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foreverisntenough · 1 day ago

Text

‘Aperture’

Summary: A professional footballer with a playboy reputation finds his world reframed when he meets a talented photographer who captures the light and depth he’s never seen in himself. As their friendship develops, he finds himself illuminated by her presence—a stark contrast to the shallow spotlight he’s used to, but her guarded heart keeps her from fully trusting his intentions. Their friendship develops, like film in a darkroom, shifting into something far more intimate. But when their connection begins to blur the lines between friendship and something more, he realizes she’s the light he’s been chasing without knowing it and fights to prove he’s ready for something real. Yet, their love hangs in the balance—will the film of their story overexpose and fade, or will it develop into something vivid and timeless. Sometimes, love is about adjusting the focus, letting in the right light, and trusting the process.

Chapter Index:

Fashion Index Cont: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, slight mention of drugs, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

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

Please read: Little note from me about him and one more about our community In summary: This is a swan song fic. The fic was never really about "him" as much as it was a fictional story and character I got to create and share with you all. I hope you still love reading it as much as I still love writing it. xx

Chapter 20 - 'The Quiet' | 'Aperture'

word count - 14.1k

You kept your tone breezy when you spoke to Dianne. You smiled like you’d only just met Trent in a work context, like he wasn’t the reason your mascara had run on your birthday, like your hand hadn’t once been curled around the hem of his shirt, pleading without sound. You told Dianne it was nice to meet her, and meant it, but you couldn’t hide the way your hands fidgeted around the strap of your bag. She didn’t call attention to it. She didn’t have to.

“Do you live close by or just visiting?” she asked, friendly. Curious. But she heard your accent. She knew you weren't exactly local to Toxteth.

“Oh, I only live in Manchester, so not too far.” You said and her lips twitched. Her son lived near there. “But I’m on the move a lot. I’m off down to London in a day. Then I have to go right to Paris. Work’s been a bit mad.” You explained and she smiled softly. Her son was on the move a lot too. The obviousness was blinding but you were doing well though, trying to at least. You even chuckled lightly when she mentioned how the kids were always in awe of Trent, but that they had no idea he was technically shy when not on the pitch. You knew that though. Still, you fumbled when she asked whether you’d met his younger brother who she explained was the most outgoing of her three boys.

“Marcel?” you’d said, too fast. “Yeah—he’s great. He’s funny.” You clocked the faint raise of her brows before you could reel it back in. Her lips curved gently, not in suspicion, but in amusement. You'd stepped out of line. She wasn't drawing attention to it. But the slip was enough. And then there was the moment you mentioned his schedule, something about the international break and how he must be exhausted after the last away leg in the Champions League, and Dianne’s eyes narrowed softly, kindly. You were saying too much for someone who was just here to help a youth league event. But she never once pried. She just tilted her head slightly, as if to say I see you, but you don’t owe me anything. Still, you felt it. That warmth in her stare. That intuitive understanding. She didn’t need the full picture. She already had it. And then you felt it—him. Before you saw him. The shift in air, the subtle hush of the world adjusting. Your heart thudded harder as Trent approached from behind the field's scatter of children, voices behind him still carrying laughter as they whined about him leaving.

“I’m just going to see my mum. I’ll be back before the next whistle. Promise.” He told them and they giggled. Trent Alexander-Arnold going to see his mummy. Just the same way they (six years old) would when they left the pitch. But yes, Trent Alexander-Arnold needed to see his mummy… now. Immediately. But his smile fell as soon as his trainers hit the grass near you. You turned. And there he was. Trent Alexander-Arnold. The boy you’d kissed in the heat of summer in Ibiza and told not to make it mean anything. The boy who sat on the carpet of your apartment when you needed him to hold you. The boy who had told you, almost bitterly, ‘You never let me have you.’ and later, painfully ‘I love you.’ And now here you both stood. In front of his mum. Your mouth parted slightly, unsure of how to greet him. The instinct was there, to grin, to tease, to touch his shoulder, but your feet felt heavy. He stepped forward first, smile trained. Polished. And then he hugged you. Not your hug. Not the one he’d given you in the car park after he picked you up from the train, or the one he gave when you fell asleep on his chest with a film still playing. This was clean. Careful. A press of bodies with too much space between them. Quick.

“Glad you came,” he said softly as he pulled back, voice neutral, hand squeezing your arm once before dropping. You nodded, blinking.

“Yeah, ‘course.” That was when Dianne looked between the two of you. And she saw it instantly. Saw the way you tensed beneath his touch, expecting a familiarity that never came. The way he didn’t cradle the back of your head, didn’t whisper something only you could hear. It was performative. Or scared. Maybe both. Dianne had watched her son shake hands with the Prince of Wales and post-match pundits who were legends of the game. She knew when he was acting. But what she didn’t expect was the breath you let out as he let go. The tiny exhale that sounded like heartbreak laced with hope. And that was what gave it away. Not the hug. Not the silence. But that. Her gaze softened. And she didn’t say a word.

—

Dianne didn’t say anything either when she left you two alone. She only smiled and said something about grabbing a tea before the next session started, but you knew it was intentional. The kind of exit a mother makes when she’s seen enough to know what’s not being said. You stood beside Trent on the touchline, both of you watching six-year-olds dart after a ball like bees after sugar. One toe-poke followed another, the chaos of childhood football somehow steadying. You breathed easier in it. So did he. You didn’t speak for a while. Just stood next to him, close enough to feel him radiating warmth through the sleeve of your jacket, but not touching. Not really. Not like you used to. You smiled softly when a tiny kid celebrated a goal like he’d just won the Champions League. It was warm on your face, that smile. But Trent wasn’t looking at the pitch. He was watching you. Your laugh, the one you didn't even mean to let out when the kids started arguing about who was playing midfield, hit him like sunlight to the chest. He really loved you. You were just so good. So kind, so sweet. He never had this experience with a girl before. Where she cared, and you cared. Cared about people, about life, but what hurt was he just so desperately wanted you to care about him. And you did but it didn’t come out in the three words he wanted, not when he wanted them. He wanted to shake you sometimes—not hard, just enough to make you see it. To want him back the way he wanted you. That he didn’t care about anything but you. That all he ever wanted was you. Your care, your softness, directed at him. But instead he watched the game again. A moment passed, and the ball went wide. Trent stepped forward instinctively, trapping it with ease before flipping it up with the side of his foot and catching it in his hands. The little girl waiting clapped and he chuckled at her fondness.

“You can do that too.” He told her, handing it to her with a wink. You smiled. And then you felt it—a nudge to the side of your trainer. You glanced down. His shoe tapped yours again lightly. “Like these,” he said, smirking like it wasn’t a big deal, like he hadn’t noticed. But of course he had. You looked down to your matching adidas sambas, different but the same, both not the usual kind. Your pair was Wales Bonner, rare, curated, limited. His too. A small giggle slipped out of you and it nearly broke him.

“Yeah? I was trying to be, you know… on brand. Footie and that.” You nudged his foot right back.

“Aye!” He yelped with a lethal childish smile. “Don’t scuff ‘em up, you.�� He smirked and your cheeks hurt for the flush and the fullness.

“Oh shush.” You waved him off, eyes flicking to the pitch. “Anyways, guess I was on theme then. Big prem baller like you wearing them too.” You smiled. And then, without thinking, you reached across yourself and squeezed his arm. Just a gentle press of your hand around his forearm, your touch dainty but purposeful. Your fingers curling around the muscle like a memory. It was casual. But to Trent, it was anything but. He felt it in his ribs. Like you’d knocked on his heart and walked away again. He didn’t look at you. He couldn’t. Eyes stayed fixed on the field, lashes low, expression unreadable except for the smallest twitch in his jaw.

“Cute,” he murmured. You almost didn’t hear it. But he doubled down. “You’re really bloody cute, baby.” He shook his head. You had him down bad and he knew it. He remembered kicking himself sitting in your hotel room in Ibiza thinking it was insane he thought you looked cute struggling with the safe, and now, he unapologetically thought that. Cute. You doing the mundane like wearing a pair of sambas, that was even cute. You turned to him slowly. Your eyes studied his face, the way his jaw set tighter than usual, the way his lashes didn’t lift. He wasn’t teasing. He was unspooling. And then it hit you—Blanche. Byredo. That soft, clean scent that clung to your pillowcases long after he left, lotion you’d once rubbed across his back in lazy post-shower rituals, trying not to read too much into it. But now? It made your head dizzy. Your skin pricked. You blinked. And just like that, you weren’t on a pitch anymore. You were in his sheets. You were back in the kitchen. In his arms. In all the moments that didn’t count out here in daylight. He still didn’t look at you. But he felt it. Felt you. Felt the way the silence between you wasn’t quiet at all. It was deafening. Because nothing was said. But everything was screaming.

—

You weren’t even looking at him anymore when it happened. Your eyes were back out on the pitch, caught somewhere in the blur of moving bodies and neon bibs, trying to ground yourself. But really, it was those three inches between you and Trent that held your attention. Three inches that used to be nothing. Less than nothing. A space he used to fill without hesitation. Now it felt like a canyon. And maybe he felt it too. Maybe he hated it even more. Because you didn’t notice he’d moved until you felt it—his finger, low and loose, hooking gently into the belt loop of your jeans. Your breath caught like someone had poured ice water straight down your spine. You didn’t look at him. But he pulled you in anyway. Not far. Just enough. Just so your arms brushed against his, just so your shoulder pressed into his. Just so you remembered that warmth, that softness, that safety that once lived in his skin. You stayed quiet. So did he. But the air around you howled. Kids squealed about a goal in the background, and somewhere in their noise, Trent was whispering something to you without a word. Don’t leave again. That’s what it felt like. That’s what it said. And then he did speak. Not loud. Not dramatic. Not breaking the moment, just slipping something heavy into the quiet.

"Y’know I don’t think I’ve ever had to pretend I don’t know someone before," he said, still watching the field. His voice was light. Too light. Like it was a joke, but it wasn’t. You blinked. He didn’t look at you. “Like, really know them. Like...know how they take their tea, what music they play in the car, what they do when they’re sad.” He paused. You swallowed. “I watched you talk to my mum and it—” He shook his head gently. Embarrassed even maybe. “Felt like I was watching you pretend you’re not the most important person in my life.” You didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. His finger was still in your belt loop, holding you there. Like he knew you’d run if he let go. But he didn’t. He just stood still beside you. Heart cracked open so quietly, you could barely hear it. “Just weird, that’s all,” he said at last. “Didn’t like it.” And that was it. He didn’t push. Didn’t ask for anything. But it echoed in you anyway. Loud. Real. Because maybe it was the first time Trent didn’t try to fix it, or flirt through it. He just told the truth. Quietly. Honestly. And waited to see what you’d do with it.

You didn’t say anything at first. Didn’t pull away either though. Just stood there with his finger still looped through your jeans like it was the only thread keeping you tethered to the ground. Your chest felt tight, throat drier than you thought possible for someone who hadn’t stopped swallowing back emotion since they got here. His words clung to you like the cold. You wanted to say something. Anything. But the honesty in his voice was still vibrating inside you, curling around your ribs like smoke. The worst part was… you knew exactly what he meant. You had done it, walked up to his mum with your best polite voice, your glossy smile, like you didn’t know what he looked like with tear-soaked lashes in the middle of the night. Like you didn’t know how he looked when he kissed you forehead-deep in sleep. Like you hadn’t once heard him say your name like it was a prayer he wasn’t sure he deserved to say out loud. And you hated that you’d made him feel that small. That invisible. So you turned. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you moved too fast, the air might shatter between you. He was still watching the pitch, like he hadn’t said anything monumental. Like his voice hadn’t just carved something permanent into the moment. But you saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. Saw the way his fingers curled slightly tighter in your belt loop. You looked at him for a long time. Then finally, quietly…

“I didn’t know what I was supposed to be to her.” You said. He looked at you. You shrugged, barely. “Wasn’t sure if I was allowed to be what I really was to you anymore.” That silence after was different. Not heavy this time. Just... real. And then, softer still, you added, “Didn’t want to ruin anything else for you.” He let out a breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Then he turned toward you a little more, his voice hushed but certain.

“You are everything. Still are. It’s already ruined without you.” Your heart split. And still, the kids squealed in the distance. One tripped, face-planted into the grass, and a ripple of chaotic laughter rolled through the air. But you and Trent stayed still in it all, like the whole world could fall apart around you—but here, just for now, it didn’t matter. Because finally, after all this time, you weren’t pretending.

–

It was starting to cool down now. The kind of chill that didn’t bite but reminded you it was still England, still April, still real life. You hadn’t said much after that. Not because there wasn’t anything to say—there was too much. It collected behind your ribs, blurred your thoughts, turned even small silences into loud, aching things. You stood beside Trent on the sideline, close but not as close as you wanted to be. Every so often, your hands nearly brushed, his jacket grazing yours. You pretended not to notice. He didn’t call you out on it. That made it worse. When a little boy kicked the ball too far out again, Trent stepped forward to get it. Casual. Like he always did this. His movement was smooth, grounded, his body memory sharp. He passed the ball back and jogged the short distance back to you. He reached out gently, hand landing for half a second on your lower back to guide you out of the way. You inhaled too sharply. His hand dropped.

“I’m not gonna apologise for touching you,” he said, voice low, not looking at you. You kept your eyes forward too.

“You don’t have to.” But even you heard the shake in your voice. Felt the guilt begin to press behind your sternum.

“I’m not doing anything different,” he said, still quiet. “But feels like it’s always wrong now.” That stung, but only because it was true. You’d flinched. You’d pulled back. You'd made it so hard for him to love you, and when he stopped reaching quite so freely, you’d wept like he abandoned you. But he hadn’t. Not really. He’d just been tired. Tired of loving you so openly while you shied away. Tired of holding you when it left bruises on him. You hadn’t meant to make him feel like this. But you had. And now, standing here, you didn’t know how to put any of that into words without unraveling in front of him. So you didn’t try. You just stood there, hand clenched lightly around the strap of your camera, watching the pitch through wet lashes. He didn't look at you. Maybe because he knew if he did, you'd start to cry. Or maybe because he was afraid he would. That’s when Coach Craig called him over again. Just a wave from across the field. Trent shifted slightly, took a breath like he was about to say something important—then stopped. Instead, he turned to you and waited. You looked at him. He looked tired. Soft around the eyes. Still devastatingly gorgeous.

“I should…” you gestured half-heartedly at your camera, “I haven’t really taken any pictures. Sorry, I’ve been—” You awkwardly stuttered.

“Bab—” He caught the word with an exhale. “Y/N,” he corrected himself gently. “It’s alright.” You nodded, swallowing a fresh wave of shame. “I’m just glad you’re here.” His voice was calm, even. Like he didn’t want to scare you away. Like he knew you were already halfway out the door and still... he was trying to anchor you. You smiled, but it barely reached. He gave a small nod and jogged back onto the pitch, slipping back into his safe space easily surrounded by little kids dreaming to be him when he wanted to be anyone else. You stood on the touchline for a moment longer, watching the kids chase after the ball, listening to the echo of his words press into your chest. You were here. But only just.

—

You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Trent jogged off, slipping back into the centre of the pitch where a circle of six-year-olds shrieked and scattered like marbles let loose across pavement. You stayed behind, on the edge, shifting your weight onto one leg, lifting your camera like it might shield you from the weight in your chest. The familiar click of the shutter offered rhythm, something mechanical in contrast to the mess you felt inside. Through the lens, you found him. He was crouched low now, arms out wide like wings as a little boy tried to dribble a ball past him. He was grinning, laughing, playful, patient. And even from here, with distance and the filtered glass of your lens between you, he still made you ache.

Because if you were so good, he was too good. Because he always had been. Not just in the way he moved or the way the kids looked at him like he was magic in trainers, but in the quiet things too. The text to check your flight landed safe. The way he remembered your mum’s name the one time you’d managed to say it. The late-night drives where he’d let you play your music and didn’t speak, just held your hand on the gear shift like it was a lifeline. And now… he looked up. It wasn’t deliberate, not really. He was half-listening to something a little girl said, nodding along, but he glanced toward the sideline and caught you in his eyeline. Through your viewfinder, it was like he stared straight through you. Your hands shook slightly, and the photo blurred. You lowered the camera. You didn’t deserve that look. Not when he’d loved you openly and without armor, not when he’d tried, and tried again, even after you’d flinched from his words. Because he’d said something real and you’d met it with silence. With fear. You’d turned love into a ghost, and now it haunted both of you. He was only distant now because you had made him so. That was the worst part. It would’ve been easier if he had messed up. If he’d flirted or left or fallen out of love. But he hadn’t. He still was. And now you stood with your expensive camera and glossy lips and stupid Sambas, pretending you were just here for the shots. But you weren’t. You were here because it was him. Always him. You lifted the camera again, caught him mid-laugh, kids climbing him like he was a tree. And it shattered you, soft and slow. You’d give anything to go back. To be braver. To say the word better. But not here. Not yet.

—

It should’ve been simple. He was standing in a sea of high-pitched laughter, kids crowding around, jostling to ask who his favorite player was–he was theirs, if he could do an around the world–they couldn’t, if he’d ever played in the snow– they wanted to. One of them had his boot untied and Trent bent instinctively to lace it. Another tugged at his sleeve asking his favorite food. He obliged by telling him pasta. He smiled. He always smiled. But his heart wasn’t here. It hadn’t been since the moment he saw you lean against the goalpost, camera to your face, hiding and yet fully seen. You looked like a picture. Not just pretty. Not just poised. Poetic. The kind of image that stayed behind your eyelids when you blinked. The kind you didn’t know how to unsee. And he prayed for you to see him the same way. God, he was begging. Please. Please just look at me like that and mean it. Please say this isn’t just guilt or routine or some warped sense of obligation. Please love me the way I love you. Please let it not be too late. You were angled slightly, camera lifted again, one hip against the post, focused on something—on him, he realized. You hadn’t moved in minutes, like you were trying to preserve him in still life. Trent didn’t smile for it. He didn’t pose. He just stayed how he was, speaking gently to the kids, letting you see him as he is. Letting you take it, if you needed to. If that was the only way you could hold him right now. But he wanted more. He wanted you to run up and throw your arms around his neck and tell him you were sorry and that you loved him and that the year you’d spent trying to pretend this was anything less than gravity had been a lie. He wanted to feel the truth in your kiss the way he had a hundred times before you got scared of what it meant.

Instead, he got a glance. A small one. From behind the camera, you peeked around the side of it like you thought he wouldn’t notice. But he always noticed you. And for a second, it was like you were screaming I love you across the pitch, silently, wildly, completely unaware of how loud your silence had become. He couldn’t look too long. Not because he didn’t want to, but because it hurt. Because he could feel it in his ribs how close you were to being everything and how far you were from letting yourself be.

Dianne’s voice broke the stretch of tension before he drowned in it. He turned slightly as she walked past him, heading toward you. And even that, even the image of his mum approaching you, felt heavy. Not in a bad way, but in a way that said everything was real. That you weren’t just someone. That Dianne already knew. That she always had. His eyes flicked back. You were still looking through the lens, lost in him, until Dianne’s hand landed soft on your arm and you jumped, like you’d been caught trespassing. Trent’s chest pinched. You didn’t look like a photographer anymore. You looked like a girl scared of her own heart. He watched you speak, he couldn’t hear what you said, but the way your hand moved to your chest, the way your eyes darted toward him, then away, it was all there. You were terrified. And maybe that was the problem.

—-

You hadn’t heard her footsteps over the chorus shouts, muffled by the grass, didn’t register the shadow until her hand landed gently on your arm. You startled, sucking in a breath like you’d been pulled out of water.

“Oh my gosh,” you gasped, instinctively pressing a hand over your heart, your camera dropping slightly. Dianne just smiled, soft and maternal, eyes a shade too knowing.

“Oop sorry, hun,” she said, kind and light. “Didn’t want to interrupt your… focus.” You flushed, heat rising into your cheeks before you could stop it. Focus. If only she knew how much you hadn’t been. Your camera might’ve been steady, but everything else inside you had been shaking. She didn’t press. She wouldn’t. But you could feel it in her gaze. Not judgment. Just understanding. Which, somehow, made it worse.

“I was just…” You trailed off. There was no dignified way to say I was zooming in on your son like he’s the last safe thing I’ve ever known and I still don’t know what to do about it. Dianne glanced back toward the kids on the pitch. Trent still hadn’t looked away. But she turned to you again, folding her hands in front of her like this was all casual, like she hadn’t just seen the emotional tether between you two glowing like a live wire.

“I was going to make some tea after this,” she said. “Nothing fancy. Just something warm before the day’s done. Usually make Trenty come home after these types of things. Have to force him to sit still and sign a few things.” She laughed softly, knowing, loving, reciting a trait of Trent’s you’d come to be well aware of. Stillness wasn’t something he did particularly well. Then a pause. “You’re more than welcome, if you’re not busy.” She meant it sincerely. She did. This wasn’t a trick, wasn’t calculated. She was just being a mum. A nice one.�� But Trenty? Home? Your heart started thudding too loudly anyway. What were you supposed to say? Who were you to him? And why did it feel so dangerous to answer? Were you supposed to go to his family’s house? Have tea with his mum? You hesitated, blinking fast.

“Oh.. wow. Thank you for thinking of me. I—uh, sure,” you murmured, glancing briefly toward Trent again, like the answer could be found in his expression. “If… if it’s no trouble, or he’s not busy.” It came out small, almost shy. Like you couldn’t bear to make a choice of your own. Like you were throwing it back to him to decide—because maybe that was the safest thing you knew how to do. Let him lead. Let him hold it. Let him say yes or no so you didn’t have to. But maybe that was the issue. The not choosing. Dianne didn’t comment. She just nodded with that same patient warmth, though you could swear there was something a little sad behind it. Not disappointment—just… clarity.

“Alright, love,” she said, giving your arm a gentle squeeze before she turned. “We’ll see what he says. No pressure.” And just like that, you were alone again. Camera still in hand. Heart still hammering. Viewfinder still warm with the imprint of someone you weren’t sure how to name anymore.

—

The sun had dipped low enough to cast honeyed light across the pitch, soft and slow like it understood the sacredness of this hour. You were crouched at the sidelines, elbows resting lightly on your thighs, camera looped around your neck as you smiled up at the boy in front of you. He just turned six, he told you proudly. His curls glistened slightly, cheeks flushed with nerves and leftover adrenaline. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his jersey, his eyes flickering between his boots and the figure waiting near the centre of the pitch.

“Is it okay if you go get your photo taken?” you asked him gently, voice soft like you were sharing a secret.

“With him?” He looked up at you, worried eyes wide and unsure. You nodded, smile folding gently into your cheeks.

“Yeah. With him. He’s really nice, I promise. I think he’d be really excited to meet you.” But the little boy, who was shaking his head no already, small hands gripped the bottom of his shirt like he was holding onto safety. His lashes were long, cheeks chubby, and his lip trembled ever so slightly as he looked toward the pitch.

“Yeah, it’ll be okay. C’mon.” Your voice came like sunlight through leaves, gentle, slow, full of promise. You smiled at him, soft and conspiratorial. “He really wants to meet you…. Can I tell you a little secret?” The boy looked at you warily, but nodded. You leaned in, close enough for your breath to ruffle the edge of his curls. “Trent gets nervous sometimes too.” You felt it before you saw it, the pull of Trent’s gaze from across the grass. You glanced up for just a second, and there he was, watching with a fondness that tugged quietly at the air between you. Like the simple act of you being kind made something inside him ache. Dianne had stilled too. Her head tilted, expression unreadable, but attentive. “You ever watch him on the telly?” you asked the little boy, your hand finding the small of his back. The boy nodded, shy again. “Yeah? Different in real life, right?” You said gently but smiling a bit wider. “T, C’mere.” You called out, looking up from where you knelt in the soft grass. Trent’s walk over was unhurried, loose-limbed and warm, eyes flicking between you and the boy as if trying to read something in the spaces between.

“What’s up, lad?” he asked gently. All boyish charm. Confident and yet open.

“We’re just a little shy, huh?” you said, lifting your brows slightly as you looked up at Trent.

“Ah, that’s alright, mate. I get shy too sometimes,” Trent said, crouching down behind the boy. His voice was low and kind, threaded with that subtle Liverpool lilt, the one that always made your stomach flutter in spite of yourself.

“No.” The little boy looked up at him, utterly unconvinced. “No,” he repeated, serious. “You're Alexander-Arnold.” That made Trent chuckle, head ducking as he let the laughter move through him. Trust him, being Liverpool’s Alexander-Arnold was filled with moments of nerves.

“You don’t think I get nervous?” he asked. The boy shook his head with conviction, and you bit your lip to hold back a grin. “Course, I do, lad” Trent replied, sure of himself. Grown to be comfortable in his shyness. “I get nervous all the time. It’s alright.” He turned his body a bit more, shoulders softening like he wasn’t just crouching, he was with him now. Like they were equals. And it made something in your chest go tender. “Did you watch the Euros?” Trent asked. The boy nodded, and this time the excitement cracked through. He lit up, just a little. “Did you watch the semi’s? The penalties?” Trent cooed, soft, knowing. “You know I was so nervous,” Trent said, leaning in like it really was just between them. “But I wanted to be on that pitch. And do you remember what happened?” The boy nodded again, this time more emphatically, like it was seared into his brain. Because this little boy, like the entire nation, yourself included, were elated with Trent Alexander-Arnold’s bravery in that penalty. You watched his eyes widen, the memory blooming across his face.

“Think you’ll score a penalty for England one day?” you asked, resting your chin lightly on your knee, smiling.

“Don’t know.” He shrugged, but there was a giggle just beneath it.

“I think you would,” Trent beamed, eyes crinkling. “Think you can take a picture with me? I want a picture with a future England goal scorer.” He smirked. But the boy’s face dropped again, nerves washing back over him like a tide. Trent’s smile faltered for just a second. You tried not to pout. You felt so bad for the little boy.

“Hmm,” you hummed gently, scanning the field. “What about taking a picture with Trent…” You paused as your eyes continued to flicker through the crowd. “And we ask your mummy to be in the photo too?” You found her in the crowd, standing with her phone ready, a combination of pride and fear, flickering in her eyes.

“Hunny, c’mon. Be brave, please” she called out. “Don’t take too much of his time. Come on.” She waved encouragingly but likely nervous too only because her son was so. Trent leaned in closer, one hand bracing against the grass for balance. His voice was quiet, soft as cotton.

“Gimme a big smile, bro.” And then he smiled too, really smiled. “There we go!” Trent cooed, his dimples in his cheeks crept out like they had a mind of their own. Your heart caught. Like something folded in on itself. Because that smile had been yours once. Or maybe it still was. You weren’t sure. You only knew it meant something, and you felt it too deeply to name. You stepped behind the camera as if to shield yourself from it, hands moving with practiced ease.

“Yeah, see?” you said, voice warm as the sun still hanging low behind you. “So handsome!” Trent glanced at you over the boy’s head, a glint of mischief sliding into his tone.

“Me or him?” And there it was, that look again. That unspoken thing you kept passing back and forth like a secret neither of you knew how to say aloud. Your breath wavered, just slightly. But your smile didn’t falter. You didn’t flinch. Just smiled slowly, knowingly, camera rising halfway between you and your chest.

“Both,” you said softly, voice calm and sure. “Obviously.” Trent held your gaze for a beat too long. The boy leaned into his side without even realizing it, comforted, safe. And you understood that feeling too, leaned into him, how your whole body would still. You raised the camera. Framed the shot. Clicked the shutter. But your hands were trembling because you weren’t the one pressed into him now, there was no stillness to be had. Trent’s laugh was soft and low and slightly incredulous, more breath than sound. You could see the way his shoulders relaxed, the way the corners of his mouth pulled in something like disbelief. Like a man who was trying not to read too much into something, and failing.

Dianne was stood along the edge of the pitch nearby watching on. Her eyes were on you. Then Trent. Then you again. The air between the two of you was thick with something so alive, so obvious, it was practically a flare against the sky. You were staring across the field like there was a string between you, held by breath, by memory, by the ache of everything you hadn’t said yet. Trent stayed in a crouched position, all easy warmth and gentle eyes.

“Hey, don’t forget that it’s alright to be shy, bro, yeah?” he murmured to the little boy who nodded. “But I think you’ve got a good smile. Just like she said. That’ll get ya places.” The boy beamed at that, turning his face fully to Trent now, trust unlocked in a single heartbeat.

“Does it… does it get you pretty girls?” he asked quietly, his voice soft but not sly, just earnest. Maybe eager. “Like her?” He turned and pointed back at you. And just like that, the world stopped for a second. Your breath caught behind your ribs. Trent blinked, like he hadn’t expected that kind of honesty to land right in his chest. Not from someone that small. Not when it was so true it hurt. Because no, it hadn’t gotten him you. He’d tried. Told you the truth, laid it all down. And you’d looked at that love and cried. Walked away. But here you were again, still looking at him like this. You stepped in a little then, fixing the strap of your camera, doing your best not to look like your hands were shaking.

“Oh, with a smile like yours?” you told the boy, eyes glimmering. “You’ll get all the girls.” The boy laughed, smitten and bold now. Glowing. Trent’s gaze didn’t leave yours though. His next words were for the boy, but his voice had gone low and slow and warm enough to slide under your skin.

“Just gotta find the one though, mate,” he said quietly. And then he winked just for you. You blinked like it hit you, like someone knocked the wind from your lungs with a single beat of their heart. Your face was warm. Too warm. The camera felt heavier around your neck. You turned to frame the photo again, anything to have something between you again, but through the viewfinder, the world didn’t get smaller. It got sharper. There he was. Crouched beside the little boy, smiling soft and real. Looking a little more like the boy himself. And somehow, still looking at you. You took another shot. And tried not to tremble.

—

The moment passed like sunlight slipping through clouds, flickering, fragile. The boy and his mum wandered off after their photo, and you were still behind the camera, pretending to check the images, when you felt a familiar presence at your shoulder.

“Thank you, love,” Dianne said softly. You turned, startled slightly by her nearness. Her tone wasn’t just polite, it was genuine. Careful, maybe even a little... delicate.

“Oh—no, it was nothing,” you replied quickly, adjusting your camera like a shield. “He was so sweet. Just nervous.” Dianne smiled, and for a beat it was quiet between you. You couldn’t quite read her. She had Trent’s eyes, but hers were sharper somehow, like she saw everything, even the things you tried not to show. Because you weren’t just good with one shy boy, you were good with hers too.

“You were good with him. You’ve always been good with kids?” She asked you.

“Thanks,” you said, voice a little unsure now. You weren’t great with praise, especially not from women like Dianne. Especially not her. “I think it’s easy to be good with people that are good. You know, kids, they’re just honest.” You babbled a bit. She nodded once, then glanced past you toward the cars.

“Anything keeping you in the area past this?” She smiled gently. Like she knew there was one thing that was like an anchor on the ocean floor keeping you wherever he was.

“Not this far west.” You hummed with a little laugh and smile. You knew what she was asking. “Just came for this.” You replied but you might as well have said, just came for him.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Well, how about next time you’re in the area, I give you some more notice and you pop by for tea, yeah?” Dianne offered and you wanted to gush a thank you. She read you like a book. She saw it. The hesitation. The love. The real fear of walking into her home. So she gave you ‘next time.’ You opened your mouth to respond, but Trent appeared beside you, footsteps soft over the gravel.

“Tea?” he echoed, his voice almost cracking on the word.

“Don’t be rude, hun.” Dianne raised her brow with a tilt of the head.

“I didn’t mean—” Trent stammered, scratching the back of his neck, suddenly sixteen again and getting told off by his mum.

“She helped you today, but anyways we’re planning for a next time. I want to get to know her too.” She nudged him teasingly. Because she could read you, but only because she’d already memorized Trent. Dianne continued moving, back toward her car. She popped the boot open and pulled a cardboard box filled with shirts towards herself like a reminder. “Hun, I’m gonna drop these off with you. You’ll sign them by next week, please?” She called to Trent.

“Uh—yeah. Or I can…” Trent began, stepping forward. Caught out by being in such close proximity between you and her.

“It’s fine, I’ll grab the other box from mine and I’ll meet you there with these,” she said breezily, shifting the box further into the boot with practiced ease.

“Okay…” he mumbled. You and Trent exchanged a glance, half confusion, half something heavier. You could feel the unsaid pressing up between your ribs. Then Dianne turned back toward you, her keys jingling softly in her hand.

“Y/N, does tea next week work for you?” she asked, tone even but not indifferent. It was a real invitation. But the question still landed like a stone in the middle of a still lake.

“Sorry?” Trent faltered, brows jumping. It was just such a finite offer. But Dianne didn’t miss a beat.

“Whatever you decide, hun. Let me know whenever is good for you,” she said gently, her voice like a lullaby, like she was giving you the choice to step into something or stay safe on the shore. She kissed Trent’s cheek lightly, gave you a little wave, and got into the car without another word. And just like that, she was gone. You and Trent stood in the wake of her. The air felt full, of possibilities, or pressure, you weren’t sure which. Neither of you moved for a second. Or spoke. You could hear birds in the trees, a car door slamming far off. You turned your face toward him, slowly, and he was already looking at you. And then he exhaled, a little too forcefully, rubbing a hand down his jaw.

“Jesus… Sorry you don’t have to…” He shook his head trying to come back to reality after standing in between his mum and the girl he was desperately in love with in a carpark.

“I’ll go.” You interrupted his thoughts with a smile, finding his flush embarrassment rather endearing. “It’s fine, T.” You tried to reassure him.

“Feel like I’m sixteen again. Wow." He chuckled. The laugh broke out of you without thinking, nervous, delighted, incredulous.

“I think I’d like to be sixteen with you,” you teased softly, cheeks warming. His head tilted, eyes narrowing like he’d just remembered how to be smooth.

“Yeah? Would you have a crush on me?” His voice had dropped an octave. That cheeky lilt returned, winding its way around your ribs. You swallowed, suddenly too aware of how close he was, of how his scent, amber, cedarwood, something warm and golden, was curling around you like a memory you’d never quite been able to forget.

“You know my answer,” you murmured, trying not to fall apart under the way he was looking at you. Like he’d waited years to ask that question again.

“Nah, nah, nah, say it.” His hand slid to your hip, fingers curving gently, grounding you and pulling you in like he couldn’t help it. Like it was muscle memory now. Your heart stuttered, panicked, wanting. God, he’d said that before. Not here. Not like this. But on your skin, against your mouth, in a bed where your worlds had collapsed into one. Say it. Please say it. Say you love me back. And you had. Or maybe you hadn’t. Not then. But you wanted to now. So you swallowed your pride. Softened your fear. You said it for the boy who’d always loved you, badly, imperfectly, but with everything he had.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really would.” You leaned into him just enough that your forehead nearly brushed his jaw. Begging him silently–please kiss me. But he didn’t. He paused. Pulled away just enough to breathe. His thumb swept along your hip once, then he squeezed gently and stepped back. Not here. Not yet. And even though it almost broke you, it also made you sure of him. Because when he did kiss you again, if h did, it’d be everything. And he wanted it to be right.

—

You didn’t move after that right away. Couldn’t. His hand still rested at your side like it belonged there, like it had never forgotten the shape of you. Your breaths felt synchronized, slow, shallow, cautious. Like one wrong inhale would tip everything over. Trent’s eyes dropped to your lips, then back up. Not yet, he thought. But he wanted to. You both did. So instead, he leaned in, not to kiss, but to rest his forehead gently against yours. Just that. No flash, no dramatics. Just the two of you standing there, held in something silent and sacred. You closed your eyes. The world went quiet again. The breeze tickled your jaw. A dog barked in the distance. Somewhere, a car door slammed again. But all you felt was him. His warmth. His restraint. His thumb still pressing small, grounding circles into your side like it was keeping a secret between you. A hum sat low in your chest, like your body was vibrating with something unsaid. Something undeniable. When he finally pulled back, just enough to look at you, the expression on his face made your breath catch. He wasn’t smiling. Not really. He looked wrecked with love.

“Probably got more to do today than photograph me.” He murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering longer than they should’ve. He smirked but even with his subtle joke, and push to leave the car park, it was contradicted by his thumb staying right there at your hip, circling slow and steady like it was tracing a memory, or maybe trying to make one. The space between your bodies felt fragile, like a glass bubble suspended in air, thin enough to burst at any moment if one of you breathed too deep. You wanted him to kiss you. So badly it hurt. But you both knew better now. Knew what rushing it could cost. Knew what it meant to say everything in the wrong place at the wrong time. So you stood there. Inches apart. Drenched in something heavier than air.

—

The last streaks of sun painted his face in gold. It caught the glint of his chain, the warmth in his eyes, the barely-there crease between his brows that always showed up when he was holding something in. You’d learned to recognize that look. Want. Restraint. Hope. He looked at you like you were the cliff and the parachute all at once.

“Maybe don’t go yet,” he said, almost too soft to hear. Not a demand. Not even a request. Just the truth slipping out. A contradiction too.

“I have to,” you whispered, and you meant it. You had to, before the closeness, the stillness, became too much to carry home. “I should.” But you stayed a second longer. One second to memorize him like this, soft, wanting, right on the edge. His hand left your hip slowly, but not before he gave it one last squeeze. Not before he looked at you like maybe letting go was the hardest thing he’d done all day.

“Ah alright, go on then,” he murmured, stepping back with a small smile. “Before I change my mind.” You smiled back, wobbly, not really looking at him. You couldn’t. Not if you were going to survive the drive. And then you turned, walking toward your car like your bones didn’t ache from the distance already pulling between you.

—

The inside of your car felt too quiet. The engine hummed beneath you, headlights cutting through the dusky dark as the sky melted from lilac to ink. But it wasn’t enough to fill the silence. Your hand stayed on the wheel. Ten and two. Gripping like the steadiness might keep you from turning around. You could still feel his touch. Not metaphorically, actually. His thumbprint pressed into your skin like a seal, like some part of him had decided to stay with you. The road blurred a little. Not from tears. Just from that heavy, heady sense of longing. Of having almost had something and choosing—choosing—not to take it. Not yet. You could’ve stayed. You could’ve said yes to tea. To more. But that wasn’t how you were doing it this time. Not a rushed confession under the haze of adrenaline. Not a gasp of love in the dark, tangled in sheets and fear. This time, it had to mean something. So you drove. Past quiet streets and shuttered cafés. Past the places that didn’t know your story. The car ticked gently as it cooled in the night. The music stayed off. But in your chest, he pulsed. Loud. In your fingertips. In your lungs. In the beat you’d been trying not to name. He was in his car somewhere behind you, maybe taking a longer route. Maybe gripping his own wheel, trying not to think about what it felt like to let you walk away again. You’d both made the right choice. But it didn’t feel right. Not when you loved someone like that. Not when it was everywhere. Not when the distance between you wasn’t just measured in miles, but in all the things you wanted to say but couldn’t risk saying wrong again.

—

[YKWIM - Yot Club (slow// reverb)]

The match was crackling in low fidelity, all static-laced commentary and washed-out reds and blues, a grainy '90s replay streaming across the cinema screen in Trent’s house, though he wasn’t really watching it. He’d picked it at random, something far enough removed from today, from you, from the weight of you. But it hadn’t worked. The room was dim, a low amber light casting long shadows along the plush armrests and empty seats. He sat in the middle of it all, legs stretched out, fingers templed against his mouth like maybe if he sat still enough, if he quieted his body, he could silence his mind. But you were everywhere. In the places you weren’t. You weren’t here, curled up into his side the way you always used to, half-draped over him like you belonged there. Like the folds of your body had been moulded to fit the curve of his. You weren’t here tracing your finger along the hem of his hoodie, bare legs tangled with his joggers, breath hot against his throat. You weren’t whispering those soft, curious little questions that used to melt him. “Who won the league that year?” “Was this when he still played for them?” “Do you like playing in that stadium now?” You weren’t purring them into his neck while he pulled you in tighter, pretending to be distracted by the match even as his hand slid up under the back of your shirt. You weren’t softly laughing when he whispered a response with something cheeky, and you weren’t replying back with your lips right against his skin.

It was the absence of those things, the smell of your shampoo, the warmth of your body pressed into his, the quiet thrum of your presence beside him, that made the cinema feel colder than it was. Empty. Like the space had once held ghosts. He shifted. Stared harder at the screen. Tried to care about the positioning, the formation, the nostalgia of it all. But his chest still ached. That dull, familiar weight that sat behind his ribs like it had burrowed in for good. Because tonight, when he wanted you most, not in the wild, chaotic kind of way that left his mouth on yours in dark corners but in the quiet way, the I just want to be near you way… you weren’t there.

And that absence didn’t just hurt. It howled. He breathed out sharply through his nose, jaw clenched. It was pathetic really, how a man like him, built from grit and control, could be undone by the simple lack of your voice in a dark room. But then again, maybe it wasn’t so simple. Because he'd let you in. In every way. Let you see him when he wasn’t Trent Alexander-Arnold, the star, the name stitched onto shirts and shouted across continents but when he was just Trent. Just a boy in love with a girl who asked too many questions during matches and kissed his neck like it was holy. And now that you weren’t here, now that you were almost, almost his again but not quite, every second without you felt like penance.

The glow of the screen flickered over his skin as the old match trundled through its final minutes of the first half. The crowd noise crackled like rain, white noise, unimportant. His fingers tapped absently against the cushion. He was barely watching. Because the more he tried to anchor himself in the rhythm of the match, the angles, the off-the-ball runs, the shape of the press, the more you kept bleeding into his mind. Quiet at first. The softest slipstream of thought. A scent. A sound. The phantom weight of your hand ghosting over his stomach like it had hundreds of times before. And then it wasn’t quiet anymore. It was everywhere.

It was your voice, teasing and syrupy, coaxing its way into his ear with that familiar ‘Keep watching then… ignore me’ as your fingers crept into the waistband of his joggers. Your thumb hooking just enough to make him twitch. God, he missed that. He missed you. Missed the way you’d press kisses into the warm part of his neck like you had nowhere else to be. Like this, him, was the only thing worth worshipping. Missed the way you’d touch him so slow at first, like you had hours to ruin him, eyes fluttering up with that knowing look he still wasn’t sure how to survive. You’d play coy, make him feel like he was doing you a favour by keeping his eyes on the match, when all the while you were the one orchestrating his undoing, with your mouth, your hands, your perfect fucking timing. And now, here he was. Hard. Really fucking hard. Alone in a dark room where you used to live inside of him, where you'd slip between his legs and take your time like it was ritual. Like it was sacred. He shifted, jaw tight. A low breath hissed out between his teeth as he adjusted his joggers. Useless effort. The ache wasn’t going anywhere. Because it wasn’t just about sex. Not really. It never had been. It was the intimacy of it. The closeness. The way you’d crawl into his lap and he’d forget a match was even playing, forget his name, forget his career, because all that mattered was your tongue tracing the sharp of his hip, the soft whisper of your breath against him, the way your hands knew every way to make him forget what control felt like. He ran a hand down his face. This was torture. He wasn’t a boy anymore. He had women, he had offers, he had options. He wasn’t supposed to feel this... devastated by the absence of a girl.

But you weren’t just any girl. You were the girl who made him feel seen in the most terrifying, soul-deep way. The girl who kissed him like he was hers. The girl who could break him in a whisper, and didn’t, hadn’t, even when he deserved it. He pressed the heel of his hand towards the inside of thigh, willing the tension to drain. It didn’t. The screen played on, unbothered, forgotten. Someone scored. He didn’t look who did. Because all he could see was you, between his legs, between his ribs, beneath his skin, smiling, soft, impossible. And he was starving for it. For you. For home

—

Twenty minutes away from him, your flat was still. Still in that way that made your skin itch. That made the air feel too thin, too quiet, too full of all the things he wasn’t saying and all the things you were too scared to. You’d kicked off your shoes at the door, but you hadn’t moved much further. You couldn’t. Because the minute the lock clicked behind you, the wave hit, his absence. It crashed into you like a tide. Your chest was heaving before you even made it to the bedroom. You sank into your mattress, the fabric cool and unfamiliar without him there. Without the rustle of his trousers being peeled off. Without his laugh, low and sleepy, as he nudged your knees apart like it was nothing, like it was routine, like it was home. Your hands drifted low, thin and dainty, fingers trembling as they grazed over your hips. It wasn’t enough. You weren’t enough, not for yourself, not like he was. Your hand wasn’t his. Not the way his palm knew your body like a compass, like he’d drawn it from memory a thousand times. You could touch yourself, sure. But it didn’t light that fire, didn’t carry that command, that need, the way he did. You could tease your own waistband, dip under silk and lace, but your fingers didn’t part you the way his always did. With reverence. With ownership. With that hunger that made you forget where you ended and he began. You pressed your thighs together, hot and aching, but still, it wasn’t him.

He used to push your panties aside without asking, like he knew he didn’t have to. Like your body was his to love. His weight would press you into the mattress, every inch of him wrapped around you, his lips at your ear as he whispered ‘Shh, baby... don’t talk, just let me feel you…’ You missed him. You missed his scent. His mouth. The soft scrape of his stubble on your inner thigh. The way he’d mouth at your collarbone like it was the holiest place he'd ever been. The way his voice would rasp, ‘You know no one else gets this, yeah? Just me. Just for you.’ Your back arched like it remembered the shape of him. Your pussy pulsed like it mourned him. You were soaked with the ache of it, the ache of not being touched right. Not being held like he did, firm, like you were breakable, precious, like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting you go. Because when he touched you, it wasn’t just to get off. It was to know you. To worship you. To claim you in the only way he could when words failed. And now here you were. Clenched. Shaking. Alone. Because whatever your mouths couldn’t say, your bodies screamed. And yet, you both stayed silent, separated by a stretch of motorway and a shared fear of ruining something that already felt so rare. So sacred. But, God, what you’d give for his helping hand tonight. His fingers. His mouth. His weight pinning you in place as he made you come apart just to piece you back together again with a kiss. You both ached. You both waited. But how much longer could you last?

Trent came undone alone that night. Not fast, not thoughtless, slow, reluctant, as if every pulse of pleasure only pushed him further into the emptiness of your absence. His chest rose and fell, sharp and shallow, fingers slackening as the last of that tethered high slipped from him like smoke. It worked, he was a man, and your memory still lit him up like kindling. The way you used to whisper his name like a secret, how you touched him with confidence and care, how you always knew exactly what he needed. But when it passed, when the haze lifted and the glow faded, what stayed was the silence. The room felt colder than it had minutes ago, too big for just him. He didn’t reach for the remote. Didn’t move at all. Just sat there in the dark, boxers hitched lower on his hips, sweat cooling on his skin, surrounded by flickering light from a match he no longer cared about. His body had been satisfied, but his heart, that thudded on painfully. Because you weren’t there, tangled in him, mouthing gentle praise into the crook of his neck. You weren’t brushing your hand over his hair, humming soft thank-yous against his skin like what he gave you mattered more than anything. You weren’t curled into his side after, bare legs hooked over his, lips ghosting his collarbone, asking tiredly ‘if he enjoyed that’ just for the sound of his voice. That was what made it ache. The part after.

Not the sex, not the heat, but the quiet warmth that always followed. The safety of your body against his. The trust of sleep in his arms. The way you wrapped around his waist like you’d never let go. His hands fell to the sides of his thighs, jaw clenched, eyes staring into nothing. He missed a lot of things. Your laugh. Your smell. The feel of your fingers lacing with his while the world blurred around you. But it was that grip he missed most, your arms around him. Not claiming. Just holding. Knowing. And yeah, he missed the other grip too. But it wasn’t just his body that was starving. It was everything else. The match ended. He hadn’t seen any of it. He just sat there. Still. Silent. Missing you like it was the only thing he’d ever known how to do.

—

You didn’t mean to cry. But it’d been happening a lot lately. You didn’t even realise you were, not at first. It was quiet, too quiet, for tears to make themselves known. Just the slow weight of them trailing down the slope of your cheek, collecting in the dip of your temple, soaking into silk. The pillow beneath you was cool, then damp. You blinked, dazed, barely breathing, like even your body was trying not to disturb the ache that had settled in your chest. It wasn't loud or messy or dramatic. It was soft. Stinging. Unrelenting. It built behind your ribs like a bruise, pressing from the inside out. You missed him. Not his mouth, not his hands, not even the way he could undo you with a single look. You missed him. The weight of him beside you, arm flung around your waist in sleep. The way he’d rub the pads of his fingers along your skin absentmindedly, always touching, always reaching even when he was half-asleep. The way he’d laugh under his breath when you teased him, or murmur something dumb into your neck when he thought you were already drifting off. You loved him. You loved him. You’d throw every high, every flash of heat, every night spent tangled in each other’s limbs into the fire if it meant just once—just once—you could tell him out loud. No distractions. No fear. No sex to muffle the truth between your lips.

I love you.

That’s all you wanted to say. Not scream it. Not whisper it as a dare into the dark. Just say it, plain and open and unafraid. But you hadn’t. And now you were alone. And now it felt like maybe you were the only one who felt that deeply. Or maybe he felt it too. Maybe he was just scared for you to hurt him all over again. Maybe you both were. Your chest tightened, a sharp ache rippling through the hollow of your throat. You curled deeper into the sheets, clutching the edge of the pillow like it might anchor you to something other than the ache. The silk was wet. Your fingers shook. You’d never felt more unloved. Not because he didn’t love you. But because you did and it had nowhere to go. Just a hundred unspoken words, and a bed too cold for the warmth you used to fall asleep to.

—

The music was low but pulsing, threads of bass weaving through the house like a heartbeat. The kind that thudded in your chest and temple, made worse by the heat, the sweat, the laughter that sounded muffled, like you were underwater. Bodies moved around you in gentle blurs, arms slung over shoulders, someone dancing, someone pouring another drink. The lights were low, all warm-toned and pretty, but the buzz in your limbs had long since turned from fun to floaty. Detached. You were drunk. Way drunker than you should’ve been.

It had started so stupidly innocuous. A tiny shot with Campbell as you got ready in her bathroom, sharing a lipstick, nervously hyping each other up. Then after you arrived, Delaney had handed you one, warm with best friendship and concern, and you hadn’t hesitated. Then Kieren passed you a tequila soda with a wink and a ‘c’mon gonna be alright.’ Then there were Leon and Foster, pressing salt to your hand and holding a lime wedge to your lips after you lost some dumb made-up game that everyone forgot the rules to halfway through. And now your world was tilting gently, like a boat at sea, the floor soft under your feet even though you knew it wasn’t. Your mouth buzzed with lime and regret. You were smiling too much and not at all. Your limbs were warm but your throat burned. There were about thirty people here. Not a crowd, not packed, but enough that it didn’t feel intimate. Enough that you could get lost in it. Enough that you had gotten lost in it. Because he wasn’t here. Not really.

Sure, it was his house. The same house you’d been curled up in not long ago, your head on his chest, fingers tracing the lines of his stomach like you were memorising something holy. But now? It was just a venue. An open door. A luxury showroom filled with strangers and laughter and liquor. And Trent? Trent hadn’t said hello. Hadn’t found you. Hadn’t so much as glanced your way, as far as you could tell. He’d said okay when Kieren asked if they could host something here, an indifferent shrug masked as permission. But it had spiraled. Drinks, music, people, people you liked, sure, people you trusted, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. Because the only person you wanted to see you hadn’t. He wasn’t in the kitchen, wasn’t in the living room. But you knew he was here. You felt him here. Like gravity. Like a shadow lurking behind your every laugh and drink and blink.

And still… he hadn’t come. He was hiding. From you, from this. From the ache that had carved itself into the weeks since you last touched. You didn’t know it, but up in his room, behind a closed door, he was pacing. Tense. Hands running over his face, trying to breathe around a pressure in his ribs that had nothing to do with the noise or the alcohol or the party. He hadn’t seen you yet. Not really. He’d watched you walk in and retreated. He hadn’t seen you drunk, soft, glowing under low lights. And he was scared. Scared that if he saw more than he already had, if he saw that sad sparkle in your eye and the pout he used to kiss away, he’d lose all self-control. Pin you to the nearest wall and beg forgiveness into your skin. Or worse, say something he couldn’t take back. Because he’d been seeing you all week anyway. In dreams, in photos, in memories. Your laugh had stalked him through headphones. The smell of you still lived on his hoodie. You were a ghost and a gravity all at once. And you? You were just drunk enough to hate him for it. For not being the boy who rushed into the room and found you. For not pulling you aside, not cupping your cheek and whispering he was sorry, he missed you, he loved you. So you laughed too loud. Pouted too obviously. Let your head loll against Campbell’s shoulder and pretend you were fine. Pretended you were fun. Pretended you weren’t stupidly in love with someone who hadn’t even said hello. And still, through the hum of music and the weight of liquor in your bloodstream, your body strained like a magnet, pulling, pulling, pulling toward the boy upstairs who couldn’t even look at you.

—-

You were drunk. Plain and simple. Hours and drinks had gone when the words came out of your mouth like soft cotton.

"I’m gonna go find T." You barely noticed the way Kieren reached for you before pulling back, like he knew better than to touch a live wire. Like even he understood something was about to give. You were too far gone to see how everyone stilled. Not with their bodies, those still laughed, passed drinks, pressed shuffle on the playlist, but with something quieter. Something in the air. Like tension slipping under the doorframe, ghosting over shoulders, catching in the throat. Because you’d said it like it meant nothing. Slurred and sweet, tossed out into the room like an afterthought. But it felt like someone had picked up a loaded gun and pointed it at the past two weeks. You knew where he was. Of course you did. Trent always had his bolt-holes. Safe places. Corners where no one would look too closely, where he could tell himself he was present without having to actually be in it. So the party raged on in his kitchen, Kieren laughing, Campbell pouring another round, Foster and Leon dancing barefoot, and down the corridor, second door on the left, Trent sat alone in the cinema room.

[Space Song - Beach House]

A game flickered on the big screen. NBA. Something loud and unthinking. He wasn’t watching it. He hadn’t been watching anything in weeks. It was just the illusion of distraction. A screen to mask the fact that his mind had been replaying you like tape he couldn’t rewind. You pushed open the door, and for a second, it was like your bloodstream ran cold. Like the tequila left you. Like you remembered how to feel again. Because there he was. And the room smelled like him, clean and warm and unmistakable. His head was tilted back against the seat. One ankle slung over the opposite knee. A bottle of water unopened beside him. Shirt tight across his chest, his hand running across his jaw like he’d been trying to pull himself out of something for hours and failing miserably. And then… you were in the room. The air shifted. Subtle. Cataclysmic. He didn’t look up right away, but you knew he felt you. Your heart was pounding. Your fingers tingled. And for all the liquor in your system, you were somehow too aware of everything, how his shoulders tensed. How your stomach twisted. How the silence between you had weight, texture. You swallowed, and it was so loud in the quiet you wanted to cry. You were scared. But you were drunk enough to act like you weren’t.

“Must be a big game,” you mumbled, voice thick, slurring on the light sarcasm. And then he turned ever so slightly to look at you. Slow. Lethal. Eyes meeting yours like a match to gasoline. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. He just looked. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like the memory of you had stepped out of his head and walked through the door. “Didn’t want to party?” you asked, voice molasses-thick and slurred around the edges, a smile curling on your lips that didn’t reach your eyes. You collapsed softly onto the sofa like a falling petal, slow and deliberate, your limbs loose with drink but still careful enough to leave distance between you. Three cushions. An entire small country. You settled into the far end with the kind of grace that only heartbreak can teach, elegant in detachment, practiced in pretending.

Trent felt it all, the air thinning, the room bending, his own ribs tightening like they were trying to hold his heart in. The moment you entered, he felt it. Like instinct. Like muscle memory. And when your voice broke the quiet, light but brittle, the kind of light that splinters, he knew he was gone again. Already slipping. Already dizzy from you. Already winded by just the sound of your syllables and the scent you carried with you, warm vanilla, a trace of something clean, something womanly, something you. The same scent that still clung to the jumper he refused to wash at the back of his wardrobe. He didn’t look at you directly. He couldn’t. He’d been ruined by you once tonight already. From the moment you walked through his front door in that little cardigan—pink, soft, mocking him like memory [ref index.] He knew it wasn’t innocent. Not truly. You knew what it did to him. How it framed your chest like poetry, how the knit gaped at just the right moment, offering a sliver of your sternum, a tease of curve, the whisper of a nipple through cotton. But even if you hadn’t known, his body still would’ve reacted like you had. You always undid him. Just by being.

“Not in a party mood,” he muttered, mouth barely moving, voice quiet enough to keep him from unraveling. A ghost of a smile flirted with his lips. His eyes flicked over to you, just once, just a hit of the drug, before returning to the basketball game like it mattered. Like the stats and commentary could drown out the echo of your laugh in his bloodstream.

“Oh…” The syllable barely made it into the space between you. And then came tequila, your oldest friend and worst accomplice, dragging more from you than you’d meant to say. “I get that... I’m tired,” you sighed, letting your body melt deeper into the sofa. Letting yourself settle into the plushness of the space he lived in, the space you used to live in, the scent of his laundry detergent wrapping around you like an exhale. Trent’s stomach flipped. You moved again. Shifted just enough for him to see. Your heels sliding off your feet with ease, thudding against the carpet as you curled them under yourself. Your cardigan pulled open slightly, the neckline shifting, revealing more skin, that delicate hollow beneath your collarbones. He saw your chest rise and fall. The curve of you. The outline. It wasn’t even overt. But it knocked the air out of him.You were art. And the worst part was, you didn’t even mean to be. Or maybe you did. Maybe it was unintentionally intentional and that made it all the worse.

“And drunk,” he added, smirking—softly, gently—just enough cheek to tease, not enough to wound. You giggled, and the sound was like sugar cracking. It loosened something in the room. A dam somewhere upstream broke, and suddenly the silence wasn’t just silence—it was tension gone thin, stretching, fraying, breaking.

“Honestly, just want to get to bed,” you mumbled, sinking deeper. Your words were sleepy. Loose. But something about the way you said bed hit like a strike of lightning in his spine. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. And the pause that followed wasn’t innocent. It hung, thick and charged. The kind of silence that comes after someone says I miss you with their body but not their voice. You were staring at the screen now too, eyes glazed with more than tequila. When he didn’t respond, didn’t offer the softness you ached for, your voice came again, quiet and fragile, a thread about to snap. “You don’t want me in your bed anymore though…” You said it like a fact. Like a sad, quiet little truth. Something you've made peace with, even if it still hurt to hold in your hands. You reached for a pillow then. Something to cling to. Something to touch that wasn’t him. It was innocent. Mindless. And yet it crushed him. Trent’s jaw tightened, hand flexing subtly on his thigh. He hated that pout. The one you never knew existed that pulled at his heart as it rolled on your face. He could feel it. The itch under his skin. The need to reach for you. Shake you. Kiss you. Yell at you that you were out of your mind. Because he didn’t just want you in his bed. He wanted you on his chest, pressed tight to his side, your arm slung around his middle the way you used to in the lull of post-sex silence. He wanted you tucked into him in the dark, asleep before the second quarter ended. He wanted the weight of you and the softness. The sex, yes, but God, the quiet after. The knowing you trusted him. That grip. But instead, he stared at the screen. Cool. Controlled. A little broken. And you were next to him, flushed and vulnerable and almost trembling. Your lips slightly parted, your breath a little shallow, your cardigan open just enough to make his blood sing and his heart hurt. He wanted to tell you. He wanted to say You’re perfect, I’m a mess, and I’m not over you. But he didn’t. He just sat there. Breathing you in. And breaking quietly, beautifully, just like you were just for a moment longer before he couldn’t hold out any longer.

“C’mere,” he said, soft as dusk, low like a lullaby you didn’t know you’d been waiting for. That tone, it pulled at something deep in you. That tone was yours. It lived in the space between your ribs, a sound made only for you. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. You simply went. Your limbs moved before your thoughts could catch them, like instinct, like gravity, like being pulled into orbit. You slid toward him across the couch, the air between you thick with all the words neither of you had said for weeks. Three cushions had felt like miles, but the distance disappeared the second you reached him. He opened his arm to you and you folded into him like you’d never belonged anywhere else. His hoodie was soft and worn, and he smelled like skin and sun and a comfort you hadn’t let yourself need in so long. Your cheek pressed to his chest, your hand resting in the hollow of his sternum where his heart beat like a soft drumroll. You felt it skip. You knew he felt yours too. “Who told you that, hmm?” he murmured a rhetoric, his voice all silk and smoke, fingers coming up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. A touch so careful it made your eyes sting. His thumb brushed your cheek, like he was trying to memorize the shape of your sadness. You didn’t answer, you didn’t need to. You just curled tighter into him, let yourself melt into the safety of his arms. You hadn’t realized how cold you’d been until now.

“Miss being in your bed,” you whispered, lips dragging against the fabric of his hoodie, your voice a little slurred, a little soft, like confessional. “Wanna be there. With you.” His breath hitched and you felt it. Like you always did. Like you were attuned to the tremors he never let the world see. His hand slid beneath the edge of your cardigan, the pads of his fingers finding skin, reverent. Like he was relearning the braille of you. Like he wanted to remember what every part of you felt like. His other hand was splayed against your bare thigh, warm and wide, kneading gently, grounding you both.

“Alright.” He purred, fighting a victorious smile. “How about here though in my arms for right now?” he offered, voice scratchy with restraint. “That tide you over?” He smirked. It was so him, to pretend he wasn’t unraveling. But you felt it. The thrum beneath his skin. The want.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, sleepy-drunk and soft as you burrowed into his neck, hiding in the scent of him, letting his pulse calm the ache behind your ribs. Then, like a spell, your lips brushed the column of his throat. Once. Featherlight. And again. Then again. You felt his breath shudder out.

“Love when you kiss my neck,” he whispered, eyes fluttering closed lost in you. His voice was syrupy now, slow and thick, his hands no longer still– sliding, stroking, holding. You didn’t mean to wind him up, but you were drunk on him. You were full of him. Every time you pressed your lips to that spot beneath his jaw, you felt him fall apart a little more.

“Kiss you all over,” you murmured, your lips still pressed to him, words muffled but clear. An offering.

“Mm,” he exhaled, a low warning-laugh. “Don’t play with me, baby.” You pulled away from the safety of his neck, slow, reluctant, just enough for your gaze to meet his. His face was flushed, lips parted, eyes heavy with want but gentled by something deeper, something that looked like love. Not lust. Love.

“I’m not playing,” you said, softly, like a promise. “You know I would.” Something flickered in his eyes. A hunger. A fear. A need.

“Alright,” he said after a breath, his voice quiet. “Wherever you want to kiss, you kiss.” It landed in you like thunder in the chest, not loud, not violent, just deep. A rumble through your bones. The way he said it… like a confession folded into surrender. Like worship. Like he’d placed his whole heart in your hands and was daring you not to break it. You stared at him. Really stared. Trying to decipher what lived behind those eyes you knew too well, deep, unreadable brown, and yet, somehow, wide open just for you. And it was dangerous, that gaze. Like he was trying to say everything he didn’t know how to speak. There were whole stories there. Chapters and chapters of ache and longing and the kind of love that felt too big for language. It made your throat tighten.

“Wherever I want?” you asked, your voice feather-light, strung through with disbelief and something quieter, reverence, maybe. A tiny challenge wrapped in awe. He nodded. Once. Barely. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, nerves buzzing under his skin. He was sure. But not steady. Not with you this close. Not when he was offering you the matchbook and standing in gasoline. His eyes dropped to your lips, a flicker, no longer than a blink like he already knew what you’d choose, a silent decision, a confirmation, an agreement. But you saw it. Felt it. Like a phantom touch. And suddenly, the air between you shifted. Like the moment right before rain, thick and still and expectant. Something about to break. The space between your faces narrowed and time slowed with it. You leaned in slowly, like you were approaching a holy thing. His breath caught, just slightly. So did yours. Because this moment, this breathless pause before contact, it was everything. It was all your almosts and not-quites and could-have-beens swaying on a thread. And then, Your lips touched. And the world fell quiet. It was barely even a kiss at first. Just a brush. A test. A tremble. But it sent shivers down your spine, sent your hands curling into the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing tethering you to the ground. It was soft. Painfully slow. Like the first bloom of spring after a brutal winter. He made a sound, low in his throat, like the kiss had knocked the wind out of him. You deepened it. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just… honest. Your mouth moving against his like you were making up for every second you’d spent apart. It was the kind of kiss that said I missed you so much it hurt. The kind that said I’m sorry, I’m still here though without needing words. His hands rose slowly, reverently, to your waist. Not to pull you in, but to hold you steady. Like you were fragile. Like this meant everything. And it did. Your lips moving together like they’d rehearsed for centuries. But it was just once. One kiss. But that was all it took. And when it broke, just barely, only when your lungs demanded it, your foreheads stayed pressed together, eyes closed, breath shared in the quiet between you. And in that silence, something clicked into place. Something final. In the hush between heartbeats. In his arms in the quiet. This wasn’t just a kiss. It was a return. A homecoming. A beginning disguised as something familiar. Always him. Always.

•

Thank you for reading! I really hope you enjoy this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

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Next part - Chapter 21 Coming Soon!

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#trent alexander arnold #Trent Alexander Arnold x reader #alexander arnold #trent alexander arnold imagines #taa x reader #footballer x y/n #footballer x reader #fie fic #aperture fic

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