goldfades

[goldfades]

joe dealing w pregnant reader who cries all the time cause yk the hormonesss

Joe had been through enough seasons to know how to handle pressure. He’d stared down defenses, taken hits that rattled his ribs, and played through pain most people couldn’t imagine. But this? This was something else entirely.

This was his wife—his beautiful, stubborn, currently very pregnant wife—crying into a bowl of mac and cheese at the kitchen counter.

Joe leaned against the fridge, arms crossed, watching her with a mix of concern and amusement. He wasn’t sure what had set her off this time. Could’ve been the way the cheese didn’t melt quite right. Could’ve been the cat looking at her too intensely. Could’ve been, as she’d said last night between sniffles, just everything, Joe.

“You wanna tell me what’s wrong, baby?” he asked, voice careful, gentle, like approaching a skittish deer.

She sniffled, lifting her head just enough for him to see the glassiness in her eyes. “It’s just—” She let out a dramatic exhale, her hand resting on the swell of her belly. “I don’t even know! I saw a video of a baby giggling, and then I thought about our baby giggling, and then I thought, what if they never giggle, Joe? What if they’re just a serious baby who never laughs?”

Joe pressed his lips together, nodding like this was a completely reasonable thing to be distraught over. “A serious baby, huh?”

She nodded back, lower lip trembling. “Like—like they just stare at people all the time. What if they don’t even think I’m funny?”

Joe pushed off the fridge, walking over to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Baby, no child of yours is gonna be that serious.”

Her voice wobbled. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He ran a soothing hand up and down her back. “I mean, look at you right now. Crying over mac and cheese and imaginary serious babies. That’s not exactly a stoic household we got goin’ here.”

That earned him a wet, half-hearted laugh against his chest, her fingers curling into his hoodie. “I feel ridiculous.”

“Nah,” Joe murmured, smiling into her hair. “You’re just pregnant.”

Joe had never considered himself an overly emotional guy. Sure, he felt things deeply—he loved hard, played harder, and had his fair share of moments where a win or a loss sat heavy in his chest—but this? This was a whole new ballgame. His wife, the love of his life, was crying over mac and cheese at 2:30 p.m. on a Wednesday because she was afraid their unborn child wouldn’t think she was funny.

And the thing was—this wasn’t even the first time she’d cried that week.

No, this was just another tally on a growing list of things that had brought her to tears. At first, Joe had been concerned. The first time it happened, he’d rushed home from practice when she called him sobbing, thinking something was actually wrong. He’d barely been able to make out her words between hiccups, and his heart had been in his throat the entire drive back.

He had all but sprinted through the front door only to find her curled up on the couch, wrapped in one of his hoodies, tears streaming down her face as she pointed at the TV.

“Look at them, Joe!” she had wailed, gesturing wildly.

He had followed her gaze to the screen, where a baby elephant was struggling to climb over a small ledge, its little legs flailing before its mother came to the rescue.

Joe had blinked. “Is that what I think it is?”

She had turned to him, her face crumpling even more. “It’s an elephant, Joe.”

“Yeah, I see that.” He had hesitated. “Did something... happen to it?”

“No!” she had sobbed. “But look how small it is!”

That had been the first time Joe realized what he was in for. That was weeks ago now, and he had since learned to navigate the emotional minefield that was his pregnant wife. He loved her more than anything, and God help him, he would stand by her side through every mood swing, but he had to admit—it was exhausting.

Thursday: She cried in the car because she saw an older couple holding hands while crossing the street.

Joe had been driving them home from dinner when she let out a dramatic gasp, her hand smacking his thigh. “Oh my God.”

His eyes immediately flicked to the road. “What? What happened?”

She twisted in her seat, staring out the window with watery eyes. “They’re so old, Joe. And they’re still holding hands.”

Joe, relieved that there wasn’t an actual emergency, squeezed the steering wheel and nodded. “That’s sweet.”

She sniffled. “What if we don’t make it that long?”

Joe exhaled slowly through his nose. “Baby, we’re gonna make it that long.”

“But what if—”

“—we will,” he said firmly, reaching for her hand. “You think I’m goin’ anywhere?”

She shook her head, squeezing his fingers like a lifeline. “You promise?”

“I promise.”

She had sniffled the whole way home, and Joe had pulled over at a gas station just to buy her a Slushie, which seemed to help.

Friday: She cried while folding baby clothes because they were so tiny.

Joe had been minding his business, sitting on the couch reviewing game footage, when he heard a sudden gasp from the laundry room. He turned his head just in time to see her stumble out, a baby onesie clutched in her hands, her lip wobbling.

“Joe,” she whimpered, holding it up for him to see. “Look.”

Joe squinted. “Is that the—”

“It’s so small.” Her voice cracked.

Joe sat up, rubbing his chin. “Yeah, it is.”

She let out a weak sob. “What if they don’t stay this small?”

“Well, that’s kinda how babies work,” he said gently.

She ignored him, running her fingers over the tiny fabric like it held the meaning of life. “One day, they’re gonna grow up, and they’re not gonna be this little anymore.”

Joe sighed, patting the couch beside him. “C’mere.”

She trudged over, curling into his side as he kissed the top of her head. “I just want time to slow down.”

Joe smiled, rubbing her arm. “They’re not even here yet, baby. You got time.”

Saturday: She cried because the cat looked sad.

Joe had just walked into the living room when he found her kneeling on the floor in front of their cat, hands cradling his furry face.

“Oh, buddy,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Joe froze. “What’s wrong with him?”

She turned, her eyes glassy. “He looks so sad, Joe.”

Joe squatted beside them, inspecting their fat black cat whom they had adopted during their first year in Cincinnati, who seemed perfectly fine. “He looks… normal?”

She shook her head, burying her face in the cat’s fur. “He can feel that something’s changing. He knows he’s not gonna be the baby anymore.”

Joe sighed, reaching over to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Baby, he’s a cat. He’s still gonna get plenty of love.”

She sniffled. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

By Sunday, Joe had a system.

He had learned that the best way to handle these crying spells was a mix of patience, snacks, and an occasional distraction. He had learned that, sometimes, she just needed to let it out, and his job wasn’t always to fix it—but to be there.

So when he walked into the kitchen that morning and found her staring at her phone, tears welling in her eyes, he didn’t panic. He didn’t even ask.

Instead, he walked over, wrapped his arms around her from behind, and rested his chin on her shoulder. “What’s got you this time?”

She let out a watery sigh, tilting her phone so he could see. “It’s a video of a baby hearing their mom’s voice for the first time with hearing aids.”

Joe pressed a kiss to her temple, smiling. “That is pretty sweet.”

She sniffled. “I just love babies, Joe.”

Joe tightened his hold on her, resting his hands over the curve of her belly. “I know, baby. Good thing we’re havin’ one, huh?”

She turned in his arms, burying her face in his hoodie, and let out another soft sob. “I just love you.”

Joe grinned, swaying her gently. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

And just like that, he had her laughing through her tears.

[goldfades]

sorry i came in 33 seconds i love u

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guys should i change my theme or wait until may so it can be summer-y

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guys i wanna write for juju watkins pls send me requests 💔

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hello papa!

'"fuck me"

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hate to flex but my bracket is still almost perfect

omg no MINE IS DEF NOT i’ll have to show you guys mine for men’s and women’s 😭

mine’s like… not cooked tho just because the men’s this year was lowkey easy

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i can’t believe march madness is almost over😭😭😭 how are y’all’s brackets looking

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will there be a guilty as sin update in the future :(

hi love! yes there will be, i promise i just need to sit down and actually finish it up because ive been so busy lately!

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#taylorswift #live #love #laugh #lol #happy #1 #month #of #being #mutuals!!!😛😛😛🌞🌞🌞💛💛💛🤓🤓🤓💖💖💖

YESSSSSSSS YAYYAYAYAY

#happy1month #mootie #pizookiesbringppltogether

[goldfades]

weee need Luka dad! x reader!!!!🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

Your daughter is dramatic. Luka swears she gets it from you, but you know better—she gets it from him. It’s in the way she stomps through the house in her light-up sneakers like she’s got somewhere urgent to be, the way she argues with her father like a seasoned lawyer, her little brows furrowed in defiance, hands on her hips.

Most of all, it’s in the way she throws herself onto the couch now, spine melting into the cushions like she’s just been dealt the worst hand life has to offer.

“We have to go,” she says, voice lined with desperation. “Mama, we have to.”

She looks at you with those wide blue eyes, Luka’s copy-and-paste, but softer, rounder—more dangerous. She knows how to use them, too, lashes fluttering with the kind of precision that makes Luka grumble under his breath about how unfair the world is.

You humor her, pushing her curls away from her face. “Go where, baby?”

She gasps, appalled that you don’t already know. “To see Sabrina Carpenter!”

Your lips twitch, but you hold back the laugh, nodding along like this is Very Serious Business. “Right. Of course.”

This is her thing right now. A month ago, she wanted to be an astronaut. Two weeks ago, she was practicing her model walk in the hallway mirror, demanding that you and Luka call her Gigi Hadid. And now? Now, it’s Sabrina Carpenter. She’s been watching music videos on repeat, humming melodies under her breath, twirling around the kitchen like she’s waiting for someone to roll out a red carpet.

You turn to Luka, who’s sitting at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone, blissfully unaware of what’s about to hit him.

“Baby,” you say sweetly, watching him glance up with suspicion. “Wanna take your girls to a concert?”

Luka squints. “What concert?”

Your daughter, already exasperated, huffs loudly. “Sabrina Carpenter!”

Luka blinks, expression blank. You swear you can see the loading symbol in real time. “…Who?”

Your daughter’s jaw drops. “Daddy,” she whispers, horrified. “How do you not know?”

He shifts uncomfortably, looking between the two of you like he’s just realized he’s outnumbered. “I—what? I don’t know her! What she do?”

Your daughter gasps again, clutching her chest like he’s just struck her down. “She sings Feather!”

“That’s supposed to mean something?”

Your daughter turns to you, pleading. Luka looks at you, helpless. And you? You’re just enjoying the show.

You let the silence stretch for a moment, just to watch Luka suffer. He looks between you and your daughter like he’s missed a crucial piece of information, like maybe he should know who Sabrina Carpenter is but has somehow failed a test he didn’t know he was taking.

“She’s a singer,” you finally say, taking pity on him.

“Uh-huh,” Luka nods, still clearly confused. “Like…Taylor Swift?”

Your daughter lights up at the name drop. “Yes! She opened for Taylor! But she’s also her own person, Daddy.”

Luka scratches his jaw. “So she’s like…baby Taylor Swift?”

Your daughter makes a sound so offended, so deeply wounded, you have to bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Daddy, no! She’s Sabrina! You have to know who she is!”

Luka looks at you for help, and you shrug, enjoying this way too much. He mutters something in Slovenian under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face like this is somehow harder than an NBA game. “Okay, okay,” he sighs. “You like her, you want to go to her show. When is it?”

Your daughter is already scrambling for the iPad on the counter, fingers flying across the screen as she pulls up the concert dates with the urgency of a stockbroker watching the market crash.

“She’s coming here next month!” she announces proudly. “And we need to go.”

You expect Luka to hesitate, to ask more questions, to try and find a way out of this. But he just looks at her—his little girl, the light of his life, the tiny human who has him wrapped around her tiny little finger—and sighs in defeat.

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “We go.”

Your daughter shrieks in delight, launching herself at him, her little arms barely making it around his broad chest. Luka catches her with ease, lifting her up like she weighs nothing, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek.

“You’re the best, Daddy!” she beams.

Luka groans dramatically. “I know, I know.”

But you? You know this is just the beginning. Because Luka might have agreed, but he still has no idea what he’s signed up for.

That night, after your daughter is asleep, you find Luka on the couch, scrolling through his phone with a deep frown.

“Alright, what’s wrong?” you ask, plopping down beside him.

“I look her up,” he says, turning his phone to you. Sure enough, Sabrina Carpenter’s Spotify page is open, her discography in full display. “I don’t know a single song.”

You press your lips together to keep from laughing. “You could’ve just asked me, you know.”

“I try to learn!” he says, exasperated. “So I don’t look stupid at the concert. But all these songs…‘Feather’? ‘Espresso’? What is this?”

“They’re hits, baby.”

Luka narrows his eyes. “She sings about coffee?”

You snatch the phone from his hands and press play. Instantly, the opening beats of Espresso fill the room, bright and bubbly, and Luka’s face twists like you just gave him a pop quiz in a language he doesn’t speak.

“This?” he points at the phone. “This is what she loves?”

You snort. “Luka, she’s six. She thinks Bluey is the height of emotional storytelling.”

Luka exhales loudly, dropping his head against the back of the couch. “I’m not ready for this.”

You hum, settling against him. “You weren’t ready for Barbie either, but you ended up loving it.”

“That was different,” he argues. “That was a movie. This is a concert. A bunch of screaming kids. Loud music. And you know what’s worst?”

You raise a brow. “What’s worst?”

Luka gestures vaguely. “She’s gonna want merch.”

You bark out a laugh. “You mean like the five different Luka Dončić jerseys she owns?”

He glares at you. “That is different.”

“Is it?”

Luka groans, rubbing his temples like he’s already exhausted. “I just—why can’t she be into something normal?”

You tilt your head. “Like basketball?”

“Yes!”

You smile. “Luka, she already loves basketball. But she also loves pop music, and Barbies, and dressing up, and changing her mind every two weeks. That’s the fun of being a kid.”

Luka sighs, but you can tell he’s softening.

“And,” you add, nudging him. “You love making her happy.”

That gets him. He grumbles something under his breath, but you see the fond smile tugging at his lips.

“So,” you tease, “wanna hear Feather next?”

Luka groans, but he doesn’t stop you from playing it.

And as much as he pretends to suffer, you don’t miss the way his foot starts tapping along to the beat.

[goldfades]

hii i was wondering if you would ever consider writing for brandon miller or victor wembanyama :0 also i love your lamelo fics!!

tysm so much honey!!! i would absolutely love to write for either of them<3

[goldfades]

we’ve been mutuals for about a month now!! omg!!🥰🥰💘💘💖💖 here’s to more interactions hahah 😊🥰💖

#previous #pizookie #anon lol!!!

OMG NO THIS GOT LOST IN MY INBOX BUT YAYAYAYAYAY!!! A MONTH!!!!!!!!! WHOOP WHOOP!!

#pizookie #pizookiegate #yaya #taylorswift

[goldfades]

could you write about hayes being a a daddys boy with joe? like he is attached to his hip and following him wherever he goes

Joe had a shadow.

A tiny, curly-haired, chubby-cheeked shadow that followed him everywhere.

It had started as soon as Hayes could walk—no, before that, even. When he was a baby, he always reached for Joe first, tiny fingers curling around his dad’s shirt like he was terrified of being set down. And now, at two years old, he had made it his life’s mission to go wherever Joe went.

If Joe was in the kitchen, Hayes was standing on a stool beside him, “helping.” If Joe was watching film, Hayes was right next to him on the couch, occasionally smacking the iPad screen like he was the offensive coordinator. And if Joe so much as stood up to leave a room, Hayes was hot on his heels, little legs working overtime to keep up.

He was, without a doubt, a daddy’s boy.

And Joe? Joe was loving it.

--

“Where we goin’, Daddy?”

Joe sighed, adjusting the straps on his duffle bag. “Just heading to the gym real quick, bud.”

Hayes blinked up at him. “I come?”

Joe hesitated, eyes flicking to you for backup.

“Hayes, baby, Daddy’s gonna work out,” you explained, smoothing down his curls. “You can stay with me and help make lunch.”

Hayes’ lip poked out immediately. “No, wanna go.”

Joe rubbed his jaw, looking torn. “It’s just gonna be boring, buddy. Nothin’ fun to do.”

“Wanna go,” Hayes repeated stubbornly, already reaching for Joe’s hand.

Joe exhaled, looking at you like what do I do?

You smiled. “Your shadow has spoken.”

Joe groaned, but he was already picking Hayes up, adjusting him on his hip. “You’re a little too good at guilt-tripping me, kid.”

Hayes beamed, hugging his dad’s neck tight.

You just shook your head, watching them head out the door, Joe’s mini-me strapped to his side like he was never letting go.

The gym was quiet when Joe walked in, duffle bag slung over one shoulder and his mini shadow firmly attached to his other hip. Hayes had been chattering the whole car ride over, mostly about nothing—his latest obsession with trucks, how he saw a bird on the way here, how “Mommy said no more cookies but maybe Daddy says yes”—and now, as they stepped inside, he was taking everything in with wide, curious eyes.

Joe adjusted him slightly. “Alright, bud. We’re gonna be good in here, right?”

Hayes, completely unbothered, nodded. “Mhm.”

Joe wasn’t entirely convinced.

He set Hayes down carefully, watching as his little legs wobbled before standing firm. The second his sneakers touched the floor, his hands immediately found Joe’s sweatpants, gripping onto the fabric like an anchor.

Joe sighed, amused. “You know you can stand by yourself, right?”

Hayes ignored that, choosing instead to wrap his arms around Joe’s leg like a koala.

“Guess that answers that,” Joe muttered.

Still, he couldn’t be mad. If anything, it was endearing—how Hayes wanted to be wherever he was, doing whatever he was doing. Joe had always known he’d love being a dad, but nothing could have prepared him for this, for the way his heart squeezed every time Hayes reached for him, every time those tiny arms clung to him like he was the safest place in the world.

It wasn’t even just today. Hayes was always like this.

When Joe tied his shoes, Hayes sat next to him and “helped.” When Joe grabbed a towel, Hayes grabbed one too—except his was way too big, dragging across the gym floor like a cape.

And when Joe finally started warming up, stretching his arms overhead, Hayes immediately copied him, huffing like it was a serious workout.

Joe grinned. “You getting big and strong?”

Hayes nodded dramatically. “Like you, Daddy.”

Joe felt that one in his chest.

He crouched down, pressing a kiss to Hayes’ curls. “That’s my boy.”

It didn’t take long before Hayes wanted in on everything.

Joe had just started lifting when Hayes trotted over, hands on his hips like a tiny personal trainer.

“What doin’?”

Joe exhaled through a rep. “Working out, bud.”

Hayes tilted his head. “Me too.”

Joe, still holding the dumbbells, raised a brow. “Oh yeah?”

Hayes nodded eagerly and immediately bent his knees, attempting a squat. He was so tiny, so determined, that Joe couldn’t hold back his chuckle.

“Looking good, big man.”

Hayes grinned, doing another wobbly squat before deciding that was enough. Instead, he wandered over to Joe’s water bottle and picked it up like that was his workout, struggling under the weight of it before plopping down on the bench beside Joe.

“Hard work,” he huffed, unscrewing the cap in the messiest way possible.

Joe laughed. “Tell me about it.”

For the next thirty minutes, this was how it went—Joe doing an actual workout, Hayes doing his toddler version, mimicking his every move. He climbed onto the bench and laid on his back when Joe did. He furrowed his little brows in concentration when Joe lifted weights, pretending to do the same with a much-too-big resistance band.

It was a disaster. And it was adorable.

Joe tried to get through his routine, but Hayes wasn’t making it easy.

At one point, when Joe laid down to do sit-ups, Hayes immediately saw it as an opportunity. Before Joe even knew what was happening, he had a giggling toddler clambering onto his stomach, settling on his chest like it was his own personal seat.

Joe huffed, hands going to Hayes’ sides. “You’re making this real difficult, bud.”

Hayes, completely unbothered, patted Joe’s cheeks. “Go, Daddy.”

Joe groaned, but really, he was just trying not to laugh.

Still, he wasn’t about to let his two-year-old think he couldn’t do it.

So, with a dramatic exhale, Joe powered through a sit-up—Hayes still firmly planted on his chest.

“See that?” Joe panted, grinning. “Didn’t even stop me.”

Hayes gasped like it was the most impressive thing he’d ever seen, then immediately demanded, “More!”

Joe groaned again, but this time, he was laughing.

By the time they got home, Hayes was exhausted from his own mini workout. He was half-asleep against Joe’s shoulder, thumb tucked into his mouth, curls damp with sweat from all the excitement.

Joe pressed a kiss to his forehead as he carried him inside.

You were in the kitchen when they walked in, glancing up from where you were chopping vegetables. You took one look at them—Joe’s disheveled hair, Hayes’ sleepy snuggles—and smirked.

“How was the gym?”

Joe exhaled. “Let’s just say I had a personal trainer.”

Your eyes flicked to Hayes, curled against his dad like a second limb, and softened. “Your little shadow gave you a hard time?”

Joe shook his head. “Nah.” His voice was warm, his fingers smoothing over Hayes’ back. “Wouldn’t change it for the world.”

[goldfades]

HES SO FUNNY UM WHAT LMAOOO

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hi sweetieeee, can I request u to look up grant nelson 🥰 he’s a basketball player from my university and he’s playing in the sweet sixteen rn I just think u might like him a little tiny bit hehe

GIRL YES<3 i see it hes super duper cutesy #lovehim

[goldfades]

Girlllll did you see this clip of book I swear he gets finer and finer by the second. 🫠🫠🫠🫠🫠

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZP82vugfX/

omfg i just threw up hes too fine to be walking around like that PLSSS

[goldfades]

PLEASEEE write about devin booker taking care of drunk reader at a party + after the party 🙏🏼🙏🏼

this might be my new fav concept... nba men taking care of reader when she's drunk<3

There was always an after.

After the lights dimmed, after the music lost its edge, after the laughter turned softer and the crowd started to thin. After the high of the night settled into something quieter, something heavier, something that clung to the air like the last note of a song still humming against the walls.

And for Devin, after looked a lot like this.

Standing in the lobby of the Four Seasons, a glass award still tucked under his arm from the NBA Players Association Awards—one of those league events that was equal parts networking and celebration—and you, draped against his side, barefoot, because your heels were dangling from his fingers.

“You’re gonna regret this tomorrow,” he murmured, watching as you swayed slightly, blinking up at him like he had just spoken another language.

You let out a slow exhale, eyes half-lidded with sleepiness, head tilting lazily against his shoulder. “Regret what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely at you, at the undone straps of your dress, the way your jewelry was tangled against your skin, the way your lipstick was slightly smudged from too many cocktails sipped too quickly.

You made a face. “I’m fine.”

“You’re drunk.”

You considered that, pursing your lips before nodding. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Devin sighed, adjusting his hold on you as you leaned into him, the warmth of your body pressing against his side. He could feel your heartbeat—steady, slow, a little sleepy.

“You had fun, though,” he pointed out, because even though he knew you were about thirty seconds away from passing out, there was still a lazy grin playing at your lips.

“So much fun,” you confirmed, looping your arms around his waist as if you were about to just take a nap right there in the middle of the lobby.

Devin huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, come on.”

He adjusted his grip on you, slipping an arm beneath your legs before you could protest, scooping you up effortlessly.

You gasped, then burst into a sleepy giggle. “Devin!”

“What?” he said, already heading toward the elevator, still carrying your heels in one hand while holding you steady with the other.

“You did not have to carry me.”

“Tell that to the people who would’ve had to watch you trip all the way up to our room.”

You pouted, resting your cheek against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut for a moment. “You’re annoying.”

“And you’re lucky I like you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you murmured, voice softer now, sleep tugging at the edges. “I know.”

And Devin just shook his head, pressing the elevator button, knowing full well you wouldn’t even remember half of this by morning.

But that was fine.

Because there was always an after—and for him, it looked a lot like making sure you never had to worry about a thing.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and Devin stepped inside, shifting you slightly in his arms to hit the button for your floor. You made a small noise of protest at the movement, tucking yourself deeper against his chest like he was your personal pillow.

“I can walk, you know,” you mumbled, though you made absolutely no effort to leave his hold.

Devin scoffed, adjusting his grip on your legs. “Yeah? You sure about that?”

You hummed, lifting your head just enough to give him a look—or at least, you tried to. It was more of a sleepy, unfocused blink that made him smirk.

“I mean it, Book,” you huffed. “I’m perfectly capable of—”

Right as you started to shift, one of your hands slipping from his shoulder, Devin let you down just a fraction so your toes touched the ground.

And instantly—instantly—your knees wobbled.

Before you could even think about face-planting onto the expensive marble tile, Devin caught you, one strong arm steadying your waist as you gasped dramatically.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, gripping his bicep for dear life.

“Exactly.” His voice was smug. “And you were saying?”

“…Nothing,” you muttered, dropping your forehead against his shoulder in defeat.

Devin chuckled, shaking his head before effortlessly lifting you back into his arms. “That’s what I thought.”

The elevator started to move, the soft hum of the machinery the only sound filling the space for a moment. You let out a small sigh, curling into him like you had fully accepted your fate.

“I think I had, like, six margaritas.”

Devin raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, no shit.”

“Like really good margaritas,” you continued, completely ignoring him. “Like, the kind that taste like juice, but then bam—they hit you.”

Devin smirked. “They did hit you.”

You frowned slightly, tracing a lazy pattern against his chest with one finger. “Wait… what event was this again?”

He snorted. “You’re kidding.”

“I swear I knew earlier,” you insisted, lifting your head to look at him again. “But then—margaritas.”

Devin shook his head, amused. “NBA Players Association Awards.”

Your mouth formed an oh, like the memory was slooowly filtering back in. “Did you win something?”

He gave you a look. “You were literally there when I accepted it.”

“Yeah, but—” You squinted at him. “Was I drunk at that point?”

“…Fair point.”

You hummed, pleased with yourself. “What was the award?”

Devin sighed. “Most Respected Player.”

Your lips stretched into a lazy grin. “Oh, so you’re like, nice and stuff?”

He rolled his eyes. “Something like that.”

“Wouldn’t know it from the way you just dragged me for almost falling.”

Devin chuckled. “You did almost wipe out.”

You gasped. “Wow. No sympathy? At all?”

“None.”

You pouted dramatically before sighing, your body going limp again as you nestled back into him. “S’okay. I forgive you.”

Devin fought back a smile. “Appreciate that.”

The elevator dinged as it reached your floor, and Devin carried you out, adjusting his grip on your heels so he could grab the key card from his pocket.

“You’re very strong, you know that?”

Devin chuckled. “I hope so.”

“Like… you’re carrying me like I weigh nothing.”

“You don’t.”

“But you make it seem like I do,” you continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Like, what if I just stayed here forever? What if I refused to get down?”

He swiped the key card, the green light blinking as the door clicked open. “Guess I’d be stuck with you.”

You gasped, dramatically clutching your chest. “Would that be so bad?”

Devin smirked as he stepped inside, kicking the door shut behind him. “That depends. Are you gonna complain the whole time?”

You let out a soft tsk, shaking your head. “No faith in me at all.”

He walked over to the bed, finally setting you down gently against the mattress. You immediately sprawled out, stretching your arms above your head with a deep sigh.

“This bed feels amazing,” you mumbled, eyes already drifting shut.

Devin rolled his eyes, crouching down in front of you to undo the straps of your dress heels. “I should make you sleep in these just to teach you a lesson.”

“You would not,” you said, horrified.

He slid one off, then the other, tossing them aside before resting his elbows on his knees, looking up at you. “No, but I should.”

You stuck your tongue out at him.

Devin just smirked, reaching over to grab a bottle of water from the nightstand before nudging your arm with it. “Here.”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face into the comforter. “Don’t want water.”

He rolled his eyes. “Well, you need water.”

You peeked at him from under your arm. “How do you know?”

“Because you had six margaritas.”

You squinted. “Five.”

Devin raised an eyebrow.

“…Maybe six.”

“Exactly.” He unscrewed the cap, pressing it into your hand. “Drink.”

You sighed, pushing yourself up into a sitting position before taking a long sip, making a bleh face as you swallowed.

Devin chuckled. “Drama queen.”

You ignored him, finishing the bottle before setting it down with a satisfied hum.

Then, suddenly, your eyes widened slightly.

“What?” Devin asked, noting the way you seemed… alarmed.

You reached out, gripping the front of his shirt. “Did I embarrass you?”

Devin blinked. “What?”

“Tonight,” you rushed out, tugging at his shirt like it was very important that he answer this right now. “Did I embarrass you?”

Devin stared at you, momentarily thrown by how serious you looked.

“No,” he said finally.

Your lips pressed together. “You hesitated.”

He let out a quiet laugh. “I didn’t hesitate.”

“You so did.”

Devin shook his head. “You were fine.”

Your grip on his shirt tightened. “Be honest, Devin.”

“I am,” he said, fighting a smile. “You were tipsy, yeah, but you weren’t that bad.”

You searched his face, eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“…Maybe.”

Devin chuckled, leaning in slightly. “If it makes you feel better, I think drunk you is kinda cute.”

You gasped, scandalized. “I am not cute right now.”

He smirked. “You definitely are.”

You flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “This is a disaster.”

Devin just shook his head, moving to grab a makeup wipe from the bathroom. “Come here.”

You peeked up at him, eyes wary. “For what?”

“Your makeup.”

You scrunched your nose. “I’ll do it in the morning.”

“You’ll regret that in the morning.”

You groaned again, sitting up and letting him gently wipe away the smudged remnants of your mascara.

As he worked, you studied his face, your expression softer now, like the exhaustion was finally settling in.

“Thanks, Dev.”

Devin glanced at you. “For what?”

You shrugged. “Taking care of me.”

He smirked, tossing the wipe in the trash before brushing his fingers lightly against your jaw.

“Always.”

And with that, he pulled the blanket over you, watching as you curled into the pillow, finally letting sleep pull you under.

And as he settled in beside you, feeling the warmth of your body against his, he realized—there were worse ways to end a night.