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lucijawriteswords · 3 months

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know me the way you know your childhood scars, like breathing; i wasn't running but if i was i'm glad it was to you.

tz11 x reader: a small town, a fresh start, a shared heart.

(warnings: blasphemous filth, unprotected penetrative sex (m on f), hair pulling, thigh-riding (this is newish), dirty talk (if you're new, welcome!), mentions of previous relationship being awful, i know i'm forgetting stuff but all my typical things. (please be warned, don’t read if you’re not 100% sure.)

(a/n: my favorites - i think jd6 getting traded was exactly what i needed in order to write a tz11 character who is actually a nice guy. i call that the best-friend-getting-a-new-best-friend-who-is-named-cam-york effect. anyways, this is long as hell (14k, anyone?), because i have recently been absolutely so over law school guys. i just want a guy who likes to get his hands dirty and actually has friends. too much to ask? okay. obviously, i got so insanely carried away here, as you will be able to tell. we've got about a million side characters, some of which you will recognize, some of which you will not, because i made them up (tell me why i'm so into the matt/bridget dynamic. could write about just them. maybe i will). you guys know that there will be plot holes and dialogue issues and the likes, but you love me anyways, and i love you for that. tz11 should enjoy this, because i know he will inevitably be back in my bad graces soon enough. next up is someone new (!) because i miss when people used to write about tyson jost left and right. hm, what else? tell me what you think, what you'd like to see. my one year anniversary since my first post is feb. 2 (i actually can't believe how fast it went by, and i'm so grateful for you for sticking with me). so, so much love to you and your snakes. go canucks. until next time.

this was probably a terrible idea, you thought, with your suitcases beside you, your head in your hands at the foot of the bed that would be yours for the foreseeable future. one bed of several at a local inn - local to this town, at least, not local to you.

no, you thought, jittery with unknowing and chance and uncertainty, none of this was familiar to you. not this town in the middle of nowhere, hundreds and hundreds of miles from your hometown, your university. not any of the few people you had interacted with, not the uber driver, the inn keeper, the housekeeping staff.

not one part of this place, this experience, not one part was familiar. but that's what you'd wanted, wasn't it? that was the whole point?

you'd wanted to find yourself, wanted to prove that you could take care of yourself, exist on your own, thrive outside of the bubble that was university.

you wanted a fresh start, away from ex-boyfriend and ex-best friend, their betrayal still fresh, a wound scabbing over on your heart. you wanted to breathe deeply and not worry about who was watching you exhale - a place where nobody knew you, where nobody could whisper about the girl whose boyfriend was cheating on her with her best friend. for three years. she's so stupid, how could she not have noticed?

well, here, you decided, that's what you would get. a humble job as a diner waitress lined up to start tomorrow, a booked room with no check-out date, not a laugh you'd recognize for miles and miles.

this is what you'd wanted, you told yourself, now, loneliness settling in your mouth the way the powder on sour candy does. this is what you have.

completely exhausted from travel and emotional havoc, you passed out that night amidst dreams of fresh starts and trees too tall to see you behind them.

such a lovely image did not last nearly an hour into the next morning, the first day of your new job, just a block or so from the inn you were staying at.

this was part of the reason you had chosen this place for your self-discovery journey, after all - the urgent hiring, competitive wage, amazingly low price for room and board.

you had worked in your university's coffee shop for a year or two to help pay your tuition, so, honestly, how different could it be?

very different, you realized, almost immediately. they were hiring urgently for a reason, which meant there was practically nobody there to train you. one of the line cooks, of all people, just threw you an apron and a name tag to wear over your uniform-compliant black skirt and shirt, mumbled something about a welcome, enunciated something louder about table three needing service.

and so your self-proclaimed new life began completely unceremoniously, with a name-tag that misspelled your name, the smell of waffles and western omelets permeating the air like some grandmother's perfume in an old living room.

at the very least, the business made the time pass quickly, as you paced from table to table, only pausing briefly to introduce yourself to the line, the host, the several curious patrons who asked about you.

"new girl," some impossibly old man husked, "they not have hot coffee where you're from?" he grimaced as he took another sip. "cold as a winter's -"

"okay, that's enough," his companion said, a woman, probably in her mid-twenties, with blonde hair chopped short. she gave you a sympathetic look, like you two were sharing some inside joke. you liked her immediately. "he's had about twelve cups already. don't mind him."

you felt your mouth tick up in a smile for what might have been the first time this morning as you introduced yourself to her, and her grandfather, who you learned everyone affectionately called "old man peters." you learned that the young woman's name was bridget, and she insisted on giving you her number, in case you had any questions, or wanted to get together, or needed anything at all.

your day was already looking up, you thought, as you lifted your sulking ponytail from you back, loose strands curling at the nape of your neck, around your ears. bridget and old man peters bid you goodbye, and then the young host, a boy who stuttered so much over his name that you still didn't quite know what it was, sheepishly alerted you that he had seated a group at the booth in your section.

your flipped to a new page in your notepad as you walked back to the booth, your gaze quickly being tugged up by a drawl-ish voice blurting out "dibs! i call dibs!"

such as exclamation was followed by several groans and one "not fair, you're the only one facing the door."

your brow was slightly scrunched in confusion when you stood at the head of the group's table, four pairs of eyes faced to you in a way that made you feel like a politician about to give a speech.

you cleared your throat, not quite looking anyone in the face. "good morning," you said, "can i get you guys started with some drinks?"

you looked up from your notepad, clicking your pen against the surface of it, taking in the table of - well, you weren't really sure. construction workers, maybe? craftsmen? the four of them had on heavy canvas-like jackets, worn and worked in, highlighter-bright shirts underneath, callused hands that your observant eyes took note of immediately. they were young, too, probably about your age, which made you blush, only a little. these were not the kind of guys you had met in college, the kind who you would have taken a class on freud with, the kind who thought everything with a woman's hand around it was a phallic symbol.

"just coffee," one of them said, short. he tacked on a please when one of his friends smacked him lightly on the back of the head.

you motioned with your pen around the whole table. "for everyone?" you asked, but the question stumbled out of your mouth when your eyes caught on the last of the four, the one on the bench on the right, closest to you.

that sharp face, high cheekbones and cut jaw, should have been so serious, you thought, like some kind of statue, the kind your art history friends would have fawned over in a museum you didn't really want to go to. he should have been so serious, angular like that, but he was anything but. mirth danced in his eyes, so bright they almost sparkled. his full mouth was fixed in a sort of perpetual smirk, so ready to laugh that he was already halfway there. he had the lines around his eyes that told you his full smile would tear you in two.

you were probably staring at him, you realized, flushing deeper as his smirk broke free into something wider, all over his face.

"see, guys," he spoke, that goofy drawl you had noticed on your way over, nothing like the pretentious academics who spoke in circles. he leaned back in the booth. "doesn't matter that i called dibs. she likes me best anyways."

your face scrunched up in some combination of disbelief and hidden delight. "wait," you began, "when i was walking over here, when you said something about dibs," you fixed him with what you hoped was a glare, "you were calling dibs on me?"

he shrugged off his jacket, drawing attention to his wide shoulders, arms thick even through his bright long sleeve. you snapped your gaze back to his eyes, which shimmered, telling you that you'd been caught. "what's the big deal?"

you scoffed, blew a stray curl from your eye line. "you don't call dibs on people," you said.

"yeah, trevor," one of his friends teased, "what's wrong with you?"

"where to begin?" one of the others said, almost lost in thought.

"c'mon, sugar," trevor said, tilting his head, "'s a compliment, yeah?" his gaze rolled down your frame, almost gelatinous, meeting your eyes again reluctantly. "only 'cause you're so pretty, hm?"

you rolled your eyes, fixed your gaze on the one across from him, the one who looked the least engaged. "but, trevor," you whined, stretching out his name like salt-water taffy, "what if i wanted-" you paused, looked down at the blonde just below you.

"matt," he said, practically bored. you nodded your thanks.

"what if i wanted matt?"

his posture grew even more relaxed as he shifted his knees wider under the table. "oh, what if, sugar?" he mused, his eyes so expressive, never off of you for a moment.

"she's gonna spit in your coffee," matt said.

"how about we cut out the middle man and she just spits in my mouth?" he chirped, smirk so telling it made you flush pink.

you mumbled something about decorum before walking away in a flurry of annoyance and excitement. you couldn't really tell the difference, you realized, as you gave the poor host a pot of coffee and asked him kindly to drop it off at the back booth.

you were not something to be called dibs on, that was for sure, and you were here to find yourself, not anyone else, certainly not some guy. even if some guy had soft-looking hair and a witty mouth. even then.

you took a stabilizing breath and got back to work, noting that the back booth only got coffee, only stayed for about twenty minutes before making to leave, heavy jackets loud as they shrugged them back on.

three of the guys called out their thanks and headed out, leaving only a standing trevor there when you approached to settle their bill. thumbing through his wallet, he grinned down at you when you finally stood in front of him again.

he was taller than you thought, you realized, as he now stood at full height. you had to crane your neck slightly to look him fully in the face.

"thought you'd be shorter," you said, honestly, hoping to knock him down a peg, however mean that might have been. but of course he only smirked.

"get that a lot," he drawled, selecting a bill, putting his wallet back in his pocket with hands you had to force yourself not to stare at. "been told 've got the personality of a short guy in the body of a tall one."

you shook your head. of course someone had told him that.

you couldn't really ruminate on that, though, as he stuck the twenty in the front pocket of your apron, as well as something with a slight weight to it, urging an angry pink to the tops of your ears, the feeling of his wide hand warm, so close to you.

you peered up at him, sucked on your teeth as he pulled out his hand slowly, that ever-present smirk almost faltering at your gaze.

"thanks for the service, sugar," he said, and you probably imagined the way the end of his words sounded strained. "see you around, yeah?"

you didn't break eye contact, only let yourself smile back at him before turning and getting back to work, letting the push and pull of waitressing lull you into a rhythm during which it was practically impossible to think too heavily about bright eyes and broad shoulders.

by the end of your shift, you had been officially tired out. you were sure your hair reeked of coffee, and your ankles ached from standing all day.

going to empty your apron, however, right before you left, your hand settled on the bill from earlier, but also several wrapped butterscotch candies. your face contorted as you stared at them, wondering why trevor had put them there.

exhaustion won over curiosity though, as you thanked everyone for your first day and walked the short block back to the inn.

this won't be that bad, you were thinking to yourself as you walked up the stairs. you already had the phone number of a maybe-friend, after all, and as far as jobs went, this one could be a lot worse. good money, good way to meet new people, maybe even something pretty to look at -

as if summoned by your thoughts, when you turned out of the staircase to your hallway, there trevor was, standing on a ladder, looking into the ceiling, some box of tools on the floor.

you narrowed your eyes, bag suddenly feeling heavy on your shoulder. the presence of a new figure drew his gaze to you, and you had to scold your heart, the way it beat like a teenager at the way he looked at you, then. you didn't know him, after all, and you weren't here for anything romantic.

"you followin' me, sugar?" he asked, stepped down from the ladder, making his way over to you. his voice was slow and tired, from whatever he had done that day. you were shocked at the fact that you wanted to know what that was. his gaze shone as he gently took your bag from your shoulder and slugged it onto his own, fell into step beside you. you let him. "tell me you're following me."

you rolled your eyes, but the small smile on your face wasn't going anywhere. "this is where i'm staying," you explained, "so, if anything, you're following me."

you stopped in front of your door, leaned back against it, suddenly in no rush to lock yourself behind it, alone. not when he was on this side of the door, looking like this.

almost weary with hard work, but not weary enough to sour him, just enough to make his movements and expressions slightly slower, lazier, more indulgent, like they were drenched in chocolate ganache. not when he was here, looking at you like this, like you were the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.

after years at some preppy, pretentious university, at which ingenuity was the most valuable currency, one you felt you lacked so disgustingly, was it really too surprising that you softened under his gaze? that you wanted to stay in it, just a little bit longer?

"sugar?" he asked, head tilted, and you realized he had been talking.

"sorry, what?" you asked, your voice soft like sponge cake, willing your eyes to focus, your mind to focus harder.

he didn't tease you too badly, though, only let his smile grow sharper with a smirk. "i said that 'm sorry if i hurt your feelings with the dibs stuff," he said, and you were almost confused at his apology. you weren't even upset, and when was the last time someone had apologized to you so quickly after doing something?

your memory cut hazily to your ex, somehow trying to convince you it had been your fault that he cheated on you, that it was something you were lacking that had inevitably led him to do that. you practically shivered, then internally scolded yourself for comparing trevor, whom you had met today, you reminded yourself, to your ex-boyfriend.

"'s fine," you said, waving him off, your back softening further into the door. "didn't really hurt my feelings."

his eyes flashed. "didn't really or didn't, sugar?" he asked, searching your face.

you swallowed, acutely aware of his attention, how it slid down your nose, your cheeks, your jaw, slow and thick as sludge. "didn't."

he gave a nod. "'m sorry anyway," he said, and it came out low. "if you really want to go for matt, i won't stop you."

and part of you wanted to blurt out i don't want matt!

but it was your first day in this place, and honestly, you were still kind of hung up on his apology, and the way it sounded from his chapped lips, and you knew to correct him would be exactly what he wanted.

so you just said "thank you," and were shocked at how gentle it sounded.

"jesus christ, distracted, are we, trev?" the voice of the young inn-keeper called from the end of the hallway. he seemed awfully chipper as he approached, hands in his pockets. "i came up to check on your progress," he said, "or lack thereof, i guess." he looked between the two of you. "now i see who's stolen your attention."

"i'm on my legally-required fifteen minute break," trevor said, half-smiling, turning back to you. "sugar, you know my brother, griff?"

you nodded, suddenly clocking the subtle ways their appearances drew from each other. trevor was taller, griff had a wider face, bigger features. but they had the same eyes, same strong nose, mirroring grins. "he owns my room," you said, dumbly, tiredly.

griff only smiled. "she's had a long day, trev, leave her be."

trevor searched your face again, seemed to find all the proof he needed - your heavy eyelids, drooping shoulders. he gently handed your bag back to you. "i'll see you tomorrow, sugar," he said, as soft as you'd heard him. so soft it startled you. "sweet dreams."

"goodnight," you said to both of them, shutting the door behind you. sleep came easily that night, again, with dreams less so of hiding behind trees and more so of rough hands and laughing eyes.

you were surprised, pleasantly so, at how quickly you fell into a routine in your new home. surprised at how quickly you let yourself call this place that.

maybe it was the way that bridget wasn't just being polite when she had given you her phone number, as she had quickly set up dates to show you all her favorite hiking spots around. your weekly hikes with her became a highlight as she told you more about the town, about her young daughter, about book club, about anything and everything. she was so kind with you that you found yourself so comfortable confiding in her. it felt so easy calling her a friend.

maybe it was the way the town seemed to accept you as one of their own so quickly and genuinely. the line cooks flirted with you in the way only line cooks do (in ways that would not be acceptable outside of a kitchen). they made you food to take home, kept you from starving. the host, harry, began to trust you enough that he asked for your help on homework. the regulars began to recognize you, know your name, ask how you were doing. griff checked in on you, asked if anything was wrong with the room, said you should feel free to use his kitchen anytime (as your room was the simplest kind, and didn't have any cooking appliances). you began to know the names of the streets, the stores, the store owners. your fresh start was starting to feel like just that - a start.

or maybe it was that same group of guys who came in every morning, at the same time, who ordered only coffee and then left in a flush of waves and heavy jackets and called-out salutations. you learned that the one with the curly hair, alex, was the quietest, probably the smartest. his closest friend, cole, was the shorter one, who had the loudest laugh. and matt was warming up to you, you thought. the more you made fun of trevor, the more he seemed to like you.

it was that same group, every day, who came in loudly and left louder, who had paint and dirt smudged on their shirts, their hands. who drank coffee like it was water. who laughed like it was easy as breathing, and maybe that was how it was supposed to be.

and, of course, there was trevor, who, the more you got to know him, the more trouble he became. every day, his "good morning, sugar," would reverberate through your chest, and you would drop a pot of coffee at their table, ask how they were doing, listen for their answers.

some comments about how old man peters' roof is caving in, and he should have told them about it probably a year ago, or about how the police chief's plumbing is fucked, or about how they were going over to fix bridget's sink that day. and, if it was the last one, matt would flush, which would make your eyes widen, would make you pepper him with questions about his crush.

and then, at some point during their morning break, trevor would ask something about you, about how you were, about the way you were wearing your hair, the shoes you were wearing, the book you had been reading the week before. and then, as he left, without fail, he would slip a bill and several butterscotch candies into your apron pocket, each time his hand growing heavier, more significant as it settled so close to you.

it didn't particularly help your small crush that you saw him everywhere. he was always fixing something - in the diner, at the inn, in the park downtown. you couldn't escape him and his deft hands, his working mind, his strong frame and easy laugh and addictive smile.

he was everywhere, so of course he would be here, at the grocery store, after your shift one day. you were roaming the isles, looking for a specific kind of vinegar, your basket hoisted up onto your hip, when a low whistle made you turn. you were met with that lazy smirk, your favorite one of his, the nighttime one, the tired one. he approached you, his work boots heavy on the ground.

"you followin' me, trevor?" you asked, repeating what become something of an inside joke between the two of you.

"maybe," he said, looking down at you, shimmering eyes framed by long lashes. "do you want me to be following you, sugar?"

you hummed, noncommittal, some harmony between the fluorescent lights above, the whir of the fridges the next isle over. you turned back to the shelving, resumed your survey of the contents. "your brother offered his kitchen for me to use while he's out tonight," you said, not looking at him.

"did he?" trevor mused, an almost undetectable bite in his tone.

you nodded, eyes alight with excitement. "been eating pancakes and chicken noodle soup for weeks now," you said, referring to what the line cooks sent you home with. "swear my mouth's watering just thinking about something different." you ran a thumb along your bottom lip, as if checking for spit.

if you had been looking at trevor, you would have see his shallow swallow, the way his eyes tracked your movement, how his gaze hung from your mouth like lacy ribbon. he cleared his throat.

you finally located the vinegar you wanted, on the very top shelf. pushing yourself up on your tiptoes, you reached the tips of your fingers for the bottle, only just out of reach.

trevor only chuckled as he grabbed the bottle easily, took the basket from your hip and into his own hand, dropping the vinegar into it.

"i can carry that, you know," you said, suddenly wishing you had something to do with your hands.

"i know," he said, smug.

you rolled your eyes, huffed a thank you, anyways.

"so, what're you making?" he asked as you led him from aisle to aisle, loading your basket with ingredients.

you explained to him how, in college, this one salad had been your absolute favorite to make when you needed something that made you feel good. something about the combination of arugula, kale, chickpeas, sweet potato, whatever other vegetables you had on hand, sometimes chicken, if you were feeling fancy, something about the simple dressing of oil and vinegar - it was perfect. no meal left you feeling as good as this one did.

and it was how you had made it entirely on your own, too - it wasn't some fancy steak dinner your ex had buttered you up with after a fight, it wasn't boxed brownies shared with your old best friend the night before you found out - no, this was all you.

when you looked back at trevor, there was something molten in his gaze. "sounds amazing," he said, low, like he didn't want anyone else to hear.

you tilted your head, let your smile slant across you face, scrunched up your nose, teasing. "would you want to join me for dinner, trevor?"

his face split into a grin. "i would," he said, "i would want to, please."

and so you found yourself fumbling around someone else's kitchen with an audience, washing kale and peeling sweet potatoes with fingers that twitched towards the figure across the counter, practically irritated that they weren't touching him.

you scolded your hands to behave, which became easier as the night went on, as conversation flowed like cranberry juice, the flavor of it lingering in your mouth just the same.

he might ask you about how the diner was going, to which you would look around as if to make sure no one was there. his eyes would flash. you would miss this.

"harry's been making some real progress in precalc," you would say from behind your hand, speaking of the host, whom you had come to view very fondly. "and you didn't hear it from me, but i think he's going to ask his friend jason to the school dance next weekend."

you would be flushed with excitement and pride, and trevor wouldn't be able to get much beyond that, honestly, the way it lit you up from the inside out.

but then he would clear his throat, and lean forward on his hands, and tell you that if harry needed help asking jason to the dance, he knew exactly the best crew for the job.

"don't tell me you're talking about your rag-tag group of misfits," you would say, cocking a brow as you dressed the kale and arugula.

and he would feign offense, place a broad hand over his heart. "i'll have you know that this group of misfits went 16/16 in high school dance invitations," he would say. "all four of us, all four years."

you might roll your eyes. "real band of heartbreakers, were you?" you would say.

and laughter would shine behind his eyes like christmas tree lights behind store windows, and he would stretch his arms above his head, lazily, comfortably. "'course not," he would say, his voice the sort of raspy that comes with stretching, "only alex."

and this would pull a real laugh from you, as you tossed everything together, the kind of laugh that rung in his ears, that made him pleasantly dizzy.

as the night passed on, time moving altogether too fast and the kind of slow that oozes, you would learn about how he grew up in this town, how he went to trade school, how he had had the same friends his entire life. you would ask questions about if he ever felt the desire to leave (not really), how he got into manual labor (he never really felt like he was that good at anything else), what his family was like (close, but not overbearingly so).

and, in turn, between bites and sips and laughs, you would tell him about how you grew up (humbly), what school was like (hard, but rewarding), how you ended up here (cheap housing, good job, close community). and maybe you would actually tell him about the ultimate betrayal you had faced before you left, why that made you want to be somewhere, anywhere else, somewhere where you had no choice but to make a life entirely for yourself.

at the mention of your ex his jaw might clench, his mouth twitching ever so slightly. he would mutter something about nonsense, and you would smile.

he would ask questions about your family (just your dad and you), your favorite parts of your life here (hikes with bridget, homework sessions with harry, bickering with old man peters).

and he would pout, at that, his bottom lip looking so positively delicious it stole your breath. "'m not your favorite, sugar?" he would plead, joking.

maybe you would really look in his eyes, then, find something hot, tilt your head. "you wanna be?" you would ask, breathier than you intended.

and he would smirk, somehow flipping the dynamic on its head entirely with only a single expression. "you know i do, sugar," he would tell you, low and so loaded you would blush.

it might scare you how easily you let him in, how quickly you were warming up to him. his pretty face might scare you, because pretty faces had hurt you before. there had been no one prettier than your old best friend, after all, and look how that turned out.

so, when the night grew viscous, and the meal was long over, the dishes done, a portion for griff packed up in tubberware on the counter, when he walked you upstairs to your room, both of your steps slow, reluctant, when his gaze lingered on your lips and the smell of him grew distracting, the height of him all-consuming, even then, even though you wanted to, you didn't kiss him. you only bid him a gentle goodnight.

"thank you for tonight," he would say, instead, looping his arms around your neck, hugging you close to his chest. this was so much worse, you thought, as you breathed him in, wrapped your own arms around him and squeezed. the way he held you like he was afraid what would happen if he let go. his hair so messy and his tone so genuine it almost hurt. "sweet dreams, sugar," he said into your hair before pulling away.

even though, that night, you might have dreamed about how his rough hands might feel as they held your soft cheek, how his chapped lips might slot against your glossed mouth. even if you woke up, that next morning, practically sweating. not the sweetest of dreams.

today was your day off. you had plans later with bridget, but you decided to book a haircut and blowout at the salon downtown, since you had the whole morning to yourself. the salon was one place you hadn't been in, yet, and you hadn't had a haircut in months, so you figured now was a good a time as any.

the bell above the door rang when you stepped inside, but no one seemed to notice over the shrill thrum of hair dryers, sinks, and the steady stream of gossip that you appeared to have walked in on.

"she told me her trevor went on a date, julia," one of the stylists said seriously, her eyes expressive as she sectioned her client's head of long curls. "won't stop rambling on and on about her, she says."

your heart jumped in your chest at trevor's name, sunk accordingly. he had been on a date? you weren't sure why you had assumed you were the only girl in his life at the moment, but it stung, nonetheless. you pulled at a thread on your long sleeve, eyes down.

you can't be upset, you told yourself, don't you dare be disappointed-

"oh, honey, how long you been waiting?" one of the stylists called out, making her way over to you and the front desk. "swear you have to throw somethin' at one of us when you come in or we'll never stop talking." she had such an easy way of speaking, a comfortable posture, a genuine face.

"sorry," you said, looking around, still recovering from what you'd overhead.

she just waved you off with a smile. "it's us motormouths who should be apologizing," she said before introducing herself as ginger. "now, what name is your appointment under?"

you told ginger your name, and as soon as you did, her eyes sailed up to meet yours again, wide and bright. she snapped her fingers, getting the room's attention. "you're the doll who stole our baby trevor's heart!"

you blushed furiously, felt the words in your mouth twist and tangle like a toddler's hair. "me? no, that can't be right," you said. there's no way last night counted as a date, you thought. there's no way he's talking about me.

the other stylist just squealed as you were led to a chair. "of course it's you! look at her, julia," she said to the woman in her chair, practically elated, "what a treasure!"

your blush wasn't going anywhere any time soon.

"that boy's been talkin' to 's mama 'bout you, honey," julia said from her chair, her expression knowing. "he's just about smitten, she says."

"and a mother always knows," ginger said, emphasizing her words with hairbrush gestures.

so you spent your appointment getting a couple inches off, hearing about the trouble trevor used to get in when he was younger (apparently alex used to be the biggest troublemaker, though), hearing about how trevor just went around fixing whatever anyone needed fixing.

"swear that sweet boy wouldn't charge a dime if this town'd let him," ginger said as she worked long layers into your hair, "we have to sneak payment into his pockets, and even then he tries to give it back!"

your cheeks burned, your heart heavy with affection as she blew out your hair, leaving it soft and smooth. you paid, said goodbye for about ten minutes, found out just how hard it was to escape salon conversation.

"now go show off for our baby, honey!" someone called out the door after you, making you laugh. you guessed that all the stereotypes about small town hair salons were true.

you went on your weekly hike with bridget, who gave you that understated grin when she saw you. "looking good," she said, bumping her shoulder into yours. "trev doesn't stand a chance."

you rolled your eyes. "didn't get my hair cut for him."

she laughed. "i know," she responded, "but all anyone can talk about this morning is your date last night."

you couldn't help but scoff good-naturedly. "i can't believe people already know about this," you said, "it was literally last night, and it wasn't even a date."

she waved you off. "nobody cares about the logistics. even my girl was moping to me about it. she's got a little crush on her skating instructor."

"trevor teaches your daughter how to skate?" you asked, having never heard of this.

she nodded. "he's the highlight of her week," she said, her eyes soft, picturing her daughter's unabashed smile.

"get in line," you mumbled, covering your face with your hands.

why was everyone so intent on revealing adorable information about trevor to you today? didn't they know he already took up enough of your daily headspace?

"can't somebody tell me he hates animals, or something? or that he's really pretentious about art? or that he has, like, some weird fetish?"

bridget laughed. "sorry, babe," she said, "he's the town's sweetheart."

you were still reeling with all of this information when you got back to the inn, your face rosy from the outside chill, your body pleasantly awake from your walk.

you began up the stairs, humming to yourself, ready to collapse onto your bed, maybe catch up on some reading.

"you followin' me, sugar?"

you looked up, immediately, feeling your pulse in your neck, in your teeth.

there he was, of course, there he was, painting the railing in the stairwell, the sharp smell of paint faint in the air.

all dirtied up from the day, that slouch that only appeared in the late afternoon, that crinkly smile, all of it made him almost too good to be real.

"maybe," you said, like second nature now, after all those times before, his face forcing a tiny smile from your mouth.

you stood just in front of him now, held your breath as he reached up, twirled a strand of your hair around a finger. he let out a low whistle you felt in your stomach.

"lookin' awful pretty tonight," he said, not much more than a whisper as he thumbed the soft ends of your freshly-cut hair.

his words settled like thick caramel on your tongue. "thank you," you mustered, your mind spinning with all of the wonderful things you had heard about him, today.

he bent down to one knee in front of you as you collected your thoughts. "um, what are you doing?" you said, strained, dumb.

he looked up at you through those girlish lashes, smirk heavy on his perfect face. he tugged your foot closer to him. "shoe's untied," he said, gesturing to your sneaker. "may i?"

you blinked at him before nodding, because what alternate universe was this? you tried to imagine any other man you'd known willingly getting on the floor for you, just to tie your shoe. you couldn't.

he tightened your laces with nimble hands.

you cleared your throat. "heard something funny today from the ladies at the salon," you told him, trying to focus on something other than his proximity.

he hummed. "nothin' good, i'll bet," he mused, "ginger loves a good story."

"it was a good story," you said, reveled in the way his expression softened, giving you the courage to press on. he began to tie a double knot. "'bout how you're tellin' your mom we went on a date."

he pulled the bow tight, looked up a you for a second, a guilty, childish grin on his face, caught red-handed. you extended a hand to him, helped him back to his feet.

"oh, yeah," he said smugly, folding his arms across his chest, leaning back against the wall, easy, comfortable. "like how you asked me to dinner, and then cooked for me, and how it 100% was a date-"

you laughed, shook your head. "it was not!" you said, "i never said it was a date!"

he ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "call it wishful thinking, then, sugar."

and you couldn't focus too much on what he meant by that, so you just shook your head again. "you're too much," you said, wanting it to come out teasing, but instead there was a breathy sort of desperation behind it.

"yeah?" he asked, that smirk present as ever. you had grown so close to him without realizing it, now just a step away. him leaning back against the wall, you right in front of him, looking up at him.

you nodded, swallowed, your blood hot, your skin prickly, alive.

his eyes fixed you in place, teasing. "too much for you, sugar? can't take it?"

you bit your lip to stop any sound from escaping you, because everything seemed entirely too loud, then. you could hear your heartbeat, you swore you could hear his, the radiator could have been screaming at you. you didn't dare think about just how much you wanted to take.

to stop yourself from doing something much more serious, you simply reached your hand forward, swiped at a spot of paint on his face with your thumb.

your touch against his brow bone felt like an exhale, like melting wax. you could feel his warm breath on your hand as you pulled it back, but then he was looking at you, like that, like you were so, so special, like he would have doused his face in paint just to have your hands wipe it all away, and were you imagining the way his gaze grew fiery?

"trev! old man peters says his sink's still leaking!"

griff's voice rattled down the stairwell, smothering the flames in your eyes, if only just. just enough to break the spell, to pull away, to tell him you'd see him tomorrow for his coffee break, for his hungry gaze to follow you up the stairs until you were out of sight.

and so the routine continued, more butterscotch candies slipped into aprons, more pestering his friends, more slyly asking bridget what she thought about matt (she was deflecting, you'd observed, delighted). more helping with homework and reading in bed and cooking and snapping at old man peters to stop leaving his watch behind.

more stolen touches and longing glances and sideways smiles, backwards hats and work gloves stuffed in pockets, damp hair sticking to your neck, the hem of your skirt brushing against your thigh. more flame and softness and sweetness drenching your frame as he said hello, and goodbye, and sweet dreams, and anything else. that coil inside of you twisted tighter and tighter as you wondered what exactly was holding you back, what exactly you were waiting for.

one day, after work, there was a knock at your door. you'd be lying if you said you weren't a little bit disappointed when you opened it.

"you coming?" griff said, "town hall meeting starts in 5."

you scrunched up your nose. "town hall? what, is it required?"

he smiled, kind. "no, but they're usually a good time," he said, "and trevor's going to be there."

you had your jacket in your hand already. "he's not the reason i'm coming," you said, following him out the door and down the street.

"i won't tell anyone," was all griff replied, his smile understanding and gentle.

you had never been to a town hall meeting before. you'd guessed that the closest thing you could imagine was a student government meeting, which you'd been a part of in college.

this seemed much more laid back, though, taking place in the middle school gymnasium. it looked like almost everyone from town was here. you noticed old man peters, sitting with bridget, her daughter buzzing around from person to person. the salon ladies were talking to pretty much everybody. there was harry, sitting next to his mom. you approached bridget as griff went up to talk to the fire chief, one of his close friends.

soon enough, the meeting began, the first issue on the docket being the prospect of a stoplight on the intersection of drysdale avenue and york street.

bridget yawned, "same issue every meeting," she whispered to you. "always divided down the middle." this time was no different, you observed, the parents in the crowd seemed completely for the stoplight, the older crowd significantly against.

"next issue, a write in from the community, quote," the representative began, reading from notecards, "should the implementation of the 'dibs' rule be observed seriously, unquote." he cleared his throat, looked up to the crowd. "thoughts?"

you stifled an embarrassed laugh, held your face in your hands as bridget rubbed soothing circles in your back. "is this actually a real-life discussion topic?" you asked, incredulous.

"just let them have their fun," she whispered in a way that made her smile evident.

"i think 'dibs' is outdated and juvenile," a woman said, "sets a bad example for the kids."

the man up front was taking notes.

"i think it's cute," bridget piped up from her chair.

"me, too!" her daughter giggled, jumping into her lap.

"alright, i've got two for cute, one for bad influence," the man said, "anyone else?"

"i think it's lame," a very matt-like voice said, gruff, short.

"one for lame," the scribe said aloud.

"well, i think you're lame," that goofy drawl called out, making you pull your head up, look around until you spotted him, near the front. he was swatting matt on the back of the head. "and i learned it from alex, so take it up with him."

his curly-haired friend hid a smirk. "it's a high school move," he explained to the crowd, before turning to face trevor. "we haven't done it in years."

"until now," trevor amended, "but you guys understand. you've seen her. you've talked to her."

ginger put her hand over her heart as if swooning.

someone coughed. your face was burning up. bridget nudged you gently.

"she's here, trev," griff said, to which the fire chief let out a hearty laugh.

"really?" he turned to face the crowd, his voice excited, hopeful, searching. "where are you, sugar?"

you raised your hand, of all things, immediately wanted to smack yourself. "hey," you said, mousy.

"hey," he parroted, mocking, but of course not maliciously. his smile broke you apart.

and then you were having a conversation with several rows of people in chairs between you, on a gymnasium floor.

"you're the only one with the dibs curse on you," he said, "so what's your take on it? should we abolish the practice for good? is it outdated?"

you swallowed, were looking only at him as the scribe sat at the front, pen at the ready. "well," you began, "it works, from what i can tell." his smile put you together again. "so it can't be that outdated."

his eyes shone, only for you. "you heard her," he said, "case closed."

"are we actually still talking about this?" old man peters asked, to bridget, but much too loudly.

the rest of the meeting passed, absolutely delivering on laughs and nonsense, as promised.

"last thing before we go," the man said, "does everyone have a ride to the away game tomorrow?"

you leaned over to bridget. "what's that?"

"the rec hockey team is away this weekend," she whispered.

"rec hockey?" you said, confused, "like kids?"

she shook her head. "like kids, yes, but not kids."

"sugar, do you have a ride?" trevor's voice rang clear against the mumbled chatter of the room.

you looked up, met his eyes again. "uh, i don't think i'm going?" you said.

there was a collective gasp, followed by silence. your eyes widened. "babe," bridget whisper-screamed at you. "everyone goes."

you cleared your throat, realizing your grave error. "well, then i don't have a ride."

"you can ride with me, honey," ginger said, sweetly, with a warning in her eye.

"trevor has to go super early since he's playing," bridget whispered from next to you. you nodded, signaling that you had heard her.

"thank you!" you called out.

rides were sorted, the meeting ended, everyone saying their goodbyes, folding chairs scraping against the waxy floor. trevor and his friends caught up with you and bridget on your way out.

trevor slung a heavy arm around your shoulders that you couldn't help but lean into. he smelled like sawdust and something citrusy. "i didn't know you played hockey," you said, looking up at him curiously, not letting yourself ruminate on how good he felt slotted against your side.

he shrugged.

bridget scoffed. "he's good, too," she said, "i hate to pump his tires, but only the best teacher for my baby girl." she pressed a kiss to the cheek of her smiley daughter, whom she had hoisted up onto her hip. "all of them play," she said, a vague gesture to the group. "lit it up in high school."

"not all of them are as good, though," trevor said, which caused some annoyed groans.

"what about heartbreaker alex, over here?" you teased.

"heartbreaker alex has grown up since junior year," alex said, soft spoken. "and it's not my fault my hair looks like this."

the shortest friend of the group, cole, the one with the loudest laugh, whom you had come to rely upon for book recommendations, put a hand in line with his brow bone, as if blocking out the sun to search for something.

"what are you doing?" alex asked.

"oh, me?" cole said, "just looking for all the girls you must be getting, since you've still got all that hair."

alex rolled his eyes, the group laughed.

"what about you, matt?" you asked as trevor held open the door, all of you stepping out into the night air. "i've heard the team's got a perfect record for dance invites. any high school stories?"

matt didn't say anything for a second, but bridget laughed. "you're really telling people that, trev, as if i didn't ask him freshman year?" she nodded towards matt, who was actually blushing, you thought, but the dark made it hard to tell. "was a tough sell, eh? he was so quiet when i asked i thought he pretending that i wasn't there."

"oh, we remember," cole said, tone alight with understanding. "funny how we grow up, but so much stays the sa-" he blew out a breath when matt elbowed him in the gut.

you smiled to yourself. "i'll see all of you tomorrow, for the game, then?" you said, the inn now steps away.

goodbyes rang out, and you made to remove yourself from trevor's embrace, but he only spun you back into his chest, pulling you close, his arms now wrapped around your back, your nose against his breastbone. you breathed in, melted into him, squeezed him back.

"did you mean it?" he said, soft, so only you would hear him.

you mumbled your confusion into his chest.

"when you said it was working? did you mean it?"

your heart jumped, his words so vulnerable you couldn't look at him. "i meant it," you whispered into his bright shirt. "you're working on me, trevor." you felt his lips brush against your hair, featherlight, before he let you go.

"sweet dreams, sugar," he said, and you walked back to your room with wobbly legs and an overactive heart.

the following day, ginger graciously gave you a ride to the next town over. she, of course, chatted you up the entire time, which you welcomed.

"i know i must be super late to the party here," you said, carefully, picking at your nails, "but what's the story behind bridget and matt?"

ginger tsked. "we're a bad influence on you, honey," she said, taking a right. "you're gonna be a big mouth like me in no time."

you laughed. "it's only 'cause matt's so obvious about it," you told her, "they've known each other forever, and i learned yesterday that she asked him to their freshman dance." you trailed off, hoping that ginger would take your cue.

she nodded, smiled fondly. "our bridget was always such a spitfire," she said, "always going for what she wanted. smart as a whip, too, but you know that."

you nodded. you did.

"and she could have had anyone, but she wanted our matthew, and he wasn't a sight for sore eyes then, like he is now."

is matt good-looking? you'd thought to yourself. you surely hadn't noticed. perhaps you were distracted. perhaps your gaze always wandered.

"but bridget marched right up, asked him to the dance, and the poor boy was so stunned it took him a full minute to say yes." she shook her head, lost in the memory.

"did they ever date, like for real?" you asked, enraptured.

she frowned. "no, i don't think so, at least. bridget was always bouncing around flings, trying out guys for a few weeks, then cuttin' 'em loose." her smile grew wistful. "then she had her darling girl, middle of senior year. dad booked it, never looked back. don't think she's been with anyone since."

you frowned, too, hating the thought of someone abandoning your friend, as lovely and wonderful as she was. what a privilege it would be to be a part of her family.

"and matt?" you asked, as the car pulled into the parking lot. you ran your palms up and down your jeans.

ginger whistled. "that boy's been starry-eyed over her since grade five," she said, "but me and the girls aren't surprised he thinks he doesn't have a shot. his self-esteem's never been the highest, not like the rest of 'em."

"not like cole, who swears he could land a plane, if it came around to it?" you said, grinning.

ginger laughed. "exactly. and not like alex, who was never without a girlfriend, and not like your trevor, who's never needed anyone to tell him how great he is."

you sucked on your teeth. "but we do, anyways," you reminded her.

"that we do, honey," she finished, putting the car in park. "let's go cheer on those knuckleheads, shall we?"

the rink was colder than you thought it would be. the walls were practically made of aluminum foil. you wrapped your arms around yourself, blew out a foggy breath, followed ginger to the away section, absolutely packed with everyone you recognized.

as you settled into the stands, your eyes immediately searched for trevor.

"he's number 11," bridget said, coming to stand next to you.

you rolled your eyes. "and what number is matt?"

she shoved you, playfully, but when spoke, it was bashful. "12," she said. "cole's 22 and alex is 39. police chief is 8, fireman spence is the goalie, and griff is the ref."

you furrowed your brow. "isn't that a conflict of interest?" you asked.

she huffed in a laugh. "if anything, it's a disadvantage for us."

the game started, and you realized very early on that maybe trevor hadn't been lying when he said not all of them are as good. he practically flew around the ice, graceful, mesmerizing. and it was obvious that he wasn't looking to show off, either, that he was just playing to have fun, and if he really wanted to, he could run the scoresheet up into oblivion.

you could feel bridget smile beside you. "yeah," she sighed. "it's pretty crazy."

"he could play professionally," you breathed.

she shrugged. "he's happy," she said simply.

cole scored twice, the other team clawed their way back in. griff threw alex in the box for boarding, which old man peters, even with his granddaughter in his lap, would not let go, keeping a one-man ref, you suck! chant going long after the power play was over.

"does he know it's griff?" you asked bridget.

"of course he does," she said. "he'll buy him a beer after this."

such was small town life, you supposed.

in the end, fireman spence made some crucial saves, keeping it tied late into the third. with about a minute left, trevor made an unreal, practically magical pass to matt, who finished it off in a one-timer that sunk into the back of the net.

the crowd erupted. you and bridget jumped up and down, holding each other as the goal horn sounded.

the team went through the line in celebration, then skating by the away section before the next face off.

trevor blew you a kiss. you shook your head at him, but couldn't wipe the smile off of your face.

the game ended in a win, and the town migrated over to the local bar. you busied yourself with harry's mom, telling her that no, she had nothing to worry about, yes, harry was quiet, but he was kind as anything, and that was most important.

everyone cheered when the team walked in. you clapped along with them, feeling a smile tug at your lips as soon as your eyes locked on trevor.

his eyes found yours immediately, that lazy grin following as he squeezed past people to get to you.

you met him halfway, a hazy neon light over your heads, making color dance in his eyes like starlight. his long hair was damp, curly at the ends in a way that made you want to reach up and tug at them.

"speechless, eh, sug?" he teased, shrugging one shoulder with exaggerated arrogance. "i know, my play tends to evoke that reaction from people. i-"

you scrunched your mouth to the side, smacked him lightly in the chest. "god forbid i try to think of something nice to say to you," you said, smiling. you made to pull you hand back, but his warm, wide palm came up to cover it, holding it against his chest.

you exhaled, looked up at him, unsure.

"what was your favorite part?" he asked, those shining eyes careful. "did you like cole's between-the-legs? or maybe my last assist?" he winked. "always a crowd favorite."

suddenly confidence welled up inside of you, a vault. but we tell him anyways, you had said. that we do.

tell him, the overhead lights whispered.

"when you blew me a kiss," you said, reaching your free hand up to cup his jaw, textured under your touch from his five-o'clock-shadow. "that was my favorite part."

flame crept into his gaze abruptly, suddenly, shockingly. he settled his other hand on your hip, pulled you closer to him, his grip making your breath catch. "was it?" there was a roughness to his voice that felt tangible.

you nodded slowly, speaking to his mouth. you weren't scared. you weren't running. you weren't stalling. your skin was humming, your blood felt hot. he was so perfect against you, his hand over yours somehow the most intimate touch you could remember.

he ducked his head to yours, just a breath away, so you could see the gold in his eyes. "let me do you one better," he rasped, waiting for your single nod before finally crushing his mouth to yours in a kiss that felt like early sunrises, slow and meaningful and only the beginning.

you pushed up onto your tiptoes, looped both of your arms around his neck, tugging him closer, closer, as he kept one hand on your hip, the other grasping the back of your neck, keeping you from collapsing into him.

kissing your ex had felt almost robotic, scientific, stiff in an endearing way at best, stiff in an awkward way in reality.

there was nothing stiff about this, nothing scientific about him. this was all feeling, all malleable, all calloused hands and chapped lips. he kissed like someone who had to work for it, like someone who didn't have to prove anything to you but wanted to, anyways.

just that was enough for you to sigh against him, the fact that there were other people around the only thing stifling your soft moan.

he smiled into your mouth, like a low-spoken secret between the two of you. "taste like butterscotch," he mumbled against your lips, pulling away only just enough to make sure his words didn't disappear unheard down your throat, almost drowsily. "you like those candies i give you, sugar?"

your chest rose and fell against his. the low music in the background roared in your ears, the neon light making him look like some stained glass thing worth kneeling for. "like 'em because you leave 'em for me," you said, your fingertips tracing the top of his spine.

his eyes shimmered. "can i tell you something?"

you nodded.

he hummed, gave a guilty sort of smile. "gave 'em to you because i didn't like the taste of 'em," he started, smirk growing wider. "and i wanted to convince myself to hold off on kissin' you. not to rush you, you know."

you understood, and your swollen lips quirked at the story, but your eyes flashed with something like hurt. "you don't like the way i taste, trevor?" even if it was his own doing, you suddenly wanted to brush your teeth.

"that's the thing." he ran a steady thumb along your hairline. "think my plan backfired, 'cause butterscotch's my new favorite flavor." his thumb reached your chin, tilting it up to his mouth again. "can't get enough of it," he murmured, a man possessed, barely audible as he kissed you again, this time with a softness that cut like a dagger.

you swore your head was still spinning the next day. what was supposed to be just another shift at the diner quickly turned into a flurry of questions, of neighbors looking for a side of gossip with their french toast, of line cooks swearing there was something different about you.

it was hard to answer anyone, to do anything, honestly, when it felt like you were floating, like your head was far, far away, up in the clouds.

harry gave you a fist bump when he saw you. old man peters told you in a stern tone that public bars were no place for fornication, to which an ecstatic bridget patted his shoulder and reminded him that it was only a (sort of) innocent kiss.

she pulled all the details out of you, lit up as you flushed and stumbled over your memories.

the police chief made some joke about that boy being a bad influence when you accidentally brought him whole milk instead of soy milk for his coffee.

ginger and the girls were like some insatiable beast that only let you be when you reminded them that if they kept you much longer, the diner would go hungry.

of course, your heart instinctively fluttered when that tell-tale gust of loud laughter burst through the door, along with the drag of heavy work boots, the shuffling of canvas outerwear, the shoving of gloves into back pockets.

you made your way to the table with their regular pot of coffee, met trevor's dancing gaze almost sheepishly.

"morning, guys," you said, smiling at all of them.

they chimed their chorus of good mornings, pouring their coffee into mugs themselves, as they always insisted on.

"so, what's new?" cole asked, his head resting on his fists. "probably nothing, right?"

alex and matt hid their laughs.

you rolled your eyes, smiled nonetheless. trevor had a hat on, today, making his hair curl out from the bottom of the brim. you tucked a curling lock behind his ear, ran your nails soothingly along the hair at the nape of his neck.

anyone watching would have seen the way his gaze melted like milk chocolate, how his shoulders softened, his posture relaxing completely into your small touch.

he looked up at you, eyes so soaked in affection it spilled down his face like mascara-stained tears. "i missed you," he said.

his friends groaned, as if they'd heard this a million times. suddenly, with a blush, you had a guess as to what his morning had been like. perhaps he had been just as distracted as you.

"i missed you, too," you said, because it was the truth.

"he almost dropped a crate on my foot this morning," matt said, bitterly.

you put a hand over your heart. "how tragic." you looked up, making eye contact with your friend across the diner. "hey, bridge! matt almost hurt his foot this morning. has science found a cure for that, yet?"

she huffed a laugh as she approached, shook her head at matt when she stood in front of the table. she held the back of her hand to his forehead, as if checking for a fever. "are you sure you're okay, sweet boy? this sounds serious," she joked.

matt had paled. trevor pulled you into his lap and you hid your laugh in his collarbone.

"'m fine," matt bit out, to which bridget smiled.

"thank god, that was close," she said. her gaze wandered, landed on something out the window. she squinted. "did somebody dig up some of the flowers outside?" she asked.

"dig?" alex mused, "maybe rip is a better word, eh, trev?"

"right. almost forgot." trevor held you in his lap with one hand, reached the other to the side. suddenly several flowers were being held in front of you, thin, spidery roots still intact. "sugar, will you go to the valentine's day skate with me?"

you smiled, wide and toothy, touched one hand to his face as the other grasped the humble, earthy bouquet. "of course i will, handsome," you said, "what's the valentine's day skate?"

"pta event, tomorrow," bridget said, looking on with interest. "whole town shows up."

"this town shows up for everything," you replied.

she smiled fondly. "heart-shaped balloons and fruit punch and ice skates. what's not to love?"

you turned your neck to look back up at trevor. "'m honored to have been on the receiving end of one of your famous invitations," you teased, "even if it's not for a dance." his delight rumbled into your shoulders, the back of your thighs, firm and warm.

cole yawned, stretched. "duty calls, fellas," he said, making to get up.

you reluctantly pushed up from trevor's lap, quickly pouring his untouched mug into a to-go cup. the team filed out with their typical string of thank yous and goodbyes, matt's extra glance at bridget met with a returning smile.

then it was you and trevor, as the morning break always ended, like clockwork, like a bedtime story that was comforting in its predictability. he tucked a bill in your apron, several candies, the weight of them alone making you smile.

"did i tell you how pretty you look today?" he told you.

"no," you mused, your hands clasped behind your back, shifting on your feet.

he hummed. "so pretty, sugar, never been so nervous to ask someone out," he admitted, that smug smile lazy across his face.

you tilted your head. "don't be nervous," you told him. "you're the easiest yes i've ever had."

at your words he ducked his wide shoulders down to you, flipped his hat backwards on his head so as not to impede you in any way, kissed you with a rough palm on your soft face, your hands still behind your back as you met him up on your toes.

a different kiss, one so lovely, still, soft and beautiful, drenched in daylight.

would your head ever stop spinning, when it came to him? would you ever come down from the clouds, again? even if you did, would there not be cumulus tufts in your hair, wisps of cirrus in your lashes?

he was proving it difficult, especially that next day, the fourteenth of february.

you had the morning to yourself, existing slowly and methodically, reading and running errands, finally starting to get ready for your date in the late afternoon.

before you knew it, there was a knock at your door, just as you had swung your jacket on. you swung it open to find him leaning against the doorframe, the picture of ease, shoulders drooping the way they always did after a working morning.

"ready to go?" you asked, making to close the door behind you before pressing up on your toes to kiss him on the cheek. he caught your face in a hand before you could, though, steering your lips towards his mouth instead. you laughed against his lips. "greedy," you taunted, pulling away, letting yourself lean into his warm side.

"got no idea, sugar," he admitted, voice twinged with a day of speaking. you walked together to the high school ice skating rink, only a few minutes away, the brisk february air biting at your nose, your ears. you caught up on the morning, what book you had finished, how annoying ginger's husband was being about the state of his rain gutters.

when you entered the rink, finally, pushing forward the old doors, you couldn't help but smile, and trevor couldn't help but watch you.

everyone was here, of course they were. balloons hung from the top of the glass, streamers decorating every archway and spare inch. a massive table of themed refreshments was just next to the bleachers.

it looked like something out a ninety's film, mixed with the unique small town charm and wintery love you had come to know so personally.

you and trevor quickly got your skates on, all lingering touches and knowing smiles, and headed for the ice.

you were shaky at first, but his hands were so tight on yours, you knew there wasn't a chance he would let you fall. he spun you around the rink easily, twirling you like a ballroom dance floor, ever the show-off, anything to make you laugh.

"hey, harry!" you called out, at one point, noticing your host-friend helping a taller, skinner kid his age onto the ice. he waved, his eyes glittery in a way you recognized. is that jason? you mouthed. harry nodded, smiled shyly. you gave him an impressed thumbs up, trevor whistled.

you asked trevor how he got into hockey, watched how his mind waltzed behind his eyes when he talked about outdoor rinks with his friends in elementary school, how even piled-on scarves and hats and puffer jackets didn't stop that flying feeling.

significance would gather in your stomach, butterflies morphing into something much more serious, the kind of flame you'd find in a living room fireplace, in the hearts of teenage lovers.

you skated by cole, scooping up the snow he had made with quick starts and stops, and alex, whose neck was becoming the new home of said snow.

alex grunted, immediately breaking into stride to catch a fleeing cole, whose bright and clear laugh echoed under the roof like church bells.

the fire and police departments had started a relay race, ginger and her girls had formed a circle close to the hot chocolate.

old man peters held his sleeping granddaughter in his lap, bouncing his knee gently, both of their smiles blissful.

trevor's hand found your far hip, pulling you into his warm side. you sighed, looked up at him as you let your fingers trace along his jaw.

"touchy today, sugar, hm?" he said into your hair, a rumble to his tone that told you he liked it.

you hummed, nodded. "you just look so..." you trailed off, in thought, thinking about what, exactly, you meant to say. he looked what? practically edible? like an ocean you wanted to drown in?

how could you tell him you'd been avoiding looking at his hands, for fear you'd blurt something out about wanting them around your neck?

you just swallowed, cleared your throat. his smirk was a flash of teeth.

"you feelin' okay?" he cooed. "should i take you home?"

you found yourself nodding, even though you hadn't been at the rink for long.

"yeah?" he mocked, taunting, his hand on your hip suddenly firm, burning.

bridget's laugh cut through the sizzling air like a stream of cold hose water. you both turned to look at where she now sat, having obviously fallen onto the ice. she peered up at matt through her blonde bangs. "some teacher you are," she laughed, "i knew trev was the right choice for my girl's lessons."

matt shook his head, a barely-there smile on his thin lips. he offered her a hand, steadily helped her to her feet, an almost undetectable shake in his breathing as bridget grabbed onto his forearm for extra stability. "alright, smart ass," he mused, "no help for you, then."

he made to drop her hands, to leave her on her own, but she latched onto him tighter. "yeah right," she said, "you're not going anywhere, sweet boy."

cole's laugh sparkled at matt's flush.

you and trevor were already on the way out, bidding your short goodbyes, half-assed excuses about not feeling well given and taken with knowing eye-rolls.

he walked you back to the inn, up the stairs, his hands on you ever-so-distracting, his voice a careless rasp, your heart beating heavy in your chest.

you finally made it to your closed door, your back against it as he looked down at you with that heated gaze, his frame boxing you in.

"well, get some rest, sugar," he said, slowly, smiling. "since you're not feeling well." he twirled a strand of your hair around a finger.

you sputtered. "what? trevor-"

his eyes widened in mock-surprise. "oh, is there something you want?" he asked.

you clutched at his shirt with your fist, pulled. "please."

"please, what, sugar?" he asked, so smug you wanted to punch him. "gotta tell me what you want, hm?"

"you," you whined, but that wasn't enough.

"oh, is that it?" he drawled, ducking his head down to you, so close, but not close enough, not even a little.

you worked your jaw, so frustrated. "just," you tried, "just please, touch me, trevor, i just wanna feel you."

he smiled, held the side of your face in his palm. "am touchin' you, sugar," he said, "tellin' me this isn't enough?"

you ran your tongue along the inside of your cheek, groaned at his feigned confusion. "shut up," you breathed, his mouth an inch from yours.

"make me," he bit back, and then you were kissing him. you swore your lips would be charred, later, as if in proof. you reached a hand behind you, twisted open your door, while the other rooted in his hair, tugged him inside your room as he moaned against your lips.

one of his hands grasped the back of your neck, the other a bruising grip in your side, walking you backwards until the backs of your knees felt the blunt edge of the bed.

you barely registered as he reached under you, flipped you onto his lap, your legs straddling his hips as he sat down on the comforter, far too caught up in this kiss, somehow still so different from ones you has shared before. so charged you felt the air might combust at any second, that, despite his relentless repairs, there was no way this inn could withstand the way he was kissing you, now. surely, the roof would cave in under the weight of your want, water would sear straight through the pressurized pipes.

he smiled against your mouth when you started to rock your hips back and forth across his lap, just so desperate for something, anything.

your exhales came out short, little pants as you reveled in the little friction you were getting against his firm thigh, covered in his heavy work pants, nothing close to what you really wanted, but something, at least.

mercifully, he moved your clothes aside, rocked you more forcefully, making the sensation practically blissful. you dropped your heavy head to his neck, moaned into it.

"oh, sugar," he cooed, and you squeezed your eyes shut. "so greedy for it, hm?"

you nodded into his neck, the tough texture combined with the heavy weight of his thigh catching you in just the right spot, urging a whimper from your throat.

"makin' a mess of me, yeah? could cum just from my thigh?" he said, almost like he felt sorry for you, but you could hear the smile in his voice. you bit down gently on the space between his neck and shoulder, your small retaliation, smiled at his groan.

you slowed your rhythm, picked your head up, let your chest rise and fall as you looked at him in the face, searched his eyes.

his face was slightly flushed, his eyes only just a bit glassy, but he looked at you like you were a wonder, like some divine power had made her way into his lap.

you pressed a feather-light kiss to the corner of his mouth, loved the way you could feel his smile crinkle and widen under your lips.

"please, trevor," you whispered, your touch so soft around his neck. "please just give me what i want."

you shifted on his lap until you felt him, hard and hot and heavy underneath you. his voice came out with a strain. "anything, sugar," he told you, "just tell me."

you lifted your hips up, could feel how wet you were, could tell you had probably left a trace of yourself on his pants. "wanna cum on your cock, trevor," you breathed, couldn't help your sly grin when he immediately began to tug his clothes aside. "please, please let me. i know i'm so greedy-"

he was nodding like he understood as he angled your hips up higher, shifted you so that you sat right above him as he pumped himself up and down, once, twice, so obviously ready for you. "you are, sugar," he said, so eager it almost sounded like a whine, "but i'll give you anything you want, swear it." his hands found your hips. "just promise you'll only be greedy for me, hm?"

you sank down onto him with a nodded promise, bit your lip at the slow, scorching pressure, the pleasant stretch that pulled at your middle, that you felt in your toes. you blinked, trying to get used to the sensation, trying to muffle the groan in your mouth.

"fuck," he moaned, his fingers clutching at the flesh of your hips like you might float away if he let go, "all the way, sugar, 'atta girl." you huffed a short breath when he was all the way in.

words felt far away, suspended in bubbles that whirled around your head.

"speechless, eh?" he teased, and you had a sense of deja vu. "don't worry, sugar. common re-"

and you could have growled at him for alluding to the fact that other girls had felt this, that there were other people in the world who knew what this felt like, so you fitted a delicate hand over his mouth and rolled your hips up and back on him until he was the speechless one, moans falling from his mouth, his brow pinched in pleasure.

"don't worry," you breathed, your mouth an inch from his ear. "common reaction."

you began to move your hips up and down faster as the stretch gave way to something dizzyingly good, as he began to thrust back up into you. so hard and fast, but he held you like something precious. his rhythm built until your mouth fell open, until sweat shone on the high points of his face, until time melted away, until you were reminded of what you'd mistaken him for when you'd first seen him, all that time ago - some ancient sculpture. a work of art.

he cursed as your clit caught on his pubic bone, the friction so overwhelming, and you clenched down on him. "give it to me, sugar," he said, but the strain in his voice made it sound like a plea. "fuck, let me hear you, yeah?" his tone grew gentle. "been wantin' to hear you for so long."

you tightened around him further at his small admission, let your nails rake down his neck, probably a little too hard. he grunted, thrusted harder, shifted you closer to him.

you moaned his name at the new angle, one you felt in the tips of your ears, your hairline, your tongue.

you were so close, so impossibly almost there. "please make me cum," you whined, "please, need you so bad." your exhale was practically pained as you ran your fingers over the red marks on his neck your nails had left. "don't i deserve it, baby?"

he grunted, and it was different. you felt his stomach and thighs clench, his hips sputter as his head spun with the fact that you'd gone right to begging him, skipped the asking part. he pressed his hand to your lower stomach, let his thumb catch against your clit, sending you over the edge in moments. "'course you deserve it, sugar," he rasped, gravelly, in your ear as you rode out your high, his thrusts growing wild. "been so good."

you clenched down on him, forcing his own orgasm, fast and all-consuming, the smell of him everywhere, mixed with your perfume. your exhales were warm and heavy, transparent clouds that settled on the floor of your room, making it every bit the dreamland it had become in your mind.

he held you so close to him as he pulled you to his chest, leaned you both back on your bed. you stared up at the ceiling.

about time, one of the tiles whispered, holding a crisp fiver.

couldn't have waited another week? the losing tile muttered bitterly.

you smiled as his rough hand found your face, tilted it towards him. he was smiling. your stomach fluttered as you felt your own mouth pull wider.

"what?" he asked, his voice rough, drowsy with use.

you shook your head. "nothing," you said, "just you." your eyes crinkled under the weight of your happiness. "i'm callin' dibs on you."

his eyes lit up as he pulled you in for another kiss, slow and overflowing with meaning. he hummed. "butterscotch," he whispered against your mouth. "my favorite."

fin.

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lucijawriteswords · 3 months

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Brisson on getting called up: It was great news to hear. I was super excited and I'm grateful for the opportunity.

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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BRADY SKJEI Postgame | January 2, 2024

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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just heard about jamie i am distraught

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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when they talk abt the accomplishments of the pwhl players its like “8 time gold medalist, 5 time worlds champion, 3 time ncaa champion” and when its nhlers its like “dressed himself today”

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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all my life i've been frozen, forgive me if i wince at your warmth; kiss my blue lips and say the frost brings out my eyes.

jd6 x reader: maybe roommates wasn't the best idea (sugar pt. 2).

(warnings: blasphemous filth (we're back, and this is a good one), unprotected penetrative sex (m on f), oral sex (f on m), hair pulling and spit and all my usual stuff (you guys know. legs and lips and all that nonsense). lots of whining and whimpering from the ducks defenseman with the giant traps. descriptions of general insecurity (but of course!). know yourself and your limits, please don't read if you're not 100% sure).

(a/n: alright, my favorites. here you have it, the promised continuation of my jd6 sugar piece from halloween (so please read that here first so this makes sense)! and yes, it's long (11.1k), so thank you, as always, for your support and kindness and patience and gentleness. congratulations to jd6 for his return to the big leagues. this is his prize, i'm sure he'll be thrilled. it appears it's impossible for me to write a story without using tz11 as a comedic side character. obviously there is nothing realistic about this, such is the upside of fictitious writing. can you tell i had an idea for like two scenes and then filled in all the blanks? (been wanting to write gaming chair head for a million years). if you relate to the more serious insecurities addressed within this story, know i'm here for you. please believe that it is so utterly and completely fathomable that people are and will be attracted to and interested in you! anyways, please let me know what you think (and who/what you want next)! go canucks (and all-star qh43). until next time, all my love).

it had taken little convincing on either side for jamie to move in with you. it was sort of funny, how not so long ago, it had been only you in your apartment, and now he was there, too, evidence of him all around.

a few months in, you had almost forgotten what the fridge looked like without his recovery drinks lining the shelves, what the living room smelled like without his favorite candle burning, what the mudroom looked like without his shoes and bags littered around the door.

you had grown accustomed to him, in his entirety, and the more he revealed about himself, the more trouble you had remembering what this place had been like without him.

it seemed so crucially important that you knew about his culinary endeavors (he was trying ever so hard to branch out beyond chicken and rice). it seemed of the utmost significance that you understood all of his favorites of everything, and that he knew all of yours in return. because if you didn't, one of you might bring home a flavor of ice cream the other didn't like, or flowers the other didn't like the color of, or something like that.

and if he didn't know the names of your favorite movies, how would he be able to talk to you about them? and if you didn't have a little bit of a grasp on the gaming world, how could you keep up when he rambled on about it?

you told yourself it was only polite that you knew about his interests, and his family, and his friends, and his dreams. that he was only being polite when he asked about all of yours.

you were sort of shocked at how quickly he had made his presence known within your routine. his schedule merged with yours on the calendar attached to the fridge. his friends came over to play video games, yours to watch movies.

you were proud of yourself for how you had handled his moving in, really, but you'd be lying if you said he didn't have an effect on you. he was the same blushing, stuttering, beautiful boy who had dropped that plant in your doorway, after all.

and you were acutely aware of the effect he had on you, from that very first day. he didn't seem to let you forget it, like the night, a few days into your new arrangement, when you went into the kitchen around midnight to get a glass of water.

something you had done, time and time again, almost every night, alone. so you were startled, to say the least, when you felt a figure behind you. you whipped around, your heartbeat elevated, thudding in your chest, in your neck.

you placed a hand over your heart to still yourself when you recognized that shaggy dark hair, square face, broad build.

"fuck, jamie," you practically whispered, your voice tense, "you scared me." you made to pour him a glass of water, willed your body to emerge from danger mode.

"'m sorry, petal," he murmured, and his tone alone could have set your body ablaze, rumbling through you like an earthquake. "didn't mean to." apology thickened his words like cornstarch.

"'s okay," you said as you passed him the glass, took a sip from your own.

if it was light you would have seen his eyes track the motion, how his gaze seemed to get stuck on your lips around the rim of your glass.

there was something very heavy about sharing this space with him, especially now, in the cover of the night. you felt freer, almost indulgent, in taking him in. less guilty in your secret wanting. suddenly your brow furrowed in concern. "did i wake you up?"

he shrugged, took a sip of his water, which made your swallow shaky. "walls are thin," he rasped. "just wanted to make sure you were okay."

your exhale was shallow as you took in his words. this exchange in the dark was too dangerous, too much. you made to go back to your room, stopping to place a wanting palm on his corded shoulder as you passed him. you felt him flex instinctively under your touch, suddenly wanted, simultaneously, to be anywhere but here and to never leave. "thanks for checking on me, jamie," you whispered. it seemed to have been so long since someone had done that.

there was a pause full of uncertainty. "'course," he replied, rough and rolling.

you were so, so, close, and such a predicament could have ignited the foundation of the building in all of its seriousness.

that exchange, so early on in knowing him, nonetheless had you promising yourself that you wouldn't let your relationship with jamie grow beyond anything besides roommates. just roommates, you said, and that's it. anything past that boundary was too dangerous, too charged, too soaked in meaning and feeling and wanting.

but such a promise was proving hard to keep, even months later. because as comfortable as you had grown to each other, there was something so deliriously uncomfortable about being so close to each other, so ridiculously entwined in each others' days, and yet not touching, not indulging the desire you both so felt. so scared to look desperate, to be caught red handed in want, even if that was exactly true.

regardless, such a promise was proving hard to keep, especially on days like today.

you were sitting at the kitchen counter, one leg pulled up to your chest as you sat on a stool. you still worked at the same coffee shop, and you still loved it, but you had picked up some copywriting jobs here and there, too.

naturally, you looked up when you sensed another figure enter the room. your gaze caught on a very sleepy jamie with a very sleepy smile.

"morning," he said, his voice rough and raspy with remnants of night.

you felt your mouth tick upwards in response to his presence. "morning, jamie," you replied, shifting on your stool, willing jittery attraction out of your voice, out of your head. there was no space for that here, you told yourself. you cleared your throat as he made himself a cup of tea. "doing anything fun today?"

he turned to you, leaned his frame back against the counter, a movement so comfortable it made you blush. he hummed, thinking, before meeting your eyes. "nothing out of the routine," he mused, his gaze on you making you feel his attention in your feet, in the tips of your fingers. "when're you working? maybe i'll swing by."

your chest thumped at the thought of him taking time to come see you, even though that wasn't necessarily rare anymore. he visited your coffee shop at least once a week, but the sentiment of it all wasn't lost on you. the preciosity of someone deeming you worthy of a drive, however short.

you leaned on your clasped hands, scrunched up your nose in gentle pleasantry. "two to close, today," you told him, "but you don't have to come."

his eyes softened ever so slightly, his expression all maple syrup and pancakes on a lazy sunday morning. "want to, petal," he told you, taking his mug and starting back towards his room. "give me something to look forward to, eh?"

you were glad to hear his door swing shut behind him, if only so that he didn't see your face scrunch up further in guilty delight, at being his something to look forward to.

if jamie had settled into being your roommate, your favorite coworker had not settled into that fact. or maybe she had settled in, but it didn't appear that she would be giving you or him a break anytime soon.

it had only been a couple of months, and she had yet to go a day without bringing him up, nevermind going a visit without saying something you were sure would embarrass him.

as promised, after his workout and skate, the bell above the door jingled. you swore the sound was louder, more jubilant when he opened the door than any other patron.

he's here, the bell seemed to sing, finally, finally, he's here! you fought the urge to shush the inanimate object.

"well, well, well," your coworker said, wiping down the counter, "honestly, 6, i'm shocked you had any time to stop by, given your packed schedule of not shooting the puck."

you shook your head at her. "don't be mean, lovely," you chastised. you locked eyes with jamie, molten chocolate and stained glass. "i'm sure you shoot just enough."

his returning grin was carefully confident. "right as always," he told your coworker, "if we had a coaching opening i'd put in a good word."

this quickly spurred your coworker into a heated rant about how poorly the coach of the ducks was handling his roster full of young talent.

you began the process of making his drink, the one he insisted on ever since that first day. he had told you before that nothing could possibly be better than your fall themed treat. as you shook the maple syrup and espresso with ice, you missed the way a flush dusted across the bridge of his nose, like a day out in the sun.

your coworker did not miss this, however. she smirked, tilted her head. "a bit hot in here, drysdale? you look a little flushed."

he shot her a look, one which she mimicked before you turned to hand him his drink.

"here you are," you said as his hand closed over yours around the to-go cup.

your mind sparked and sputtered at the feeling of his warm hand over your fingers. he could have grabbed under your hand, the hopeless romantic in your head screeched. he could have avoided your touch, but he didn't!

but you had long ago resigned to refusing to listen to the hopeless romantic, in all of her desperate and shameful loveliness. you couldn't trust her, you had learned. she only ever left you feeling lost and longing.

so you silenced her, ignored her big, teary eyes as you dismissed her for the thousandth time, pulled your hand away.

"thank you, petal," he said, so genuine and sweet, so exactly him. it seemed cruel that you still weren't used to him, to his kindness, that he was still evoking this kind of response from you.

your only solace was that he didn't seem to be finding it especially easy, either, if his flickering gaze or flexing hands were anything to go by.

"you're welcome," you replied. "headed home now?"

he hummed in affirmation, rocked back on his heels. "when will you be home?"

you could have sighed at just how domestic it all was, like some kind of sixties fantasy. honey, i'm home! echoed in your head.

but you shut that down as quickly as it appeared. "why?" you asked, raising an eyebrow, "expecting company, or something?" your mouth quirked. "maybe a girl?"

he paled, and you were surprised at your nerve, too. you didn't really know why you were doing this, why you would ask. you and jamie didn't have that kind of relationship, and why would you ask that anyway, when you knew for a fact one of the possible two answers would cut through you like a warm knife through butter?

thankfully, your coworker broke the tension with an exaggerated laugh, actually slapping the counter before looking up and clocking both of the confused looks turned her way. "oh," she said, looking between the two of you, "was that not a joke?" she nodded. "alright then, my bad."

jamie gave a short shake of his head as if mentally moving on. "no one's coming over," he said to you, "just wanted to know when i should make dinner."

in a cartoon, your heart would have beat out of your chest, through your shirt and folded apron. "i'll be back at seven," you told him. "i'll see you then?"

his smile warmed the room. "see you then, petal."

the bell rang, this time dreary and disappointed, as the door shut behind him.

your coworker immediately turned to you, eyes teasing and playful.

"if you're gonna say something, lovely, just say it," you prompted, taking out the closing checklist.

she was practically buzzing on her feet. "tell me you've given up on your no fraternizing with roommates rule," she begged, clasping her hands for emphasis. "tell me you realize how obvious you're both being."

you waved her off, shook your head. "the rule is there because it's important," you chided, "and there's no way he's into me like i'm into him." a line you had used about almost every guy you had liked, repeated so many times in your head it was practically a hymn.

she folded her arms in front of her chest, rolled her eyes. "when you're ready to come to terms with people finding you attractive and interesting and wonderful, as you are, let me know," she called out over her shoulder as she went on her smoke break.

her words stayed with you, though, because they were meaningful. it was hard for you, dreadfully so, to even fathom that someone could find you worthy of their time, their energy, their attention.

even when you were actively flirting with people, acting confident, like you were that first day when jamie walked into your coffee shop, it felt as false, as foreign, as theatrical as shakespeare in the park.

why was it so easy for you to give all of that to others, why did you want to give it to them so desperately? why did it feel like such an impossible ask for someone to give that to you?

her words were burrowing in the back of your mind as you locked the front door of your apartment behind you, breathed in a delicious smell, maybe rosemary? thyme?

you let yourself drift into the kitchen, were met with a freshly showered jamie in pajama pants and an old ohl t-shirt. he stood over the stovetop, humming something, before turning and meeting your eyes, sending a spark flickering through your veins.

"welcome home, petal," he said, his full lips quirking up in that gentle smile you had come to crave.

"long time no see," you teased, knowing it had been only a couple of hours.

his gaze was full of something heavy when he tilted his head, heaped some pasta onto two plates. "felt long," he admitted, "the house is so weird without you here."

your stomach flipped. he couldn't just say things like that, you decided, if he didn't expect you to melt completely, a puddle of pink glitter glue on the hardwood floor.

"weird how?" you asked, hating yourself for pushing.

your mother's voice was jarring, harsh in your head. don't fish for compliments, she always said, it's vain.

now that you were older, you wanted a chance to respond to her. is it fishing for compliments if you never get any? if all you ever hear is how you could do better? you took a breath. is it so wrong to want to hear something good?

jamie didn't appear to think you were being vain, anyways. "weird like quiet," he said, gentle and soft, "i don't know, honestly, just different. it's better when you're here."

you couldn't help but blush at his words, even though you had asked for them. the mother in your head scoffed.

you smiled at him, so genuine you could feel your eyes crinkle at the corners. "i think it's better when you're here, too," you said, low and loaded like a secret.

suddenly the air between you grew thick and heavy, simmering with something the reason in you knew better than to identify. you held each other's gazes for a moment, almost begging, daring the other to do something.

you had never been the kind of person to pick dare during sleepover games, always felt truth was the safer bet. now, there was nothing safe about the truth, either. you cleared your throat, fidgeted with your fingers, dropped your gaze and asked him about practice, what he made for dinner.

do you think about me like i think about you? you wanted to ask him. have you ever wanted me to just hold you after a long day? have you ever thought about what my lips would feel like on your neck?

you shivered, pushed the thoughts away as you ate dinner together, tried to lean into the privilege of spending time with him, even if you wished for something more.

can't this be enough? you pleaded. why isn't this enough?

the words of your routine spun around the two of you like a whirlpool. work, skate, game, lift, dinner, road trip, copywriting. the words of your combined schedules swirled around your head.

better those that the other words, always lurking around the two of you like childhood monsters under a bed: eyes, heat, lips, sweet, gentle, soft, shoulders, arms.

you must have zoned out, because he waved a hand once in front of your face. "petal?"

you shook yourself out of your trance-like state. "sorry," you said, already feeling the familiar flush of embarrassment.

he fixed you with a look. "for what?" he asked, less confused, more curious.

you closed your eyes for a second, took a deep breath. why was he making you explain this? "i mean, i was probably staring at you, right?" you said, feeling the shame of it prick you on the fingers like a thousand needles.

his gaze dropped to your mouth for a millisecond before meeting your eyes again. there was a silence, and when he spoke again, his voice was husky. "you can stare at me all you want, petal."

you could have whimpered, could have screamed. don't say things like that to me, you wanted to tell him. tell me things like that every second until i die, you also wanted to say.

"really?" you whispered, too starry-eyed to cringe at yourself. your food lay forgotten in front of you. how many times had you eaten dinner together, just like this? how many times had you pushed this feeling away? was it possible that he was doing just the same?

he hummed, ran his tongue along the inside of his teeth, a self-satisfied move from him you have never really seen before. you rubbed your crossed ankles together.

you took a breath, a last beat of courage, before reaching across the counter and brushing his hair from out of his eyes. his skin scorched your fingertips, his eyes made your breathing slow and shallow. "you can stare at me, too," you said to him, pulling your arm back.

his eyes were full of understanding. "i know," he told you. "i do."

that knowledge was still haunting you days later. that he noticed you, registered your presence, like you did him. how could you ever act normally again, knowing this? how could you ever act without the constant weight of him around?

so you did the only thing you could think of - you ignored him, avoided him, hoped to skillfully evade his careful gaze, however much it hurt you not to see him, to talk with him, to ask him how practices and games went.

such a task became impossible when the bell clinked cheerily, the following weekend, signifying you and the coffee shop of the arrival of its favorite patron.

you looked up, halfway surprised to see him enter with another person, too, a teammate you had met, you were sure of it, but one you couldn't quite recall the name of. the two of them approached the counter in a shroud of laughter and easiness.

apparently, your coworker recognized the friend, too, because upon their approach she began a slow, sarcastic applause. "gentlemen," she said, "allow me to congratulate you on a recording breaking game last night."

jamie and his friend shared a look. "um," jamie began, careful, "we lost last night."

"oh," your coworker finished an order and set it on the pick-up counter. "i should have clarified. the record was for laziest defensive performance i've ever witnessed." she gave them a quick thumbs up. "congrats again! know you guys have been working real hard for this one."

jamie shook his head lightheartedly before locking eyes with you, smiling slightly. you hadn't really spoken since the other night, but you still didn't really know what to say. you didn't know where you stood, what lines were still drawn.

thankfully, your coworker refused to drop it, not leaving any opportunity for silence, now speaking directly to the newcomer. "i'm so happy you're here, 11," she continued. "you know that you're allowed in your own defensive zone, right? feel free to cross the red line, i think you'll find that defense makes winning a lot easier."

the object of your coworkers jabs turned to jamie. "am i supposed to take this?"

jamie shrugged. "i usually do."

she waved him off. "yeah, but you're hoping i'll put in a good word with your roommate." you blushed at her words, hope sparking at the possibility of them being true.

jamie didn't drop your gaze. "yeah, and how far is that getting me? you gonna put in a good word?"

every fiber of your being told you not to take his words at face value. every fiber of your being wanted to.

she scoffed. "yeah, right. if anything i'd just say you're a pushover."

the newcomer scrunched up his expressive face. "well, in that case, why don't you keep your thoughtful advice to yourself?"

she tilted her head back and laughed. "what, 11, can't take a little feedback?" she pouted, false pity all over her face. "guess you're every bit the flashy bust they say you are."

"no one is saying that!" he fumed, "literally name one person who is saying that!"

you and your roommate stifled your laughter as their argument grew.

you made him his drink, handed it over. his face was gentle, soft as took the cup from you. "you're avoiding me," he said, not accusatory, a simple observation.

you couldn't lie to him and say you weren't, so you only stayed quiet.

"i miss you," he said, so simple and genuine in its honesty that you could have cried.

"i miss you, too," you said, easy as an exhale.

his gaze glimmered. "so watch a movie with me tonight, yeah?"

your mouth twitched, because you wanted to, so badly, but you didn't know if you could trust yourself.

he shifted back and forth on his heels. the sun dripped so languishingly over his brow, down his jaw and neck. "please?" he asked, and you were done.

"okay," you conceded, butterflies already fluttering to life in your stomach at the thought of spending tonight with him on the couch.

a thud and a grunt shook you both from your conversation as you turned to your respective friends. your coworker appeared to be throwing bags of coffee beans at jamie's teammate. "can't hide behind a ref now, can you?" she taunted the lanky newcomer, who struggled to catch the bags.

"this is the behavior of a deranged fan," he pointed out, placing the bags back on the counter. "i hope you realize that."

"you wish i was a fan of yours," she said, crossing her arms over her chest. "on an unrelated note, can i take a video of you wishing my little brother good luck on his math test tomorrow?"

the video was filmed, reluctant thanks and apologies were given and accepted.

"i apologize for the physical assault, but not the truth, 11," your coworker conceded, "and you're only getting any apology at all because this is going to mean the world to my brother."

"can't you just apologize normally?" you pushed, looking to make the rest of the patrons more comfortable, the energy less combative.

"tell you what," she said to him, "if you put in some effort next game to something besides michigans and between-the-legs shots, i'll give you the best apology you've ever seen."

jamie hissed. "he's gonna take that in a way you won't like."

his teammate leveled your coworker with a smirk. "do i get to pick how you apologize?"

she scoffed, an angry flush all over her face. "no, you don't get to pick! what the hell is the matter with you?"

you and jamie shared a look at their bickering. see you at home, petal, he mouthed to you on the way out, argumentative words still saturating the air.

bye, jamie, you mouthed back with a wave.

when you got back from work, called out your greeting, settled in, and changed out of your uniform, you found him on the couch, were all too happy to join him, however off limits it felt.

he felt off limits, like this, all messy hair and eyes tired with the day, worn-in sweatpants and sweatshirts from junior hockey and lazy stretches that revealed slivers of skin.

you lifted up a blanket, pulled your knees to your chest underneath it, avoided his gaze. "your friend's a character, hm?" you started.

he shifted his posture to get a better look at you, even though he was now faced halfway away from the movie he was in the middle of. "who, trevor?" he gave a playful roll of his eyes. "ignore him. he thinks your friend's hot and doesn't know what to do about it."

"that's him flirting?" you said, eyes wide, words spoken slowly for emphasis. "good grief, his act needs some work."

jamie's smile slanted into something dangerous. "what, wouldn't work on you, petal?" suddenly the blanket over you seemed like entirely not enough coverage. you felt completely exposed as you gave a slight shake of your head. he draped a heavy arm along the back of the couch. "no?" he paused, forced you to meet his magnetic gaze as he ran a hand through his hair. "what would work on you, then?"

you searched his eyes for a drop of humor, of teasing, of something that would hurt you, as you had long ago trained yourself to. you could sniff out potential abandonment, embarrassment like a bloodhound. but you came up empty, with him.

what could you say to him? that anything that he does, anything he could ever do, that's what would work on you? that he works on you?

your careful silence could have been a banshee scream into an open expanse as the air between the two of you again adopted that rolling flame, that lick of heat up your bare legs.

your eyes widened as he tugged your feet and calves into his laps with one hand, gently but firmly, just enough so that you could feel the warmth from his thick quads pooling in the backs of your knees.

just close enough to want more. just close enough to know you shouldn't.

"'m picky," you said, almost out of breath, swallowing your uneasiness down until the only thing you felt was him. "not into the interest disguised as insults."

he hummed as if he understood, ran his fingers over your shins, feather-light, so much so that later you would wonder if you had only imagined he had touched you. "so what?" he said, meeting your eyes in the dim light you had long ago deemed especially dangerous. "like to be called pretty, petal? like it when they make it, so, so easy for you?" his fingers dragged across your ankle in an electrifying way that had you forgetting about your promise. "like when they go slow?"

you let out some kind of strangled sound, halfway between a nervous laugh and a whimper. because you did like all of those things, of course you did. you liked proof that people cared about you, how could you not?

you couldn't even dwell on how delicious the word pretty sounded in his mouth, how much you wanted to taste it, because something else in his wording willed confidence into your body, clarity into your head in place of guilt.

"who's they?" you asked, your voice steadier than it had been in weeks.

"hm?" he asked, rough.

"i said," you repeated, shifting your body until you rested on top of his lap, your legs on either side of his hips. "who's they?" you were closer than you had ever been as you felt him underneath you, almost chest to chest. so close you could feel his breathing stutter against you. you brushed his messy hair from his face until you could see his eyes in all of their gorgeous truth. "i don't care much about them, jamie."

something rumbled in him, something you felt in your bones. he looked so, so beautiful, and his mouth was right there, and was he tilting his head closer to you? and-

"jim! when the hell are you gonna give me back my blender?" your door swinging open and shut might as well have been a strike of lightning as you scrambled away from each other. trevor's voice cut through your apartment like thunder, like a cold shower.

in a moment he appeared in the doorframe, suddenly eyeing the two of you with the suspicion only a best friend could muster. he gestured between the two of you, now comically far apart on opposite sides of the couch.

"what's going on here?" he asked.

jamie tilted his head back again, wiped at his face with both hands. "sure, yeah, come on in," he said to trevor through his fingers.

"how did you get in here?" you asked, you voice still dark with want, the aftermath of confidence still lacing your tone.

"key," trevor said, waving you off as if this piece of information wasn't relevant. "why?" he looked between the two of you again, eyes narrowed. "'m i interrupting something?"

silence followed. you didn't look at jamie, and he didn't clarify. "no," you said finally, not angry, but knowing the moment was over. "i guess not."

and so you pulled yourself up, made your way back to your room, every inch of your skin buzzing, every heartbeat a burst of electricity through your body.

voices grew fainter as you neared your door.

"if you'd just give me back my blender this wouldn't be such a problem," trevor hissed.

"and you couldn't've shot me a text? figured you'd just break in to my house?" jamie's voice was resigned. you knew he could never stay mad at his friend.

"it's not breaking in if you gave me a key, scumbag."

you shut your door behind you and collapsed onto your bed, still feeling the phantom of his body underneath you, the ghost of his fingertips digging into your hips. you groaned into a pillow, hating that when you closed your eyes all you saw was his full, pink mouth.

the next day, when you relayed all of this new, and not so new information to your friend at work, she shook her head slowly.

"i don't know," she said, pouring a double shot over ice, "but it sounds like you've either gotta make this thing serious or check out your other options." she shot you a look. "no more of this pining bullshit."

you whacked her with a rag playfully, but sighed. "i can't make it serious. and i don't have other options, so looks like pining's all i got."

"tell me you're kidding." she glared at you. "i've had like three friends just in the past week come in and text me after asking if you're single."

you scrunched up your face. "no, you haven't," you said, knowing there's no way that could be true.

"callin' me a liar?" she prompted, pulling out her phone with her free hand and scrolling until she found one of the texts, facing it to you.

sure enough, there was a message from some guy, some ordinary name, asking if she'd set him up with the "smoke in the canada hat," referring to the hat you had borrowed of jamie's earlier this week.

"whatever," you said, "it doesn't really matter."

"it does matter." your friend set the drink down on the pickup counter and turned to meet your gaze entirely. "it matters to me that you find it so hard to believe that people are into you." she grasped for one of your hands, held it firmly.

her touch was welcome, and so were her words. because honestly, you knew why you found it so hard to believe. because even though you had a pretty good relationship with yourself, even though you knew now that you were beautiful, and smart, and funny, and kind, when you were young, you didn't know that. when you were young, the people you were closest to were basically telling you that you weren't those things.

flashes of tense family dinners, long car rides during which you were the butt of every joke shot across your mind like meteors, just as destructive.

saw you talking to a boy today during lunch, one of your older siblings would say after a long day, maybe middle school, maybe sophomore year. is he your boy-friend? the words slow and taunting, malicious, immediately making an angry, embarrassed flush break out across your face.

don't be ridiculous, peanut, your mother would scold your sibling from the front seat, it's rude. and it's not like she was wrong, the boy you had been talking to wasn't your boyfriend, but it stung like a wasp nonetheless.

why is it ridiculous? you wanted to ask, tears brimming, hot behind your eyes. would that really be so hard to believe?

or countless calls with your parents during your first year of college, each more demeaning than the last. you know you're allowed to date, right? your mother might say. you know we aren't strict about that kind of thing. you held back a bitter and sarcastic congratulations.

i know, you would say, trying to hide the defeat you felt at the disappointed sigh she had done such a poor job of hiding.

every not-so subtle jab landed deep, until even the words put yourself out there induced a physical reaction.

it hurt to think about allowing yourself to want, to be wanted, because what if they laughed in your face? what if it all really was ridiculous, all this time? what if it really was hard to believe?

you sighed, now, squeezed your coworker's hand.

"how about this," she proposed, her eyes as soft as you had ever seen them. "how about i set you up with one of my friends who's interested, just one date, and we see how it goes? no pressure, and i'll make sure he knows it's no pressure. think of it like practice."

you thought for a moment, bit your lip. you could use a stress-free practice, that much was true, and you trusted this friend to not set you up with a sleaze-ball. and, you confessed, if you wanted to fizzle out whatever was going on with your roommate, this would probably be a good start.

so you agreed. the decision was made easier by the fact that jamie was on the road this week, so you didn't have him to distract you. the day of your dinner date ended up being the day he was set to return, but he wasn't supposed to get back until the middle of the night.

you wouldn't have to explain yourself to anyone, or even tell anyone how it went, if you didn't want to, you reminded yourself. just practice, no pressure.

and the guy was really sweet, honestly. he was good-looking, too, if not a bit more lanky, taller than the guys you usually went for. he asked you questions, and seemed to care about the answers, and you found yourself in a full conversation with him pretty easily.

but then something in your mind would catch on his shoulders and think not big enough to sink your teeth into, and then on his mouth and think he'd never call you petal, and then on his cheeks, which didn't blush the whole night, not even once.

and he was a really nice guy, but you found yourself wanting to invite him to join your friend group's book club, not invite him back to your place. you found yourself thinking quite intently about a certain person who was not, in fact, the man sitting across from you at the table.

which was fine, you realized, because this is practice, and he doesn't have to be the one. practice means you can find a friend.

so, with a smile, a shared admission that you would like to get to know each others as friends, and a promise to send him the address to the next book club meeting, you left your first date in forever feeling proud of yourself.

on your way back into your apartment, you sent your friend from work a thank you text before making your way to your room and changing into something more comfortable.

you settled on sleep shorts and an old t-shirt before heading to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, breathing in the smell of steeping chamomile when a sound behind you made you jump.

thankfully you would recognize that frame anywhere. you exhaled. "jesus, jamie," you breathed, "thought you wouldn't be back 'til later."

he stepped forward, the light so dark and dim and dangerous, especially after not seeing him all week. the slope of his high cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw, the deep pooling of feeling in his eyes. it all rushed at you a million miles an hour and stole your breath.

"got in early," he explained, his gaze ever so slow down your figure, like he was mapping it, committing it to memory. "were you out?" he asked, his voice suddenly rough.

you swallowed, thinking about what to say. a pause settled between the two of you, thick like mud, decadent like chocolate pudding.

i missed you, you wanted to tell him. tell me you missed me, too.

he inched closer still, leaned against the kitchen counter as you busied yourself with stirring your tea with the tea bag. "don't wanna tell me?" he mused. "how could that be, petal?"

you didn't meet his eyes, suddenly feeling childish. "went on a date."

you were both silent, for a moment. you looked up to check if he was still there. "and why didn't you wanna tell me?" his voice was gravelly.

your hands were shaking, you realized, so you set down your mug, crossed your arms against your chest with a sigh. "he was nice," you admitted, didn't quite miss the green flame that sparked across his gaze, blinked out in a moment. "but i was distracted." you looked down at your feet.

then he was right in front of you, a step apart. it had been so long since you had been so close, and the memory of what had happed that last time burned between the two of you, unspoken, yet the most obvious fixture in the room.

you looked up to meet his curious, careful gaze, wanted so badly to lean forward, sink into his broad chest, breathe him in and never stop.

"by what, petal?" he asked, so close you could practically feel the words on your own lips, his tone so low and heavy your stomach dropped.

you swallowed, watched his eyes track the movement. "you," you said simply, honestly.

and then his eyes searched yours for a single telling moment before his hands came to cup your face, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that held a million i missed you, i missed you, i missed you's.

you let out some soft noise into his mouth at the lovely pressure of his lips against yours, so firm and knowing. you pressed yourself so closely against his chest, one hand on his collarbone, the other grasping around his neck.

he leaned forward into you so pleasantly before moving his arms down to lift you by the waist, setting you down gently on the top of the counter, moaning when you fixed your hands in his hair.

you swallowed down his sounds like elixir, wanted every single one of them, as his wide hands kneaded at the flesh of your hips slowly. you raked your hands down the back of neck delicately, enough to relish in the shudder left in their wake.

finally, you both pulled away, only just, only enough to slow your heaving chests, enough to selfishly see the effect you both had on the other. matching glossed over gazes, swollen lips, exhales heavy with unspoken words.

you pushed some of his hair from his face, soft under your gentle fingers, could have swooned at how he was looking at you, right now. like there was no one else in the universe, like the stars existed only for you.

"i have to go home tomorrow," you said, suddenly, like a ridiculous idiot, wanting to shove the words back into your mouth as he traced light circles across the tops of your thigh. why did you say that?

but his expression didn't change. "i'll come," he said immediately.

your heart jumped, but you didn't want him to come and see your family, really, because family gatherings never were the most flattering, for you. "you don't have to," you said, "i know you're busy, and it's just for a little bit, just for the day."

"i'll come, petal," he repeated.

your mouth quirked, just a bit. "yeah?"

"yeah," he said, a drowsy smile slanting across his face. a smile you couldn't say no to, a smile you just had to feel against your lips.

a smile that meant, the following morning, you were standing on the front step of your childhood home next to jamie, who was holding a potted plant.

"you know you didn't need to bring anything," you said after you rang the doorbell, jittery with nerves. how long had it been?

he only pinched you lightly in the side. "swear i won't drop it this time, petal," he said with the easy tone that calmed your nerves, if only slightly.

and then the door was opening, and you were ushered in among a flurry of hugs and exclamations of it having been to long.

your older brother said you looked different, your mother said you needed to visit more often. you had the sinking feeling that coming home was a mistake.

then came the inevitable. "and who's this handsome young man?" your mother asked in a sugary sweet tone that made the room smell like the dentist's office, at least to you. "is this that friend from work you told me about a while ago?"

you opened your mouth to speak but quickly shut it again, slightly confused, maybe disappointed? other people's parents assumed they were dating any person they spoke to, which you were sure was its own beast, but you had actually brought someone to a family meal and your mom thought he was your coworker?

"uh," you started, struggling to find your footing. "this is jamie."

you wanted to put your forehead through the tastefully muted wallpaper of the mudroom, but jamie only shook your father's hand, endured awkward hugs from your mother and siblings, handed over his plant with practiced grace.

you felt your hands tremble ever so slightly, willed them to still, begged any courage and confidence to show itself, but your chest was tight, like your lungs were filling up with polluted water.

jamie caught your eye, registered your defensive stance, gave you a look full of softness and acceptance before stepping to your side and pulling you in for a gentle side-hug, his embrace strong and sure in all the ways you were not. he pressed his lips to the top of your head, lips you still felt the memory of on your mouth, lips that sent a shiver of stability down your spine. "much better than last time, eh, petal?" he said, looking down at you, still tucked into his side. "no dirt under your nails, this time."

you couldn't help but give a slight shake of your head, squeezed him tighter in a way you hoped said thank you.

when you looked back up to your family, there was an almost comical look of surprise in your mother's eyes, a look of extreme boredom in your siblings'.

you father cleared his throat. "brunch's ready," he said, urging your mother to lead you all to the dining room.

jamie pulled out your chair for you, leaned forward to your ear when you sat down. "look so pretty today," he whispered, his voice a low rasp, only for you, only to help you settle, only because it was the truth.

"you know, jamie, she's never brought someone home before," your mother said at some point during the meal, like it was some kind of inside joke between the two of them, a joke you were not a part of. she shared some kind of look with him, but his face was blank. "honestly, we were starting to get worried." your father and her gave light laughs, laughs that made your stomach roll with anxiety, shame.

good god, couldn't they give you a break? you pushed your food around your plate, very much not hungry, very much wanting to leave.

jamie didn't laugh, though, didn't indulge them, didn't pretend like he was in on their joke. "worried about what?" he asked, his expression and tone entirely plain and curious, waiting patiently for elaboration that never came. his question was met with flickering glances between your parents, nervous laughter dying in their mouths.

you looked down at your plate again, bit your lip to hide your smile, reached under the table to squeeze his hand. he squeezed yours right back.

the rest of the meal was fine. soon enough, you were saying your goodbyes, doling out your own awkward hugs along with vague assurances that you would be back soon.

"and it was so wonderful to meet you, jamie," your mother said, a hand on his forearm, "know you're welcome here anytime."

you pushed aside the spark of jealousy within you. what would it be like to know that for yourself? to feel welcome in this home, whenever you wanted?

jamie just looked at you with that molten softness in his dark eyes. you pushed his hair from his face, the way you had grown accustomed to doing, more a comfort to you at this point. he leaned into your touch, however slightly.

"thank you for having me," he said, politely, before looking at you once more. "'m honored to be the first person petal's felt comfortable enough to bring home."

you could have melted at how genuine he sounded, at the idea that he was honored to be around you, of all things, at all.

when you were both in the car, you turned to him. "you didn't have to say that, you know," you told him as he pulled the car out of the driveway, started the trek home.

he just kept one hand on the wheel, took yours with the other. "wanted to," he said, glancing over at you with a steadiness that was impossible to deny. "meant it."

a smile came easily to your face, a flush came easier. he lifted your hand to his mouth, lightly pressed his lips to the top of it, making you shift in your seat with poorly hidden delight, perfectly warm all over.

you arrived back home, and fell back into your routine.

jamie dropped you off at work the following day, rolling his window down when you got out the passenger door. "petal!" he called.

you turned, that grin that seemed to be every-present around him on your face. "yeah?"

the faintest of blushes began to prick at his cheeks. "can i have a kiss, please?"

you were all too willing to comply, leaning against the side of the car and pulling his lips to yours with a gentle hand on his jaw. "see you later?" you murmured against his mouth, butterflies so alive in your stomach you half believed they would fly up your throat. he nodded, a little dazed, promised to see you after your shift, as he had the day off.

the lovely dizziness began to dull as soon as you entered the coffee shop, as there was a very unexpected guest behind the counter with your friend.

"have you never even heard of a latte?" your coworker seethed, the words hard and angry through her teeth.

"feel free to call this off at any time, sugar," a smug trevor drawled, wearing an apron and a haphazardly drawn name tag.

you set your things down and began to tie your own apron around yourself. "afternoon, lovely," you greeted your friend before looking at the newcomer. "trevor."

he nodded to you with a smile in a greeting of his own before the espresso machine started making a menacing sound.

you took the next customer's order, began to prepare it. "do i wanna know why you appear to be an employee today?"

"lost a bet," he said, looking at your coworker, who grimaced.

"we agreed that if he didn't block five shots against the hawks last week, he'd work a shift," she crossed her arms over her chest. "but already this is more of a punishment for me than for him."

he turned up his smile to the megawatts.

you shook your head with a laugh. "you know this is breaking, like, a billion laws," you said, pouring soy milk into a cup. "we can't just hire randoms to work a single shift."

trevor placed a fake-offended hand over his heart. "i'm not some random," he clarified.

"according to california law, you are," you said, matter-of-factly, finishing off the drink and placing it on the pickup counter.

"oh, whatever, 11, just go," your coworker said, exasperated, "you've already messed up like twelve times in the last two hours."

he pouted, teasing like a kindergarten bully, all grown up. "you wound me, sugar," he said, turning around slowly. "untie my apron for me?"

she took off her bucket hat and whacked him with it. "don't think i've forgiven you, either," she said, pointing a warning finger at him.

"wouldn't dream of it," he cooed, taking out him phone. "haven't i earned a drink for my troubles? jimmy won't be here for another five minutes."

you scrunched up your brow. "jamie?" you groaned for him, "wish you'd called it quits like two minutes earlier. he was just here."

both your coworker and trevor whipped their heads around. "jim dropped you off?"

you nodded. your coworker gave you an impressed grin, held her hand down low for trevor to slap in a high-five. "let's go," she said, pumping her fist.

you rolled your eyes at the two of them. "so the goon squad is working together, now?" you asked.

trevor rested his elbow on the top of your friend's head, making her hiss and bat his arm away. "best team around," he said, smugly, before looking at his phone. "time to go," he stated, accepting the two drinks you pushed into his hands with a thank you. "until next time, sugar," he said, looking at your friend.

"the red line won't hurt you unless you let it," she called out behind him.

you immediately started peppering her with questions about her bet with jamie's teammate, trying to get her to admit she didn't hate him as much as she let on.

"jamie says he just thinks you're hot and doesn't know what to do about it," you told her before she went out back for her break.

she fixed you with a look. "you can tell jamie that his friend better find out what to do about it." you laughed as the door shut behind her.

the rest of your shift went by terribly slowly. it wasn't that busy, and, honestly, you really missed jamie. you had only just found out what his lips felt like on your own, after all, and now you were having a hard time thinking about anything else. no one should feel this overheated, this distracted, while trying to steep peppermint tea and froth oat milk.

too many times, you lost yourself in daydreams about what his thighs felt like underneath you, how his fingers would feel like in your mouth, what his hand would feel like, gripping your hair.

you just wanted to be close to him, as close to him as possible.

by the time your coworker was dropping you off at your apartment, your mouth was practically dry with want, and if someone were to call you desperate, you weren't sure if you would have it in you to care.

you locked the door behind you, the silence in the kitchen and mudroom telling you he was probably in his own room, probably gaming.

you could have whined, thinking you would have to wait until he was done until you could kiss him, touch him, feel him how you wanted to.

you lasted pretty much as long as it took you to change into more comfortable clothes. undeniable want had you rapping your knuckles lightly against his door, exhaling gratefully when a soft come in wafted through the air.

and then the door was open, and he was there, exactly as you had thought him to be. his headset pushed his messy hair up in different directions, his knees spread wide, his posture relaxed.

he made eye contact with you, something warm shining in his gaze as he pushed his mic away from his mouth. "hey, petal," he rasped, his voice weary with use. "you're home."

you nodded, bit your lip, twisted the sole of your foot into the ground slowly. "know you're busy," you said, soft, almost bashful, "but can i just sit with you?" you swallowed down any shakiness. "couldn't stop thinking 'bout you at work."

you knew he wouldn't laugh at you, but were splendidly pleased anyways when he simply nodded, let that smile slant across his face, opened up his arms in invitation, contentment obvious in his expression.

you breathed out and crossed the room to where he sat, lowered yourself onto his lap as he spread his legs apart wider to make you more comfortable. you crossed your legs over his thigh, leaned back into his chest, let the warmth and feeling of him envelop you like a fog. his arms came to reach around you as he kept playing, fiddling with his controller. you could have fallen asleep here, if you weren't so alert, if every inch of your body didn't feel like it was slowly catching flame.

you hummed, shifted your hips back against him, making him let out a soft grunt. "getting comfortable?" he whispered, to which you nodded, smiled, leaned your head against his chest.

you tried to stay still, watch the screen as he played, but something about feeling his breaths against your back, the heat of him pooling in your neck, the firmness of him underneath you, it made you restless, impatient.

so much so that after maybe a few minutes, you were craning your head up to press your lips lightly to his jaw, his throat, just behind his ear, twisting your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck.

he let out a groan, low and dangerous. "thought you just wanted to sit," he said, his mouth quirking up, a tightness to his voice that hadn't been there before.

"changed my mind," you mumbled into his shoulder, grazing your teeth over his deltoid.

"be patient, petal," he rumbled, "wait 'til 'm finished, hm?"

you pouted against his jaw, figured you had done months of waiting, if you counted back to that first day. more than your fair share. you were done being patient.

so, instead of waiting, like he had asked you to, you wordlessly pushed yourself from his chest, sank down to your knees into front of his chair, gently placed your palms on his thighs, forcing his attention to you.

his gaze settled on you like heavy sediment, scorching, bubbling. when he spoke, you felt it against your face like a caress. "fuck, petal, dreamt of you like this."

your smile was slight, sly. "what? on my knees for you, jamie?"

he gave an almost pained shake of his head, made some strained sound of refutation. he set his controller down and pulled off his headset, tossed it aside as you tugged at his sweatpants, rolled your hand over him, hard and hot.

he tilted his head back, groaned. "dreamt of you lookin' at me like this," he confessed, words thick with revelation, "like you want me."

something almost religious passed between you, because what was this, if not something worth worshipping? something built on devotion beyond logic, beyond better judgement?

"i do want you, jamie," you said, finality swimming in your heated tone, "i want you so, so bad."

you bit your lip to hide your grin when he whimpered at your words, his eyes screwing shut as you took him in your hand, spit onto his cock, pumped him up and down before running your tongue along the length of him, drinking in his sounds greedily.

he rooted his thick hand in your hair, draping it away from your face as you sunk your mouth down onto him. "fuck," he choked out, slow and strained, "fuck, petal, you can have me."

you moaned around him, grounded by his grip, the pleasant tug on your scalp, urged him to the back of your throat until your eyes began to water, until his thighs began to tense, before retreating again, peering up at him, eager to take every inch of him in, like this.

so unguarded and uncontrolled, knowing he was thinking only of you, pure want dripping down his frame and face like watercolor, this image of him made you acutely aware of just how wet you already were.

you tugged your hand up and down him again, grinned when he shuddered. "taste so good, jamie," you rasped, running your thumb along the tip, "'ve wanted your cock in my mouth for so long, baby."

his chest rose and fell as he moaned, desperate, overwhelmed. his thumb circled your jaw as you continued moving your hand, spitting onto him again. "should've told me, petal," he whined, "would've given you anything you wanted." his voice shook, you felt his muscles tense again as you took him in your mouth again. "waited so good for me, hm?"

you hummed, held him in your mouth, hollowed out your cheeks until tears broke your waterline, his grunts telling you he was close as you let your nails dig into the tops of his thighs.

"fuck, 'm gonna cum," he breathed, "feel so good like this, petal, too good, can't hold on." his grip in your hair tightened, his hips bucking up, hitting a deeper spot in your throat. he made to pull back, but you only moved your head with him, swallowing around him until you tasted him on your tongue, his moan resounding in your head like an organ in a cathedral.

only after he finished did you pull your mouth up off of him, tilted your head onto your elbow, which was resting on his thigh, red with marks from your clutching hands. you watched him come down from his high, watched his lashes flutter as his eyes opened, felt his grip loosen in your hair and his hand come down to rest under your chin, as gentle and affectionate a touch as you had ever felt.

he led your mouth to his, lifting you off of your knees, slanting his lips across yours like a smile before pulling away, looking at you for a moment, tracing your mouth with his thumb. "look so pretty like this, petal," he praised, low and steady, "so fuckin' perfect."

and you blushed, because you knew how you looked.

you knew that your face was flushed with exertion, knew that spit ran down onto your chin, knew that your lashes were clumped together with tears, knew that your lips with swollen and your neck shone with sweat.

he kissed the corner of your mouth anyways, looked at you like there had never been anything more beautiful. "let me taste you, hm?" he murmured against your skin.

you shivered with pleasure at his words, but whined. "need you so bad, jamie," you pleaded, "need you inside of me." you peered up at him through your lashes. "please?"

he shifted until you hovered above him, tugged your shorts aside, ran his fingers through your folds and cursed at how wet he found you. "anything you want, petal," he rasped, bringing his fingers to his mouth and licking you off of them. "fuck, pretty girl, askin' me so nicely, hm?"

you nodded feverishly, reached under you to find him impossibly hard, again, before angling him to you and sinking down onto him, your knees on either side of his hips.

his head fell back at that first feeling, your mouth dropping open as your body pulled taut at the stretch. you whimpered when he reached behind you to pull you to his chest, changing the angle, while he shifted under you, both of you breathing heavy, searching for something to stop you from floating away.

you settled on letting your heavy head drop to his neck, letting shaky exhales escape past your teeth, melt into his collarbone like snowflakes on windowpanes.

he clutched at your waist, began to slowly move his hips, lifting you up and down in a rhythm that burned behind your eyes, that you felt on your tongue, in your toes.

"how do you feel like this?" he whispered, practically to himself, as if in a dream, as he kept up his pace, slow and brutal.

"like what, baby?" you breathed, picking your head up and beginning to fuck back onto him with more force, wanting to feel him harder, deeper.

"fuck," he whimpered, searching for an answer, his messy hair falling into his face, sticking to the gloss of sweat shining on his brow, "better than i imagined, petal. so perfect, made for me."

you moaned at his admission, reached around his neck for support. "been thinkin' 'bout me, jamie?" you asked, an almost cocky grin peeking through.

"so much," he whined, picking up his pace now, causing you to choke down a strangled moan, "fuck, petal, was worried you'd hear me through the walls."

his confession shot right to your core as you clenched around him, imagining him trying to keep quiet, touching himself, thinking of you. you dug your nails into the back of his neck as he laid a hand across your stomach, pressed down until he could feel the outline of himself inside of you, moving in and out.

the sensation was so intense that you had to shut your eyes, the pressure inside of you pulling so tightly you bit your tongue.

"like that, hm?" he said, only the faintest trace of smugness in his tone. "like that i thought of you with my hand around my cock, petal?"

you nodded, moaned your affirmation, felt yourself grow so deliciously close.

"thought of you, just like this," he breathed into your neck, still pushing at your stomach, hitting somewhere impossibly deep inside you, hard and fast. "squeezing me so perfect, making those pretty sounds for me."

"'m so close, jamie," you pleaded, your voice wrecked, your jaw aching, "please make me cum? need you so bad, been needin' you for so long."

his neck tensed under your palm as his thrusts grew sporadic, his breathing labored. "fuck, petal, cum on my cock, yeah?" his other hand gripped your hip so hard you knew it would leave a mark. "been such a good girl for me."

you came apart at his words, collapsing onto his chest, clenching down on him so completely that he reached another high, warm and absolute. he stilled, both of your chests rising and falling against each other. you ran your fingers soothingly over the back of his neck, he rubbed circles into the sides of your hips as if in a daze.

finally, when the fog cleared like falling rain, you pulled back to look at his face, flushed, long lashes framing heavy lids, his gaze thick and syrupy with affection.

you lightly swept the damp hair from his forehead, pressed a gentle kiss to his brow that made him smile up at you lazily.

he ran his thumb along your cheekbone. "wanna stay in my room, tonight?" he asked, cheekily, like you were kids planning a sleepover, scheming up the best way to ask your parents.

so you just nodded and laughed, and he kissed the laugh from your lips as if it tasted of sugar.

fin.

#lu’s recs #best writer on this app

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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CALLUM TURNER "The Boys in the Boat" | 2023, dir. George Clooney

#omg #yum #i want to ride his thigh

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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just saw the boys in the boat and discovered the glorious being that is jack mulhern. how have i never heard of this man?

i have a feeling i’ll be cooking something up for him very soon…

a side note: the movie was very good, but i’d highly recommend the book first. as an ex rower, i love the attention the sport is getting, but the story behind the movie is what is really important.

#nhl hockey #hockey #jack hughes #quinn hughes #nhl #nhl smut #jack hughes smut #luke hughes x reader #luke hughes #lucijawriteswords

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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head canons | quinn hughes

summary: in which i discuss my silly little ideas and fantasies regarding everyone’s favorite canuck.

warnings: 18+!!! SMUT. quinn hughes x fem reader. pre-established relationship, fingering, p in v, marking/possession

a/n: a quick midnight rambling to tide us all over until my next real fic. thank you for your patience.

18+ below cut

sweet

- the thud of his bag on the floor when he returns home late from the rink. the scratching of his shoes as he toes them off onto the mat by the door, the rustle of his jacket as he hangs it up. perhaps the clatter of keys or the smart tap of a baseball cap thrown haphazardly upon a table.

- the soft pad of his footsteps across the rooms of your home, his fingers brushing against the door handle to enter your room. his hushed curse as the door creaks.

- his lazy smile as you lift your head from the pillow, his tired gaze meeting yours as he whispers a hello, peeling off his dress pants and dress shirt. his mumbled thank you as you point to the clean t shirt and boxers you laid out for him on the chair.

- his warm body, soft breaths, whispered questions as he climbs into bed. his strong arms around you, holding himself to you. his head on your chest, his soft hair tickling your chin and you card your fingers through his hair.

- his muffled words becoming slow breaths, his back rising and falling deeply. his slow heartbeat on top of yours. the feeling of him on top of you, sleep stealing your both away.

- his bright laugh bouncing off the walls of your home, the smile pulling at your face as he tells you about his day, the concentration and attention on his as you tell him about yours.

- dancing with him in the kitchen in the middle of the night, all sleepy eyes and mussed hair and incoordination and stubbed toes.

- soft kisses to wake you up when he has to leave early.

spicy

- the feeling of his fingers inside you, pushing against that spot that makes you writhe, makes you scream his name. the pressure against your clit from inside your core, begging to be released. the throb and ache and tease of orgasm right on the tip of your tongue as his fingers and mouth render you senseless.

- his cock dragging along your walls, every ridge and vein felt when you clench on him like a vice. his groaned curse, his flexed arms, the sweat dripping off his nose and catching on your chest, seeming to sizzle.

- his teeth digging into his lip as he pounds into you, every inch of him slamming into you, your mind muddled by the taste and smell and feel of him.

- his hot tongue dragging along your body, his lips leaving soft kisses all over. his teeth leaving marks, leaving small red nips in the shape of a “Q” on your inner thigh.

- the flare in his eyes when, a few weeks late, you show him a small “Q” tattoo in the same place he left his mark. that same flare when his eyes meet yours as he devours your cunt, worshipping you.

- the way he revels in your praise when you make those pretty little noises for him, his breaths coming a little more ragged, his hands gripping your hips a little tighter.

- the bruises on your hips and thighs that you wear like a badge of honor.

#nhl smut #nhl blurb #nhl fic #nhl hockey #hockey #quinn hughes #nhl #quinn hughes smut #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes headcannons #hockey fluff #hockey blurb #hockey smut #hockey romance #hockey boys

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lucijawriteswords · 4 months

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omfg.

do you think you'd miss me (a lot or a little) | joseph woll

something about his saving-himself-for-marriage-ish charm has bewitched me and made me feral. its hot but not smut...sorry in advance. it's long

...

You knew what this would become as soon as it started. Or maybe you just knew yourself too well. There was no doubt in your mind that your older neighbor would become slightly more than your older neighbor soon enough.

Even on move in day–when you first saw him–you knew. You ran a hand through your hair as sweat fixed your tanktop to your stomach, box resting on your hip. He barely looked at you, only long enough for you to take in the icy blue of his eyes. You pursed your lips as he stepped in, hanging up the tail end of a phone call. Part of you wanted to introduce yourself right away–instantly add some intrigue to your new city life. But you were patient. There was no need to rush. The fun was in the chase anyways.

One of the first things you noticed was that he was just so sweet. Like, disgustingly so. Always chatting with the doormen and holding open the door for Ms. Johnson down the hall and playing with the kids who lived on the second floor while their mom regained composure in the elevator. Unequivocally good.

Perhaps it was that goodness that first drew you to him–desperate to find something off, something wrong. Or perhaps it was how he looked, if you were honest.

He was tall in a way that made you wonder if he would fit into the elevator when he first stepped into it, not lanky but not intimidatingly large either. He just looked comfortable–mobile and warm and cozy? There was always a twinge of a blush on his cheeks and on his nose, and his bright blue eyes only ever seemed to glisten with a terribly, relentless kindness. It was overwhelming, the good kind–like the sigh of relief after a crisis averted.

But you probably were causing the crisis. He was quiet–not to everyone, though. He had no trouble with other neighbors or the kids or the staff of the apartment building. But when it was just you two in the elevator, he grew quiet. Not even a nervous quiet or a judgemental quiet–just quiet, like he didn’t have anything to say (which might’ve been worse). After the first time you had been in the elevator with him, he pushed five without asking–just as you had memorized that he lived on six. He would hold the side of the door so it wouldn’t close, give a cordial smile, and that would be it.

And it wouldn’t even be a big deal if he wasn’t so out-of-his-way lovely to everyone else. There was a fascination associated with him–for whatever reason. He became “hot neighbor” to your friends who slept over or heard you talk about him, and for a while, he stayed just that–hot neighbor. Someone to whisper about as soon as he was out of earshot. Someone to ogle in the lobby before class.

But then you got a little impatient. A little tired of his sleepy smile in the lobby in the morning. A little–fed up, maybe–with his toothy smile for the doorman as he helped put up the ornaments on the top of the christmas tree in the lobby. Eyes got a little bit restless when you’d walk into the elevator and find him in a suit and a winter coat–hair mussed from the wind. He practically forced your hand.

…

“What’s your name?” You asked bluntly one evening after he had pushed the buttons for five and six. The elevator made a whirring sound on the way up. He turned around slightly to face you and tilted his head, a little surprised at your question. You feigned indifference, picking at your nails.

“Joseph,” his voice was deeper than you had expected, but not deep in a heavy, gravelly way. Just smooth. Steady. “And yours?” He asked politely as the doors opened to your floor.

You didn’t answer, just walked right past him as he held the doors open. He didn’t fight you–and while the act of immaturity probably should’ve made you feel more like a kid around him, it didn’t. Maybe you were too concerned with his name rattling around your skull to think too deeply about it. Joseph? Joey? Joe? You realized that no name felt right when it came to him. He was definitely too pretty for a normal name like Joe, you decided as you turned the key in the door. The empty apartment greeted you unceremoniously.

…

The next time you saw him, you weren’t expecting to. It was usually too late for him–too late for you as well–but finals week called for longer nights in the library. You smiled at the doorman and fixed your glasses, sweat set suddenly feeling warm in the heat of the lobby. The elevator dinged and you held onto the straps of your backpack, walking faster. “Hold the door, please!”

A deft hand reached for the door and it was probably not a good sign that you recognized him from his knuckles alone. But there was probably no one else in the entire city who had working hands as pretty as his. The corners of your mouth lifted to a smirk as he wordlessly pressed the button for five. You zipped up your coat, tucking your chin into the collar–feeling…shameless, almost?

“Late night for you, huh Mr. Joseph?” His tired smile was wonderful enough to make you feel grateful that you gripped the railing in the elevator. He nodded silently, blushy from the cold. You weren’t about to let him off so easily. “Tired?” You pressed, eager for more of his undivided attention.

He squinted his eyes as if to decide how to respond, and smiling easily, he nodded again. “It would be Mr. Woll,” he began, left hand reaching up to rub his eye adorably. You tilted your head, trying to stay focused despite everything about him. “If we were going to be technical with it–Woll is my surname, so it would be Mr. Woll.” Your smirk widened.

“And do you want me to call you Mr. Woll?” You teased, suddenly less tired. His blush deepened as he shook his head slightly.

“No, I think Joseph is just fine,” he offered pleasantly. You feigned contemplation for a moment.

“Okay, J, I’ll keep that in mind,” your eyes darted up to ding of the doors opening on your floor.

He laughed a polite little laugh that stirred your stomach. “I’m too old for that nickname, I’m afraid, sweetheart.” The name lit you up from the inside out.

“How old are you?” He held the doors open for you as you asked.

“25,” he answered honestly and smoothly, despite not getting any information out of you, he didn’t seem to mind answering your questions.

You turned on your heel and put your hands on your hips, found him looking at you kindly with sleepy eyes.

“Not too old in the ways that matter, Mr. Woll,” you winked at him indulgently and walked toward your apartment, hoping you’d dream of blue eyes and blushy cheeks.

…

A few days later, you waited for your uber in the lobby of your building–not feeling desperate to escape the warmth of the lobby and venture out into the cold prematurely.

Holiday music wafted through the room sweetly, kissing the high ceilings and swirling around the christmas tree near the desk. A dull press into the cushion of the couch directly next to you pulled you from your comfortable observation. You turned your head just slightly to take him in.

He crossed his ankles, leaning back against the couch to mimic your positioning. His smile was sheepish, persistently kind. “Hey, how’s it going?” He offered, stuffing his hands into his pockets. You leaned back further, looking up at him with a smirk.

“Oh I’m great, Mr. Woll, thanks so much for asking,” he shook his head, meeting your gaze by peering down at you.

“You’re really going to make me regret that, aren’t you kid?”

“Don’t call me kid,” you wrinkled your nose–secretly loving how it sounded when he said it. He leaned closer to you slightly, teasingly.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to call you that if I knew your name,” he said lightly. How could you deny him now–when you could smell his smokey cologne and fresh, clean aftershave? Closing your eyes for a moment, you sighed loudly.

“Oh fine Joseph, but only because you’re begging me,” he tried to look at you sternly but you could tell he was excited to finally know your name as you told him. He leaned into his hand, propped up on the back of the couch.

“And how old are you? You’re a student, right?” He smiled into his palm, knowing he was pushing his luck as his words tumbled out too fast.

You rolled your eyes, but nodded, head lolling back on the couch. “21, and I’m a student, yeah,” you felt a little embarrassed being so close to him, being younger, but it was a weird, nice, kind of embarrassing. And something told you that he knew what he was doing.

“Look at us, neighbors getting to know each other,” He leaned away from you slightly, eyes shimmering with content. Your phone buzzed, uber finally outside. He stood up first and offered you his hand–which you took with a smirk. “Where are you headed tonight?”

You tried not to notice how warm his hand felt, or how it covered yours entirely. “Just a party, nothing crazy,” you shrugged. He took a step back and walked you to the door, opening it graciously.

“Oh right, I forget kids your age actually have plans on Thursday nights,” his laugh was light and airy, mixing with the jingling of the holiday music. You hit him on the chest good-naturedly.

“Kids my age?” You mocked facetiously. “I’m four years younger than you, Joseph,” you scoffed into the freezing air between you both.

“Don’t I know it,” he finished vaguely, retreating back into the warmth of the lobby, leaving you to hop into your uber, wondering what he meant.

…

When you returned home late that night (technically, very early into the morning), you were pleasantly drunk–enough to be able to walk just fine, but where you felt flush and just a little warm, easier to laugh, easier to smile maybe.

It only made sense that he was in the elevator when you just slightly stumbled into it. Your laugh was probably too loud for the space, but you couldn’t help yourself as he pressed five.

“Of course it’s you,” you grinned childishly, “it’s too late for you, Joey!”

He grinned right back at you, so sleepily you could’ve sighed. His sweatshirt looked cozy and smelled of fabric softener, pajama pants rolled just into his socks.

“You’re right about that sweetheart,” he yawned into the back of his hand. “Did you have fun?”

“Mmm,” your nod was immediate, “m’a little drunk though.” He smiled kindly. He was so handsome then, you realized as you cocked your head to the side.

“I can see that,” he laughed, white teeth gleaming. “You warm?” He let his eyes drop down to your exposed collarbones, flushed and red–but seemed to catch himself and met your eyes again sheepishly–realizing that he didn’t have any excuse as to why he said that. Unable to break eye contact, you nodded slowly, stepping away from the wall.

“Yeah,” your words came out as more of a sigh, “wanna feel?”

He shook his head quickly, hair sticking up in haphazard directions. You took a step closer, emboldened by the alcohol enough to not stumble in your heels. “No? Really?”

He rested his head on the wall of the elevator, looking up. “Really,” he concluded, to which you pouted.

“But you look so soft right now, Joey,” you bit the corner of your lip, “maybe I wanna feel you.” He looked down, finally meeting your eyes as you stood right in front of him. He wore his emotions easily, beautifully on his face. Tired. Conflicted. Entertained…almost?

He didn’t say anything, probably for fear that he would get in trouble. Instead, he opened up his arms–allowing you to step into his personal space and wrap your arms around him too. This–to him–was safe. A hug was safe. For now.

You buried your face into his chest, breathing him in. His body was solid, arms wrapped around you tightly enough to make you exhale into his sweatshirt. The bell dinged, the door opened, and you craned your neck up, chin resting on his chest.

His blue eyes peered down to meet yours–calm and clear. “Hi Joey,” you giggled, too enamored with the feeling of his arms around you to care.

“Hi,” he smiled wide, untethering himself from your body and ushering you gently onto your floor. To your surprise, he walked you out of the elevator and down the hall, warm palm resting comfortably on your lower back, thumbing rubbing circles softly into the fabric of your coat.

You leaned into his side, breathing deep and level. “I’m 512, on the right,” you whispered into his shoulder, sleepiness catching up with you. You felt him nod, hand coming up to pat your head lightly.

“We’re here sweetheart,” he whispered into the air above your head. You fumbled with your key, opening the door as he shoved his hands into his pockets.

“You coming in?” You asked softly. He shook his head bashfully.

“Not tonight,” if he was trying to feed into your delusions, it was working. You leaned into the doorway, not ready to say bye just yet–would you ever?

“Okay, J.” He took a step back, about to turn around.

“Call me if you need anything,” he hesitated, “I put my number in your phone already.”

“You sly dog,” you moved to close the door, “thanks for everything Mr. Woll.”

“And here I thought I was making progress,” he joked, backing up toward the hallway. “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

You waggled your fingers at him mockingly and watched him walk with his hands in his pockets back to the elevator. Just before he stepped in, you called after him.

“Joey!” He smiled as he faced you a final time, knowingly. You brought your palm to your lips and blew him a kiss. His smile deepened as he reached up to catch it, bringing his fist to his heart and tilting his chin down. Thank you, he mouthed as he soundlessly stepped into the lift.

You closed the door and slid down the surface, slipping off your heels and pushing them toward the doormat. Your cheeks felt warm for a different reason than just a few minutes before. Every interaction with him was like a gulp of hot chocolate–indulgent and sweet. He was making this a lot more interesting.

…

The following morning, you awoke to a slight headache and a twinge of embarrassment about the night before. Whatever game you were playing–at this point you weren’t totally sure–was sort of contingent on him viewing you as a legitimate option. You couldn’t imagine him viewing you as anything other than an irresponsible college student after last night.

thank you for taking care of me last night :) you texted him, dull light from the screen casting over your face.

No need to thank me. I’m glad you had fun! His response was immediate and grammatically correct, making you feel immature even through the phone. You tossed your phone to the side and got ready for the day. Distracted yourself by throwing on an outfit and doing your hair–only to be interrupted by a crisp knock on your door. Sliding the lock open, you opened the door just slightly, peering through the crack. His smile was embedded in your eyelids at this point, but it didn’t make it any less lovely.

“Good morning,” he offered, almost taller than the door frame.

“Good morning,” you parroted, “now that you know which apartment is mine, should I expect you knocking more often?”

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed. You both seemed to be doing that often. Embarrassing each other. It was too easy. “Well you shouldn’t, but you might” He shook his head a little sadly at your pout. “Wanted to see y–see that you’re okay.” Your delight in his slip up was painted over you like a full face of makeup.

“M’okay. You’re too nice to me, you know,” you opened the door further, crossing your arms over your chest. He shook his head again.

“Just trying to be a good neighbor,” he hesitated at your disbelieving expression. “I remember how hard it was being new to a city all by myself, it helps to have someone you can trust–someone who knows the ropes.” You might’ve physically swooned at his words. Endlessly kind.

“Thank you,” you responded simply, because there was nothing else that really encapsulated how much that meant to you. But there he went again with his dimples creasing his cheeks and the knuckles of his hands slightly red from use and his hair always messy and you just had to be a little bit of a menace–just for a second. “Did Ms. Woll approve of your late night last night?” Your eyes practically shimmered.

“No–no, there’s no Ms,” he stumbled over his reply, grasping for a suitable answer that wouldn’t lead you on. You willed surprise into your expression.

“Really? How?”

“How?” He laughed, however forced it was, “Just busy, I don’t know, not a priority right now.” You wore your disbelief like a medal–emboldened by the prospect of winning.

“They must be throwing themselves all over you though, right Mr. Woll?” You brought a hand to your neck, feigning shock. “Someone as handsome as you, kind as you,” his blush deepened as he looked anywhere but your face and clavicle. “Must be dying to make you their husband.”

“Apparently not,” he cleared his throat, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “But that’s okay with me,” he said unconvincingly.

Your eyebrows shot up. “Really? You don’t want someone to come home to?” He knuckled one of eyes slowly, bashfulness egging you on. “Someone cooking dinner for you in the kitchen? Someone to yell ‘Honey! I’m home?’ to?” His disapproving smile was fake, and you could tell.

“You talk a big game about marriage…Think I haven’t seen your tinder boys in the elevator the morning after?” You gasped–delighted that he was finally playing along.

“Joseph! How could you possibly know that those boys are coming from my room!”

He just shook his head at your incredulous expression. “Call it a lucky guess,” he feigned disappointment, clearly delighted. “Or maybe it’s their magical glow,” he teased. You hit his shoulder playfully.

“Hey! If you want that “magical glow,” so badly, just ask,” you winked.

“Gonna get me in trouble, sweetheart,” there was a slight groan in his voice–a slight strain. It was delicious. The silence between you both felt heavy–charged, almost. You practically melted into the doorframe.

“That’s the goal, Joey,” your voice was lower than you wanted it to be, his eyes flitted back up to meet yours. He raised his eyebrows–hopefully?

…

After a particularly stressful day at the library, you practically felt you were seeing double, glasses pushed up on your forehead. Tired eyes, tired mind, the world almost felt in slow motion. You drowsily pressed the button for your floor, nearly unable to keep your eyes open.

You made your way down the hallway and got out your keys, fumbling with the lock and cursing under your breath.

You felt him behind you before you heard him. “Breaking in, are we?” His tone was teasing as he reached for his own key. Your eyes flitted to the plaque next to the door–612, not 512. You groaned as he reached over you and opened the door, chest practically pressed to your back.

You leaned back onto his shoulder, the curve of your cheek slotted into where his collarbone was. “Long day,” you offered, breathing in the scent of laundry detergent. He smiled down at you, the column of his throat working beautifully as he let out a rumble of a laugh that you felt in his chest. He felt so comfortable–maybe that was why your eyes darted down to his lips for just a second.

Just long enough for him to notice. Long enough to feel his struggle of an exhale. You brought your gaze back forward.

He cleared his throat. “Want some tea before you go to sleep?” He offered kindly. You nodded as he gently pushed you into the doorway.

It smelled like him–making you fight the urge to breathe in audibly. He took your bag off of your shoulder and hung it on the hook by the door.

“Looks familiar,” you turned toward the noise in the kitchen. Everything just screamed him. It made you smile to yourself as you wrapped your arms around yourself–shamelessly snooping. “But I like yours more,” you entered the kitchen to find him boiling water.

“That's nice of you,” he said to no one as he opened the cabinet to get the teabags. You could’ve watched him forever. “Feel you staring at me, sweetheart,” he turned over his shoulder, smiling broadly in the dim light.

You couldn’t even fake being ashamed of being caught. “Just look pretty, s’all.” Your response was honest as you sat at a stool while he poured water into mugs and let the tea steep.

He chuckled under his breath, leaning against the counter top–taking you in. You pretended to look innocent, head in your hands. Everything about this place was comfortable. Home-like. The idea made you smile. He passed a mug to you. It read “World’s Best Dad,” in block letters. You raised an eyebrow.

“You didn’t tell me that you’ve got kids, Mr. Woll…” you trained off, letting your gaze drip down his tall frame. “I mean, I can see it.” You took a sip of your tea. Peppermint. “With your advanced age and all.” He laughed, leaning back.

“Easy,” he warned, a large hand wrapped around the mug. “No kids–just an inside joke with a few buddies of mine. I like their kids so much that they call me Dad too.” He laughed at your expression.

“You like being called that?” His face was dark with shadows of the day. He took his head in his free hand.

“Easy now, kid,” he warned again lightheartedly. Cleared his throat.

“What’s the hardest part about life in a new city?” He was good at changing the subject. You let him.

“Hmmm,” you considered his question. “Probably just having to do a lot by myself,” you answered honestly. “I like alone time but since moving here it hasn’t been a choice–more so like my only option.” He made a face that made you backtrack. “I have my tinder boys and my school friends–sure–but it can get a little lonely,” you felt sheepish, hiding your face in your elbow.

“That’s quite the undertaking, kid,” paused for your rejection of the name, but continued when he realized you were too tired to care (and you still liked when he called you that), “but you’re capable. And trying your best. Relationships take time–allow yourself that, at least.” He took a sip through a smile. “I see you giggling with your friends in the lobby,” he admitted. “Those school friends will become real friends, just you wait.”

His words were a sedative, calming any worries you had carried with you for the day. He had a habit of doing that. “We’re probably giggling about you, if m’honest,” you hid your confession behind your mug. He raised an eyebrow, prompting you to continue. “Oh please. You know how you look.”

He laughed, embarrassed. So pretty it hurt. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t be vain, Joey,” you rolled your eyes, “you’re ‘hot neighbor,’ they could giggle about you and your baby blues all day,” you smirked.

“I suppose ‘hot neighbor’ is better than ‘old man Woll,” he tried to laugh it off, steam from the tea dancing around his long lashes.

“So,” you set your cup down, smacking your lips. The kitchen smelled like a lavender candle freshly blown out. “Hardest part of your city boy lifestyle, hit me.” He considered; thoughtfulness looked beautiful over the freckles on his nose.

He shrugged noncommittally, a small smile painting his lips. You scoffed, refusing his non-answer.

“Come on, Mr. Woll,” you whined, “don’t tell me you don’t get a little lonely in this big city. No wife. No kids,” he gave you a pointed look, “of your own,” you amended. She just shrugged again. It felt a little like trouble, sparking up your throat.

“And no tinder boys,” you joked, pouting, “unless you’re extremely sneaky,” you raised an eyebrow. He shook his head.

“No, no tinder boys for me. No tinder at all–M’not on your apps,” he admitted. “Too old.” You laughed at the blush dusting the tops of his ears.

“You’re not that old,” you answered honestly. “Maybe you should make an account…” you wanted him to bite. To refuse. To be upset. Something different. But he just smiled his sweet smile. So you kept going.

“You’d do well enough on them. Women would eat up this good guy thing you’ve got going,” he frowned,” And you have to know how handsome you are.” You set your mug down and pushed up from the stool, daring him to answer.

He met your gaze–seemingly against his better judgment. The muscles in his jaw worked slowly. Heat seemed to radiate off of him in waves as you ventured closer. He almost looked in pain, blue eyes pouring into yours.

“Do people tell you that enough?” You feigned innocence, closing the gap. “Tell me.” You stood right in front of him, looking up through your lashes. “Please,” it came out as a whimper.

He brought a warm palm up to your face, thumb skimming over your cheekbone. So gently it made you pout. He was so sweet–even now. How badly you wanted him to break. “‘M too old for this,” He shook his head a little sadly, voice coming out as a whisper. It would’ve broken your heart, made you back off.

But you liked your game too much to forfeit now. Enjoyed making him blush a little too much. You wrapped your arms around the back of his neck, ran your fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. His lips parted slightly.

“Too old for this?” You bit your lip. “For me?” He didn’t nod right away, making you smile. You still had him. In some weird, fucked-up way, you still had him. His eyes were dark, hands warm where they rested on your hips. The skin underneath radiated under his touch. “I know you miss it Mr. Woll, I can tell,”

He pouted adorably, full lips shiny with spit. You twirled a longer piece of hair around your finger, relished in the groan that just escaped his mouth. “Miss what?” His voice was gravelly, curious–not ready to give in to you, but also not ready to give up the game. It was too good. It was perfect.

“Miss having someone around, and not just a tinder boy,” you raised your eyebrow, teasingly, “miss having a soft, warm body in your bed when you get home from work, someone making coffee when you wake up,” you brought your lips to his ear delicately, “someone to fuck into the mattress after a long day.” His grip on your hips tightened–hard enough to bruise. You smiled up at him innocently, content with his response. You could feel his labored breathing with each rise and fall of his chest. It ruined you. “I know you want that,” you licked your lips.

“Tellin’ me m’pretty in my own home, callin’ me Mr. Woll,” he smiled down at you–was that a glint of trouble in his blue eyes? “Running that filthy mouth about some domestic fantasy,” he wrapped his arms around you in a warm hug, crushing your nose into his solid chest. “You know what you’re doing to me,” a laugh rumbled through him. You could’ve fallen asleep in his arms.

“I know,” you smiled into his chest. “That’s why I do it.”

You could tell that he was smiling as he slotted his chin on top of your head.

…

love ya

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