#Mr Turner | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

goblinontour · 2 months ago

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Mr. And Mrs.

the christmas special

part 12 | series masterlist

warnings: prof!al, age gap (not specified), fluff, sweet angst, sweet fucking, slight breeding kink, he’s so sweet

word count: 15.3k

It’s midday. The kind of winter afternoon that carries a reluctant warmth — softened edges to the cold, the sort that brushes your face, that lingers in liminality — not as bitter as yesterday, but not quite merciful either. The cold doesn’t slice into the small slivers of exposed skin as sharply as it could, as it has before. It’s the kind of cold that reminds you you’re alive. Even so, the air has its bite. You pull your coat tighter, tugging at the scarf knotted loosely at your throat.

The city feels unfamiliar in this corner, like you’ve stumbled into a forgotten painting, smudged and yellowed, a place you’ve walked past in another life but never truly stepped into. It’s quieter here, less bustling, less preened. The buildings around you, though worn, seem watchful. Hunched together, as if conspiring against the passage of time.

You glance to your left, attention snagged by a squat, unassuming structure. Its exterior tells a tale — peeling paint, frost-speckled windows. It’s tucked between other larger, newer ones, looking almost out of place but not quite enough to feel wrong. You pause, narrowing your eyes.

The building is modest. Only the ground floor and one upper storey stacked on top, as though the architect had no more to give. The shop window is smudged, a foggy pane of glass that resists reflection. Beside it, the door is plain, framed in chipped wood. Above it, some faded lettering struggles against the years. The words aren’t meant to be read from this distance. Their strokes are weary, edges blunted by time. But still, you tilt your head, trying to piece them together, wondering what kind of place it might be.

A hat interrupts the view — a man’s, brim low, crown rounded. Standing in the doorway, it shades the lettering just so, as though deliberately concealing what little clarity it might offer. But you imagine the letters are tired, the kind of font that’s seen decades without a care for reinvention.

If you keep walking, you’ll move past it, slipping into the more polished familiarity of the café next door, its entrance angled slightly outward as if inviting you in. Your gaze drifts upward. Beyond that, two wiry trees dusted with frost extend crooked fingers toward a cloudless sky. The light is harsh now, unforgiving in its sharpness. You know it won’t last — it never does. Soon enough, this blue will yield to black, swallowing the city in its winter embrace before you’ve had a chance to notice it fading.

“Oh, that woman gets on my nerves.” The harsh voice of hat-man cracks the brittle quiet. He says it loudly, enough as though the whole street should hear him. And his voice is sharp, cutting across the stillness of the afternoon. His words linger, landing uncomfortably in the air. There’s a woman following him, hurrying to catch up — a quick glance tells you she’s his wife, though the tension between them pulls tight in the space they share. The coat she wears is wrapped tight around her frame, but her expression reveals nothing. Is he talking about her? You can’t tell. A brief pang of sympathy rises, unbidden.

Through the glass, you glimpse someone else — another woman, left behind at the till. She rubs her temples, her shoulders curling inward as though she’s bracing against something. The motion is unmistakable, the gesture of someone wound too tightly. Even through the dusty glass, even with the distance between you, the tension in her body is palpable. You wonder what the man had said to her before stepping outside.

The thought pulls you out of yourself, and you murmur without thinking, “I wanna go in there.”

Your voice breaks the silence between you and him. It catches Alex off guard.

He’s been beside you all this time, his hand searching for yours, his fingers awkward over the thick wool. He tries for a better grip, one that feels intimate even through the layers. He’s been preoccupied, you realise — focused on the way the cold dulls touch, the way the gloves feel like a barrier he can’t quite breach.

He glances toward the building you’ve indicated. “There?” he asks, his voice a soft echo of your own, head tilting ever so slightly as he looks back at you.

You nod, though your own reasoning feels instinctive rather than deliberate. You’re not even sure why, not entirely.

He hesitates, the faintest frown touching his brow. “I’m tired of stores, honey.” he says, his voice a gentle protest but firm enough to suggest he’d rather not. But you know him well enough to catch it. Still, a small opening where you might nudge him.

You don’t hesitate. “We could get something for Penny.” you say, almost casually, though you’ve chosen the words carefully, the name landing like a quiet persuasion. “Maybe your Dad too.”

You don’t look at him as you say it, keeping your eyes on the shop. You don’t need to look to know it’s enough. It’s not just logic. It’s strategy. He wouldn’t say no to his mother. He wouldn’t say no to family. Anything else might risk too much — his own goodness, his tenderness, his pride. He wouldn’t risk looking indifferent, even here, even now.

He exhales, the kind of breath that lingers in the cold. A small puff of surrender. “‘Kay.” he says at last, his voice softened, his resolve melting like the frost on the trees, his glove shifting again against yours as he lets himself be pulled toward the little shop.

The warmth is immediate and clinging. If you had glasses it would have fogged them up. It prickles your cheeks as you adjust. The smell is faint but unmistakable — dust mingled with something floral, faintly artificial, like potpourri that hasn’t been replaced in years. It makes the place feel older, almost stuck in time, though its shelves are crowded with objects trying their best to stay relevant.

Alex removes his hat almost absentmindedly. It’s somewhere between a beanie and one of those with a big pom-pom perched on top, except his has a small, modest poof, like a shy exclamation point. He’s never liked it. Too silly, he’s said, too boyish, not the kind of thing he’d choose on his own. But it keeps him warm, and more importantly, you like it, so he wears it without much protest. Things could be that simple sometimes.

Now hatless, his hair is in disarray, flattened and sticking up in unplanned directions. The strands curl at the ends, not quite long enough to be tamed by his usual attempts to smooth them down. You take in the rest of him — his coat half unbuttoned, revealing a shirt creased from wear, its collar slightly askew. There’s a quiet weariness about him, like someone pulled half out of sleep and still tethered to a dream. He yawns, a wide, unguarded motion that he doesn’t bother to suppress.

The woman at the till greets you with a polite smile, but Alex doesn’t respond. He’s too busy battling with his gloves again, tugging at the fingers like they’re conspiring against him. You glance at him with mock exasperation, leaning close enough to mutter, “Wake up, Alex.”

You weave your way between the shelves, which are tall and narrow, nearly brushing the ceiling. The aisles are tight enough to make the place feel more cramped than cozy, but there’s a comfort in it — something about being surrounded by so many little objects, all waiting to be chosen. You pause in one of the aisles, stopping at a shelf lined with small, decorative pieces. Alex, still yawning, shuffles to a stop beside you.

“These are cute, aren’t they?” you say, lifting one of the ceramic napkin holders into your hand.

He blinks at it, bleary-eyed. “What are-” he pauses for another yawn, turning his head slightly before finishing, “-those?”

“Napkin holders.” you say, inspecting the little ceramic shape. It’s painted with delicate flowers, the kind of design that’s charming at first glance but verges on tacky the longer you look at it. Alex barely glances at it. “Put your hand over your mouth.” you chide when he yawns again, and his lips twitch into a faint smile.

“Yes, yes.” he says, covering his mouth too late. “Shouldn’t be allowed. It’s dangerous.” His voice is teasing, but there’s a drowsy edge to it that takes the sharpness away. He smiles at you, the kind of smile he knows softens you even when you don’t want it to.

It almost works. Almost.

“I hadn’t realized…they are cute.” he says after a beat, his tone half-distracted. He yawns again, quickly covering his mouth this time. “Sorry, baby.”

“You’re dreaming.” you tell him, shifting the napkin holder in your hand.

He shakes his head lightly, a touch defiant. “But I’m wide awake.” He reaches for the ceramic piece, finally managing to grip something with his now-gloveless hands. His fingers brush against yours as he takes it, warm and sure.

You glance at him, eyebrow raised. “You know, awake or asleep, it’s the same thing with you.”

“Oh really?” He tilts his head, feigning thoughtfulness, and then smirks. “I was going to say I only think of you naked when I’m awake, but that’s not-”

“Alex!” you hiss, slapping his shoulder lightly.

The layers of your coats and sweaters make the gesture more symbolic than anything else, the force dulled to almost nothing. He grins, unrepentant, the mischief in his eyes breaking through his weariness for a moment.

“That’s not the point.” you say, trying to sound stern, though the corner of your mouth twitches dangerously close to a smile.

“But you just said…” He trails off, his grin widening. “I’m really tired. ‘S your fault I can’t think.” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that’s so absurdly him it breaks your resolve.

Okay, maybe it is your fault, but you were up all night too and you’re fine, aren’t you?

“You didn’t understand, Mr. Turner.” you say, trying to recover the thread of your thought. “There’s no difference between dreaming awake and dreaming asleep.”

He steps closer, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you gently back against him. His other hand, still holding the napkin holder, hangs loosely at his side. The ceramic piece suddenly feels laughably insignificant.

“I do dream.” he says softly, his voice brushing your ear. “Life’s a dream.” He pauses, just long enough to make you roll your eyes at his dramatics.

Then, quieter, closer: “Mrs. Turner.”

Your chest tightens, a warmth spreading from where his hands rest on your front. You smile despite yourself, though you try to hide it. You melt against him, though you tell yourself you shouldn’t.

Yes, you should. Yes, you do.

“If you think you’re being witty, you’re very much mistaken.” you tell him, voice clipped but with an edge that betrays you’re not entirely serious.

He doesn’t respond, just smirks in that half-sleepy, half-mischievous way that always seems to unnerve and amuse you all at once. You decide not to let him win this one, so you spin out of his grip in what you imagine might look like a graceful move. For a moment, it almost is — your coat flaring softly behind you, your movement fluid. Almost.

Then your shoulder catches the opposite shelf, halting your momentum with an awkward thud. Nothing falls, but the wobble of a few precariously placed trinkets makes you freeze. He raises a single brow, biting back what you’re sure would be a smug comment.

You ignore him, your gaze dropping to the cluttered shelf in front of you. A piece of decor — a ceramic plate painted with tiny, intricate flowers — catches your attention. You reach for it without thinking. His mother would like this, wouldn’t she? Something delicate and quiet, the kind of thing she’d know exactly where to place in her home.

Behind you, Alex whispers, his voice low and teasing. “You’re just being a bore…with-” He pauses, clearly searching for the word, “-with your stupid paradoxes.”

You glance over your shoulder, unimpressed. “We need to get them a gift.” you say, holding up the plate for him to see before putting it back down. “You’re incapable of talking seriously.”

Your look is pointed enough to make him stop in his tracks. For a brief moment, you imagine that if he had a tail, it would be tucked stiffly between his legs, shameful but still stubborn.

“Today, yes.” he concedes, though his voice is quiet, almost petulant. “Only today. Because of…because…” His words falter. You can practically see the gears in his head turning, trying to come up with something clever — or at least something that won’t offend you.

“Because what?” you challenge, tilting your head, already knowing he doesn’t have an answer.

His mouth opens slightly, then closes again. Finally, he gives up with a shrug, his hands rising in mock surrender.

“Today’s the same as any day.” you say, filling the silence as you reach for another object. This time, it’s a pair of little statues — matching figures that look vaguely like gnomes, though their features are less defined. You’re not entirely sure what they’re meant to represent. They’re oddly charming.

Alex leans in over your shoulder to inspect them, his breath warm against your cheek. He scoffs softly. You don’t need to look at him to know he’s raising that brow again.

You sigh and place the statues back on the shelf.

“Not quite as much.” he says, his tone faintly smug.

“Your witticisms are not very inspired.” you reply, your voice dry as you finally turn to face him.

“Neither are the gnomes.” he says, pointing at the shelf.

“They’re not gnomes.” you argue, folding your arms.

“They’re gnome-adjacent.” he counters, stepping closer with a slight smirk.

“Alex.”

“Alright, alright.” he says, holding his hands up as though to defend himself from the rising tension. Then he yawns again, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I can’t believe you’re this tired.” you say. “It’s not even three o’clock.”

“I’m not tired.” he insists, though the yawn he tries to stifle completely betrays him. He rubs the back of his neck, feigning thoughtfulness. “I’m just…thinking at a slower pace.”

You roll your eyes, pulling another small object from the shelf — a delicate, hand-painted ornament shaped like a bird. It feels light in your palm, fragile. You hold it up for him to see.

“Thoughts?” you ask.

He studies it for a second, then shrugs. “It’s alright.”

“‘Alright’ doesn’t cut it. This is for your mother.”

He smirks, leaning against the shelf behind him. “It’s nice. Lovely, even. You’re the expert.”

“You’re insufferable.” you mutter, turning the ornament over in your hands.

“And yet here we are.” he replies, stepping closer again. “I’ll stop being insufferable if you agree to get coffee after this.”

“Who said I’d get coffee with you?”

He feigns a look of deep hurt, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Mrs. Turner.”

“I can’t believe you think that still works.” you say, shaking your head.

“It does work.” he says, leaning in close enough that you can feel the warmth of him despite the layers between you. “Because you still get that little smile when I say it. Like you’re trying not to, but you can’t help it.”

“Alex-”

“Mrs. Turner.” he interrupts, whispering it softly, the words brushing the air between you.

You turn away quickly, trying to focus on the shelf, but he’s already grinning. He’s watching you, half-lidded eyes following the way your hand moves.

“I don’t like you making fun of me.”

Your voice cuts through the still air of the shop, sharper than you intended. Alex straightens slightly, his hat dangling loosely from one hand as he shifts his weight. He blinks at you, his brows knitting together in brief confusion. He wasn’t making fun of you — not really. At least, not intentionally. Not in the way you’re accusing him of. But your words land heavy anyway, like you’re testing some unseen boundary neither of you had anticipated crossing.

You don’t know where the attitude is coming from. Maybe it’s the weight of the day, the pressure of finding the right gifts, or even something as intangible as the light in this place — the way it presses in, dim and dusty, making everything feel a little off-kilter. Maybe some restless ghost buried in the walls of the shop has taken hold of you, whispering mischief into your ear. That’s less likely than the truth: you’re annoyed. His slight disinterest has pricked at you, and lashing out feels easier than confronting it.

Still, there’s a part of you that winces internally at your own sharpness. You know he doesn’t deserve it. But isn’t it better to be a little bit of a bitch, to feel like you’ve regained some ground, than to sit in the uneasy space of his half-suppressed yawns and detached commentary?

He feels a pang of guilt at the sharpness in your tone, even if he’s not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

“Making fun of you?” he echoes, his voice soft but edged with confusion. His hat — still clutched in one hand — drops briefly to his side before he presses it over his heart like some overblown poet, as though swearing allegiance. “But my dear,” he says, adopting a tone of mock sincerity, “I would never allow myself to-”

“You are allowing yourself,” you interrupt, cutting through his theatrics.

You spin around to face him, blinking. The light catches on the edge of your profile, illuminating the faintest frown pulling at your lips. He tilts his head slightly, studying you. His lips quirk slightly, not quite into a smile but close. He takes a step closer, moving out of the narrow aisle and into the small open space where the shelves converge. You follow without thinking. The objects around you seem to blur into a backdrop of muted colors and textures. All of it feels insignificant.

“Are we fighting?” he asks after a moment, his tone laced with quiet amusement rather than concern. He’s still looking at you with that half-drowsy expression that’s been driving you mad since you walked in here.

Something about the question — about the way he doesn’t take it seriously — makes your annoyance flare. It’s not that you want to fight him — God, no — but what if you did? What if you wanted to dig into the frustration and let it bloom into something loud and messy? Would he let you, or would he keep being this unbearably kind, unshakably soft version of himself? The idea that he’d brush you off so easily feels…infuriating.

“Ugh.” you mutter, turning sharply back to the shelf. The trinkets clink faintly as your movements disturb them.

“We are.” he concludes.

“Yes.” you say, exasperated.

He watches the tension in your shoulders for a beat, trying to determine how serious you are. Then he nods, his lips pressing together in mock solemnity. Finally.

“You’ll win.” he says, with a soft sigh.

Your head whips around, your eyes narrowing. “Why?”

“Because I’ll let you.” he replies simply, his voice so earnest it disarms you, so matter-of-fact it almost feels like an insult.

“Alex!”

“What?” he asks, his confusion genuine now. He blinks down at you like he truly doesn’t understand what he’s done wrong. His free hand brushes against your arm lightly, a hesitant touch meant to gauge whether he’s misstepped or if you’ll let him back in.

“You can’t just let me win.” you say, your voice tight but not as sharp as before.

“Why not?” His tone is calm, but there’s a faint edge of stubbornness creeping into it now. He’s tired — of this argument, of this shop, of the layers of cold and warmth and expectation piled onto the day. He rubs the back of his neck with the hand still clutching his hat, his hair ruffling slightly in the process.

“Because…” you start, but the words stall in your throat. Because what? You’re not even sure anymore. It’s something about how effortless he makes everything seem, about the way he sidesteps conflict with that easy charm of his, leaving you spinning your wheels. “Because!” you insist.

He sighs, his breath warming the air between you. He looks at you for a long moment, his eyes scanning your face with a tenderness that catches you off guard. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, steadier.

“But I love you.” he says, the words simple and unadorned, like a fact of nature. He leans in and presses a warm, fleeting kiss to your cheek.

The action jolts you out of your frustration. You refuse to let him see it. Still, his words linger, as warm as his touch.

He knows he’s broken through.

You want to stay annoyed. You want to hold onto the spark that made you lash out in the first place. But he makes it impossible. The fight — the one you weren’t even sure you wanted — deflates before it can properly take shape, leaving you standing there, your cheek still tingling from the press of his lips.

“You’re mad.” he says after a beat, his voice quiet. “Aren’t you?”

You glance at him. “Not mad.” you murmur.

“Annoyed?”

You nod, barely.

“Because of me?”

You turn your head, fixing him with a look that answers the question for him.

“Right.” he says, a faint, sheepish smile tugging at his lips.

You huff and step away, placing some bird ornament you didn’t even know when you picked up back on the shelf. With more care than you’d like to admit. Your fingers drift to another object. Alex watches the way you move, your hands, noting the deliberate precision in the way you touch. He steps closer, close enough that his chest almost brushes your back.

“I wasn’t making fun of you.” he says softly. “Not in the way you think.”

You don’t respond right away, but your shoulders relax ever so slightly.

“I mean it.” he continues, his hand brushing against yours as he reaches for the snow globe. His fingers close around it, and for a moment, the two of you are holding it together. “You know that, don’t you?”

“I don’t know.”

Alex lets the snow globe go, his hand moving to cover yours instead.

“Well,” he says, “let me prove it to you.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat in the gesture. All you can focus on now is the way his lips feel against yours when he turns you around and kisses you, steady and sure, and the smile that bleeds into it.

“Don’t think this means I’m not still mad at you.”

“Of course.” he replies, straightening slightly but keeping his hand at your waist. “I wouldn’t dream of assuming otherwise.”

“You’re annoying.”

“Mhm…” he hums, “you’ll keep me around.”

“You’re lucky I will.” you say finally.

“Every day, my love.” he replies softly. This time there’s no teasing. Only truth.

It wasn’t surprising to you when Alex confessed that he missed the old car. He could be nostalgic like that, his attachment to certain things running deep in ways that both charmed and baffled you. What was surprising was seeing him pull up one day with it, looking entirely too pleased with himself as if he’d just pulled off the heist of the century.

“Hadn’t you sold it?” you’d asked, staring at the weathered thing parked in front of your home, its once-shiny paint still dulled with age.

He hadn’t, of course. It turned out he’d loaned it to a friend who’d been keeping it in a garage somewhere outside of the city. So now you are stuck with it — this clunky, rust-speckled piece of nostalgia — for the long drive up north.

It’s three minutes past nine when you climb into the passenger seat, arms full: handbag, gift bag, another gift bag, your notebook, pencils, and a pencil sharpener balanced precariously on top. The car smells faintly of leather, aged and worn, mingling with the sharper scent of something metallic and slightly sweet — old oil, maybe.

Alex loads the rest of the bags into the back. When he settles into the driver’s seat, his hat already pushed back on his head, he looks determined. Like he’s ready to tackle the road ahead, even if the odds aren’t in his favor.

A couple of minutes later, he starts driving. If you’re lucky — and that’s a big if — you’ll reach your destination a little after noon. That’s assuming you were in a car that could go at a decent mileage per hour and that traffic wasn’t so bad.

Traffic, of course, is terrible.

Even on a Monday morning, the main road is backed up in both directions. Brake lights stretch endlessly ahead of you, a sea of red blinking intermittently in the pale winter sunlight. Alex sighs, a heavy sound that you feel more than hear.

You settle in with your notebook open across your lap, pencil poised in your hand. The low scratch of lead against paper fills the car, soft and rhythmic, but Alex’s attention keeps drifting toward you.

After the third exaggerated sigh, you glance at him. He’s gripping the wheel loosely, one hand resting at the top, the other on his thigh, but his knee is bouncing restlessly. The movement makes your nerves jittery, though you try not to show it.

“Alex.”

He doesn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the endless line of cars ahead, his jaw tight.

Okay, Mr. Wants Attention. He won’t say it outright, won’t just ask for what he wants. Instead, he’ll make you pull it out of him. Another sigh, this one louder than the last, escapes his lips. It’s dramatic enough that you could swear you hear a hint of theatrics in it, like he’s in a play where his only role is the long-suffering driver.

His knee bounces faster, the leather of the seat squeaking faintly under the motion. His hand shifts on the wheel, gripping and releasing, a quiet little fidget that says more than he would if he actually spoke. You can practically feel him daring you to ask what’s wrong, though you know the answer already.

You sigh yourself now, closing the notebook with a quiet thud. You try to shove it into the dash compartment, but it doesn’t fit. The latch won’t click shut, and after a few futile attempts, you resign yourself to leaving it on your knees. You reach for the radio, fiddling with the dial, flicking through station after station until static fills the car. It’s a distraction, something to do with your hands while the car inches forward. But Alex sighs again, louder this time, and his knee keeps bouncing.

“Leave it.” he mutters.

You stop, your hand hovering over the dial. The silence feels heavier now, filled only by the occasional hum of an engine revving somewhere behind you and the faint creak of the car as it shifts with each stop-and-go motion.

“Fine.” you mutter under your breath. “Would you like me to entertain you, darling?” you ask, your tone just dry enough to make your point.

His eyes flicker to you for the briefest second before returning to the road, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He’s holding back a smile as far as you can tell. “Didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” you mutter, rolling your eyes but leaning just a little closer to him anyway. “Honestly, Alex, if you wanted me to pay attention to you, all you had to do was ask.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You let out a laugh, low and quiet. “Sure, Mr. Subtle.”

Alex leans forward slightly, craning his neck to try and see around the cars in front of him. His fingers drum against the steering wheel, impatience palpable. He mutters something under his breath — something sharp, likely not meant for your ears.

“It’s Monday.” he says finally, his voice tinged with exasperation. “Where are all these people coming from? Jesus.”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His knee is still bouncing, and his fingers are tapping out an erratic rhythm now, too. The smell inside the car shifts. The faintly nostalgic scent of old leather is overtaken by the sharper, more acrid smell of exhaust wafting in from outside. You crack your window slightly, but the cold air doesn’t help much.

Alex keeps glancing toward the side of the road, as if expecting to see some miraculous shortcut that everyone else has somehow missed. His mind is likely running through every backroad, every alternate route, every possible way to shave even five minutes off this crawl of a journey. But nothing presents itself, and he lets out another quiet sigh.

“You’re quiet.” he says suddenly, his voice cutting through the silence.

You shrug, shifting in your seat. “Not much to say.”

He hums in response.

“You’re quiet, too.” you add after a moment.

He glances at you then, a flicker of amusement softening the hard line of his mouth. “Am I?”

“Yes. It’s unnerving.”

He smiles faintly, his fingers stopping their drumming as he leans back into his seat. “I’m just thinking.”

“About?”

“About how I probably should’ve left this car where it was.” he admits.

You laugh softly, and for a moment, the tension in the car eases.

“I didn’t want to say it.” you tease, leaning your head back against the seat.

“You didn’t have to.” he replies, his voice warm now. “You’re good at saying things without saying them.”

The traffic inches forward again, and the moment is interrupted by the blaring of a horn somewhere behind you. Alex sighs heavily, his knee bouncing once more.

You reach over, your hand brushing lightly over his thigh. “Relax.” you say softly.

He glances at you, his expression softening as he exhales slowly. “I’m trying.”

“Try harder.” you reply, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He laughs, and the sound feels like a small victory — something to hold onto as the road stretches endlessly ahead.

Alex shifts in his seat, one hand gripping the wheel, the other resting loosely on the gear shift. He glances at you again, his lips quirking into a half-smile. The weight of your hand on his thigh — too high to be innocent — lingers in his mind, and you can tell he’s doing his best to maintain composure.

“Help me out ‘ere.”

Your eyebrows arch as if to say what exactly do you mean by that?

His eyes flick to yours briefly before returning to the road. He knows you too well. “Don’t even.” he mutters, though the faint flush creeping up his neck gives him away.

“Don’t even what?” you ask, voice dripping with sweetness.

Neither of you speaks for a beat, both locked in a silent test of wills. You’re daring him to elaborate, he’s daring you to act.

“We’re not that predictable.” he finally says.

“We’re not.” you agree, your hand still on his thigh, fingers curling ever so slightly.

“We’re not.” he repeats, but his voice is strained now, the words lacking conviction.

Your hand gives a deliberate squeeze, and his jaw tightens. His free hand comes up to rub over his face, exasperation both real and performative, all the same. “Oh, fuck…” he mutters under his breath as the car jerks to another stop in the seemingly endless traffic.

“Hmm?” you prompt, your tone as sweet as syrup.

“I forgot to shave.” he says, shaking his head slightly, as if that were the biggest concern right now.

“I like you rugged looking.” Your fingers press into the soft fat of his inner thigh just enough to make his breath hitch.

“My mother doesn’t.” he mutters, attempting to steer the conversation back to neutral ground. The car lurches forward a few feet. “Since…”

“Since?” you ask, leaning into him slightly, your eyes glittering with curiosity.

“Well…” He pauses, scratching his jawline. “Since I had my phase.”

You laugh. “Oh, right, the phase.” He chuckles along, but his smile falters when you add, “You still look good, though.”

The compliment softens him. His gaze flickers to yours for a moment, his smile returning, small and genuine. “Thank you, darling.” he says.

The traffic crawls on, and the silence between you becomes less charged, more companionable. He nods toward your notebook, still perched on your knees.

“How’s the book coming along?”

You groan, leaning your head back against the seat. “Alex, it’s not- it’s just a bunch of made-up nonsense…a lot of it, actually.”

“That’s usually what you call fiction.” he replies.

“It’s not the same.” you argue.

He laughs softly. “It’s in the paper, in black and white, you can’t deny that.” With the air of someone deeply offended, you huff out a dismissive pfff! “It’s all there.” he says again, stretching his arm to tap his fingers on the notebook’s hardcover.

You snap it shut as if it wasn’t already and tuck it under your arm, already anticipating his next question.

“Are you gonna let me read it?” he asks, his voice curious but not pushy. Yet.

Your hand leaves his thigh, and instead, you dig through your bag, pulling out a compact. You flip the car’s sun visor down and open the mirror, focusing intently on your reflection.

“Babe.” he says, trying again.

You ignore him, pretending to adjust your hair.

“You read my stuff all the time.” he points out, his tone edging toward plaintive.

You snap the compact shut with a decisive click, the sound sharp in the confined space. “I do not.” you say.

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Is it about me?” he interrupts, and you immediately slam the visor back up with more force than necessary. The sharp sound makes him wince slightly, and he raises a hand in mock surrender.

“Babe, c’mon.” he says, his voice gentler now, but you’ve already decided the conversation is over.

“Do you think Sock will miss us?” you ask abruptly, your tone casual but clearly a diversion.

He chuckles, shaking his head at your transparent attempt to change the subject. “Yeah, but he’s fine with Jules.”

Julia — or Jules, as Alex affectionately calls her — is the sweet elderly neighbor you’ve reluctantly grown to trust with your beloved cat. You’re still not entirely used to this whole “neighbor” thing, despite how long it’s been since you moved in with Alex.

“I hope so.” you murmur, glancing out the window at the sluggish traffic.

“He’s our little boy.” Alex teases, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“He is.” you agree, your voice softening as you think of those big, curious eyes and the way he always seems to know when you need comfort.

Alex reaches over, resting his hand lightly on your knee. “He’ll be fine, love. Jules spoils him rotten.”

“I know.” you say, placing your hand over his. “I just miss him already.”

Alex squeezes your knee gently. “I miss him, too.”

The car inches forward again, and Alex’s knee stops bouncing. “Maybe we’ll make it there before dark.” he laughs.

“Maybe.” you reply, your fingers brushing against his as the traffic finally begins to ease.

Just enough to lull you into a false sense of progress for a little while, the slow hum of the engine blending with the strains of a half-decent song on the radio. But the reprieve wasn’t enough to distract you.

Boredom set in like a slow burn, your fingers tapping, your eyes darting to Alex as his hands gripped the steering wheel. He hadn’t noticed your shift in mood yet.

But then, of course, you had to push it. You always did.

It didn’t take much. A touch on his arm that lingered too long. The slow slide of your hand to his thigh. His reaction was immediate: a quick intake of breath, the slightest flex of his fingers on the wheel.

“Don’t.” he warned, though his voice lacked conviction.

“You’re telling me no?” you asked, incredulous.

“I didn’t say that.” he muttered, already losing the battle.

He wouldn’t say no. Who would?

What followed was short and sweet, the kind of indulgence you’d both blame on the traffic and the old car with its expansive, accommodating seats that left you just enough space for your business.

You really were that predictable.

Now, you are wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, leaning against the passenger door as Alex sits up straighter, wrestling with his jeans. His zipper, much like the rest of the car, was stubborn and unreliable, catching on the fabric and refusing to cooperate.

“Jesus Christ.” he muttered under his breath, fumbling with the metal teeth. A well known personal vendetta of impatience

“Need help?” you tease, your voice light but still tinged with satisfaction.

He shoots you a look — equal parts exasperated and amused. “I think you’ve done enough, don’t you?”

You shrug, a grin tugging at your lips as you watch him finally win the battle against his zipper. His shirt is untucked now, rumpled in a way that would betray you both if anyone looked too closely. Not that anyone would.

Alex leans back against the seat, running a hand through his hair, which now had the telltale signs of your handiwork. He lets out a long sigh, shaking his head as if to scold himself.

“You’re trouble.” he says, keeping his eyes on the road and his grip tight. On both the steering wheel and himself.

“I’m your trouble.”

He turns his head to look at you, his lips curving into a small, lopsided smile. “That you are. Do I look okay?”

“You look fine.” you say, smirking. “Rugged. Like I said.”

He laughs softly, shaking his head again. “Rugged isn’t exactly what I was going for.”

“Well, you should have thought about that before letting me-”

“Letting you?” he interrupted. “Letting you? As if I had a choice?”

“You always have a choice.” you said, reaching over to smooth down the collar of his shirt. Your fingers lingered on his neck.

“Not with you.” Alex sighs. “You know, we’re never going to make it if you keep distracting me.”

“Who says I’m the distraction?” you counter, leaning back in your seat, satisfied.

He gives you another sidelong glance, his eyes warm despite the faint accusation. “I love you.” he says. Simple and unadorned.

Predictable or not, there is no place you’d rather be.

The dining room smelled like rosemary and roasted potatoes, a soft warmth radiating from the old brick fireplace that had been lit for the evening. The walls were lined with framed photos, decades of family history encased in polished wood, their stories lingering like ghosts in the air. Dinner had been as pleasant as you’d hoped: his mother doting on Alex with casual reminders about portion sizes, his father making quiet but pointed observations about the state of the world. It was comfortable, even cozy, in the way only a family home could be.

And then, of course, the gnome ornament had stolen the show.

“I just love it.” his mother had gushed, cradling the little ceramic figure in her hands like it was something truly precious. She had no idea that, yes, Alex had doubled back to buy it behind your back, no clue that it had been a small rebellion against your mutual skepticism about it. But as she beamed at the tiny, vaguely odd-looking figure, you caught Alex’s eye. His smirk was almost imperceptible, but it was there. And yes, it made you love him that much more.

Dinner continued in easy conversation — stories of neighbors, updates on distant cousins, the kind of talk that didn’t require much effort. But the peace was short-lived.

“Well,” his mother begins, “when are you gonna give us a grandbaby, Alex?”

The room seems to shift. It’s not a heavy silence, but it is enough to make you set your fork down a little too carefully, the scrape of metal against porcelain louder than it should have been. Alex pauses mid-chew, his eyes darting to you, then back to his mother.

Your heart thuds in your chest. You haven’t exactly avoided this topic with Alex, but you haven’t fully dived into it either. It was one of those nebulous, someday things, a distant idea floating somewhere on the horizon. And now, it is here, smack in the middle of roast lamb and green beans.

It’s not that he doesn’t want kids — does he? He’s told you he does. Maybe. Always in those quiet moments where the future feels far away and safe to talk about. But Alex, for all his charm and wit, is a man who lives in the present. Planning for something so big, so permanent, feels like asking him to stand on the edge of a cliff and look down. He’d rather keep his feet firmly on the ground.

And you? You’re not sure. You’re not even sure what your hesitation is. Maybe it’s the fear of being seen as just a role — mother, wife, a fixture in someone else’s life. Maybe it’s the quiet terror that you’d somehow fail at it, that you’d be the one who didn’t measure up.

“Uh,” he starts, his voice stalling as he swallows too quickly. He coughs lightly, reaches for his water, and takes a long sip. “That’s…a big question, Mum.”

His father chuckles softly, leaning back in his chair. “It’s not a big question. It’s a fair one.”

“Fair?” Alex raises an eyebrow, a small, nervous laugh escaping him. He’s still stalling, still trying to buy time.

“Well, it’s been what? Two years now?” his mother presses, her gaze shifting between the two of you. Her smile is warm but expectant, like she’d already imagined herself knitting tiny hats and booties.

A spotlight you hadn’t asked for but couldn’t avoid. Two years. The number hangs in the air like it means something, like there’s a timeline for this sort of thing, a deadline you’ve been blissfully ignoring. You glance at Alex. He looks calm on the surface, but you know better. The laugh was a tell. The way his fingers tightened slightly on yours under the table was another.

You knew this touch well — his silent I’m recharging, as you two called it. It was a phrase born out of a joke, something lighthearted he’d said once, but over time it had grown into something more. You were his personal power bank, he liked to say. It sounded cute, and sometimes it was. But other times, it felt like he was pulling something from you without meaning to, like he was draining a piece of you to refill himself.

You did the same to him, though. You didn’t have a name for it, but you knew he could tell when you were especially wound up. He’d pointed it out once, gently, that you tended to cling more, hang onto him like a lifeline when the world felt too much. You hadn’t even realised you did it until he said it.

“I know when you’re extra stressed, my love.” he’d said. “You hang on me more.”

“And you don’t mind?” you’d asked, hesitant, a little guilty.

“‘Course not.” he’d replied, wrapping his arms around you in a way that made you feel like you could finally exhale. And you did. That sigh — your signal of release — was always his cue to let go.

Now, under the table, as his thumb traces lazy circles over your knuckles, you feel the familiar tug of him recharging. You give him a small squeeze in return, your way of saying, It’s okay. I’m here.

He wants to say the right thing, but the right thing isn’t clear.

“We’ve, uh…we’ve talked about it.” he says finally, his voice careful. “Haven’t we, love?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden toss of the conversational ball into your court. “Uh, yeah.” forcing a smile. “We’ve talked about it.”

His mother’s smile widens, her hands clasping together, kind eyes filled with a hope that borders on entitlement. “And?” She’s lovely, truly. But this? This isn’t about her, or the tiny hats she’s already knitting in her mind.

“And…” Alex says, dragging the word out as he rubs the back of his neck. “It’s not exactly…it’s not in the cards right now.”

“Not in the cards?” his father repeats, his tone carrying just the slightest edge of disapproval.

“Mum, Dad, come on.” Alex says, his voice softening into that almost-whining tone he uses when he wants to placate someone — you would know. “It’s not like we’re saying never. Just not…now.”

“Why not now?” his mother asks, her brows furrowing. “You’ve got a lovely home, you’re both doing well. What’s stopping you?”

The question reeks in the air heavier than the smell of roasted garlic. Alex shifts in his chair, the scrape of wood against the floor breaking the silence. “It’s not exactly that simple.” carefully measured.

Not that simple. You almost laugh. You can see her knitting needles faltering in her imaginary hands, her perfectly stitched plans unraveling at the edges. Alex isn’t trying to disappoint her, but he doesn’t know how to explain it. That this thing, this life you’ve built together, is enough for now. That it doesn’t need to be expanded or multiplied to be complete.

“We just…have other things we want to do first.” you finally join, steady, stern, but not unkind by any means. “It’s not that we don’t want to, but we’re happy where we are right now.”

You lean back slightly, studying him for a moment. He looks good tonight, sharp but soft around the edges, like he belongs here and nowhere else. It’s always strange seeing him in this context, under the warm, homey lights of his childhood dining room. Here, where he’s both Alex, the man you love, and their Alex, the boy they raised.

His mother doesn’t know the half of it. She doesn’t know how much of himself he pours into you, how he loves with a quiet ferocity that sometimes leaves you breathless. She doesn’t know how many nights you’ve stayed awake, piecing him back together while holding yourself together, steady and unshaking, because if you didn’t, who else would? Who else would be there to fix him, to gather up the fragments he doesn’t even realise he’s lost? She doesn’t know how it feels to bear the weight of him, his fears, his insecurities, his dreams, all of it laid bare in the space between midnight and dawn, whispered in a voice so soft it’s almost not there.

She doesn’t know how he clings to you in those moments, like you’re the only thing tethering him to the ground, the only thing keeping him from coming undone. She doesn’t know about the times he’s buried his face in your lap, too exhausted to speak, and how you’ve run your fingers through his hair, murmuring assurances you weren’t entirely sure you believed yourself. She doesn’t know how you’ve felt yourself bending under the strain, a fine line between breaking and holding, praying silently that you’d stay strong just long enough to make it better for him.

She doesn’t know the words he whispers to you in the dark — words so raw, so vulnerable, that they slice through you in ways you can’t describe. Words that make you wonder if you’re strong enough to hold all of him, if there’s a part of him too wild, too broken, too much for you to bear. But you do bear it, because it’s him. Because when he leans into you, pressing his forehead to yours with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep inside, it’s like he’s giving you a piece of his soul, trusting you with it in a way he’s never trusted anyone else.

And she doesn’t know that even with all of that — his weight, his words, his breaking and rebuilding — you’d still choose him. Every time. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard. Because no one else could hold him like you do. And no one else could ever be enough for you.

But you do. And maybe that’s enough. For now.

Alex shoots you a grateful look, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. His thumb strokes over the back of your hand, and your world narrows to just that small, steady motion of silent reassurance, a thank you, a reminder.

His mother sighs, the sound cutting softly through the fragile quiet. Her disappointment is carefully masked, an undercurrent of longing she can’t quite hide. “Well,” she says, “I suppose I can wait a little longer.”

“Thank you, Mum.” Alex lets out a short laugh, a gentle nudge to let the topic drop. “Plenty of time.”

His father grunts something under his breath along the lines of “As long as you’re not waiting forever.”

The conversation shifts after all of that, moving on to safer topics like the weather and plans for the holidays. But there's a faint echo of it that refuses to fully fade.

Later, as you and Alex stand in the kitchen doing the dishes, the quiet hum of the house settles over you both. He nudges your shoulder with his, subtle but obviously intentional.

“You alright?” His voice was low, careful, like the words are something fragile he’s handing to you.

“Yeah.” you murmur, rinsing a plate. “You?”

A pause. You can feel his eyes on you, even if you didn’t meet them. He’s drying a glass, moving the towel over it with slow precision, as if it’s the only thing left to make sense. “I didn’t mean to throw you under the bus back there.”

“I know.”

You place the plate on the rack, and his hand comes to rest on your lower back. His touch always felt like a question, unspoken but clear. This one is softer, quieter, but it asks for the same thing it always does — trust.

You don’t lean into him immediately. The silence between you isn’t empty — it’s full of him, full of the things he wouldn’t say. Things he didn’t need to. His hand stays on your back, patient, steady. He’s not trying to pull anything from you this time, not the way he sometimes did without realising. This isn’t that. This is him letting the moment be.

When you finally lean into him, it isn’t for his sake but yours. You feel his exhale, a soft shift of air against your temple as he turns his head slightly.

“I don’t mind it.” you whisper. “When they ask. I don’t. Not really.”

His hand moves, tracing the smallest arc along your spine. He doesn’t speak. You feel the words there anyway, between the press of his fingers and the warmth of his palm. He never needed to explain himself to you — not about the questions, not about the answers he wasn’t ready to give.

You turn your head just enough to glance up at him. There’s something there that feels like the edge of a deep breath he won’t let out. It isn’t a promise he gave you. It was something smaller. A kind of understanding only he could offer.

The silence stretches for a moment too long, heavy but not unbearable. Then Alex breaks it.

“You know, if they ask again, I could just tell them we’re waiting for Sock to start talking so he can weigh in on whether he wants siblings.”

You shake your head, the smallest smile breaking through. “God, don’t give your mum any ideas. She’d probably knit him a little sweater that says big brother.”

Alex chuckles. The tension finally cracked, just a little. “Alright, noted. No sibling talk in front of Mum.”

“No sibling talk at all.” you corrected, nudging him with your elbow.

“Fine, fine.” He grins, leaning closer until his voice is just a murmur. “But if Sock starts talking, all bets are off.”

It was absurd, but it worked.

The afternoon is suspended in that semi-darkness, the kind that feels like it could stretch on forever. The curtains are drawn, filtering the pale winter light into muted shadows that fall over Alex’s room. His figure is a quiet mound beneath the blanket, shifting slightly as he adjusts to your presence. His back is to you, hunched. His Christmas pajamas — red with cartoonish reindeer — peek out from beneath the covers, ending awkwardly at his calves where the fabric is just too short. They’re old, rediscovered while rummaging through boxes of things he never throws away. They’re somehow endearing. You can’t believe he’s still wearing them.

You knock your knuckles against his exposed ankle, a quiet gesture that’s more habit than intention.

You knock again, the sharp point of bone a contrast to the soft fabric covering the rest of him.

He coughs, then groans. “What is it?” he asks, voice hoarse and half-muffled by the pillow.

“Whatcha doing?” you ask.

“Napping…” He yawns, stretching the word into something almost melodramatic. “…obviously.”

“Well, wake up.” you prod.

“Oh, dear, dear…” he grumbles, turning over like a petulant child dragged from bed too early with the kind of exaggerated effort that’s as much a performance as it is genuine irritation. The blanket clings to him like it’s part of his skin, and in his struggle to free himself, he ends up more tangled than before. He sighs in surrender, his face poking out from the fabric, hair a mess of dark waves.

His eyes are heavy-lidded, his cheeks a little flushed from the heat of the blanket. He looks particularly cute like this, even with the hiccup that follows — a small, tiny squeak that catches you off guard, so out of place it even startles him for a moment. Cute, until it morphs into that familiar expression: brows furrowing, lips tightening, the kind of face that looks like he’s seconds away from either a burp or a gag. No, he’s still cute.

“What’s the matter?” he asks finally, blinking up at you with half-hearted concern, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

“I don’t know.” you say honestly, your hands finding his ankles again, sliding up over the faint ridges of his tibia. The friction of his leg hairs against your palms makes him twitch, and you grin as he squirms, trying to jerk away.

“Stop it.” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, just a quiet plea.

You relent, letting him settle again, before climbing onto the bed beside him. He shifts to make room, though the blanket clings stubbornly to his legs. The bed creaks. His body feels warm even through the layers, radiating heat like a sleepy furnace. Alex blinks at you, his face caught somewhere between sleepy irritation and that soft, half-lidded fondness he doesn’t bother to hide.

“I just miss you.” you say, softly this time, your hand brushing over his arm.

His eyes catch a glint of the dim light sneaking through the curtains. For a moment, he just looks at you, the sleepiness fading

“You miss me?” he echoes, voice hoarse, like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. He rubs at his eyes, a slow, lazy motion that makes your chest tighten. “I’ve been right here the whole time.”

“I know,” you murmur, pulling your knees up to your chest as you sit beside him. “But you’ve been…napping.”

“And?” he asks, mock affronted, though the way his lips twitch betrays his amusement.

“And…I don’t know.” you say again. “It just feels like forever.” His hair sticks up at the crown, and you resist the urge to smooth it down — barely.

Alex lets out a sigh, dragging his hand down his face before looking at you properly. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Probably.”

He sits up, propping himself on one elbow, and the blanket slides down to his lap. “What am I supposed to do with that?”

You shrug, fingers playing idly with the edge of the blanket. “Let me stay?”

He grins. It’s not long before he gives in, though, because it’s you, and he’s never really been good at saying no to you.

“Stay, then.”

You don’t wait for further permission, stretching out beside him and resting your head on his shoulder.

“Hey-” he grumbles, wincing as you jab at a sensitive spot. “Do you want something, or are you just here to bully me awake?”

“A little of both.” you admit, your fingers already sneaking their way beneath the edge of the blanket, brushing along his ribs. His skin is warm, almost feverish, though you know it’s just the heat he keeps trapped under all those layers. The jittery feeling that had been gnawing at you begins to subside.

“God, you’re freezing!” He jerks away, his own hand coming up to trap yours, holding it in place against his chest like he could warm it through sheer proximity.

“Don’t exaggerate.”

“Not exaggerating.” he says, dragging out the words. He still hasn’t let go of your hand, though.

“I’m right here.” he says, his voice low and a little scratchy, as if the words had to crawl their way out.

“Yeah.” you reply, but you can’t help curling even closer, resting your head against his shoulder. His arm moves instinctively, wrapping around you and pulling you into his warmth. He presses his chin to the top of your head, the slight scratch of his unshaven jaw making you smile.

“What’s this really about?” he asks after a moment, his voice quieter now, almost cautious.

“Nothing.” you say, your words muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt. “I just wanted to be close to you.”

Alex hums, his fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along your arm. “You’re always close to me.”

“Not like this.” you reply, and though the words come out simply, there’s an edge of vulnerability to them that you hope he doesn’t notice.

Alex notices everything.

He shifts slightly, turning so he can see your face. “Hey,” he murmurs, his free hand tilting your chin up. His eyes search yours, their depth almost unnerving in this semi-darkness. “I’m not going anywhere, you know?”

“I know.” The corners of your mouth twitch, waiting for him to react. He doesn’t disappoint.

“Good, baby.” He leans in and kisses your forehead, a soft, lingering touch that feels like both a promise and a reassurance. You go closer, pressing your cheek into his pillow, your breaths mingling in the narrow space between you. His lashes flutter as he opens his eyes again, meeting your gaze. “You really miss me?” he asks, quieter this time.

You nod, your nose brushing his. “I do.”

“Even when I’m right here?��

“Especially then.”

The hint of a smile twitches at his lips, soft and fond in a way that makes your chest ache. “S’pose that’s alright, then.” he murmurs, letting out a long sigh. He shifts, untangling himself from the blanket with lazy, deliberate movements until his arms are free and reaching for you.

When he wraps himself around you, the room feels even warmer, even darker, like the world outside doesn’t exist. His hands find their way to your back, smoothing over the fabric of your shirt in lazy circles, and his voice comes low and rough against your ear.

“Miss you too, y’know.”

You don’t answer, not with words. You bury yourself into him instead, tucking yourself so close it feels like you might sink into him entirely. His breathing evens out after a while, but his fingers never stop their slow movement. Neither of you says anything more. You don’t need to.

Until he hiccups again. It’s sharp and quick, breaking the stillness of the room, and you can’t help but giggle. But then something else slips through, something heavier, and before you can stop it, a tear edges out and clings to your lashes. You press your face to his shoulder, hiding, but not well enough.

Because the thought comes unbidden — too sharp to ignore, too deep to escape. You can’t help but imagine a smaller version of him, soft-cheeked and wide-eyed, hiccuping just the same. And the image twists something inside of you, almost hurts, because how could your heart survive it? How could you hold so much love and still exist? You barely survive him every day.

“Alex?” you say, your voice small, almost hesitant.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want to have a baby?”

He’s silent — not in a way that shuts you out, but in the way that means he’s turning it over in his mind, letting it settle. His lips move against your skin, brushing kisses wherever he can reach: your collarbone, the slope of your shoulder, the spot just below your ear. His hand has stopped its gentle motion on your back, now just resting there.

It takes a long moment for him to speak.

“I think…” he starts, pausing like the words are too heavy to admit. “I think I’m too old to have a baby. To be a father.”

There’s something in his voice — something faint and distant, like disappointment hidden under layers of careful resignation. He says it like a fact, one he’s come to terms with.

You don’t look at him. Can’t. Instead, you focus on the sound of his breathing, warm and steady against your skin. But the air shifts, and suddenly, it’s not about a baby anymore. It’s about him.

It hits you all at once: Alex is going to get old one day. His hair will go grey, his laugh will quiet, and there will be a day when you won’t wake up next to him. When his warmth won’t fill this space, when you’ll reach for him and find nothing but air.

“Hey…” he whispers, his lips pausing in their path along your skin. His hands come up to cup your face, and when he tilts your chin up, you can’t hide from him anymore. He can see his own reflection in the tears clinging to your lashes. “Did I- did I say something? Are you okay, darling?”

“You’re not too old.” you say quickly, your voice trembling.

He smiles softly at you, a faint curve of his lips that aims to bring you back out. He knows this isn’t about the words he said. Knows you’re not upset, not exactly. He just holds you tighter, like he can squeeze the ache out of your chest.

“I just don’t want our kid to have a dad that’s sixty before they’re ten.” he says, and his stupid little math makes you laugh despite yourself.

“Alex,” you chuckle, a tear slipping down your cheek, “you’ve got your math all wrong. Severely.”

“Yeah.” he admits, laughing softly. “Probably.”

He shifts, sliding his arms around you, pulling you close until you’re almost beneath him, tangled up in his weight and warmth. He’s everywhere — solid and heavy, pressing you into the mattress. His breath is against your ear, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm, and the thought that had unraveled you before feels so far away now.

“I’m sorry for…” You trail off, trying to find the words for crying over nothing and everything at once.

Alex hums, brushing his lips against the curve of your neck. “You don’t have to be.” His voice is a soft murmur, filled with a kind of understanding that makes you ache even more.

“I just didn’t know it would be like this,” you whisper, not meant for him to hear.

“Like what?”

“That I would become so closely tied to you.”

There’s weight in the words, the kind that would feel crushing if you weren’t so completely wrapped up in each other. But neither of you has the energy to linger on it, to pull it apart and examine it.

So instead, you just hold on. Feel the warmth of him, the life of him, the love that’s so much a part of him you can barely tell where it ends and where you begin.

Lips melt together, air exchanged between mouths like you’re both trying to live off each other’s breath. He’s pressed so close, and yet somehow, you still miss him. It’s like no matter how much of him you take in — his touch, his warmth, his quiet murmurs — you’re always left wanting more. There’s a hunger to it now, a longing that no amount of kisses seem to satisfy.

It’s been too long since you kissed him like this — messy and unrestrained, all need and no patience. The kind of kiss where you lose track of where your body ends and his begins. His lips are chapped, and yours are starting to sting, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that the walls are thin or that the door isn’t locked or that you’re both supposed to be adults, because right now, it feels like you could drown in him and still come up gasping for more. The air was too thick with propriety for you to touch him the way you wanted in front of his parents, for what felt like forever. It feels dangerous. Like every kiss, every touch, could spiral into something impossible to stop.

But you can’t stop. Neither can he.

His hips roll against you, deliberate and slow, lazy grind and the sensation sends heat pooling low in your belly. His hands move with purpose now, gripping your waist like he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers.

“I like you a lot.” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, the words muffled against your lips.

It’s so simple, so earnest, that it makes you laugh — a soft, breathless sound that he swallows with another kiss. You could get drunk off this.

“Al.” you murmur, pulling back just enough to look at him.

“Hm?” His lips chase yours even as he hums, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, focused entirely on you.

“I want-”

“You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

His voice is so serious, so matter-of-fact, that it takes you a second to process what he’s said. Then, you laugh, the sound startled and bubbling out of you uncontrollably. “Alex!”

“What?” He grins, unrepentant, leaning down to nip at your jaw.

“You know you can’t.” you say, though the heat blooming in your chest betrays the way his words made you feel.

“Well…” He shifts, pressing closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “I can try.”

His hands slide lower, slipping beneath your shirt, his palms warm and rough against your skin. He smiles against your neck, his breath hot as he adds, “I can fill you up with my babies…do my part of the deal.”

“Al!” You swat at him, but your protest is half-hearted at best, your body already arching into his touch.

He kisses you again, and this time it’s all need. There’s nothing gentle about it now, nothing careful. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his hands gripping you tighter, pulling you closer, until there’s no space left between you.

You feel like you could crawl inside his skin, live there, wrap yourself up in the way he smells, the way he feels, the way he breathes against your neck. God, you could spend the rest of your life like this, and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“Do you even think before you say shit like that?” you manage to gasp, though your voice is more amused than annoyed.

“Not really.” he admits, his grin widening as he pulls back just enough to look at you. His hair is tousled, his cheeks flushed, and he looks so thoroughly pleased with himself that you can’t help but laugh again.

“Can’t believe I married you fool.” you say, shaking your head, but your hands are tangling in his hair and pulling him back down. So soft against your palms, and his skin is warm under your fingertips, and you think, This is home. He’s home.

He pulls back just enough to press his forehead against yours, his breathing uneven. “You really miss me that much?”

“Even when you’re right here.” you say, and you mean it.

“Especially then.” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours as he speaks.

You could live off this. Off him. Easily.

When he kisses you again, it’s softer, slower, like he’s trying to memorise you. Like he’s trying to leave pieces of himself with you, pressed into your skin, embedded in your bones. And you let him, because if anyone gets to claim parts of you, it’s him.

His pants are pushed down, your shirt is tugged up but not off — it’s too cold for that. Your skin pebbles with goosebumps, nipples perking up as the air brushes over them, and Alex’s gaze snaps to them like they’re the only thing in the room worth looking at, like he’s just unwrapped the best gift under the tree. His eyes light up, soft and wide, and he’s got this stupid, almost boyish grin spreading across his face, like he’s just stumbled into the best Christmas morning of his life, even though he’s seen you like this before — dozens of times. Maybe hundreds.

“God,” he starts, his voice low, “you’re so-”

“You too.” you interrupt, and it’s so fast it almost makes him laugh. But he doesn’t, because your hand slides down between you, brushing over his stomach and lower, and he forgets how to do anything but exhale sharply.

Your fingers curl around him, and he lets out a sharp, breathy sound that goes straight to your chest. He’s hard, but you can feel the slight chill on his skin as your hand moves over him. He groans, low and unsteady, his head tipping forward to rest against your shoulder as you stroke him. “Fuck, you’re eager.” he says, his tone teasing but breaking halfway through when your grip tightens just slightly.

It’s cold, he thinks, and he’s absurdly glad the blanket’s there to cover you both. Not just to trap the heat but to hide the way his balls have drawn up tight from the temperature. You wouldn’t care anyway, he tells himself, but it doesn’t stop the small pang of self-consciousness.

You don’t seem to notice. Or maybe you just don’t care, because your hand moves with purpose, stroking him with a rhythm that builds faster than he expects. Your lips are everywhere — on his neck, his jaw, the corner of his mouth — and between kisses, you murmur things that make his head spin. “Not enough?” you murmur, your hand moving slowly, your thumb brushing over the tip just to watch him shudder.

“Shit-” he hisses and you bite your lip to hide your grin. His hands find your waist, gripping you, but it’s no use. You’ve got him exactly where you want him, and you know it.

“Fuck, you’re so good, Al.” you say, your voice a soft, breathy hum against his ear.

“Oh-” his hips go jerking up into your hand, unable to stop himself. “Fuck, you’re gonna- god, you’re gonna-” he groans, his voice low and wrecked, the slick slide of your palm dragging him closer to the edge.

“Good way to go.” you tease, leaning down to press your lips to his neck, and he lets out a noise that’s somewhere between a laugh and a groan.

“You’re impossible.” he says, but his hips are already moving again, thrusting up like he can’t help himself. He can’t.

“Impossible?” you echo, your tone mock-offended. “You’re the one who’s already- oh, god, Alex, you’re practically whining right now.”

“I’m not whining.” he shoots back, but his voice cracks on the last word, and you snort.

“You’re so whining.” you say, laughing softly against his skin.

“Jeez.” he mutters, but he’s grinning now, his hands sliding down to your hips as he presses you closer. “You’re gonna regret teasing me.”

“Am I?” you ask, your hand stroking him with just enough pressure to make him shudder again.

“Yeah.” he says, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a spark of mischief in his eyes that makes your stomach flip. Before you can respond, he’s shifting, his hands tugging at the waistband of your underwear. “Off.” he says, and you laugh, shifting to help him.

“Demanding.”

“Desperate.” he corrects. You can’t even argue, because his hands are already on you again, sliding up your thighs to pull you into his lap. “Fuck, I need to be inside you, girl.”

You smile against his lips, “Then what are you waiting for?”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He barely manages to kick his pants down farther before he’s reaching for you again.

“C’mere.” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, his hands warm against your chilled skin. You settle over him, the weight of you grounding him, and for a moment, he just holds you there, his forehead resting against yours as he catches his breath. “You okay?” he asks, his voice soft, his thumbs brushing lazy circles into your skin.

“Always.�� you say, your fingers sliding into his hair, and the way you look at him — like he’s the only thing that matters — it makes his chest ache.

“Mhm.” His hands tighten on your hips as he guides you down and the groan that tears from his throat when he sinks into you is almost enough to undo you completely.

You laugh softly, your fingers threading through his hair. “Missed me, huh?”

“Shut up,” he says, but there’s no heat in it.

“Thought you weren’t whining?” you tease, rocking your hips just slightly, and his hands clamp down on you, holding you still.

“Christ, you’re gonna drive me insane.” he mutters, his head tipping back against the pillow.

“Already have.” you say, leaning down to kiss him, and he groans against your mouth, and his hips are moving again.

“Impossible.” he mutters, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer.

“You said that already.” you remind him, grinning against his lips.

“Still true.” he says, and then he’s kissing you again, and it’s messy and desperate and perfect.

He moves then, his hips rocking up into you, and the heat of him makes you forget about the cold entirely. The blanket slips off your shoulders, pooling around your back, but you don't care. He doesn't care. All he cares about is you and your warmth and your weight and the soft sounds you make as you move with him.

“Fuck.” he breathes, his voice shaky as he buries his face in your neck. “You feel so good.”

“So do you.” you murmur, your hands gripping his shoulders until they feel like they’ve been set on fire, until it feels like the whole world’s on fire.

The pace builds, faster, rougher, but there’s still something tender about the way he holds you, the way his hands move over your skin like he’s afraid you might disappear. You feel like you might burst. You kiss him again, swallowing his groans as he thrusts up into you, and you think, I could live in this moment forever.

Alex doesn’t just lose himself in you — he unravels completely. His grip on your hips tightens as his breath comes heavy and ragged, his forehead pressed to yours for a brief moment before he pulls back. “You…” he mutters, his voice low and hoarse, as though that single word is the only one he can manage.

Before you can respond, he flips you over. The mattress dips and you barely have time to gasp before he’s on you, his body pressing yours into the bed, pinning you down. His hands find your wrists, pulling them above your head as he settles between your legs. He’s everywhere, all at once, overwhelming and intoxicating, and you can’t help the small, broken sound that escapes your throat.

“Shhh…” he murmurs, a crooked smile flickering across his lips, his eyes bright with amusement. “They’re still awake.” You know he’s talking about the thin walls, the parents in the other room, but it doesn’t matter, because his smile fades almost immediately when you clench around him, your hips lifting to meet his. “Fuck-” he hisses, his voice breaking, and he has to stop for a second, burying his face in your neck like he’s trying to compose himself. “Love, you’re gripping me so tight-”

“I’m so close.” you whimper, high and breathless, and his head snaps up.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, soft but teasing, and one of his hands leaves your wrist to smooth over your hair, petting you gently like you’ve just done something worthy of praise. “That’s my girl.”

The words undo you. Your body tenses, arching against him as you come, your cries muffled by his hand when he moves it quickly to cover your mouth.

“Shhh.” he murmurs again, more soothing. His hand slides from your mouth to your jaw, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he watches you fall apart beneath him as he starts moving again, rougher this time, and the sound of him sliding in and out of you, wet and obscene, fills the room.

You can barely think, barely breathe, and when you dare to moan, loud and broken, he shuts you up with his lips. Messy and desperate, his tongue sliding against yours as he thrusts into you harder, faster. You can feel him everywhere, his hands gripping your thighs, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock stretching you so perfectly it almost hurts.

“You’re so- fuck-” he mutters against your lips, his voice shaking. “You’re so good. So fucking good.”

You’re too cockdrunk to answer, your head falling back against the pillow as your body shakes beneath him. He groans, his hands gripping your hips tighter as he chases his own release, his movements becoming erratic.

“I’m gonna come inside you now.” he says, low and wrecked. He’s already halfway there and you nod, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Wasn’t asking.” he mutters.

“Please.” you whisper, and it’s that — your soft, trembling plea — that seems to undo him entirely.

“Fuck.” he breathes, his hands gripping your hips so tightly it feels like he’s grounding himself on you, holding you in place as if he might get lost otherwise. His face twists, caught between pleasure and something close to pain, and you watch him fall apart, his usual control slipping away.

It’s always like this when he comes inside you. Like he’s completely overcome, lost in the heat and wetness of you, in the way you take him so completely. There’s something elemental about it, like you’re the only thing keeping him on earth, and he clings to you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever had. The sounds he makes are devastating: deep, broken moans mixed with your name, half-spoken, half-gasped.

He presses his forehead harder against yours, his breaths coming in short, ragged bursts, and you can feel his body trembling, overwhelmed by the intensity of it all. “God, you feel so-” He cuts himself off with a sharp gasp, his hips stuttering and he presses deeper, hot and endless, and he can’t stop, and he doesn’t ever want to stop. “Fuck, fuck…” he mutters, the words tumbling out of him. He’s not even aware he’s speaking. His hand slides from your hip to your stomach, splaying wide over the place where his cum is now buried deep inside you, as if he’s trying to feel it through your skin.

It drives him crazy, every single time. To be so bare with you, so vulnerable, to feel you around him like this, no barriers, nothing between you. It’s too much and somehow never enough.

He stays like that, hips pressed flush against yours, his cock still twitching inside you. His eyes are shut tight, his jaw clenched, like he’s trying to hold onto the feeling, trying to commit it to memory.

When he finally opens his them, they’re dark and glassy, still hazy with pleasure. He looks at you like you’re something unreal, something he can’t believe he gets to have. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” he murmurs, his voice hoarse, and it’s not just a compliment but a declaration, raw and unfiltered. His thumbs brush gently over your cheeks as he kisses you, slow and deep. It’s softer now, reverent, like he’s thanking you, like he’s worshiping you.

You can feel him still, still warm and pulsing, and you know he’s not ready to pull away yet. Neither are you.

“Fuck.” he mutters, his voice muffled against your neck.

You laugh, your fingers sliding into his hair as you hold him. “Yeah.” you whisper, your voice shaky but warm. “Fuck.”

He stays inside you far longer than makes any sense, long enough that the warmth between you turns to a sticky, shared heat that you can feel seeping out, dampening the sheets beneath you. Neither of you moves, and he’s quiet everywhere — his body heavy against yours, his breaths slow and even, the weight of him pinning you to the mattress in a way that feels unshakable. It’s not the kind of silence that asks for anything. It’s just Alex. The way he lingers in moments like this, unhurried and unwilling to let go, like pulling away would break the spell. You know he should move, that you should clean up, but the thought of him leaving you empty right now feels unbearable. You don’t want to move.

You tilt your head just slightly to press your lips to his temple, the salt of his sweat faint on your tongue. His eyes are closed, but you know he’s not asleep. He’s just…here, with you. Fully.

“I love being with you,” you murmur, “even when you stay silent so long.”

His eyes open slowly, and they’re impossibly soft, the kind of look that makes your chest feel tight and full all at once. He shifts just enough to press his lips to yours. “I don’t mean to stay quiet. Sometimes I just…don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything. I like it. The quiet with you.”

He hums, his hand drifting lazily up and down your side, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, memorising you all over again. “It’s different with you.” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “The silence. It’s not empty. It’s…” He trails off, his brow furrowing. He’s searching for the right word.

“Full.” you offer, and his lips twitch into the faintest smile.

“Yeah.” he says softly. “Full.”

Softening but somehow still so present. It’s ridiculous, how much you love him in moments like this — when he’s not doing anything extraordinary, just existing with you, just letting himself be here.

“I should move.” he says eventually, though he doesn’t sound like he means it. His hand slips to your stomach, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin. “I’m probably making a mess.”

You laugh, the sound light and quiet in the stillness of the room. “You are.” you say, and he groans softly, hiding his face in your neck.

“Sorry.” he mumbles, though he doesn’t make any effort to pull away.

You press a kiss to his hair, your fingers tracing lazy patterns along the nape of his neck. “Don’t be.”

It’s not reasonable, staying like this. The sheets are ruined, and the air between you is heavy with the aftermath of everything you’ve just shared, but none of it matters. All that matters is him, here, with you, so close it feels like you might dissolve into him if you’re not careful.

“You know,” he says after a long stretch of silence, his voice muffled against your skin, “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before.”

“What way?” you ask, your hand sliding to his shoulder, holding him a little closer.

“Like I could stay like this forever. With you.”

Your chest tightens, and you kiss him again, because you don’t know how else to respond to something so devastatingly simple, so honest.

Forever. You think you could stay like this forever, too.

The weight of Christmas morning presses heavier than it should, tension tightening the air like an over-wrapped gift. In the living room, the Turners exchange looks — small, darting ones that say everything without anyone daring to open their mouths. You can’t decide if the silence is better or worse than outright commentary, but either way, the room feels suffocating. It’s impossible to look at anyone directly. You can’t help but think, We really should’ve stayed at his place.

The first chance you get, you slip away upstairs to Alex’s room. Even as you ascend the stairs, snippets of hushed teasing float up from below, followed by poorly disguised chuckles. Your cheeks burn with fresh embarrassment.

You collapse onto the bed, burying your face into the pillow to smother a groan of frustration. You don’t have to wait long before Alex joins you. The door creaks open, and his steps are slow and heavy, weighted with a mix of exhaustion and mortification. He practically slumps inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. He’s silent, but you can see his shoulders shaking. For a second, you think he might actually be upset — until he lets out a muffled laugh, half-horrified, half-disbelieving.

“Oh my god.�� he groans into his palms.

You prop yourself up on one elbow, watching him with a mix of guilt and amusement. “That bad, huh?”

The room feels smaller with him in it, or maybe it’s just warmer. Alex lies sprawled beside you on the bed, his arm still flung over his face like he’s shielding himself from the weight of the world — or at least his family’s knowing looks. His cheeks are still pink, and even though you can’t see it, you know the tips of his ears are red too. They always are when he’s embarrassed.

“They’re relentless.” he mutters, voice muffled by the crook of his arm.

“Do I-” you start.

“Wanna know?” he finishes for you, dropping his arm to glance sideways at you.

“Yeah.” you admit cautiously.

“No, you don’t.” His lips twitch, and you can tell he’s fighting a smile.

“Okay.” you say, drawing the word out as you roll onto your side to face him. “Were we…that loud?”

He exhales sharply and presses the heels of his hands against his burning cheeks. “Loud enough.” he admits, his voice low and strained with amusement. “Apparently.”

You can’t help it — you laugh. It bubbles up and spills out before you can stop it, and soon, Alex is laughing too, the sound soft and self-conscious but also a little freeing.

He lifts his head just enough to peek at you. “Loud enough that everyone had something to say. Even grandma.”

You cringe. “Oh no. What did she say?”

Alex groans again, dropping his head back dramatically against the mattress. “Something about how ‘young love is passionate’ and how she’s glad we’re ‘keeping the spark alive.’” He lets out another strangled laugh, covering his face again. “I’m never leaving this room again.”

You try to suppress a laugh of your own, but it bubbles up anyway. “Well, at least she was supportive?”

“She also gave me a knowing look, like she’s proud of me or something. That’s even worse.” He groans, rolling onto his side to face you. “How are you so calm about this? I feel like I’m gonna die.”

“Because,” you say, trying to keep a straight face, “it’s kind of funny.”

“It’s not funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

He glares. “You’re not the one who had to face my entire family while they all knew.”

“True.” you admit, grinning now. “But you’re the one who said, ‘I’m gonna come inside you now.’ Pretty sure that set the tone for the rest of the night.”

His jaw drops, and he throws a pillow at you. “You’re the one who begged me to!”

“Shh!” you hiss, laughing as you dodge the pillow. “Do you want them to hear us again?”

Alex groans, pulling the blanket over his head like a shield. “This is officially the worst Christmas ever.”

“Worst?” you tease, crawling closer and tugging at the blanket. “You didn’t seem to think so last night.”

He peeks out. “I’m serious. Next year, we’re staying home. Just you, me, and a soundproof door.”

“Deal.” you say, leaning in to kiss his nose. “They’re not going to let this go, are they?” you ask.

“Not in this lifetime.” he replies. “Ugh…Dad kept looking at me like I betrayed the family name.”

“And your mom?”

“Oh, she didn’t say anything.” He grimaces. “But that’s worse. I could feel her thinking things, and it was bad.”

“Define bad.”

He shifts onto his side to face you, his hand reaching out to lightly trace the edge of your jaw, his embarrassment softening. “Bad enough that I never want to find out for sure.”

You snort, nudging his shoulder playfully. “We’re not sneaky, huh?”

“Not even a little bit.” he says, leaning in to press a quick, warm kiss to your forehead. “But at least it’s over now.”

“Over? Alex, it’s Christmas morning. We’re still here.”

“Right.” he groans, flopping onto his back again. “Kill me now.”

He’s a grown man now, but some things never change. Even at this age, Alex can’t quite handle being caught in the act. Not that you blame him. The Turners have a way of making their judgment feel monumental, like you’ve broken some sacred Christmas tradition by being, well, married. And doing married stuff.

He’s flushed and disheveled, his hair sticking up at odd angles from the way he’s been running his hands through it all morning. His shirt is wrinkled from where he flopped onto the bed, and the collar’s just slightly askew. He’s always been handsome in that unintentional, almost careless way, but right now, he looks adorable.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed, you know that?” you say, unable to resist teasing him just a little.

“Don’t make it worse.”

“I’m not!” you protest, biting back a laugh. “I’m just saying. Some things never change.”

He raises an eyebrow, curious but wary. “Like what?”

“Like how you turn into a human tomato whenever you’re even slightly flustered,” you say, grinning. “Or how you can’t make eye contact when you’re embarrassed. Or how you always-”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” he interrupts, laughing as he rolls onto his side to face you. “I’m a walking cliché. Thanks for the reminder.”

“Not a cliché.” you correct. “Just…you. It’s kind of endearing, you know.”

He doesn’t respond, just looks at you with that quiet, searching expression of his. It’s that same look that made you fall for him in the first place.

“I really do love you.” he murmurs after a while, his voice low and warm.

“I know.” you whisper back, resting your head against his chest. “For what it’s worth,” you say, glancing up at him, “I don’t regret it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you say with a small smile. “Worth the teasing. Probably.”

His laugh is warm and low, and he squeezes your hand lightly. “Well, remind me to return the favor next time we stay at your place.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling as you nudge him again. “Merry Christmas, Alex.”

“Merry Christmas, trouble.”

a/n: Merry Christmas (Eve) for those who celebrate, I guess! (I’m just in it for the gifts icl) I hope you liked it, might be a bit all over the place, haven’t got a chance to properly check it for any mistakes but yeah, I’ve missed him a lot. Is it still prof!al if he’s not her professor anymore? I’m counting it.

#alex turner #alex turner x reader #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x you #alex turner x y/n #alex turner fluff #alex turner smut #alex turner fic #alex turner fanfic #smut #mr turner #goblinontour

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