartbeats syncing in a rhythm older than time. The warmth of him seeped into every cold corner inside you, filling spaces you didn't even realize were empty. Your fingers tugged at the hem of his shirt, needing more, needing him. You pulled it over his head, tossing it aside without a care, your hands immediately returning to explore the expanse of skin revealed-his chest, the dip of his collarbone, the ridges of muscle along his abdomen. You traced every inch like you were trying to memorize him with your touch alone. Trent groaned softly, his head dipping to kiss along your jaw, down your neck, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below your ear that made you gasp. His hands roamed too, not a single inch of your body left untouched as he undressed you, his fingers slipping beneath fabric with a practiced ease but a lover's patience. The room was filled with nothing but the sounds of your shared breaths, the soft rustle of sheets, and the occasional whispered name-baby, pretty girl, mine. Because that's what it was. Raw. Real. Not just sex. It was Trent grounding you with his body, his touch, his love. And you, giving him every broken, beautiful piece of yourself, knowing he'd hold them like treasures, never something to fix -just something to cherish. Trent's lips were soft but insistent against your skin, moving with reverence along the slope of your neck and the delicate line of your collarbones. Each kiss felt like a whispered promise, a tender reminder of his devotion woven into every brush of his mouth.

"You're so beautiful, baby," he murmured, the warmth of his breath fanning across your skin, igniting something deep within you. His voice was low, rough with emotion and desire, sending a shiver down your spine. The urge to be closer-to feel every inch of him, to drown in him-became unbearable. Your hands moved on instinct, desperate and shaking slightly as you rid him of the last barriers between you. Trent didn't rush you; he let you set the pace, his dark eyes soft and heavy-lidded with affection as he watched you, his hands gently roaming over your body in silent encouragement. Once he was bare, he settled between your legs, the warmth of his skin against yours grounding you in the present, in him. His hands traced up your thighs, his fingers spreading slightly to grip the soft flesh with a possessive tenderness that made your breath hitch. But then, instead of moving forward, he reached for your hands, tangling his fingers with yours. The simple act felt intimate, grounding, a silent reassurance that he was there-not just for this, but for everything. Trent lifted himself slightly, just enough to trail kisses down your body, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring you. When his mouth found your tits, he gave them his full attention-lapping, sucking gently at your nipples until you arched into him, a soft moan spilling from your lips, raw and needy. But it wasn't enough. Not tonight. Not when the weight of everything felt like it could crush you, and he was the only thing holding you together. You tightened your grip on his hands, tugging gently but with urgency, needing him to look at you. When his eyes met yours, you saw the love, the concern etched into every line of his face.

"Baby, no. Need you inside me," you whined, your voice thick with desperation. The words slipped out unfiltered, raw and aching. Trent's brow furrowed slightly, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

"Are you sure? Pretty girl,, I need to make sure you're wet enough, I don’t want to hurt you," he whispered, his voice soft but firm, filled with that familiar protective edge. His caution wasn't just about comfort-it was about love. He never wanted to hurt you, not in any way, especially now when you were so fragile.

“I don't care," you breathed, the need spilling over into your voice, cracked and trembling. You didn't want space, didn't want slow. You wanted him. All of him. Trent didn't argue. Instead, he kissed you-a deep, grounding kiss that stole your breath and gave it back all at once. His hand released yours, moving between your legs with a touch so careful it broke your heart a little. His fingers slipped through your folds, testing, exploring, his touch sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. The contrast of his tenderness against your desperation made your pulse quicken, your hips arching into his hand instinctively. When his fingers finally brushed your clit, it felt like a spark igniting inside you, sharp and electric. Your gasp was swallowed by his mouth as he kissed you again, his fingers working skillfully, his touch both soothing and igniting.

"I've got you, baby. I'm here," he whispered against your skin, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below your ear, pressing soft kisses there. His words were more than comfort; they were an anchor, pulling you back from the overwhelming sea of emotion threatening to drown you. “I love you so much," he breathed, his voice a warm murmur in your ear, each word sinking into you like a balm. His praises wrapped around you, holding you tighter than his arms ever could. But despite the heat building, the ache deepening, you couldn't reach that edge. You were wound too tight, your body vibrating with need, but something kept holding you back. Frustration mixed with desperation, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Relax, f’me baby. I'm here, just relax, you’re with me," he whispered again, his voice steady, his hands gentle. But you didn't want to relax. You wanted more-needed more. Your hands shot up, tangling in his curls, pulling him back to you.

"T, just…please," you whimpered, your voice breaking. His eyes met yours, dark and filled with something fierce-love, lust, devotion, all tangled together. Without another word, he shifted, positioning himself at your entrance, his hands cradling your face as if you were something sacred. His forehead pressed against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"I've got you, let’s just go slow here, baby," he whispered again, and this time, it felt like a promise etched into your skin. He definitely wanted to fuck you but it needed to be grounding, loving, not rushed. It couldn’t be rushed because he never wanted to make you feel like any of this, you and him, was fleeting.

"I need you. Wanna be close to you. Please,T, I need you." Your voice was a fragile whisper, trembling with desperation and longing as your hands roamed over Trent's body. You traced the hard lines of his muscles, feeling them tighten beneath your fingertips with every soft brush, every fleeting touch. His skin was warm, the faint sheen of sweat forming from the heat between you two, making him feel even more real, more tangible-something you could hold onto when everything else felt like it was slipping through your fingers. Trent's eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with desire as they swept over you. His gaze wasn't just hungry-it was reverent, like he was drinking you in, memorizing every curve, every freckle, every soft line of your body. You could feel the weight of his need in the way his chest rose and fell, the tension in his jaw as he swallowed hard, grounding himself in the moment. He exhaled and without another word, he wrapped his fingers around the base of his cock, guiding himself to your entrance. The sight alone made your breath hitch, your heart racing like it was trying to escape your chest. Your hands instinctively found his biceps, fingers digging into the warm, firm flesh as if he was the only thing anchoring you to reality. He pushed into you slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, watching every flicker of emotion cross your face. A low whimper escaped your lips, your head falling back against the pillows as your legs instinctively spread wider, welcoming him, pulling him in deeper. The stretch was overwhelming, that perfect mix of pleasure and pressure that had your nails digging into his skin. And then he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt, and it felt like the world had narrowed down to just this-just him.

Your chest rose with a shaky breath, and before you could stop it, a tear slipped from the corner of your eye. It wasn't sadness. No, it was something else entirely-an overwhelming wave of vulnerability, release, and the safety of being seen, truly seen, by someone who held you like you were precious. Unfortunately, you think you’d cried just about every time you’d had sex lately. It wasn’t a bad thing but the first few times it happened, Trent had panicked, pulling away with fear etched into his features, thinking he'd done something wrong, stopping immediately. But it wasn’t sadness you were experiencing, it was a release, a vulnerability and yet safeness he gave you in these intimate moments. And now he understood. He didn't flinch. He didn't question. Instead, he leaned down and pressed soft kisses to your cheeks, tasting the salt of your tears as if it was something sacred.

"I'm here. I've got you," he whispered against your skin, his voice a soft, grounding hum that wrapped around your heart like a warm blanket. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer until there was no space left between you, until your bodies were tangled so tightly you couldn't tell where you ended, and he began. His chest pressed against yours, the steady thump of his heartbeat syncing with yours, a rhythm only the two of you knew.

Trent moved slowly, each thrust deliberate, savoring the connection, the closeness. His hips rolled into you with a steady, intoxicating rhythm, not rushed, not frantic-just right. His hands found your face again, cradling it gently, his thumbs brushing over your flushed cheeks as if grounding himself in your presence. His forehead pressed against yours, your breaths mingling in the small space between you. "You feel so good, baby. Fuck. So perfect," he murmured, his words like a soft caress, his voice thick with emotion and desire. It didn't take long before that familiar coil of tension began to build in your stomach, winding tighter and tighter with each of his praises, each slow, deliberate movement. His words were like fuel, igniting every nerve ending, pushing you closer to the edge. "That's it, baby. You're doing so good for me," he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. Your body trembled beneath him, your hands shaking as you threaded them into his curls, holding on like he was the only thing keeping you grounded. Your head fell back, a soft, broken whine escaping your lips as the tension snapped, crashing over you in waves of bliss. It wasn't just an orgasm-it was a release, a letting go of everything you'd been holding onto, every fear, every ache, every unspoken word. You felt his breath hitch against your neck, the warmth of it washing over your sensitive skin as he buried himself deeper, chasing his own release. His name fell from your lips in a breathless chant, and then he was there, moaning your name like a prayer as he came, his hips stuttering against yours, spilling inside you. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths mingling, the faint thrum of your heartbeats still racing. Trent didn't move, his body pressed against yours, his arms wrapped around you like he could shield you from the world. And maybe he could. Maybe he already had.

You stayed like that for what felt like both a passing moment and an eternity, tangled together in the fragile afterglow of intimacy. Trent’s weight was a grounding comfort, his chest rising and falling against yours, his skin slick with the sheen of effort and emotion. The soft hum of your breathing was the only sound filling the dimly lit room, save for the faint buzz of life beyond the walls—a distant car passing, the occasional creak of the old floorboards settling. Eventually, Trent shifted slightly, resting his forehead against yours. His stubble tickling your skin, his skin against yours sticky with sweat and warmth. You could feel the rapid beat of his heart slowly syncing with yours, the rhythm steadying, grounding. His thumb brushed softly against your cheek as he murmured, his voice hushed but carrying the full weight of his heart.

“I love you so much, baby.” He whispered. The words settled over you like a blanket, warm and safe. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip of your nose, his lips lingering there as if he didn’t want to pull away. Then, with a reluctant sigh, he began to lift himself off you, his hands bracing on either side of your body. But the moment his warmth started to leave, panic flickered like a spark in your chest. Your legs tightened around his hips instinctively, holding him in place with a soft, desperate squeeze.

“Please don’t leave me.” You begged meekly. The words tumbled out in a breathless whisper, raw and trembling. Your voice didn’t carry fear of him leaving for good, but rather the immediate absence—the fear of space, of cold air replacing his warmth, of being alone even for a second. It wasn’t rational, but fear never was. Trent froze instantly. His body stiffened above you before he slowly lowered himself back down, his weight pressing into you just enough to ground you again. His hands cupped your face with gentle urgency, his thumbs brushing away the faint sheen of tears you hadn’t realized had gathered.

“What are you talking about, baby?” His voice was a low whisper, full of concern and something else—something deeper. His brows furrowed as he studied your face, searching for the source of the fear hidden in your eyes. Your lips parted, but no words came out. How could you explain it? That the shadows of Josh’s cruelty still clung to you like smoke, invisible but suffocating. That the dark parts of your mind whispered fears louder than reality. That Trent had become your anchor, and the thought of floating even an inch away felt like drowning. Trent’s thumbs traced soft circles on your cheeks, coaxing you back from the edge of your spiraling thoughts. His voice softened, turning into a promise wrapped in warmth.

“I’m not leaving. I’m just gonna get something to clean you up. Then I’ll be right back, yeah? I’m here. I’m right here.” You nodded slowly, though your grip didn’t loosen right away. His eyes never left yours as he leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to your lips—a silent vow stitched between the softness of his mouth and the warmth of his breath. When he finally pulled back, you let your legs fall away from his hips, your heart thudding in protest even as you tried to steady yourself. Trent got up, his steps quiet as he moved toward the en-suite. The absence of his touch left a chill in its wake, the bed suddenly too big, too empty. You pulled the sheet up around you, not for modesty but for comfort, clutching it like it could somehow replace the warmth of his skin. But it couldn’t. Nothing could.

In the ensuite of the room, Trent flicked on the light, the harsh brightness casting sharp shadows on the cool tiles. He moved mechanically, grabbing a soft cloth and running it under warm water. But as he reached for the towel, his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror. He paused. For a second, he just stared.

His face looked the same, but the person staring back at him felt unfamiliar. His shoulders slumped under an invisible weight, his chest tight with emotions he didn’t know how to name. It hit him all at once—a clarity he hadn’t asked for, didn’t want. Post-nut clarity, he might’ve joked under different circumstances. But this wasn’t fleeting. It wasn’t funny. He sighed, gripping the edge of the marble counter with one hand, the other still holding the damp cloth. His mind raced, thoughts unraveling faster than he could catch them. You needed him—that much was obvious. But the part that twisted his gut was how much he needed you back. And that scared him. Because it wasn’t just support anymore. It wasn’t just love. It was dependency, tangled in a way that blurred the lines between healthy and… something else. Something fragile. He didn’t want to be a crutch. He didn’t want to be the person you clung to simply because you were running from someone else. He wasn’t Josh, but was he just the next chapter in the same story? But even as those thoughts swirled, he knew the truth. He couldn’t pull away. He didn’t want to pull away. The idea of not being wrapped around you—of not being the one who made you feel safe—was unbearable. The thought of walking back into that bedroom and seeing you asleep without him there sent a pang through his chest, sharp and unrelenting. So, he didn’t linger in the bathroom. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, trying to shake off the heaviness, and returned to you like a man drawn by gravity itself. As soon as he stepped back into the room, your eyes found his, wide and glassy, your hand reaching for him without hesitation. Trent crossed the room quickly, climbing back into bed before you could even whisper his name. You pulled him into you immediately, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face burying into the crook of his shoulder. His heart cracked a little, feeling how desperately you clung to him—but it also mended in the same beat, because he needed you just as desperately.

“I’m here,” he whispered against your hair, his arms wrapping around you tighter. “I’m not going anywhere.” And maybe that was the problem. Or maybe it was the answer. But for now, it was just reality.

The soft hum of the television filled the living room, its flickering light casting faint shadows across the walls. Trent was slouched comfortably on the sofa, his arms draped around you entirely as your body molded into his, your cheek resting against his chest. His fingers moved absentmindedly through your hair, the repetitive motion soothing both you and himself. You were fast asleep, your breathing slow and even, but your grip on the hem of his hoodie remained tight, as if even in sleep, you couldn’t bear to let go.

The front door creaked open, and Jack’s footsteps echoed softly against the hardwood floor as he entered. Trent glanced over his shoulder, his face lighting up with casual ease.

“Oh hey, bro. Didn’t know you’d be at home today,” Trent greeted, his voice low so as not to wake you. He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb you, though his hand never left your hair. Jack froze in the entry of the room for a beat longer than necessary, his jaw tightening as his eyes landed on the scene before him. There was something about it—Trent’s relaxed posture, your fragile form curled into him—that made Jack’s chest constrict. He wasn’t sure if it was protectiveness, or just plain concern.

“Erm, yeah… I didn’t know you’d be here, bro,” Jack replied, his tone clipped, the emphasis on you not subtle. He dropped his gym bag on the floor, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped further into the room, his gaze flickering between you and Trent. Trent, oblivious to the tension tightening in Jack’s shoulders, just shrugged, his attention drifting back to the muted football highlights on the screen.

“Well, I was dropping her off, and then she wanted me to stay, so we chilled for a bit and then she just passed out. Was knackered so…” The casualness in Trent’s voice grated on Jack’s nerves. He clenched his jaw, forcing a tight smile, nodding like it didn’t bother him. Like it wasn’t gnawing at the edges of his mind how much Trent had been here—with you—every day, all the time.

“Yeah, yeah. Cool. All good,” Jack muttered, his words stiff but subtle as he moved past the sofa, his eyes lingering for just a second longer on the way your fingers were curled into Trent’s hoodie, like it was the only thing tethering you to safety. But it wasn’t just safety anymore, was it? Jack had gathered that you were scared to be alone. That part wasn’t surprising. The fear was real, raw, and understandable after what happened with Josh. But it was the way you weren’t just seeking comfort—you were seeking Trent. Only Trent. You’d built walls around yourself, sure, but instead of bricks, they were made entirely of him. And Trent? He wasn’t helping. If anything, he was reinforcing them, brick by brick, without even realizing it. Jack headed to the kitchen, opening the fridge just for the sake of doing something, anything, to occupy his hands. The cold air hit his face, but it did nothing to cool the frustration simmering beneath his skin. He grabbed a bottle of water, twisting the cap off with more force than necessary, the faint pop echoing in the silence.

From the living room, it was like he could still somehow hear the faint, rhythmic sound of Trent’s fingers threading through your hair, your being entirely dependent on that touch. It was such an innocent gesture—gentle, comforting—but to Jack, it felt like a line being crossed. You hadn’t slept apart since that night. Jack had noticed. You sat on the floor of the gym while Trent worked out, your eyes never straying far from him, like he was your anchor in a storm. You showered together, ate together, breathed together. It was as if you’d become an extension of each other, and Jack didn’t know if that was beautiful or terrifying. Probably both. When he came back into the living room, leaning against the doorway with the bottle in hand, he watched Trent for a long moment. Trent glanced up, offering an easy smile, but Jack didn’t return it.

“You staying for dinner?” Jack asked, his voice casual, but there was an undercurrent—something sharp beneath the words. He wasn’t mad at Trent, he just was concerned and he was trying to keep his emotions in that lane, trying his best to not let them merge into one of frustration. Trent glanced down at you, still asleep, your grip unrelenting. He gave a small, fond chuckle.

“I mean… guess it depends if she wakes up hungry.” Trent responded. Jack forced a laugh, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Right.” he quipped. The silence stretched between them, heavy and unspoken. Jack wanted to say something—needed to say something. But what? That this wasn’t healthy? That maybe you both needed space? That Trent wasn’t a bandage for wounds that needed time to heal? But when Jack looked at you, peaceful for the first time in what felt like weeks, and when he saw the way Trent held you with such unconscious care, the words caught in his throat. So he said nothing. Just twisted the cap back onto his water bottle and walked away, the weight of worry following him down the hall.

It had been days like that and Jack’s was spinning out. He didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore but he was beginning to struggle and he didn’t know where to turn. But then, he did turn, he turned his car into that familiar neighborhood…

The kitchen was filled with the soft clinking of mugs being pulled from the cupboards, the kettle’s gentle hiss a steady background hum. Dianne moved with practiced ease, pouring hot water over the tea bags nestled in the delicate porcelain cups, her back turned to Jack as he sat slumped at the kitchen table. His elbows rested on the worn surface, fingers gripping his hair, his jaw tense with unspoken worry.

“I just… I don’t know, Di. She clings to him,” Jack muttered, his voice low, as if saying it too loudly might make it more real. He glanced up, his eyes not those of the grown man he’d become but of the little boy Dianne had watched grow, the one who used to scrape his knees and run to her for comfort. His vulnerability hit her chest like a stone, but she said nothing yet, giving him the space he seemed to need. She slid a cup of tea toward him, the steam curling between them like fragile threads, waiting to be woven into words. Jack stared at it for a beat before continuing, his fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic as if it could ground him. “Like… all she does is stay glued to his side. Which I get, I do. She’s been through a lot, and he makes her feel safe. But in a month, when he leaves for preseason, what’s she going to do? Collapse?” His voice cracked slightly, frustration laced with fear. He wasn’t just worried about you—he was terrified. Terrified of watching you fall apart and not knowing how to catch you. Dianne’s heart clenched. She took a sip of her own tea, not to delay her response but to give Jack room to breathe. She knew better than to fill silence too quickly; sometimes, it wasn’t empty space—it was a place for someone to find their words.

“Oh, hun…” she finally murmured, her voice a soft balm, warm and steady. She reached out, resting her hand gently over his. Jack’s shoulders sagged a little under her touch, the tension loosening just enough for him to keep going.

“And in a way, I think he likes it too,” Jack added quietly, his gaze distant, as if he could see you and Trent in his mind’s eye—inseparable, tangled up in something more complicated than just love. “I don’t mean that he likes that she’s sad.” Jack quickly tried to rectify his words.

“I know. Keep going.’ Dianne gave him a gentle encouraging smile.

“Sorry….Like, I know she’s fine if he’s there. But what happens when he has an away game on Sunday and Champions League that Tuesday? He’s not here.” His words grew softer, thinner, like they might break under the weight of his fear. The reality of Trent’s life crashing down hard on Jack, a reality Dianne knew well, missed birthdays, holidays spent on flights, weeks away at a time, something Jack wasn’t sure you could handle, not in the state you were in now. Dianne’s thumb rubbed a slow, comforting circle over his knuckles.

“He is for her, though,” she said gently. “Maybe he can’t always be physically here, I know that but he’s there for her in ways that matter. Always has been. And so are you, Jack. Especially in those moments when he can’t be.” But Jack’s jaw tightened. His grip on the tea mug grew firmer, his knuckles white.

“Yeah, I guess,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “It’s like… she’s trying to fix things using him, and he’s too close to stop her. She can’t get better like that” The words hung heavy in the air, thicker than the steam rising from their cups. Dianne frowned slightly, her maternal instincts kicking in. She’d known something was off, but Jack’s words pointed to something deeper, something darker. Better from what she wondered so she asked.

“Fix what, hun?” she asked softly, her voice a thread pulling gently at the edge of a fraying sweater. Jack froze. His heart raced, a cold sweat prickling at the back of his neck. No one knew. No one could’ve know. Not about Josh. Not about what they’d all found out about and especially not about the night that triggered everything. He swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry despite the untouched tea. His eyes dropped to the table, blinking rapidly as his vision blurred.

“Di… it’s been so scary,” he whispered, the words trembling out of him like fragile glass. His voice broke completely then, a tear slipping down his cheek before he could stop it. Dianne didn’t hesitate. Although, mentally she paused because she hadn’t seen Jack cry in years but she was swift nevertheless. She moved around the table quickly but softly, dropping to her knees beside him and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. She held him tight, like she had when he was small and scraped up from the world. He clung to her for a moment, burying his face into her shoulder, letting the weight of his worry leak out in silent sobs. She didn’t ask anything more right then. She just held him, her heart breaking not just for you, but for Jack—bearing the burden of a secret too heavy for one person to carry alone.

The quiet hum of the kettle filled the space between them, but Jack barely noticed it. His hands trembled slightly around the mug, the tea inside long forgotten, growing cold, hence the new brew. Dianne remained by his side, her hand still resting gently on his shoulder after his tears had ebbed, grounding him with the warmth only someone who’d loved him his whole life could offer. Jack wiped at his face roughly, like he could scrub away the vulnerability. But it was too late—the dam had broken, and there was no patching it up now. His chest felt tight, his heart pounding like it was trying to escape. He stared at a spot on the table, as if avoiding her eyes might make the words easier.

“I—I didn’t know how to say it. I still don’t,” Jack started, his voice hoarse from the emotion that had just torn through him. “But I can’t keep holding it in. It’s—it’s eating me alive, Di.” Dianne nodded softly, her face calm, though her heart raced with quiet dread. She knew whatever was coming wasn’t small. She reached for his hand again, her touch a silent permission to continue, no matter how messy the truth might be. Jack swallowed hard, his fingers tightening around hers. “It’s been going on for longer than anyone had known. With her. With Trent. I mean—” He let out a bitter laugh, one without humor, shaking his head. “At first, it was just… betrayal. That’s what I felt. Like—how could they? My best mate, my sister… sneaking around like that. I felt like the biggest idiot, like they’d made me the punchline of some joke I wasn’t in on.” His voice cracked, the resentment still simmering beneath the grief, tangled up in everything else. “But that—that’s nothing compared to what came after… what came before.” He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if the memories were too sharp to face head-on.

“I just found out this lad had been hurting her… It was so much worse then I could’ve ever imagined. It makes me nauseous. And when we went to some party one night… Josh—” Jack’s throat tightened, and he paused, his jaw clenching. The images flashed uninvited: your tear-streaked face, the bruises already blooming, the haunted look in your eyes. You were barely there, just a shadow of yourself, clinging to Trent like the only thing keeping you from slipping away. “He tried-,” Jack couldn’t forced the words out, his voice dropping to a whisper like saying it would make it worse. “At this party. I couldn’t get there fast enough— It was awful but it had been going on long before this and I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t know.” The guilt was thick in his voice, choking him. “And T… he was there, he helped, he always helps so I dragged her out of there and held her but when I looked at her in my arms sobbing… she wasn’t even her anymore. And now weeks have passed and she’s still not there. She’s like shattered glass, Di. Just—just pieces of her left, scattered all over Trent’s fucking chest in the living room like he is the only thing holding her together.” His hands trembled harder now, the mug rattling against the table until Dianne gently pried it from his grip, setting it aside. She didn’t say anything yet, just listened, her heart pounding but her face calm, giving him the space he needed. Jack’s breaths came in ragged pulls, his chest rising and falling as he tried to steady himself. “And now? Now it’s like she’s disappeared into him. Like she can’t breathe unless he’s in the same room. I get it—I get it. He makes her feel safe. But it’s like she’s drowning, and instead of learning how to swim, she’s just clinging to him like a fucking life raft.” His voice broke again, softer this time, filled with something closer to heartbreak than anger. “And I don’t know how to help her. I don’t know if I can. I feel like I lost her that night, Di. And the worst part? I miss her, but I don’t even know if she’s still in there to miss.” The silence that followed was heavy, filled with all the words he couldn’t say. Dianne sat quietly for a long moment, her heart aching—not just for you, but for Jack, for the boy she’d helped raise who now sat crumbling before her. She’d known fear before, known grief. But this? This was watching two people she loved disappear in different ways—one fading into someone else, the other drowning in guilt he didn’t deserve to carry. She finally reached out, cupping Jack’s face gently, her thumbs brushing away the fresh tears he hadn’t realized were falling.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady. “You’ve been carrying all of this by yourself for too long. I’m glad you’re here because you’re not alone.” Jack let out a shaky breath, nodding because it was true. Dianne leaned back slightly, her hands resting over his. “Listen to me, okay? She’s still in there. Your sister—she’s in there. But right now, she’s lost. She’s holding onto Trent because she’s scared, because that’s the only thing that feels solid. But it doesn’t mean she’s gone. It just means she needs time. And she needs you too, Jack. Not the version of you that feels like he’s failing her. The version that’s always been her safe place, even when she forgot how to ask for it.” Jack’s face crumpled, the words hitting something tender. He nodded again, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “And Trenty?” Dianne continued gently. “He’s not the enemy here. He’s scared too. Scared of what happens if he lets go. You both are. But she’s going to need both of you—not to be her crutches, but to remind her how to stand on her own again.” Jack let out a breath, the tension slowly bleeding from his shoulders. It didn’t fix everything. It didn’t erase the fear. But it helped. It helped to say it out loud, to have someone sit with him in the mess without trying to clean it up right away. Dianne gave his hand one last squeeze. “We’ll figure it out, okay? Together.” Jack nodded with a pout.

Dianne still hadn’t seen Trent since Jack came over to her home and broke down, filling her with worry, empathy, desperation to help, and eagerness to see Trent. She’d texted him asking if he could stop by their house, pulling a mum card saying she hadn’t seen her baby boy in too long. The comforting scent of home-cooked food filled the cozy kitchen, mingling with the faint trace of Dianne’s floral perfume that lingered like a memory. The soft hum of the kettle boiling like it always did in the background was the only sound apart from the faint shuffle of Trent’s footsteps as he entered his mum’s house, his frame casting long shadows across the familiar walls.

“You alright, Mum?” Trent greeted her with that familiar, boyish grin, his voice warm but carrying a trace of exhaustion he couldn’t quite mask.

“Better seeing my Trenty,” Dianne cooed, pulling him into a tight embrace, her hands lingering a second longer than usual against his back, as if she could squeeze the worry out of him—or at least into herself. She kissed his cheek softly before pulling away, her eyes subtly scanning his face, searching for cracks beneath his charm. “Hungry, hun?” she asked, her tone light and motherly as she led him into the kitchen. Trent nodded, sinking into the chair at the table where he’d eaten countless meals growing up, the same one Jack was crying at mere days ago. Dianne busied herself at the stove, filling the space with chatter about the neighbors—the old woman next door who’d finally caught the stray cat sneaking into her garden, the teenager who’d crashed his bike trying to impress a girl. Trent chuckled softly, grateful for the normalcy, the simplicity of it all. But Dianne’s eyes never stopped observing him, even as her hands moved with practiced ease. When she finally set the plate in front of him, she didn’t let go right away. Her fingers lingered on the edge of the plate, overlapping with his.

“Trent…” she said softly, her voice dropping the playful lilt, replaced by quiet caution. Her eyes shifted from his face to his hand—the one gripping the plate. Bruised knuckles, faint swelling, and small cuts, poorly healed because he’d likely ignored them. Trent stiffened slightly, trying to pull his hand away, but Dianne’s gentle grip held for just a second longer.

“Mum, I know…” he muttered, already sliding into defense mode. “It was just a stupid scrap.” He shrugged, as if that would minimize it. Dianne released the plate but didn’t move from her spot. She sat across from him, her face calm but her eyes sharp, seeing more than he wanted her to.

“Well, you know how I feel about a scrap,” she replied, her tone soft but firm.

“Mum…” Trent groaned, shaking his head like a kid caught doing something he knew better than to do. Her gaze didn’t waver as he began to take a few bites of food.

“Don’t ‘Mum’ me, Trent. You think I don’t see it?” She gestured gently toward his hand, then to him as a whole. “It’s not just that. You’re carrying something, hun. More than you’re letting on… You don’t do ‘scraps’” She quipped. Yes, Trent as a boy would mess about with friends, definitely get into his fair share of squabbles with his brothers, but as an adult, a professional in the public eye… he was being naive thinking he could get away with this one. He opened his mouth to argue, but then his phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with your name. He glanced at it instinctively, the message simple but heavy.

'I really miss you, T. Come back xx'

He left you to pop to Dianne’s but promised he’d be right back. But a half hour since he left you was too long. Dianne didn’t miss the shift in his expression—the tension in his jaw softening, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as if the words alone were enough to tether him.

“You’ve been glued to her…” Dianne stateed quietly, her voice gentle, not accusing. Just observing. She watched the way Trent’s thumb hovered over his phone, his chest rising and falling with a sigh he didn’t even realize he let out.

“She needs me,” he said finally, his voice low, almost like he was justifying it to himself more than to Dianne.

“And you need her,” Dianne added softly, not as a question but as a truth laid bare between them. Trent swallowed hard, finally setting his phone down without responding—just yet. He stared at the plate of food, but the appetite had faded. His fingers traced the rim of the plate absently.

“I don’t know how to be without her anymore,” he admitted after a beat, his voice quieter, raw. “She’s been through so much, and if I’m not there… I feel like she’ll break. But it’s not just about her. It’s me too. I feel like—I don’t know. Like if I’m not with her, I’m the one falling apart.” Dianne’s heart clenched, but she stayed composed, reaching across the table to rest her hand over his.

“Trenty,” she whispered, her thumb brushing against the bruised skin on his knuckles. “You’re both trying to be lifeboats for each other when neither of you know how to swim in this.” Trent’s eyes glistened, but he didn’t cry. He just nodded slightly, his throat too tight for words. “I’m not saying pull away,” Dianne continued gently. “But love isn’t about saving each other from drowning. It’s about teaching each other how to float, even when you’re apart.” Trent finally looked up at her, his defenses lowered, his heart exposed in a way only a mother could manage.

“I don’t know how… I can’t see her hurt anymore.” he whispered. “It’s killing me. I can’t manage it. Manage her like this” He muttered as Dianne squeezed his hand gently. Dianne’s heart was breaking for her son and for you but she remained quiet, hoping he would confide in her, letting him open up and want her help but Trent was too stubborn. Stubbornness born from fear of being away from you any longer when his phone buzzed again.

‘Need a cuddle and my T. Miss you so much, baby. Please’

They were mushy, down bad, almost gaslight texts but to you and to Trent they read merely honest, loving, and unfortunately just sad. The tension in the room hung like thick fog, invisible but suffocating. Trent’s knee bounced under the table, fingers drumming against the wood, restless as he read your message on his phone sat beside his half-eaten plate, the text burning into his thoughts like it was etched into the screen. The pull to leave was overwhelming, like gravity itself was tugging him toward you.

“I gotta go, Mum. Sorry. I’ll come back when I have some time. Thank you for—” Trent started, his voice rushed, already halfway out of the conversation in his mind. But Dianne cut him off, her voice sharp but steady.

“Trent, I know you’re running off to her. And it wasn’t a stupid scrap. You fought someone for her.” She finally just cut to the chase. He’d been beating around the bush, not divulging why* he needed to be near you. Her bluntness caused Trent to freeze mid-motion, the words hitting him square in the chest. His jaw clenched, and he shot her a glance over his shoulder, surprised she knew—though, deep down, he shouldn’t have been. Dianne always knew more than she let on. But he didn’t have time to process it, didn’t have time to ask how she knew. All he could think about was you.

“Just… please. I’ll talk to you another time,” he snapped, the edge in his voice sharper than he intended, frustration and anxiety blending into something brittle. He raked a hand over his curls, his pulse racing faster with every second. “The fucking lad got arrested for what he’d been doing. I had to do something, alright? And I have to go do something now…” His words came out harsh, fueled by the lingering anger he carried like an undercurrent beneath everything—at Josh, at himself, at the whole situation. His chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in the room. Dianne sighed softly, her face etched with worry, but she didn’t press. She watched him stand, grabbing a hurried bite from the plate, chewing as if it was just a mechanical necessity. He moved on autopilot now, driven by instinct more than thought.

��Another time, please,” Dianne spoke gently, full of understanding but equally measured hurt.

“Yeah, yeah. Another time, Mum,” he muttered, voice softer this time but still distant, like he wasn’t fully present. And he wasn’t he was mentally out the door as he grabbed his keys from the counter with one hand while the other reached out to kiss her cheek—a rushed, distracted gesture. “Promise. Thanks for the food. Love you.” He chirped. He was already halfway to the door when Dianne’s voice followed him, quiet but filled with layered emotion.

“Tell her I’m thinking of her.” Trent hummed in acknowledgment, not trusting his voice to hold steady, his hand tightening around the keys as if gripping them could somehow ground him. He didn’t look back as he slipped out the door, the air hitting his face like a slap, but it did nothing to ease the storm brewing inside him. He needed to get back to you. That was the only thing that mattered right now.

The door clicked shut behind him, but Trent didn’t hear it. His footsteps were automatic, mechanical, as he made his way to the car. He didn’t remember sliding into the driver’s seat, didn’t register the familiar feel of the steering wheel under his fingers or the soft hum of the engine roaring to life. The world outside Dianne’s house blurred into a smear of colors as he pulled down the drive, his mind caught somewhere between the past hour and the ache growing steadily in his chest. The road stretched ahead, but Trent’s thoughts twisted inward, tangled and messy. At first, all he could feel was the pull of you—need to get back, need to see her, she’s waiting—but as the miles ticked by, something started to shift. A flicker of doubt. A ripple in the current that had carried him so blindly these past weeks. His fingers tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles whitening. Maybe this isn’t good. The thought hit him harder than he expected, like slamming into a wall he hadn’t realized was there. His jaw clenched, and he blinked against the sudden sting behind his eyes. Maybe there’s a line we’ve crossed without even noticing. Because loving you wasn’t the problem. No, that was the easiest part of all. It was as natural as breathing, as inevitable as gravity. He could never love you any less—not now, not ever. But maybe, just maybe, the way you both clung to each other wasn’t healing the hurt. Maybe it was preserving it. Keeping it alive like a fragile thing cradled between your bodies, feeding off your shared vulnerability. His chest tightened as he thought of the way you reached for him in your sleep, how your breath would hitch if he wasn’t close enough. The way he could barely last an hour without checking his phone to see if you needed him. It wasn’t just you. It was him too.

There was nothing better than the comfort you found in each other—your soft giggles when he peppered your face with kisses, the warmth of your body tucked against his, the way your fingers sought his even in the quietest moments. Those things weren’t wrong. They were perfect. But if you stayed wrapped in that cocoon for too long, if you never loosened the grip, you’d both risk getting stuck—fused to the very pain you were trying to move past. What if I’m not helping? The thought rattled around in his mind, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. What if I’m just holding her in place… and holding myself there too? A shaky breath escaped him, his fingers flexing on the wheel. The ache wasn’t just for you anymore—it was for him too. For the boy who didn’t know how to stop loving you so hard it hurt, for the man who was terrified that stepping back even an inch would feel like abandonment. But he had to find a way. Not to love you less—that was impossible. But to love you better. To help you heal, even if it meant figuring out how to stand beside you without holding you up like a crutch. Even if it meant learning how to breathe without needing to fill his lungs with the same air as you. His foot eased off the gas slightly as the realization settled in his chest like a stone. He didn’t have all the answers. Not yet. But he had to find them. For you. For him. For both of you. As he pulled into your street, his heart pounded—not just with the urgency to see you but with the weight of everything he’d just uncovered inside himself. His hands trembled slightly as he turned off the ignition. I love her. That part was solid, unshakeable. But maybe love isn’t just holding on. Maybe, sometimes, it’s learning how to let go—just enough to let the light in behind those dark clouds that seemed to be following you.

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