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abbotjack · 2 months ago

Text

Just Passing Through

summary : The house they once called theirs is still standing, but nothing inside it feels the same. Over quiet breakfasts, broken appliances, too-tight sheets, and middle-of-the-night confessions, they navigate the fragile space between intimacy and absence. What unfolds is not a reunion, but a reckoning—of what’s changed, what hasn’t, and whether love is something that survives return.

word count : 9,851

content/warnings : 18+ MDNI!!, grief, war trauma, PTSD, military deployment, emotional repression, complex romantic dynamics, slow unraveling of a relationship, implied mental health struggles, caretaking and emotional labor, quiet heartbreak, vivid early-2000s domestic detail, hurt/comfort, heavy angst, no smut, no tidy resolution, graphic description of battlefield injuries, implied death of a child, moral injury, survivor’s guilt, emotionally intense dialogue, depiction of male vulnerability, trauma recollection in a domestic setting.

Robinson Township, PA. Summer 2005 : The house already has his things in it. The question is whether it still has him.

The dishwasher finishes its cycle at 11:47 pm.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen barefoot, staring at the condensation on the cabinets—rich cherrywood, sealed to shine even when there’s nothing left to polish. You didn’t need to run the dishwasher tonight. There were only two glasses in the sink. You just needed the sound.

You reach for a towel and open the dishwasher, the steam curling into your face like breath. You dry the glasses. Slowly. Ritualistically. As if there's nothing else to do with your hands.

The house isn’t new. It never was. But it’s yours. Yours and his. The ours that only happens when two people commit to staying in the same place long enough to leave marks.

There’s a burn on the countertop from your first try at pork chops. A dent in the hallway from the time he kicked the wall at 2 a.m. and told you he couldn’t remember why. Three wine bottles above the fridge. Two of them are empty. One is unopened and dusty. You’d been saving it. You forget what for. The mirror by the front door is tilted. The throw blanket on the couch is too heavy for summer. The air conditioner makes that sound again—the one he said he’d fix when he got back.

That was four months ago.

You sleep in his t-shirts now. You tell yourself it’s because they’re soft. Not because they still smell like him, faintly—like desert wind, bar soap and the inside of his truck.

Your Motorola sits on the kitchen counter, charging. You watch the red backlight flicker off and on—old cord, half-broken port. It buzzes once.

Text message.

You don’t need to check who it’s from.

u still cleanin?

You don't answer.

Because yes, you’re still cleaning. And because you know what the next text will say.

Two minutes later:

better not b bleachin again u tryin to dissolve the whole damn house?

You flip the phone open and close it again without typing anything. T9 is too slow for what you're feeling. It was always too slow.

You press the phone to your ear, and call her. She picks up immediately. Doesn’t say hello.

“So what’s your plan?” Dana’s voice is rough from smoke, too many double shifts, and the hour. “Feed him? Fuck him? Pretend everything’s normal?”

You lean your head back against the cherry cabinet, eyes on the ceiling fan spinning slow. "I don’t have a plan."

"Bullshit," she exhales. You hear the click of a lighter in the background. "You’ve been bleaching countertops like you’re prepping for a damn magazine shoot."

“I didn’t bleach anything,” you say. “Just wiped it. Twice.”

“Mhm.”

The house smells like Warm Vanilla Sugar from Bath & Body Works and chemical lemon. You don’t smell it anymore. It just smells like trying too hard.

“He called yesterday,” you say, fingers playing with the fraying towel edge. “Said it was hot. Said the AC on the base broke again.”

“What else?”

“He asked if the door still creaks when you open it too slow.”

Dana pauses. You can picture her now—sitting on the steps behind PTMC, cigarette tucked between two fingers, leaning her head against the brick.

“What’d you tell him?”

“I said yeah. He said, ‘Good.’”

You hear her inhale.

“That’s how they know it’s real. Men like him, they come back looking for the things that didn’t change. That noise? That’s proof.”

“I fixed the porch light too,” you murmur. “But I didn’t tell him.”

“Good. Let him see something’s different. Let him wonder what else might be.”

You look at the boots by the front door. You moved them there earlier. The left one is scuffed—he caught it on the stairwell last winter when you argued about the electric bill. You didn’t have the money. He didn’t have the patience.

“I put out his mug.”

“The ugly one?”

“The World’s Okayest Cook.”

Dana groans. “Christ. That man loves a tacky cup.”

You smile. Just for a second. Then it fades.

“I don’t know what to say to him when he walks in.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she replies. “Just be standing where he left you.”

“What if I’m different?”

“You are.”

You hold the phone tighter.

“What if he is?”

There’s a long silence.

“Then you meet him where he is,” Dana says finally. “You stop trying to rewind, and you let yourself watch the part that comes next.”

The light above the sink buzzes softly.

“I made his side of the bed,” you whisper. “Put his shirt on the pillow. Like muscle memory.”

“Don’t romanticize absence, kid. You’re not living in a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

You laugh—barely. “It feels like I am.”

"Only difference is your man’s got better arms and worse manners."

You stare at the candle. It’s almost out. The wax has swallowed the wick. The flame is a stubby blue whisper.

“You think he’ll come back like he left?”

“No,” Dana says. No hesitation. “But you’re not the same either."

“I don’t want him to flinch when he sees me.”

“He won’t. He’ll flinch when he sees the world kept moving without him.”

You fold the towel tighter.

“He’s only here six days.”

“Then make them real. Don’t waste them trying to make him comfortable. Let him be wrecked.”

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That I won’t know how to hold him without breaking.”

Dana sighs. “Kid. If love doesn’t break you at least a little, you’re doing it wrong.”

You close your eyes.

“I should let you get back to work. Thanks for picking up.”

“Always.”

She hesitates.

“You want me to come over?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

“You bleach anything else, I’m revoking your nurse’s license and mailing you boxed wine in retaliation.”

You laugh, for real this time. It cracks through you.

“Night, Dana.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

The phone beeps once. Call ended.

You set it back down on the counter. The charging light flickers. The cord sags loose again.

You met Dana three years ago. First week on nights at PTMC. You were twenty-three, barely out of nursing school, teeth clenched through your first trauma code. A car crash. A twelve-year-old. You froze when the girl coded. Couldn’t remember how to hold the Ambu bag. Couldn’t remember your name.

Dana moved your hands. Didn’t say a word.

Later that night, she found you alone in the stairwell with your head down and your badge still clipped to your scrub pocket. She leaned against the railing, and said:

“I’ve watched grown men piss themselves in that room. You didn’t.”

That was the closest she ever got to a compliment. You never forgot it.

Since then, she’s been a fixture. She doesn’t do small talk. Doesn’t do hugs. But she’ll hand you a chart the second a doctor disrespects you. She calls you kid when she means you did good. And when Jack shipped out last winter, she didn’t say she was sorry. She just started texting you around midnight every night, like clockwork.

Sometimes it was just:

u eat

Other times:

he call

And once:

ur stronger than u think but dumber than u know. pick one to fix.

You never responded. Not right away. But you always read them twice.

You leave your phone on the counter and walk through the living room. The rug is that deep olive shade that was trendy in 2003 and never stopped being a little ugly. There’s a brass tray on the ottoman holding three remotes you haven’t used in days. You walk past them and adjust the blanket even though no one’s been sitting there.

You light a second candle. The one in the hallway by the photo frames. Jack hates that one—calls it the “mall candle,” says it smells like the fitting room at a Bebe store.

You light it anyway. It means he’ll have something to complain about when he walks through the door.

In the bedroom, the sheets are too tight on the mattress. You re-made the bed this morning. Again. The hospital corners are habit now. You pull back the comforter and slide into the space where his body would be.

The ceiling fan ticks.

You stare at the shadow on the ceiling where the paint is uneven. You wonder if he’ll notice. He always does. Even the things that don’t matter.

Downstairs, the air conditioner cycles off. The house exhales with you.

You whisper into the quiet, “Don’t be a stranger.”

No one answers. But you imagine him on the plane anyway—hands folded, jaw locked, not sleeping.

You wonder if he misses this place. If he misses you in it.

Tomorrow, you’ll see his Army duffle by the door again—boots slouched beside it like he never left.

But tonight, it’s just the echo of him. And the house, waiting with you.

DAY ONE – THE KITCHEN

Feeding him is the first lie you tell yourself. Robinson Township, PA �� July 2005, 7:23 a.m.

You’d cracked the eggs before you even heard the front door open.

Maybe twenty minutes before. Maybe thirty. You’d laid out the skillet. You’d sliced the bread. You’d turned the heat to medium and just stood there—still, blinking slow—until the oil popped and the pan hissed too loud.

And then he was there.

Not with a knock. Not with a shout.

Just the sound of the door opening, slowly, the scrape of the lock disengaging, and that familiar thud of boots—his boots—on the too-smooth floor you refinished last February. The sound echoed up into your chest before you even turned around.

He didn’t call your name. He didn’t drop his bag like he used to. He just stepped inside the kitchen like it hadn’t been four months since he last stood in it, like no time at all had passed, like memory could be picked up and worn like a jacket.

He was wearing military fatigue pants—heavy-duty, olive-drab, pockets down the legs, creased like they’d been folded too long. A black t-shirt clung to him, sleeves rolled to the shoulder. His dog tags flashed once, then vanished beneath the collar. He smelled like recycled air, sand, and something sharp and chemical—maybe jet fuel. His eyes moved slowly: the red walls first. Then the island. Then the boots you’d nudged closer to the mat by the door. Then you.

You opened your mouth to say something. But all that came out was,

“Shower still leaks.”

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even a sentence. Just something to push into the silence.

He looked at you for a beat, unreadable.

“Good,” he said.

That was it.

Now, it’s 7:43 a.m.

The eggs are starting to cool by the time he comes back downstairs.

You’d scrambled them soft the way he used to like them. Butter, not oil. Black pepper and nothing else. Toast in the pan with too much margarine. The coffee’s been sitting in the pot for twenty minutes, burned just enough to taste like the night before. You’ve filled two plates, not because you think he’ll eat—just because not doing it felt worse.

He comes in barefoot, damp curls at the base of his neck, pants slung low on his hips. One of his old t-shirts—Army green, threadbare, stretched at the collar—clings to him like it’s afraid he’ll take it off again. He walks like someone who hasn’t taken a real step in weeks.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

He pauses near the kitchen island, eyes scanning the plate, the coffee, the candle still flickering beside the microwave—vanilla sugar, old, nearly spent. He doesn’t comment on the smell.

“I made breakfast,” you say, like it isn’t obvious.

Jack nods, but doesn’t sit.

You pull the second stool out. “You can’t just stand there.”

“I can.”

“Then I can throw it all in the trash.”

That gets a flicker from him—a half-smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

He slides onto the stool, one hand curling around the edge of the counter like he’s bracing for something that might hit him.

You set the fork down beside his plate. He doesn’t pick it up.

��Looks good,” he says.

You pour him a cup of coffee. No milk. One sugar. The way he used to take it.

“I wasn’t sure you’d want it.”

Jack stares at the mug. “I haven’t stopped wanting it.”

He takes a sip. His jaw twitches. It’s too strong.

“Sorry,” you say, already reaching for the pot. “I should’ve made a new—”

“No. It’s good.” His voice is low. Final. He keeps drinking.

He picks up his fork. Cuts the eggs in half. Doesn’t eat them.

You sit across from him, elbows on the counter, your own plate untouched.

“How’s the water pressure?” you ask.

Jack chews a corner of toast. “Low.”

You watch him try to swallow the toast. He chews for too long. Washes it down with coffee.

You want to ask if he’s sleeping. If he still wakes up from dreams that don’t belong to this time zone. If his hands stop shaking long enough to write letters he never sends.

Instead, you ask, “You want jam?”

Jack looks up. Finally.

“Do I look like someone who wants jam?”

You smile. “A little.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, then shakes his head. “You haven’t changed at all.”

“No,” you say. “But I’ve gotten quieter.”

Jack puts the fork down. Rubs his hands on his thighs. His knuckles are cracked. He’s been picking at the skin again.

“I almost forgot what this place looked like,” he says. “I thought I’d walk in and feel something.”

“You don’t?”

“I feel... like I’m visiting someone who wears my face.”

You both go still.

The candle gutter-flames.

You say nothing. There’s nothing to say.

“I thought maybe I’d walk in and smell you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “But it smells like sugar and bleach.”

You look away. “I’ve been cleaning.”

“Why?”

You shrug. “Because everything felt dirty without you in it.”

That lands.

Jack shifts in his seat like he wants to say something back. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts the mug again and drinks until it’s empty.

You reach for the eggs, meaning to take his plate, but he covers it with one hand.

“Don’t clear it,” he says.

“You’re done.”

“I’m not ready for it to be gone.”

You sit back.

Jack doesn’t look at you. His hand stays on the plate.

The food’s cold now. The coffee pot’s off. The sun through the window is too bright for the both of you.

You both stay there a while, not eating, not talking, just observing a plate neither of you wanted.

“You’re here now,” you say. “That’s all I wanted.”

Jack swallows. You hear it more than see it. He blinks once.

“Is it enough?” he asks.

You pause.

You want to say yes.

You want to say I love you.

You want to say don’t go again.

Instead, you answer the way you always do when you’re afraid of telling the truth too early.

“I’ll let you know.”

DAY TWO – THE BATHROOM

The water doesn’t run hot. But he doesn’t stop scrubbing. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 5:06 a.m.

The sound wakes you before the light does.

Not an alarm. Not the soft whine of the AC unit kicking on. Not birdsong.

Just water.

A slow, constant stream—unnatural in the way only middle-of-the-night plumbing is. Too purposeful to be a leak. Too still to be a shower. It’s the kind of sound that pulls memory to the surface before consciousness catches up.

You blink into the dim morning, cold air settled low on the carpet, and reach instinctively for the other side of the bed.

His side is cold.

The sheets are undisturbed.

You sit up slowly. The clock reads 5:06 in cheap red digits that never dim. The ceiling fan above you ticks once—unbalanced again—and you stare at the sliver of light under the hallway door.

You pull your sweatshirt over your tank top, press bare feet to the carpet, and follow the water sound down the hall.

The door to the bathroom is cracked open half an inch.

You hesitate.

Then you push it open.

Jack is hunched over the sink like he’s prepping for field surgery.

Barefoot. Boxers. A damp grey undershirt clinging to his ribs. His dog tags are swinging faintly, brushing the ceramic bowl. One of his knees is braced against the cabinet beneath him like he’s holding pressure somewhere.

His hands are under the water. Not resting. Scrubbing.

The bar of soap—yellow, waxy, no scent—is ground between his palms. Hard. Fast. Like if he just goes hard enough, long enough, it’ll come off. Whatever it is.

You stay in the doorway. You don’t speak.

The mirror is fully fogged over except for the bottom third, which is smudged clean from the swing of his elbow. You can see his mouth reflected—tight. His chin—unshaven. His eyes—not there.

He hasn’t heard you.

Or maybe he has, and he’s ignoring it.

Either way, he doesn’t stop.

The sink is half-full now, the drain slow. You watch suds and skin particles spiral together in faint gray water.

Then, suddenly—he drops the soap.

It hits the porcelain with a sickening clack.

He makes a sharp noise in his throat and grabs the basin with both hands, breathing heavy, like he might throw up. His head drops between his shoulders. The dog tags knock against the sink.

You take one slow step forward.

Then another.

The tile is cold. There’s mildew in the grout near the baseboard you always meant to scrub.

You cross to him. Carefully.

“Jack,” you say, softly. “Hey.”

He doesn’t look up.

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but his voice is shredded. His fingers flex against the ceramic. “Just needed to wash up.”

You take another step. You see his hands now—red, rubbed raw at the knuckles, half-pruned from too much water. Not washed—scoured.

You look at the towel rack. One bar is bent. The hand towel is floral, too pink. A gift from your mom last Christmas. He hated it.

You reach for it anyway. Hold it out.

He doesn’t take it.

His eyes are bloodshot. Not from crying—from not sleeping. From rubbing. From dust. From whatever he saw in the tent, on the cot, on the ground, in the sand, behind someone’s teeth. You don’t know. He’ll never tell you all of it.

But he meets your gaze.

“I don’t feel clean.”

You lift your hand, slowly—like you’re approaching an animal that might bolt—and press your palm over his.

“It's okay”

His voice drops to almost nothing. “It's not.”

The faucet still runs—thin, faltering—like even the house doesn’t know how to stop. Jack speaks again.

“There was a kid. We found him—twelve, maybe. Half his stomach was gone. His arm too. He kept trying to sit up. I told him he’d be okay. I said—”

His voice breaks off, caught in his throat.

You don’t interrupt.

Jack drags the heel of his hand across his eye.

“I told him he’d see his mom. I didn’t know if his mom was alive. I just needed him to stay down long enough for me to close the wound.”

Silence.

“I was elbows deep. And he was still saying ‘okay, okay’ over and over like—like he was trying to help me.”

He stares at the water.

“I haven’t told anyone that.”

You squeeze his hand. You don’t say thank you. That would make it smaller.

“I should’ve been faster,” he whispers. “That’s the thing. I wasn’t fast enough.”

You shake your head.

“Jack.”

“I had blood in my teeth. I smelled it in my hair. I kept thinking—if I can just get my hands clean…”

You gently turn off the faucet.

The sink gurgles. The water stills.

Then you take the towel—the ugly pink one—and press it gently into his hands.

“They’re clean.”

“They don’t feel it.”

“Then I’ll keep telling you until they do.”

Jack holds the towel like it’s a wound dressing.

His hands shake. Yours don’t.

Not this time.

You don’t speak as you lead him downstairs.

He follows. Not because he’s ready. Not because he wants to. Because there’s nothing else to do.

The kitchen light is off. You don’t turn it on.

The dim grey of early morning is enough. You’ve lived here long enough to know where the corners are, even when your eyes are wet. Even when his boots—still by the door—remind you that he hasn’t really unpacked. That he might not.

Jack lowers himself into the nearest kitchen chair like his body isn’t quite calibrated to this furniture anymore. It creaks. He doesn’t react.

His hands are wrapped in the floral towel. Still.

You move quietly, like sudden noise might undo everything.

You pour coffee. The same pot from last night, reheated on the burner. Bitter. Burned. Familiar.

He doesn’t look at you when you set it down.

You say, “It’s hot.”

He says nothing.

You sit across from him. You don’t touch your own mug. Your hands are too warm already from holding his.

After a long time, he drinks.

One sip. Then another. Like his throat still hasn’t forgiven him for what he said upstairs.

You stare at the tile. You only just notice the floor’s still damp near the fridge. The ice maker leaks again.

The silence grows legs.

Jack clears his throat. Swallows something that isn’t coffee.

Then says, “You want to know the worst part?”

You look up.

“There’s a piece of me that misses it.”

He doesn’t look at you. He stares down at the table like it might open up and swallow the words.

“I miss the certainty,” he says. “I miss knowing exactly what to do. Where to stand. When to grab the gauze. Who needed me most.”

You nod. Slowly.

“You still know how to do that.”

He finally meets your eyes. “But it’s different here.”

You tilt your head. “Because no one’s dying?”

“Because no one’s listening.”

You open your mouth. Then close it again.

Because he’s right.

Jack rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. Winces like he forgot how raw his skin was. The towel slips off his lap. You lean down to pick it up, fold it, and place it beside his mug.

“I didn’t mean to say any of that,” he says.

“I know.”

“You were supposed to get a version of me that could handle this.”

You lean forward, arms crossed over the table.

“I didn’t want a version. I wanted you.”

Jack’s fingers curl around the mug. He looks like he’s trying to grip it hard enough to keep from shaking.

“You don’t get to fix me,” he says. It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. It’s a line he’s rehearsed. Probably in silence. Probably at night.

You don’t flinch.

“I wasn’t trying to.”

“Then what are you doing?”

“Letting you fall apart. And staying.”

That breaks something. Not all the way. But enough.

Jack pushes the mug toward the center of the table like he’s done with it. Like it’s too hot, or too honest.

Then he sinks back in the chair, palms flat to the edge.

His eyes trace the room—cabinets, sink, toaster, stove. You. Slowly. Like he’s trying to remember what each thing used to mean.

“Last time I sat at this table,” he says, “we were fighting about laundry.”

You smile, just a little. “You said I folded your shirts like a civilian.”

“You said I was lucky I even had clean shirts.”

“I said that?”

“Yeah.”

“I was right.”

He huffs a breath. Almost a laugh. It disappears.

You reach out. Not far. Just far enough that your fingers brush the edge of his.

“I don’t want you to be fine,” you say.

“I don’t want to be this.”

“Okay.”

“I just need a minute.”

“You can have as long as you want.”

The house creaks around you like it’s heard every version of this conversation.

Outside, the sun finally cuts over the roofline, pushing light in through the side window above the sink.

It lands across Jack’s shoulders.

He doesn’t move.

But for the first time in hours, he looks warm.

7:08 pm. The sidewalk doesn’t feel any narrower. But he walks like it might betray him.

The sun’s still out, but softer now. Late-day light, the kind that washes everything in the gold of almost evening.

You suggested a walk without meaning to. Just said, “Do you want to get out of the house?” and he nodded like it was a mercy. Like he’d been waiting for the walls to stop humming since the moment he stepped through the door.

He doesn’t ask where you’re going.

He just follows.

Jack doesn’t walk beside you at first. He walks behind, about half a pace. Not enough to make it weird. Just enough to feel like he’s tracking, not joining. You don’t push it.

The neighborhood hasn’t changed much since he left.

Cracked sidewalks. Kids’ chalk drawings half-faded on the curb. A recycling bin knocked over and not yet fixed. Someone grilling a few houses down—probably burgers. The smell hangs in the air like memory.

Your feet find the rhythm first. You’ve taken this walk a hundred times. It used to be your way to clear your head when he was gone—loop around the block, pass the blue house with the overgrown hydrangeas, cut through the alley where the pavement turns to gravel, come home when the porch light flickers.

Today, you walk slower.

Jack’s boots sound heavier than they should on the concrete. Like he’s used to dirt again. Like sidewalks don’t make sense to him anymore.

At the corner, you stop.

There’s a curb here—chipped, worn smooth at the edges. Jack used to park his truck here. He’d sit on the edge of the bed with his legs swinging, elbows braced behind him, watching the sky like it might start telling the truth.

You glance toward the space without meaning to.

Jack follows your gaze. Then says, “That spot still oil-stained?”

You nod.

“I checked last month. The outline’s still there.”

He breathes out, almost a laugh.

“That truck never stopped leaking.”

“You never stopped defending it.”

“She got me through two duty stations and your father’s wrath.”

You smile. “He said it looked like it belonged in a scrapyard.”

Jack shrugs. “It did.”

He doesn’t say what else happened in that truck. The nights when you climbed in beside him just to get away from the noise. The way he kept spare socks and granola bars in the glovebox like he was always half-deployed already.

You remember. He doesn’t have to say it.

You cross the street together now. Closer. His shoulder brushes yours on the corner, and for a second, he stops.

Right at the driveway of the blue house. The one with the busted birdbath and the plastic lawn chairs.

He looks down at the sidewalk like something might be there.

Then he says, “This is where I told you I didn’t want you to wait.”

You turn to face him.

“You said, ‘Don’t wait up.’ Not ‘Don’t wait.’”

Jack swallows. “Did I?”

You nod. “I wrote it down. In a notebook. Dumb things you said before you left.”

His mouth twitches. “How long was the list?”

“Longer than it should’ve been.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his eyes flick up. “You were mad.”

“I was scared.”

He nods.

And then: “I was too.”

That lands between you like it’s never been said before.

Because it hasn’t.

Jack exhales. Long. Slow.

Then he takes a half-step closer, eyes still on the sidewalk.

“Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t think I’d make it back here. Not once.”

You blink.

“I thought about it,” he says, “but it never felt real. This. You. The sidewalk. The mailbox with the duct tape on the hinge. I thought I’d either die or disappear somewhere in between.”

You look down. At the exact spot his boot toe is nudging.

“You didn’t.”

“I know.”

“But I think part of you stayed behind anyway.”

Jack reaches up—slowly—and touches the side of your face. Not like he’s claiming you. Like he’s asking if you’re still real.

You lean into it.

Just barely.

He says, “Thank you.”

You say, “For what?”

“For being part of the part that stayed.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Because you already know you’re walking side-by-side with a man who doesn’t believe he deserves this sidewalk, this sky, this chance. And you’re the only thing grounding him to it.

As you round the corner toward the house, you realize your steps are in sync now. His shoulder brushes yours again. This time, it lingers.

Not like contact.

Like remembrance.

Like maybe this is how it started the first time.

And how it might start again.

DAY THREE — THE BEDROOM

No one sleeps. But something breaks open. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 2:11 a.m.

The bed is too big.

You bought it together at Value City Furniture two summers ago, back when you thought buying things together meant something permanent. Something like safety. Something like a future.

It had looked romantic in the showroom. The wrought iron headboard, black and arched, advertised as “rustic elegance.” Jack rolled his eyes at the tagline, said the frame looked like a Civil War relic, but you caught him testing the edge with his boot anyway. Just to see if it could hold weight.

It squeaked the first night you slept in it. It still squeaks now.

Jack lies on top of the covers, arms crossed over his chest like he’s waiting for a command. His pants are creased, like they came off the floor. He hasn’t changed shirts since yesterday. You’re not sure he’s changed at all.

He doesn’t close his eyes. He just stares at the ceiling like there might be a sniper’s silhouette etched in the drywall.

You lie on your side, curled into the corner of the mattress, spine curved in on itself. Your knees pulled up like they might anchor you. You’re wearing the sleep shorts with the little ribbon on the waistband—the pair you bought during a clearance sale at Ross. You wore them the night before he deployed.

You remember standing in the hallway while he packed. The overhead light was yellow and humming, and you asked, “Should I bring you to the airport?”

He didn’t answer. Just zipped his bag.

You bought those shorts for him. He doesn’t notice them now.

At 2:57 am, you hear the floorboards creak.

Jack moves like someone trying not to make sound, but the house was built in 1961, and it remembers everything. Every board groans. The door clicks open, then closed. The stairs whisper.

You wait a few minutes.

Then you get up.

At 3:03, you find him in the kitchen.

The lights are off. The only glow comes from the microwave clock and the open fridge door.

He’s standing by the counter, drinking straight from the coffee pot. No mug. No ceremony. The pot’s heavy in his hand, the glass sweating cold from the fridge shelf. He winces when he swallows—the burn of something that’s meant to be hot but never got there.

You don’t say anything at first. Just lean against the doorway in your ribboned shorts and the tank top you wore to bed, arms folded. He notices you. Not with surprise. Just… resignation.

“Sorry,” he says, blinking like the light might change. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you say, and it’s true.

He sets the pot down, grabs a mug from the cabinet. The red one with peeling white letters that say “HOT STUFF.” You’d stolen it from a diner on Route 30 during a road trip that neither of you ever really talk about anymore.

You watch him hold it in both hands. You’re not sure if it’s a joke or a relic. He pours the cold coffee into it anyway.

“You remember that dog across the street?” he asks.

His voice is quieter now. Lower. Like the room has ears.

You tilt your head. “The one that used to bark every night?”

“Yeah.”

You nod once. “They moved two months ago.”

Jack doesn’t react. Not really. He nods back, slowly. His eyes stay trained on the window.

But you can tell—he’s still listening for it.

That dog used to be a warning.

Every night, it barked once before the porch light on your neighbor’s house turned on. Once before the sound of someone’s car pulled up. Once before the late-shift newspaper delivery.

It let Jack rest. Because if the dog wasn’t barking, there was nothing wrong.

Now, there’s nothing.

The silence is louder.

He exhales. Braces his hands on the counter. You step into the room, bare feet on cold tile. You don’t ask what he’s doing. You already know.

You reach past him to grab a second mug. Yours says Pittsburgh’s #1 Radiology Tech, even though you’re not a tech. Jack bought it as a joke your first year working.

He watches as you pour a little into your cup. Then he says, quietly, “I thought the bed would help.”

“What part?”

“The frame. The mattress. The idea of it.”

You sip. “And?”

“I laid there and waited for my heart rate to drop.”

“Did it?”

Jack shakes his head. “I laid there and counted shadows.”

You lean against the counter next to him.

He doesn’t move away.

“I don’t know how to sleep here anymore,” he says. “But I can’t sleep anywhere else.”

You glance at him. He looks tired—not in the face, not in the skin, but in the bones. His body is upright because it doesn’t remember how to rest. His hands are braced like he’s waiting to be called up. His mouth is a straight line.

You both stay in the kitchen, side by side, watching the space where the dog used to bark.

The silence is awful. But it's not empty.

It’s loaded.

The coffee’s cold.

The mug is warm.

The night keeps going.

And the bed?

It’s still upstairs. Still too big.

Still squeaking into the silence.

Waiting.

DAY FOUR – THE BASEMENT

Where the laundry runs too hot. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 1:34 p.m.

The dryer’s on its third cycle.

You didn’t mean to restart it. Your hands just did it. Automatically. Like the sound mattered more than the clothes inside. Like the tumbling noise was preferable to the silence in your chest.

The laundry room is suffocating. A concrete box with no insulation, barely enough ceiling for Jack to stand straight. A narrow block window lets in sunlight through cobwebs. Dust dances in it, but nothing else moves.

You’re barefoot, standing on the painted concrete, folding a pile of clothes you don’t remember washing.

T-shirts. Socks. A hoodie that still smells like wind. His fatigue jacket—the one that’s been draped over the back of the kitchen chair since the night he got home. It’s damp from the wash. You shouldn’t have washed it.

You tell yourself it needed it. You tell yourself that’s what home is.

You tell yourself he won’t notice.

Then you reach into the basket and pull it out—a plain, sand-colored combat shirt. Short sleeves. Tag nearly faded. The collar stiff. There’s a small puncture at the shoulder seam, the fabric there worn thin. The cotton feels heavier than it should. Like it held too much sun. Or too much blood.

You lift it gently. You don’t fold it.

You just stare.

Your fingers curl into the fabric. It’s still warm from the dryer.

Behind you, the door creaks.

You go still.

You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. You can tell by the cadence—three steps too fast for a man not in a hurry. Heavy on the heel. Controlled on the descent. Like he’s been pacing the top of the stairs for minutes before deciding to come down.

When you finally do turn, he’s already halfway across the room.

And his eyes are on the shirt.

He stops like he hit something invisible.

You don’t say anything.

The dryer clicks and spins behind you.

Jack steps forward—deliberate, not loud—and holds out his hand.

You hand him the shirt.

He takes it quickly. Not rough. But not gently either. Like you’d handed him something flammable. Like it might disappear if he didn’t grip it tight.

His voice is low. Distant.

“Don’t wash these.”

You blink. “What?”

“They’re not dirty.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

Jack’s holding the shirt against his chest, knuckles white. His breathing is too controlled. Eyes wide but unreadable.

“I—I just thought—” you try. “You left it on the chair.”

“It wasn’t dirty,” he says again. This time louder. Not angry. Just breaking.

The basement hums.

You step closer. “Jack—”

He cuts you off without looking up.

“I wore this when Elliot died.”

Silence.

Jack’s hands tighten.

“There was nothing left of him but his legs and a boot. I packed what I could into my bag because I thought—I thought maybe his mother would want something. A sock. A photo. Anything. But we never got a body bag. So I folded my own shirt. Folded it clean. And kept it.”

He swallows. Hard.

“I’ve been carrying it for weeks.”

You want to say I didn’t know. You want to say I’m sorry.

But you don’t. You don’t interrupt him.

“It smells like diesel and antiseptic and the last hour of that day,” he says. “And I know that sounds fucked up, but that’s how I know it’s mine.”

You feel your chest cave in.

He still won’t look at you.

“I came home and I couldn’t sleep unless it was near me. Just in the room. On the chair. Something. It—”

Jack presses the shirt to his face. Not to smell it.

To stop himself.

His voice drops. Breaks.

“It was the only thing that didn’t forget me.”

You cross the rest of the room slowly. Step by step. Like any wrong movement might make him retreat.

He doesn’t move away when you reach him.

You lift your hand and rest it on his forearm, just above the place where his fingers are clenched in the fabric.

“I didn’t mean to erase anything.”

Jack shakes his head. His voice is a whisper. “You didn’t. I just—I didn’t know it would hit me like this.”

He finally looks at you.

His eyes are bloodshot. Still holding back. But this time, you can see the grief there.

You reach up. Brush his damp temple with your thumb.

Jack lets the shirt fall to his side.

His hand finds yours.

You both stand in the too-hot basement for a long time. The dryer clicks. The smell of cotton softener and heat fills the space. Jack exhales, long and quiet, and leans into you—not like surrender, but like memory finally letting him bend.

And the shirt?

It stays in his hand.

Unfolded.

Still his.

3:58 pm. You didn’t mean to come here. The hospital’s not where people go to breathe, but the parking lot knows your car. Your badge still opens the back entrance. And Dana? Dana never stopped answering your texts.

So you park where you always used to, next to the yellow-striped curb with the half-broken wheelchair sign. The air smells like brake fluid and hot metal and something floral that might be coming from the retirement home next door.

Dana’s already out there, standing under the overhang near the loading zone. Her scrubs are dark gray, faded at the collar. She’s got her ID clipped to her waistband and her lighter in one hand.

“You look like shit,” she says as you walk up.

“Thanks.”

“I meant that fondly.”

You lean against the wall beside her, arms crossed, heat still clinging to your shirt. You didn’t even change. You realize your hands still smell like dryer sheets and dust.

Dana lights her cigarette. Exhales smoke in the opposite direction, not out of politeness—just force of habit.

“How is he?” she says, not looking at you.

You shrug.

Dana snorts. “I’m not the press, kid. Don’t shrug me.”

You stare out at the edge of the parking lot. The wind lifts your hair, then drops it again. You don’t answer right away.

Then you say, “I washed one of his shirts.”

Dana raises her eyebrows. Waits.

“It—meant something to him. I didn’t know. He lost someone. He folded that shirt and carried it back like it was a body bag. And I washed it like it was laundry.”

Dana doesn’t speak. Just flicks ash from her cigarette with one practiced gesture.

“He didn’t yell,” you add. “He didn’t even get mad. He just looked like I’d taken something he didn’t have a backup of.”

Dana inhales again. Her voice is rough when she says, “That’s because you did.”

You look at her.

She exhales smoke slowly. Her eyes are on the street, but her voice stays with you.

“That’s the thing no one tells you about grief, or trauma, or whatever the hell you wanna name it. Half the time, it’s stored in the dumbest shit. Coffee mugs. Baseball caps. T-shirts that still smell like dirt and diesel. You think you’re doing something kind—putting it back in order—but to them, it’s erasure.”

You nod. Quiet.

“I don’t want to fix him,” you say.

Dana cuts her eyes at you. “Bullshit.”

You flinch.

“You want him whole,” she continues. “And I get it. But he’s not. And he won’t be. So either you love what made it back, or you keep waiting for someone who didn’t.”

The words land like bricks.

You breathe through your nose.

“I do love what made it back.”

Dana’s voice softens, just a little. “Good. Then start showing up for him—not the version you built in your head while he was gone.”

Silence again.

The sun slants gold across the top of the ambulance bay awning. Someone inside slams a door. You both ignore it.

“I miss who I was when he left,” you say after a long minute. “Back then I still had answers.”

Dana nods. “Now you’ve got questions.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll live.”

You huff a breath.

Dana stubs out the cigarette on the cement with the toe of her shoe. She doesn’t look at you when she says:

“He’s lucky you’re still here.”

You blink. “That’s not something you say.”

“I didn’t say it for you. I said it because it’s true.”

You let your head rest back against the wall.

The sun dips lower. Somewhere inside, someone yells for a gurney. Dana doesn’t move.

Then she adds, quieter, “I’m around. If you need someone to call next time you try to launder someone’s soul.”

You laugh—sharp, real.

“Thanks.”

Dana flicks her lighter once before pocketing it. “Now get out of here before someone hands you a chart.”

4:46 pm. The house is quiet when you get back. Not still—just quiet. The kind that feels occupied, but not lived in. The TV isn’t on. No fan running. No clatter from the kitchen. Just the sound of your key in the lock, the door shutting behind you, and the faintest creak from the upstairs floorboards as the house settles around a man who hasn’t moved in hours.

You toe off your shoes, still holding the weight of Dana’s voice in your shoulders.

You walk upstairs.

The bedroom door is open a few inches. Just like he left it the night he got back.

You push it gently.

Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed. Elbows on his knees, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He looks like he’s praying, but you know better.

He’s not praying.

He’s just trying to stay in his body.

The bedside light is on. The one with the too-warm bulb you used to complain about. It casts a golden pool across the blanket but doesn’t touch his face. He doesn’t turn toward you. But he knows you’re there.

You step inside.

He doesn’t speak.

You sit beside him. Not close enough to touch. Just close enough to feel the heat radiating from him like tension.

You don’t speak for a long time.

Then, quietly, “You’re still in the same clothes.”

Jack lets out a breath—something like a laugh, but it’s dry. Empty.

“I was gonna change.”

“I figured.”

His shoulders move, just barely.

“I came home,” he says, “but this won’t come off.”

He gestures down at himself. At the shirt. At the pants. At the version of him that hasn’t known softness in months.

You nod.

Then, carefully, you reach for the hem of his shirt. Your fingers brush the fabric. He doesn’t flinch. But he goes still.

You say, “Let me.”

He nods once.

You move slowly.

You slide your hands under the bottom of the shirt, just enough to lift it over his hips, then ribs, then shoulders. He leans forward as you ease it over his head.

It smells like sweat. Soap. Something older—metallic and dry. You fold it and set it beside you on the bed like it’s breakable.

He stays hunched over.

His back is scarred in ways you hadn’t seen yet. New calluses. Old burns. A dark bruise under his left shoulder blade, the kind that comes from armor worn too long or walls leaned against for too many hours.

You move to the belt.

Your fingers are careful. You don’t tug. You just unclip the buckle, slide the leather loose, and let the weight of it ease through the loops like a breath being released. His hands rest on his thighs. Still.

The pants slide down stiffly—heavy from wear, creased with memory. You pull them down to his ankles. He steps out of them wordlessly.

You fold them too.

Now he’s in boxers and socks. That’s all.

You kneel in front of him. Palms to his knees.

His eyes finally meet yours.

And for a moment, there’s no field medic, no trauma code, no silence. Just Jack. The man who came home. The man who’s still learning how to let someone see him like this.

You say, “Lie back.”

He hesitates.

You say it again. “Just rest.”

He exhales. Then does.

He lowers himself onto the bed, arms still too stiff, like he doesn’t quite know where to put them. You tug the blanket up over his legs. His chest is bare, rising steady, but you can still see the tension under the surface.

You crawl in beside him, fully clothed, facing him.

His eyes are open. Searching.

You reach out, lay a hand on his sternum.

Warm. Solid. Human.

Jack says, “I didn’t think I’d let anyone do that.”

You say, “You didn’t. You let me.”

His throat works. Then he whispers:

“Don’t leave.”

You tighten your hand against his chest.

“I won’t.”

And for the first time since he came home, he believes you.

DAY FIVE — THE KITCHEN

Where he reaches first. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 9:17 a.m.

You wake to the smell of something burning.

Not smoke. Just bread taken too far. A crisp edge curling up in the toaster tray, sugar from the crust turning dark and acrid. You blink into the morning light, still bleary, your legs tangled in the sheets.

Jack isn’t in the bed.

But the blankets are still warm where he was.

You sit up.

You don’t panic.

In the kitchen, he’s standing in front of the toaster, shirtless, barefoot, and blinking at the smoke like he forgot the world had timers. His dog tags are still on. You don’t think he ever took them off.

He hears you step in and glances up.

“Morning,” he says.

His voice is raspy but present. Grounded.

You nod. “You made toast.”

“I made charcoal,” he corrects. “The toaster’s got a vendetta.”

You walk over. He waves a dish towel in front of the fire alarm that didn’t go off. His eyes flick toward you, once, then away again.

You pull open a cabinet. Grab a plate. Set it on the counter between you both.

Jack says, “I was trying to let you sleep.”

“You did.”

“You came running.”

“I smelled crime.”

He huffs a laugh, then reaches down and pries the toast out with his fingers. Winces as it singes him.

You move before you think—grab his wrist. “Let me.”

He lets go.

You throw the toast away.

Jack leans back against the counter. Dog tags swinging once, then stilling against his sternum. His body is loose in a way it hasn’t been all week. Still tall. Still lean. But not braced.

You look at him. Really look.

He looks back.

Then—quietly, like it’s nothing—he reaches out.

Fingers brush your hip.

A light touch. Groundless. Unscripted. But his.

You blink.

He says, “Just wanted to see if you were real.”

You step closer.

“I am.”

He nods. Swallows.

“Okay.”

You don’t kiss.

You don’t touch again.

But you stand across from each other in the middle of the too-bright kitchen with the broken toaster and the lemon cleaner still clinging to the tile.

And for once?

He doesn't try to leave the room.

4:23 pm. It happens mid-afternoon.

Not in a moment you expect.

You’re on the floor in the living room, head resting against the couch cushion, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The TV is on but muted. One of those daytime true crime shows where the reenactments are always too dramatic. You’re not watching it.

Jack’s on the couch behind you, feet up, one arm slung across his chest. He’s not asleep. He’s just still, in that strange, too-conscious way you’ve come to recognize. The kind of stillness that says: I’m here. But not for long.

The room smells like furniture polish and warm laundry. There’s a breeze through the cracked window that lifts the edge of the curtain but doesn’t move it enough to matter.

Your voice breaks the silence.

“You remember when the power went out for two days last winter?”

Jack grunts. “You cried over the last Pop-Tart.”

“I did not.”

“You rationed it like you were in a bunker.”

“You refused to use the candles.”

“I hate vanilla.”

“They were unscented.”

Jack shrugs.

You smile to yourself. “We kept the fridge cold with a bag of snow in a Tupperware container.”

Jack glances down at you. “You slept on the floor, too.”

You turn your face toward him, cheek pressing into the cushion.

“There was more heat near the vent,” you say. “And I didn’t want to move too far from the outlet in case the power came back.”

“You were curled up like a cat,” he murmurs. “I was on the couch.”

“I know,” you say. “I didn’t want to be left.”

Jack doesn’t respond.

But you feel it—the shift. The widening quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just heavy. Full.

You sit up slowly, turn toward him, and fold your legs beneath you, facing him.

He looks at you. And for a second—just one—his hand twitches like he might reach for your face.

But he doesn’t.

You say, “I keep thinking about what happens after this.”

Jack’s eyes stay on yours. His body stills again.

“What happens when the sixth day ends,” you continue. “What it means when the last thing you leave behind is a used towel and a folded shirt on the end of the bed.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. His throat works.

You shake your head, softly. “I know it’s not fair.”

“No,” he says quietly. “It is.”

You wait.

Then he says it:

“I’ve been thinking about it too.”

The air in the room thickens.

You don’t move.

He sits forward.

Hands on his knees. Shoulders hunched. Dog tags swinging once, then still.

“You want to ask me not to go,” he says.

You nod.

“But you won’t,” he finishes.

You shake your head. “No.”

He lets out a breath. It’s shaky.

“You’d be the first.”

You blink. “What?”

“You’d be the first person to ever ask.”

You whisper, “Would you stay if I did?”

Jack doesn’t answer.

Instead, he leans forward—closer. Eyes fixed on yours.

And for a breathless moment, it feels like something might break open.

But then?

He blinks.

And leans back

Your eyes sting.

Because you both know what he’s doing.

Because you let him do it.

Because he’s still leaving.

8:43 pm. You were just putting away socks.

That’s all.

You were folding laundry from the basket you forgot in the dryer, and you were doing it without thinking—half-watching the muted news loop on Channel 11, half-counting how many days until you’d have to start buying groceries again.

Jack’s in the bathroom. Said he was going to shave.

You didn’t ask why now—why suddenly, after days of letting the stubble grow in, he’d decided tonight was the time.

You didn’t mention the faint scent of aftershave on him this morning, either. The same one he always uses. Clean. Sharp. Familiar. Even though you hadn’t seen him so much as look at a razor in four days.

You’re just putting away socks.

You open his nightstand drawer to make space—maybe for the shirt he left folded on the bed, maybe for something else. You haven’t organized it since before he left. You’ve let him keep it messy.

Inside: gum, receipts, a scratch-off ticket with no winner, a pen with no cap, and something folded.

It’s yellow legal pad paper. Soft at the edges.

Folded twice.

Not shoved in.

Not careless.

Tucked.

You hesitate.

You unfold it.

You read the first line.

And the second.

And suddenly it’s not the laundry that’s hot anymore.

It’s your face. Your throat. Your chest. Like the words are burning straight through you.

You sit down on the bed without realizing you’ve moved.

You read the whole thing.

I’m not leaving a note. That’s not what this is. This is just… something I need to write down so it stops choking me when I try to look at her. So I can leave without taking all of it in my throat. I was never supposed to stay this long. I knew the six days would stretch me, but I didn’t expect her to make them feel like the only real time I’ve had since I left the first time. She folds towels like the world isn’t ending. She hums when she’s trying not to cry. She asked if I’d stay, and the worst part is—I wanted to say yes. But I knew I wouldn’t. Staying means breaking every part of me that still runs toward sirens. Staying means taking off the uniform and not knowing what’s underneath. Staying means telling her that I don’t know how to live in a house where the lights aren’t always on. I’m going to leave while she’s sleeping. Like I never really got back. Like I was just passing through. She’ll be okay. She’s always been better at being alone than I have. I won’t leave this for her to find. She doesn’t need more wreckage. I’m just writing it down so I remember I meant it.

You fold it back with shaking hands.

Your chest feels hollow. Your mouth tastes like copper. The room is loud, suddenly—the fan, the TV, the fridge kicking on, pipes groaning somewhere in the walls—everything pressing in at once.

He wasn’t going to tell you.

Not even a goodbye.

He was going to wait for you to fall asleep tomorrow morning, when the sixth day was up, and he was going to walk out the door without a word.

Without this.

Without anything.

And now?

You know.

And he doesn’t know that you know.

DAY SIX — THE PORCH

Where he thinks he’s being brave. And you let him. Robinson Township, PA — July 2005, 6:38 a.m.

You were awake all night.

Not pacing. Not crying.

Just awake.

The letter still folded the way he left it, tucked back into the drawer you never should’ve opened. You didn’t put it on the pillow. You didn’t confront him. You were careful to tuck the corners the way he does. Military-style. Precise.

Because if he was going to ghost you, you’d meet him with the same clean symmetry he used to disappear from war zones.

You brewed the coffee at six. Toast in the toaster, just enough to make the kitchen smell like routine. You wiped down the counters. You opened the front door.

The porch is cold. Dew-soaked. Quiet.

You sit on the top step with your mug and wait for him.

Not because you’re hoping he’ll change his mind.

But because he thinks you don’t know. And you need to see how well he lies.

He comes down at 6:44 am.

Hair damp. Bag already packed. Boots laced.

He smells like bar soap and fabric softener. And the distance between you is already miles wide.

He steps onto the porch like a man who thinks he’s making a clean exit.

You don’t look up right away.

He sits beside you, carefully. Like he’s trying not to wake a sleeping animal.

You sip your coffee.

“Sleep okay?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”

You nod like you didn’t already know that.

“Flight’s at eight?”

“Yeah.”

You glance over. “You packed light.”

He doesn’t catch the shift in your voice. He never was good at reading the tension when it was quiet.

He says, “Didn’t want to leave too much here.”

And there it is.

Not want to leave too much.

Like this was a staging ground, not a home.

You nod.

The silence stretches.

He’s waiting for a clean break. You’re waiting for him to break. Neither of you get what you want.

At 6:56, he stands.

You follow.

The front door is open behind you.

The duffel sits by the couch.

He looks at you for a long moment.

And then—he reaches out, cups your jaw the same way he did that first night he came home. Thumb at your temple. Fingers light at your neck. He tilts your face up.

And kisses you.

Soft. Warm. Final.

You let him.

You kiss him back.

Because he doesn’t know you know. Because you want this one last thing. Because you love him and you hate him and you’ll never forget this.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet your eyes.

He says, “I’ll call when I land.”

You nod.

You say, “Safe flight.”

He leaves.

Just like he wrote.

No look back.

No guilt.

No pause.

You close the door behind him with shaking hands.

You don’t cry.

Not yet.

You just stand in the kitchen with your coffee and the toast that burned a little.

And when the sound of his engine fades down the block—that’s when it hits.

Not because he left.

But because he meant to leave like you never mattered. And you let him kiss you anyway.

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tshirts-2024 · 1 year ago

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lanadelreyscokewhor3 · 1 month ago

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AMERICAN TEENAGER- D. WINCHESTER

day one of the june bug masterlist

pairing: older bf! dean winchester x fem! reader

word count: 2.5k

summary: you and dean spend your few "days off" in the impala, exploring and hitting the open road-finding yourselves in the backseat on occasion to make love to eachother- in true summer fashion.

warnings: fingering, dry humping, heavy praise kink, pet names, making out, very light face/ cheek smacking, little bits of spanking, some bondage? (dean holds readers wrists together above her head) teasing, swearing, and lots of fluff :)

"grew up under yellow light on the street, putting too much faith in the make-believe and another high school football team”- american teenager, ethel cain

It had just begun, and yet you feared it was almost over.

That's how it always felt with Dean though, with these little moments of calm.

The summer months seemed short, but you begged to stretch them out. With Dean though, it was easy to get lost in the moment.

You felt his soft green eyes looking over at you, one hand on the wheel, the other gripping the flesh of your thigh softly. A gentle squeeze broke you from your trance, hair whipping out the window as you turned to flash him a smile.

“Eyes on the road mister!” you laughed as the engine of his Impala revved, the speedometer flying as you two sped down empty back roads- nothing but empty fields and abandoned churches ahead of you.

You drank your slushie, the one you had begged him to get you at the last dingy gas station- because who was he to say no to you, especially in those little jean shorts?

It stained your tongue red, making your kisses extra sweet as you littered them across his jaw and neck as he drove.

Taking a breath of fresh, country air- you tried not to think of this ending.

This picturesque moment was permanent in your mind- your painted toenails on the dashboard, arm whipping in the wind as it rested out the window- vocal cords nearly fried from screaming along to some cheesy rock song with your boyfriend.

“How am I supposed to keep my eyes on the road when you look that damn good?” he teased, flashing you a flirty little smile, making you giggle.

You shuffled in your seat, the leather sticking slightly to your thighs as you sprawled across the gear shift consul, tracing a finger across Dean's jawline, nipping at the clean shaven skin- making him shudder.

“You keep doin that, we're gonna crash god dammit you.” he groaned, letting you wrap your hands around his arm, resting your head on the muscle.

“You wouldn't.” you smirked, playfully wrapping your lips around your straw, taking another big gulp of the slushed ice- the chill shooting straight up to your brain, making it fuzzy. Or maybe that was Dean, and the way he kept looking over at you, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip- eyeing you up and down.

“You’re right I wouldn't. But you’re makin it harder n harder to focus sweet thing. Sit down n be good.” he teased as you snuggled up, getting comfy on your new pillow as you let the dust kick up behind the wheels.

It wasn't long before the reds, whites and blues of the American flag captured your attention at a local highschool- empty for the summer. There was only Dean's Impala in this rundown parking lot, facing the empty football field.

You stretched, uncurling yourself from the passenger side as Dean got out, slamming the door behind him. “Just gotta grab some water sweetheart. I’ll be one second.” he said, nodding over to the near empty convenience store that was just beside the school.

“Can you get me a soda?” you asked as he walked over to you, pinning you up against the car door and gave you a soft, needy kiss.

“Course baby. Jus stay pretty n right there, kay?” You nodded, watching him jog over, your eyes slithering over to the empty field.

The old wooden bleachers were slightly faded, some cracks starting to form at the ends. It looked so pretty as the sun started to set, tinting it a gentle pink. Your hands went up to start to play with your hair, twirling the ends around a manicured finger as Dean quickly started to walk over, two drinks in hand. It was so nice out here, you almost wanted to stay.

By the time Dean had returned, setting the drinks on the hood of the car, your mind was made up. He barely had time to react before you bolted, hopping over the fence and sprinting onto the empty field.

“Hey!” You heard Dean call behind you, sending you into a fit of giggles as he sprinted after you, long legs watching strides with yours.

You whipped your head around, hair blown across your face as he caught up with you, arms wrapping around your middle. You shrieked as he brought you down to the grass, rolling over so you were pinned under him.

“I thought I told you to stay there?” he teased, squeezing your wrists gently above your head. You smiled confidently. “Well I stayed pretty.”

“That you did. Though that's not very difficult for you, is it? You just can't sit still.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Can too.”

He scoffed, eyes widening in surprise. “Can too? Do you see the predicament we’re in right now? We’re sprawled out in some football field like we’re teenagers.” He rolled off you, so he lay beside you, hand in yours.

The two of you gazed up at the pink and orange clouds that rolled past, and you couldn't help but smile at nothing, like some love sick idiot. He did make you feel like you were a teenager again, with some deep rooted crush on the cool kid.

“That's a good thing, silly. Having this young love with you, it makes me feel… whole.” you said, turning your head so you could look at him- take him in fully, imprinting a sketch of him in your mind.

He was so beautiful it hurt. Like Lucifer, before he had fallen. He mirrored your expression, eyes full of love- smile beaming as bright as the stars and the spangles that flapped in the wind.

“You make me feel whole.” he replied, squeezing your hand in reassurance. “You are my home sweetheart. Wherever you go, I go. On the other side of the country, or chasing you into football fields.”

ﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟ

It was dark by the time the two of you made it out of the little town you had stopped in, too preoccupied with making out to realize the sun had barely had any light left to give the two of you.

The old street lights flickered on, as you two sped past the old store, firewood tarps fluttering in the breeze. It wasn't long before you had become too needy, too touchy for him to not do anything about it.

He couldn't keep his attention on the road any longer with the way you kept biting your lip, whispering sweet nothings into his ear, letting his hand wander across your thigh, up towards where you needed him most.

A little side clearing had been your save and grace, and without a warning he spun into the opening. The car was put into park, the key pulled from the ignition before you could process what was happening- but your body knew.

“Baby…” he growled as you reached your hand over, squeezing his thigh softly.

A glint in your eye. He knew that look. He knew what came after it.

“You’ve let your hands wander quite a bit tonight, don't you think?” he asked, a chuckle leaving his lipsas you battered your eyelashes, all doe eyed and innocent appearing.

“I don't know what youre talking about Dean.”

His eyebrows raised, clearly amused at your games. You wouldn't have the upper hand for long. You both knew that.

“Hmm. I’m sure you don't sweetheart. Don't you think its my turn now?”

You tilted your head, in confusion. “Your turn to what Dean?”

He smirked. Leaned in a little closer, until his breath warmed your chilled skin, teeth nearly nipping at your shoulder as he spoke. Sinking into you with his dog teeth.

“My turn to touch.”

You swallowed. “Touch how?”

You knew how. Fuck, the two of you were teasing eachother like horny teenagers who snuck off in the middle of the night to fuck- but had to fill that sexual tension on the drive over with something to pretend the deed was innocent.

But the tension was too good to let go of. You wanted to hold on, just a little longer.

“Why don't you crawl that pretty lil ass of yours to the back and I can show you?” he murmured, planting a kiss to your shoulder, eyes flickering up to meet yours- following the rise and fall of your quickend breath.

“You started this sweetheart. You’re gettin exactly what you wanted, so don't go actin all miss innocent like you weren't begging for this. I ain't dumb.”

You scurried to unbuckle yourself, wiggling ontop of the console,- feeling a smack to your ass. You squealed, tumbling back until you lay sprawled in the back, thighs rubbing with anticipation as you watched Dean get out and open the back door.

In no more than a second he pounced on you. Pinning your arms above your head, letting you try and squirm, bucking your hips up into him.

“Baby…” he tsked, clucking his tongue as if he were scolding a child, gripping your wrists tighter as you still squirmed. “Enough of that. Let me have my fun.�� he cooed, smacking your cheek softly before squeezing your cheeks together as he held your jaw firm, making you look at him with wide eyes.

“Want you now.” you pouted. He sighed.

“Now sweetheart, y’know I can't let you yet, right? You were teasin me, so now its only fair I do the same.”

You sighed, putting up a little bit more of a fight before he gave you another gentle smack, making your brain turn all foggy. You went limp as his fingers traced little circles around your harded nipples that poked at him through the fabric of your flimsy tank top.

“But I need you.” you whined, trying to give your best puppy dog eyes, letting your forehead crinkle and your lip quiver. Sometimes if you looked sad enough, he felt bad and gave in. But it seemed like tonight, you’d be talking to a brick wall.

You had been too hansy with him, too bold when you teased. And now, you were getting the same treatment.

“Now you know how this works honey. Gonna let me touch you wherever I want, yeah? N’ your gonna be my good lil girl and take it.”

You nodded, letting out a squeak as he pinched your nipple, tugging on it.

“Words sweetheart. Or I’m gonna be a lot slower.”

“Yes Dean.” He nodded, satisfied with your answer, letting your wrists slip from his tight grasp- wanting both hands to explore each and every one of your curves.

Knowing you wouldnt squirm if you knew what was good for you. You were good that way.

His other hand came down to cup your other breast as he wrapped his lips around the other through the fabric, leaving a massive wet patch in his wake.

“S’all messy Deannnn..” you whined, bucking your hips again as he stared up at you with a hunger in his eyes, using his free hand to grab hold of your hip and pin it to the leather seat. Fingers digging into your skin so hard it was sure enough to leave a mark in its wake.

“My dirty girl likes messy. And she likes to get handsy, doesn't she?” You shook your head as he sucked again, making you moan and whine.

“Doesn't she sweetheart?”

“Yes Dean, I like when you’re messy…” you confessed, making him smirk.

“Gotta use your words for me honey, you gotta remember you're not the one in the drivers seat anymore.”

“Well I was never in the drivers seat-” your smartass words were cut off by a another pinch to your nipple- hard.

“Arms up girl. No more being smart with me.”

You quietly obeyed, lifting your arms and let him tug off your shirt. He eyed your jean shorts expectantly, his tone stern.

“Hips up.”

You watched with lustful eyes as he shimmed them off your legs, tossing them somewhere in the front with your shirt. You were bare before him- and yet, he remained fully clothed.

Was this how he felt as you pawed at him?

“See, that wasnt so hard now was it? You can listen baby, I know you’re a good girl. You just tease more than you should when I'm driving.” he cooed softly, something like a sympathetic frown etched on his face as he stroked the back of his hand across your cheek, letting it trail down to your bare breasts.

“M’sorry…”

“I know, I know. Gonna let me touch you to make me feel better?” he asked, and you nodded quickly. He smiled.

“Such a sweet girl…”

His hands traced their way down your curves, resting on your hips as he squeezed them gently. Then lower. Then lower. You squeezed your thighs together in anticipation, certain that you were already staining the seat beneath you with your juices.

“M’gonna touch you everywhere baby. Everywhere.” he promised, making you whimper as he kissed you deeply, tugging on your lower lip teasingly, kissing you until your lipgloss was smeared and your lips were swollen.

You let out a gasp as his hand slid between your thighs, parting them as he cupped you. Bare. Laid out, just for him.

“Everywhere..” you murmured as he smirked, the moonlight illuminating his green eyes- his blown out pupils.

He was hypotized by you. The way you responded to every touch, every flick of his finger, every lick of his tongue as he lapped at the bite marks that he left in your neck.

It was bliss, having you unravel for him, so easily. The two of you were nothing but free spirits in this world, on the run from problems that struggled to catch up, like a dog after the speeding wheels out the driveway.

Your eyes widened into little saucers, mouth parted in a gasp as he slipped two fingers into you, curling them ever so slightly. You reached for him, a hand gripping his bicep firmly, the other tugging strands of hair tight enough to hurt.

But instead of wincing- he moaned. “Fuck sweetheart d’that again. I wanna make you do that again.” he panted, hitting that sweet spot inside your walls that had you seeing stars- not from the sky above but with your eyes pinched closed.

“D-dean I need… I need more-” you begged- no, practically cried as he quickened his pace, thumb coming up to rub sweet little circles on your clit, as if he wasn't assaulting your pussy.

“I know sweetheart, I know. I’ll give her what she needs in a minute. Just let me have my turn.” he cooed gently, planting a kiss to the curve of your breast, letting it trail upwards towards your collarbones.

“Such a pretty pussy… you’re doin so good f’me sweetheart. Jus like that. Jus a little longer.” he promised.

And god if only you could believe him. Because knowing him- he needed the upper hand. And that meant your teasing had to be miniscule compared to his.

You’d be in for a long ride, and yet the Impala remained at a stand still in the cool, gentle whispers of the summer night.

ﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟﾟ*☆*ﾟ

june bug has started and i hope you all enjoyed the first installment! i love you all, happy reading and don't forget that you are wonderful and loved! -c<3

#dean winchester fluff #dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester smut #dean winchester supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #supernatural #jensen ackles #jensen x reader #dean x reader #dean x you #dean winchester spn #jensen ackles smut #jensen fucking ackles

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hamilton-here · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, I don’t know if your requests are open, but I was wondering if you could write a story about Lewis and tennis player Reader. Like she is nr. 1 in the world, and they celebrate her win of another tournament? (if you want it can include smut, but it doesn’t have to). Thanks❤️

𝑀𝒶𝓉𝒸𝒽 𝒫𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! I absolutely loved writing this one-shot. I hope the person that requested it enjoys! Lots of love xx

Summary: After winning the Australian Open, the world’s top tennis player is surprised by her secret boyfriend Lewis Hamilton in the crowd, leading to a night of passion, public pride, and the start of their shared spotlight.

Warnings: sexual content, mild swearing

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The stadium buzzed like electricity under your skin.

Rod Laver Arena was a cathedral of sport tonight, packed to capacity with tens of thousands of fans and millions more watching around the world.

A hot summer wind whispered through the open roof. The air was heavy with tension, expectation and the kind of energy that could crack lightning across the Melbourne sky.

You rolled your shoulders back and steadied your breath, standing behind the baseline with the weight of a country or more on your back.

Sweat traced a slow path between your shoulder blades beneath your violet and black Nike kit, damp strands of hair sticking to your temples beneath your hat visor.

You raised your arm patting your damp face with your wrist band, breathing heavily.

6-5 in the third set tiebreak.

Match point.

The final point of the Australian Open women’s final.

You could hear your heart pounding in your ears. Somewhere in the crowd, people were chanting your name. Others followed. Then the whole arena surged into a chant. You closed your eyes and let the sound lift you.

Focus. Breathe. Trust your body.

Across the net, Aryna Sabalenka stared you down like the warrior she was. Her chest rose and fell with exertion, her neon pink dress soaked through with effort. You had battled her for nearly three hours under the Australian sun, each set a war of wills, but you were here now. One point away.

The chair umpire called, “Time.”

You bounced the ball three times.

Tossed it into the air.

And served.

The ball cut through the air with slicing pace and landed near the sideline, forcing Aryna wide. Her return was fast but shallow.

Your instincts took over. One step in. Racket low. Forehand. Deep into the opposite corner.

She chased it.

Desperate.

Her feet scrambled across the court.

She reached. Swung.

But the ball clipped the net cord and died.

Gasps. Then silence.

And then - chaos.

The crowd erupted in a wall of sound.

You dropped your racquet and fell to your knees. Your hands flew to your face as tears pooled in your eyes.

You had done it.

You were the Australian Open champion.

Your team rushed onto the court - your coach, your physio, your hitting partner.

You embraced each of them as flashes exploded from every direction. You barely heard the interviewer’s first question as you blinked up at the stands, overwhelmed.

You scanned the VIP box instinctively. But he wasn’t supposed to be here. He was overseas getting prepared for the race season coming up and with himself starting at Ferrari.

You shook the thought from your head and waved at the crowd, lifting your arms, heart pounding with adrenaline and disbelief.

“I’m just, I don’t even have the words,” you choked out in the interview, wiping tears from your cheeks. “This one means the world. I’ve worked my entire life for this moment. Winning the Australian Open has always been my dream. Even though I am number one in the world already, this has been a massive achievement."

And you had. From a tiny court in your hometown, all the way to world No. 1.

The trophy ceremony began and you stood beneath the bright lights of Rod Laver Arena, clutching the silver Daphne Akhurst Memorial Cup like it was a lifeline. You thanked your team, your family, your fans.

And then came the camera lens.

The moment every player dreams of.

A black marker was passed to you. You knelt before the lens and grinned.

You signed your name with a flourish and, below it, wrote -

"For every girl who was told she couldn’t."

And then, in smaller letters, only visible to the few who’d pause to read it -

"For him."

You smiled.

Because even if Lewis wasn’t here, he would see it.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The celebration was still roaring behind you as you disappeared into the tunnel beneath Rod Laver Arena. Your legs felt like jelly not just from the match, but from the weight of it all. The cameras, the spotlight, the ceremony. It was over. And you’d won.

You clutched the trophy tightly to your chest like it might float away if you didn’t hold on.

A member of the WTA staff guided you through the winding halls of the stadium, offering congratulations and asking if you needed water or food. You nodded absently, still high on adrenaline.

Your team peeled off toward the press room, but your agent lingered behind, eyes twinkling.

“There’s…someone waiting in your private suite,” she said, tone casual.

You turned, puzzled. “Media?”

She shook her head with a sly grin. “Just go see.”

You padded down the hall, your tennis shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor.

You opened the door.

And stopped.

Lewis was there.

Leaning against the windowsill of your private lounge, hands in the pockets of his charcoal Ferrari hoodie, cap pulled low over his face. But that smile - that unmistakable, heart melting smile lit up the room before he even moved.

Your mouth fell open. “You’re - what - Lewis?”

He stood up straight and took a step forward, his voice low and warm.

“Didn’t think I’d let you win your first Aussie Open without me here, did you?”

You were already in motion.

You ran into him, arms flying around his neck, trophy clattering to the carpet as he caught you. You buried your face in his hoodie and suddenly all the tears you’d held in during the trophy ceremony came crashing down.

“You lied to me,” you whispered, voice breaking. “You said you had meetings. You said you couldn’t -”

“I had to,” he murmured against your hair. “You wouldn’t have focused if you knew I was watching.”

You pulled back to look at him, tears streaking your cheeks. “You watched the whole thing?”

He brushed your hair away from your face. “From the third row. You were unbelievable. I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Every time you hit the ball, the whole arena held its breath.”

You laughed through your tears and lightly hit his chest. “You asshole.”

“I know,” he grinned, then kissed you deeply. “But I’m your asshole.”

You melted into him. His cologne - the earthy, clean smell that always lingered in your pillows when he left hit you full force. He kissed you again, slower this time, cupping your face with reverent hands.

“You’re everything, you know that?” he whispered. “Everything.”

You laughed softly, your forehead resting against his. “You coming back to Melbourne just to see me win is already the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”

He pulled back just enough to lock eyes with you. “I didn’t just come to watch you win.”

His hands slid to your waist. “I came to remind you what happens when you do.”

The door to your suite clicked shut and locked behind you.

Lewis didn’t say a word as he backed you toward the plush couch by the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Melbourne skyline. The city lights twinkled outside, a mirror of the stars in your eyes as he traced his fingers along your jawline.

“You’re still shaking,” he whispered, thumb brushing your cheek.

“Adrenaline,” you said, breath hitching as his hands slid down your waist. “And maybe because you just showed up like a damn movie ending.”

He smiled. “Couldn’t miss my girl’s greatest win.”

His girl.

The words settled into your chest like a promise. You tugged his hoodie upward, fingertips brushing the hem of his shirt.

“Take it off,” you breathed.

He did slowly, deliberately revealing the tattoos you knew by heart - the compass on his chest, the script over his collarbone, the lion on his pec. Every line, every shadow, made you ache for him more.

You pulled your visor off, then the damp tank top, leaving you in your sports bra and skirt. Lewis’s eyes flicked down your body with heat and reverence, as if you were the trophy tonight.

“You looked like a goddess out there,” he murmured, stepping closer, hand skating over your exposed stomach. “I nearly lost it when you signed that lens. It reminded me of when I first did it in F1."

Your voice softened. “I signed it for you.”

He paused. His thumb rested above your navel.

“I saw it,” he whispered, suddenly serious. “I saw every word.”

And then his lips were on yours again this time firmer, more desperate now. The kiss deepened quickly, mouths open, breaths mingling as his hands tangled in your hair. He backed you against the couch and gently pushed you down, climbing over you like he’d waited all season to have this moment.

His body hovered above yours, eyes dark with desire.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he said, voice low.

You shook your head. “Don’t stop.”

Your skirt slipped down your hips, tossed somewhere near your trophy.

He kissed every inch of your inner thigh before his mouth reached the core of you, tongue warm and slow and purposeful. You gasped, your hand flying to his braids as he worked you open with lips and fingers, coaxing pleasure with the same focus you brought to center court.

When you came, you cried out his name, shaking, legs locked around his shoulders. He looked up at you, smug and tender.

“Still shaking?” he asked.

You were breathless. “For a whole different reason.”

He stood, unzipping his pants and you watched with hungry eyes as he slid them off along with his boxers. His body was beautiful, lean, carved, all heat and control. He kneeled between your legs, running his hands along your thighs again, patient, reverent.

“You’re sure?” he asked again, voice husky.

You reached for him, pulled him down until his forehead touched yours.

“Make me forget the world,” you whispered.

And he did.

He entered you slowly, both of you groaning at the perfect, familiar stretch.

You clung to him, your hands on his back, nails dragging over skin as he moved. He kissed your collarbone, your jaw, your lips between every thrust, whispering how proud he was, how beautiful you were, how no one in the world compared.

The rhythm built, his hips moving against yours in smooth, rolling waves. Each movement echoed with tension and devotion, like he needed to be closer, deeper, inside your very bones.

“I love you,” he murmured into your mouth as you began to fall apart again.

"I love you too." You moaned back throwing your head back.

You came with a sharp gasp, trembling beneath him. He followed soon after, groaning as he buried himself to the hilt and spilled into you, holding your face like he never wanted to let go.

When it was over, he collapsed beside you on the couch, both of you sticky and glowing with sweat, your skin still buzzing from the high.

Wrapped in one of the soft robes, you stood by the window a little while later, watching Melbourne glitter beneath you. Lewis came up behind you, arms slipping around your waist.

“Tomorrow, they’ll talk about your forehand,” he murmured. “Your stats. Your legacy.”

You smiled. “And tonight?”

He kissed your neck. “Tonight, you’re just mine.”

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning after your victory arrived like a dream you never wanted to end.

Melbourne was still glowing from the night before. Headlines flooded your phone -

"World No. 1 Reigns in Melbourne"

"The Queen of Tennis Conquers Australia"

"Crossover Power Couple? Fans Think Lewis Hamilton Was in the Crowd!"

You sat at the edge of your hotel bed, wearing nothing but Lewis’s white t-shirt and your gold WTA bracelet. The trophy was beside you, glinting in the early light. Lewis was still asleep, one arm draped over his eyes, the other stretched toward the spot where you’d been curled into him all night.

Your phone vibrated again.

A message from your agent -

“Press conference in an hour. Wear something killer. You’re the moment.”

You smiled.

In the bathroom, you applied your makeup carefully, chose a sleek white pantsuit that hugged your body and made you look as powerful as you felt. When you stepped back into the bedroom, Lewis had one eye cracked open and a crooked smile on his lips.

“You trying to kill me this early?” he said, voice still scratchy from sleep.

“You coming with me?” you asked, walking over and sliding onto the bed beside him.

He reached for your hand. “If you want me there.”

“I want them to see.”

His brow lifted slightly. “All of them?”

You kissed his shoulder. “You were there for every part of this win. It’s time they know.”

The press conference was already crowded by the time you stepped inside. Cameras flashed, journalists whispered and jostled. But the moment Lewis entered behind you, hand on your back, a hush rippled through the room like a wave.

You smiled graciously, taking your seat at the table with your nameplate and the trophy in front of you.

Lewis stood to the side, watching, his presence magnetic. He wore a tailored black suit with no tie, his braids pulled back, sunglasses tucked into his collar. Every part of him screamed quiet support and pride.

A reporter raised her hand.

“First off, congratulations! You made history last night. But I have to ask there’s been a lot of speculation online. Can you confirm that Lewis Hamilton was in the stands during your final?”

You didn’t hesitate.

“I can confirm he was,” you said, smile widening. “He flew in to surprise me. And yes, we’re together.”

The room exploded in flashes and soft gasps.

Lewis simply nodded once, cool and steady, as if he’d been by your side all along. In truth, he had ways just been in the background. Until now.

The moment you stepped off the podium, he was waiting for you.

“That was brave,” he said, fingers brushing yours.

“That was honest,” you corrected. “I don’t want to hide anymore.”

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. “Then let’s show them how a real team celebrates.”

Later that night, you curled up with Lewis on the hotel bed, doom scrolling through social media as he laughed beside you.

@WTAfanatic: “LEWIS HAMILTON AND [Y/N]?! I THOUGHT I WAS READY BUT I WASN’T.”

@GOATandGOAT: “Their baby’s gonna have a 200 mph serve and a carbon fiber stroller.”

@F1updates: “Hamilton’s biggest win this year might not be on the track.”

“I can’t believe how loud the internet is being,” you muttered, cheeks burning with joy.

Lewis took your phone and tossed it gently onto the other pillow.

“Let them scream,” he whispered, pulling you into his arms. “We’ve got our own world.”

The chaos quieted by evening.

Your eyes caught the last of the golden sunset spilling through the windows. You stood on the balcony in one of Lewis’s oversized tees, sipping champagne from the bottle as the breeze tugged at your hair. Below, Melbourne buzzed softly with nightlife and celebration but up here, it was just peace.

Behind you, Lewis stepped out, freshly showered, his chain glinting in the dying light. He wrapped his arms around you from behind and kissed the top of your head.

“Proud of you doesn’t even cover it,” he murmured into your neck.

“I feel like I’m still floating,” you whispered, leaning back into him. “Like it didn’t happen.”

He turned you gently to face him. “You’re not dreaming. You earned every second of it. And I was lucky enough to watch you do it.”

You reached for his hand, running your thumb over the knuckles. “I used to think winning was everything. Like if I had the title, the ranking, the trophy it from every tournament would finally feel like enough.”

“And now?”

You looked up at him, eyes soft.

“Now I think the best part is who I got to share it with.”

His smile was warm. He leaned in and kissed you, slow and unhurried. Not a kiss of celebration, or of lust but of something deeper. Of foundation. Of future.

As the sky turned lavender and the first stars appeared, you both stood there in silence, the city beneath your feet and the whole world stretched ahead of you.

And for once, you didn’t feel like you were chasing anything.

You’d already won.

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