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yothatshitgas · 2 days ago

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Maybes and What Ifs | Chapter 1 Pairing: Paige x Azzi Word Count: 3.7k Note: Work of fiction.

This is the start of the expansion series of The Dress. Hope y'all like it. I kinda rushed towards the end, but hopefully it still flows nicely. Let me know yalls thoughts :)

Summer 2017

“Your eyes are wandering,” Celeste said, sliding up beside me on the right. Her gaze followed mine across the court, “Azzi Fudd. That’s who you’re staring at.”

I tilted my head slightly, letting my gaze follow Azzi Fudd as she ran down the length of the court. Her pace wasn’t mind blowing athleticism, but there was a rhythm to the way she moved. A kind of efficiency so precise in a way that made it hard to look away. Her arms pumped in controlled strides, her legs extended with each push against the hardwood. She wasn’t the fastest, no. But she was definitely smooth, her muscles work in sync with an exact tempo.

I blinked, tearing my eyes away then turned to Celeste, “haven’t heard of her before.”

“Not surprising,” she replied, cracking open her Gatorade, “she was literally just in middle school, like, last week.”

“Makes her one of the youngest here, right?”

“Yeah,” Celeste nodded, taking a sip, “but out of anyone actually worth watching? She’s the youngest.”

That made me pause. I glanced back toward the court where Azzi was still running. Her cheeks were flushed, but she looked nowhere near winded. Just a steadiness in her every being that was far beyond her age.

“Right,” I said, “I haven’t seen anything that impressive.”

Celeste turned her head slowly, eyebrow fully cocked and her mouth curled into a smirk that said she wasn’t buying a single word, “okay,” she drawled, “totally. That’s why you’ve been watching her like she hung the moon.”

She didn’t wait for a reply, Celeste just got up and jogged back towards another group of girls that huddled under the far basket.

I mean, I really am not that impressed. Not in the way everyone else seems to be, at least. There’s nothing about her that screams generational talent. Sure, Azzi’s got decent handles. Her shot’s near perfect. But the same could be said about every other girl in this gym fighting for a spot. Nothing she’s doing is revolutionary.

At least… that’s what I keep telling myself.

‘Cause honestly, the only thing that caught my attention was that damn smile. Bright, easy. Like she wasn’t even breaking a sweat. Everyone else has that look - tight jaw, narrowed eyes, desperation practically tattooed on their forehead. But Azzi? She looked like she was playing a pickup game at the local rec center. Just turned fifteen and somehow the most relaxed person in the building.

And that bugged me more than it should have.

Who the hell smiles that much during drills? Maybe it’s her age playing a part. Maybe she hasn’t felt the pressure yet, the kind of pressure that makes your chest tight, your legs heavier and your hands shake. She doesn’t look like she’s carrying any of that. Not yet.

During scrimmage, Azzi and I ended up as pairs on the backcourt. It wasn’t planned, just how the rotations panned out. We trailed by a few points in the beginning, not by much, but enough to make every possession feel like it mattered. Their frontcourt consisted of Aliyah and Samantha who, I guess, found it fun to bulldoze through our defense with the sheer difference in size. Forcing our way into the paint won’t work, so I needed to figure out a different angle. Something to shift the pressure to the perimeter. And then, I saw her.

Azzi.

Posted up just beyond the arc on the left wing. Wide open.

Without hesitation, I whipped her the ball with a clean, fast chest pass. The moment it hit her hands, I just knew it would go in. She didn’t fumble, there was no sign of panic. She squared her shoulders, dipped into her form and released. Fluid - like everything else she does, as I’ve observed. Her motion was pure muscle memory, her follow through so crisp the net barely stood a chance.

Swish.

From that moment on, it was like we were synced. Unspoken chemistry. No looks needed. I’d drive, draw the defense and she would be at the wing, ready for a corner three. The more shots she knocked down, the more defensive gravity she pulled and that gave me breathing room I needed to slice into the midrange. I got on the board and Azzi stayed hot. We clawed our way back into the lead, one possession at a time and by the time the whistle blew to signal the end of the scrimmage, our team was up. Barely, but up

I jogged toward the sideline, breathless and buzzing with post-game adrenaline. I dropped to the bench, towel draped over my shoulder, heart still knocking at my ribs. Azzi strolled over, stopping just in front of me. I looked up, only to be met with bright eyes and a crooked grin tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Thanks for finding me,” she said quietly. Her voice was soft, almost shy, almost like it was meant just for me to hear and that made my cheeks burn hotter than the scrimmage ever had.

I looked away too fast, yanking my water bottle to my lips and taking a long drink I didn’t need, I just needed to give my hands something to do, “yeah,” I managed, my voice came out rough and I cleared my throat, “no problem. Good shots.”

She gave a little nod, “thanks. I’m Azzi, by the way.”

“Paige.”

“I know who you are.”

“Oh.” I blinked. Brilliant. I cleared my throat again, trying to hide the smile forming on my lips, “I mean, you know, formality and shit. Kind rude not to introduce myself, too.”

Azzi smiled, just little but it was enough to make me feel as if I’d been holding my breath during this entire conversation. Then she started to walk backward, still facing me as she drifted toward her bench, “good job today,” she said, that same soft timbre in her voice, “and good luck tomorrow, Paige.”

“Paigey,” Celeste sang from across the room, dragging out my name like she’d been rehearsing it just to annoy me. Her voice laced in a kind of smug delight that already had me sighing before she even finished, “you and Azzi? Y’all were kinda going crazy out there today. Gave Clark and Boston a run for their money.”

I didn’t look up, just gave her a noncommittal hum under my breath as I stared at the game footage playing on my iPad. Although, I hadn’t actually registered a single play in the last five minutes. I couldn’t stop replaying the scrimmage in my head. It wasn’t the stats or the matchups, it was just her. Azzi’s perfectly timed cuts, the way her shot looked from my angle whenever it sailed through the net and stupidly soft thanks for finding me that had burrowed deep in my chest and refused to leave.

“C’mon,” Celeste pressed, “that pass from the top of the key?” she brought her fingertips to her mouth to her lips and flicked away, “chef’s kiss, Paigey.”

I sighed, pausing the video and let a moment of silence stretch between us, “she’s decent,” I said, keeping my tone as casual as I could.

“Decent?” Celeste scoffed, “that girl shot like bricking a pass from you is a sin punished only in the depths of hell, don’t be annoying.”

“I’m not being annoying,” I mumbled, fiddling with the corner of my iPad case, “I’m just being objective.”

“Right.”

No bite, no dramatics. Just smug certainty and a smirk that got under my skin. I let out an irritated breath and tossed my iPad onto the nightstand, “bro, why the hell was she smiling the entire scrimmage?”

“You have a problem with her smiling now?”

“Yea. No. I don’t fucking know, maybe?”

Celeste doubled over, dissolving into a full-body laughter. Almost comically. She clutched her stomach, still laughing. High pitched and helpless.

I stared at her, “you done?”

She wasn’t. She wheezed between gasps, wiping tears that weren’t even there from the corners of her eyes, “you found someone who can actually keep up with you on the court,” she choked out, “and you’re mad that she’s doing it with a smile?”

I opened my mouth, but she didn’t give me a chance.

“You, the same girl who grins like a Disney villain after a no-look dime, are pressed because a fifteen year old might be having too much fun on the hardwood?”

“I’m not mad,” I corrected her through clenched teeth, “I’m confused. She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t even celebrate her own shots. When she misses? No scowl. She doesn’t even flinch after a turnover. She just smiles. Like none of this matters.”

Celeste flopped back on her bed, “maybe it doesn’t,” she said, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “or maybe it does and she just doesn’t show it the same way we do.”

I hummed.

“I mean,” she said after a moment, “you’ve never had someone sync with you like that, right?”

I stayed silent.

“Be sure to invite me to the wedding.”

“Gross,” I groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow, launching it at her, “she’s in middle school.”

“Freshman,” Celeste corrected, catching the pillow with one hand, “and you’re a sophomore, one year difference. It’s not that deep, Bueckers.”

“God, please, shut up.”

She grinned and pulled her blanket over her shoulder, “just saying. Chemistry.”

By day five, the roster had been sliced down to eighteen. None of the cuts came as a shock, but they were sure as hell sobering. The air felt heavier, more desperate. Six more girls needed to go and nobody felt safe anymore. That was when it stopped being tryouts and started feeling like survival. The shift was obvious - conversations got shorter, laughter disappeared entirely and water breaks felt calculated. Everyone was trying to figure out who’d survive the final cut. It wasn’t just about talent anymore. It was poise, mentality, consistency. How you moved when the coaches weren’t looking, and especially how moved when they were.

We had two days left to prove we belonged in one of those sacred spots. Two days to look irreplaceable.

And that’s exactly how Azzi and I presented ourselves. Together. We didn’t talk much, not that there was much need to. On the court, it was instinctual. We were finishing each other’s sequences as if we’d run drills together for years. Our chemistry was starting to speak louder than our resumes and people noticed.

I caught the coaches whispering on the sideline more than once. Nods and notes jotted down. Quick glances after another seamless backdoor dish. If there was one thing I felt halfway confident in, it was us. We were making this team.

At least, we should be. But nothing was locked in. Not with the depth chart crowded, guard-heavy didn’t even begin to describe it. We had four too many, each player with a case to make. Some were taller, stronger. Some had national titles under their belt. Others were just straight up dogs - relentless in a way that I admired and feared at the same time. I didn’t want to admit it, but the doubt crept in more often than I’d like.

I pulled my hair back for what felt like the tenth time that morning when the elastic snapped between my fingers. Perfect.

“Fuck,” I muttered, staring at the broken tie like I could will it back together.

“Here.”

I turned.

Azzi was already holding out a spare black hair tie, dangling it between two fingers.

I blinked, “thanks.”

She shrugged, “you look nervous,” she said, as casual as ever.

“I don’t get nervous, Fudd,” I replied, looping the new tie around my fingers, “I just want this, more than anyone in here.”

She didn’t flinch, just sat down beside me on the gym floor, cross-legged, elbows resting on her knees, “what if I wanted it more than you?” she asked, it didn’t come out as a challenge, it came out as a simple question that had just occurred to her.

I snorted, “right.”

“What’s so funny?”

“I don’t know,” I rubbed the back of my neck, “you make it look easy. You glide around the court like you could do all of this in your sleep. So no offense, but it’s hard to picture you wanting this more than me when it barely looks like you’re breaking a sweat.”

She stared at me, then a smile tugged at her lips, “thank you? Also fuck you?”

That made me laugh and I grabbed a towel, dragging it across my face to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks, “yeah,” I admitted, grinning into the cloth, “I deserved that. That made no sense.”

I stole a glance at Azzi as she watched the court, eyes sharp and unwavering. Every muscle in her posture leaned toward the game, charged with intent. Nothing about her energy read anxious or eager to prove something, she simply belonged on the court and she knew it with every fibre of her being. The effortlessness wasn’t arrogance, it was certainty. While everyone else was gripping at control, she already held it in her hands.

That’s when it hit me, maybe she did want it more than me but, at the very least, we wanted it in different ways.

The low hum of the AC filled the room, a mechanical heartbeat that did little to cut through the blank quiet pooling in my chest. Celeste was downstairs in the lobby with the rest of the girls, probably knee deep in someone’s group chat scandal. I tapped out early, an attempt at salvaging the remainder of my social battery, chasing silence to fix the strange weight pressing behind my eyes.

I was halfway through drying my hair after a much needed shower when a soft knock broke through the stillness. I walked over, opening the door without thinking and there Azzi stood barefoot in the hallway, wearing a faded oversized t-shirt with pale blue pajama shorts. No makeup, curls loose and still damp, post shower. Just her. Soft and unexpected.

“Hey,” she said, that same calm smile plastered on her face, “figured you’d be here.”

“Uh, well…” my voice caught somewhere between surprise and confusion, “I was downstairs, just got tired. Early day tomorrow and all.”

“Right,” she nodded, but then she continued, eyes meeting mine, “can I come in?”

“Huh?”

“I wanted to hang out. If that’s cool with you?”

“Oh.”

Heat unfurled beneath my skin, climbing from my neck to my ears. I stepped aside in silence, unable to formulate an actual sentence. She stepped in with ease, making her way over to the small loveseat in the corner of the room and folded herself onto it, cross legged, perfectly at ease. She looked around, eyes wandering from the desk clutter, to the dirty pile of laundry, to the practice gear draped over the chair then back to me. Waiting.

I stood frozen before I came to my senses, dropping onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the towel around my neck. The AC failed to help with the sudden warmth gathering across my face.

“Where do you live?” I asked, grasping for anything to say, my voice came out lighter than intended at my attempt to make small talk.

“Arlington,” she replied, then clarified, “Virginia.”

“What school?”

“St. John’s this Fall, My dad coaches there.”

“Cool.”

Cool? That’s what I went with?

This is getting ridiculous. There was nothing about this girl that should be this intimidating, for God’s sake, she wore unicorn-print pajama shorts and smiled at vending machines. I sat a little straighter, turning more fully toward her. She didn’t move much, still perched on the love seat, fingers drumming slightly against her knee. She seemed comfortable, entirely unbothered. Meanwhile, I was busy second guessing every single blink.

I glanced at her again and found her already watching me. Our eyes held.

The lamplight from the desk hit her at an angle, casting the softest gold along her cheekbones. Her eyes weren’t brown, but not quite black, either. It was something richer, a color that made you want to look longer just to figure it out. In her eyes, I suddenly forgot what my own voice sounded like.

“You?” she asked, tone light but she still held my gaze, “where are you from?”

“Minnesota.”

“I’ve got family there,” she replied.

“Cool.”

Jesus Christ.

I almost groaned out loud. Cool again?

I broke our eye contact and looked down at my lap, my hands restless. I searched for something grounding, anything to tether me back to myself. My fingers drifted to the black hair tie still looped around my wrist, the same one that she’d handed me during practice without hesitation. I caught her eyeing the band.

“You want it back?”

She shook her head, “it’s just a hair tie, keep it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

The silence returned. It wasn’t awkward, just full of things neither of us had figured out how to say yet. Then, her voice came again.

“Paige.”

Just my name, soft through her voice. It hit me square in the chest and my heart completely stalled, it felt like my breathing was out of rhythm.

“Yeah?”

She hesitated but then came her question, “do you hate me?”

“What?”

“You’re relaxed with the other girls,” she said, eyes landing on mine again, “you joke, you laugh. You’re loud. But with me, you close off. You freeze. It’s like you don’t even want to give me the time of day.”

“I don’t hate you,” I said immediately, hoping to ease her worry.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s complicated.”

“How so?”

“Just is.”

I expected that to frustrate her, yet the only thing that came from it was another tilt to her head, studying me with the same focus she had on the court.

“Paige,” she said, quieter this time.

“Az.”

There was a small shift, her smile cracking through the silence, “only my grandparents call me Az,” she murmured, amusement tugging gently at her voice.

“Oh,” I suddenly felt self-conscious, “sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep -”

“No,” she said, cutting me off with a quick shake of her head, “there’s nothing wrong with it, I like it. It sounds right when you say it.”

I scrambled internally for something to say, anything to pull me back from whatever this was starting to become. But my mind was empty, too full to speak. Every second that passed felt like a thread pulling loose.

Not because of her.

Definitely not.

“Paige,” her voice cut through, enough to pull me out of the mental spiral I had fallen in.

“Hm?”

“I like playing with you.”

Five simple words, but each syllable caused my heart to jump, stumble and skip a beat.

“Oh,” I said. Fucking brilliant, then, because my mouth hated to cooperate with my brain at even the most vital moments, I smiled, “I like you, too. I mean, playing. I like playing with you, too,”fuck, I immediately buried my face in my hands, groaning into my palms, “just… please ignore me.”

Through my fingers, I peeked up and caught her smiling.

When the final roster was announced, among the twelve names was mine and Azzi’s. There was no ceremony, just a printed list taped to a wall outside the meeting room. I stared at it longer than necessary, even after finding my name. Around me, girls hugged, cried, calls made. Others left with their heads down, fast steps and forced smiles. But Azzi and I had made it. Whatever we were or weren’t, it had worked. On the court, at least.

We were told we had a week. Enough time to go home, reset and wrap our minds around what came next. Buenos Aires. International competition. A tournament that would last just four days, but would require every bit of focus, discipline and resolve we could muster.

When we touched down in Argentina, something in me clicked. This was real. The stakes, the stage, the flag we proudly wore across our chests. It was the kind of dream you didn’t allow yourself to believe in until you were already living it.

We didn’t just play, we won. Went completely undefeated. Game after game, Azzi and I came off the bench, a sudden burst of pace that threw off our opponents. While the starters set the tone, we rewrote it. Disrupted rhythm, changed the tempo. Where they expected fatigue, we brought fire. She cut, I passed. I drove, she created space. We didn’t need to talk, just read each other effortlessly. It was chemistry in motion, and it felt as natural as breathing.

By the end of the tournament, people noticed. They all saw the two youngest players out there syncing up like we’d grown up in the same driveway. But eventually, the medals were handed out, jerseys packed away and the lights dimmed on our short spotlight. Just like that, it was over and the moment in my hotel room, whatever it had been between us, it had stayed there. Pressed into the folds of that quiet night, never spoken out loud. Never picked up again. Then we flew home.

Summer blurred around the edges. Workouts, conditioning, long days under the gym lights. My legs stayed tired and my schedule stayed full. The only thing I had room for was forward motion.

Azzi and I messaged a few times in between the chaos that the tournament had created. Nothing deep. Jokes. Reactions to Insta stories. One word check-ins that never led to anything.

On my birthday, she sent a text: Happy Birthday :)

I replied: Thanks!

She didn’t text after that, so I let it sit. Then I let it - let her - go. Filed Azzi away in the back of my mind under almost. Not a heartbreak, not even disappointment. Just a soft, strange ache of something never really got to begin. A summer crush I didn’t even have time to understand while it was happening, let alone mourn once it passed.

But even so…

I remembered.

The knock. Her soft voice when she said my name. That flicker, brief but undeniable, that settled between us.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough to remember.

#pazzi #pazzi fics #paige x azzi

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kenyatta · 2 days ago

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“You know,” said Ninheimer, “I’ll tell you–just to watch it do you no good at all. You can’t understand human motivation. You can only understand your damned machines because you’re a machine yourself, with skin on.”

He was breathing hard and there was no hesitation in his speech, no searching for precision.

He said, “For two hundred and fifty years, the machine has been replacing Man and destroying the handcraftsman. Pottery is spewed out of molds and presses. Works of art have been replaced by identical gimracks stamped out on a die. Call it progress, if you wish! The artist is restricted to abstractions, confined to the world of ideas. He must design something in mind–and then the machine does the rest.

“Do you suppose the potter is content with mental creation? Do you suppose the idea is enough? That there is nothing in the feel of the clay itself, in watching the thing grow as hand and mind work together? Do you suppose the actual growth doesn’t act as a feedback to modify and improve the idea?”

“You are not a potter,” said Dr. Calvin.

“I am a creative artist! I design and build articles and books. There is more to it than the mere thinking of words and of putting them in the right order. If that were all, there would be no pleasure in it, no return.“A book should take shape in the hands of the writer. One must actually see the chapters grow and develop. One must work and rework and watch the changes take place beyond the original concept even. There is taking the galleys in hand and seeing how the sentences look in print and molding them again. There are a hundred contacts between a man and his work at every stage of the game–and the contact itself is pleasurable and repays the man for the work he puts into his creation more than anything else could. Your robot would take all that away.”

So does a typewriter. So does a printing press. Do you propose to return to the hand illumination of manuscripts?”

“Typewriters and printing presses take away some, but your robot would deprive us of all. Your robot takes over the galleys. Soon it, or other robots, would take over the original writing, the searching of the sources, the checking and cross-checking of passages, perhaps even the deduction of conclusions. What would that leave the scholar? One thing only–the barren decisions concerning what orders to give the robot next! I want to save the future generations of the world of scholarship from such a final hell. That meant more to me than even my own reputation and so I set out to destroy U. S. Robots by whatever means.”

“You were bound to fail,” said Susan Calvin.

“I was bound to try,” said Simon Ninheimer.

Calvin turned and left. She did her best to feel no pang of sympathy for the broken man. She did not entirely succeed.

- from the short story 'Galley Slave' by Isaac Asimov (1957)

Also want to share this bit from the WP plot summary:

The story is a courtroom drama. It opens in 2034, with Simon Ninheimer, a professor of sociology, suing U.S. Robots and Mechanical Men for loss of professional reputation. He contends that robot EZ-27 (aka "Easy"), while leased to Northeastern University for use as a proofreader, deliberately altered and rewrote parts of his book Social Tensions Involved in Space Flight and their Resolution while checking the galley proofs (hence the title). Ninheimer holds that the alterations to his book make him appear an incompetent scholar who has absurdly misrepresented the work of his professional colleagues.

#isaac asimov #short story #robotics #science fiction

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wcnderlnds · 1 day ago

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back for you ★ hwang jun-ho

・❥・ summary: now that junho is free from the memories that had plagued him for so long, he's ready to start his life over with you. unfortunately, his brother inho has a habit of trying to ruining that for him. ・❥・word count: 2.1k ・❥・warnings: 18+, mdni. fingering in an elevator, swearing. established relationship. SQUID GAME S3 SPOILERS, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. ・❥・authors note: i swear to you this wasn't meant to be smut but i have a lot of junho feelings. im also bad at writing kids so... i'm so sorry in advance for how bad this might be.

Those first few weeks after Junho had finally found the island only to not get the closure from his brother that he had been craving had been eye opening for him. For so long, he had been focused on finding his brother, getting the answers to the questions that had plagued him for years. It had consumed his life, took over every single thing he did but now? Now, he knew he was never going to know and maybe that was okay. He had done his part, he had tried his best. There was nothing more he could do but move on with his life. So, that’s what he did.

It hadn’t been easy at first, it had taken a lot of time for him to find his new purpose but he had you to help him along the way. Being in a relationship with Junho over the last few years hadn’t been easy but through every single thing, you had stuck by him. That had meant more to him than he could even put into words. A future with you – that was his purpose now. You had been together for about five years. Junho had never wanted to commit fully knowing that he couldn’t give himself to you one hundred percent but now he could. That was why two months after everything had happened with the island, he got down on one knee and proposed to you.

Being your fiance was the greatest honour of his life. It was so freeing knowing that he could finally give himself to you so completely, finally.

“I really liked the red velvet one but the strawberry one was so nice, too,” you said excitedly. The two of you walked hand in hand down the street back to your apartment. Wedding planning was in full swing and today you’d been out cake tasting. It had been yours and Junho’s favourite part of the whole planning process so far. Who wouldn’t love sitting down and trying different cakes for an hour?

“I liked the strawberry one, too. Maybe we should book another tasting just to be sure,” he grinned, wrapping his arm around your shoulder instead to pull you into his side. You immediately wrapped your arm around his waist, looking up at him with a smile.

“I like the way you think, Hwang.”

“I’m not just a pretty face.”

You laughed which only made the smile on Junho’s face brighter. There was nothing more precious to you than seeing that smile on his face. For so long, all you had seen was him struggling, a smile a rare oddity as he searched for his brother. Life had taken so much from him but now he seemed so carefree. He seemed like the Junho you had met all those years ago back in high school. The one who laughed at everything, who enjoyed the small things in life. You knew deep down that he still thought about Inho and what could have been. You couldn’t blame him. Inho had been such an important part of his life – he had basically raised Junho but he wasn’t the man that Junho had once known. He was a completely different person now. That was why he had finally decided to move on. The brother he once had was long gone, replaced by a stranger he didn’t know. There would always be a part of Junho that was missing but as long as he had you, he knew he’d be okay.

“Is the elevator actually working today? I don’t want to walk up all the stairs again,” you scanned the lobby of your apartment building, eyes lighting up when you saw that the elevator was actually working.

“Guess they fixed it while we were out,” Junho pressed the button, the elevator doors opening. He guided you inside, pressing the button to the sixth floor where your shared apartment was. As you rested your back against the cool metal wall of the elevator, Junho grabbed you by the waist, his hot breath fanning over your face as he gazed down at you with adoring eyes. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look today?”

“Maybe once or twice but it wouldn’t hurt to hear it again,” you rested your hands on the plane of his chest, feeling his muscles tense through his shirt. Junho leaned down, capturing your lips in a soft, gentle kiss.

It didn’t take long for things to heat up. Junho’s tongue traced along the seam of your lips, asking for entrance. The second you parted your lips, his tongue met yours in a heated dance. Each time you kissed, it felt like the first time. The sparks ever present like you couldn’t get enough of each other. Your hands fisted in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him as close to you as humanly possible.

Junho’s hand danced along the waistband of your jeans, popping the button open and dipping inside. His fingers slowly, teasingly ran along your panties, already feeling the damp spot forming there. It made him groan into the kiss. It never ceased to amaze him how your body reacted to him, just one simple touch made you a complete mess. Intimacy had been far and few over the years but now he was making up for lost time. Any opportunity he could take to show you how much he loved you, he was going to grasp. His fingers rubbed slow circles against your core, a breathy whine falling from your lips. A smirk adorned his face; he had you right where he wanted you.

“Junho, please,” you said breathlessly. You bucked your hips into his hand trying to seek more friction. There were only a few more floors before you’d reach yours and you so badly needed him to finish what he was starting.

As if sensing your desperation, he slipped his fingers inside your panties, his long digits sliding through your folds with ease. Your slick coated his fingers, making him groan, aching for more. He circled your entrance with one of his fingers, easing a finger inside you which caused you to gasp, throwing your head back in ecstasy. He began moving it slowly, his thumb finding your clit. His eyes glanced over seeing you were at the third floor. He had to speed this up so he moved faster, pumping his finger into you with increasing speed. The hand that was on your hip, held you in place, stilling your movements. When he slipped another finger inside you, the moan you let out was louder than you expected. You had never been more thankful that nobody else was in the elevator with you. Junho added more pressure with his thumb, circling your clit as his fingers drove into you. He knew your body better than anyone, he could tell that you were getting close. You just needed that push. So, he curled his fingers inside you, stroking that spot that made you see stars.

“Oh my god, right there, baby, I’m so close,” you panted. The moans falling from your lips paired with how wet you were against his fingers was making his cock throb in his jeans. He couldn’t wait to get you back to your apartment so he could really show you just how much he loved you.

“Come on, baby. Come for me,” he leaned forward to whisper in your ear, the deep rumble of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “We’re almost at our floor. We don’t want anyone catching us, do we?”

It took one more hard thrust of his fingers before your orgasm came crashing over you. A moan of his name echoed through the elevator. He kept his fingers moving, working you through your orgasm. He could feel your release on his fingers, the sensation making him harder than before. When he was sure you were completely spent, he pulled his fingers from you. Just in time because the elevator dinged letting you know you were at your destination.

You took a moment to take a steady breath in. You needed a moment to collect yourself before you could even think about walking. Junho brought his hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing delicately against your skin. “You okay?”

“I’m great,” you said with a dazed smile. “Can’t wait to return the favour.”

Junho just laughed, guiding you out of the elevator and down the hall to your apartment. Before he unlocked the door, you leaned up on your tiptoes, kissing him. He tangled his fingers in your hair, savouring the feeling of your lips against his. It was a miracle that he managed to somehow open the door from behind while you were entangled with each other. He stepped back into the apartment, tearing his lips from yours momentarily. Just as he was about to speak, something caught his eye.

“What…?” He made his way over to the small bundle of blankets. His face paled as he laid eyes upon the last thing he thought he’d ever see in his apartment.

A baby.

“Junho, what’s wr-”

You were stopped in your tracks when you heard the cry of the baby. In his hands, Junho held a small card, the words ‘Player 222, winner’ written on it. Then, he pulled out a debit card, his eyes widening. “....Inho…”

It was almost on instinct that you picked the baby up, holding it against you to soothe it’s crying. You were no expert with kids but you couldn’t leave the poor thing laying there crying. It had been left here for a reason. The sound of his brother's name caught your attention, your confused eyes looking at your fiance with question. “...Inho did this?”

“I… yeah, I think so.” He paused. Never had he felt his heart hammering against his chest so hard before. A sense of panic washing over him. He may not be a detective anymore but it didn’t take one to figure out what this meant. “I need to… uh, I need to go to an ATM.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“You’re kidding me?!” You exclaimed loudly, the baby safely in your arms as you looked over Junho’s shoulder to see the balance on the ATM.

45.6 billion won.

Junho looked like he’d seen a ghost, all the memories of everything he’d witnessed on the island rushing back to him. He knew what this money was, what it meant. It was dirty money but… it was money that could help. Somehow, some way, he knew that Inho knew he needed this. He had a wedding to pay for and now… a baby to care and look after. Children had been a topic of discussion between the both of you but you had decided that you didn’t want to start trying for a few years yet, opting to enjoy just being together first before you brought a child into the world. Now, thanks to Inho, you had no choice.

Junho leaned against the wall beside the ATM. You placed a gentle hand on his cheek, letting him know you were there. He wasn’t alone – he never would be again. You spoke softly, trying to reassure him. “Hey, it’ll be okay. I… we can do this. I know we’re not ready but you and me, we can do anything, yeah? We’ve been through worse.”

Junho nodded. “Y-yeah.”

“This baby has nobody, Junho. We have to give it the life it deserves. We don’t want everything that happened to be in vain.”

“I just wish he’d have.. come to me in person. Why won’t he just talk to me?” He sounded so defeated. Of course Inho had a way of ruining everything, setting Junho back just as life had gotten good for him.

“Fuck him,” you said. “What matters now is you, me and this baby. Nothing else. We’re in this together, okay? Inho is a thing of a past. It’s his loss that he’s cut you out, not yours. That is not your burden to bear. You tried, baby. You tried so hard and don’t ever forget that.”

“Okay,” Junho nodded. His eyes landed on the baby. “I saw her. All those months ago on the island. She won the games. I don’t know how, I don’t want to know how or why she was even involved in them but… we can’t ever tell her, okay? I don’t want her to ever know where she came from. Not from that place. She doesn’t deserve to live with that.”

“She won’t. She’ll have a good life with us. Now, come on. We have 45.6 billion and a baby to cater for now. We better go shopping.”

Junho had never been more thankful to have you. The way you could lighten a situation and make him feel like he was going to be okay. It was more than he could ever ask for. Raising this baby wasn’t going to be easy but together, you could do it. You could do anything.

taglist (ask to be added!): @ldydeath @infinetlyforgotten @berfgrimm @loveesiren @justsisse @sherrayyyyy @aizshallnotbefound @fleabagspurplewife @gemzyy @bettelaboure @gdinthehouseee @breakmeoff @babyrvis @flymetothexmoon @forevervibezzzz1 @ttturnitup @szonyix6277 @riddlerloveb0t @youlikeex @str8t2video @septywitch @melanatedhorrorqueen @l5byrinth @tabibabib

#hwang jun ho x reader #hwang jun ho #wi ha joon #squid game x reader #hwang junho smut #my fics

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alessiathepirate · 2 days ago

Text

SQUID GAME: JUST IMAGINE...

◇◇◇

Imagine... a reader who won the games during S1 with Gi-hun. A reader who holds onto her faith in humanity as much as he does. A reader who knows about all the ugliness the world has to offer, just like Gi-hun does, yet she choses to hold onto her hope for Gi-hun while Gi-hun holds onto his hope for her.

Imagine... that the reader stays with Gi-hun through thick and thin, through the trauma, the nightmares and the revenge. She joins the games again during S2 with Gi-hun - giving each other hope to keep going.

Imagine... that the reader represents everything good to Gi-hun. Love, hope, goodness and innocence. What they have is an unsaid kind of love, something silent and mutual. A kind of respect and fear for the other what is unmatched.

Imagine... that this isn't a true romantic relationship, not in the common sense. Nothing is said out loud, but the touches, the gestures and the feelings are truly there.

Imagine... that when In-ho joins the games as Player 001, as Young-il, he actually befriends her and Gi-hun. At first only for his gain and entertainment. Only to play with them for the fun of it. But then she becomes his obsession. Not her as a person, but more like what she represents.

Imagine... that the reader represents the very small shine of hope for In-ho. A long lost hope for humanity. A long lost faith and love for it.

He finally understands Gi-hun's obvious care for her. He finally understands the importance she has.

Imagine... him watching her play -- her cheering for the others, caring for Jun-hee and Gi-hun, keeping everyone she cares about safe. In-ho knows the S1 games ruined her, like they ruined Gi-hun too - she is less loud, less honest, less happy; but it's still her.

Imagine... him actually starting to care again. Again after all those years. After he accepted his disappointment in people in general. After he accepted that everyone is a cruel, evil, power and money-hungry...

Him actually opening up about his past as honestly as he can, craving her care and affection. Craving her goodness and her hope.

Imagine... him being slightly jealous that Gi-hun deserves her smile, her laugh, her honesty, her tears, her fears... Her everything.

Yet even he knows he has no chance to fight it, to compete with him. Gi-hun was there for her first. Gi-hun loved her first. In-ho can't just steal her away. He could, but it would end up ruining her further. It would leave her without Gi-hun who was the reason for her positivity, for her hope and love.

Imagine... In-ho fighting both players and guards for her, not caring who he has to kill, beat or shoot to keep her safe.

Imagine... Gi-hun doing the same, only he keeps her close by, within an arm's reach.

Imagine... In-ho thinking how disappointed she would be with him for all the bad things he has done. He's the Frontman, he killed Jung-bae, he's the reason why Sang-woo and Sae-byeok are dead in the first place.

In-ho knows she couldn't love him.

He knows he's not Young-il, the man she actually likes and understands.

And damn, he wishes he could be him. Truly and wholly him.

Imagine... him learning to respect Gi-hun even more. One way or another he's the only person she has left. The only one left whom she can love wholeheartedly. And Gi-hun is there to keep her safe, to keep her company, to give her hope.

As In-ho watches the screen while drinking, seeing Gi-hun and her broken, half suicidal, half pissed off, he thinks it's good that he's there because otherwise the grieving wouldn't be this pretty.

Imagine... In-ho drinking more than usual as he watches her during hide-and-seek and only being able to breathe calmly after Gi-hun found her to keep her safe.

Imagine... In-ho having to do his best to stay calm as the VIPs mention her, laugh at her, taunt her and talk about her looks. God knows he almost killed them himself when they joked that maybe they'll see her and Gi-hun make love in the dark. And God knows he never felt that disgusted ever before.

Imagine... that when In-ho wants to talk to Gi-hun before the final game, he is all nerves and rage. All the 'O' players want to kill her, the baby and Gi-hun - they want them gone so they'll get their money. And he wishes he could just go and kill them all himself.

Imagine... that he doesn't care at all if Gi-hun kills him or not - he would let him do that calmly. He tells him that much too. He knows he'd deserve it. But he begs him to promise him that he'll take the knife, kill all those fuckers and keep her and the baby safe.

He begs him to make sure she lives. That she lives a calm, long life with the baby and Gi-hun. That Gi-hun will take care of her, love her and keep her safe from the world itself.

Imagine... Gi-hun realizing that In-ho actually cares. Honestly, wholeheartedly.

Imagine... Gi-hun feeling completely hopeless and angry at himself when he can't bring himself to do it.

But he swore he would keep her safe and he wants to keep her safe more than anything. So he promises himself that he'll make them lose the last game. He'll make sure that she'll win.

Imagine... In-ho panicing, not knowing what to really do -- so he does what he really doesn't want to. He talks to her in private just like he did with Gi-hun. He slowly builds up the courage to take off the mask, to show her he's Young-il, to swallow her disappointment, her fear and anger. He gives her a knife too and trying to keep up the cold and ruthless facade, commands her to win. To win because everyone else wants her and those whom she loves dead.

Imagine... that when Gi-hun dies to save her and the baby from certain death, In-ho breaks inside realizing that no matter what he did, he still managed to shatter her completely. When she breaks at the sight of Gi-hun and Player 333 falling to their deaths, In-ho does too.

Know... that Gi-hun never had the time to tell her that he loves her more than he loved anything in his lifetime.

Know... that the reader never had the time to confess either.

Imagine... In-ho hearing her screams of agony and pain, because she lost the man she truly and honestly loved - through his ups and downs, through blood and death. He feels the same pain deep inside and he almost blows up the island with the VIPs when he hears them laugh at her as they get evacuated.

Imagine... that the last glimmer of hope In-ho just started to get back is taken from him. Again. As her face goes blank, numb from the pain in her soul, she loses everything In-ho held dear.

Imagine... that this reader, who loved Gi-hun, who had the thin chance of loving In-ho or at the very least Young-il, becomes In-ho's biggest nightmare - in every sense of the world. In-ho grieves with her as he also grieves her.

Imagine... that when In-ho goes to take half of the prize money from the motel to Ga-yeong, he finds her promise for revenge on the card Gi-hun won from the Salesman.

"A game of tag".

And In-ho knows she'll win it - because he'll let her.

Imagine... this reader fully locking in to hunt him down. That's what she does with the money - she continues what Gi-hun had started.

It takes days, weeks, months, years... The pain of losing Gi-hun never fades.

She's a heavy smoker now, she forgot how to smile or laugh, Woo-seok is more than worried for her...

...but, nothing matters.

Imagine... love turning into fear. Because In-ho is scared. Scared of looking the consequences of his actions in the eyes.

Imagine... finally finding him. Finally seeing him again.

He can't even recognize the monster he created.

She's not scared of killing anymore. Being scared of cutting a few throaths was her biggest mistake.

Imagine... that In-ho has to realize that he still loves her, he never stopped loving her. He just accepted his fate - he accepted that it was too late for him to ask for her forgiveness. He accepted that she'll never ever love him back.

Know... that the reader doesn't know about his feelings, at all.

Know... that the reader blames him for it all. For the disappearance of Gi-hun's smile and laugh, his curls, his warmth, his hugs, his life.

Know... that this is the only thing left she has the strength to do.

Imagine... In-ho letting it happen. Zero guards, zero will to live. He stands in front of her unfazed.

Imagine... him not knowing how to say the things he wants to say. Not since his wife passed away, not since he won the games.

Imagine... them talking like old friends - the only difference is In-ho loves her and respects her, while she doesn't.

Imagine... In-ho finally telling her about that day - the day she won.

He tells her how he wanted Gi-hun to live for her, how he wanted him to kill for her. He tells her that he didn't want any of that to happen. He tells her he almost killed the other players himself - and him not doing that is the biggest regret of his entire life.

Imagine... In-ho admitting that she made him happy, that while he was Young-il he never really lied to her about himself.

Imagine... him admitting that the VIPs who laughed at her agony turned up dead after a few weeks.

Imagine... her asking why...

...why do all of this.

Imagine... that it's not said out loud. Not really. There is no literal confession.

But they both know why.

Just know... that sometimes love isn't perfect nor enough.

◇◇◇

Or just don't imagine any of this at all since S3 sucks and no one accepts it as canon...

...don't imagine any of this because it will break you even more♡

#squid game #squid game x reader #squid game x fem!reader #seong gi hun x reader #frontman x reader #hwang in ho x reader #young il x reader #alessiathepirate

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angelsuecult · 24 hours ago

Text

perfect places | s. crosby

warnings: some language, sex jokes

summary: you and Sidney finally get time to yourselves, the aftermath isn’t pretty.

request: Maybe they go to one of Sid’s games and spotted by paparazzi or for one of his games he has on like pink laces or pink tape on his stick.

word count: 16.9k

a/n: okay so I feel like I strayed kind of far from the request on this one. i think I was just trying to sort of like do some build up/make a nice story for the two of them? I was also listening to you are in love by taylor swift basically on repeat while writing this one so that might explain it. It’s also super long so forgive me on that guys. forgive me original asker, i may have gotten carried away with this one pls don’t hesitate to reach out if you hate it/love it/want more, anything really!

previous part | part two

—

Wednesday

It has been close to 5 weeks now.

The house smells like garlic and something just shy of burning butter. You’d stepped away from the pan for maybe—maybe—forty-five seconds to grab your daughter’s water cup from the other room, and now the sautéed onions were skating a little too close to the line between golden and scorched. You turned the burner down and stirred them quickly, murmuring a soft, “C’mon, work with me here,” under your breath like the onions could hear you.

Your daughter is in the living room, perched cross-legged on the carpet, narrating a story as her dolls enacted it all. Something about a hockey princess and her dragon friend who lived under the rink. It was cute—adorable, really—and it made the house feel full in a way that distracted from the low fatigue behind your ribs.

And then your phone buzzed on the counter.

You glanced over. Probably a reminder or maybe Owen’s mom finalizing drop-off times. You wiped your hands on a towel and tapped the screen.

Sidney Crosby: Hey.

Sidney Crosby: How’s your week been? Hope you and the little one are doing great.

You blinked. For a second, the message didn’t quite register. You had to reread it once, twice. Then again, slower.

You hadn’t actually expected to hear from him.

Not really. It wasn’t that you thought he was rude or full of shit—Sidney didn’t come off that way. It was more that well, life was busy. His life especially. The man was a walking headline. With training, press, games, travel, probably a calendar booked for months out. You figured the meet-cute at the gear store and then at the rink had been nice but nothing more. Something to smile about and then file away under “fun moments that don’t go anywhere.”

But there it was. His name on your screen. His words, low-key and friendly. You smiled before you meant to. You: Hi :) we’re good. Someone’s got mystery sauce on her shirt and is telling a story about dragons under hockey rinks.

You: So you know. Just a regular Wednesday.

He replied fast. Sidney Crosby: That sounds like a solid plot. Does the dragon know how to skate?

You laughed quietly. You: Apparently he was trained by the hockey princess herself.

Sidney Crosby: Smart dragon. Good mentor.A pause. Sidney Crosby: You doing good? How’s everything been since Little Penguins?

You leaned against the counter, phone still in hand, onions now perfectly golden. You stirred them absentmindedly while texting back, your thumb hovering as you paused to find the right words.

You: We’re great. She’s still buzzing from it. Talks about it like she’s been drafted by the Pens. You?

His reply made your stomach do a little flip. Sidney Crosby: Glad to hear it. I’ve been good. Busy, but not bad busy.

Sidney Crosby: I’ve been meaning to text you, just didn’t want to bother you while things were hectic.

You bit your lip, smile twitching again.

You: You wouldn’t have bothered me. Promise.

He replied right away.

Sidney Crosby: Good to know. I’ve been thinking about you.

Your chest fluttered, breath catching in your throat just a little. You tried to keep it cool.

You: Oh yeah? Hope it was all good thoughts.

Sidney Crosby: Only the good kind.

Sidney Crosby: Wanted to see if maybe you’d want to grab dinner Friday? Just us. I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Your heart skipped. No—actually flipped. You stared at the screen, rereading the message at least three times before you even registered your daughter was at your side talking to you again.

“Mommy? I drew you a dragon,” she said, holding up her notebook proudly.

You blinked and turned around, clearing your throat. “Oh, baby, it’s beautiful.” You kissed the top of her head, smiling softly. “I love the wings.”

“They’re sparkly,” she said, matter-of-fact. “Even though I didn’t have glitter. Can I have a snack?”

“In a minute. Dinner’s almost ready,” you said, distracted now. Because your brain was still chewing on one thing:

I’ll find somewhere quiet. No pressure.

Dinner. With him. This Friday.

You hesitated.

You’d already promised your daughter she could go over to Owen’s that afternoon. She’d been talking about it all week. And you were supposed to stay for a little while—chat with Owen’s mom, hang around until they were fully settled and playing nice. She’d been talking about it all week, literally had a countdown going. Two more sleeps till Owen’s!

You didn’t want to back out. Your girl counted on you to be steady. And maybe it was silly, but single mom guilt was just this constant shadow at your heels. It crept in during quiet moments and whispered things like don’t be selfish and she should always come first and is one night out really worth missing something for her?

So you didn’t reply to Sid right away.

Your thumb hovered over the reply box, and then you locked your phone instead.

Goddammit.

You wiped your hands again and grabbed your phone again, unlocking it, swiping out of the conversation and scrolling to the contact labeled Michelle—your best friend’s name.

You hit call.

“Hey,” Michelle answered on the second ring, over the sound of her dog barking in the background.

“I need advice,” you said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “And maybe permission to be a selfish bitch.”

Michelle immediately sighed. “Oh no. What did sweet girl do now?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly. “She’s perfect. It’s me. I’m the problem.”

“That’s not news.”

You laughed, a little breathless. “Okay so, remember Sidney? Hockey guy? Kid whisperer? Weirdly charming for someone who probably owns like eight matching suits and drinks protein shakes for fun?”

“You mean Sidney Crosby. The one you swore was just flirting for fun? Yeah, I remember.”

“Well. He texted me.”

Michelle went silent for a second, then: “Okay. Start from the top. Slowly. With details.”

You explained everything, from the text while you were making dinner to the sudden dinner Friday invite. You didn’t leave anything out. Not even the part where you felt like a giant jackass for even thinking about ditching your kid for a date, even a one-off, even with someone who maybe made you laugh more than you had in months.

“So say yes,” Michelle said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But the playdate—”

“She’ll be at Owen’s. She’s not gonna notice if you’re gone for like, two hours.”

“She might—”

“She won’t,” Michelle cut you off. “You’re allowed to have a goddamn life. You know that, right? Like you’re not chained to the hockey mom bleachers 24/7.”

You sighed. “It’s just… the guilt, you know?”

“I get it,” Michelle said, voice softening. “But she’s got you like, ninety-nine percent of the time. She knows she’s loved. She knows you’re her person. And hell, she’s five. If anything, she’s gonna forget you’re gone the second Owen pulls out a Barbie with a missing leg and calls it a zombie.”

You laughed, despite yourself.

“And let’s be honest,” Michelle added, “you’ve been talking about this man like he hung the moon since you met him at the gear store. You literally called me to say his forearms should be illegal.”

“His forearms should be illegal.”

“Exactly. So go let them ruin your life for a night. Worst case, you eat good food and get a story. Best case—your daughter gets a hockey stepdad and we get free tickets.”

You groaned. “I hate how reasonable you sound right now.”

“You deserve this, hon. It’s okay to want someone to look at you like you’re not just the snack-bag handler and the bedtime enforcer. Let him take you to dinner. Plus it’s not like he’s some random guy.”

Because yeah. It wasn’t just anyone asking.

It was the guy who’d helped you pick out shin guards and made you take phone notes like you were eighty. The guy who remembered your kid’s face—and yours. The guy who made it easy to laugh.

Your thumb hovered over the message thread again.

You were nervous. But you were excited, too.

So finally, you tapped back into your messages with Sidney. Read his last text again. Felt that flutter return.

You: I promised my kiddo a playdate Friday so I might be dropping her off late afternoon, but… if you’re still willing, I think I could be convinced.

Three dots appeared. Then disappeared. Then came back.

You held your breath.

Sidney Crosby: That sounds a lot like a yes.

You smiled.

You: That sounds a lot like cockiness.

Sidney Crosby: You’d know.

You warmed all the way to your ears.

Sidney Crosby: Can’t wait to see you.

Michelle was still on the line.

“Well?” she asked.

You grinned. “I think I have a date Friday.”

“Hell yeah, you do.”

You stare at your phone for a second longer than necessary, dinner still sitting on the stove.

Then you tap out a quick message to Lauren, Owen’s mom. Your dinner plans with Sidney are suddenly very real, and you're kinda spiraling. Your kid’s singing a slightly off-key version of “Let It Go” from the bathroom, and you’re trying not to chicken out. So instead of overthinking it, you finally just type.

You: Hey! Super random, but is it still okay if I drop her off Friday afternoon for that playdate with Owen?

No context. You don’t mention why. You toss your phone on the counter like it burned you, turn the heat down on the stove, and grab a dishrag to clean up the mess like a functioning adult.

Your phone dings about a minute later.

Lauren: Um yes, of course!! Don’t worry, we’re all set. She can stay as long as you need.

You exhale. Relief. You’re about to text her back a quick thank you when your phone dings again.

Lauren: …Wait.

Lauren: Are you going on a date?

Shit.

You hesitate, fingers hovering over the keyboard. If you lie, she’ll probably find out anyway—either from your daughter telling Owen, or you just cracking because you’re terrible at lying. You’ve gotten close over the last few weeks; you text almost every day. She’s been there. And you trust her.

You: maybe?

You add a grimacing emoji. Then a shrug. Then delete both and just send the word.

You: Yes.

Another ding.

Lauren: OMG STOP.

Lauren: This is so exciting. Who is he??

Lauren: Wait wait. Is he a hot hockey dad?? Tell me he is.

You groan.

You: I’m not telling.

Lauren: Oh my goddddd it is one?? I knew something was going on at the Little Pens.

You cover your face.

You: I hate you.

Lauren: You do not. I’m so happy for you. You deserve this!! You never go out. You’ve earned this. Moms deserve sex too, babe.

You: WHO SAID ANYTHING ABOUT SEX

Lauren: Oh please. If you don’t at least consider it, I might be more disappointed than Owen when he found out goalie goals are rare.

You: Okay well if I do end up in his bed, I will let you know.

Lauren: You better. Full report. Details. DICK. STATS.

You: You’re going to hell.

Lauren: I’ll see you there, but you’ll be walking bowlegged so I’ll win.

You toss your phone face-down on the counter like that might help cool the blush creeping into your face.

Not that that’s what the night is about. You’re not even sure what the night is about. It’s just dinner. Just dinner with a guy you maybe haven’t stopped thinking about since he taught your daughter all about hockey and then turned around and asked you out.

No big deal.

Right?

You make it through dinner with your little one without your head exploding. She's in a chattery, giddy mood—spilling juice and telling you about how Owen says he’s gonna teach her how to “slide into the net like a penguin on his belly,” which frankly sounds like an ER trip waiting to happen.

Right before bedtime, sweet girl gets an idea, "Can we pick out my outfit for Owen’s house on Friday?"

"Sure, lovebug."

You try not to think about Sidney. You really do. But as you help your kid rifle through her drawers, all you can see in your head is his smile at the rink, that voice telling you he’d see you around, the text that surprised the hell out of you, and your dumbass grin when you said yes.

Your daughter picks out a shirt with glittery hearts on it and her favorite striped overalls.

“He’s gonna think I look cool,” she says.

You laugh. “He’s gonna be blown away.”

And you? You’re kinda feeling the same way. About someone else.

Thursday

The morning started like most of them did—too early, too chaotic, and way too dependent on the second cup of coffee you hadn’t even made yet. Just you and your girl, sleep still heavy in both your eyes, the kitchen too quiet aside from the soft clinking of breakfast and lunch prep.

You stood at the kitchen counter in an old t-shirt—oversized, a little frayed, and soft from a hundred washes—and stared blankly at your daughter’s lunchbox like it had personally offended you. Her Disney princess thermos was already packed, and a granola bar was poking out of the side pocket like a tongue sticking out in mockery.

"Mommy," your daughter called from down the hall, “I can’t find the other sock with the kitty on it!”

“Check under your bed, baby!” you called back, sealing a sandwich into a ziplock. "Or the couch! Or maybe it's hiding with my last ounce of sanity!"

“Don’t know where sanity is,” she yelled, the word sounding all kinds of wrong coming from her tiny voice. “But the sock’s not under the bed!”

You chuckled under your breath and finally gave in, abandoning the last grape you were cutting in half to go join the hunt. Sock retrieved from the crack between the bed and the wall. Victory achieved.

Together, you walked back into the kitchen for a quick breakfast. Your daughter sat cross-legged at the counter in her school clothes while she demolished a bowl of Cheerios and raspberries.

You sipped your coffee slowly, eyes skimming the sticky note you’d slapped on the fridge the night before—a running list of things to pack for tomorrow, playdate logistics, your dinner plans, pick-up arrangements with Michelle. You’d been up late texting her and Lauren after finally responding to Sidney, your stomach tangled in a mix of nerves and disbelief. And now it was Thursday morning, which meant tomorrow was The Day.

“Hey, baby,” you said, voice still a little scratchy as you leaned on the counter across from her. “You remember how I told you about Owen’s tomorrow?”

She looked up, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk. “Mhm?”

“I was thinking,” you continued, kneeling down in front of her to put her feet into her shoes, “after school tomorrow, I’ll drop you off at his house for a little playdate, like we talked about. And then later, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come pick you up around seven-thirty, and she’ll bring you back to her place for a little while. Just for an hour or two. Then I’ll come get you when I’m done with dinner, okay?”

“Dinner?” she repeated, blinking. “Are you having dinner with Owen too?”

You smiled. “No, sweetheart. I’m gonna meet a friend for dinner tomorrow.”

Her little brow furrowed. “So… you’re not takin’ me to Owen’s?”

Your heart did a little flip. “No, no—baby, I am. I’m picking you up from school like always. I’m taking you to Owen’s. And then after you play for a bit, Auntie Michelle’s gonna come get you.”

She tilted her head, clearly trying to piece the sequence together in that curious way she always did, lips pressed into a thoughtful line. “But… why?”

You stifled a grin, because of course she’d ask. You leaned forward, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Because I’m gonna go meet a friend for dinner. Just for a little while.”

“Ohhhh,” she nodded slowly, chewing on the corner of her lip like she was mulling it all over in her head. “Okay.”

You watched her face carefully. “You cool with that, bug?”

“Yeah,” she said, but then after a second, “Wait… who are you having dinner with?”

You hesitated, then just gave her a warm little smile and said, “A friend.”

That didn’t satisfy her. Not even a little.

She tilted her head, narrowed her eyes like a tiny detective. “Like a grown-up friend?”

“Yes,” you answered carefully.

“Like… a boy friend?”

“Sweetheart,” you said with a little laugh, turning to grab your coffee off the counter as you prepped for the next round of kid questions. “Why are you interrogating me like you’re the FBI?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “Is it Auntie Michelle?”

“No, babe.”

“Uncle Danny?” (Michelle’s brother).

You laughed, shaking your head. “Definitely not. Uncle Danny would make me split fries and then not eat his half.”

“Uncle Alex?” (Michelle’s Boyfriend).

“Worse,” you said dramatically, “he’d make me go to that taco place that gives me stomach aches.”

She giggled, hand clapped over her mouth. “Then who?!”

You could feel it coming before she even said it. The question that always felt like a little paper cut.

“Are you gonna see my daddy?”

It landed in the space between you, just quiet enough to take the air out of your lungs for a second. Not harsh. Not accusing. Just curious. Just hopeful.

You exhaled through your nose, gently brushing your thumb over the back of her little hand.

“No, baby,” you said softly. “I’m not.”

She didn’t get upset. She rarely did anymore. Her disappointment was always gentle, quiet, like the way a balloon slowly deflates. You saw it cross her face—a tiny flicker of something—but then she perked up again, the way five-year-olds do when the gravity of things slips just slightly out of reach.

“Oh.” She stared down at her cereal for a second, then looked back up with big eyes. “Will you bring me ice cream?”

You barked out a laugh, louder than expected. “Absolutely I will.”

“Pink kind.”

“You got it. Pink as pink can be, the way you like it.”

“And a spoon.”

“Of course a spoon,” You said, pulling her into a tight hug, “What kind of monster do you take me for?”

She snuggled in, grinning against your neck. “A grown-up one.”

You tickled her under the arm, she giggled for a second before squirming away and bouncing off of her seat and toward the front door like the weight of the world had been lifted from her tiny shoulders.

You watched her go, your chest twisting with something you couldn’t quite name. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe relief. Maybe both tangled up in that knot you’d been carrying for the past five years.

You didn’t talk about her father often. He wasn’t in the picture. Never really had been. And your daughter never asked about him until she did, and when she did, it always hit you like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You shook it off, grabbed your keys and coffee, and followed her out the door. Because life didn’t slow down just because your heart felt a little bruised.

“And I get to stay longer than last time!” she cheered, kicking her feet excitedly.

“Yup,” you smiled as she climbed into the car. “You get a whole afternoon.”

“And you’re gonna go eat dinner?”

“Mmhm.”

She kicked again. “With your friend?”

“Yup.”

She paused. “Is he nice?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Who said it was a he?”

She gasped dramatically. “It is!”

You groaned. “You little sneak.”

She burst into laughter, her tiny voice ringing like a bell. “I hope he brings you flowers.”

You shook your head, grinning despite yourself. “Why’s that?”

“‘Cause if he doesn’t I’m gonna be mad at him.”

You bit your bottom lip, eyes misting just a little. “Okay, tough girl. I’ll let him know he better come correct.”

“Yeah,” she said, her little voice so serious. “Or I won’t share my ice cream.”

The drive to school is a blur of her singing to the radio, asking if zebras wear pajamas, and reminding you to pack her purple leggings for tomorrow “in case Owen wants to see her do her spin.”

You drop her off with a hug that lasts a little longer than usual.

And then you're alone in your car, the reality of tomorrow settling somewhere in your chest like a weight and a spark all at once.

You don’t even make it out of the school parking lot before your phone starts buzzing in the cup holder, Michelle’s name lighting up your screen. She’s lucky you love her.

You answer with a dry, “What?”

“Oh, don’t start with me,” she fires back instantly. “What are you wearing tomorrow?”

You snort, backing out of your parking space as sunlight spills through the windshield. “Jesus, I don’t know. I was gonna try and dig around in my closet and see if I could make magic happen.”

Michelle makes a disgusted sound on the other end. “No. Nope. Absolutely not. You are not pulling some six-year-old clearance dress from the back of your closet for your first date with Sidney fucking Crosby.”

You sigh. “Do you hear how crazy that sentence sounds?”

“Yes,” she says without pause. “And I stand by it. You’re dating a national treasure, babe. You need to look like one. Get your ass to the mall. I’m already here.”

“You’re already—? Michelle.”

“Too late. I’m holding a coffee hostage for you. I will drink it out of pure spite if you make me wait.”

You groan but it’s hopeless. Of course you’re going. Of course she’s already there. She always is.

“Fine. But I’m not buying anything,” you grumble.

“We’ll see.”

You meet up in the parking lot half an hour later, both of you armed with reusable coffee cups and a sense of purpose—hers for fashion, yours to defend your closet’s honor.

“So what’s the vibe? Hot mom on the prowl? Shy suburban MILF? Undercover bombshell?”

“Jesus, Michelle.” You laugh, adjusting the strap of your crossbody bag. “I’m just trying to make it through the day without stress-sweating.”

“Sexy and casual it is.”

You wander the center together, weaving in and out of shops, but before either of you so much as touch a grown-up blouse, you’re already lugging three shopping bags. All full of stuff for your kid.

Michelle squints at you over her cup. “You realize we’re supposed to be shopping for you, right?”

You shrug, holding up a tiny glitter-covered hoodie. “But look at this! She’d lose her mind. And these leggings? The little stars on the knees?”

Michelle narrows her eyes. “You are impossible.”

“She’s five. This is peak adorable clothing age. I’m just trying to seize the moment.”

She grabs your elbow and yanks you into a store that has nothing even remotely glittery or pint-sized. The mannequins are wearing things with underwire and lace and heeled boots that could end a grown man.

“Now,” Michelle says, eyes scanning a rack of silky tops. “We’re not leaving until you find something that makes you feel confident.”

You toe the edge of the plush fitting room rug and sigh. “Okay, but I need to tell you something first.”

Michelle side-eyes you. “You’re not pregnant, are you? Because if you are, I am not helping you baby-proof your house again. I will, you know I will but that’s besides the point.”

“No,” you laugh. “Not unless immaculate conception is real.”

Michelle grins. “Knew that man gave off holy dick energy.”

You groan and lean your head against the dressing room mirror. “Okay, seriously though. This morning, when I was getting her ready for school, she asked if I was going to see her dad.”

Michelle’s face hardens instantly. “Really?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I told her no, obviously. She was just curious. Said it kind of casually. But I just—I don’t know.”

Michelle’s silent for a moment, arms crossed as she leans against the mirror next to you. “He always shows up again, you know. When you’re finally doing okay. Especially if he thinks you’re seeing someone.”

“I know.” You sigh. “It’s like he’s got radar. He’ll go quiet for months, maybe longer, and then boom—he texts or calls or leaves a voicemail about ‘wanting to see her.’ Like clockwork.”

“Because he doesn’t actually want to see her. He wants access to you.”

The way she says it makes your stomach churn. Because she’s right. Every single time.

“He’s not gonna know,” you say, more to yourself than her. “I’m just grabbing dinner. It’s not serious.”

Michelle arches a brow. “With Sidney Crosby. Yeah, no one’s gonna catch wind of that.”

You rub your temples. “God. I hate this. I hate feeling like I have to ask permission to move on. Like every time I do something for me, I feel like I’m betraying her somehow.”

Michelle softens. “Babe, she’s not gonna suffer because you have a life. You’re not ditching her for a week in Cabo. You’re going to dinner. And you’ve made sure she’s safe and happy and with people who love her. That’s all she needs.”

You nod, eyes hot but holding back tears. “She asked for ice cream. After asking about her dad.”

Michelle lets out a laugh, loud and sharp. “See? She’s fine. She just wanted sprinkles and emotional security.”

You laugh too, the sound breaking through the heavy feeling in your chest.

“She’s lucky,” Michelle says, plucking a silky wine-colored wrap top off the hanger and handing it to you. “She’s got a mom who does everything for her, who puts her first, even when it costs her. And now she’s got a chance to see that her mom is also a person. With a life. And a beautiful man who wants to take her out.”

You roll your eyes but smile, holding the top up to your chest in the mirror. “Think he’ll like it?”

Michelle grins. “Bitch, he’s gonna lose his mind.”

You exhale slowly. “Okay. Dinner. I can do dinner.”

“Damn right you can,” Michelle says, already fishing around for matching heels. “Now let’s go find a bra that’ll make your boobs look expensive.”

You groan but follow her deeper into the store, your heart a little lighter. You still don’t know what’s going to happen.

Twenty minutes later there's a zipper halfway up the back of a slate-blue blouse when your phone buzzes from the little cushioned bench in the corner of the dressing room. You pause, arms lifted awkwardly, blouse hitched halfway up your ribs like you’re in some kind of amateur striptease—glamorous, really—and squint toward the screen lighting up.

Sidney Crosby

You freeze.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, suddenly hyperaware that one boob is definitely just out in the wild. You fix it fast, shimmy the shirt down properly, and fumble to grab your phone with one hand while smoothing the blouse over your stomach with the other.

It’s a simple message.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Just checking if we’re still on for tomorrow? :)

That fucking smiley face. Why is it cute? You hate yourself a little.

You type back quickly, before you can overthink it.

You: Yeah, definitely. Looking forward to it :)

Another smiley. You’re so goddamn embarrassing.

You toss the phone aside on the bench and try to focus on the skirt. It’s a midi thing, stretchy waistband—comfortable enough you don’t feel like you’re being punished but still cute. Michelle had waved it in your face. “Trust me, you’ll thank me when you’re not suffocating in shapewear.”

You’re just smoothing the skirt over your hips when your phone buzzes again.

Sidney Crosby: Nice. I’ll come get you around 7? Or do you want to meet somewhere?

You chew on your lip, thinking. It’d probably be easier to meet, but a bigger part of you—one that you’re trying really hard not to name or psychoanalyze—wants him to come pick you up. There’s something kind of… old-school about it.

You: Come get me? If that’s okay?

Sidney Crosby: Yeah, I’d like that. Send me your address later?

You smile. God, you hate how much you’re smiling. Your cheeks are already warm and your phone’s not even done buzzing.

Sidney Crosby: Also—is this a fancy thing? Should I not show up in jeans like an asshole?

You giggle. Actually giggle. Alone. In a dressing room. Like a teenage idiot.

You: Jeans are perfect. If you show up in a suit I might vomit.

Sidney: Noted. No suits. No vomiting. Sounds like a solid plan.

You're still smiling when the curtain jerks halfway open and Michelle pokes her head in.

“Oh my God, you’re blushing.”

“Jesus, Michelle!” you yelp, yanking the curtain closed again and trying to hide the visible glow of your screen.

“Oh my God,” she repeats, muffled now. “Is that him? Is it Sidney? Are you sexting? Are you telling him what kind of panties you’re wearing?”

“I will smother you with a blouse,” you hiss, trying to hold back laughter.

“You’re totally flustered right now. Like, your voice got all high. It’s like when I texted that hot Pilates instructor and spelled core like an apple core.”

You groan and push the curtain aside, stepping out in the outfit. Michelle immediately gasps like she’s just seen her favorite artist on stage.

“That. That right there. You’re wearing that.”

You glance down. “It’s just a blouse and a skirt.”

“It’s hot without looking like you’re trying to be hot. Which is, ironically, the hottest thing you could do. You just need tights, and new heels.”

You roll your eyes, tugging slightly at the waistband. “I dunno. It feels… almost too good.”

“Exactly. You deserve too good. Especially after dealing with your walking oil spill of an ex.”

“Michelle.”

“What? Am I wrong?”

You sigh, and sit down on the little bench again, grabbing your phone and reading through the texts again like a teenage girl re-reading a crush’s Snap streak.

“He said he’s picking me up at 7. No suits. No vomiting.”

Michelle tilts her head and clutches her chest. “He’s cute and considerate. God, you’re screwed.”

“I know.”

“Hey—listen to me.” She squats down to your level, resting her elbows on her knees. “You’re not just someone’s mom. You’re still you. You get to have this. You get to be nervous and flirty and maybe even get laid by someone who actually cares about what gets you off.”

Your face goes hot. “Michelle.”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying. Sidney Crosby’s forearms alone could probably handle things you haven’t experienced since college.”

“Can we not talk about his forearms while I’m in a blouse this thin?”

Michelle cackles and claps her hands together. “This is so fucking fun.”

You shake your head, but you’re laughing now, too.

Your phone buzzes once more.

Sidney Crosby: Should I bring anything?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. Michelle peers over your shoulder. “Say, only if it’s wine and strong arms.”

“I will kill you.”

You: Just yourself. And maybe an appetite.

Michelle groans dramatically. “You’re adorable. God help us all.”

You hit send, still smiling like an idiot.

You don’t know what tomorrow’s gonna look like yet. You don’t know how many times you’ll panic or second-guess or feel that sick twist of guilt when you leave your daughter at Owen’s and then Michelle’s. But right now, sitting in a dressing room with the world's most chaotic best friend and a phone full of texts that make your stomach do that stupid fluttery thing, you feel a tiny little flicker of something you haven’t had in a while.

Hope.

And maybe a little horniness. But mostly hope.

For now.

Friday

It’s a mess of crayons, backpacks, and snack wrappers in the backseat, and somehow your daughter is still talking, even though you’re less than two minutes from Owen’s house. She’s in the middle of a long-winded explanation about how Owen told her yesterday that his big sister has a phone, and he might have seen a video, but he didn’t really watch it, not all of it anyway, because he weren’t supposed to be in her room but he was just getting a book and then it came on and it was only a little bit scary, like not bad scary, just—

“Okay, baby, pause,” you interrupt gently as you put the car in park in front of Owen’s house. “Deep breath.”

She gasps dramatically, inhaling like she’s trying to suck all the air out of the car.

You reach back and brush a stray curl out of her eyes. “Are you excited for tonight?”

She nods so hard her whole body wiggles. “I love Owen’s house. They have a trampoline and a dog and snacks with cheese sauce and—”

“I know, I know,” you laugh, unbuckling her car seat straps. “You’re gonna have the best time. Just try not to start a war in the living room, okay?”

“I never start the war,” she says as you help her out of the car. “It’s Owen. He throws first.”

“Sure,” you say dryly, grabbing her backpack and her water bottle. “That sounds completely believable.”

You walk her up to the front porch, holding her little hand in yours while she bounces at your side like a pinball with legs. You can already hear voices and something crashing—probably a toy, hopefully not glass—on the other side of the door.

Before you even ring the bell, the door swings open, and Owen barrels out in socks like a kid on fire, skidding a little.

“You’re heeeere!” he squeals, launching himself at your daughter.

She shrieks back, drops your hand, and immediately wraps her arms around his neck like she’s reenacting the final scene of a romcom.

“Okay, that’s enough romance,” you mutter, laughing as Owen drags her inside. You follow close behind.

“Owen, shoes!” comes a voice from the kitchen. “I swear to God—”

Lauren appears a second later, holding a juice box in one hand and a half-eaten cheese stick in the other. Her hair’s in a messy bun and she’s wearing a sweatshirt that says Mom of 3, Pray for Me.

“Hey!” she grins, tossing the cheese stick to her own mouth before you even get a word out. “You ready for your hot momnight out?”

You groan. “Don’t call it that.”

“Oh no, we’re calling it exactly that,” she says, grinning wickedly. “Come on, tell me—who is it? Do I know him? Is he a hockey dad? It’s a hockey dad, isn’t it?”

You narrow your eyes at her. “I’m not telling you anything.”

“You suck,” she whines. “I let you dump your child into my chaos house and you won’t even give me one crumb of gossip?”

You smile and shake your head, watching the two five-year-olds disappear into the den like gremlins. You hear a thud, then maniacal laughter.

“Do I need to send you a waiv—”

“Just send me the bill when they inevitably break a lamp,” you say.

Lauren laughs and sets the juice box on the counter. “But for real, you look cute, Y/N. Like, date cute. Like, panty-worthy cute.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m not even dressed for it yet,” you mutter, tugging your jacket closed even though it’s not even cold.

“Oh, come on! I saw you at the rink the other day. I saw that look you gave one of the coaches.”

You blink. “What look?”

“That one! The ‘I’m trying not to be horny in front of children’ look.”

“I’m gonna scream,” you mumble.

She gasps like she just cracked the code. “It is one of the coaches!”

“I didn’t say that!”

“You didn’t have to!”

You point a warning finger at her. “Lauren. I’m serious. You don’t get to know anything yet. You’ll be the first to know if I end up married or murdered, I promise.”

She dramatically gasps again, one hand flying to her chest. “You promise-promise?”

“Swear on my bra drawer.”

“Oh, wow,” she grins. “That is serious.”

You both laugh. It’s loud and real, the kind that feels good in your chest. It’s nice.

She leans on the doorframe. “Well. I’m proud of you, babe. For real. It’s hard, you know? Letting yourself be a person again.”

You nod quietly. You do know. Maybe a little too well.

She nudges your elbow. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, if he hurts you, I will castrate him with a butter knife.”

You snort. “Good to know.”

She glances toward the playroom and lowers her voice. “Now go. Before you lose your nerve and end up back here with a tub of Goldfish and a kid in your lap.”

You smile. It’s small, but it feels solid. “Thanks, Laur.”

“Anytime. Now go get laid or fall in love or both. I expect a full debrief tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes and head back toward the car, heart hammering a little harder with every step.

You ended up driving home slowly, as if that would somehow slow down time. You probably ended up wasting like thirty minutes.

And your house still smells like the strawberry bubble bath your kid used the night before—faint but sweet. You’d barely made it through the door before you were stripping out of your jeans and sweater, heading straight for the shower. Hot water, eucalyptus body wash, and the slight panic of holy shit, this is happening, it’s really happening. Sidney Crosby is picking you up in a few hours for an actual date, and you are not okay.

You wrap yourself in your robe, hair towel still piled on your head, skin warm from the heat. You should be resting. Maybe sitting down, putting on an audiobook, eating something small. But your nerves don’t care. They don’t want calm. They want chaos.

So, naturally, you start cleaning the house.

You’re halfway through wiping down your already clean kitchen counters—again—when the front door opens.

“Are you—oh my god. Y/N.” Michelle’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You’re scrubbing the counter? In a robe? Towel in your hair?”

You glance over your shoulder. “I’m being productive.”

“You’re being insane,” she says, dropping her purse onto the entry table and kicking her shoes off. “I’ve never seen someone try to clean anxiety off their kitchen island before, but you’re setting a new bar.”

“I just needed to do something.”

“Yeah, like relax?” She pads over to you and plucks the sponge out of your hand. “Sidney is not going to care if your counters are spotless.”

“I know that.” You throw your towel on the couch and exhale. “It’s not about him. I’m just—I don’t know. My brain is going a million miles a minute. I’m excited. But also nervous. And a little nauseous.”

Michelle grins and flops onto your couch. “You’re adorable when you panic. So where’s Lover Boy taking you?”

You grab a glass of water and your phone. “Here, he sent me this last night.”

She sits up eagerly, snatching your phone and reading it out loud. “‘Nice little private spot, they’ve got great food, super lowkey, so we’re not splashed all over the front page of dumb hockey blogs. Are we still on for 7?’” She looks up at you. “Oh, he’s good. He’s really good.”

You groan and snatch your phone back, clutching it to your chest. “Why does that message make me feel like I’m seventeen and going to prom?”

“Because he’s Sidney fucking Crosby and he’s into you.” Michelle wiggles her eyebrows. “God, I still can’t believe it. You met him buying pink skates for your kid. That’s a rom-com origin story.”

“Yeah, well, I hope it’s not a rom-com ending where I get stood up and end up crying in a diner.”

Michelle snorts. “Please. He’s obsessed with you. You’re golden.”

You nod, then glance at the clock. “I packed her overnight bag, by the way, in case she gets too tired after your ‘niece bonding time.’”

“Oh we’re going hard tonight,” Michelle says with a wink. “Movies, nail polish, a dance party, maybe a pillow fort. She’s gonna be too busy living her best life to miss you.”

You smile at that, warmth spreading through your chest. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Of course. She’s my favorite tiny human.” Michelle eyes you for a second. “Speaking of being ready for all scenarios... please tell me you shaved.”

You choke on your water. “Michelle!”

“What? Just in case! You never know where the night will go.”

“It’s a first date!”

“Yeah, with Sidney Crosby. If you don’t think that man is capable of smooth-talking his way into your panties by dessert, you’re in denial.”

You roll your eyes and head toward your closet. “You’re annoying.”

“I’m just saying, if the opportunity arises, you don’t want to be caught with a winter forest situation down there.”

You groan again but laugh anyway, following Michelle into your bedroom and to the closet where she immediately starts rifling through your clothes.

“This is date night. No mom jeans. No oversized sweaters. No ‘I gave up on life at Target’ shirts. We agreed.”

You cross your arms, still in your robe. “I want to be comfortable.”

“Sexy and comfortable can coexist, Y/N. That’s why God invented wrap blouses and stretch fabric. And why we bought you that outfit.”

She starts pulling hangers out one by one—rejected looks piling on the bed. You shoot down at least five of her suggestions for being too revealing, one for being too sheer, and one because, in your words, “my tits are spilling out like an avalanche, Michelle.”

“That’s the point!” she argues.

“Not tonight it isn’t!”

Eventually, you both settle on a wine-colored blouse, soft and silky, with just enough of a dip in the neckline to feel scandalous without being too much. You pair it with your new black skirt that reaches mid-thigh, tights, and a simple gold necklace.

Michelle gives you a once-over and sighs. “You look fucking stunning.”

“I look like I’m about to pass out from nerves.”

“You look like someone who’s about to have a night she’s gonna replay in her head for months. Maybe years.”

You give her a pointed look. “Please don’t jinx it.”

“I’m not. I’m manifesting,” she says, walking over to fix a stray piece of your hair. “Now go do your makeup and try not to second guess everything.”

You nod, your stomach tight, heart pounding—but you’re smiling. You can't help it.

You check your phone. 6:28 p.m. You slowly make your way to the bathroom.

Sidney’s going to be here in thirty minutes.

Oh God.

You're barely starting to put on mascara when your phone buzzes on the bathroom counter. You freeze, wand mid-air, one eye closed like you're halfway into a stroke that'll definitely leave a smudge if you're not careful.

Your brain jumps to the worst immediately. Maybe your daughter’s sick. Maybe she’s sad and wants to come home. Maybe Owen bit her—he did that once during a disagreement over who got the last orange Popsicle.

You lean down and squint at the screen.

Lauren: Hey! Just passing on a message from a certain bossy little lady—she says, and I quote: “Tell Mommy to make sure he doesn’t forget the flowers. And my pink ice cream. Not white. Not purple. Pink.”

You blink.

Then laugh.

A surprised, full-body kind of laugh, the kind that bubbles up out of nowhere and makes your chest warm.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, still smiling as you pick up the phone to type back.

You: She’s too much

You: I’ll do my best but I make no promises about the flowers. The ice cream though—non-negotiable.

Lauren: Good luck. She’s keeping track like it’s her business. You’re gonna get grilled the second she sees you. I’d prepare a PowerPoint.

You: Oh I’m already mentally preparing my closing statements. She’s a tiny attorney with pigtails and pink rain boots.

You pause a second, glancing at yourself in the mirror—one eye made up, one still bare. Your reflection looks like some chaotic mid-makeover movie montage. Hair pinned up with an emergency claw clip, your phone in hand and your cheeks still a little warm from laughing.

Lauren: So... hockey dad, huh?

You groan under your breath.

You: Lauren. No.

Lauren: PLEASE TELL ME. Is it one from the rink? The one with the jawline that could cut glass?

You drag a hand down your face, abandoning your mascara wand entirely.

You: Not confirming or denying anything. Just let a girl live.

Lauren: Live your life, babe! But you owe me details next time I see you. I’m talking who, what, where, if he smells good, and what his handshake says about his soul.

You snort, toss the phone down, and mutter, “She’s worse than Michelle.”

From the other room, Michelle calls out, “What’d I do?”

You grin, shaking your head as you go back to your makeup. “Nothing. Just getting bullied from multiple angles now.”

Michelle appears in the doorway with a bottle of sparkling water and a bag of gummy bears. “Ooh, was that Lauren?”

“Yup.”

“She know?”

“She knows something,” you say, adjusting the angle of the mirror as you finally finish your lashes. “Apparently sweet girl passed along a note.”

Michelle plops down on the bed. “Oh god. What’d she say?”

You spin around with a smile. “To make sure he brings flowers. And doesn’t forget her pink ice cream.”

Michelle wheezes, practically choking on a gummy bear. “That’s your child. Right there. A tiny romantic with a superiority complex.”

“She’s insane. Like, how does she even know to ask for flowers? I swear I didn’t teach her that.”

“Duh,” Michelle says, tossing a gummy into her mouth. “Disney. The princesses always get flowers and rides in magical vehicles.”

“Well shit,” you mutter. “Now I do have to marry him or she’s gonna think I got rejected by Prince Charming.”

Michelle laughs so hard she nearly rolls off the bed. “Don’t worry, babe. He’s way hotter than Prince Charming. You’re like... the hot queen who seduces him and then inherits the kingdom.”

You make a face. “Why do your compliments always feel slightly illegal?”

“I specialize in morally grey hype,” she says, then lifts her chin. “Anyway, did you text him about the flowers?”

“Oh my god, no. I’m not gonna text Sidney Crosby and be like, ‘Hey, bring flowers or my five-year-old will fight you.’”

“I don’t know,” Michelle grins. “Sounds like peak parenting to me.”

You just shake your head and go back to finishing your makeup, still smiling.

The next ten minutes pass with a weird sort of anxious energy—too much time to sit and think, not enough to nap or relax or even get anything productive done. You double check your bag twice. Reapply lip balm four times. Spray perfume, then wonder if you overdid it and spend ten minutes debating if you need to shower again.

Michelle eventually chases you out of the bathroom with a hairbrush like she’s wrangling a feral cat. “For the love of god, sit the hell down and breathe. You look perfect. You smell like a grown woman who knows what she’s doing. Stop sabotaging yourself.”

You sink into the couch, heart rattling like it's stuck in your throat.

Michelle hands you a small pouch. “Here. Lip gloss, blotting paper, mints. And an emergency condom.”

You nearly choke. “Michelle—”

“Just in case!” she sings. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”

“I haven’t.”

“Liar.”

You laugh, too nervous to argue. “I really haven’t. I mean, yeah, he’s... I mean look at him. But like. Not tonight.”

Michelle nods slowly. “Totally get it. You just wanna see if the vibe matches the look. Respect. Chemistry check first, horizontal tango later.”

You toss a throw pillow at her as she heads out of your front door, laughing despite yourself.

And then your house is quiet for the first time in what feels like weeks. No squeaky shoes darting down the hallway. No Disney songs humming through your phone speaker. No tiny voice asking how long it takes for ice cream to melt or how many dogs is too many dogs.

You kind of hate how still it feels.

Your fingers play with the edge of the couch, your heels dangling from your toes, heart climbing steadily up your throat while the digital clock on the oven ticks toward 6:50.

The mirror in the hallway doesn’t lie. You feel good. You look good.

And he’s not late. But you check your phone for the hundredth time anyway. Nothing.

And then there’s a knock. A soft, measured three-tap knock that somehow manages to startle the absolute hell out of you.

You freeze. “Jesus Christ.”

Your heart kicks up again.

You smooth your blouse, exhale once, then twice, and open the door.

Sidney’s standing there.

It takes less than a second for your chest to tighten, for all the nerves to snap into something fizzy and warm, crawling straight up your spine. He’s wearing a button-up and dark jeans, sleeves pushed to his forearms, his hair just a little tousled like he kept running his hand through it in the car. And in his hand—a bouquet.

Your mouth parts slightly. “You brought me flowers?”

His mouth quirks. “I did.”

You take them, stunned into smiling. Soft pinks and cream-colored blooms, wrapped with a small ribbon. You can’t even speak for a second because the smell hits you all at once—fresh and summery and kind of perfect.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says quickly, rubbing a thumb along his jaw. “But they looked nice.”

“They are,” you say, glancing down at them again. “They’re really beautiful. Thank you. Come in—I want to put them in water before we go.”

“Sure.”

He steps inside, slow and careful like he’s taking the space in respectfully. You can feel him behind you as you head into the kitchen, opening the cabinet above the sink for your one real vase—the tall clear one with the subtle twist in the glass. You fill it with water, trim the stems like your mom taught you, and set it on the counter.

“They match your place,” he says behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He nods at the flowers. “You. Them. All of it. It goes together.”

You laugh a little, not quite believing he just said that out loud. “You’re such a sap.”

He grins, unapologetic.

You watch him look around while you fuss with the vase just a little more than you need to. He’s not nosy—he doesn’t touch anything—but you can tell he’s paying attention. His eyes pause on the living room shelf with your daughter’s framed art project, the throw blanket crumpled on the corner of the couch, the light blue soccer ball tucked halfway under the TV stand.

And then he reaches the fridge.

“You guys got a lot going on here.”

You walk over, following his gaze. There are photos—her at Halloween as a tiny Elsa, her as a newborn, her beaming at a playground slide, the two of you with whipped cream mustaches. Scribbled drawings in crayon and marker and stickers shaped like stars. And in the middle, stuck by a magnet shaped like a cat, is a small sticky note in bright pink with the messy handwriting of your 5 year old:

“pink ice cream!!pleas thank ulovumommy”

You laugh. “That’s been there since yesterday. She made me promise.”

Sidney leans in, smiling. “What flavor is pink ice cream?”

“She doesn’t know sometimes it’s strawberry, sometimes it bubblegum. If it’s pink, it counts.”

He chuckles. “Smart.”

There’s a beat. A warm silence. You look up and he’s still looking around, but softer now. Thoughtfully.

“You got a nice place,” he says finally.

“Thanks. It’s home.”

He nods, and then—almost like he can feel you growing too aware of the moment—he pulls his keys from his pocket.

“You ready?”

You glance down. Your shoes are on. Bag in hand. Your kid’s safe. Michelle has her overnight bag. You double-checked everything before Sidney even got there.

“I think so.”

“Good.” He opens the door for you. “Let’s go have dinner, pretty girl.”

You blink. Try not to smile like an idiot. Hard fail.

Outside, the sun’s hanging low, there are warm shadows across the sidewalk. His car’s parked out front—black, clean, low profile. He walks you to the passenger side and opens the door for you, which feels so absurdly nice you don’t even try to make a joke.

You settle in, smoothing your hands down your thighs. He closes the door gently, then walks around to the driver’s side.

You watch him slide into the seat beside you, glance over with a small smile, and say—

“Just so you know, I was early. Not because I was trying to be cool or anything.”

You raise a brow. “Then why?”

He shrugs. “Was excited. Figured being early was better than pacing around in my kitchen like a dumbass.”

You laugh.

It’s easy. And steady. And not rushed at all.

Not even a little.

The car falls quiet in the way late summer evenings are quiet—soft and golden, windows cracked enough to let the breeze in, the hum of the road a backdrop instead of a barrier. You fidget with the case of your phone, not because you’re uncomfortable, but because your brain hasn’t caught up to the fact that this is real. That he showed up early. That he brought you flowers. That now you’re sitting in his passenger seat like some alternate universe version of yourself who does stuff like this.

It’s the kind of quiet that doesn’t make your skin crawl or your palms sweat. It’s the kind that fills in naturally between soft bursts of conversation, where the world passes by out the window and you can just exist in it without feeling like you have to perform.

Sidney keeps one hand on the wheel, relaxed, the other resting loosely on his thigh. Occasionally, he glances your way—quick flicks of his eyes like he’s making sure you’re still good. Still with him. And you are. You definitely are.

The sky outside slowly turns to that deep, navy kind of blue, just before full dark as you move. Streetlights flicker on. Shops glow warm behind their windows. And every so often, you catch the scent of his cologne again—something clean and just the slightest bit woodsy—and it tugs something low and soft in your gut.

“You always this quiet?” he asks after a few minutes.

You glance over, smirking. “Only when I’m trying to decide if my date is a serial killer.”

He snorts. “Fair.”

“Do you always offer women rides in cars that look like they came off a spy movie set?”

He raises an eyebrow. “You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I’m just saying—” you gesture vaguely at the sleek dashboard “—this feels like the kind of car where you press a button and it launches rockets or something.”

“Unfortunately, the rocket package was extra,” he says seriously. “I went with heated seats instead.”

You steal a glance out the window. “You always drive yourself?”

His eyes flick toward you. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Who I’m trying to impress.”

You smile. “So—me, huh?”

“Obviously.”

You laugh softly, letting your head fall back against the seat for a second. “Good to know I’m high on the priority list.”

“You’re at the top,” he says without hesitation, his voice low, sincere.

You glance at him again, heart tugging a little. That boyish grin he gives you in return nearly makes your chest cave in.

The rest of the drive is a mix of soft music and half-spoken jokes. He makes fun of your GPS voice (“Why is she British?”), and you threaten to reprogram it to a cartoon chipmunk just to mess with him. He tells you a story about one of the younger guys on his team showing up late to skate because he got locked inside his own apartment’s garage, and you laugh too hard, snorting once, which earns you an exaggerated look.

“Don’t judge me,” you say, covering your face with one hand.

He grins. “It’s a good laugh.”

You don’t reply to that. You can’t. You’re too busy trying to calm the heat blooming all across your chest.

By the time he pulls into the restaurant’s lot—a corner spot tucked behind a small row of trees—you’ve somehow convinced yourself that maybe you can do this. That maybe tonight doesn’t have to go wrong. It’s the kind of place you’d miss if you weren’t looking for it—no flashy signs, just a small awning and warm amber lights glowing behind frosted windows. Quiet. Discreet.

He throws the car in park and turns to look at you, one hand already reaching for his seatbelt. “Ready?”

You nod. “Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

He actually leans in to check—eyes scanning your mouth carefully.

“Nope. Just lips.”

You roll your eyes, smiling despite the rush of nerves twisting inside you. “Gross.”

He’s already out of the car by the time you’re unbuckling, moving around to your side before you can even reach for the handle. The passenger door swings open and he offers a hand—warm, callused, steady.

You take it and let him help you out. Your fingers linger a second longer than they need to. His thumb brushes the side of yours before he lets go.

Your heels click against the pavement, and his hand stays on the small of your back for just a second longer. It feels good. Secure. And you hate how much you notice it.

The restaurant is—just like the rest of this night—surprisingly you. Not fancy. Not too loud. Just nice. Dim lighting that makes everything a kind of soft gold, like candlelight even though most of the tables have tiny glass lanterns instead of actual flames. There’s a hum of conversation, laughter, the clink of forks on plates. It’s full, but not crowded.

Friday night. Peak romance hour.

You glance around as you step inside, already cataloging the room like second nature—how many exits, who’s watching who, whether there’s a kid crying in the far corner or if it’s just the sound of silverware.

You’ve been doing this kind of thing for years. Comes with the territory. Mom mode never really switches off.

The host greets you both with a polite smile, but there’s a flicker of recognition behind his eyes when he looks at Sidney. His gaze lingers a beat too long—like he’s trying to figure out where he knows him from—before shaking it off and grabbing two menus.

“Hi there. Reservation?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Under Crosby.”

His eyebrows twitch. Confirmed. But he keeps it cool. “Right this way.”

Sidney walks beside you, close but not crowding. His shoulder brushes yours once, and it leaves your skin buzzing under your blouse. He notices it too. You can feel it.

You’re led to a small round table in the far corner, half-tucked behind a tall planter and shielded slightly from view. Cozy. Private.

Romance-y as hell.

You pull out your chair, about to sit down, but Sidney catches the back of it first and helps ease it out with a small, quiet gesture that feels old-fashioned in the best kind of way. He doesn’t say anything about it. Just does it.

The host sets down the menus and dips his head. “Your server will be right with you.”

Sidney thanks him quietly, and you swear you see the guy glance over his shoulder one more time as he walks off—probably trying to confirm whether or not that is the Sidney Crosby.

“You get that a lot, huh?”

He looks up from unfolding his napkin. “What?”

“The look. Like they’re trying to solve a riddle with your face.”

He tilts his head, then shrugs. “Sometimes.”

“And it doesn’t drive you nuts?”

He leans back a little in his chair, glancing around casually. “Not really. I mean, yeah, it can get annoying. But it’s not personal, you know? It’s just part of it.”

You nod, trying to play it cool. But your fingers tug lightly at your napkin under the table.

But your body’s used to being on alert. It comes with motherhood—hyper-awareness, that constant half-readiness in your muscles. You don’t let your daughter wander. You don’t take your eyes off her in public. You know what it means when someone’s watching a little too long.

And now, it’s not your daughter they’re watching. It’s you.

You take a breath.

His smile is soft. “You’re good at that.”

“At what?”

“Watching. Being aware.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re saying I’ve got eyes like a hawk?”

“I’m saying you’ve got mom eyes. That’s way scarier.”

You laugh—because he’s not wrong—and tilt your head.

He smirks. “I play in front of thousands of people every night. But you? Yeah, you’re intimidating.”

You scoff. “I’m literally one person.”

“That doesn’t change anything.”

Your cheeks burn. You look down at your menu, trying to hide the stupid grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. But you can still feel his eyes on you—steady, warm, a little amused.

“I feel like you like flustering me,” you mutter.

“I think you’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says without missing a beat.

You roll your eyes, flipping the menu up like a shield. “Jesus. You’re worse than Michelle.”

He laughs—low and genuine.

“You’re gonna have to tell me more about her,” he says, scanning his own menu. “She sounds like trouble.”

“Oh, she’s insane,” you agree. “She made me shave my legs just in case I was ‘getting lucky.’”

Sidney nearly chokes on air, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. “Did she actually say that?”

“Yep. Right before rifling through my closet and telling me my boobs were ‘wasting their prime.’”

He laughs again—louder this time, drawing a glance from a nearby table—and shakes his head. “I gotta meet this woman.”

“You don’t,” you say quickly. “She’ll make you sign a contract in blood if you so much as try to ghost me.”

He leans forward slightly. “What if I don’t want to ghost you?”

You look up.

He’s not smirking anymore. Just looking at you—really looking. Like he wants to know what’s behind your eyes and not just your makeup. Like he’s willing to wait for whatever it is.

Something tightens in your chest.

You blink slowly. “Then I guess we’re safe.”

You feel your foot nudge against his under the table. Neither of you moves it. Neither of you says a thing.

Then he smiles gently. “Wanna order wine so we can pretend we’re not being watched?”

You huff a laugh. “God, yes.”

And just like that, the tension breaks.

The waitress is sweet, mid-thirties, and noticeably unbothered by Sidney’s presence. She even calls him “hon” at one point and tells you your shoes are cute. You decide you love her.

He orders for both of you after you admit you’ll probably just end up getting whatever smells the best walking by. You let him pick a wine too, because—truthfully—you’re tired of making decisions and he seems to genuinely enjoy this whole “taking care of you” thing.

You lean in a little, nursing your glass of water between your hands, eyes focused on him over the soft candlelight flickering between you. “So,” you say slowly, “how’s the season going?”

Sidney shifts in his seat. Just a little. Barely enough for anyone else to notice, but you’ve always been sharp. Especially since becoming a mom. It’s practically instinct at this point—watching for tells, reading expressions, knowing when someone’s hiding something. And he is.

“It’s fine,” he says casually, grabbing his water like it’ll shield him.

You hum. “Fine?”

He nods once. “Yeah.”

That’s all he gives you. Just a yeah.

You let the silence hang for a beat. Raise an eyebrow. And when his eyes flick up and meet yours again, the tiniest bit of guilt blooms behind them. You bite down on a smile.

“You’re a really bad liar,” you say softly, tilting your head.

He actually laughs at that. “That obvious, huh?”

“Yup.” You grin, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. “You're just like my kid. I ask her if she brushed her teeth and she swears up and down that she did, but her breath smells like a pancake.”

He breaks into a real laugh then, leaning back in his chair, eyes crinkling in that way you’ve only ever seen on TV or in magazine photos. “A pancake?”

“Blueberry. Always blueberry.”

“Well, shit,” he mutters, and you both laugh again. Then he exhales, drags a hand through his hair, and drops the act. “It’s been rough.”

You nod slowly, giving him the space to fill.

“We’re adjusting,” he goes on, “some new systems, a couple guys out already. Typical early season stuff. But…” He hesitates, fingers tapping against the base of his glass. “You know how it is. When things are off, it gets in your head.”

You do know. You’re not playing professional hockey, but you’ve had your own fair share of spirals. Nights where everything feels out of step and wrong and too quiet once your kid’s asleep. Moments where the weight of responsibility feels like it might flatten you. So you nod again, more solemn this time.

“That’s a shitty place to be,” you say.

He looks at you like he hadn’t expected you to say that. Like he’s used to people giving advice instead of understanding.

“Yeah,” he says. “It is.”

You give him a small, crooked smile. “Well, for what it’s worth… I think your bad season still probably looks like magic to my five-year-old.”

That softens him. His whole face shifts.

“Yeah?”

“Oh yeah. She’s obsessed. You’re basically her Elsa right now.”

He blinks. “I don’t—wait, like Frozen Elsa?”

“Yup.” You nod solemnly. “You have superpowers and everything. Do you not shoot ice from your hands? That’s disappointing.”

He snorts. “I can’t say I do.”

“Well,” you say, sighing dramatically, “there goes that illusion.”

Sidney grins, but you can see he’s holding something back. Like he’s trying to figure out how much he’s allowed to want to be a part of this life you’re talking about. You don’t blame him. You’re doing the exact same thing.

“So,” he says slowly, “have you brought her to any games yet?”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath. “No. Not yet. I mean, she’s watched a bunch of games on TV. More than me, honestly.”

His eyebrows go up. “Wait—you haven’t watched a full game?”

“Nope,” you admit, tugging at your napkin. “I… it’s not that I don’t want to. I just haven’t had the time. Or the patience. Or the attention span. Or—”

He chuckles. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“But she’s all in,” you add. “She’s got this idea in her head that she wants to visit every single hockey arena. I don’t even know where she got that from.”

He leans in, totally amused. “All of them?”

“All of them. She told me we need a map. I told her we need a trust fund.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “She sounds amazing.”

“She is,” you say without hesitation.

There’s a moment where you both sit with that. The weight of it. Of what it means to be someone’s parent. Of what it means to bring someone into that.

“You guys should come to a game,” he says suddenly, softly.

You blink. “What?”

He smiles. “I’m serious. It could be fun for her. And maybe it’d help you get into it too. I’ll get you good seats. Quiet ones.”

You stare at him, heart doing something completely irrational in your chest. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know I don’t,” he says gently. “But I want to.”

You chew your lip. “She would freak.”

“Good,” he says, smiling. “Let her freak out.”

You laugh under your breath, but it’s shaky. There’s something creeping up your spine now, something warm and terrifying. Like you’re tiptoeing along the edge of something bigger than you.

“She’d want to bring a sign,” you warn him. “And scream every time she saw you on the ice.”

“Good,” he repeats. “That’d probably help my game.”

You look at him—really look at him. Past the headlines, the persona, the name. And he just looks back at you like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your smile. You didn’t expect this. Not the ease. Not the sincerity. Not the way it all feels like something you’ve missed for a long, long time.

You’re terrified. But for the first time in forever… you’re also kind of hopeful.

“Okay,” you whisper.

His eyes flicker. “Yeah?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. We’ll come to a game.”

And you’re pretty sure that the grin he gives you after that could melt any rink in the league.

Dinner comes, wine is served, plates are warm and steaming. His hand brushes yours as he helps push your plate closer, a simple little thing that sends a rush up your spine that you pretend not to notice. You thank him with a quiet smile and pick up your fork, spearing a piece of whatever vegetable the place has made actually taste good.

For a while, it’s just the sounds of forks and clinking glasses and soft conversation around the room. You’re both chewing, glancing at each other now and then, and it’s comfortable. Weirdly. Like you've done this before. Like it’s not the first date but the third or the fifth.

You’re the one who speaks first.

“So,” you glance up at him through your lashes, playful but careful, “how’s it feel to be the most recognized person in a place designed to be lowkey as hell?”

He smiles, one corner of his mouth tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “It’s part of the job,” he says, shrugging. “I’m used to the peepers.”

“Peepers,” you repeat, snorting into your wine glass. “God, what are you, seventy?”

Sidney laughs—a real one, warm and crackling with a low rumble. “I mean, people are peeping,” he says. “I’m just calling it what it is.”

“They’re definitely peeping,” you admit, nodding. “One lady almost broke her neck trying to see if it was really you.”

“She probably thinks I’m out with my wife,” he murmurs, a little quieter, more thoughtful.

You glance up at that. The weight of it hangs between you for a moment. “Or your mistress,” you offer dryly.

Sid chokes on his water and laughs. “Christ.”

“Too far?” you ask, biting back a grin.

“No, no,” he says, still laughing. “It’s perfect. I like that you’re not afraid to say shit.”

“I am,” you confess with a shrug, twirling your fork around the edge of your plate. “Afraid. A little.”

You hesitate. You shouldn’t say anything. You should keep it light and flirty and nonchalant like Michelle told you to. But something about the way he’s looking at you—patient, waiting, like there’s nothing you could say that would scare him off—it makes it easier to tell the truth.

“You could’ve picked the place,” he says. “I would’ve taken you anywhere.”

“I don’t think Chick-fil-A screams first date, Sid.”

He laughs again, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alright, maybe not. But I meant what I said yesterday—I didn’t want this to be, like… this whole big public thing. I wanted it to be just us.”

You look at him again, and this time you don’t hide the way your gaze lingers. He’s watching you too, and there’s something that simmers low and steady beneath the table. A gentle but unmistakable tension. Not the awkward kind. The kind that says we get each other. Like your knees might touch and it would feel like gravity instead of coincidence.

He tilts his head a little, tone shifting. “So how did she get into hockey? Your daughter, I mean.”

You pick at your food, glancing down before answering. “Street hockey, actually. Some neighborhood kids had a little game going on and she wandered in like she owned the place. Skinned both knees but refused to cry.”

Sid smiles, resting his chin on his hand, genuinely invested.

“She came home a mess—blood, dirt, leaves in her hair—and all she could talk about was how she almost scored. That was it. She was in. Wanted a stick the next day.”

“That’s the most badass thing I’ve ever heard.”

“She is,” you say before you can stop yourself. Your throat catches a little, emotions rushing your chest like they always do when you talk about her. “She’s so… brave. Loud. Fierce. Nothing like me.”

Sidney’s expression softens.

You shrug, forcing a smile. “Anyway. I panicked. Called everyone I know in case they knew anything about hockey. Ended up at that store.”

“And that’s where we met,” he finishes gently.

You nod, trying to keep your heart from thudding out of your chest. “Yup. That’s where I made a total ass of myself.”

“I don’t remember that part.”

You pick up your fork again and say, “We’re a real pair, huh?”

He chuckles. “A skater mom and a washed-up hockey player.”

You laugh through your nose. “Hey, you said it, not me.”

He smirks. “You’re gonna keep me humble, aren’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“I think you’re kind of amazing,” he finishes softly.

You sit back in your seat and stare at him. Words fail. You shift, trying to pull air back into your lungs. “So. Dessert?”

He smiles. “Absolutely. I have a sweet tooth.”

You nod slowly. “Let me guess… big cookie guy?”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying. You scream chocolate chip.”

“I’m deeply offended.”

You grin at him and for the first time tonight, you let your foot nudge his gently under the table.

“Fine. Surprise me then.”

He raises his hand to flag the waiter, and as he does, he leans toward you with that same glint in his eye.

“Just wait,” he murmurs. “I’m full of surprises.”

The check comes, and you barely reach for your wallet before Sid’s already handing over his card.

You try. Really, you do.

You give him your best raised-eyebrow Are you serious? look and mumble, “We should at least split it.”

“Nope.”

“Sidney.”

“Y/N.”

You groan, slumping back against your chair like he’s personally offended you. “You’re gonna make me feel spoiled.”

He grins. “Good.”

You narrow your eyes. “What if I wanted to pay?”

He leans forward, his voice dropping. “Then I’d say, next time.”

The waiter walks off before you can argue further, and you mutter into your wine glass, “Smooth bastard.”

He just smirks and downs the rest of his water like he didn’t just win the round. Again.

The air is cool outside, the kind of crisp that brushes over your shoulders and pricks at your collarbone. You don’t even realize how close you’re standing to him until his arm brushes yours and he murmurs, “Wanna walk for a bit?”

You nod without thinking, and he tucks his hands into his coat pockets, guiding you down the sidewalk like he’s done this a thousand times.

The streets are soft with traffic, not too loud, not too busy. The occasional clink of silverware from outdoor patios and quiet hum of Friday night laughter follows you both, but it doesn’t feel invasive. It almost feels peaceful.

Sid talks about his sister for a little, how she’s doing great, smarter than him by far, how you’d probably love her. You talk about how your daughter’s started adding random silent letters to words when she writes just to be “fancy,” and how she refuses to sleep unless her stuffed flamingo “Mrs. Pickles” is tucked in beside her.

He laughs so hard he nearly trips on a sidewalk crack.

“Mrs. Pickles?”

You nod solemnly. “She takes her very seriously. It’s a high-ranking title.”

He shakes his head, eyes wide with amusement. “That’s elite naming. Like, all-time great.”

“She said she couldn’t trust a flamingo without a diploma,” you add.

He actually stops walking for a second to bend slightly and laugh. Full-bodied. Warm. He looks at you after, hand pressed to his chest. “I love her.”

You smile softly. “She’s a little maniac.”

“She’s your maniac.”

You don’t know why that makes your eyes burn.

You both fall into a comfortable silence for a moment—your footsteps lining up, your shoulders brushing every now and then—and then he suddenly veers right, gently grabbing your hand.

“Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Trust me.”

“Famous last words,” you mutter, but you follow.

He leads you a block over, then slows near a little corner shop lit up with warm, yellow lights and a soft-pink neon sign.

You stare at it, then at him. “Ice cream?”

He nods.

“It’s like 60 degrees out.”

“So?”

You squint at him. “I’m not judging.”

He shrugs, pulling the door open. “Told you, I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

You follow him inside, letting the scent of waffle cones and cold sugar wash over you. It’s cute in here. Narrow space, hand-written chalkboard menu, a bunch of mismatched chairs crammed into one corner.

Sid walks right up to the counter like he’s been here before.

The teenager behind the counter immediately does a double take, mouth twitching like he recognizes him but isn’t totally sure.

You nudge his elbow. “You’ve been here before.”

He glances at you. “Yeah.”

“Is this like your post-game craving spot?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes. They’ve got good pink ice cream.”

You blink. Your heart does that annoying squeeze thing again. “Wait. The pink ice cream?”

He nods, voice casual. “The fridge note kind.”

You just stare at him. “You remembered that?”

“I notice stuff.”

You press your lips together and look away. Jesus. Of course he noticed. He probably remembers everything. And he’s out here hunting down pink ice cream like it’s a goddamn quest.

“You’re—” You shake your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

He grins. “Is that a thank-you?”

You roll your eyes but can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. “I’ll tell you when I’ve tried it.”

You both lean over the counter to look at the options. There is pink ice cream. Bright pink, obnoxiously so. Cotton candy, the little sign says.

“Rocky road for me,” you say.

“Cookies and cream,” he says like it’s a sacred declaration.

You burst out laughing. “You are basic.”

He doesn’t flinch. “And proud.”

He insists on paying. Again. You half-heartedly argue, but the truth is—it’s kind of sweet. And his look dares you to stop him.

“I’m never paying for anything again, am I?” you mutter.

“Nope.”

You both walk back out into the cool air, cones in hand. He passes you the second one—a tiny pink scoop in a little cup with a plastic spoon.

“For your kid,” he says casually. “You can give it to her tomorrow. Just stick it in the freezer when you get home.”

You don’t respond right away because your throat’s tight. And you’re not exactly sure what to do with the feeling of someone being that thoughtful just because.

Finally, you whisper, “Thank you.”

He bumps your shoulder. “Told you. Sweet tooth.”

You both stroll down the sidewalk again, slower this time. The night’s soft around you, quiet in a way that feels almost sacred.

“This is nice,” you say finally.

“It is.”

“It’s like… weirdly easy.”

He nods. “Yeah. I was thinking the same thing. I figured first dates were supposed to be awkward.”

“This one kinda is,” you tease. “You’re just too charming for your own good.”

“Oh, I’m the charming one?”

You smirk. “You literally ordered pink ice cream for my daughter after a fancy dinner. Don’t act like you’re not laying it on thick.”

“I just wanted to see you smile again.”

Your breath catches.

You look over at him, your heart banging around your ribs like it doesn’t know where to go.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

He doesn’t say anything.

You both fall into a long, quiet stretch. The kind that carries weight. The kind that makes you wonder if you should stop walking and turn to face him just to see what might happen if you did.

But you don’t.

Instead, you glance over and say softly, “She’s gonna love the ice cream.”

He nods. “I figured.”

You don’t want the night to end.

But the air’s turned sharp, a little too cold now, nipping at your skin every time a breeze kicks up and skates down your arms. And maybe it’s the ice cream, maybe it’s just late—but you both slow your walk back to the car, lingering without really trying to.

The last few blocks feel different. Softer. Your laughter’s quieter, closer to a whisper. He’s walking a little closer too, brushing against you every few steps like he doesn’t want to stop either.

Sid reaches for the car door before you can, his hand warm even through your sleeve when he gently takes the pink cup from your hand to open it for you.

“Don’t drop it,” you warn, voice teasing but quiet.

He smirks. “You think I’d ruin the sacred pink ice cream?”

You slip into the passenger seat he climbs in beside you. The second the doors shut, the car feels warmer—more contained. A different kind of atmosphere than the wide-open air you’d been walking through. You settle in slowly, careful with your daughter’s prize, balancing it on your lap.

Sid glances over with a grin as he starts the engine. “So. You got more plans tonight or what?”

You blink. “What?”

He glances at you again, playful. “You know. Another reservation? Another guy waiting outside the ice cream shop?”

You laugh. “You think I double-booked?”

He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t be the first.”

You scoff, mock offended. “Please. I barely had enough energy for this one.”

“Ouch,” he grins. “That your way of saying you’re sick of me already?”

“No,” you laugh softly. “It’s my way of saying Michelle has probably run my kid into the ground and I should go pick up the remains.”

He chuckles. “That bad, huh?”

“She feeds her sugar and lets her wear the same pair of glittery socks for days straight. It’s like Lord of the Flies in that house.”

“That explains the glitter on your hoodie skirt.”

You snort. “There’s always glitter on me. It’s like a curse. I’ll be buried with glitter on my corpse.”

He laughs harder than you expect, his eyes crinkling. “Okay, so you don’t have another date. That’s good.”

You turn slightly toward him, raising a brow. “Why?”

He shrugs, pulling up to a red light. “I don’t know. It’d suck if I wasn’t your favorite guy you saw tonight.”

You tilt your head, teasing. “That’s a bold assumption.”

He grins again. That same small, almost-shy but not shy smile he’s given you all night when he knows he’s being just a little cocky. “Yeah? You gonna tell me I’m wrong?”

You don’t answer at first. You look out the window instead, watching the glow of the streetlamps smear across the glass, the city sliding by like some sleepy dream. Then you look down at the pink cup in your lap and say softly, “You remembered the ice cream.”

He glances over at you. His voice is quiet. “Of course I did.”

That’s when the silence shifts.

It’s no longer just comfortable—it’s weighted. Full. Like a question neither of you is asking out loud yet, even though it’s there.

You tuck your hair behind your ear. “I really did have a good time.”

He exhales, nodding once, eyes back on the road. “Yeah. Me too.”

The drive the rest of the way to your place is quiet, but it’s not awkward. It’s the kind of quiet that feels settled. Like something important already happened, and now neither of you wants to break the spell.

By the time he pulls up outside your place, the cold’s settled back in your bones. You hold the ice cream cup a little tighter, not quite ready to say goodbye yet.

Sid parks but doesn’t shut the car off. He looks over at you slowly, and for a second, you’re sure he’s going to say something meaningful—something heavy.

Instead, he smiles.

“So,” he says softly, “are you gonna give me a glittery high five or what?”

You laugh. “I don’t think you’ve earned that yet.”

“No?”

“No. Maybe after a second date.”

He freezes, just for a second, before that same soft grin pulls at the corners of his mouth. “You asking me?”

You meet his eyes, heart pounding. “I’m just saying… you’ve set the bar really high. Next guy’s gotta buy ice cream for my kid, and for me, and walk me around the city.”

“Sounds like a nightmare,” he says dryly.

You grin. “Right? Horrible.”

There’s another pause. One of those thick, almost-touching kinds.

He leans a little closer. Not enough to push, but enough that you feel it in your chest. His voice is low. “You should bring her to a game.”

You nod, a small breath catching in your throat. “Yeah. I think I will.”

“You too.”

You glance up at him. “You think I’d like hockey?”

“I think you’d like my hockey,” he murmurs.

God, he’s dangerous when he does that—quiet and careful and full of heat.

You open the door slowly, cold rushing in again. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thanks for coming.”

You hesitate on the threshold of the car, the cup still in your hand, and then glance back at him. “Text me when you get home?”

He nods, just once. “I will.”

You step out, shut the door gently behind you, and walk toward the front steps, your pulse drumming loud in your ears. You don’t look back.

But you feel him watching the whole time.

You’re barely inside your place before you’re toeing off your shoes and fishing your phone out of your pocket.

Your fingers are stiff from the cold, and you fumble the lock screen once before getting it open. A few notifications wait for you—one from your mom checking in, a couple from that group text with the school moms that you still haven’t had the heart to mute—but one message stands out like it’s glowing.

Sidney Crosby: Hey. Sorry to text so soon.

Sidney Crosby: I had a really great time tonight. Like really. Would love to do it again soon. Also—would love to see you and the little one at a game sometime. I think she’d love it. I think you would too. No pressure. Just… yeah. I had a great night. :)”

You exhale before you realize you’re even holding your breath, your shoulders sagging a little with it. There’s this weird ache in your chest—warm, fuzzy, deep. And unsteady. You tap out a response quickly but rewrite it twice before you finally send:

You: I had a really great time too. Thank you again for dinner (and the ice cream, you thief). We’d really like to go to a game. Just let us know when your schedule isn’t insane. No pressure either.”

And then you add, without thinking:

You: Pink ice cream is safely in the freezer. I think that automatically qualifies you for sainthood.”

His reply is nearly instant.

Sidney Crosby: Damn. I was going for ‘cool guy’ and accidentally landed on ‘saint.’ Rookie mistake.

You grin, your cheeks aching from it as you put your phone down just long enough to tuck the little pink cup into the freezer like it’s treasure.

Then you pad down the hallway, peeling off your coat, tossing your scarf over a chair, slipping into the bedroom to tug on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. You pause by the mirror, fingers grazing the corner of your mouth, like you’re still trying to feel if the smile’s actually yours.

You grab your keys again, double-check the ice cream, your phone, your charger, and then you head out. Michelle’s place isn’t far. You knock softly before letting yourself in, already knowing she told you to come straight up.

The lights are low and the apartment smells like lavender lotion and kettle corn, and you’re hit with that familiar wave of comfort—Michelle’s version of chaos is soft and familiar, a kind of organized mess that makes it easy to breathe.

You step into her bedroom and smile the second you see her—bare-faced, in her old college hoodie, hair piled on top of her head in a claw clip, sitting cross-legged on the bed with a bowl of pretzels.

“Oh my God,” she whispers dramatically when she sees you. “Tell me everything.”

But your eyes go first to the lump under the covers.

Your daughter is sound asleep, curled on her side in the center of the bed, cheeks flushed, her curls still slightly damp and sticking to her forehead. She’s in her favorite pajamas—the ones with the pastel dinosaurs—and the stuffed turtle you keep having to stitch back together is tucked under one arm.

Your throat tightens instantly. “She brushed her teeth?”

“Twice,” Michelle grins. “Because I told her that’s how she gets extra sugar out. You’re welcome.”

You shake your head, smiling as you quietly set your bag down and toe off your shoes. “You’re gonna make her a sugar addict.”

“She already is,” Michelle says proudly. “You just live in denial.”

You lean down, kiss the top of your daughter’s head gently, brush a curl off her cheek, and then slip into the bed beside her, careful not to jostle her too much. She stirs a little, but doesn’t wake.

Michelle’s eyes are glued to you. “Okay. Spill. Now.”

You stifle a laugh, tugging the blanket up and settling back against the pillows. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. From the moment he knocked on your door to the exact second he dropped you off. Everything.”

You sigh. “He brought flowers.”

Michelle clutches her heart. “Stop.”

“No idea they were expected. Just… did it. Like it was normal.”

“That’s so hot I’m actually nauseous.”

You smile despite yourself. “He noticed her drawings on the fridge. That ‘pink ice cream’ note? He took me to get some after dinner.”

Michelle stares at you. “You’re lying.”

You shake your head. “He remembered it. On purpose.”

“I hate him. I love him. Tell me what you wore. Wait—no—tell me everything else first. Dinner. Talk. Details.”

So you do.

You tell her about the restaurant, the dim lighting, the round table, how he held the door for you and helped you out of the car like it was second nature. You tell her about the conversations, the way he made you laugh, how he asked about your daughter like he’d been thinking about her all week. How he admitted to being a bad liar. How he said he wanted to see you at a game too.

You tell her about the cookies and cream and the rocky road and the way he refused to let you pay for anything. You admit you didn’t want to go home. Not yet.

Michelle’s beaming by the time you finish.

“So are you seeing him again or am I faking an emergency to force him to your door?”

You laugh. “I think we’ll see him again. He texted me as soon as I got in the door.”

“And?”

“And said he had a great time. That he wants to do it again. That he’d love for the two of us to come to a game.”

Michelle grabs a pillow and screams into it like a teenager, then flops dramatically back against the headboard. “I swear to God, if you don’t marry this man and let me give the most unhinged speech at your wedding—”

You roll your eyes, smiling. “Stop it.”

“I won’t. You deserve someone good. Someone solid. Someone who buys your kid ice cream because he saw a note on your fridge and decided to make it a priority.”

Your chest aches again. “I know.”

Michelle looks at you more carefully then, her voice softening. “It’s okay to like him.”

“I do like him.”

“I mean really like him.”

You stare at the ceiling. “That’s what scares me.”

She doesn’t push. She never has to. She just slides further under the blankets and pats the space beside her. “C’mere. Stay. She’s out cold anyway.”

You nod, curling onto your side and gently lifting your daughter so she’s draped across your chest. She mumbles something in her sleep and goes right back to breathing evenly, face nestled against your collarbone.

Michelle flips the light off.

And in the dark, with the weight of your daughter curled over your heart and your best friend close enough to reach, you let yourself exhale all the way.

Not because the night is over. But because it feels like something else is starting.

Saturday

The first thing you hear is your daughter’s giggle. That kind of bright, unfiltered laugh she only does when she’s entirely unbothered by the world.

The second is Michelle, whisper-yelling something about eggshells and “oh my god, that is not how you whisk—okay, okay, yes it is if you’re Gordon fucking Ramsay, but he’s not here, is he?”

You roll over, squinting at the faint morning light bleeding through the blinds. The room smells like coffee and something sweet—vanilla or maybe pancakes. You blink a few times, gathering yourself. Your body is stiff from the way you fell asleep last night, half curled around your daughter, the other half pinned by Michelle’s absurd collection of throw pillows.

You sit up slowly, rubbing your eyes. The apartment’s a little chilly this morning—enough to make you tug Michelle’s extra blanket tighter around your shoulders as you shuffle down the hallway toward the kitchen.

And the moment you step into view, Michelle spots you.

She freezes.

She looks guilty.

You squint at her. “What did you do?”

Your daughter turns toward you at the sound of your voice, face lighting up instantly. “Mommy!”

She’s standing on a kitchen chair, proudly whisking a bowl of batter with enough enthusiasm to splash it halfway up the side of the fridge. Her hands are covered in flour. She’s never looked happier.

Michelle gives you a smile that’s too big and way too fake. “Hey! Morning! You want coffee? We’ve got decaf, full-caf, oat milk, existential dread—dealer’s choice.”

You narrow your eyes at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says way too fast. “Absolutely nothing at all.”

“Michelle.”

She pivots to put sausage on the skillet, overly focused. “I mean… not while there are tiny, curious ears in the room. So maybe just enjoy this fine meal and we’ll circle back.”

You glance down at your daughter, who’s now humming some nonsense song while shaking sprinkles into a small bowl like she’s making her own Michelin-star dessert.

You decide not to push it. For now

You step in beside your daughter, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “You cooking, Chef?”

“I’m making pancakes!” she says proudly, pointing at the griddle like she’s orchestrating a Michelin-star breakfast. “I cracked the eggs all by myself.”

You glance down. There’s eggshell in the batter.

You make a mental note not to mention it.

You pour coffee, help her pour the batter onto the pan in slightly more controlled circles, and quietly enjoy the morning. It’s simple. It’s warm. It’s normal.

Until it’s not.

Because as soon as breakfast is over and your daughter trots off into the living room to line up her toy horses on the coffee table, Michelle turns to you with that same weird expression from earlier.

She looks like she’s bracing for impact.

You set your mug down slowly. “Okay. What?”

Michelle winces, like she was hoping you wouldn’t ask. “So… remember how I said I follow Sidney’s topic on Twitter?”

“Wait, you follow—?”

“I like knowing if he’s scratched or not! It helps with my fantasy team!” she defends. “I’m not stalking, okay? I just—look, you said he texted you after the date, and I wanted to see if he’d posted anything, maybe I wanted to see if the hockey girls noticed, I don’t know, I was curious, sue me.”

“What’d you find?”

She grabs her phone, opens it, and hesitates. “Okay. You promise not to freak out?”

“That’s literally the worst way to start this conversation.”

Michelle flips the phone around.

It’s a video.

Grainy, slightly zoomed-in, clearly filmed from another table. But it’s undeniably you and Sidney. At dinner last night. You recognize the way your hands move when you’re talking, the way he leans in when he listens. The angle’s tight enough that you can’t hear the conversation, but someone added subtitles anyway. And not just that—there’s a whole goddamn description in the tweet thread:

“Saw Sidney Crosby at dinner last night with a mystery woman. They later left together and got ice cream nearby. No idea on who she is yet but she seems nice enough??”

Michelle flips to the next tweet—screenshots from someone who’d apparently followed you both to the ice cream place. They circled your pink cup and captioned it “did she seriously get two ice creams? that’s adorable.”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s—that’s creepy,” you whisper. “That’s so creepy.”

Michelle nods solemnly. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not even on social media like that,” you mutter, grabbing your coffee again just so you can hold something. “I have like twelve people on my private account. How the hell did I end up on someone’s gossip thread?”

Michelle tries to lighten the mood. “To be fair you are dating one of the most famous hockey players in the world.”

��We’re not even—” You groan, sinking further into your chair “Michelle. That was our first date.”

“And it was a good one!” she chirps. “Apparently so good people decided to record it.”

You shoot her a look.

She sits down across from you. “Look, I’m not gonna lie. It’s fucked up. But this might be something you deal with now. If things go somewhere. You know?”

You nod slowly. The pit in your stomach grows.

You pick up your phone.

Nothing unusual at first. Just the usual: a couple texts from friends, a notification from the school reminding you about pajama day on Tuesday, and—

A few messages from Sidney.

Sidney: Hey. Just wanted to say I’m really sorry about that video going around. I didn’t know someone was filming us. I don’t post about my personal life, ever, and I should’ve thought about that more. I hope you’re okay.

Sidney: Text me if you want.

Sidney: Or if you don’t. Just yeah. I’m sorry.

You stare at it.

And then, the one below it.

A number you know by heart.

Your daughter’s dad.

The text is a screenshot. The thumbnail of the video.

“Is this you? Really classy, Y/N.”

Jesus Christ.

You put your phone down like it burned you.

Michelle frowns. “What is it?”

You turn the phone so she can see both messages.

“Oh,” she says softly. “Yikes.”

“Yeah,” you mutter, slumping further in your chair. “This is too much.”

She eyes you carefully. “Have you texted Sidney back?”

“No.”

“You’re going to, though, right?”

“I don’t know.”

“Y/N—”

“I don’t know, Michelle.”

Your voice is louder than you intended. You wince and glance toward the living room, but your daughter’s still happily babbling to her horse figurines, completely unaware.

“I just,” You lower your voice. “I knew this could happen. I knew it. But I didn’t think it would be now. It’s been one night. And I already have some stranger subtitling my life and my ex texting me screenshots like I owe him a goddamn explanation.”

Michelle’s quiet for a beat. Then: “You don’t owe anyone an explanation. Not him. Not the internet. Not even Sidney if you’re not ready. But don’t punish him for something he didn’t do.”

You sigh. “I know. I know.”

Michelle leans forward. “And maybe this is fucked up, but I kind of love that the pink ice cream made it in.”

That gets a small laugh out of you, even if it’s watery.

You close your eyes, press the heels of your hands to your face. The panic’s subsiding a little. But it’s still buzzing somewhere behind your ribs.

“I just wanted something normal,” you whisper.

Michelle nods. “So what do you want to do?”

You power your phone off slowly, set it down face-first.

“I want to not deal with it for a few hours.”

She doesn’t push.

Instead, she calls out, “Okay, who wants to help me fold laundry and definitely not build a blanket fort in the living room?”

“Me!” your daughter shouts.

You smile faintly, pushing up from the table.

Michelle’s already moving, yelling over her shoulder, “And I better not see any videos of you folding laundry either, you hear me? This is a private fort construction zone!”

And somehow, even though your stomach still turns and your chest still aches and your phone still holds two unread messages—one from the guy you like, the other from the man you used to love—you find yourself walking into the living room.

—

#angelsuecult #angelsuecultwrites #perfect places | s. crosby #part two #angst #sidney crosby #sidney crosby fic #sidney crosby imagine #nhl #nhl imagine #nhl players #pittsburgh penguins #sidney crosby x reader #reqs open

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ladykailitha · 2 days ago

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Steve and the D&D Game

An AU where season 4 never happens because Hopper lives and El doesn't lose her powers. So they kick Vecna's ass before summer is out.

Steve takes it upon himself to inform Eddie that since he is now the DM for his kids here is a list of things NOT have in his campaigns and why.

Like very detailed reasons why this would absolutely traumatize the freshmen and he has very good 'non-NDA breaking' reasons and Eddie is just staring at this list in his hands like "WTF"

No demogorgons- Will was kidnapped right after they failed to defeat one in their D&D game

No doglike packs of any kind- Dustin and Lucas were attacked by feral dogs

Nothing with all teeth and no faces- Mike has an irrational fear of the tooth fairy and all those teeth she collects (this is entirely made up and pisses Mike off that HE was used for that!)

Which is great everything is going along great until Halloween when Eddie runs a horror one-shot and it's about kids being kidnapped and experimented on and when the freshmen get irrationally into the story, Eddie comes to Steve for clarification on that one.

That one is a little hard to explain without explaining who El is and what happened to her but he thinks he does a pretty good job.

Now poor Eddie is freaking out because how is he supposed to navigate kids so thoroughly traumatized so Steve offers to listen to his DM notes before each session.

Eddie weaves these tales and Steve always quick to naysay things that would actually harm them but leaves twists and turns in place because he wants them to have fun too.

Soon enough he starts to enhance Eddie's storytelling.

Steve's all like: Oh don't have the twist bad guy be the wizard, it's always the wizard. Have the twist bad guy be the paladin who's been corrupted by Vecna but glamoured so the party can't tell he's broken his oath.

Eddie does so and absolute giggles in delight when Mike figures it out before the final betrayal comes because Mike has played paladins before and something feels off. Eddie makes him roll the appropriate roll and is giddy when he succeeds.

So now Vecna is without his fateful servant and Eddie is thrilled because Steve just keeps making his campaigns better.

All this made juicier when they realize that the human paladin is really Kas in disguise and they manage to convince Kas to turn his sword on Vecna.

All along the way, Steve is suggesting characters that might help the freshmen through said trauma. Like having queer NPCs so certain members *cough cough Byler cough* understand that it's okay to be queer.

Or carefully curated adventures like their own but without the triggering elements from Steve's list.

Finally on the night before the final session, Steve is trying to listen to what Eddie is saying, but he can't take his eyes off his lips.

He says something off hand that's actually kinda brilliant and Eddie is all "That's so brilliant I could kiss you!"

To which Steve replies "I really wish you would."

Eddie blinks at him for a moment before doing just that.

And then when the next day Lucas announces that the basketball team is in the championship. Eddie bummed because after that night they can't use the drama room, because the school musical is about to start rehearsing. So Steve offers up his big house for them to play in over Spring Break, so all of Hellfire is there to see Lucas sink the final basket to win the game.

And Erica is there to play Lady Applejack. Not to replace Lucas, but because since it's over when everyone is out of school, they agree to add her for the finale so they get all the help they can. She rolls the Nat 20 at the end that kills Vecna with Kas's sword.

Then Steve and Eddie announce their relationship to Hellfire and everyone is thrilled. But especially Mike and Will.

#my writing #stranger things #steddie #ladykailitha writes #season 3 au

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a-bit-of-writing · 3 days ago

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How They React To a Modern Reader {BG3 Male Companions & Gortash}

This piece is a request and though it took me a fair bit to finish, I’m happy to finally present it! As the title implies, this is how I imagine the male companions (and Gortash) would react if a modern reader shows up based on my own headcanons about them.

Astarion

Astarion spots you before you speak. You stumble into the camp in a daze, eyes wide, lips muttering things no one understands.

“What the fu – was that a real fireball?! Are those horns? Holy hell, I’m in a fantasy video game. This is not a drill.”

He doesn’t draw his blade. Not right away. Instead, he folds his arms, tilts his head, and watches you unravel like a particularly entertaining riddle.

“Well now. What curious little nonsense are you whispering?”

You’re the most absurd thing he’s seen in ages – barefoot, blinking at the sky like it offended you, and demanding someone hand you a phone. Which no one, obviously, knows the meaning of.

He gives you one look and smirks, fangs flashing.

“Oh good. A lunatic. I was beginning to worry this group was getting predictable.”

The others are skeptical, but you? You’re reacting the way someone does when they’ve finally stepped into the book they’ve always wanted to read — equal parts awe and swearing.

You point at Gale like you’ve spotted a celebrity.

“You’re a wizard? Like, a real one? You cast spells? And you’re not in jail?”

You admire Karlach like a dragon-slaying action figure come to life.

“You’re a tiefling. Oh my god, you’re actually real. You look so cool. Can I touch your horns? Is that weird? It’s weird, isn’t it.”

And when Astarion introduces himself with an elegant, mocking bow?

“Oh no. You’re the hot vampire. This is… this is Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? This is a game. Did I die?!”

He blinks. “Excuse me – game?”

You say something about “Larian Studios” and “saving throws,” which means absolutely nothing to him. Naturally, this delights him.

Your words are wild things — mangled, made-up, shameless. You say:

“I need a vibe check.”

“You’re giving villain arc energy.”

“Slay, king.”

Astarion is appalled.

“Slay? Slay?! Darling, that’s what I do to people. It’s not meant to be a compliment.”

He swears you’re possessed. Hexed. Unintentionally hilarious. But as the days go on, something changes.

He starts mimicking you.

Poorly, and on purpose.

“This meal is giving... mediocre. Truly, Shadowheart, do better.”

“Oh Gale, your little explosion was so slay. Should I clap now or later?”

He adopts the slang like a nobleman trying to speak tavern tongue — mocking, theatrical, but with growing ease. And gods help you, he makes it sound good.

There’s something else underneath the dramatics. A subtle shift in how he watches you. Because no one speaks like you. No one acts like you.

You don’t belong here and you’re not even trying to hide it. That intrigues him more than he lets on.

“You wear your strangeness like a second skin. Are all your people so… refreshingly bizarre?”

He starts asking questions – half-joking, half-sincere. What is a "Starbucks"? Why do you call people “bestie”? What in the Nine Hells is a “TikTok”?

He files it all away. A scholar of the strange, collecting every new word like a trophy.

He claims he’s keeping you around for the entertainment. Says you amuse him, like a little pocket-sized bard who fell out of the sky.

But when you wander off too far? His voice sharpens.

“If you insist on throwing yourself into danger, at least let me come along. I wouldn’t want to miss the moment you get eaten by a talking bush or whatever this plane has in store for you.”

He keeps close to you at night, lounging near your bedroll with an ease that’s too calculated to be casual. He’ll insult your “bizarre little scroll-box language” but he’ll also hand you a cloak when it’s cold.

“I can’t have you dying of exposure before I figure out what you are, can I?”

You’re not just another traveling companion. You’re a walking enigma with pop culture references and soft clothes and no idea how to wield a longsword. And gods help him, he’s starting to care.

The first time you call him “bestie”:

He stares like you slapped him with a fish.

“I… what did you just call me?”

When you try to explain, he cuts you off with an absolutely horrified expression.

“No. Absolutely not. I’d rather be called a thrall.”

He starts using it anyway — only to bother you. And it works.

“Shall we slay today, bestie?”

Gortash

You appear in his city — his throne room, even — rambling about timelines and “NPCs,” looking more confused than a drunk imp. A mortal, clearly. A nobody. But something’s… off.

You speak with no fear. No decorum. No clue who he is.

“Okay, okay. Deep breath. You’re Gortash. Enver Gortash. You're the — oh my god, you’re hotter in person — I mean, you’re the bad guy, right?”

He doesn’t flinch at the disrespect. He just smiles, slow and razor-edged.

“Well. Aren’t you bold? Or stupid. I haven’t decided yet.”

He watches you with the interest of a man deciding whether to cage a songbird or snap its neck. Something about you is unpredictable and unpredictability demands investigation.

The first time you call him “a drama king with daddy issues,” he doesn’t respond right away. He just stares at you.

“...A what?”

You explain with a grin. He listens. Silently. Then repeats it — slowly.

“Drama. King.”

He hates that it rolls off his tongue with such flair. He hates that you grin at him like you’ve won something. He’ll mock you for your dialect, call it crude, tasteless, “symptomatic of cultural collapse.”

But two days later? He uses the phrase “power move” in conversation.

And he means it.

Gortash is a master manipulator. He assumes you’ll be easy to read.

But your responses are erratic. You compare devils to “marketing execs,” call his robes “high fantasy couture,” and refer to him as “a walking red flag with good eyebrows.”

“You do realize you're insulting the most powerful man in Baldur’s Gate?”

“Yeah, but like, respectfully.”

You should be terrified of him. But you’re not. And that unsettles him more than he lets on.

He starts testing you. Throwing rhetorical knives cloaked in velvet words. Threats that sound like compliments. Challenges that look like games.

And you? You match him. Not with power, but with unshakable weirdness.

“Are you flirting with me or plotting my assassination? Honestly, it’s giving both.”

“Why not both?”

At first, you're a novelty. A curiosity. But the longer you linger, the more he starts including you in his plans — subtly.

“Come. Watch the gears turn.”

He lets you sit near the schematics, asks your opinion under the guise of mockery, and studies how your modern logic fits — or doesn’t — into his world.

You drop ideas like:

“Have you considered...a PR campaign?”

“You’d make a killing selling merchandise. Gortash-branded daggers? Hello?”

“You’re basically the CEO of Fear.”

He pretends to dismiss you.

But his artificers are soon testing slogans.

You’re not strong. You’re not trained. You trip over uneven cobblestone and panic over sending stones. You once mistook an imp for a hairless cat.

But you don’t obey. You question him. You joke with him. You touch things you shouldn't.

“That’s the nerve spine of the Steel Watch.”

“It looks like a soda machine from hell.”

He doesn’t know what that means. He doesn’t care. He’s already decided you belong to him.

Not as a subordinate. Not as a threat.

As a personal puzzle.

“You came from a world with no gods. No magic. No purpose. And yet… you laugh in the face of devils. Curious.”

His gaze lingers longer. His commands are quieter, but colder when others try to claim your attention.

And gods help anyone who dares touch you without his permission.

The first time you call him “bestie”

His soul leaves his body. Visibly.

“You… what did you just say?”

“You know, like — ‘best friend’. Bestie.”

“I have tortured men for less.”

But you catch him later whispering it under his breath like a spell.

When you use modern business lingo

You: “This whole Steel Watch situation is peak corporate overlord vibes. Like, you’re so the final boss.”

Gortash: “You keep referring to me as if I am... fictional. I find that both insulting and endearing.”

He leans closer.

“Tell me more about these... CEOs. I think I’d like them.”

Gale

When you stumble into camp, wide-eyed, pointing at everything like a tourist in a magical theme park, Gale is the first to approach.

He assumes you’re suffering from magical disorientation.

“Ah, fear not! A case of planar confusion, no doubt. Happens to the best of us. I am Gale of Waterdeep, arch — well, moderately accomplished wizard — and I shall assist you in—”

“Oh my god, you’re Gale! Like, the Gale. This is Baldur’s Gate, right? Is this… is this the real thing? Am I in a game?!”

His smile falters. He blinks.

“I… beg your pardon? A… game?”

You start rambling about video games, hit points, "romance options," and Larian Studios. None of it makes sense to him — your wonder? — That he understands.

Instead of brushing you off, Gale leans in like a scholar stumbling upon forbidden lore.

“Fascinating. Tell me everything.”

Gale’s used to people fearing magic. Or misusing it. But you? You’re utterly enchanted by it. You gasp when he casts Prestidigitation. You call him a "walking fireworks show."

“Your magic is so cool! You’re like — like Dumbledore but hot.”

“I’m sorry, I’m like what now?”

You introduce him to concepts like "boss battles" and "XP grinding," and while he doesn’t grasp the mechanics, he’s utterly taken by your passion.

For the first time in a long time, someone looks at his magic with joy instead of dread or expectation.

When you say, “This is a total vibe,” Gale politely asks for a definition.

You try to explain. He still doesn’t quite get it. But that doesn’t stop him from adopting the phrase immediately — incorrectly, of course.

“This stew is… quite a vibe, wouldn’t you say?”

You can’t even be mad. He’s trying.

He starts collecting your slang like he collects ancient tomes, dropping phrases like:

"It’s giving… majestic."

"I simply must slay this look."

"We need to circle back to this later."

“I rather enjoy your linguistic peculiarities. Though I suspect Astarion is using them incorrectly — intentionally, I might add.”

Gale starts studying you — not in a cold, calculating way, but as someone who has just discovered a new school of magic.

He takes notes.

On your slang

On your world

On your “peculiar resistance to this plane’s inherent dangers”

He asks you questions like:

“In your world, you consume entertainment through… flat glass boxes?”

“Please, elaborate on these… ‘memes’ you speak of.”

You show him doodles of pop culture icons in the dirt. He hums thoughtfully, comparing them to old Faerûnian fables.

You call him "bestie" and he doesn’t flinch — instead, he nods as if you’ve bestowed a rare title.

“Bestie. A term of endearment, yes? I shall wear it with pride.”

He insists on teaching you "basic magical theory" to keep you safe. He brings you food. He explains Faerûnian politics with the same excitement you use when talking about "Star Wars" and "Marvel."

When you wander too far, his concern is immediate but polite.

“Ah — careful! The woods can be treacherous. Would you mind if I — just — perhaps, walked with you?”

His protectiveness is gentle, not possessive. His affection shows in the way he listens. The way he remembers your strange little phrases and sprinkles them into his conversations like spells you’ve gifted him.

And when you start to miss home? He’s the first to notice.

“I suspect your heart aches for your own plane. But should you find yourself… inclined to stay, well… I dare say you’ve become quite the indispensable companion.”

His voice softens.

“Besides… who else will help me perfect this whole… ‘slay’ business?”

The first time you say "main character energy"

Gale: visibly preens

“I knew you were perceptive. Please, do go on.”

He 100% believes this is the highest compliment.

When you try to explain the concept of a "player character"

Gale: “So… you’re suggesting I am but a fragment of a larger tale? A… controllable entity? Hm. Intriguing. But I assure you, I make my own choices.”

He absolutely starts leaning into this idea as if he’s now playing his role to perfection.

“After all, we can’t let the audience down.”

Wyll

When you first appear — disoriented, rambling about "cutscenes" and "romance options" — Wyll’s immediate instinct is protective. He assumes you’ve been the victim of a powerful curse or planar mishap.

“Steady now, friend. You’re safe. I am Wyll, the Blade of Frontiers and you are…?”

“Oh my god, you’re real. You’re so real. You’re — wait, this is the actual Baldur’s Gate 3, isn’t it? I’m in the game. This is insane. You’re—”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t follow. A game? Are you injured?”

He crouches beside you like you’re a spooked animal, speaking in the gentlest hero voice possible, assuming you’re in shock.

When you explain (badly) that you’re from another world where his life is just a story? He’s rattled but too polite to show it.

“You mean to say… my life, my blade, my battles — they’ve been observed? Recorded? By countless eyes? Hm. I hope I made them proud.”

Of course you tell him he’s a fan favorite and that gets him blushing like a schoolboy.

“A fan… favorite, you say? Well now. That’s… a little overwhelming.”

The first time you tell him “You’re giving golden retriever energy,” he’s completely baffled.

“I am… giving what?”

You try to explain. He still doesn’t get it. But he writes it down so earnestly like he’s collecting crucial diplomatic phrases.

“Golden… retriever… energy. Right. I shall use this wisely.”

He starts testing your slang in the wild:

“We slay monsters, yes? We slay.”

“This campfire is giving… comfort.”

“Vibe check, my friend. Are you well?”

His delivery is so pure you can’t even correct him.

Eventually, he starts mixing formal chivalric language with slang:

“Fear not, bestie. I shall smite our foes posthaste.”

“Wyll… did you just call me bestie mid-fight?”

“I thought it was an… honorable title.”

Wyll takes one look at you — a stranger in strange clothes with strange words — and immediately appoints himself your unofficial guardian.

“You know not the dangers of this realm. Until you are steady upon your feet, you shall walk beside me.”

You try to argue. You insist you’ll be fine. You reference plot armor.

He smiles, good-natured but firm.

“Plot armor or no, it’s the duty of a blade to shield those in his company.”

When danger strikes, he’s already stepping in front of you. He teaches you how to hold a dagger properly. He insists on walking on the side closest to the road.

It’s not controlling — it’s just Wyll being Wyll.

“You may come from another plane, but you’re one of us now.”

Wyll wants to know more. He listens with genuine curiosity when you describe cars, skyscrapers, and "cell phones." But he never pushes when you get homesick or overwhelmed.

“It must feel like walking through a dream you can’t quite wake from.”

“Yeah… but I kinda like this dream.”

His kindness is never condescending. He doesn't study you like an experiment — he just wants to understand you better.

Sometimes, when you’re feeling low, he humors you by asking:

“Tell me more about these… heroes you admire. Perhaps I can aspire to be one, too.”

“Wyll, you’re already the blueprint.”

“The blueprint? Another noble title, I presume.”

Wyll is the type who saves the slang for private conversations. In front of others, he’s still the chivalrous Blade of Frontiers. But when you’re alone? He lets loose:

“You’re absolutely slaying this journey, you know.”

“That battle was… a vibe.”

“Truly, you have main character energy.”

And when you call him "bestie" for the first time?

“Bestie? What a curious word. But if it means I have earned your trust… then I shall bear it with pride.”

When You Joke About Him Being a "Player Option"

Wyll: “I hope you chose wisely, my friend. Though I suspect I had stiff competition.”

You: “Honestly? It was always going to be you.”

Wyll: visibly short-circuits

“Ah—well—thank you—I—ahem—it seems I must continue to… to slay.”

The First Time He Says “Vibe Check” in Battle

He absolutely yells it like it’s a heroic rallying cry.

“VIBE CHECK! BLADE OF FRONTIERS, TO ME!”

You: dying of laughter in the background

Halsin

You appear in the forest — rambling about timelines, side quests, and asking if this is "the canon route." You immediately latch onto Halsin as the safe one. The stable one.

“Oh thank god, you’re Halsin. You’re the cool druid. You’re supposed to be chill. Please tell me this is Baldur’s Gate 3. I can’t — I can’t handle another Skyrim glitch.”

Halsin blinks slowly.

“I… am not familiar with these words. But you are trembling. Sit. Breathe.”

He approaches with calm authority, offering you water, assuming you’ve just suffered a traumatic planar shift. He’s patient. So patient.

Even as you ramble about "player characters" and "romance options," he listens without a hint of mockery.

“I do not understand all you say. But I understand fear. You are safe here.”

Halsin expects confusion, maybe terror. Instead, you’re delighted.

“Wait — tieflings are real? Is that an owlbear? This is SO MUCH BETTER than real life.”

You immediately want to see everything. You ask endless questions, from wildshape mechanics to druid circles. You fawn over the animals. You point at his bear form and say:

“That’s sick. You’re like a tank with maxed-out charisma. Total main character energy.”

Halsin, who understands none of those words, just chuckles.

“You are… very kind. I think.”

The first time you call him "bestie," he pauses.

“Bestie. Is this… a rank of honor?”

You assure him it is. He believes you.

“Then I shall strive to be worthy of it.”

He starts sprinkling your slang into daily life, but he uses it so sincerely it makes your heart ache.

“The forest is giving… peace.”

“Today’s hunt? We slayed.”

“I believe you would call this… good vibes?”

He even starts greeting you with “Vibe check, bestie” in the most solemn, druidic tone imaginable.

While others might be amused by your eccentricities, Halsin is quietly concerned. You are a stranger here — your references, your stories, your slang — they all speak of a life far from this one. And he knows how lonely that must be.

“This world is not your own. But while you walk it, you will not walk alone.”

He keeps you close — not out of control, but out of care. He teaches you the forest paths, shows you edible herbs, and insists you learn how to light a fire without magic.

When you call him your “comfort character,” he doesn’t understand the full meaning but he smiles anyway.

“If I can bring you comfort, I will.”

Halsin asks about your home gently, never pushing.

“Your world seems… strange. Full of stone towers and metal carts. And yet, you long for it.”

When you get homesick, he offers you space but also a quiet place by the fire.

“Stay as long as you need. Or… longer.”

If you try to laugh it off with jokes and slang? He’s not fooled.

“It’s all right to miss your own forest. Even if it’s one I cannot walk with you.”

When You Call Him “Golden Retriever Energy”

Halsin: quietly confused

“Golden… retriever? Is that a creature in your world?”

You: “Yeah, and trust me — it’s a huge compliment.”

Halsin: smiling softly

“Then I accept it, bestie.”

When You Explain TikTok

You: “It’s like… little moving images. Entertainment. Distraction.”

Halsin: “Ah. So… like a flock of sparrows, quick and fleeting, demanding attention but offering little nourishment.”

You: “…Yes. Exactly that.”

Halsin would 100% call social media “sparrow thoughts.” He’s so wise, he’d accidentally invent poetic terminology for modern concepts.

Halsin doesn’t parade you around like a curiosity. He doesn’t tease.

He simply… accepts you. All your slang. All your weirdness. All your wonder.

And when you call him your “emotional support druid,” he simply replies:

“Then I shall support you. As long as you need me to.”

Rolan

When you stumble into his vicinity — wide-eyed, rambling about “timelines” and “player choices” — Rolan’s first instinct is to frown.

“Oh, marvelous. Another disoriented fool wandering into the camp like a lost sheep.”

You try to explain you’re from another world, you start using words like “canon” and “NPC,” and he immediately cuts you off.

“Spare me the rambling. Whatever your affliction is, someone else can deal with it.”

But he keeps watching you from the corner of his eye, because you’re… strange.

You don’t obey the usual rules. You don’t know the most basic things, but you speak about the world like you’ve seen everything.

He finds you… irritating. Intriguing. Mostly irritating.

The first time you say, “This is giving side quest energy,” he looks physically pained.

“What are you even saying? Do you speak Common or not?”

You explain. He calls it “utter nonsense.”

You call him “bestie.”

He glares at you like you’ve just insulted his entire bloodline.

“Do not… ever… call me that.”

But you don’t stop. You keep using slang — "slay," "main character energy," "vibe check" — until one day, mid-battle, you hear him mumble:

“Tch. We slay.”

You: gasping

“OH MY GOD DID YOU JUST—”

“Silence.”

He insists you’re not his responsibility. He makes a point of saying you’re someone else’s problem. But whenever you wander off?

He’s the first to scold you.

“Why are you this far from camp? Do you want to die?”

You try to brush it off: “Plot armor, bestie. I’m good.”

He looks visibly exhausted.

“You have no armor. And stop calling me that.”

Still, you notice your packs are often double-checked by morning. You find spells hastily scribbled for your use. If you trip, his hand catches your arm without thinking.

But if you thank him?

“I only did it because watching you fall on your face would have slowed us down.”

Sure, Rolan. Sure.

You have no idea how magic works here, and Rolan can’t stand your reckless enthusiasm.

“You’ll get yourself killed. Fine. If I must, I’ll teach you basic cantrips. But if you embarrass me, I’ll deny knowing you.”

He’s actually a very good teacher, though he insists your progress is “tolerable at best.”

You, meanwhile, keep throwing in phrases like:

“This spell totally slaps.”

“That’s a big bad boss moment.”

“Your arc is so tsundere-coded right now.”

He has no idea what that last one means. You don’t explain.

Rolan eventually realizes you don’t belong here — not just physically, but existentially.

And even though he never says it outright, you become his person to look after.

When you’re quiet for too long, he’ll mutter:

“You’re being weird. Say something stupid. I’ve grown used to it.”

When you call him your “comfort character,” he rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t walk away.

When you call him “bestie” for the hundredth time, he snaps:

“Enough. I’ll only permit it when we’re alone.”

But he still lets you say it.

When You Try to Explain Social Media

You: “It’s like… a messaging system. But public. And people argue for fun.”

Rolan: “So… like an open tavern brawl but worse.”

You: “Exactly.”

Rolan: visibly horrified

“Your plane sounds insufferable.”

When You Joke About Him Being a Side Character

You: “You’re totally a side quest companion, but like, one with a hidden romance route.”

Rolan: deadpan

“You truly have a gift for speaking nonsense.”

Pause.

“But if I were… would you choose me?”

You: softly “Of course.”

He glances away, flustered, pretending it meant nothing.

“Tch. Idiot.”

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justwinginglife · 20 hours ago

Text

Stuck With You

I feel like no one is gonna read this cuz it's objectively so, so dumb, but honestly, this is the kinda shit that goes through my head on a daily basis and I just thought it would be funny to write it out. Anyway, here goes.

Synopsis: You're handcuffed to Sylus and he decides to make it the biggest pain in your ass. Approx Word Count: 1300 Tags: There's really nothing of note unless you get grossed out by the happenings in the bathroom. This really is just me fucking around for roughly 1300 words.

You held out as long as you could. You really, really did. But you couldn’t hold out forever.

You cursed heaven, hell, and everything in between for your bad luck. It seemed there was no getting past this now. You cleared your throat, already regretting the confession that was to come, even before it’d left your lips. “Alright…the moment we’ve been dreading has finally come.”

Sylus raised a brow at you curiously.

”I… I need to go to the bathroom.” You admitted, crimson soaking into your cheeks, as you shifted your weight around.

A grin spread across his face, slow and smug, as he processed this new information (leverage). “Well, I, for one, have not been dreading this moment at all. If you have to go, then go, sweetie.”

Your eyes narrowed, threatening to gun him down with nothing more than spite and spite alone. “You- you know damn well it’s not that simple! You have to… turn around or something!”

He lifted the wrist that was currently cuffed to you, and had been cuffed for the last two hours. The two of you hadn’t figured out much about the link that conjoined your bodies besides the fact that it was extremely inconvenient, and now, it was even more inconvenient.

“Not very much turning space in here, is there?” He gave shaking your wrists a weak attempt. An hour or two ago, he might’ve actually tried to escape these restraints (the asshole even suggested cutting your hand off at one point), but not now. Not when you’d single-handedly, willingly provided him with the most entertainment he’d had in decades.

You knew this. And you refused to be his shiny, new plaything. ”So close your eyes then, damnit!”

”Ah, but the thing is, kitten-“ He leaned forward, arrogance and audacity dripping from his lips, “I just don’t feel like it.”

”So what? You’re just going to watch me pee???”

He shrugged casually.

You scoffed before slouching back against the couch. Apparently you’d have to hold it a little longer until you could figure out how to sever the connection between the two of you. But how exactly were you supposed to sever it? The more you struggled against it, the tighter it got, but it was impossible to just completely relax- not when he was looking at you all beady-eyed and brat-faced. And the longer you pondered the situation, the more you regretted admitting to Sylus what your current condition was. Because he was insufferable.

He feigned playing a game on his phone to cure his boredom, but you knew he was behind the random waterfall noises that had begun to drift into the previously-quiet air. And even though he’d shown no signs of being thirsty before, he soon began to gulp down his water (that he’d seemingly procured out of nowhere!) as loudly as he could. And then there was his absolutely ridiculous dialogue.

“You know what sounds good right about now? Some peas.”

”Or maybe a piece of pie.”

”I hope nobody peeks into our room and sees the situation we’ve found ourselves in.”

”Goddamnit-Sylus! I already said I’m not gonna pee with you attached to me!” You huffed, whacking him across the face with a decorative pillow.

“Well, kitten, we’ve got another issue now. Or at least, you do. I have no issues with it whatsoever.”

You threw your head back, groaning in frustration. “WHAT, Sylus, WHAT? What’s the issue? Just spit it out already!”

He grinned, the devil in his eyes. “Well, you see, after drinking all that water, it appears that I need to pee now. So you can either watch or turn around.”

”What happened to no turning space??” You yanked at your joint wrists angrily.

“So watch then.”

”Can’t you just hold it?!” You exclaimed, exasperated.

”I could but where’s the fun in that?”

”Sylus- this isn’t funny!”

“On the contrary- I find it to be quite amusing. Up we go.” He slipped one arm underneath you, giving you no choice but to accompany him to the bathroom, as he carried you squirming and squealing all the way.

He didn’t waste any time dropping his trousers (without warning- mind you!) and positioning himself over the toilet (to which you very quickly squeezed your eyes shut). You heard a low chuckle rumble in his throat- the irritating evidence of his enjoyment.

“Bastard.” You grumbled under your breath.

”Ahhhhhhhh, feels so nice to just…let go.” He narrated.

”Yeah, yeah, I get it! Just hurry it up!” You groaned, squeezing your legs together tightly, trying to ignore the overbearing pressure building up in your bladder.

”Why? I’m quite enjoying myself.” He leaned in so his breath tickled your ear, “And you could be too if you just let yourself.”

You bit your lip.

You knew he was right. You knew you would feel so, so much better if you just relieved yourself. After all, your legs couldn’t squeeze together any tighter at this point and your core muscles were already strained beyond belief from holding back the raging floodwaters. But you couldn’t help being stubborn. You’d barely gotten used to having Sylus being around you at all let alone gotten comfortable enough to let him see you piss. This had to be some cruel twist of fate; someone somewhere had to be laughing their ass off, just thinking about how tormented you were. You didn’t want to give them, or Sylus, the satisfaction. So you squeezed your eyes shut and began thinking of random numbers to distract yourself… but you didn’t realize you had started mumbling them out loud.

”Fourteen…fifteen…sixteen…”

Sylus caught on quickly and proceeded to antagonize you further. “Seventy three…twenty one…one hundred and sixty four…five million…”

You glared at him as he interrupted your train of thought.

“Just helping.” He teased.

”Shut up, I don’t need your help.”

”But you do need to relieve yourself at some point.” He poked your nose.

You waved him away but, once again, you knew he was right.

You glanced down at your joint wrists and made one last, desperate attempt to sever your connection to him, but it remained as strong as ever. At this point, your options were either you pee in front of Sylus or you pee your pants in front of Sylus; both options unfortunately required a sacrifice of your dignity, but one a little more than the other. So you made your choice.

”Fine, fine. Move!” You tugged him out of the way and sat him on the ground in front of you.

“We’re sitting now?”

”Yes, we’re sitting! When was the last time you saw a girl pee standing up? You know what, never mind, don’t answer that. Just- face that way.” You planted your hands on his head and turned him towards the wall, attempting to maintain some small semblance of privacy while you went about your business.

When you were finally sure he wouldn’t peek, you let loose. You didn’t remember the last time using the bathroom ever felt so good, but today, it felt incredible. So incredible that you almost even forgot that there was a 6’2 man sitting on your bathroom floor waiting for you to finish. But, of course, Sylus never stayed quiet for long. There was always a new button to push, a new nerve to unravel.

As if testing out the new level of intimacy you’d accidentally reached together, he decided to push the boundary even further, because, well, he was fucking Sylus. “You know, now that we’re in the bathroom, I may as well try to empty my bowels too-”

OH, HE DID NOT JUST-

“Abso-fucking-lutely not!”

Taglist: @tbaluver @pixelcafe-network

#han's library #sylus love and deepspace #l&ds sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lads #lnds #love and deep space #loveanddeepspace #love and deepspace #l&ds #lds #lds sylus #lads x reader #lnds x reader #l&ds x reader #lds x reader

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ilid · 6 hours ago

Text

I made the mistake of posting this on Reddit. Would not recommend, i ended up looking like this:

But it made me realize something: Kris and Berdly's unclear relationship might be a 4D chess move from Tricky Tony as a way of hammering Kris' identity to the player. But why would that be the case? The game already makes it pretty clear that Kris is their own person and is different from the player. Anyone that has played the game with their eyes open should've gotten this by now, right? Yes, and despite knowing this, we still project our own feelings onto Kris (myself included, i'm not innocent). Think about it, why would Toby make such a vague scene as the one with Ralsei? Why is it left so up to interpretation compared to everything else? Except... the scene is not really vague, it's only vague because it's Berdly. What if we change the names up a bit for the sake of argument: What if it was uhmm.... (let's pick someone random) Jockington!

❤️ Jockington * Jockington? (Ralsei would be just as confused, he doesn't know shit about Jockington or how absolutely cool he is) * Umm, you don't have to repeat yourself so loudly, Kris. * ... * I - you don't have to repeat yourself, Kris. * If, it's what you really want, Kris! * I'm sure Susie would be happy to see you, um, spread your wings sports? If we don't asume anything about Kris' opinion on Jockington, this reads more like Kris is making their choice clear while Ralsei is the confused one. Especially those last two lines, why would Ralsei say that if it wasn't out of reluctant understanding? It almost sounds like he's saying "You have shitty taste but i'm happy for you anyways".

Then, why is this scene vague anyways if the text is written like a sitcom gag?

Easy answer: Berdly is fucking annoying. Toby wants us to hate Berdly, he's egotistic and constantly tries to piss Kris (and by extension the player) off. His arc in Chapter 2 is not even dignifiying considering his "tragic backstory" barely justifies any of his flaws, he still acts like a douche up until his very last line of dialogue, and in Chapter 4 he REGRESSES back to being almost as bad as he was before. It's SOOOO easy to hate him, even the people who like him often say things like: "He's funny as a character but if he was my friend in real life i would hate him". So when the average Player comes across a scene like this one, they think "This can't be, Kris must hate Berdly just as much as i do! Surely there's an explanation for this!" and so everyone interpreted this scene as "Kris screaming while confused and angry!" even though nothing in the text confirms this at all. But we have proof that Kris doesn't hate Berdly at all, they play video games together on a regular basis: - If you check on him in his second battle it says "He usually only gets this mad when you play games together." - He mentions Kris wavedashing in Super Smashing Fighters - They played Minecrap together in Noelle's blogpost from the Spamton Sweepstakes. - They both compete in speedrunning leaderboards. Not only that but it's implied that Berdly berating Kris, is actually a mutual thing: - "He usually only gets this mad when you play games together." - Berdly seems used to being taunted by Kris. - Kris prank calls Berdly in Noelle's blogpost but helps him reinstall Minecrap after he accidentally uninstalled it. If you take all this into consideration it recontextualizes Kris and Berdly's entire dynamic, THEY'RE QUIPING! The thing is, this is all FLAVOR TEXT, and very easy to miss for the average player! So when Berdly taunts Kris, we only see Berdly's side, and it comes across as insults! We don't have the context to understand it until later! Even dialogue options like: - Telling Berdly to stand outside Rudy's hospital window so he can throw something at him. - "Running away as fast as possible" instead of talking to him in the Librarby. - Singing the wrong number song. What initially comes across as "Kris hates Berdly" options, is recontextualized as just their usual quips! This recontextualization hammers in the fact that WE DON'T KNOW KRIS, we don't know Berdly in the same way they do, and as a result of that, we don't experience things in the same way they do. Just like how Kris' gender identity is commentary on how people project gendered stereotypes onto nonbinary people, Kris and Berdly's relationship is commentary on how people project their opinions onto characters even when we don't know the full picture. Even if i'm wrong (I'm not) and Kris actually does hate Berdly or there's a secret third option, my point would still stand! (I would just be at the butt of the joke).

I'm tired of all the Kerdly deniers coping. I've seen so many people interpret this scene as Kris repeating Berdly's name out of confusion, disbelief or even anger, even though there's nothing in the text implying this.

Usually the other character's make it pretty clear that Kris sounds confused when we make them say something they don't want to say. There's a very specific choice of words here, "repeating yourself loudly" is very different from just "screaming", this specific wording implies Ralsei is the confused one and Kris is repeating themselves as clarification. But, i guess you could say Ralsei is not the most gifted when it comes to understanding social cues, you could kinda make a case for Ralsei either not understanding Kris' tone or maybe even purposefully avoiding mentioning it as to not "upset the player" or something. So how about hearing it from the bird himself? When Berdly asks Kris to join Queen's team, Berdly is perfectly capable of reading Kris' confusion.

But, if you choose to go with Berdly to the festival...

Berdly is INCREDIBLY FLUSTERED, and there's absolutely ZERO mention of any confusion from Kris.

Kerdly is inevitable.

#im going insane #dr #deltarune #deltarune spoilers #deltarune theory #kris dreemurr #kris #kris deltarune #berdly #kerdly #krerdly

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maxinehufflepuffprincess · 23 hours ago

Text

Princess Treatment

Lee Felix x fem! reader. 9th member.

(Some of the members have shorter parts, and some are longer. Either way, I've been at this all night. I'm tired. Enjoy.)

Taglist. Masterlist. Progress Update. Princess Treatment Collection.

Summary: As one of the youngest members of the group, you get the Princess Treatment.

You were one of the youngest in the group. You and Jeongin were, funnily enough, born on the same day. You weren’t related. But somehow Chan had managed to have two sets of ‘twins’ in the group. The ‘Sunshine Twins’ are Han and Felix. They were only a day apart in age. Then you and I.N., who stay had dubbed the ‘Royal Twins’. You and Innie weren’t sure who was actually older between the two of you, so you took it in turns. Sometimes I.N. played the older brother card, and sometimes you played the older sister card. Either way, the two of you were basically attached at the hip.

Everyone knew you got the Princess Treatment. Hell, you even had a song that 3Racha wrote for you called ‘Princess Treatment’. The song was sung by you, I.N., Chan and Leeknow. Chan and Leeknow where in the song because they acted a lot like parents to you. You enjoyed it. Daddy Chan and Mama Leeknow. I.N. was in the song just like how you are in ‘Maknae on Top’. Of course, you had the other boys in your music video, but they didn’t sing. It was rare for the guys to say no to you, whether it be your ‘parents’, Chan and Minho. Or your boyfriend, Felix.

—-------

Everyone knows you’re Chan’s Baby. Ever since Chan first met you, he had babied you. It was something you enjoyed. Chan would give you the world if you asked for it. He protected you and took care of you.

You made your way to the studio. You knew right now that 3Racha were currently recording Han’s part for one of the songs. You looked up at the door and knocked on it. You then opened the door and stepped inside.

“Hello.” You spoke with a sweet smile.

Chan and Binnie turned to look at you, both smiling and waving at you. “Hi, baby.” They said to you.

You walked over to the two. “Can I sit?” You asked as you tapped Chan’s thigh.

Chan nodded and turned his chair to face you. You happily climbed onto his lap and curled up. This was nothing new. You just did this sometimes, and it was for different reasons. Sometimes, because you just wanted to be close to Chan. Sometimes it was because you were sad or tired. Sometimes you did it so you could help out with producing. Over the years, 3Racha has been showing you how to be a producer.

“Are you okay?” Chan asked as he stroked your hair gently.

“I’m okay.” You told him as you played with your locket. It was a gift that Felix had gotten you for your birthday a few years ago. It was rare for you not to wear it.

Chan pulled out his phone and placed it in your hands. “I thought you were hanging out with Felix.”

Changbin nodded in agreement, remembering how the two of you had been discussing plans for the day.

“We’re hanging out later. Lixie, Jinnie and Min are currently cleaning up the choreography together, so I don’t want to disturb them right now. Besides, once Lixie, Innie, Minnie and I have done our lines. The four of us are going to get dinner together and then we’re gonna go find something fun to do.” It was a plan the four of you had made together the night before. I.N. had spent the night in the dorm you shared with Seungmin and Felix. It was common for the four of you and Han to have what you liked to call the Makne sleepovers. You also had sleepovers with the other guys.

Chan nodded his head as he let you snuggle close to him. You looked at his phone and began playing some random game on it. As you played, Changbin and Chan continued to work. Han continued to record his verses. Eventually, though, you ended up falling fast asleep on Chan’s lap. Only being woken up later when it was your turn to record your lines.

—-------

Minho has always had a soft spot for you. Ever since you both met, he had taken you under his wing. You were his baby. Whilst Chan was like a father to you. Minho was like a mother. The two of you just clicked. Much like the others, Minho found it hard to say no to you.

You found Minho in the kitchen. Everyone was hanging out in one of the dorms. Minho was preparing to cook for everyone. Chan was planning to help, but he wouldn’t be home for another few minutes as he had nipped out to grab something from the store.

Technically, you were meant to be hanging out with the others. But instead, you found yourself wandering into the kitchen.

“Min. Can I help? Please?” You asked him hopefully, causing the male to turn and look at you. His eyes were soft.

“Of course, you can, sweetheart. Put on an apron and wash your hands.”

You let out an excited squeal and put on your favourite apron. It was pink and pretty. It had two pockets in the shape of hearts. You walked over to the sink to wash your hands. As you did this, Minho stepped behind you to tie your apron into the perfect bow.

“Thank you, Mama.” You kissed his cheek and dried your hands.

He simply chuckled and led you to where everything was set you. “Alright. The meat is already cooking. We'll watch it until Chan gets here. How about you chop the veg for me? Just please be careful of your fingers.”

You nodded excitedly. “I'll be careful. I promise.” You loved cooking with Minho. You saw it as a good bonding moment. He enjoyed teaching you and getting to spend some quality time with you. Whether it be one-on-one or with others, there too.

You enjoyed getting to bake with Felix just as much. For you, cooking equals bonding time.

“How was your date yesterday, Baby?” He asked you curiously. He couldn’t help but smile when he saw the happy grin on your face.

“It was perfect. Lixie and I went to the arcade. We played some games and he won me a few adorable teddy bears. And we got some really cute pictures together.” The excitement was clear in your voice. It had been a really nice day.

“Then we finished the day with a bubble bath, ate brownies and ice cream. Then we cuddled in bed and slept.” You told him as you carefully chopped the vegetables.

Minho nodded his head as he listened to you speak. He was glad that you and Felix had been able to find time for a date night. Especially one outside of the dorms.

“Did you both eat properly?” He asked you curiously as he walked over to you, to check how you were doing with the veg.

“Yeah. We ate with Seungmin before we had our bath. Seungmin said it was what extras you made for us while we were out. So thank you for that.” You turned around and hugged him tightly.

Minho wrapped his arms around you and rested his chin on your head. “You're welcome, baby.” He pulled away. He enjoyed taking care of you.

The two of you continued to cook. Whenever it looked like you were struggling or were unsure of anything, Minho stepped in to either show you what to do or just do it for you. However, two turned to three when Chan joined you both to do his part. Every time one of them needed someone to check the food, they would turn to you with a fork or a spoon and feed you. You always gave your honest opinion. It was nice. The three of you are working in sync. Minho was in charge while in the kitchen. But the three of you worked so well.

Felix got a picture of the three of you. He sent it to the group chat. You made the photo part of your changing lock screen, and it was posted on your private Instagram.

The picture was also posted publicly by one of the guys. The caption read ‘Dad, Mum and their baby girl cooking together. Real family bonding moment.’

—-------

Changbin was planning to order lunch for everyone. Everyone was sitting in the usual dance practice room. Well, everyone except for you and I.N. Seungmin had texted you both about Changbin getting ready to order.

I.N. turned to look at you. “What are you feeling?” He asked you curiously.

“Fried chicken.” You told him with a shrug as the two of you walked to the practice room.

“So does Seungmin. If the three of us team up, we’ll get what we want.” Innie spoke with a grin on his face. The two of you walked down the hallway with your pinkie fingers linked.

You walked to the practice room. “Plus, I’m sure we can get Felix to side with us, too. No way can all our Hyungs say no to all four of us.” You placed a hand on the door handle and opened the door.

You and Innie stepped into the room, and everyone turned to look at you both. Smiles on their faces. “Hi.” You spoke softly and sweetly, waving to the boys.

You looked at I.N., and the two of you noticed Seungmin was sitting with Felix on the couch. So the two of you walked over to the duo.

“Hi, my Sunshine.” You said to Felix as you cupped his cheeks in your hands. He grinned up at you.

“Hello, Sunflower.” The two of you shared a sweet kiss. You pulled away and then draped yourself over the three males. Your head lands on Felix’s lap. His hands immediately came to play with your hair.

Seungmin let out a whine but did nothing to move you.

Changbin looked over at the four of you. “Alright, I’m ordering food. Any requests?”

Han piped up with his suggestion of sushi.

Chan suggested Pizza.

I.N. tapped your ankle, causing you to look at him. The two of you shared a look before you looked over at Changbin.

“Binnie.” You spoke, your voice was so soft and sweet.

The male looked at you again. “Yes, sweetheart?” He asked curiously, his voice was much softer now he was talking to you.

“Could we please get fried chicken? Pretty please? I’ve been craving it all day.” You asked him, your voice full of hope.

Innie quickly piped up. “Fried chicken sounds so good right now, good idea, Princess.” He said with a grin on his face. He rubbed your ankle lightly.

Seungmin lifted a hand. “I’d like fried chicken as well.”

The three of you looked at Felix. Felix looked between the three of you before his eyes landed on you. He smiled at you.

“I’d like chicken as well, please.” Hearing his words, you let out a squeal and hugged him.

The four of you turned to look at Changbin. All four were looking at him with pleading eyes.

“Please, Binnie? Please, can we get chicken? Please, Binnie Boo?” You asked, putting your hands together in a pleading motion.

Changbin let out a sigh but nodded his head. “You’re lucky I don’t know how to say no to you.” He walked over to the couch and handed you his phone. “Get whatever you want.”

You leant up and kissed Changbin’s cheek. “Thank you, Binnie. I love you.”

Binnie chucked and walked back to his place on the floor. The rest of the group watched as you sat up. Felix’s arm went around your waist, his chin on your shoulder. Seungmin was on your other side, looking at the phone as well. I.N. leant over Seungmin a little to also look at the phone. The four of you all discussing exactly what you wanted.

—-------

Hyunjin burst into your and Felix’s room with Felix right behind him. Both of them had bags in their arms. You were sitting at your desk, writing up some lyrics. Your plushies of Bbokari and your SKZoo, which was a swan, sitting together on the corner of your desk.

You turned to look at the two in surprise. “Um, hi?” You asked the two as you watched them dump the bags on the bed. Felix walked over to you, a cheeky smile on his face.

“Hi, my sunflower.” He said and kissed you softly.

You happily kissed him back, matching his softness. You then pulled away. “Hi, my sunshine.”

Hyunjin let out a whine. “Don’t I get a kiss?” He pouted as he looked at the two of you.

You and Felix shared a look. “Hmm. Sure!” You hopped up and practically threw yourself into Hyunjin’s arms, causing him to let out a loud, dramatic screech. Hyunjin fell back onto the bed.

Felix came to join you both as the two of you peppered Hyunjin’s face with kisses. Felix pulled away and laughed as he sat down on the bed.

“Alright. Have a look at what we got you.” The blonde said as he picked up the first bag.

You raised an eyebrow at him before sitting up on Hyunjin’s lap. Hyunjin carefully sat up after you, one of his arms wrapped around your waist to stop you from falling.

Felix handed you the first bag.

“I thought you two went out for paint and a new game for your switch?” You asked them as you opened the bag.

“We did.” Hyunjin nodded. “We may have gotten distracted.”

You pulled out a pink dress from the bag. It was the exact same dress you had been thinking about getting for about a month now. “Oh, Lixie.” You got off of Hyunjin’s lap and held the dress up.

Felix sat down next to Hyunjin and smiled at you. The dress was perfect. Your exact size and the perfect shade of pink.

“We also got it in red. Oh, and in blue.” Hyunjin commented as he wrapped an arm around Felix’s shoulders.

You let out a squeal and bounced on the spot. “I love you guys so much.” You placed the dress on your chair before walking over to the two. You cupped Felix’s cheeks in your hands and pressed a soft yet passionate kiss to his lips.

Your lips moved in sync for a moment before you both pulled away. “Thank you, Angel.” You spoke sweetly, the excitement still in your voice.

“You’re welcome, Princess.” He took your hands in his and kissed your right hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles.

Your cheeks began to heat up at his actions. Felix never failed at making your heart swoon for him.

You blinked and turned to Hyunjin. “Thank you, Jinnie.”

“You're welcome, my pretty muse.” He opened his arms, letting you hug him. As the two of you hugged, Felix reached for a smaller bag.

You pulled away from Hyunjin and turned to face Felix. You happily took the bag and opened it. Inside was a small box, so you took it out. You looked at Felix before opening the box to see a pretty ring inside.

“Wow.” You whispered. Oh, it was so pretty.

Felix pulled you close to him and took the box. He took out the ring and gave the box to Hyunjin to hold. Felix took your right hand in his and slipped the ring on your ring finger.

He then showed you his right hand. There, on the exact same finger, was the exact same ring.

“We're all matching now,” Hyunjin spoke up from his spot, showing you his matching ring.

You let out a squeal of excitement. “Ahh! This is soo cool. The ring is so pretty. Thank you both so much. I love it, and I love that now we can all match.”

Felix let out a laugh and shook his head. A happy grin on his face. “I knew you would. Now, let's open the rest of your presents.”

—-------

It was the middle of the concert, and everyone was having so much fun. It was fun standing in front of the crowd, waving your arms and watching them copy you. It was amazing hearing them singing your songs back to you.

You'd run around the stage with the boys. Leeknow had slapped your ass a few times already. You had gone to Chan for protection only for him to pick you up and offer your ass to Leeknow to smack to his heart's content. I.N. was the one to save you in the end.

You now had to step up onto one of the platforms. It was tall, and whilst the boys could just step up, you sometimes struggled. But the guys had you covered.

You watched Seungmin step onto the platform. He then turned to face you as Han knelt on one knee. Seungmin offered you his hand. You turned to Han.

“Are you sure?” You asked, slightly worried, as you didn't want to hurt him by literally stepping on him.

Han waved you off. “Go ahead, Princess. It's fine.”

So you stepped forward and stepped on Han's thigh. Seungmin grabbed your hand and helped pull you onto the platform.

“Thank you.” You said sincerely as Han stepped onto the platform. You then turned to watch Chan giving Felix a hand up onto the platform due to his back.

“Our Sunflower and our Sunshine, always getting the royal treatment. We spoil you too much.”

—-------

Felix was already home when you got back. You and Innie had just been with Minho. He had offered to help you both with a section of the dance you were stuck on. He had been patient with the two of you, and the three of you ate together before coming home.

Felix immediately went to you when you walked into the dorm. “Hi, baby.” He said as he hugged you close to him. Your body instantly relaxed against him as you hugged him back. Your own ‘hello’ being muffled. You let out a loud giggle as he kissed the spot where your neck and shoulder met.

Felix pulled away to look you over. “You look tired, baby.”

You nodded your head. “I am.” You pouted.

Felix took your hand in his and led you to the bathroom. When he opened the door, there was a bubble bath waiting for you. You could smell that he had used your favourite bubble bath. There was a bath tray that had your favourite hot chocolate. There were also some of Felix’s brownies on a plate.

You turned to face the blonde. “I love you.” You were tearing up a little from happiness, of course.

Felix shook his head. “No, no. Don’t cry. If you cry, I’ll cry. Then Seungmin will find us crying in the bathroom, take a video and then cry with us.”

You blinked your tears away. “You’re the sweetest. Thank you so much, Lixie.” You kissed his cheek.

“You’re welcome. Anything for you. You do the same thing for me. Now, get into the bath. I’ll grab your pyjamas and then I’ll sit with you.” With that, Felix left the room, closing the door behind him.

You stripped out of your clothes and got into the bath. The aches in your muscles seemed to relax. The bath was the perfect temperature. You scooped up a handful of bubbles and blew them at Felix as he walked back into the room.

He let out a laugh as he placed your pyjamas on the counter. He walked over to the bath and sat on the floor, so he was close.

“You’re not getting in?” You asked curiously.

Felix shook his head. “No. I took one earlier. But next time, I promise I’ll join you.” He told you with a smile on his face. You placed one hand out of the bath, and Felix instantly held your hand.

The two of you stayed in the bathroom until the bath got cold. Felix washed your hair. The two of you spent the entire time talking about whatever came to mind. Things like your favourite things about each other, and how your day has been. You spoke about the other members and how much you both adored them. You talked about doing another duet. You had already done one a few albums ago. The song had been called True Love. So you were both tossing around ideas for a possible follow-up to the song.

Once your bath was done, the brownies had long been eaten, and the hot chocolate had been finished. Felix helped you out of the bath. You dried up and got changed. You both brushed your teeth and did any skin care you may have needed or wanted to do. But either way, you both found your way in your shared bed, wrapped up in each other's arms. Sleeping peacefully.

—-------

Seungmin looked your way as you all walked. You were filming a SZK Code episode. You were in your own little world, giggling with Felix about something Han had said. Seungmin’s eyes went right to your shoe, seeing that your shoelace was untied.

Now, you weren’t always clumsy. But you did have your moments. So when you were walking, laughing hard and not paying attention to what was right in front of you, you fell. However, before you hit the ground, Seungmin had managed to grab you, stopping you from falling.

You blinked as you felt Felix grab your hand. “Thanks, Minnie.” You said with a shocked smile.

“Are you okay, beautiful?” Felix asked you, clearly worried about you.

You nodded your head. “Yeah. I’m okay.” You confirmed.

Seungmin knelt down and tied your shoelaces for you. He tapped your ankle. “Be careful next time. You could have gotten hurt, silly clutz.” He grinned up at you.

You smiled and ruffled his hair. “Thank you, Puppy. I’ll keep that in mind.”

—-------

Jeongin opened the door, letting you into the dorm first. The two of you walked to the couch and sat down, letting out a small huff of air. You had just gotten back from your monthly ‘twin date’. It was a day that you and I.N. spent together. It was always the same day every month. It was a day dedicated to just the two of you. To get away from everyone and everything. You always took it in turns when it came to deciding what you wanted to do. Innie had decided on Karaoke this time.

“I need something to drink.” You moved to stand up, put Innie gently pushed you back down.

“I’ll get it.” You watched him disappear into the kitchen. You shrugged and turned on the TV. You scrolled through Netflix before landing on what you wanted to watch.

I.N. reappeared holding two cups. He handed you your cup and sat beside you. “What are we watching?” He asked curiously. He let out a small hum as you told him.

The two of you sat there, happily drinking your drinks, giggling at funny parts of the movie. You were both already planning your next outing. However, around an hour later, you and I.N. were both fast asleep. Innie was snuggled up to the couch, and you were snuggled up to Innie’s side.

Chan found you both when he came home. He placed a blanket over you both. He kissed your foreheads and whispered a soft ‘goodnight, sweet dreams’. Before he made his way to his room, ready to get some sleep himself.

----------------

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