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I love you. It was the first time Phoebe had heard those words from Foster without them being tinged in pain or panic. It was how she had always wanted to hear him say it, and she barely had time to exhale a breath of relief when his mouth found hers, found their way home to each other.

She broke apart, only to murmur out “I love you so much,” before smashing their lips together once more. The grip on his shoulders tightened, pressing against him as if she could somehow morph the two of them together. It was like a piece of her felt complete, finally, the hole that had been ever growing in her heart since that dreadful September day closing.

Breaking apart once more — gasping for air despite the ironic feeling that Foster was her oxygen — Phoebe dropped her hands from his shoulders, only to grab his hand, gently tugging at it. Her senses had been numbed during the kiss, but the lights, chatter and live music had hit her now, making her painfully aware they weren’t alone. “I think we should head upstairs, go back to our room.” She suggested, breathless and desperate.

His heart swooped. His stomach clenched. And if one day, he looked back on this moment and thought this was where it all went wrong, he didn't think he'd have any regrets. He could take whatever came, so long as it meant he got to have her. To hold her. To love her. To be consumed by it.

But maybe, he thought as hope fluttered in his chest, this was just the beginning. I can't go another second without you, please. And just like that, something inside him cracked wide open. "I love you. I love you so fucking much." And then, for the first time, he got to seal those words with a kiss.

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For an aspiring writer, here at an event for her craft, it was ironic that words seemed to fail her at this moment. Oh, how she wished she could bottle up the feeling of how Foster made her feel and somehow translate it into a coherent sentence. Or, better yet, transfer it straight to him, be able to show him the Matty Foster from Phoebe Yates’ perspective. The man he refused to see himself as.

But now wasn’t the time to even attempt to wax lyrical about how he deserved her, even if she could — even if the crowd of writers surrounding them, all but faded into the background, could help her out — but rather the time to make her stance clear as day once and for all. “This is what I want. You’re who I want.” She assured, fingers gripping his shoulders as if he’d disappear into the ether at her repeated confession. “I can’t go another second without you, please.”

What was he waiting for? Foster asked himself for what felt like the millionth time. What would be the moment when he knew he was finally ready? When would he decide that he had suffered long enough? He still felt so new to love, like he was learning how to coexist with it, making sacrifices at its altar as if that would convince it to stay. But Phoebe... Phoebe wasn't fickle the way Foster had always assumed that love would be. She was steadfast, and by some miracle, she had decided she wanted him. What was waiting doing other than giving her a chance to change her mind?

"I'll never do enough to deserve you," he said, the world shrunken down to just the two of them. It was a fact, an inevitability. The sun rose, and rain fell, and Phoebe Yates would always deserve better. But she deserved a choice, too. Tonight, he was tired of making it for her. "But if you say this is what you want — that I'm what you want... I can't say I understand it, but I'm not strong enough to keep denying you." So ask him one more time; ask him like his fate wasn't already sealed...

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NEW GIRL (2011-2018) 2.13 | A Father's Love

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Phoebe may have forgiven too easily, but Foster was always too hard on himself. The past was the past, and they both had learned from it. Both had been willing to move on, but it was hard  when he seemed stuck at the crossroads, unable to put one foot forward towards a better future. 

Still, she was patient, and ready to guide him through it. “It will be,” She agreed, shaking her head at his apology. “Don’t…you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Not now, it’s all water under the bridge.” The swaying slowed to a stop, the song changing yet again, though Phoebe had no desire to continue, though she didn’t step from where she was pressed up against him either. “I just want us to have a nice night, I just want us to be…us again. Can we have that, please?”

This was all so... backwards. Why were they doing this? Why was he fighting so hard for them stay apart? He loved her. He wanted to be with her. This wasn't just one night, or some ill-defined thing; this was forever, in his eyes — what else was there to wait for?

It had always right — right up until it went so terribly wrong...

And there it was: the thing still holding him back. Him still holding them back. He had pierced their happy bubble and nearly cost them everything. His brow furrowed, his eyes turning stormy with self-hatred. "It will be this time," he nodded, something slightly desperate in his tone. Like he was trying to convince her, when really he needed to convince himself. She had given her forgiveness too easily, but that didn't mean he wouldn't stop trying to earn it. "I promise. Phoebe, I'm so sorry..."

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Sam Claflin in The Count of Monte Cristo (Episode 5)

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Throughout their first attempt at their relationship, it had simply been too tumultuous for them to really have fun. Sure, Phoebe enjoyed Foster’s company and they had laughed and shared tender moments, but it had all been eclipsed by secrets and doubt. His ex-wife, her mom, their individual childhood traumas. So now, without the pressure of having to be the perfect partner, it was bittersweet that they were having a good time.

At first, Phoebe thought maybe she had overstepped with the hand placement. The champagne was clouding her judgment slightly, but then he tightened his grip and she automatically closed the minimal distance between them, shaking her head at what he said. “No, it’s…right.” Came her counter-argument. “It always feels right with you.”

Foster surprised himself with just how much fun he could have dancing, how the upbeat tempo of the song and their competitively silly sense of one-upsmanship meant they were more focused on making each other laugh than worrying over how they'd hurt each other. He had no goal other than to make Phoebe smile, and after causing her so many tears, it felt good to be successful. The idea of 'just one dance' quickly went out the window, only for a sense of panic to set back in as the music slowed.

He looked towards the exit as Phoebe grabbed his hands and placed them on her waist, eyes wide as they landed back on her to find her smiling coyly. His heart ached; how long had it been since she looked at him like that? Foster felt himself melting, felt something deep inside him begin to thaw, and no matter how bad of an idea he knew this was, he also knew he couldn't resist her. "It's dangerous," he corrected, even as his hands gripped her tighter. Right now he couldn't remember why, but he knew there had been a reason...

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Jumping up with excitement, Phoebe almost stumbled over her own feet as she grabbed Foster’s hand and made their way to the dance floor. She tried to quell her nerves, reminding herself that this was what friends did. After all — how many drunken kitchen discos did she have with Seb over the years?

The music was loud and rhythmic, and it was nice to just lose themselves in a room full of strangers. To have a little fun and think of nothing but doing silly twirls and not tripping over.

However, the music began to slow and a few people made a swift exit of the dancefloor, though a few others clutched at their dance partners, dramatically swaying in time to the crooning of the band. Phoebe — really testing the boundaries now — placed Foster's hands on her waist, before resting her own on his shoulders, rocking a bit clumsily.

"It's a shame we never got to dance much...before." She remarked, looking around the room at the other dancers, back to Foster with a coy smile. "It's nice." Which was the most simple she could dictate this moment, surrounded by so much past drama the two shared. Nice wrapped the current events playing out before them in a neat little bow, like nothing else mattered.

And maybe, even just for tonight, nothing else did.

When she placed her hand on top of his, he told himself that she was just nervous, that she needed assurance and something to ground her on a night she had long been anticipating. And when she kept it there for the rest of the speeches, well... it was easy enough to pretend he'd just forgotten, that her skin wasn't a constant simmering heat burning in the back of his mind.

He reminded himself that this was just the first of many events they'd attend like this in the future; and while they were only friends now, it wouldn't always be this way. This was a pit stop, a temporary roadblock, and he could survive setting these boundaries because they wouldn't be forever.

But fuck if the promise of the future didn't make him want to rush into it now...

She had made this happen. And sure, he had believed in her, but only because she made it easy. This was the first, but it wouldn't be the last. And maybe it was just the champagne talking, but the inevitability of it all hit him like a ton of bricks. She was his future. And on a night that was celebrating the promise of tomorrow, maybe they deserved to live in it just a little bit...

One dance. He could do one dance and still keep his dignity. Rather than answer, he stood up, fixing her with a smirk as he offered out his hand.

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NEW GIRL (2011-2018) 2x16: Table 34

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#Elmo's so real

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Maia 🥰

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Oh no, this was dangerous. Phoebe was close enough that she could smell Foster’s natural scent underneath the blanket of his aftershave, and the feeling of his hand on her thigh was warm and eclipsing all her other senses. She knew the best course of action was to retreat, to pull away and firmly set the lines of their individual personal space. But she couldn’t quite find herself willing to, placing her arm on her shoulder so she didn’t stumble from leaning too far forward. And, in a move of sporadic boldness, placed her other hand on top of where Foster’s rested on her thigh before he could pull away.

Fuck it. No rules tonight.

“I never thought it’d lead to this,” She admitted, glancing around, the other people at their table engrossed in the current speech. “I just…no one believed in me until you came along, and when my ultimately successful book series becomes a movie franchise, I’ll give you a cut of the profits.” It was easier to make a joke out of it, because pure sentimentality had always been difficult for Phoebe to navigate. That if she was earnest, it’d come back to bite her. 

The last of the speeches were wrapping up, and she was truly glad she hadn’t needed to go on stage, feeling wobbly from the copious glasses of champagne and Foster’s hand on her thigh like it was home there. The band began to play, lively music filling up the vast space, and a few people braving the otherwise sparse area that made the dance floor.

“Wanna dance?” She asked, pulling away to hold out her hand, a mischievous grin on her face. “Put all these old writers to shame with your killer moves?”

The food wasn't great, but the alcohol was free and Foster loved watching Phoebe emerge from her shell, the way she utterly charmed everyone at their table the way she once had with him. He wasn't here as the proud boyfriend — he didn't get to put his hand on the small of her back as they walked around the banquet hall, didn't get to pull her seat out for her as they sat down for the dinner — but he was still proud to be the person by her side, proud in a way he thought ought to be obvious to anyone who saw him looking at her. He adored her. He worshiped her. And in a room full of people all becoming Phoebe Yates fans, he would always be the first and the one who loved her hardest.

He wasn't the boyfriend, but he played the well practiced role of making her shine, acting as her quiet counterpart, the gentle nudge when she was being too modest. Whatever label they were currently operating with didn't change what was underneath: that he loved her, that she was brilliant, and that everyone deserved to know it.

Once the speeches started and conversation came to hushed whispers, Foster had lost even that purpose, and didn't have anything to occupy him but the champagne still being passed around. Nothing too crazy, just a couple glasses to dim out the drone, taking his social cues from everyone around him when he needed to laugh or clap.

Phoebe leaning over was a welcome reprieve, and after most of the night spent watching her shine her attentions on the group at large, to now be her sole focus was a bit like being starstruck. "Of course," he nodded, hand instinctively patting her thigh and he was forced to play it off as a friendly gesture. "Thank you for inviting me. I wouldn't have missed it. This... you're really making it happen." At least it looked that way to him, to whom this world was horribly foreign. But thinking back to that sick day in Phoebe's bed, not knowing where to start — it was incredible.

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It does look like it could have been the wind, and if Phoebe can keep the lie up, there's no reason for her to get in trouble. Only if she can hold it together, and not crumble at the first query regarding the lights.

She'd not do well in an interrogation. She'd fold quicker than a house of cards.

"I'm sure there's some sort of functional ladder somewhere!" It's taken Phoebe a little while and a lot of work to accept help without the unwanted guilt attaching itself like some sort of garish ribbon, and though there are times she's faltered, she can't help but be proud of the progress she has made all the same, surprised that her stomach doesn't even twist at Theo's suggestion. "Oh really? Where are you now?" It's nice to hear snippets of Theo's life since they last crossed paths, figuring now was as good a time as any to catch up.

She's busying tasking herself with locating the whereabouts of this ladder that's currently the solution to her Phoebe-caused problem that she realizes she's forgotten to answer Theo's two questions entirely, offering the woman a bashful smile. "I...uh —," Time to have all the therapy techinques shine, "If it's not too much trouble. I really don't want someone to go out of their way for some stupid lights. And uh, yeah, Aluma Lake is...well, no place I'd rather be."

It’s hard not to notice Phoebe’s immediate reaction to the lights debacle — her eyes turn glassy, guilt written plain as day on her expression. Theo, despite her excellent track record when it comes to destroying people in her previous line of work, is not immune to a sad disposition. Especially when there’s something familiar in Phoebe’s guilt, unwarranted or not. Theodora likes to say she herself walks around with guilt as an accessory, showing it off in the most inappropriate moments.

Theo glances at the lights as Phoebe laments their state, shaking her head in what she hopes is a comforting gesture. “No, they don’t — it looks like it could’ve been the wind,” she assures Phoebe. She eyes the step stool Phoebe kicks with a small smile, taking the couple of steps necessary toward it and leaning down to set it upright once again. She eyes the lights from where she stands — she could probably get a good vantage point if she steps on, she muses. She’s got the height advantage on Phoebe, plus the heels of her boots, though she’s not sure it’s a great idea to test how well those will fare on such a flimsy-looking stool. 

She glances back just as Phoebe opens the door to the shop and offers her entrance. “If you have a ladder in the backroom, I’m sure we can at least set them right again,” she offers. She’s pulling her phone out as she walks past Phoebe and inside the shop, appreciating the immediate warmth that washes over her. “Or I can have my girlfriend bring us a string of new ones to replace them all while we’re at it,” she mutters, pulling up Marion’s text thread. “We have so many unused ones at our place,” she explains, typing out a message to her before receiving the go-ahead. She glances up at Phoebe with a small smile. “Downsized,” she explains, probably unnecessarily.

It has been a while, Theo thinks. Doesn’t send the message just yet — in case Phoebe doesn’t take the helping hand offered out to her. She tends to do that, Theo remembers. “Fantastic,” she tells her. And, for once, it’s the truth. “And you? Aluma Lake treating you alright, still?”

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Sam Claflin as Edmond Dantes

The Count of Monte Cristo TV Series (2024)

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Truthfully, Roman thinks visits to the physio are moot. There’s not enough exercises in the world that would make his hand miraculously work at this point. So, unless he was being surprised with a scalpel and a surgeon with in-depth nerve knowledge, it’s all a waste of time in his humble opinion. But, he understands that, in the wake of his upcoming surgery, they have boxes to check and this just happens to be one of them.

So, he checks in, doesn’t really smile at the receptionist (and really, who does he even smile at these days?) and sits in the furthest corner, hoping to exude the energy that translates to: do not fucking come near me. 

It works for the first twenty minutes he’s sat there, checking his phone, half-heartedly following the tirade of texts from the employees of the store, rolling his eyes every so often as if they could see his live reaction. He contemplates replying to something — a genuine question buried beneath all the nonsense — but is distracted when someone else in the waiting room seems to be making a point of expressing discomfort by sitting beside him. Glancing up to do a cursory check of the room, he huffs in annoyance at how quickly it’s filled up, and is about to snap at the stranger that they can sit down without making it a thing when he stops in his tracks.

Once upon a time, he would have considered himself close with the Falvey family. Elijah’s parents were kind and welcoming to the bandmates, and for someone who was far from home, Roman enjoyed feeling part of a family both similar and completely different from his own. He didn’t know Reggie that well, but he was as civil to him as Roman was to everyone (which, some would argue, was not that civil) on the rare occasions their paths had crossed.

He wasn’t aware he was back in Aluma Lake. God knows what he’s doing in the small, cramped physio office. “It’s a visit to a doctor, not a lion’s den. You don’t need to be so tense.” He drawls, eyes once more dropping to his phone screen, instead of the standard ‘hello, how have you been? My, it’s been a while!’.

— REGGIE + ROMAN, Aluma Lake’s physical therapy office. / @lcvesnvrlcst.

If anyone’s asking Reggie what he dislikes the most about living at home, his answer is easily the lack of independence. Going from country to country at the drop of a hat to shackled in the small, tourist town he spent his teens in is hard enough, never mind the fact that he feels as though he can’t do anything without his parents’ approval first. In truth, he just finds it to be a bit humiliating — asking permission for his every move like he’s a little kid again, getting carted around town and dropped off at appointment after appointment like it’s his first day of school. Half the time he has to physically stop himself from turning around with an overly dramatic wave once he gets out of the car with his crutches, just for the bit.   He knows, objectively, that it’s not their fault though — they’re just looking out for him however they know how, and they’ve got way too much damn time on their hands to do so — but still, he would appreciate if they stop looking so forlorn when he tells them he’s fine to wait in the lobby by himself. As much as they may believe he’s mentally regressed in the terrible year he’s had, he’s still decidedly not a child. He doesn’t need to be babied.  Besides, it’s not like he’s unfamiliar with the physical therapist’s office by any means. With how often he’s been, they’re practically his best friends.   His point’s all but proven as he’s greeted by name when he makes his way to the receptionist’s desk, and he responds in kind with a friendly smile. The interaction’s short and pleasant as he checks in, and he’s told to find a seat before the doctor’s ready for him. He turns around to find a jam-packed lobby, and from here he’s got a choice: he can sit beside a couple on the couch clearly having a hushed argument of sorts underneath their breath, or he can sit on the complete opposite side of them beside—  Roman. He’s paralyzed for a moment in indecision, both options completely undesirable to him for a multitude of reasons, but as someone else says ‘excuse me’ and brushes past to pick their own poison, the choice is taken from him and the seat beside his brother’s old bandmate is the only one left. Great, he thinks to himself — or maybe he’s said it out loud? He can feel the other’s eyes on him regardless as he lowers into the uncomfortably cushioned chair and sucks a breath in through his teeth when his leg feels uncomfortably stiff.

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BRONWYN  ROJAS  &  NATE  MACAULEY   S02E04 ;  one  of  us  is  lying

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Phoebe's stomach was churning, nerves hard to control. Not just because she was worried about fucking up her professional career as she networked with a bunch of people who could basically decide how far in the writing industry she'd go, but because she didn't know how many lines she was crossing with Foster being here with her. It all felt inappropriate to a degree, and she had an odd sense of déjà vu as she opened the door and locked eyes with him waiting in the hall.

Mind reeling over what Foster was going to say before he cut himself off — a compliment? Or a comment that she was too dressed up? — she just offered a stiff nod instead, and gestured towards the elevators, unecessarily clutching her purse with both hands to stop herself doing something stupid like reaching out to hold his.

Despite feeling rigid as they entered the ballroom, it didn't take long for Phoebe to unwind somewhat. There was a complimentary glass of champagne handed to them as they came downstairs, the food served was edible, everyone at their table was warm and welcoming to the two of them, and nobody had made assuming comments about their relationship as they sat, which had been one of her bigger worries they'd be dedicating time explaining their complicated status.

(And it helped, somewhat, when she discovered the bar was an open bar indeed).

"This actually isn't as half as bad as I thought it'd be." She leaned over to speak low to Foster in between one of the speeches, alcohol clouding her judgement and whether or not this crossed their strict boundary lines. "Thank you, again, for coming with me. I, like, really meant it when I said there's no one else I'd rather have sat by me for this, and I know it's not your thing at all, but it'll be over soon!" She assured. "I think it's just like two more, then they have a band playing if people want to dance and then it's a wrap."

It didn't take long for Foster to get ready, just a matter of changing into his trousers and button down, and shrugging on his suit jacket. He had never worn a tie in any situation if he could help it, and his shoes were nothing more than his least beat-up pair of sneakers. He wasn't the focus tonight, after all, and — as he had to consistently remind himself — this definitely wasn't a date. He ran a hand through his curls to make them at least somewhat presentable, and decided it was the best he could do. The best he would do, more like, because any more effort would only further muddy the waters. Grabbing his phone, his cigarettes, and his room key, he called to Phoebe that he'd meet her out there and left.

He busied himself with his phone while he waited, something to keep his hands still otherwise they'd be fidgeting out of control. This is a bad fucking idea, he was texting Theo when he heard the hotel room door open.

He looked up, and his mouth went dry. She was as beautiful as ever, but what he hadn't expected was the way he was instantly transported back to an evening not too long ago, knocking on the door of what was then their apartment with flowers in his hand, ready to take her on their first date. Leaning forward to kiss her was instinct, and instead he tripped a little over his feet. "Uh, yeah," he nodded. "You look-" No. "Sorry, lead the way..."