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uncuredturkeybacon · 1 month ago

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𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚕𝚞𝚎 || 𝚊𝚣𝚣𝚒 𝚏𝚞𝚍𝚍 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you’re the biggest husky fan in the world

wc - 17.6k

You were six months old the first time your parents took you to a UConn women’s basketball game.

It was snowing the way it only snows in Connecticut—fat flakes thick and wet and falling like they’re on a mission. The windshield wipers thudded in rhythm, clearing the view of the highway as your mother turned around in the passenger seat to check on you. You were bundled up like a marshmallow, cheeks red and nose runny, a navy blue knit hat barely staying on your head. Your father joked that you looked like a baby blueberry. He said it again to make your mom laugh. You didn't know what a blueberry was.

You don’t remember anything about that day, of course. But your parents tell the story like it’s folklore. The way your eyes stayed wide the whole time. How you flinched at the first buzzer and cried through the first half, but fell asleep in your mom’s arms during the third quarter, lips curled around your pacifier while the arena roared around you. You wore a onesie that said “Husky Baby” in sparkly white letters. It was too big. You drooled on it.

They say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner that night. Your dad still has the program tucked into a shoebox with your birth bracelet and a print-out of your first ultrasound. On the cover, she’s mid-dribble, eyes locked forward like she already knows what the defense is about to do. He says the crowd lost its mind when she let that last shot fly, that your mom stood up and screamed so loud you startled awake, blinking up at the scoreboard like you were trying to understand.

They tell that story every year on your birthday.

Your childhood unspooled in quarters and halves. Seasons marked not just by holidays or school breaks, but by game days and rankings, by conference titles and March. You lived in Hartford, close enough that Gampel Pavilion and the XL Center both felt like second homes. You learned the names of the players before you learned to spell. There was no question who your favorite team was. No debate. No compromise.

You were always in the stands—first as a bundle in your parents’ arms, later in a booster seat with your legs swinging above the concrete floor. When you were two, your mom bought you your first jersey. Number 3. Red, white, and navy. “That’s Diana,” your dad told you. You didn’t know who Diana was, but you liked the way the fabric felt and how the crowd would chant when anyone wearing that jersey touched the ball.

Eventually, you knew them all by heart. Not just Taurasi but Bird and Moore and Charles, names that hung from the rafters like prayers. You could trace the line of greatness with a finger, like a constellation. At night, you’d sit at the kitchen table with your dad and rewatch recorded games on VHS, rewinding big plays over and over. He’d freeze the frame to show you the footwork, the spacing, the cuts. You didn’t play basketball yourself. Not once. But you understood it. You loved it.

When your parents couldn’t take you, you took the bus. That started around age ten. They were hesitant at first, but you convinced them. It was just a few stops. You packed your bag like it was a mission. Portable charger, extra snacks, schedule printout folded neatly in the side pocket. You became a fixture in the student sections, though you were nowhere near college age yet. People started recognizing you. Security guards waved. Some of the ushers called you “Coach.” You wore that like a badge of honor.

Your room at home was a shrine. Posters taped unevenly to the wall. Ticket stubs lined up on your cork board. You made your own stat charts, color-coded by player. Your mom shook her head affectionately every time she caught you annotating a box score like it was sacred text.

“You know this isn’t your homework, right?” she’d tease. “It is,” you’d say without looking up. “It’s just not graded.”

The years passed like quarters on a scoreboard. The names on the jerseys changed. The banners got higher. You grew into your voice—asking questions, reading scouting reports, predicting lineups before the broadcast even caught up. You had favorite broadcasters and hated when the national coverage got it wrong. You screamed at missed calls like you were courtside.

But you stayed in the stands.

You never crossed that line. Never picked up a ball. Never dribbled or practiced a layup or joined your school’s rec league even when they begged you to come. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to play—it just wasn’t you. Watching was enough. Worshipping the game was enough. Being there, living it from the bleachers, was enough.

At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Freshman year of High School doesn’t begin with a bang. It starts with a 5:45 a.m. alarm, the one you set to make sure you could catch the local bus from your side of Hartford to school on the east side before the sun even clears the tops of the houses. You sit by the window, hoodie up, earbuds in, knees pressed to the seat in front of you. You’re not listening to music. You’re rewatching last night’s UConn game. You know every stat already, but you still want to see it again. The offensive set with the double screen. The baseline jumper off a late inbound. The missed free throw that almost cost the win. You’re already thinking of how to write about it.

You’ve joined the school paper. It's a small operation—two seniors, one overworked English teacher, and a Google Drive that hasn’t been organized since 2009—but you see it as your way in. You're not interested in the lunchroom drama or the debate team blurbs. You pitch a weekly column, “The Husky Report.” Your teacher hesitates—says it's niche and not everyone follows college sports. But you’re already drafting the first one in your notebook before he finishes saying no.

You publish under your initials. You’re not sure why. Maybe because it makes you feel older. Or more professional. Or because it hides the fact that you’re a freshman with braces and a UConn keychain dangling from your backpack like a badge of honor. Still, people start reading it. At first, it’s just your teachers. Then your history class group chat starts circulating your write-ups. One day, a senior stops you in the hallway and says, “Yo, you really watch all the games?” You nod. He fist-bumps you. Keeps walking. That’s it. But it stays with you all day.

At home, your room’s changed a little. Your parents painted it two summers ago—a cool slate blue—and you’ve taken down most of the cartoon posters. But the basketball wall remains. Jerseys hung carefully. Ticket stubs pinned like battle ribbons. Your cork board's filling with clippings now. The front page when UConn won its eleventh title, your own printed columns from the school site, even a grainy photo of you standing courtside at a youth event Geno spoke at. He signed your notepad. It’s in a plastic sleeve like it’s holy.

Your parents still go with you to some games, but they don’t need to anymore. You've memorized the bus schedule, the student discounts, which gates have shorter lines, which hot dog vendors won't overcharge. You keep a little journal in your pocket at all times. Game notes. Quotes. Impressions. Nothing gets past you. Not a missed defensive rotation. Not a ref’s bad angle. You tweet updates too, tagging players and throwing in gifs. Occasionally a like. Once, a retweet from the UConn WBB official account. You ran downstairs to show your mom like it was an Olympic medal.

By sophomore year, your name starts circulating a little.

The UConn student-run paper reposts one of your longer recaps with a short line, “Better coverage than most pros.” You print it. Frame it. Your journalism teacher calls you the “resident UConn oracle.” Your parents joke about building you a press booth in the garage.

Still, there’s something that lingers in your chest. A kind of ache you can’t name yet. It hits when you’re watching warmups from the second row, alone in a sea of fans. When you see the team huddled together, laughing, bumping shoulders, drenched in sweat and confidence. When the lights dim and the intro video plays and your pulse jumps like it’s your name on the Jumbotron. But it never is.

You’re always watching. Always writing. But you’re not in it.

There’s a moment, sometime that winter, when you start wondering what it would feel like to be known by them. Not in a creepy way. Not in an I want to be part of the team type of way. But… something else. To be seen. To be a fixture, not a fan. To have one of them look up after a win and spot you. Smile. Wave.

You tuck that thought away. You don’t write it down. You barely admit it to yourself.

In sophomore year, you get serious.

You start studying tape more deliberately. Not just for recaps, but for yourself. You keep spreadsheets now. Advanced stats. Scouting notes. You teach yourself analytics from online videos and a couple of free courses online. Your teacher offers to help you apply to a summer sports journalism camp in Boston. You get in. You're the youngest person there. Also the only one who never played any sport. But your mock articles get handed around. You make a couple of connections. A woman who used to work at ESPN gives you her card. Says you have an eye for the game. That your writing “moves.”

That night in your dorm room, you pull out your notebook. You scribble one sentence on the cover, They’ll know who I am one day, and underline it.

Not in a cocky way. Not even in a hopeful way. Just a truth you believe with your whole chest.

Junior year begins differently.

It starts not with the usual chill of October or the ritual of printing out the UConn schedule and taping it beside your desk, but with an email.

Subject: The Husky Report Sender: Leah Moore, Assistant Director of Strategic Communications, UConn Athletics.

You read it four times before moving.

At first you think it’s a prank. A scam. Something fake or automated, even though the signature is too specific and the greeting says your full name. You check it on your phone. You check it again on your laptop. You Google her name just to be sure. She’s real. And she works for UConn.

Hi Y/N,

I’ve been following your weekly columns and Twitter threads this season. Your eye for detail and storytelling stands out—especially for someone still in high school. I showed your piece on the Baylor game to our department lead and she said, “Who is this kid?”

Would you ever be interested in shadowing a game day with our media team this season? No pressure. Just thought it might be something you’d enjoy. Let me know.

— Leah Moore.

You sit frozen, the cursor blinking in reply. For two whole minutes, you don’t move. You don’t even breathe right. Your fingers hover over the keys, and something builds inside you—not panic or excitement, but something steadier. Quieter. Like gravity.

The game day you choose is against Notre Dame. It's a non-conference classic, always personal, always dramatic. You’ve written about it the last three years, circling the same themes of legacy and rivalry and bloodlines. You’ve never missed it. But you’ve never seen it from this side.

Leah meets you in front of the loading dock behind Gampel. You’re wearing your cleanest jeans, a tucked-in UConn polo you had to borrow from your dad, and a pair of sneakers you scrubbed the night before. She gives you a lanyard and a smile and walks you through it like you’re a new hire, not a high school junior who still needs a parent signature to leave campus some days.

It feels surreal, like walking into the dream you’ve been watching from the outside for sixteen years.

Inside the media room, people are pacing. Laptops out. Screens open. Everyone’s in motion but not rushed, like they’ve done this dance so often they don’t have to think anymore. Leah walks you around the control desk, the social media monitor, the tunnel access screen. You’re not allowed to post anything live, but she says you can shadow their content guy for pregame media.

When the team walks in, you stand near the corner. Quiet. Out of the way.

And you see them.

Not on a screen. Not through binoculars. But here. Real. So close you could count their braids, see the scuffs on their shoes, hear the rhythm of their jokes. You recognize every face. You mouth their names to yourself like a litany. You remember their high school stats, their redshirt seasons, the injuries they fought through. They’re bigger than life—but now, somehow, smaller too. Real. Human.

You think of the little version of you—knees dangling in the student section, Sharpie tucked behind your ear. What would she say if she saw you here now?

The moment doesn’t feel loud. It feels earned.

You write a recap of the experience for your school blog. It’s not a game recap, not really. It’s about proximity. About what it means to watch the same story unfold a hundred times and finally step onto the same page. You include a paragraph about the pregame prep, the pressure behind the scenes, the weight of doing something perfectly even when no one sees it.

It gets picked up by a couple of local outlets. Nothing huge. But Leah emails again, saying your insight is rare. Says they’d like to keep you in the loop. Maybe consider you for a longer mentorship next fall. She calls you a “natural storyteller.”

You forward it to your parents. You print it, too. Tack it up next to the framed tweet repost. You stare at it when you can’t sleep.

It’s around this time that her name keeps popping up more and more.

Azzi Fudd.

You’d heard it before—clips, rumors, the occasional ranking blurb—but now it’s everywhere. Articles. Interviews. Everyone’s calling her the next big thing. She hasn’t even picked a school yet. But her game footage hits the internet like fire.

The first time you really watch her play, you’re on your bedroom floor, knees curled under you, a bowl of cereal forgotten at your side. It’s just a grainy highlight reel from an AAU game, filmed by some dad in the stands, but it doesn’t matter. What she does on the court—off the dribble, off the screen, without hesitation—it’s different. Smooth, yes. But also sharp. Sharp like scripture. Like a myth. Like someone wrote a story about a perfect shooter and Azzi decided to make it true.

You watch the video three times in a row. First muted. Then with sound.

You don’t know her. You don’t even know if she’s seriously considering UConn.

But something in your chest reacts.

Not just because she’s good. Plenty of players are good. It’s more than that.

It’s the way she carries herself. The calm. The discipline. The sheer gravity of her presence. The way her release looks like poetry and prayer at once.

You scroll through her Instagram that night. She's all over the place—smiling in one post, serious in another. Media day shots. Workout clips. Candid snaps with teammates. You pause on one of them. She’s laughing, eyes closed, head thrown back, hand mid-air like she just swatted someone who said something dumb.

You double tap. Move on. But your stomach feels different.

You don’t know what it is. Not yet.

But you will.

You decided to start making videos and not just writing for your school paper and tweeting the occasional tweet. You wanted to what you do to reach more people, to understand your love for the game, for the team, and hopefully help them love it too.

You started with a voiceover.

No face reveal. No professional production. Just you and your phone camera pointed at your laptop while you replay a sequence from Uconn’s last game. The part with one of those suffocating sequence where no one seems to hit anything clean for minutes until someone finally gets hot. You rewind a clip of Napheesa Collier making a spinning fadeaway jump shot with a defender all over her and how she was able to make space, narrating it.

The video is thirty seconds. Maybe thirty-five. You post it to Twitter.

i promise you, no one in women’s college basketball is dissecting games like this. let me show you something.

It gets four likes that night. Two retweets. One of them is your cousin. The other is someone you’ve never heard of.

By the end of the week, it has 15,000 views.

It becomes a series before you can talk yourself out of it.

You give it a name. Husky Vision.

White text over a navy background, slapped together in Canva during lunch. You don’t appear on screen. Just your voice, your angles, your highlights. Your knowledge. It’s not flashy, but it’s smart. And fans—especially women’s basketball fans—start to notice.

The first time a former UConn player DMs you, you nearly drop your phone in AP Bio.

“Hey—just wanted to say you really get it. You’ve got a great eye.”

You don’t tell anyone, not even your parents. You just stare at the message, heart thudding, and reread it until you finally let yourself smile.

From there, everything picks up. Slowly, then all at once.

Leah from UConn reposts your breakdown of their win over South Carolina. She doesn’t even tag you—just reposts your video directly with a flame emoji. That same night, one of the assistant coaches likes two of your old tweets.

Your account starts gaining followers—students, women’s basketball super fans, some analysts. You notice a few names you recognize. Even one from The Athletic. You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. But it does. It means something big.

You start doing mid-game threads, too. Live thoughts. Adjustments. What you’d change if you were calling the plays. People begin replying. Debating. Asking questions.

“How do you know so much?” “You’re sixteen???”

You don’t answer those. Not directly.

Instead, you just keep uploading. One post-game breakdown after another. Some long. Some short. Always sharp. Always specific.

Azzi starts showing up more.

Not in your notifications—she’s still a ghost to you—but in the games you’re watching. The national chatter is undeniable now. She’s a senior. Final year of high school. Her team is undefeated. One of the top recruits in the country. Her clips are showing up on all over social media.

You resist, at first. You tell yourself you don’t want to be one of those people—jumping on a name just because it’s trending. But her game… her game is undeniable.

You post your first video about Azzi on a quiet Sunday.

What makes Azzi Fudd different? Not the range. Not the handle. It’s the silence. Watch the way she moves without the ball. No panic. Just purpose.

You upload a 40-second clip. No music. Just your voice.

You wake up the next morning with 78,000 views. By lunch, it’s over 100K.

You don’t even realize she followed you until someone comments.

“omg Azzi just followed you??? do you KNOW what that means?????”

Your heart skips a beat. You check twice. Three times.

She did. No comment. No like. Just the quiet little blue check next to her name now following you back.

You sit in the bathroom stall during 5th period and stare at the screen until your phone dies.

That night, you open her profile again. You scroll slowly. Watch her media day clips. See the selfies with her teammates, the training clips in empty gyms, the one video of her laughing on the bench while her coach throws his clipboard.

You think of reaching out. Just something simple like a ‘thank you.’ You type it. You delete it. You’re not ready yet. But the slow burn has begun. Even if she doesn’t know it.

Yet.

You’re seventeen, standing under the buzzing lights of a high school gym in Springfield, Massachusetts, wearing a press badge with your name misspelled and your heart beating too loud to think straight.

It’s the Gatorade National Girls' High School Showcase, and you're here on a student press pass from Hartford Youth Sports Watch, a local online newsletter that publishes one of your columns every week. You pitched the idea yourself. Wrote the sample copy. Sent a portfolio. Asked—begged, really—to tag along with a couple of regional reporters who didn’t know who you were two months ago but now call you “the kid with the breakdowns.”

You were assigned Court 3. Middle of the bracket. A game between two strong teams from New York and Ohio. Good basketball. Plenty to write about.

But your eyes drift.

You know who’s playing on Court 1.

Team St. John’s College High. D.C. powerhouse. Headlined by none other than Azzi Fudd.

You spotted her twenty minutes ago as you stepped into the gym. Warmups. Black shooting shirt. Hair pulled back tight. Calm. Controlled. Eyes like ice water. You watched her knock down five threes in a row like she wasn’t even trying. Like her release didn’t need breath to function.

Your hands got clammy. You’d practiced what you’d say—if you saw her. If you got the chance. Something short. Respectful. Cool, but not weird.

Hi, I’m Y/N. I’ve done a few breakdowns on your games. I’d love to ask you a couple quick questions if you have a minute.

You rehearsed it. Memorized the inflection. Smoothed your hoodie three times before walking in.

And now, you're frozen.

You’re sitting on the folding chair behind the scorer’s table on Court 3, but your body is angled toward Court 1. Your eyes flick constantly between the action in front of you and the action across the gym, like you’re pretending to multitask but everyone can tell you’re distracted.

Azzi is on fire.

Her team isn’t blowing out the opponent, but she’s clearly the anchor. Commanding the floor. Talking just loud enough to lead, but quiet enough to make it seem easy. There’s a pace to her. You know it well now. The way she slows her defender down just by being near. The subtle shift of her weight before a screen. The way her shot stays level even when she's falling sideways.

You should be filming Court 3. You know it. You have a job.

Instead, you hold your phone low and record ten seconds of Azzi snatching a rebound, pushing coast to coast, and finishing with a mid-air hesitation so smooth it doesn’t look real. You whisper to yourself, “Jesus Christ.”

You don’t post it. You just save it to your camera roll.

At halftime, your game ends. There’s a twenty-minute break before the next match, and you're supposed to send a quick summary to the editor of the newsletter.

You don’t.

You get up, walk slow, and circle the far side of the gym—close enough to get to Court 1, but not too close. You still haven’t figured out what you’re doing. You’ve got a reporter’s notebook in one hand and your phone in the other. Your feet are moving on instinct.

She’s standing near the water cooler with a towel around her neck, talking with one of her teammates. Laughing. Not fake laughing. Real laughing—the kind that makes her head tilt back a little and her dimples show. You freeze again. You’re five feet away. You could say it. You should say it.

But your throat closes. You pretend to check your notes. Pretend to tie your shoe. Pretend to be invisible. And that’s when it happens. She looks up. Right at you. Not a glance. Not an accident.

She sees you.

And for a second—a full, tangible second—Azzi Fudd stares. She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. She just tilts her head a little like she’s trying to place you. Like you might be familiar.

You’re still. Then her eyes flick to your notebook. You panic.

You whip your gaze to the floor, scribble a line you’ll never use, and step back toward the bleachers before she can say anything. Your heart hammers. You don’t breathe until you’re back at Court 3, sitting down hard, hands shaking a little from whatever just passed between you.

You don’t know what that moment meant.

Maybe she recognized you from your videos. Maybe she didn’t.

Maybe she just caught a weird kid staring and made a mental note to never do interviews with high schoolers again.

You don’t know. But you can’t stop thinking about it.

Not when you leave the gym. Not when you email your write-up. Not when you lie awake that night and replay the look in her eyes over and over like you’re trying to find something in the freeze frame.

You write your article on the showcase the next day. It’s about the team from Ohio. About rebounding margins and high-percentage shots and defensive tempo.

But at the end, in the final paragraph, you add a single line.

“And of course, all eyes kept drifting to Court 1. Azzi Fudd doesn’t just play the game. She redefines how it feels to watch it.”

You don’t tag her.

You don’t even say her name again.

But the view count climbs higher than your usual posts. You get a few more followers. One of her teammates likes the article.

That night, you check your followers list again. She’s still there. Still following you.

You decided to do something different for your application for Uconn. You don’t know if someone before you have done it, but you do it anyway.

It takes you three weeks to write the first sentence. You scrap it five times.

Every version sounds too polished or too desperate or too… not you. But it matters. It’s everything. Your application to UConn—the school you’ve loved since you were a baby in a blue onesie—has to be perfect.

You have good grades. A clean transcript. Some solid recs. But the personal essay? That’s where you have to bleed a little.

So finally, on a night when the house is quiet and the rain hits soft against your window, you open a blank document and type.

“My earliest memory isn’t of a toy or a birthday or a bedtime story. It’s of sitting on my father’s shoulders in the XL Center, watching Maya Moore hit a three from the corner and not understanding what basketball was—but knowing it meant everything.”

That’s the line that stays.

The rest flows like breath. You write about your first game. The way your mom clapped louder than the student section. The sound of the buzzer. The way Geno’s voice became part of your family’s dinner conversations. How you’ve never played basketball, not once, but the game has shaped you like a second spine. How you don’t want to be on the court. You want to be near it. Recording it. Honoring it. Living beside it.

You cry when you finish. Just a little.

But the writing isn’t what you’re most proud of.

It’s the video.

You’ve been working on it since August. It’s part of your application—an optional supplement. You call it, My UConn Dream.

A ten minute mini-documentary.

It opens with old footage—your dad’s grainy camcorder shots of toddler-you in a UConn beanie, holding a popcorn bucket bigger than your face. A cut to the upper bowl. A crowd rising to its feet. Taurasi on the jumbotron. You barely blinking.

Then it transitions to your voice.

“This isn’t just about a school. It’s about a lifetime of falling in love with the same thing over and over again.”

You layer in your own vlogs. Clips from games. Interviews you’ve done. Geno calling you Stat Girl with that smirk. Diana throwing you a peace sign after a win. Behind the scenes shots from the media room, from buses, from cold walks through campus before dawn.

You narrate throughout. Honest. Real.

“I want to major in digital media and sports journalism. I want to tell stories. I want to keep honoring women who never get the camera pointed at them first.”

There’s a moment near the end where your voice breaks. Just a little.

“I want to go to the place that raised me.”

You post it publicly on your channel the same night you submit your application.

Your thumbnail, a still of you as a kid in the stands, face painted, holding a sign that says “In Geno We Trust.”

It goes up at midnight.

By morning, it has 40,000 views. Hundreds of comments flood in.

You’re overwhelmed. In the best way.

You don't know, as you scroll through those comments in your kitchen that morning, still in your pajamas and still too stunned to eat breakfast, that your video has already traveled farther than you thought.

You don’t know that a girl two states away watched it alone in her bedroom the night it dropped.

That her best friend sent her the link.

Paige: yo, this the girl coach always talking about

You don’t know that Azzi Fudd clicked it out of curiosity, not expecting much. Just another fan, probably. Some girl with a phone and a ring light and a big voice.

But she watched the whole thing.

Every second.

Watched you in the stands. Watched your hands shake holding a mic. Watched the way your voice softened when you talked about what basketball means to you.

She watched you say, “Some people are born into teams. But I chose this one. Or maybe it chose me.”

And she paused the video. Sat back. Felt something shift. Just a little. She recognized your voice from that one video you made about her. Now she won’t forget it. She doesn’t comment. Doesn’t like. Doesn’t share.

But she sends it to her mom. And later, she watches it again.

She doesn’t know why. She just does.

You, meanwhile, are pacing.

You triple-check your application portal every night before bed. Refresh it. Stare at the little “Submitted” checkmark like it might morph into “Accepted” if you squint hard enough.

You go to every home game you can. Still wearing your lanyard. Still getting quotes. Still uploading breakdowns.

People greet you by name now in the concourse. You start your next video with a laugh.

“So, I did a thing. I applied to UConn. And if you’ve been here long enough, you already know this was coming.”

You hold up a keychain you bought from the campus bookstore.

It just says Soon.

Weeks later, you’re in your bedroom writing another piece when you see the email.

It’s almost anticlimactic—just a vibration on your phone during fifth period that you don’t check until after school. You’re walking up the driveway, backpack digging into one shoulder, when your thumb swipes down and your eyes catch the header.

University of Connecticut – Admissions Decision Available

Your heart stumbles.

You don’t run inside. You try to walk normal. You make it halfway to the kitchen before dropping your bag and unlocking your phone with fingers that suddenly feel too big. Your mom’s in the other room. Your dad’s still at work. You open the email alone, standing in your socks on the hardwood floor.

You click the portal. Your breath skips.

Congratulations!

You don’t read the rest, just yell.

“MOM!”

She’s already running in, wiping her hands on a dish towel. “What? What happened—”

“I GOT IN!”

“OH MY GOD—” She drops the towel. “ARE YOU SERIOUS?!”

You spin your phone around and she grabs your face and starts crying before you even do.

It’s not a fancy scholarship announcement. There’s no marching band or TV camera crew. Just a shaking screen, your mom squeezing you, your chest cracked wide open because you did it. You got in.

To UConn.

The place you’ve been dreaming of since before you knew how dreams worked.

That night, you make the video.

You’ve never done something like this. Not with you in it.

Your voice has always been there—behind the camera, under the highlights, in captions and threads and box score breakdowns—but never you. Not your face. Not your story.

You set your phone up against a stack of books, right next to the cork board full of game tickets and your “Bleed Blue” sign. You wear your old UConn hoodie—sleeves too short, frayed at the wrist. Your hair’s a mess. You don’t care.

You hit record.

“Okay,” you say, laughing nervously. “Hi. Um. I don’t know how to do this. This isn’t a breakdown or anything. This is just… me.”

You glance off camera. Take a breath.

“I got in. I got into UConn. I got my acceptance email this afternoon, and I still don’t fully believe it. I’ve wanted to go to UConn since I was—what—six months old? No, like actually. My parents took me to my first UConn women’s basketball game when I was a baby. I don’t remember it, but they say Diana Taurasi hit a game-winner and I cried through the whole first half.”

You smile.

“This school, this program, it raised me. I wasn’t a basketball player. I didn’t put on a jersey or go to summer camp or play AAU. I was the kid in the stands with a notebook and a pen. I was the one yelling stats at my parents on the drive home. I took the bus to games when they couldn’t take me. I wrote about the team in my school paper.”

Your voice starts to shake, just a little.

“I made videos. I made so many videos. And I didn’t think anyone was watching, at first. But some people did. And now I’m going to the place that made me fall in love with basketball without ever playing a second of it.”

You sniff. Wipe your cheek quickly.

“I guess what I’m saying is… if you’re someone who loves something so hard it feels dumb or small or embarrassing—don’t stop. Don’t shrink it down to make other people comfortable. Just keep loving it. Loudly. Obsessively. Because I did. And it brought me here.”

You pause. Bite your lip. Then grin.

“Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You end the video there.

You post it around 10:30 p.m. You think maybe your friends will see it. Maybe some people from Twitter. You almost don’t tag the UConn WBB account.

But you do.

When you wake up… everything is different.

Your phone is buzzing. Not just a few notifications. Hundreds.

The video has already passed 90,000 views. It’s been reposted by a local news station, quote-tweeted by a beat reporter, and—most terrifyingly—shared by the official UConn WBB account with the caption, This is what Husky Nation is all about! Welcome home, Y/N.

You sit straight up in bed. You scroll down.

One comment catches your eye. You recognize the name immediately.

azzi35: congratulations!

Your jaw drops. You reread it five times. You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

She saw it.

Your mom comes in a few minutes later, holding a mug of coffee and grinning.

“You’re famous,” she teases, handing it to you. “I just watched it again.”

You stare down at your screen. “Azzi Fudd commented on it.”

She pauses. Blinks.

“Like the Azzi Fudd?”

“Yeah.”

Your mom sits on the edge of your bed. “Oh honey,” she laughs softly, nudging your shoulder. “You really might marry a UConn player someday.”

You hide your face in your hands.

And smile.

It’s Thursday. Four days after the video. Three days since UConn reposted it. Two since a local TV station invited you for an interview, to which you politely declined, and exactly zero days since you last reread the part where Azzi Fudd commented on your post.

You’ve read it so many times it’s engraved in your brain.

congratulations!

You didn’t know how one word could impact you like this.

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. What were you supposed to say—“thanks, I’ve watched every minute you’ve played since sophomore year and also your jumper is technically a religious experience”?

No.

You let it sit. You breathed. You told yourself it was enough.

And it was.

Until your phone buzzes at 6:47 p.m. while you’re heating up leftovers in the microwave and you glance down to see the words,

azzi35 sent you a message

You stare at it like it’s not real. Like it’s going to vanish if you blink too fast.

You dry your hands on your hoodie and sit at the counter. The microwave beeps. You don’t hear it.

You tap the screen.

That video made my mom cry. Just wanted to say congrats again. Maybe I’ll see you on campus soon?

You read it once. Twice. A third time, aloud, under your breath.

“Her mom cried?” you whisper. “Her mom.”

You cover your face with one hand and try not to spiral. The message is so simple. So normal. But it’s from Azzi. And it’s kind. And direct. And real. And she remembered. She saw the video days ago and still thought about it long enough to follow up.

You try typing.

Thank you so much, that seriously means the wor—

Delete.

Can’t believe you saw it. Congrats on making my soul leave my—

Delete.

Not me sobbing into my hoodie like an absolute idiot becau—

Delete.

You exhale, hard.

that’s so sweet!! tell her thank you for me?? and thank YOU for even watching it. hope our paths actually cross sometime

You stare at it.

Or like… casually all the time since we’ll be at the same school?? nbd or anything??

No. Too much. Too desperate.

You delete the second half. Hit send before you can change your mind.

You don’t expect her to reply right away. You actually don’t expect her to reply at all. But two minutes later, ’typing…’, appears.

Your stomach flips like you’re on a rollercoaster that only goes up.

If I see you on campus I’m definitely saying hi. You’re pretty famous now anyway

You laugh out loud. Alone. In your kitchen. With your mom’s spaghetti steaming behind you, untouched.

don’t do that. i will collapse in public. like full dramatic slow fall to the pavement.

More typing.

I’ll catch you. I got fast reflexes.

You slap your hand over your mouth and make an inhuman sound.

You pace the kitchen. You stare at the message. You take a screenshot, text it to your best friend with seventeen exclamation marks, delete the screenshot, then open your fridge for absolutely no reason other than to put your face inside it and whisper, “Get it together.”

Your phone buzzes again.

also ur videos? literally the best ones out there. i’m not kidding.

You stop breathing. You sit down slowly. Your hands tremble just a little.

ok so if i die tonight it’s fine because azzi fudd said my videos are the best ones out there. tell my mom i love her. bury me in husky blue.

Her reply comes quick.

stop. i’m being serious.

i watch all of them. they’re like… calming, idk? i’ll be nervous pregame and someone shows me one, especially the one you made of me, and it’s just like… “oh. right. i know how to do this.”

You stare at that message for a long time. Not because it’s surreal. But because it’s intimate. She didn’t have to say that. She didn’t have to say any of this.

You take a breath. You reply honestly.

i can’t even tell you what that means to me. i’ve loved this game my whole life. i never played but it’s always been from the outside looking in. hearing that it helps you? that makes all of it worth it.

She doesn’t type right away. You sit with the silence. Eventually, her message comes through.

maybe not for long though. outside looking in, i mean. you’re gonna be there soon.

You blink. Smile.

And think—not for the first time, not for the last—maybe you're not just going to attend UConn. Maybe you're about to belong there.

The air in Storrs smells like August. Grass, asphalt, hot mulch, sweat, and a little bit of panic.

You’re three trips into moving your whole life from Hartford to your tiny dorm in North Campus. Your back hurts, your shirt is sticking to you, and your mom already cried twice—once when she saw the room, again when she handed you a Ziplock of chocolate chip cookies with a shaky smile.

You’re standing on the curb with your last box. It’s heavy. Your arms are burning. Your RA said the elevator was broken, because of course it is, and there’s no one else around because you told your parents to go grab iced coffee without you, thinking you could carry this one on your own.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself to make the climb when you hear it.

“Need a hand?”

You turn.

She’s standing in front of you. Azzi. In shorts and a loose gray UConn Athletics t-shirt, sunglasses perched on her head, braids pulled back tight. A folded map of campus in one hand, half a smoothie in the other.

You forget how to hold the box for a second. You blink.

“Wait—are you serious right now?” you say.

Her grin widens. “I’m pretty strong,” she says, flexing one arm dramatically, then snorts. “You looked like you were about to just sit down and let the box win.”

“I was,” you say. “It was winning. Completely dominating me. No contest.”

She laughs. Sets her smoothie on the ground. “Here,” she says, and takes the box from your arms like it weighs nothing. “Which floor?”

“Third.”

“No elevator?” she asks, walking beside you now.

“Of course not,” you mutter. “Welcome to college.”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. She’s calm. Like this is normal. Like helping someone move into a random dorm is something she just does. Her pace is easy. Her shoulders loose.

You reach the stairwell. She goes first. You trail behind, still slightly disoriented.

“I didn’t know you were in this dorm,” you manage.

“I’m not,” she says. “I just got here early for practice. I was grabbing something from the student center and saw you on the sidewalk. Thought you looked familiar. Thought—‘hey, that’s the breakdown girl who made my mom cry.’”

You groan. “You just had to bring that up.”

“It was cute,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Don’t worry. She’s still talking about it.”

“I’m gonna change my name and live in a hole.”

She laughs again, and you swear it echoes.

By the time you reach the room, your heartbeat isn’t just from the stairs.

She sets the box down and wipes her hands on her shorts. “There we go.”

You try to think of something cool to say. Something not weird. Something that doesn’t scream… I’ve had a crush on you from the moment I saw you step behind a screen and bury a three like it was nothing.

What comes out instead is, “So like… how does it feel?”

She tilts her head. “How does what feel?”

“Being Azzi Fudd,” you say, then wince. “Sorry. That sounded—”

“No, I like that question,” she says, still smiling. She leans against your desk, arms folded now. “It feels… crazy. Like, people say the name like it’s a brand. Or a stat sheet. But I still wake up with my bonnet half-falling off and toothpaste on my shirt, you know?”

You laugh. You can’t help it.

She shrugs. “It’s humbling being here, honestly. UConn’s where all my heroes came from. And now I’m just hoping I don’t trip over my own feet in front of Geno.”

“You won’t,” you say, automatically. “You belong here.”

Azzi pauses and looks at you for a beat.

“Thanks,” she says softly. “You really think that?”

“I mean… yeah. I’ve been watching this program my whole life. I can tell who’s got it. And you? You’ve got it.”

There’s a flicker of something in her eyes. Not just amusement now. Something warmer.

She nudges your desk chair with her foot. “And what about you? You’re finally here. After all the years in the stands.”

You exhale. “I still don’t believe it. I keep waiting for someone to tap my shoulder and tell me it was a mistake.”

“It wasn’t.” You look at her. “It wasn’t,” she repeats, and her voice is firm now. “You worked for this.”

You sit down on your bed because your legs are suddenly a little wobbly. “I didn’t even play basketball. I always loved it from the outside. Like I was watching through a glass wall. But now I’m here. With an official pass. And a class schedule. And a mini fridge.”

“And a camera that makes players nervous,” she adds, grinning. “Seriously—do you know how many people talk about your videos? Paige loves them.”

Your brain short-circuits for a second. “Paige Bueckers?”

She nods. “She’s my best friend. We played USA ball together. Trained together a ton. I’m hyped to be on her team again.”

You nod too fast. “Yeah. No. Yeah. She’s insane. Her court vision? Unreal.”

Azzi perks up. “Right? You get it. Most people just talk about her scoring.”

You grin. “No, her reads are the most dangerous part. It’s like she sees into the future.”

Azzi points at you. “Exactly!”

You both pause. Smiling. The room quiets.

“So,” she says, nudging her shoe against yours. “Now that we’re both here… what happens next?”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You think of ten possible answers. You settle on one.

“I guess we both do what we came here to do,” you say. “You win games. I tell stories.”

She holds your gaze for a second.

“I like that,” she says. “Sounds like a pretty good team.”

Your cheeks burn.

You smile. “Yeah. I think so too.”

You weren’t planning on staying late.

You just needed to print a last-minute syllabus, maybe jot down a few class notes before the chaos of syllabus week turned into real deadlines. The main library was packed, the dorm lobby was loud, so you wandered until you found the tiny study lounge tucked between the chemistry building and the dining hall.

It’s quiet. Almost sacred.

Dim yellow light. One humming vending machine. Two long tables. One outlet that works. You set your laptop down at the far end, earbuds in, hoodie up, world shut out.

Until you hear the soft scrape of sneakers against tile.

You look up.

Azzi stands in the doorway, hoodie half-zipped, curls tied up, water bottle in one hand, textbook in the other.

She sees you and smiles like it’s not even surprising.

“Oh hey,” she says. “I knew I’d run into you eventually.”

You blink. “In the library?”

She laughs. “Exactly where I thought you’d be.”

You gesture to the empty seat across from you. “Welcome to the land of procrastination.”

She drops her bag with a soft thud. “My favorite.”

At first, it’s quiet. You’re working on class notes. She’s flipping through a textbook—sports psych, you think. Every so often you hear the soft tick-tick of her highlighter, or the slosh of her water bottle when she takes a sip.

It’s… easy.

Too easy, maybe.

Until she looks up and says softly, “Do you ever think about how weird this is?”

You glance up. “What part?”

“This,” she says, waving vaguely at the room. “Like… you and me. Sitting here. Same school. Same campus. I used to watch UConn highlights on my phone between homework and shooting workouts, and now I’m just… here.”

You nod slowly. “I do think about that a lot.”

She rests her chin on her hand. “I think sometimes people expect me to feel like the version of myself they know from the internet or YouTube or whatever. Like I’m supposed to always be locked in. Always the brand.”

You don’t say anything. You let her keep going.

“But here,” she says, voice lower now, “it’s kinda nice just being Azzi. Not the basketball player. Just me.”

You swallow. And carefully, gently, you say, “What’s just you like?”

She looks at you. Really looks. Like she’s surprised you asked.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m still figuring that out.”

You nod. She shifts a little, lets her leg bump yours under the table. Doesn’t move it.

“I’m quiet,” she says. “At first. I like routines. I don’t like attention off the court, even though I always seem to get it. I like Twizzlers more than I should probably admit. And I can watch the same movie three times in one week if I’m stressed.”

“What movie?”

“Coach Carter,” she says, grinning. “Judge me.”

You shake your head. “I’d only judge you if you said Thunderstruck.”

Her whole face lights up. “Okay wait—objectively one of the worst basketball movies ever made.”

“Thank you!”

She bites her bottom lip, still smiling. “I was worried you were gonna say it’s your favorite.”

“I make videos, Azzi. I have taste.”

She laughs again, leans back in her chair. Her posture’s looser now. Like she’s shedding something.

You watch her for a second. The quiet under the lights. The way her gaze lingers on the ceiling tiles like she’s somewhere else for a moment—maybe in her own head, maybe somewhere she hasn’t told anyone about yet.

“Why UConn?” you ask.

She looks down. Twirls the cap of her highlighter.

“Because I wanted to play for Geno,” she says. “Because I wanted to wear the jersey I grew up watching. Because Paige is here. Because I wanted to be part of something bigger than just my name.”

You nod. “That makes sense.”

She glances at you. “What about you? Why here?”

You pause. Think. Not about the rehearsed answers you gave in essays or to your guidance counselor. You think about the answer you’ve never really said out loud.

“Because it’s always felt like home,” you say. “Even when I was just a face in the stands. It felt like where I was supposed to be.”

She tilts her head. “Even though you never played?”

You smile. “Especially because I never played. Watching was playing. In my head. In my notebooks. It’s how I learned to love the game.”

Azzi stares at you for a long second.

“I think that’s beautiful,” she says softly.

Your throat goes a little tight. You look back at your screen. “Don’t say stuff like that or I’ll start writing a poem about you and post it on Twitter.”

She laughs again. “Do it. I dare you.” You open a Word doc. Start typing. She leans across the table. “No you won’t.”

You keep typing. She squints at the screen.

Roses are red Huskies are blue Azzi Fudd walked in And I forgot how to function like a normal person who knows how to make eye contact—

She snorts. “You’re such a weirdo.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

By the time you check the clock, it’s past 1 a.m. The building is silent. Just the hum of the vending machine and the click of your keys as you pack up. She stands at the same time you do. Your shoulders brush. Neither of you steps away.

She looks at you under the soft yellow light. “Wanna walk back together?”

You nod. You both walk out into the night. The air’s cooler now. Softer.

She nudges your arm gently. “Hey.” You glance over. “Thanks,” she says. “For tonight.”

“For carrying your half of the friendship so far?”

“For letting me be Azzi,” she says.

You smile. “Anytime.”

You mean it.

It’s your second week working student media and your first real UConn Women’s Basketball practice.

You’ve got the press vest, the clunky video camera, checked out of the digital lab, a spare battery in your back pocket, and a nervous buzz running all the way through your limbs like static. You’re supposed to be filming highlights for a pre-season hype reel, which means getting clean, tight shots of drills, scrimmages, Geno being Geno, and—if you’re lucky—some personality.

You try to stay out of the way. Hug the wall, step behind the scorer’s table, film from above when the angle works. You know this gym. You’ve grown up in this gym. But today, it feels like walking through a dream that keeps touching you back.

The team moves like music—chaotic, precise, loud. Shoes squeaking, balls slamming into hardwood, whistles sharp. Azzi is everywhere. She’s vocal. Focused. Cutting sharp and fast like her legs are on springs. You track her without even meaning to.

You’re filming from midcourt when it happens.

She glances over during a break, wipes sweat from her brow, and smirks.

“Yo, Y/N—you getting my good side or what?”

You fumble the focus.

“Uh,” you say, stupidly. “You… have more than one.”

She raises an eyebrow. Grins like she just scored.

“Nice save,” she says, turning back toward the drill line.

From down the court, Aaliyah lets out a loud “OHHHhhh she’s FLIRTIN’ again!”

Everyone laughs.

Dorka claps. “That’s like the third time this week.”

Azzi doesn’t flinch. “I’m just making sure the videographer stays focused.”

Paige leans over to you. “She only says that to people she likes.”

You choke on your spit.

Later, you're crouched on the baseline, capturing close-ups during a half-court scrimmage. Azzi drives hard to the right, fakes a pass, pulls back, and buries a three so smooth it could’ve been filmed at half-speed.

As she jogs backward, she turns slightly toward you, throws two fingers up at her temple, and mouths, “Get that?”

You nod, too stunned to speak.

Behind her, Paige—who’s just arrived and is watching from the sideline with a Gatorade—calls out, “If you make a mixtape just for her, I swear to God.”

Azzi calls back, “Don’t worry, it’s for her personal archives.”

Everyone oohs. You just bury your face in your hands, camera shaking.

After practice, you’re transferring footage onto your laptop in the media room when you hear sneakers on linoleum. You look up.

Azzi leans in the doorway, fresh out of the locker room. Hair damp. Hoodie slung over her shoulder.

“Hey,” she says, a little softer now.

“Hey.”

“You got the shot, right? That step-back?”

You nod. “In high definition. It’s practically a religious experience.”

She grins. “Good. I wanna send it to my mom.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re gonna send your mom a clip from my camera?”

She walks in, shrugs. “You shoot me better than the actual team page does.”

Your cheeks burn.

She eyes your screen. “Wanna sit in the stands sometime? Like… not for work. Just as friends. Watch the men’s practice with me?”

“Friends watch practices together?”

She shrugs again. “They do if they’re secretly scouting each other.”

You laugh, shake your head. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re blushing.”

You are. Fully.

You shut your laptop slowly. “Yeah, well. You are my favorite player.”

She pauses. Smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “Good. Because you’re kinda becoming one of mine.” Your breath stutters. You say nothing. And she just smiles wider. “See you around, camera girl.”

She disappears back down the hall.

You sit frozen for a beat before whispering into the empty room, “Oh my God.”

It’s a Thursday afternoon when the gym lights flicker on overhead and the thump of basketballs begins to echo like a heartbeat. You’re back again, perched behind the camera at the scorer’s table, watching the team warm up. Same camera. Same assignment. Same angle.

But everything feels a little different now.

Because this time, Azzi keeps looking at you.

Not subtle glances. Not maybe she’s checking the clock kind of looks. No—this is head up, eyes locked, tiny grin tugging at the corners of her mouth every time she sinks a shot. She doesn’t break her stride. Doesn’t call attention to it. But it’s there. Like she’s playing with the gym but performing for you.

You try to stay focused. Try to pan smoothly. Try to track the drills without letting your hands shake. But every time she glances over, you feel it in your spine.

And when scrimmage starts, it only gets worse.

It’s a loose five-on-five, full-court with a few new sets they’re testing. Paige’s running point. Dorka’s working on her inside presence. Azzi starts slow—light on her feet, reading the floor, not forcing anything.

But midway through the second possession, Paige kicks it out to her beyond the arc.

One dribble. Step back.

Three.

Swish.

You instinctively follow the shot through your lens and catch her turning—eyes to you. She lifts her eyebrows once, like you get that?

You give a barely-there nod.

Next play, Azzi curls off a screen from Nika, gets the handoff, barely sets her feet.

Second three.

Net again.

This time, when she turns to jog back on defense, she says just loud enough for everyone to hear, “I’m telling you—Y/N’s my lucky charm.”

You freeze behind the camera.

Paige, mid-transition, snorts. “Oh my god.”

Aaliyah yells, “Here she goes!”

You catch Dorka dramatically wiping imaginary sweat from her brow.

On the next trip down, Paige feeds her again. No hesitation. No wasted movement.

Third three.

This one rattles in. Still counts.

The gym erupts in the usual “Woooo” from the sideline, sneakers squealing as players shuffle back into place.

But this time, it’s Geno who steps in from the wing with his whistle in his hand and that familiar, half-exhausted, half-amused look on his face—the one you’ve seen a thousand times on television but never this close. He points at Azzi, then points directly at you, sitting behind the camera.

“You two dating yet? Do I need to start charging her rent for attention?”

The gym explodes with laughter. It’s immediate, loud, relentless. Nika claps like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Paige almost falls to the floor. Aaliyah shouts, “Coach, please!!” and covers her face with a towel. Dorka gasps like she’s scandalized.

And you? You short-circuit. Fully. You duck your head behind the camera, ears burning, heart punching holes in your chest.

Azzi grins. “Don’t worry, Coach,” she says, still breathing a little heavy from the play, “if we were dating, I wouldn’t be missing any shots.”

Geno just shakes his head, muttering something under his breath that sounds like, “god help me.”

You don’t say a word. You keep filming. But your mouth won’t stop smiling.

After practice, you stay behind to upload footage. Azzi wanders over slowly, towel around her neck, sweat still glistening across her brow. She doesn’t sit. Just leans on the table beside your laptop and glances at the playback.

“That third one was ugly,” she murmurs. “But it went in.”

You click back and replay it. “Your arc was a little flat. You were leaning.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t notice.”

“I did.”

You play it again. She watches the ball drop clean through the net, the gym behind her erupting in sound, and smirks.

“And I noticed you,” she says.

You look up. She’s watching you now, not the screen.

“I meant it, by the way,” she adds. “You really are my lucky charm.”

You try to laugh it off. “I think your jump shot deserves most of the credit.”

“Maybe,” she says, standing straighter, slinging the towel around her shoulders. “But it’s more fun thinking it’s you.”

You don’t say anything. Don’t have to. She takes a step back, but her eyes linger.

“Text me the clips?” she says. “I wanna post the second one.”

You nod.

“Cool. And…” she bites her bottom lip, hesitates for a second. “You free tomorrow?”

Your breath catches.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think I can be.”

“Great,” she says. “Let’s grab dinner. My treat.”

You blink. “Like… just us?”

She nods. “You know—lucky charm privileges.”

You laugh quietly. “I’ll bring the magic.”

She smiles. “I’m counting on it.”

And she walks away, leaving you in the quiet echo of the gym, sitting behind a camera that finally stopped rolling.

You’ve checked your shirt twice in the mirror and fixed your collar three times before you even leave your room. Not because you’re trying to impress her—well, okay, yes, because you’re trying to impress her—but not in the way people expect. It’s not flowers and cologne and rehearsed lines. It’s… subtler than that. Tucked shirts, pressed pants, a clean watch and your best calm voice.

You open doors. You walk on the outside of the sidewalk. You ask if she’s warm enough before you even think of your own coat.

You’re a little shy about it. You don’t broadcast who you are. You just show it.

And somehow—Azzi sees it all anyway.

She picked a little place off campus. Not too far, just past the edge of the college town strip, a small family-owned spot with warm lighting and quiet booths. She’s already waiting when you get there, tucked into the corner table with a water glass sweating beside her and her phone face down.

She sees you and smiles slow, soft, like she’s glad you’re real and standing in front of her.

“Hey,” she says, standing up before you can pull her chair out for her. “You clean up nice.”

You rub the back of your neck. “Was aiming for something between ‘student media’ and ‘my mom raised me right.’”

She laughs and gestures for you to sit. “Well, you nailed it.”

You take the seat across from her, hands resting loosely in your lap. The menu’s already waiting, but you don’t open it right away.

She watches you for a second before saying, “It’s weird seeing you without a camera.”

You smile. “It’s weird not having one.”

“Do you ever turn it off?” she asks.

You blink. “The camera?”

“No,” she says gently. “You. The part of you that’s always… watching.”

You sit with that.

“No one’s asked me that before,” you admit.

“Well,” she says, leaning in a little, “tonight I want you to not be working. Just be you.”

You glance down, then back at her. “And who’s that, exactly?”

Azzi tilts her head. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

Dinner is easy.

Conversation flows like it’s been waiting to happen—never forced, never performative. You talk about your childhood in Hartford, about taking the bus to games alone when your parents were working, about the first time you saw Diana Taurasi play and how you didn’t blink the entire fourth quarter.

Azzi tells you about her first time meeting Geno. How nervous she was. How Paige teased her about her handshake being “too polite.” She mimics it—stiff, formal, laughably awkward—and you laugh harder than you expect.

She talks about Paige a lot, but not in the way that threatens you. It’s soft. Familiar. Like a big sister figure she admires and still wants to impress. There’s affection in every mention, but it’s different from the attention she’s been giving you.

And she gives you a lot of it.

Her eyes don’t wander. She leans closer when you speak. And when your fingers brush lightly while reaching for your water, she doesn’t pull away. Not even a little.

“You really love this school,” she says at one point, after you’ve told her about your acceptance video, your old journals, the posters that still hang on your childhood bedroom wall.

“I do,” you admit. “It raised me. Even when I didn’t know it.”

Azzi looks at you for a long time after that. Not just watching, but seeing.

“You’re different,” she says quietly.

You shift slightly in your seat, brows tugging together. “How do you mean?”

She’s still looking at you, expression unreadable. But not cold. Just open. Bare.

“You don’t look at me like the rest of them do.”

You pause. Swallow. “How do the rest of them look at you?”

“Like I’m a story they already wrote,” she murmurs. “Like I exist on highlight reels and shoe deals and media day quotes.” You don’t speak. She lifts her gaze. “But you… you watch me like you’re still figuring me out. Like you’re not trying to own any part of me. Just… witness me.”

You feel the words in your chest before they reach your brain.

“I think you deserve that,” you say. “To just be.”

Azzi’s lips part like she wants to say something back but decides against it. Instead, she just exhales and leans back in the booth, letting the silence sit between you—warm, unhurried.

After dinner, you offer to walk her back. Of course you do. It’s late, and the air has gone from cool to crisp. You take her empty smoothie cup and toss it into the trash can outside before she even has to ask. She thanks you without looking, like it’s natural now.

Halfway back to her dorm, she stops.

You turn with her.

She’s smiling. Just a little.

“Can I say something weird?” she asks.

You nod. “Always.”

“I wasn’t planning on liking you this much.”

You blink. “I wasn’t planning on being liked this much.”

Azzi laughs. It’s soft. She tucks a curl behind her ear. “That makes two of us.”

There’s a quiet moment where she’s just looking at you again. Not speaking. Not teasing. Just… soaking you in.

She steps forward, and you think for a second she might kiss you. She doesn’t. Just bumps her shoulder into yours and says, “Same time next week?”

You smile. “Same table?”

“Only if you wear the same shirt.”

You pretend to groan. “I have three shirts, Fudd. Don’t make me waste all my charm too fast.”

She laughs again and steps into the lobby of her building. You stay on the sidewalk a minute longer, watching the door slowly close. And you swear, just before it shuts, she turns and smiles at you one more time.

You and Azzi don’t make an announcement. There’s no sit-down conversation, no hard lines drawn or expectations set. It just… happens. You start showing up for each other in the smallest, quietest ways. Ways no one really notices until they suddenly do.

She texts you when she’s leaving the gym late and asks if you’re still up. You are. You always are. So you meet halfway between your dorms and split a bag of vending machine pretzels under flickering lights while the rest of campus sleeps.

You start bringing her iced coffee to morning classes on Wednesdays. She doesn’t ask for it, but she starts texting you her order anyway.

You study together on Tuesdays in the tiny music library with the bad Wi-Fi and the good sunlight. She wears glasses she never wears anywhere else. You never tell her how unfairly good she looks in them. But she catches you staring one day and says, “Stop that,” with a smile so soft it curls your ribs.

Your playlists start to blur. Your snacks. Your hours. She starts calling your hoodie hers without really asking, and you never take it back.

People don’t really ask questions at first. They just assume you’re close. Until it’s clear you’re not just teammates or classmates or campus acquaintances.

You’re something.

And that’s when Paige corners you.

You’re filming light drills during a morning practice. Most of the team is stretching, quiet murmurs floating around the gym. You’re crouched at midcourt, fixing your focus, when a shadow steps into your peripheral vision.

You glance up.

Paige Bueckers stands there with a smirk and a half-empty Gatorade bottle. Her hair’s a mess, and she’s already got a sweatband tied loose around one wrist.

She squints at you like she’s inspecting an exhibit.

“So,” she says slowly, “what are you two, exactly?”

You blink. “Huh?”

She points her Gatorade bottle in your direction. “You. Azzi. The subtle stares. The hallway walks. The hoodie swaps. The fact that she basically glares at anyone who gets within six feet of you.”

You lower the camera. “I don’t… I mean, we’re just…”

“Don’t say friends,” Paige cuts in. “I have friends. I don’t look at them like I want to memorize how they laugh.” Your mouth opens. Closes. She steps closer. “I’m her best friend. I’ve seen her with a million people. I’ve seen her pretend. But with you?” She shakes her head. “She’s not pretending.”

You swallow. “She hasn’t said anything.”

“Yeah, well,” Paige mutters, “she’s Azzi. She doesn’t always say things. She does them.”

You look down at your hands. They’re shaking a little.

“I don’t want to rush her,” you say softly. “I just… like being around her. I’m happy to wait. Or not wait. Or just—exist next to her.”

Paige watches you for a long beat. Then she softens.

“She trusts you,” she says. “That’s rare. Just don’t let her down, okay?”

You nod.

And she smirks. “Also, if you hurt her, I will dunk on you emotionally.”

You laugh. “I think I could survive that.”

“You couldn’t,” Paige says, and walks away.

Later that night, you and Azzi are sitting on a bench outside the student union. You’ve got fries between you and the cold air biting at your hands. She’s wearing your hoodie—oversized on her, sleeves swallowed up—and she’s scrolling through her phone while your knee bumps hers, back and forth, like a slow rhythm.

Out of nowhere, she says, “Paige talked to you, didn’t she?”

You glance over. “Yeah.”

“What’d she say?”

“That you glare at people who get too close to me.”

She rolls her eyes. “God, she’s so dramatic.”

“Is it true?”

Azzi doesn’t answer right away. “Only a little.”

You smirk. “Possessive much?”

She bumps her shoulder into you. “No. Just careful. I don’t like sharing what feels good.”

You glance down at your hands. She’s not holding yours. But she’s close enough. And when she exhales and leans into your side, you let her stay there.

And the feeling that this—whatever it is—is something you’re both building brick by brick.

It’s nearly 1:30 a.m. when you hear the knock.

Three soft taps. No urgency. But enough to pull you from your reading.

You glance toward the door, confused—because no one comes to your room at this hour. Not without texting first. Not without a reason.

When you crack the door open, Azzi’s standing there in sleep shorts and an oversized UConn t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder. Her hair’s loosely braided, face bare, a faint crease in her cheek from where she must’ve been lying down earlier.

She doesn’t say anything at first. Just shifts from foot to foot like she’s working up the courage to speak.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she murmurs, eyes tired but steady. “And I… didn’t want to be alone.”

You open the door wider without hesitation. “Come in.”

She steps past you quietly, her hand brushing yours just for a second.

Your room is dim. Only the lamp on your desk is still on. The bed is small—UConn twin bed small—but you shift over instinctively, pushing your laptop and pillow aside, making space that doesn’t exist but somehow still feels enough for her.

She climbs in slowly, careful. Like she’s not sure if she’s allowed to let her guard down here.

But when she finally settles, she curls up beside you—tucks herself into the space between your body and the wall. Her knees brush yours. Her shoulder rests against your bicep. She lets out a breath you swear she’s been holding all day.

“You okay?” you ask gently.

She nods, but it’s small.

“I’ve just been… in my head,” she says. “It gets loud in there sometimes.”

You don’t ask for details. You don’t press.

Instead, you turn just enough so your body faces hers. “You want me to talk? Or just stay quiet?”

She shakes her head, eyes closed. “No talking.” Then, barely above a whisper, she adds, “You calm me down.”

You don’t answer. You just reach out and lightly place your hand on the curve of her waist—gentle, grounding. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away. She exhales again. And this time it sounds like relief.

You don’t fall asleep right away, but you stay still. Let her breathe against you. Let your body mold around the shape of hers, careful and quiet and steady. You memorize the weight of her knee over yours, the rise and fall of her chest against your side, the slow soft shift of her hand under your arm as she finally, finally relaxes.

At some point, you do fall asleep. And when you wake up—she’s still there.

Fully tucked into you, head resting right over your heart, one arm draped across your ribs, the other curled tight between you like she’s trying to stay anchored. Your hoodie—which she must’ve pulled over in the middle of the night—covers half her face.

And she’s still asleep.

Peaceful.

Like the noise is gone now.

Your first instinct is not to move. Not even to breathe too loud. You look down at her, lashes resting against her cheeks, lips parted just slightly.

You shift only enough to tighten your arm around her. Pull her closer.

She hums softly at the motion—barely awake, maybe not at all—but leans in like her body already knows it belongs there.

And you lie there in the quiet morning light with her tucked into your chest, her breath warm on your skin, and all you can think is…

This… this is home.

The room is soaked in that soft gray-blue that only happens just before the sun fully breaks over campus. You’re still beneath the thin dorm blanket, your arm wrapped gently around Azzi, her body pressed close—like she molded herself into the curve of your chest overnight.

You haven’t moved in twenty minutes. Not because you’re asleep. But because this is the stillest you’ve ever felt.

And then she shifts. Just a little. A quiet inhale. A slight roll of her shoulders. Her head nestles deeper against your chest. You glance down. Her eyes are open now—barely. Still hazy. Still blinking off sleep.

She doesn’t look at you right away. Just… breathes. Lets her hand flex against your ribs, lets her fingers move slightly against the fabric of your shirt like she’s checking if you’re still real.

And then, in the quietest voice you’ve ever heard her use, she whispers, “I don’t want to leave yet.”

Your chest tightens.

You could answer a million ways. Could make a joke. Could nod. Could say nothing and just kiss the crown of her head. But you turn your head slightly and speak gently, as soft as she is.

“Do you want to stay?”

Azzi lifts her chin just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment she doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak—just looks at you like she’s never been allowed to look at anyone this long.

Then she nods. A small, certain nod.

You shift just slightly, enough to tuck your other arm under her, enough to cradle her properly. She sighs, one hand sliding up to rest lightly over your collarbone. Her forehead presses against your throat, and she lets her whole body relax into yours like gravity doesn’t exist outside this bed.

You hold her like she’s something delicate but sure. Something you’ve always known how to protect. Neither of you says anything else. There’s no need.

Outside, the campus starts to wake up—faraway doors opening, a soft burst of laughter down the hall, sneakers squeaking in the stairwell. But in this tiny corner of the dorm building, in your twin bed barely built for one, it’s just you and her.

And she’s still. Still in your arms. Still letting you hold her like this isn’t new.

You don’t think about the team. You don’t think about Paige, or Geno, or the next practice or the classes you’re missing. You don’t even think about what this is.

You just hold her. Because she asked to stay. And you want her to. So you stay like that for another hour. Until the sun finally reaches your window. And even then, neither of you moves. Not yet.

It didn’t happen with fireworks or a kiss under stadium lights.

It happened slowly and then all at once.

One night, she stayed over without asking. The next, she came back with her pillow. Then her toothbrush. Her hoodie. Her charger. One morning, she was brushing her teeth in your mirror, hair tied up, wearing your sweats and her socks and you looked up from your side of the bed and just—knew.

You were already hers.

And she’d already been yours.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t do you want to be together?

It was, we are. We just are.

Azzi touches you like you’re something safe. Holds your hand under tables. Rest her head on your shoulder during film nights. She lets you fix her braid when it comes undone in your room, even though you're not very good at it.

You bring her iced coffee before morning lifts and wrap your arm around her waist when she’s got a towel over her head after practice, sweat still clinging to her neck. She mutters, “gross,” but doesn’t pull away. Never pulls away.

She calls you “babe” now, but only when she’s sleepy. Or really happy. Or trying to get you to give her the last of the sour gummy worms.

One night after a win, Paige stops you in the tunnel, eyebrow raised.

“So it’s official now, huh?” You don’t answer. Just nod once, calm and easy. Paige grins. “Good. She deserves someone who sees her the way you do.”

Later that night, Azzi kisses you in your kitchen. Long. Sure. With her hands tucked under your shirt and her forehead resting against yours when she pulls back.

“You’re the first thing that feels… still,” she whispers.

You hold her tighter.

Now?

You’re on the couch in your apartment just off campus, her legs draped across yours, both of you pretending to study. The TV’s on mute. There’s a plate of shared fries on the coffee table, and her sock-covered foot keeps nudging your thigh every few minutes like she wants you to look at her.

You do. She smiles. You lean forward. Press a soft kiss to the inside of her knee, just because you can.

“You’re staring,” you tease.

“You’re wearing that smug face again,” she shoots back.

“I don’t have a smug face.”

“You do,” she says. “You get it when I call you mine.”

You smirk. “Say it again.”

She shifts, climbs into your lap, arms loose around your neck, forehead against yours.

“You’re mine,” she murmurs, quiet and warm.

And you smile the way you always do when you hear it. Because she’s yours, too. No question. No hesitation.

The game wasn’t perfect.

UConn had trailed in the first half. Turnovers were sloppy. The defense looked a step slow. But it was one of those classic second-half comebacks—the kind that made you fall in love with the program in the first place. Gritty. Relentless. Blue-blood basketball that didn’t panic when the rhythm broke, just reshaped itself until the song made sense again.

And Azzi? Azzi was the pulse that pulled it all back together. You don’t say her name in the video. Not out loud. But it’s all about her.

You set up your phone against a stack of books on your desk, flip your hoodie inside out to hide the logo, student media rules, and hit record just past 11 p.m., your voice calm but low, steady in that familiar tone that says, You’re watching something that mattered.

“Tonight’s game wasn’t about dominance,” you begin. “It was about control. The kind of control that looks quiet from the outside, but is doing all the heavy lifting behind the scenes.”

You play the first clip. A curl off a down screen. The ball never touches the floor—just one clean catch-and-release, a perfect arc, the net singing as it snaps.

“This is a shot you don’t attempt unless you trust yourself,” you say. “You don’t take it unless you’ve put in the hours when no one’s watching. You don’t make it unless your feet know what to do before your brain tells them.”

The next clip rolls. She’s off-ball now. Moving without drawing attention. Setting an off-screen that forces a mismatch. Two passes later, someone else scores.

“She won’t show up on the stat sheet for this one,” you say. “But she broke that play open with her movement. With her patience. That’s what makes the difference.”

You show a transition possession. A swing pass. A stop-and-pop jumper.

“She doesn’t shout with her game,” you continue. “She whispers. She hums. And by the end of the night, you realize she’s been the melody the whole time.”

You pause the tape. Just your face now. Calm. Still.

“This team doesn’t just need shot-makers. It needs tone-setters. Players who make the floor feel settled. Balanced. Trusted.”

You breathe out slowly.

“There’s one player on this roster who does that every time she’s out there.”

You don’t say her name. But everyone knows.

You post the video with a caption that just says, Game recap—the quiet ones always carry the weight.

You close the app. Put your phone down.

Fifteen minutes later, while you’re brushing your teeth, it buzzes on the counter.

azzi: just watched it. i don’t need you to say my name. i heard every word.

You stare at the screen.

good. because every word that i said? i meant it.

azzi: come over? i want to fall asleep hearing your voice, not just watching it.

And you don’t even hesitate.

It’s strange being the oldest now.

Not in life—just in this world. The UConn world. The practice jersey, locker room, Gampel at dawn world. You’re still in your early twenties, but somehow, senior year settles in your chest like the last page of a chapter you’re not quite ready to close.

You wear the same media badge, now faded at the edges, and carry the same camera you’ve had since freshman year. But your presence isn’t tentative anymore. Coaches nod when they pass you in the tunnel. Freshmen ask if they can “maybe be in the next clip.” The film room plays your edits before games. They say your name when they talk about the program now.

And Azzi?

Azzi is everything you knew she’d become.

She’s the co-captain. The shooter. The calming force. She’s the one they look to in timeouts, the one the little girls in the stands scream for, the one ESPN mics during pregame because her voice means something now.

She’s also still the one who texts you during film study from across the room, your girl just cooked that closeout. admit it.

You look up. She doesn’t even glance your way. Just smirks into her Gatorade.

You send back, you’re lucky i love you.

You’ve been together for three years now.

It’s not new anymore. But somehow, it never feels old.

You still get the same warm chill when she knocks on your door and slips inside without speaking. When she wears your shirt to bed. When she sits between your legs on the floor during game replays, her back against your chest, your fingers tracing light shapes over her ribs as the room glows blue with the paused footage.

Azzi still doesn’t talk a lot about her emotions. But she shows them. In how she watches you when she thinks you’re not looking. In how she adjusts your hoodie drawstrings without saying a word. In the way she always asks if you’ve eaten before she lets you start editing film. In the way she asks—quietly, but directly—if you’ll stay the night, even though she never has to.

You’ve been with her through everything. Through the rehab stint after her knee scare sophomore year. Through the championship loss in junior year that kept both of you up in silence. Through every early-morning workout, every late night edit, every moment where the pressure started to make her forget she was more than what she could score.

You never let her forget. And she never stops choosing you.

Now, it’s senior year.

And you’re both carrying the weight of lasts.

Last home opener. Last conference road trip. Last Midnight Madness.

There’s talk about what comes after—draft declarations, sports media job offers, maybe even that apartment in New York you bookmarked but never showed her. You don’t say it out loud yet. But you feel the shape of it behind everything.

Still, tonight’s not about what’s next.

Tonight is about the now.

The two of you walk into Gampel together for a game against South Carolina, the final non-conference home game of the season. You’re filming as always. Azzi’s in uniform, headphones in, locked in. She slows near the tunnel just enough to let your shoulder brush hers.

You catch her eye.

She mouths, “Watch this.”

And you do.

She drops 27 points. 6-for-7 from beyond the arc. Four assists. Two steals. One dagger of a three with a minute left that sends the crowd into a frenzy.

And when she walks off the court, towel around her neck, teammates bumping her shoulder, she doesn’t look for the ESPN cameras or the press row.

She looks for you.

And when she finds you—camera down, hands shaking just a little from trying not to scream during that final shot—she smiles like she already knows what you’ll say.

But you say it anyway. “Jesus Christ, Fudd.”

She laughs.

Then steps in and presses a kiss to your cheek. Right there. Right in front of everyone. The crowd still buzzing, the team still cooling down, the band still playing. No hesitation. No secrecy. Just her lips against your skin and her hand resting at your side like it’s home.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to. She’s yours. And she always has been.

The confetti’s still falling when she finds you.

She should be somewhere else. On the stage. On the podium. With the cameras. Holding the Most Outstanding Player trophy in one hand and the net she cut down in the other. But instead, she’s weaving through the chaos like she’s been looking for you the whole time.

Your camera’s still rolling, half-raised, the screen shaking slightly from adrenaline. You’ve been filming through tears—yours, theirs, everyone’s. Geno’s last timeout. Paige’s final assist. Azzi’s ice-cold three with 1:13 left that sealed it. You haven’t moved from the baseline since the buzzer sounded.

And suddenly she’s there. In front of you.

Grinning like her whole body is full of light. Hair matted to her forehead, jersey drenched, eyes glassy and shining beneath the overhead lights. She’s not crying. Not yet. But she looks like if you said one thing too soft, she would.

So you don’t say anything. You drop the camera. And open your arms. She crashes into you. Hard. Not careful. Not composed. Just Azzi, all of her, colliding into you like you’re the only solid thing left in the universe. You catch her.

Wrap your arms around her and feel her fists clench behind your back as she buries her face into your shoulder. She shakes once—just once—like the win finally hit her in your arms, not when the clock hit zero.

“I did it,” she whispers. “We did it.”

“You did it,” you say, pulling her tighter. “You were unreal tonight.”

“I was scared,” she breathes, muffled against your neck. “I didn’t know if I could—”

“You did,” you cut in. “And you didn’t just play, Azzi. You led. You carried. You earned every second of this.”

She pulls back, just enough to look at you.

“You’re shaking,” she murmurs, laughing a little.

“So are you,” you reply.

Her hand finds yours. Palm rough with resin, trembling slightly. You squeeze three times.

Five minutes later, she’s called back to the main stage. Reporters. Flashbulbs. A camera crew trying to wedge into your space, asking her for comments. She’s too polite to ignore them but too distracted to fully focus.

Before she turns to go, she tugs your wrist. You lean close. She kisses your cheek. Quick. Sure. Public. Everyone sees it. And she doesn’t care.

“They’re gonna ask me how I stayed calm all tournament,” she says. “I’m gonna want to tell them it was you.”

You smile. “You can’t. I’ll get fired.”

Azzi shrugs, already walking backward into the media swarm. “Fine. I’ll just say I had a secret weapon.”

You call after her, “Tell them your lucky charm came through.”

She flashes a grin over her shoulder. “Always.”

Later—much later—the arena’s mostly empty. Security’s doing a final sweep. You’re sitting on the court again, knees bent, her championship hat askew on your head and your camera shut off for once. Azzi’s beside you, her legs stretched out, her shoes untied.

The net’s tied around her neck like a necklace. Her trophy rests in her lap, her fingers brushing over the engraved plate like it still doesn’t feel real. She doesn’t say anything. So you do.

“Did you hear the crowd when you hit that three?”

Azzi exhales. “Felt like everything got quiet.”

You nudge her thigh with your knee. “That’s because you silenced the world.”

She leans into you, resting her head on your shoulder.

“I didn’t want to look for you until I was sure we’d won,” she says. “I told myself I’d run to you if the buzzer went and we were still standing.”

You nod. “You found me.”

“I always will.”

You turn. Kiss the top of her head. Smell the salt, the resin, the weight of four years coming to rest all at once.

She glances down at the trophy. Then up at you.

“This is ours,” she says.

And you believe her.

Because for four years, you’ve watched her become this. Not a headline. Not a name on a graphic. Not a logo on a sneaker deal.

But Azzi. Fully. Wholly. Yours.

She didn’t declare.

Azzi Fudd, consensus top-ten pick, Most Outstanding Player, national champion, walking bucket—stayed.

Everyone thought she’d leave. Follow Paige, The mock drafts said she was gone. The WNBA teams practically started designing her jerseys. But when the time came, when the lights dimmed and the confetti settled and the press release was ready to drop, she looked across the kitchen table at you in a hoodie and sweats and said, “I’m not done here.”

And she stayed. One more year. One more season at UConn. One more chance to wear that jersey with the same grace and grit she always had. One more year of being the leader, the big sister, the captain.

You didn’t try to talk her out of it. You just said, “Then we go all in.”

Because this time, you weren’t filming from the student section. You weren’t hiding behind a school media vest. You weren’t the wide-eyed kid from Hartford anymore.

You were you now.

It happened fast after graduation. The videos you’d built over four years at UConn had long outgrown the platform. Coaches shared them. Players reposted them. Parents sent them to their kids. And when networks started knocking, you told them no.

Because you didn’t need a desk job in a studio. You were already building something better. You went independent.

Self branded. Self scheduled. Self funded. You called it Court Vision—a solo platform for women’s basketball storytelling. You didn’t just cover stats. You covered rhythm. Identity. Psychology. You saw what others missed. That same calm voice you used in dorm rooms was now playing in thousands of ears across the country.

Everywhere you went, players greeted you like family. Coaches asked if you could send your breakdowns. Parents told you their daughters learned the game watching your videos. You had press credentials at every arena. Interviews on every court.

You weren’t just in the room anymore. You were the room.

And yet—even with all the traveling, all the acclaim—when UConn’s schedule dropped, the first date you circled was Storrs.

Because Azzi stayed. And she was yours.

You fly back on a Thursday. The gym smells the same—pine and sweat and polish and history. You show your credential at the tunnel and get waved through with a nod. No questions. Everyone knows you by now.

Geno’s mid-practice, yelling about tempo. KK is courtside talking to her phone sipping a smoothie. But you don’t look at anyone else.

She’s there.

Number 35. Ponytail flying. Eyes locked in.

Still Azzi.

She hits a three off a staggered screen, doesn’t even glance toward the bench—but she sees you. Feels you. After the whistle, she jogs over like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t just come from a courtside interview in Atlanta the night before. Like you don’t have a flight to L.A. in three days. She stops short of touching you. Still sweat-soaked. Still in game mode. But her eyes burn like fire under soft lashes.

“I was wondering when you’d show,” she says.

You smirk. “Had to see the return of the queen in person.”

“Is that what your analysis is gonna say?”

You tilt your head. “Only if you make it worth it.”

Azzi narrows her eyes. “You want a quote?”

“I want a win,” you say.

She laughs. “Don’t worry. I’m still your girl.”

You raise an eyebrow. “UConn’s princess, technically.”

Azzi steps a little closer, low and quiet.

“But only yours after the buzzer.”

After practice, you sit in the bleachers while she finishes her lift. Geno walks past you muttering, “If she plays the way she smiles at you, we’ll win by 40.”

You shout back, “She usually does.”

When Azzi joins you, towel around her neck, hair damp, you hand her the protein bar you brought from a gas station in Chicago.

“Romantic,” she says, unwrapping it anyway.

You kiss her cheek. “You still owe me that postgame.”

She nods. “I’ll give you the best quote of your career.”

“You promise?”

She grins.

“Only if you stay the night.”

You didn’t think it could top the first one.

The chaos, the confetti, the hugging, the laughing, the relief. The night she hoisted the trophy with sweat-slicked hands and kissed your cheek in front of thousands like there wasn’t anything left to hide.

But this year? This year, it was different. Because it wasn’t about proving anything. It was about finishing everything right.

Azzi Fudd. Fifth-year senior. Leader. Anchor. The face of UConn’s redemption arc. Back-to-back championships. Back-to-back Most Outstanding Player. Twenty-nine points. Seven rebounds. Five assists. No missed free throws. And a quiet dominance that wove the whole game into something sacred.

You stood behind the press row, camera at your side, heart pounding harder than it ever had. Not from nerves. But from knowing.

Because you’d already decided. Tonight was the night.

You let the postgame chaos swirl without you.

You held your camera when she smiled for photos, laughed when KK fake-posed with her and said “This is your last chance to change your mind,” and nodded quietly when Geno found you afterward and muttered, “She’ll always be ours, but she was yours first.”

But you didn’t ask for a moment yet. Not until later.

After the crowd filtered out. After the media cleared. After the net was around her neck again and the trophy sat cradled in her arms like it had always belonged there.

You found her in the tunnel. Still in her jersey. She lit up the second she saw you.

“Hey,” she said, breathless. “Did you see that pass in the third—”

You kissed her. Right there. One hand on her cheek, the other in her hair. And she melted into it, into you, the arena dim and echoing around you.

You pulled back only far enough to whisper, “Get dressed.”

She blinked. “Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out.”

“Now?”

You grinned. “Right now.”

You don’t go far.

A quiet rooftop. Soft lights strung along the railing. The city buzzing far below. A table set with takeout containers of her favorite pasta because you knew she’d be starving, and a chilled bottle of sparkling cider because she doesn’t drink and you remember everything she ever said in passing.

She raises an eyebrow when she sees the setup.

“What is this?” she asks, smiling.

You shrug. “Just a little postgame celebration.”

She walks closer. “You did all this today?”

You nod. “I knew you’d win.”

Azzi stares at you. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

She laughs. “Unfortunately.”

You sit. Eat. Talk about everything but the game. You remind her of the first time you saw her live, back in that dusty high school gym. She reminds you that you couldn’t make eye contact with her until October of sophomore year.

And then, after she’s scraped up the last bit of marinara sauce with a crust of bread and leaned back in her chair, happy and full and tired in the best way—

You stand. Reach for your jacket pocket. Her brow furrows. You step in front of her. She freezes. And the world disappears.

Your hand is shaking. You can’t even help it.

She’s already gasped, hand pressed to her mouth, eyes wide and wet before you’ve said a single word. And your voice—your voice cracks before it can carry the first line.

“Sorry,” you breathe, blinking up at her. “I had a whole speech. I practiced. I swear I did.”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s holding her breath.

“I’ve loved you since before I could say it. Since before I knew what it was. Since the moment you looked at me like I wasn’t just another fan, or another lens, or another voice trying to tell your story.”

Your throat catches again. You pause. Try to keep it steady.

“You’ve made me better. Kinder. Quieter. Stronger. You’ve taught me how to lead without shouting. How to stand still and still be powerful. You’ve taught me what it means to stay. To love even when it’s hard. Even when we’re tired. Even when the whole world is loud.”

She’s crying now. Quietly. Openly.

“I don’t care where you play next. I don’t care what city, what team, what coast. I just want to be there. In the front row. Behind the scenes. Next to you. Always.”

You open the ring box and kneel. Her hands fly to her mouth again.

“Azzi Fudd,” you say, voice breaking, “will you marry me?”

She doesn’t say yes right away. Because she’s already on her knees. Already wrapping her arms around your neck.

Already crying into your shoulder, whispering— “Yes. Yes. God, yes.”

The city spins beneath you. But you don’t feel it. Just her. Just this. Just forever starting now.

The sun pours into your room like it's in on the secret.

It catches the edge of the champagne colored blanket half-tangled around your legs, brushes over the takeout containers you were too love-struck to clean up last night, and settles—gently, reverently—on the girl curled up on your chest.

Azzi.

Still in your hoodie. Her bare feet tucked beneath the blanket. One hand draped over your stomach, the other curled near her face. And on that hand, a glimmer.

The ring. She hasn’t taken it off. Not even to sleep. You stare at it for a long time. The way it fits. The way it already belongs there. Like it always has. You don’t want to move. But your heart is too full. Your chest feels swollen with words, with memories, with every version of you that never thought this could happen. So you ease out from under her, careful, reverent, like you’re slipping out of a church pew mid-hymn.

You grab your phone. Sit by the window. Open your camera app. And press record.

The video starts with the sun on your face. You’re in a hoodie. Hair messy. Eyes red in the soft way that comes from crying for the right reasons. Your voice is low. Calm. Familiar.

“Hey,” you say. “I don’t really know where to begin. So I’ll start where I always do. With a game.”

You pause. Glance out the window. Then look back at the lens.

“Last night, UConn won its thirteenth national championship. And if you know me—if you’ve followed me, or watched anything I’ve ever posted—you know what this team means to me.”

You take a breath. A real one.

“But last night was more than that. Last night was the end of a promise I made to myself a long time ago.”

You tap your screen. The footage cuts.

To your UConn acceptance video.

You, five years younger, sitting in your childhood bedroom. Hartford skyline through your window. A UConn pennant behind you. You’re holding your laptop with your acceptance letter on the screen, eyes wide and shimmering.

“I’ve been going to games since I was a baby. I’ve watched legends on that court. I don’t know what the future looks like, but I do know this—UConn women's basketball raised me. Also—minor detail, but—if I do happen to marry a UConn women’s basketball player… nobody be surprised.” You wink at the camera, shrugging. “Just saying.”

You, now, smile faintly in the corner of the screen as it cuts back to you in present day.

“That was a joke at the time. Kind of.”

You glance over your shoulder. Off screen. Your voice softens.

“But some dreams… they’re quiet. They live in your chest. They follow you until you’re ready to meet them.” You call out, “Z?”

There’s rustling. A sleepy groan. And then—her. Azzi steps into frame, barefoot, wrapped in your blanket, hair a mess, ring glinting on her left hand. She blinks at the camera.

“Wait—are we filming?” You nod. She groans, laughing. “You couldn’t wait?”

You smile. “I didn’t want to forget this part.”

She slips into your lap. Tucks her face under your chin. Her hand rests on your chest, just over your heart. The ring sparkles. It’s not the centerpiece—but it doesn’t have to be. She is.

You speak again. Voice thicker now.

“She said yes.” A pause. “I asked Azzi to marry me last night.” Another beat. “And she said yes.”

Azzi leans up, kisses your cheek, and whispers, “Of course I did.”

You laugh, blinking fast.

“She’s the one I made videos about when I didn’t even know I was writing love letters. She’s the one who saw me before the rest of the world did. She’s been my constant. My compass. My favorite player—and my favorite person.”

Azzi nudges your chin. “You’re gonna make me cry again.”

“Too late,” you mumble.

You let the silence sit for a moment. Let the footage breathe. And then you say, “I started this journey with a camera and a dream. And now I get to spend the rest of my life beside the person who turned both into something real.”

Azzi squeezes your hand. You look into the camera one last time.

“I loved UConn before I knew what love was. And somewhere between the student section and the court, I found the person I’ll love forever.”

Azzi rests her head against your shoulder again, smiling.

You whisper to her, not to the camera, “You’re the best story I’ve ever told.”

And then you reach out.

And end the recording.

You don’t even check your notifications at first.

You post the video, drop your phone face-down on the kitchen counter, and walk back to the bedroom, where Azzi is wrapped up in a hoodie and blanket like a sleepy human burrito. She smiles as you crawl into bed next to her and whisper something about needing more hours in the day.

You fall asleep with her tucked under your arm, her ring glinting in the soft morning light like it’s always belonged there.

By the time you wake up, the world has changed.

You fumble for your phone, half-asleep, and finally open TikTok.

The video’s at 3.1 million views. You blink. Refresh. 4.2 million. The comments are… unhinged. Emotional. Beautiful.

Azzi watches it all happen from next to you. She’s curled into your side, watching you scroll through your mentions, her chin on your shoulder.

“You didn’t think it’d blow up like this, huh?” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your jaw.

You shake your head slowly. “I thought a few people might smile. Cry a little, maybe. I didn’t think it would turn into… this.”

Azzi hums. “Think the whole world’s been waiting for us.”

You glance at her. “Are you okay with it? With it being this public?”

She holds your hand, looks at the ring on her finger, then at you.

“I’m not hiding you,” she says. “Not ever. If the whole world sees it? That’s just proof I got it right.”

You lean in and kiss her. Soft. Certain.

The kind of kiss that feels like a full circle closing.

#azzi fudd #azzi fudd x reader #azzi fudd fanfiction #azzi fudd fic #azzi35 #azzi x reader #azzi fudd uconn #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #wbb x reader #wnba x reader #wlw #lesbian #wuh luh wuh #paige bueckers

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innerfare · 9 months ago

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You Just Do It Better

Summary: There are some things that are better left to you

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: Fluff

CW: None // SFW

———

Luffy:

When his hat is in a state of disrepair, as it often is, he now hands it over to you to be fixed. You did it once when he was sound asleep after a fight, and when he woke up, he discovered his most prized possession looked better than it ever had. People are so rarely allowed to touch his hat, but he begs you- puppy dog eyes and all- to fix his hat for him every time it gets damaged. You just do it better.

Zoro:

Why does your sake always taste better? And your beer? And, though he’s loathe to admit it, he’d rather swipe that fruity cocktail you’re drinking than have his own whiskey because whenever you order a drink, it just tastes better. Oh, and when you make it? Forget about drinking it yourself. If you make a drink yourself, be it ice water or hot tea or something with liquor, Zoro will at the very least be stealing a few sips, even if he’s made his own. You just do it better.

Sanji:

Who knew you had such a talent for frosting cupcakes? He takes such pride in cooking for you, never imagined for a moment he would allow you to pick up even a single kitchen utensil. But he had his hands full one day and you took over the cupcakes he’d made upon Luffy’s request, and you did such a beautiful job he didn’t even let the crew eat them. Now, it’s your job to frost any sweets he makes. You just do it better.

Ace:

It’s everything you touch, really. Whether you’re picking out a necklace or seasoning a dish, you just do it better. But most especially, you talk. Whether you’re talking about nothing or speaking on something important, you have a way with words that he simply doesn’t. He always puts his thoughts and feelings through a you filter because however you phrase things is going to be the best way. You just do it better.

Sabo:

You edit his manuscript. He has no shortage of people who could do it for him, people who have real experience doing such things. He could do it himself, too, educated as he is (though he hides it well). But you’re so much better. You know exactly how to read his words and improve on them without changing the underlying point he is trying to make. He even has you read his private journals just for your opinion. You just do it better.

Law:

You put the right words in his mouth for him. Law often stumbles over his words and isn’t the best at communicating his emotions. You have a special talent for reading his emotions and explaining them, so much so that when he has a conflict, he comes to you and you help him piece together the right thing to say so he doesn’t end up snapping and saying something rude (still probably ends up snapping, but it’s not as bad with your help). You just do it better.

Kid:

Applying the soothing gel intended to calm the residual pain in the stub of his arm used to be a private ordeal, the fact that his arm hurt perhaps his most closely guarded secret. But you walked in on him one night and found him in so much pain that you took over despite his protests, and he found the gel worked even better when you massaged it into his arm. Now, he doesn’t even bother trying to do it himself. You just do it better.

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

#one piece #one piece headcanons #one piece fluff #one piece x reader #luffy x reader #zoro x reader #sanji x reader #ace x reader #portgas d ace x reader #sabo x reader #trafalgar law x reader #law x reader #captain kid x reader #eustass kid x reader

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sademonugget · 5 months ago

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Headcanon that all of the batfam hides their injuries, but not in a "I don't want to be a burden, so I won't tell them I got hurt" kind of way, they just do it subconsciously.

Bruce trained them how to walk normally despite being sore, to nobody at galas would suspect anything. So if Dick got shot in the thigh, but had to make an appearance at an important event, no one would even notice he was hurt. He was trained to not limp despite the pain, trained to go against every survival instinct and put pressure on a bullet hole while smiling.

Bruce did this with all his kids and they got so good at it that they do it at home unconsciously. If Jason came home from a tough patrol, the only sign people would get is that he was injured was the fact he was actively bleeding out from a knife that was still in his arm. He acted that normally, because acting normal became normal to him. (If that makes sense.)

Damian already knew how to do this because of Ra's Al Gul, and it took months for the family to notice when he got hurt, because he was that good at acting. (Jon was horrified when Damian stubbed his toe and continues on like nothing had happened. Not even being a Super could stop the pain of a stubbed pinky toe)

Tim is worse than the rest of the fam at hiding it, so he just avoids them. If he hurt his ankle on patrol because he grappled wrong and hit a building, using his foot as a shield, he just wouldn't stand up. He would conveniently be sitting down or reclining on something whenever someone came into the room. But he's sitting down most the time anyway, so they would have no idea he shattered the bone in his foot.

Cass would be talking to someone from another room, talking completely fine and normal, nothing out of the ordinary until they walk into the room and she's stitching up her leg from a wound that a medical professional would faint at the sight of.

Bruce is the worst of all of them. Alfred forced him to get checked for injuries after most serious fights, because trying to get him to go after every patrol was a like beating a dead horse. (AKA: pointless)

I don't think they're afraid of being seen as weak, they've just been trained to not let anyone see that they got hurt. No one can see their pain, internal or external. Bruce may have trained dangerous vigilantes, but he also trained kids who can easily take a bullet and continue on with their day, and thats actually terrifying.

#Jason: talking about his book while pulling out a first aid kit #Tim: what do you need that for?#Jason: pulling to his shirt slightly to reveal bullet wound #Tim: isn't that your third time getting shot this week?#Jason: no it's my fifth #Tim rolls his eyes #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #damian wayne #cassandra cain #alfred pennyworth #batman #batfam #incorrect batfam #batfam shenanigans #batfam incorrect quotes #batfamily

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jakesimfromstatefarm · 1 month ago

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super super random but I was rewatching wall-e today (as one does) and omg why is no doubt jake so wall-e coded 😭😭 the entire movie i could not stop thinking abt no doubt jake they're just so puppy like following yn / eve around and doing anything to impress them and put a smile on their face like pls tell me im not crazy and that you see it too 😭

oh my GOD ANON WAIT this is SO CUTE I NEVER EVEN THOUGHT ABT IT THEY'RE SOOOOO WALL E x EVE CODED you're 100% right im freaking out. also thanks to you i'm literally watching wall-e as i type this up...and tell me why i never realized how FUNNY it is and how DOWNBAD wall-e is??? i wasn't planning on making this an entire offiicial post but now im watching this movie and getting inspired LOLLL wall-e is just so damn cute </3

──── JAKE & YN x WALL-E & EVE <3 ↳ requested // headcanon // part of the no doubt series !

EVERY TIME YOU SAY HIS NAME:

you know that scene where wall-e literally melts in adoration when eve says his name for the first time?

oh yeah.

that's no doubt!jake. 100%.

everytime you say his name is like music to his ears. might as well be the sounds of heaven's gates opening for the first time.

you say jake, and suddenly he's smiling like a lovesick dummy.

you say jake, and he just internally melts. completely liquifies.

you say jake, and his back straightens like a little soldier ready to serve.

and you know it too.

you know the effect on him—hence why you never call him by any pet names or nicknames like he does with you. his name alone is enough to get him twisted all around your finger.

and don't even get me started for when you say his full government name.

the second sim jaeyun slips from your mouth, or any other variation—like jaeyunnie, yunie, etc—

yup.

he passes out.

heart emojis flying out of his ears and all.

KEEPS EVERY LITTLE TRINKET:

wall-e collecting random little treasures and does a lil show & tell to impress eve?

no doubt!jake has an entire box dedicated to you.

he keeps everything you've ever given him.

the movie ticket stub from one of your first dates? it's laminated.

the note you wrote him on a sticky note when you made him lunch to bring to the studio one day? it's folded and tucked into his wallet.

he made a scrapbook of screenshots from your text convos from before you started dating. entirely unprompted. it's called 'the beginning of us'

you found a heart-shaped rock once on a picnic date.

it still sits on his desk.

to this day.

LOVES TO JUST WATCH & OBSERVE YOU:

the scene where wall-e follows eve around and just watches her do her work and he's practically in love???

OH that's SOOO no doubt!jake coded.

he LOVES to watch you do anything.

and i mean ANYTHING.

doing the dishes? he sits on a bar stool at the kitchen island, cheek resting in palm, eyes glazed over like a complete loser in love.

(because he is one)

doing homework? he's on your bed, way too invested in the way your eyes blink twice in a row whenever you're confused, or the way you bite your lip in concentration.

doing your makeup?

'jakey, you're staring again.'

'can't help it, baby, you look too good.'

BUYS YOU EVERYTHING AND ANYTHING, EVEN WITHOUT ASKING:

when you go grocery shopping, no doubt!jake just simply follows behind you.

anytime you pick up any snack or drink you seem slightly bit interested in but end up putting back, jake quietly puts it in the shopping cart without saying anything.

you pick up a drink. read the label. hum in curiosity.

then you...put it back?

jake notices.

jake retrieves.

jake puts it in the cart.

your eyes linger too long at the new snack display?

boom.

into the cart it goes.

cut to when you guys get to check out, you turn around and—

the cart is full.

'jake.'

'what.'

'we don't need all these snacks.'

'yeah, but i know you want them. don't worry. groceries on me this week.'

'you say that every week.'

WHEN YOU'RE UPSET OR MAD:

like when eve shuts down completely and wall-e's trying his best to take care of her? umbrella, sunblock, literally guarding her with his entire being?

no doubt!jake makes sure you're 100% taken care of, even when you're not in the best mood.

he will sit quietly beside you like a sad puppy, offering snacks, cuddles, drinks, forehead kisses—anything

'i brought you a blanket. it's the soft one. you like the soft one, right? should i heat it up in the dryer? i can heat it up in the dryer—'

he just wants you to be okay.

even if you're upset at him—

he doesn't even care if you can't forgive him just yet.

he just wants to make sure you're okay.

DOES THE LITTLEST THINGS IN HOPES OF IMPRESSING YOU:

no doubt!jake would wake up extra early to buy your favorite drink at the local cafe near the apartment.

and of course—he memorized your order.

iced peach latte, 70% sugar, less ice, plastic straws only. no exceptions.

he's had it down since week two of dating you.

and hasn't messed it up once.

even when he has to leave for the studio before you're up—

you wake up to your drink in the fridge, a sticky note attached to the lid:

'rise & shine, pretty <3 i love you more than you love your iced peach lattes.'

no doubt!jake builds random creations out of whatever lego set the two of you just finished building together.

you're probably cleaning up, tossing the leftover pieces into the box when suddenly—

'baby, baby, look!'

both his hands are holding up a little...

spaceship?

duck?

a lopsided house?

you lift a brow.

then, you look past the lump in his hands and at his beaming, proud, face and—

'i love it, jakey. you're so creative.'

he falls asleep with the mutant duck-ship-house on the nightstand next to his side of the bed.

with a smile on his face.

no doubt m. list

tag list! pt. 1 (open)

@bluxjun @ki2rins @why-did-i-just-do-this @favoritten @lovialymisc @xylatox @vivimura @leehsngs @puma-riki @lezzleeferguson-120 @enhaprettystars @laurradoesloveu @sievenderz @somuchdard @kristynaah @hinryh @ltfirecracker @lov4hoon @taeheexx @niyzu @chunkzdeluluwife @jakeflvrz @fangirl125reader @0429jw @dreamy-carat @yuons @thestarinstarbucks @miszes @llearlert @ppeachyttae @hoomin10 @teddybeartaetae @tanisha2060 @therealmrsbahng @beomgyu-bears @ikeulove @jiyeons-closet @youngheejay @wxnderingthoughts @fuevrois @soobundle1009 @isoobie @enhypenova @zoemeltigloos @lizdevorak @deluluscenarios @bloomiize @hasuyv @ijustwannareadstuff20 @veilstqr @dreamiestay @jakeyyyjakexoxo

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cherrylacuna · 18 days ago

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OUR JULY LOVE

Summary: A pure smut! No plot. Just drunkly (literally) in love with Hayden. Intense sex in jacuzzi —

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x f!Reader

Genre: Smut

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: Age gap, explicit sexual content (18+), soft dom!Hayden, possessiveness, oral (f receiving), praise, slight breeding kink, gentle intensity

Rating: E (Explicit)

Status: One-shot

July evenings have a way of quickly turning into night. Not because the sun sets fast—quite the opposite. It’s because you’re finally free. No responsibilities weighing you down, no one expecting anything. Just silence, stars, and the feeling that time’s paused for your sake. Above your head, constellations shine, scattered like forgotten memories. You’ve been staring at one for ages, even though you never remember its name.

You have no idea how long you’ve been sitting in that warm tub. Every now and then, your eyes drift shut—not from tiredness, but from peace. A pleasant, tingly warmth spreads across your skin, no doubt from the high temperature. Eventually, you raise your arms and rest your hands behind your neck, tilting your head back, eyes half-lidded, almost high from the heat.

But even paradise runs out.

You know it must be the middle of the night now. And leaving you alone with this much freedom? That’s just begging for trouble. You glance to the side in search of your glass. You want another sip of wine—desperately—but the bottle’s already empty. Doesn’t matter. Not when the world is already swaying around you, and you’re too far gone to care.

That’s the freedom you live for.

You rise from the jacuzzi, only to stub your toe instantly. A hiss escapes your lips, followed by a stream of expletives so poetic it’d make Shakespeare blush. Still, you keep going. You step down the stairs and into the soft grass, spinning slightly, drunk on texture and temperature. Cool air licks your wet skin—not freezing, just enough to feel after the 37-degree heat of the tub. You start walking back toward the house, the chill of the grooved terrace floor beneath your feet sending a shiver up your spine.

The alcohol’s hitting differently now—late, but loud. Still, it doesn’t stop the craving.

Inside, you head straight for the bar, grabbing the first bottle you can find. There’s barely any light, so you check the label the old-fashioned way: by tasting it. The sharp burn down your throat tells you exactly what it is. Jack Daniels. You consider the age-old wisdom about not mixing alcohols—and then hip-check the bar and spin on your heel, laughing at yourself.

Who needs a glass anyway?

You stand there in the dark, letting your hearing take over. The patio doors are still open. Crickets chirp gently, like background music. You close your eyes—though everything’s black already—and just sway, caught between tipsy and tranquil.

Then it happens.

A sudden, searing warmth ignites against your hips. You jolt, eyes flying open, like you could actually see who it is.

“Shh… it’s just me, baby,” comes the low, gravelled voice behind you. Familiar. Dangerous. Safe. Your heart jumps into your throat. It’s him. Hayden. The man you trust with your body, your mind, your destruction. Even so, your skin prickles, goosebumps rising everywhere.

“Fuck, Hayden…” you whisper, lips curling in a surprised smile.

You turn and rest your hands on his shoulders, immediately struck by how tall he is—or maybe how small you feel. The half-empty bottle in your hand clinks lightly against his chest. You forgot you were still holding it. You lift it and take another sip, heart pounding.

“What you drinkin’?” he murmurs, voice thick in your ear. He must’ve leaned in close—too close. And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is instant and wild. His lips crash against yours, his tongue slipping in to claim you like he’s got something to prove. Your breath whooshes out of your lungs. You moan into his mouth, overwhelmed. He bites your lower lip, then pulls away just as fast, leaving you chasing more.

“Whiskey?” he says in that deep Canadian rasp you love too much.

“Yeah. You want some?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. He kisses you again instead.

You stand on your toes, pressing closer to his chest. You can feel the fabric of his T-shirt—so soft, yet so annoyingly in the way.

“You’re wet, honey,” he says suddenly, lips brushing yours.

You want to claw at him. Tell him to shut up and keep kissing you. But instead, you let out a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, I was in the jacuzzi,” you say.

His hands trail down your nearly naked body. It’s like he just now realized you’re wearing only a tiny swimsuit. His long fingers slide over your hips, then cup your ass. You bite your lip. The bottle slips from your hand and lands somewhere nearby. Who cares? You’re already drunk. On him.

His fingers find the bow on the side of your bikini bottom. One tug, and the knot comes loose. Then the other. The fabric drops to the floor with a soft slap, leaving you completely exposed. Your breath catches. The only sound is your shaky breathing.

If he could see you now—naked, flushed, desperate—he’d probably smirk like the bastard he is.

“Hayden…” you say his name like a prayer.

He leans down, lips grazing your neck. You tangle your fingers into his curls. God, his hair is so soft. You wind it around your fingers and grip, hard—like you need something to hold onto before you fall apart.

“We won’t be needing that,” he murmurs, tugging the string behind your neck. It slips free. Your top falls, exposing your breasts to the warm air. His hand replaces the fabric instantly, squeezing you with no hesitation. You gasp—loud, needy. His low chuckle rumbles in your ear.

And when he tweaks your nipple between his fingers, your knees almost buckle.

Maybe you are playing with fire. And it’s burning you from the inside out.

“Maybe we should go back the jacuzzi,” he murmurs, brushing a stray lock of your damp hair behind your ear. His fingertips trail along your jaw before stopping at your mouth, gently tugging your bottom lip down. Your face heats under the touch, cheeks flushing a deeper shade.

“Fuck yes,” you breathe, slipping both hands beneath his shirt. His skin is hot—almost feverish. You push the fabric up, silently demanding he take it off. While he wrestles it over his head, you go for his.

His grip on your hips tightens just before he pushes into you—hard, deep, merciless. Your cry echoes into the night, muffled only by the crash of water around you. Your hair clings to your back, to your shoulders, floating and soaking as your body rocks forward with each thrust.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the air, raw and sinful. He doesn’t hold back. He fucks you like he owns you. Like the stars above are watching, and he wants them all to see.

You gasp, your hands slipping on the wet edge of the jacuzzi as he drives into you over and over again.

Then—smack.

His palm meets your ass with a sharp sting that makes you whimper.

Again.

And again.

“You like that, don’t you?” he growls, breath hot against your ear. “You like when I make you mine.”

“Yes,” you pant. “I’m yours. Fuck, Hayden—I’m yours.”

That’s all it takes. One hand snakes between your thighs again, and his fingers find your clit, rubbing with precision. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t hold on.

Your whole body locks up, the orgasm ripping through you like a storm. You cry out, biting down on your own arm to keep from screaming.

And just when you think you’ve come undone completely, he breaks too.

A low curse tears from his throat as he buries himself deep one last time, his release hitting him hard. His body shudders behind you, hips jerking, voice guttural and raw as he spills inside you again.

He stays like that—still, heavy, holding you—while the water settles and your breathing begins to slow.

Then you feel his hand slide up your back, gentle now, tracing your spine like he’s grounding himself with every stroke. Slowly, he leans forward and rests his forehead on your shoulder. Neither of you says anything for a long, suspended moment. The silence says everything.

And then, softly, you turn your head and whisper it into the dark:

“I love you.”

He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t falter. He just pulls you into his arms, turns you toward him, and lets you collapse onto his lap—naked, exhausted, but so incredibly full.

You rest your head on his chest, his heartbeat echoing in your ear. The stars are still above you, bright and indifferent. But now, they feel like they’re watching something sacred.

Together, you both stare up at the sky. You see the same constellation you’d noticed earlier. But this time, you remember its name.

Cassiopeia.

Thank you so much for all interactions. It's my first fanfic on Tumbrl <3

#hayden christensen #hayden christensen fanfic #hayden christensen fanfiction #hayden christensen fic #hayden christensen smut #hayden christensen x fem reader #hayden christensen x reader #hayden christensen x you #smutty fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #smut #im literally just a girl #simping

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paystubusa · 1 month ago

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Why You Should Generate 1099 MISC Online Tool This Tax Season

This Generator 1099 Form Online tool will simplify the process. So you can save time and minimise the overall risks. Then ease your work and focus on other tasks, which is essential. By exploring all these details, you might get an idea of how to make everything easier in your administration process.

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astonmartinii · 1 year ago

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girl, so confusing | max verstappen social media au

pairing: max verstappen x fem norris!reader

will "norstappen" will work it out on the remix?

note: obvs everything here is hearsay and all a big fat joke i am just venting my frustrations with whatever the fuck lando just said after that race

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR |

- part of the brother's best friend series -

yourusername

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri and 783,049 others

tagged: maxverstappen1

yourusername: we don't just let people by because we have a big lead in the championship (that's actually how you end up with a big lead) btw.

view all comments

user5: WELCOME BACK OUTWARDLY BITCHY Y/N I'VE MISSED YOU

user6: the atmosphere shifted, my skin has cleared and the birds are singing

user7: i didn't think it would be against her own brother BUT WE'LL TAKE WHAT WE CAN GET

maxverstappen1: can you do all my media for me - you give a lot better sound bites than i ever could

yourusername: all my sound bites would be completely unusable

yourusername: cause if they thought you had a potty mouth oh boy they have another thing coming

danielricciardo: it's true i was around her when she stubbed her toe once, it was like shakespeare but concerning

alexalbon: or that one referee against chelsea, i've never heard so many creative insults

maxverstappen1: okay but my thoughts exactly

yourusername: twitter would cancel me baby

maxverstappen1: everyone wants cunty f1 back until i make contact and you ... open your mouth?

user8: not like all of lando's friends either being in the likes or the comments

user9: bro is fighting for his life in the GC after that press run

user10: i think y/n got all the sass cause lando that was not the diva statement you thought it was

landonorris: before you delete i already sent it to mum

yourusername: i'm not deleting it you big baby you gotta stand on your words bro

landonorris: nuh uh

yourusername: i can feel you pouting YOUR 24 YEARS OLD

landonorris: but i'm still your baby brother

yourusername: not with this PR strategy

landonorris: MAX WAS IN THE WRONG

yourusername: 1. i watched the ten laps before lando i'm not dumb 2. i support his rights and wrongs 3. you still won driver of the day and i thought that's what meant the most to you

user11: oh she gagged him

user12: can we get a rupaul's drag race reading challenge in f1 but it's just y/n reading the drivers PLEASE

charles_leclerc: literally all you have to do is spend 10 minutes with her in the paddock

maxverstappen1

liked by charles_leclerc, yourusername and 1,304,599

tagged: yourusername

maxverstappen1: still got my favourite norris on side and that's all that matters

view all comments

user13: someone check on lando cause DIVA IS DOWN

user14: diva is dead and buried at this point

user15: they're dancing on diva's grave

landonorris: DO YOU PEOPLE MIND ???

maxverstappen1: who is this random fan in my comments?

landonorris: i'm definitely not a fan of yours after this weekend

maxverstappen1: oh then let me add you to my block list

charles_leclerc: i thought unfollowing each other after a race in austria was our thing max :(

maxverstappen1: yes that's why i'm going to block him not just unfollow

charles_leclerc: oh good 😊

yourusername: and that's why i'm ready to get rid of the name altogether

maxverstappen1: i think you suit verstappen so much more anyway

yourusername: i'm ready when you are

landonorris: really? ENGAGEMENT TALK ON A POST THAT DISSES ME

yourusername: a diss? you don't want your sister to be happy? or am i not your sister anymore since max isn't your friend anymore?

landonorris: IT WAS ONE QUOTE LIKE TEN MINUTES AFTER BEING CRASHED OUT OF THE LEAD

yourusername: * second-place

landonorris: STOP IT

yourusername: don't dish it if you can't take it buddy

user16: not this brocedes era for max and lando

yourusername: @lewishamilton @nicorosberg i am so sorry they're minimising your trauma like this

user17: so real of you

yourusername

liked by alexalbon, maxverstappen1 and 934,098 others

tagged: maxverstappen1 & landonorris

yourusername: when you forgot that you invited your boyfriend to stay at the family home before the british grand prix and arranged a big family dinner and the flight back to england and your boyfriend and brother decide to try and kill each other in the race and have now 'ended' their friendship.... relatable!

view all comments

user21: the footage... GIVE IT TO ME, SHOW IT TO ME RACHEL

yourusername: most excruiting three hours of my life boys are so dramatic

user22: shock horror mad max and norrif are holding grudges

yourusername: IF i didn't have the patience of a saint i would've gone mad max on their asses and mclaren would've been down a driver

user23: out here threatening the victim and not the aggressor

yourusername: now why would i attack my trophy husband?

landonorris: i didn't make the plane ride awkward HE MADE THE PLANE RIDE AWKWARD

yourusername: we tried to nap but the heat from your death glare kept us up

landonorris: THAT'S NOT MY FAULT

yourusername: it's kind of expressly your fault, you could've taken your anger out on a pillow or a 12 piece wing meal like a normal person

landonorris: max's jet doesn't offer wings

maxverstappen1: get your own jet then

yourusername: @ryanair we have a new customer for you

landonorris: NO I'M SORRY

maxverstappen1: finally

landonorris: just for your jet not having wings, you're still the one in the wrong overall

user24: i fear lando may not see his sister back in the mclaren garage for the rest of the season

user25: i mean she looks better in blue anyway

liked by maxverstappen1

oscarpiastri: can we please move on lando your attitude is stinking up the gaff

landonorris: 1. wtf osc you're meant to be on my side 2. where the fuck did you learn that

oscarpiastri: while you've been sulking in your childhood bedroom i've been taking in the normal norris hospitality

yourusername: he'll get over it he did this all the time when we were younger - he'll come back and join when dinner is finished

landonorris: TELL MAX TO APOLOGISE

yourusername: i guess you don't want any of these profiteroles then ...

maxverstappen1: i'm eating them all lol

landonorris: FINE GOD DAMN

landonorris

liked by yourusername, maxverstappen1 and 1,674,099 others

tagged: maxverstappen1 & yourusername

landonorris: i think i just got gentle parented (brought matching jellycats) into forgiving max

view all comments

user28: about fucking time

user29: baby had his first real dose of wheel to wheel racing for a win and wanted to throw away a friendship

user30: good thing his sister never knows when to shut the fuck up and humbled these men cause lord knows without her lando would still be chatting shit in the media

yourusername: someones got to make sure lando doesn't embarrass himself (idk where his PR department went but mclaren need to run me my money)

maxverstappen1: girl, so confusing when you literally forget all about it as soon as we got you the jellycat you wanted

landonorris: i am a little brother first and foremost

yourusername: hard on the little you've been acting like a whole ass five year old

landonorris: have you ever thought that maybe i'm acting out because i miss you now you've moved in with max and wanted matching jellycats so we always have a part of each other??

yourusername: awww really???

maxverstappen1: that's actually kind of cute

maxverstappen1: and a hunk of BULLSHIT

landonorris: FINE I'M PETTY BUT I WANTED TO WIN SUE ME

maxverstappen1: well i also wanted to win so that's not the serve you think it is

yourusername: you only 'forgave' him because you saw that max was playing padel with charles

landonorris: umm yes obviously, i can't let lestappen be a real thing

yourusername: why not that's literally my dream threesome

yourusername: WHAT WHO SAID THAT

yourusername: lando i think your comment section is haunted

charles_leclerc: well i'm ... flattered

landonorris: you can have lestappen you weirdo

maxverstappen1: @charles_leclerc stop being flattered i don't share

yourusername: heheheheh

landonorris: that much is obvious... you couldn't let me win once?

maxverstappen1: no!

yourusername: no!

fin: here's a lil quick one today cause i had some free time! i am working on guilty as sin p4 but i'm so so so busy and i do be going to silverstone on wednesday xx hope you enjoyed !!!

#f1 #f1 x you #f1 social media au #f1 instagram au #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #max verstappen fluff #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen x reader #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen social media au

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girlkisser13 · 1 year ago

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dating dick grayson would include

• dick loves physical affection so whenever he sees you be prepared for some form of touch— pda is not really an issue for him.

• forehead kisses, nose kisses, neck kisses, just so many. he aims to kiss you at least twice a day, it's become a type of ritual that he lives for. sweet kisses, long sensual kisses, make out sessions— just so many.

• damian LOVES you, you're basically a mother figure to him and he will happily challenge grayson for your attention.

• he comes over randomly and sometimes stays the night after patrol because he thinks so highly of you.

• dick is so happy you get along with his family, especially damian, but on some occasions when his little brother stays the night he's a little frustrated since he wanted some personal one on one time with you.

• he puts so much effort into your dates, he's hardly around long enough for you to go on regular ones so when you both have the time you can bet he'll go all out in an attempt to make up for what he's missed.

• if he gets called away for a mission on dates dick is really upset about it. like he'll answer the phone and his face will just drop, you can tell by his expression that's he's got to leave before he even tells you.

• when he gets back he'll do anything for you, make you breakfast in bed, cuddle, kiss you or any other fun suggestions he can think of. <33

• when his is on a mission, he will drop everything he is doing to make sure you’re okay.

• one time, he left jason to fight off a mob alone just because you called to say you stubbed your toe. jason still isn’t over that.

• brags about you quite often, his friends know exactly who you are and totally willing to look out for your safety.

• he buys you a bunch of nightwing merch. nightwing pajamas, nightwing bedsheets, nightwing purses. everything nightwing. sometimes robin.

• he really likes when you wear them, it makes him SOO proud.

• dick LIVES to hear you laugh. there is no joke too dirty, no expression too silly, no story too embarrassing. he will do and say whatever it takes to get you rolling, no matter how foul your mood.

• he loves to be fussed over. when you baby his injuries, neaten his hair/clothes, or barrage him with daily text updates and check-ins, he feels valued. it’s not about clingyness or ego, it’s about feeling prioritized. <33

• so long as you’re not being condescending, every little thoughtful thing you do or say is cataloged and recalled with affection.

• dick would be that kind of boyfriend who would gladly go shopping with you, he would excitedly run through the shop looking for the perfect outfits for you. he would patiently wait until you try on the clothes he chose for you (the whole store) and he would pay for everything.

• he loves if you read to him before bed, you tell him he is such a kid but he just enjoys listening to your voice. if he hears your voice before sleeping he has the sweetest dreams.

• he shows you his acrobatic moves all the time just to impress you.

• like you can’t reach the top of the shelf and instead of just helping you grab the item you need he jumps in the air does like three flips and lands with whatever you need in his hands. he definitely bows after doing this.

• he loves you so much he can't even explain it, but he constantly tries to. <33

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the-shedevil-writes · 2 months ago

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Breathin' (Bob Floyd x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You’ve always kept your anxiety to yourself, not wanting to burden your boyfriend, Bob, with the weight of it. The last thing you want is to be too much. But when Rooster’s birthday lands you in the middle of a loud and crowded bar, things spiral fast. Overstimulated and overwhelmed, you try to hold it together… until you can’t. WORD COUNT: 4.1k WARNINGS: Anxiety disorder. Panic attacks. Drinking. Character gets grabbed. NOTES: This is TOTALLY not based off my own anxiety disorder and panic attacks!!! Not AT ALL! Not even a little bit... (Okay maybe a little bit). Also I didn't know whether to keep it originally as my self insert character or make it X Reader. But I figured more people liked X reader... *shrug* Let me know what you think. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3

It was a combination of things over the past year that caused Y/n to develop her general anxiety. The people and flings who had destroyed her self-worth. The struggles she had with self-care that were substantiated by her full-to-the-brim schedule. And her lack of a proper diet due to time constraints surely didn’t help. It was a beautiful cacophony of ingredients to force her to recover from a period of major (and daily) panic attacks.

So by the time she and Bob had started dating, she felt this heavy burden on her shoulders. She decided that she would do anything to keep Bob out of it. He was her boyfriend, not her therapist, and she fully lived by that idea. Especially because they had only been together for five months. She didn’t want to scare him off.

It’s not that she kept it a secret. Bob knew. He knew that she had been seeing a therapist, but she didn’t like talking about what they discussed, so he didn’t pry. He watched her chew the ends of her sleeves to oblivion and her nails to stubs. He watched as she would forget to eat and get headaches that were difficult to manage. So he did his best to help out behind the scenes. Suggesting a new restaurant for them to try on days she didn’t eat. Filling up her water bottle. Scratching her head and shoulders when she was tense. They had to be things she didn’t notice, otherwise she’d feel this overwhelming guilt. But he held a sense of pride in being able to notice her tells and signals.

It was Rooster’s birthday, and all he asked for was for the group to go with him downtown to a new bar. Of course, she and Bob weren’t going to miss it. It had been a long day for the both of them, but Rooster was practically family at this point. He deserved to have a fun night with his friends.

She rationalized in her head as Bob struggled to find parking. It’s just a bar. It’s gonna be just like Hard Deck, and she’s been there plenty of times. She’s been to plenty of bars before. This one would be no different.

Bob looked over at her, practically seeing the smoke coming out of her overthinking head. He reached over, grabbed her hand, and gave it a kiss. “You excited?” He asked, testing the waters.

She nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. Excited to see Rooster drunk out of his mind tonight.” She joked.

He chuckled, finally finding a space in the very back. He backed the truck in, wrapping his arm around her headrest. His tongue stuck out slightly between his teeth as he focused.

She sighed gently and grabbed a pocket mirror from her purse to check her makeup. Her lipstick was already cracking, so she dug in her purse for a lip gloss. Once he put the car in park, he looked over at her as she applied it. When she noticed his stare from the corner of her eye, she laughed.

“What?” She said, still checking her lips.

“Nothing. Just admiring how pretty you are.” He said cheesily.

“Shut up.” She laughed, blushing. “Thank you.”

There was a small moment of silence as she rubbed her lips together and put her lipstick and mirror away. She looked over, surprised he wasn’t getting out of the car yet.

“You ready?”

He nodded, but sat there for a second before saying, “We don’t have to stay for long if you don’t want to.” He offered.

She looked at him, a little surprised and confused. “Do you not want to stay long?”

He shrugged, “I don’t care much. But I know how you feel in new and loud places.”

There it was. That sense of embarrassment bubbled in her chest. She didn’t wanna make him leave if he didn’t want to. And she felt that even if he was offering her an out right now, that couldn’t be his true feelings. What if he wanted to stay? What if he felt obligated to stay by her side? Bob was a good man. He would never leave her side if she so much as asked. But… she didn’t want him to feel stuck.

She shook her head. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a bar.”

He nodded, “Just say the word.” He said before taking the key out of the ignition and getting out of the car.

They walked down the busy downtown street. She held his hand as he led her through the crowd. Why did Rooster’s birthday have to be on an autumn Friday night? The avenue of bars was packed, and they hadn’t even made it to the bar yet. He squeezed her hand in reassurance without looking back, too focused on finding the clearest path and checking his text from Rooster that said they were outside.

She spotted the tall mustache next to Hangman and Phoenix in line outside a big blue brick building. “Over there!” She yelled over the crowd.

Bob looked at where she pointed them out and nodded, adjusting his course that way. The three noticed them and cheered upon arrival.

“There they are! We were getting worried!” Rooster announced.

She put on a smile, but she couldn’t help but note the tightness in her chest. Her vision felt blurred after whipping her head around the crowd so much.

“Happy birthday, big guy.” She said, reaching up to hug him.

Rooster hugged her, then hugged Bob after his greeting.

“Glad you guys could make it.” He said, “Now, who’s ready to get demolished?”

They laughed, but both Bob and she knew they’d only have a few drinks. Neither of them liked to get too tipsy. Well, at least if they were going home together. They’d rather make good use of their time rather than drooling, passed out. Plus, Bob was driving; he’d have to sober up before the end of the night anyway. So he couldn’t ‘get demolished’ even if he wanted to.

As they drew closer to the door, the music was already blasting so loudly that it rumbled the sidewalk. They all made conversation, and she did her best to be part of it, but she wasn’t contributing as much as she normally would. She was so focused on trying not to seem distracted that, funnily enough, she ended up looking distracted.

But luckily, the music was good. If the music wasn’t familiar, she’d already be a wreck. Music always grounded her in situations. And she became a mean drunk at parties with a bad playlist.

She sang along to Mariah Carey’s ‘Fantasy’ and dramatically nodded to Bob as she sang all the words. He gently started singing along and bobbing his head as well, matching the energy. She giggled, and he looked down at her, relieved.

Once they got their IDs checked and through the door, she looked around in the darkness. The space somehow managed to be huge and claustrophobic at the same time. With high ceilings and a crowded floor, it felt almost worse than outside. She tried to keep bobbing her head to the music and looking around at the green and pink lasers lighting the air. To the left of them was a glass bar lit up bright blue, and to their right was a retro-style arcade. Bob instantly looked at her with his jaw dropped, clearly excited to see the arcade, and she chuckled at how cute he looked. To the front of them was the dance floor that was packed with people jumping. This felt more like a nightclub than a bar, though these days there wasn’t much of a difference. But when she had heard that Rooster wanted to go to a new bar, she expected something closer to Hard Deck. She tried to keep her mind open.

They miraculously found an open table to stand around.

“Shots on me, for the birthday boy,” Hangman said, patting Rooster’s back, and he swatted him away jokingly.

Shots? Was she about to take a shot? She looked over at Bob, but he was a little distracted by the spectacle of it all. Well, she could do it just this once for Rooster.

“Isn’t this place awesome?” Rooster yelled over the music.

She nodded. “It’s nice! Loud!”

They all laughed at that.

“Sure ain’t Hard deck,” Phoenix commented.

After a few more minutes, Hangman came back, balancing a handful of shot glasses in his hands. Y/n quickly reached out, grabbing a few so they wouldn’t drop.

“Have some faith in me, Y/n! I used to waiter.” He joked, passing out the shots.

She looked down at the liquid, unsure of what it was. “What is it?” She asked

“Just a Green Tea Shot. I was nice today.” Hangman said, and that instantly relieved her. Green Tea Shots were easy. They tasted good, and they didn’t consist of any vodka or tequila. “We gotta start out slow, then ramp our way up,” Hangman said, gesturing a ramp with his hands.

“Remember, I’m driving, fellas. This is it for me.” Bob said.

Hangman and Rooster booed him jokingly. Though they’d never let him drink and drive, and would probably kill him before he did it with his girlfriend in the car.

“Why didn’t you get an Uber like a sane person?” Rooster asked.

Bob knew why. If something happened, he wanted to be there for her and be able to go straight home. He didn’t want the additional stress of realizing that Uber’s were forty dollars at 11 PM. It’s not like he wanted to drink anyway.

He shrugged. “I forgot-”

“Are we gonna take these shots or what?” Phoenix yelled out, making Y/n laugh as they had been holding their drinks for so long now.

“Alright, ready?” Hangman raised his glass, “To Rooster! Happy Birthday!”

Everybody else followed suit, yelling out ‘Happy Birthday!’. She took back the shot with ease. She used to do this all the time back in college. She used to party and go to bars every weekend. Dressing up and going out used to be her favorite thing to do. Yet now, when the bass of the speakers rocked through her whole body, she felt sick to her stomach.

After taking back the shot and a few celebratory cheers, she looked up at Bob. “Wanna look at the arcade?” She asked, already knowing his answer.

His face lit up at that, and he nodded vigorously. He looked at the others. “We’re gonna go check out the games.” He announced.

The other three nodded. “We’re gonna drink some more. If you need to find us, we’ll probably be out dancing.” Rooster said.

Okay. That sounded like a good plan. She took Bob’s hand and they walked over to the section. It was a narrower hall, but there were much fewer people, and the speakers didn’t quite reach the area as hard. She was already sweaty, and she felt that sense of dread in her stomach, but this section of the bar felt a little better.

She already knew what game he wanted to play first. Galaga. Bob was a secret nerd for retro games, and that was his favorite. He had an Atari 7800 plugged into his TV that he tried to hide from her during one of their first dates. He didn’t want to seem like a huge nerd, but that all faded away when they ended that date playing Pac-Man together until the early hours of the morning.

She started leading him towards it, but Bob stopped in his tracks, pulling her back into him. She let out an “OOF” and a laugh as she bumped into his chest, looking up at him now. He smiled down at her as he cupped her face. But his expression turned serious for a second.

“You doing okay?” He asked, brushing his thumbs over her hairline.

She took in a shaky breath. “Yeah! Yeah, I’m doing fine.”

He tilted his head, almost unbelieving. “You sure?”

But now she was getting a little irritated. Why couldn’t he just leave it alone? Was she not doing a good enough job? Was she not being lively enough? Were people noticing?

“I’m fine, Bob. Seriously. Let’s go play some games.” She said sternly.

He looked into her eyes gently for a second, then smiled. “Okay, baby.” He said before kissing her quickly.

Bob played the first round of Galaga on his own, and she watched amused. She wasn’t even watching the screen for half the time. She just liked watching his focused face, like the one he made earlier when he was backing up the car. His lips slightly parted, and his brows furrowed down. The reflection of the pixel battleships lit up the lenses of his glasses.

“You’re playing next.” He said, smiling mid-round. He knew that he could take a while playing this by himself, so he didn’t want to leave her out.

“Bob!” She whined, “You know I’m the worst at this one.”

“I’ll show you.”

That’s how the next round she ended up in front of the machine, and he stood behind her. His hands overlapped hers on the joystick. She couldn’t stop the fit of giggles.

“Annnnd then you gotta go left left left left.” He said, nudging the joystick in her hands. She still did the same movements, but he could’ve totally just been the one in control. “Right right right right!”

She laughed, so happy to just be with him. He rested his chin on her shoulder as they looked at the screen together. The little spaceship moved along with them. As the next round prepared, he pressed a kiss to her cheek.

“Stay focused!” She squealed, and for a moment, it was like all her anxiety had gone. Her tense heart and stomach relaxed. She didn’t feel nauseous or scared. It was the perfect distraction.

After that round, Rooster, Hangman, and Phoenix came by a little sweatier and a little more drunk.

“What’s up, nerds?” Hangman teased as they walked up.

She smiled, and Bob laughed at their disheveled appearance.

“Well, you guys definitely hit the dance floor,” Bob noted.

“And three more tequila shots.” Phoenix nodded with closed eyes. That’s when Rooster looked down at Y/n. “Come on, let’s get you a drink, sister. Since you’ve got a DD tonight.”

She hesitated, and she looked up at Bob nervously, but he must have misconstrued it as asking for permission.

“If you want to, you can.” He said, and it’s not like he would’ve told her no if she was asking in the first place. “I’m staying sober now.”

“Uh- I mean- Sure?” She said to the group, and how could she say no when they all cheered her like that? She smiled, but it felt like it didn’t quite reach her eyes. It was getting harder to block out the noise, and she was getting more tired. Maybe the drink would help loosen her up?

They all made their way over to the bar.

“Going to the bathroom,” Bob said to her as they went up to order, and she nodded with a smile. She watched him walk off, trying to find it.

Next thing she knew, Rooster had four shots of brown liquor on the bartop.

“What are we doing?” Phoenix asked, a little gone.

“Jagerbombs,” Rooster smirked.

Huh? She had never had that before. Hangman nodded in approval, and that made her worried now. Any drink approved by Jake Seresin should be seriously reviewed. But they were already holding their glasses up, and she didn’t want to ask. She grabbed her shot glass and quickly caught up.

“To Y/n!” Rooster cheered. Oh god, to her?

She chuckled nauseously and threw back the shot, and was met with fire. She instantly started to cough once it went down. Rooster quickly patted her back.

“You good?”

She nodded. It had tasted like cough syrup mixed with sriracha. And it was somehow fizzy. “What was that?” She asked, her chest actually hurting now.

“A Jagerbomb. It’s like liqueur with redbull!” He shouted over the music.

“Oh!” Fuck. Caffeine was the last thing she needed in her system.

It’s okay. It was only two shots. She told herself. It took seven to bring you down, Freshman year. But that was… how long ago now?

“We should dance,” Phoenix said with wide eyes now, excitedly looking at her. The thought of that crowd made her chest feel like it was concaving in on itself. And she was still recovering from the horrible shot. But Phoenix looked so excited, and Rooster and Hangman were already walking their way over there.

She nodded and followed Phoenix to the crowded dance floor. It was then that she realized that they hadn’t played a song she knew in a while. The fun 2000s pop was now replaced by hardcore rap that she didn’t recognize. She tried to weave through the crowd, awkwardly moving to the beat so she could watch and support her friend.

But now they were near the middle of the masses. She looked back to where she came from, and could just barely see past to the bar. Her heart pounded in her ears. Why was she gonna cry right now? Nothing was happening. She took in a shaky breath and tried to dance, but it was weirdly stilted.

Then someone shoved into her, and she fell forward with a yelp, just barely catching herself in her heels.

“Hey!” She yelled, facing back, but the people had already gone. And when she turned back around, Phoenix was gone. Oh no. She looked around frantically. Sure, Phoenix could get lost in the crowd, but Rooster and Hangman had to be tall enough to be noticed. Yet… they were nowhere to be seen.

Now her breathing picked up. She felt this sense of dread course through her whole body as her hands started to shake. Tears pricked her eyes, and the harder she tried to suppress them, the worse her chest tightened. People were pushing and pulling her, and she struggled to maintain her balance.

Then, at the worst possible moment, a complete drunkard came up behind her and wrapped his grubby hands around her hips. She quickly screamed and pushed him off of her. She wanted to yell and cuss him out, but she froze, and he just stumbled on with his eyes half-lidded.

She started to cry. Really cry now. Her hand pressed to her chest, and she could feel her heart racing against the bass of the music. She couldn’t gain a bearing on her surroundings, as she felt like she was on a teacup ride. Everywhere just looked like a blur of people and purple darkness. Shadows danced and engulfed her as the dance floor blinked rapidly with a strobe light effect. The most intense selection they could’ve made.

Finally, after a panicked moment, she just started moving. She needed to go somewhere, whether it was the right direction or not, didn’t matter. Getting through the crowd was difficult as people bumped into her and shoved against her, going the opposite direction. When she finally appeared on the other side of a mass, she didn’t realize that Bob had spotted her.

He quickly ran over to her, working his way through the crowd as fast as he could. When he reached her, she finally saw clearly through her tears enough to recognize his face, and she quickly shoved her face into his chest, crying.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Bob asked, worried, over the music.

She shook her head, frozen. Her lungs were on fire, as she could barely breathe.

“Let’s go outside. Let’s get some fresh air.” He said, wrapping his arm around her.

They made their way out of the bar. He quickly sent a text to Rooster that they had to go outside and not to bother them with his free hand.

The second they got into a clearing outside she sucked in a sharp inhale. As if she had been holding her breath that whole time. He walked her to a low brick wall a decent bit away from everybody else, and sat her down. The bumping music was much fainter now. It was like everything else was washing away to sea.

“Breathe, baby, breathe.” He reminded her.

She took in a shaky deep breath, just like her therapist had told her to do. Counting in her head. It was a basic exercise that everyone knew. But it sometimes managed to actually work.

“I-I’m so-” She stammered.

He tilted his head, confused.

“I’m so s-stupid.” She finally let out with a cry. Her face crumpled, and tears streamed down.

His eyes widened. “What?!” He asked, surprised, “No, you’re not. Baby, what on earth are you talking about?” “I used to be fun.” She whined, and she felt the two shots buzzing in her head. She swore she wasn’t that much of a lightweight. But she also didn’t know what the hell else was in that Jagerbomb. “Now- Now I’m just scared. Of everything. I-I don’t know what happened to me.” She sobbed.

He sat down next to her now, wrapping his arm around her. “You’re so fun.” He said softly, “You have a little anxiety, but that doesn’t mean you’re not fun.” He shushed.

She sniffled, “I got lost on the dance floor, and- and this guy like grabbed me and- It was like I couldn’t figure out where I was.”

He listened. Even though he wanted to interrogate her, find this douchebag and kill him. He just listened, scratching the back of her head.

“And I couldn’t find anyone. And my heart hurt and my head-” She hiccuped.

“Take some more deep breaths for me.” Bob reminded her.

She nodded and listened to him. After a shivering breath, she wiped her eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head. “Don’t even apologize. Never do for this sorta thing.”

“But I ruined the night.”

He chuckled, and for some reason, that helped. “No, you didn’t. I got to go out and play Galaga with my girlfriend. That’s like… straight out of my dreams.”

That made her laugh, and in turn, they both loosened up. Now that the music was fainter, they could hear the nighttime crickets chirping and the soothing rush of cars on the distant freeway. A cool breeze came by, and she quickly huddled against him for warmth. He rubbed her arm, trying his best to warm her up despite them being in the sweatiest building ever ten minutes prior.

“I didn’t want you to get roped into this.” She whispered into his shoulder.

He shook his head again, “Y/n, when I say that I want all of you. I really mean all of you. I actively want to take care of you. It’s not something I feel that I have to do.” He explained, looking down at her. He looked straight into her eyes, wanting to get the point across. “You’re my girl. I want to be there for you.”

She looked at him, just shocked for a second, before burying her face back into his chest and sniffling. She nodded slowly, letting him know that she accepted it.

“Idea,” Bob started, squeezing her shoulder, “We go to my place. I plug the Atari into my bedroom, and we can play Pac-Man until you fall asleep.”

“But what about Rooster’s birthday?” She asked, hiccuping.

“I’ll go in and say bye for us while you sit in the car with the heater on. Need you to set up a good playlist for the drive home.” He stated this like it was a mission. “How does that sound?”

She nodded, making eye contact again, and the sight broke his heart. Her teary eyes and red face. Her eyes were all big and droopy in an exhausted way. “That sounds good.” She said, Then suddenly her eyes widened as she lit up slightly, “Oh- and- and I left ice cream in your freezer last time.” She suggested.

He kissed her forehead. “Perfect.”

Lying in Bob’s warm sheets, she curled against Bob’s chest as they played. Her voice was still a little hoarse from all the crying and yelling, but a relaxed smile appeared on her face. Bob would look down and check on her from time to time to make sure that beautiful smile was still on.

Once they both died, she let out an “Aw!” and put her controller down. He chuckled at her disappointment. He gently traced his fingers up the side of her arm.

“Hey… I had a fun night tonight.” He reassured softly.

She looked up and nodded with a small smile. “Mine got better.”

“I want you to tell me next time, okay? If you’re nervous or anxious.” He said, “I can help. Unless you really and truly don’t want it.”

She sighed and nodded. “Okay. I promise I will next time. Only if you promise to do the same.”

He chuckled. “Of course.”

#top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic #bob floyd #lewis pullman #lewis pullman fic #robert floyd #robert floyd fic #top gun #bob floyd x female reader #bob floyd x reader #Bob floyd fic #bob floyd fanfic #bob floyd x you #top gun fanfic #robert bob floyd #robert bob floyd fanfic #top gun fic #top gun maverick fanfic

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ssahotchnerr · 9 months ago

Note

how about hotch fluff with reader who's love language is acts of services?

a bit longer

oh to spoil and love on aaron 🥰 cw; fem!reader, established relationship, fluff <3

You'd do anything to make Aaron's life easier.

He worked tremendously hard, took on a lot - things, scenarios beyond your own comprehension, and still came home as the loving, extraordinary man he was, both as a partner and a father.

You wanted to help in any way you could. Even if that meant setting an alarm for far too early.

He's told you before, and it wasn't surprising either, he would wake up early while on a case, to iron his suit jacket as needed. And while it made perfect sense, you weren't afraid to admit it tugged at your heartstrings in a melancholy, endearing way.

Last night, Aaron had gotten home much later than he would have liked, missed seeing Jack altogether, as he was already asleep. He ate a quick dinner, and climbed into bed with you.

As a result, he hadn't been in the best mood going to sleep, especially considering he had to wake up early to iron the one suit he had at home - he defeatedly expressed as he got comfortable. The rest were at the cleaners, which was closed by the time he left the office. He even uttered the consideration of using the spare jacket he left at the office.

Aaron didn't get enough sleep to begin with. And unbeknownst to him, after he quickly drifted off, you sneakily shut off his alarm and turned yours on.

Six in the morning came fast. The second the tone rang, you shut it off, hoping it hadn't managed to awake Aaron. You laid there silently for a moment or two, just to ensure he hadn't stirred. He was either the world's heaviest sleeper, or the lightest, depending on the day.

When you were confident he hadn't, you slipped out of bed. Slowly. Lifting the arm slung over your waist and setting it gently aside, peeling back the blanket, or Aaron didn't subconsciously feel your weight leaving the comfort of bed. You exited the bedroom just as leisurely - heading towards the laundry room and hoping you didn't stub your toe in the dark hallway in the process.

His suit was already hung and waiting, right where he left it the night before. After blinking several times to adjust to the light, you clicked the iron on, yawning as you waited for it to warm up.

You turned his suit jacket inside out, preventing any potential damage to the material. In addition, you triple checked the heat setting, making sure it was the proper one. You started with the back: laying it flat on the board and gliding it along the surface in a steady motion.

The floor creaked behind you. Glancing behind your shoulder, you saw Aaron leaning against the doorframe, rubbing his eye.

"What're you doing up?" He asked, raspy.

You ignored his question, offering a gentle, lazy smile in return. "Go back to sleep."

His eyebrows furrowed over his eyes as he observed you. He was thoroughly - and adorably - more confused due to his sleep induced haze. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing you need to worry about. So go back to sleep." You insisted softly, resuming your task. But contrary to your words, a pair of arms wrapped around your waist. It was all too easy to lean back into Aaron's embrace.

"Ironing my suit?" His voice was closer now, at level with your ear. The proximity enhanced his sexy, deep morning voice. "What time is it?"

"That's not important." You teased with a shrug, flipping his jacket to tackle the front next. Your following few words left you nonchalantly, as if it were no big deal. And it wasn't. "I changed yours, and set mine."

He blinked, still waking up and still trying to comprehend what was happening. "Why?"

"So you could get more sleep."

His hold on you loosened slightly, pleasantly surprised. "You didn't need to do that."

"I know." You simply put it, pressing down on the jacket's lapels. "I wanted to."

"I could've-"

"Honey, you don't get nearly enough sleep as it is. If me doing this," you shook the iron lightly for emphasis, "means you get an extra thirty minutes, I want you to get those thirty extra minutes. And besides, I wanna help. You come home stressed and your job is demanding and I want to make things easier on you. You do a lot for others, for me, and I want to repay the favor."

You hadn't meant to go off on a tangent, but it was true. You only wished you could give him the whole world (But if someone asked Aaron, you already had).

"Watch where you wave that thing." Aaron quipped, his tone a humorous deadpan. A smile tugged at the ends of his lips, his arms retightening around you, squeezing you lovingly. "You're sweet."

You blushed at the simple compliment, "And you work too hard."

"Then it's a good thing I have you to slow me down." He kissed your temple, and you could just feel the love radiating off him, he didn't need to verbally say it. "Thank you sweetheart. Seriously."

"You're welcome, now will you please go back to bed? Or do I need to threaten you with the iron again?"

Aaron laughed, a hand squeezing your hip affectionately. "Only if you join me. I could care less if my suit has one more, minor wrinkle if it means I get to lay with you a bit longer."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fluff #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x fem!reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds drabble #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfiction #hotch imagine #criminal minds x fem!reader

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pullmecloseman · 9 days ago

Text

MICKEY & MINNIE

Summary: The Dagger Squad touches down in Orlando for a chaotic family trip to Disney World. With Bob, you, and the kids sharing a room, and the rest of the squad crammed into neighboring suites, the first day at Magic Kingdom is pure madness — from wild Space Mountain rides to parade stampedes, lunch disasters, and a nighttime group chat meltdown. Between sugar highs, bathroom wars, and stroller battles, it’s clear: this isn’t just a vacation… it’s survival.

Boyfriend!Bob Floyd x reader

Word count: 13.2k

A/N: someone make a count on how many times i changed noah’s backpack design cause i honestly don’t even remember how this happened 😭

Warnings: extreme Disney chaos, mention of injury (toe stubbing), chaotic group text humor, parenting struggles, excessive snacks, parade-related mayhem, sleep-deprived squad antics, children on sugar highs, Hangman being dramatic, Bob being exhausted but adorable

main masterlist | boyfriend!bob masterlist | disneyworld masterlist

It all started with your niece and nephew saying how much they wanted to go to disney world, and what kind of favourite auntie and uncle would you and bob be if you didn’t make it happen?

The morning started off with the sound of your phone vibrating off the nightstand. Then again from the kitchen counter. And then — horrifyingly — from inside the fridge, where your niece Mia had apparently left it after digging out her Go-Gurt and yelling something about “Disney brain.”

You groaned, crawling out from under the tangle of blankets, already half regretting your decision to let the kids roam free while you and Bob scrambled to get everything ready. The suitcase by your bed was still half-unpacked, with socks and a Mickey Mouse hat spilling out like casualties of the previous night’s frantic packing session.

“Where’s my water bottle?” Noah shouted from the hallway, sprinting in socks on the hardwood, tripping straight into Bob’s legs.

“I packed it, I swear I packed it, Uncle Bob—”

“It’s clipped to your backpack, bud,” Bob said calmly, hands in his pockets as he stood barefoot in front of the coffee machine like the eye of the hurricane, steam rising in lazy clouds. He stirred his cup with the practiced ease of a man who’d done this dance a hundred times before—coffee, chaos, repeat.

You shuffled into the kitchen, narrowly missing a pile of brightly colored backpacks that the kids had dumped like grenades. Mia, already buzzing with too much energy for the hour, zipped past you in her Stitch onesie, clutching a handful of Minnie Mouse plushes and one of Hangman’s aviator sunglasses, which somehow made the whole scene even funnier.

“I need Mickey ears!” she squealed, hopping up on a chair like a caffeinated squirrel.

“No, you don’t,” you groaned, running both hands down your face, stepping over a half-zipped suitcase and bumping into your boyfriend’s shoulder as he handed you a steaming cup.

“Black. Two sugars. Extra patience,” Bob said, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re doing great.”

You gave him a sideways look that was equal parts gratitude and disbelief. “We haven’t even left yet.”

“Exactly,” he replied with that half-smile that meant ‘we’re in for it but I’m right here.’

Your phone buzzed again — the Dagger Squad group chat was already exploding.

Rooster had sent five texts in a row demanding to know who had taken his neck pillow from the shared suitcase. Payback was stuck in traffic and claiming he needed an exorcism, not caffeine. Phoenix was already at the airport, bragging about beating everyone, and Hangman had just FaceTimed Mia to ask which rollercoaster was scarier: Expedition Everest or Fanboy when he didn’t get his morning coffee.

She picked Fanboy.

You glanced over to Bob, who was watching the scene unfold like it was just another average Thursday and not the start of a nine-day, six-park, possibly too-chaotic family vacation.

“I told you bringing them would be a circus,” you muttered, grabbing your phone to check off one last item on the never-ending to-do list.

“And I told you it would be magic,” he said, nudging his knee into yours as you sat at the kitchen table. “Just a very… noisy kind of magic.”

Noah skidded around the corner again, waving a half-deflated balloon. “Auntie! Are we going to Magic Kingdom first? Or are we doing lightsabers first? I need to know so I can emotionally prepare.”

Mia cut him off, bouncing on her toes. “Uncle Coyote said I could ride with him to the park!”

“No way,” Noah argued, arms crossed like a tiny general. “I’m riding with Uncle Coyote. You’re riding with Aunt Phoenix.”

“You can both ride with me,” Bob said, patient as ever, zipping up Noah’s backpack and tossing Mia’s Minnie plush into hers. “We’ll switch cars each day.”

“Oh my god,” you whispered to yourself, watching them bicker over ride pairings like it was the draft for the biggest game of the year.

“Honestly?” Bob smirked, eyes twinkling. “It kind of is.”

Behind you, Mia suddenly yelped, “I found the magic band!” — holding up a bright purple wristband as if it were Excalibur. Noah immediately lunged for it, and in the next moment, chaos erupted again with shrieks, laughter, and playful wrestling over who got to be the first to scan in at the park gates.

You laughed despite yourself, knowing full well the next nine days would be full of exactly this kind of glorious chaos. But somehow, with Bob and the squad and these little ones, it already felt like the kind of magic only family could create.

The morning light was still soft, filtering through the curtains in lazy golden slants as you shuffled around the apartment, trying to keep pace with the escalating energy of your niece and nephew. Mia had somehow managed to fit her entire Minnie Mouse plush collection into the oversized backpack that was definitely not made for a toddler. Meanwhile, Noah was busy inspecting every snack you packed to make sure none were “too boring.”

Bob was the calm center of the storm — or as calm as a guy could be while balancing two cups of coffee, a suitcase handle, and a rogue Stitch onesie that Mia had draped over his shoulders like a cape.

“Hey, watch the cape, superhero,” you teased, catching his amused glance in the hallway mirror as you zipped up your own carry-on.

“Don’t underestimate the power of the cape,” he said with a wink, lifting Mia into his arms so she could stick a giant bow onto his head. “It’s a critical part of the uniform.”

“Noah, no! Don’t pack the whole snack drawer,” you warned as he tried stuffing an entire sleeve of granola bars into his backpack. “You’ll have to carry that for a week.”

He gave you a dramatic sigh. “That’s the price of victory.”

The kitchen table was a minefield of last-minute essentials — sunscreen bottles, water bottles, small toys, and enough chargers to power a spaceship. You stuffed your own phone and earbuds into your purse while Mia insisted on holding your hand as she bounced on her toes, bouncing between talking a mile a minute and randomly hugging Bob every few seconds.

“Okay, final check,” you said, trying to corral the chaos. “Passports, tickets, sunscreen, chargers, snacks —”

“Uncle Bob, I’m ready to go!” Noah yelled from the living room, flinging a hat onto his head with a triumphant grin.

Bob checked his watch and gave you a quick nod. “Time to roll.”

Outside, the morning air was crisp and clear, but you could already hear the rumble of traffic starting up. You loaded Mia and Noah into their car seats, buckling them in with practiced efficiency, while Bob finished stowing the last of the bags in the trunk.

“Fanboy should be here any minute,” Bob said, checking his phone as the familiar ping of the squad chat lit up your screen. Rooster and Phoenix were already at the airport, smugly bragging about their early arrival, while Payback, Coyote, and Hangman were still coordinating their separate rides.

The sound of the front door opening made you jump — sure enough, Fanboy was lumbering up the porch, balancing a giant duffel bag in one hand and a travel pillow in the other, looking every bit as exhausted as you felt but grinning like he was ready for the adventure.

“Ready to survive a week of chaos?” he asked, dropping his gear with a thunk.

“Born ready,” you said, ruffling Mia’s hair as she wriggled free of Bob’s arms to tackle Fanboy with a big hug.

As you all piled into the car, you couldn’t help but grin at the way Mia and Noah instantly claimed Bob and Fanboy as their favorite “uncles,” peppering them with questions about the rides, snacks, and, of course, which Disney princess was the best.

The car was bursting at the seams with luggage, snacks, and enough energy to power a small city. You glanced back at the excited faces in the rearview mirror — the kids wide-eyed, Bob calm but ready, Fanboy trying to keep a straight face as Mia chattered nonstop — and felt a flutter of anticipation.

“This is going to be one hell of a trip,” you muttered, buckling your seatbelt as Bob reached over to squeeze your hand.

“Exactly how it should be,” he said softly.

Behind you, Payback, Coyote, and Hangman were loading into a separate vehicle, the three of them already trading jokes and playfully arguing about who was going to be the designated DJ for the drive.

The group was scattering, but in that moment, you felt the quiet certainty of the squad’s unspoken bond — no matter how chaotic, how loud, or how messy it got, this was family.

And now, the magic was finally beginning.

The car ride started exactly how you’d expect when you put a seven-year-old, a ten-year-old, and Fanboy in the backseat together: with screaming, fighting, and a disturbing number of open snack wrappers before you even made it off your street.

“I swear to God, if I hear one more word about who gets the window seat—” you started, twisting in your chair to face the chaos unfolding behind you.

“Technically, I have both windows,” Fanboy said smugly, wedged in the middle with Mia’s fuzzy Minnie Mouse backpack on his lap and Noah’s oversized lightsaber resting on his shoulder. “It’s basic geometry.”

“Technically,” Noah muttered, “you’re being a window hog.”

“I’m being a seat hog?” Fanboy gasped, placing a hand on his chest in offense. “Do you know what I sacrificed for this trip? Do you know what I gave up?”

“Two episodes of The Bachelor and a nap,” you deadpanned, glancing over at Bob, who was calmly sipping his coffee with one hand on the wheel like he hadn’t just merged onto the freeway with a mobile daycare.

“That’s three episodes,” Fanboy corrected dramatically. “One of them was a fantasy suite.”

From the back, Mia piped up, “Uncle Fanboy, you’re kinda sweaty. You smell like socks.”

Bob didn’t miss a beat. “That’s because he forgot to turn the AC on until after he blow-dried his hair.”

“You’re supposed to use product!” Fanboy shouted, clearly offended. “Just because Bob has military buzzcut energy doesn’t mean we all have to be boring!”

Bob only lifted an eyebrow, adjusting the rearview mirror. “We’ve been in the car nine minutes.”

You tilted your coffee cup toward him in salute. “You doing okay?”

“I’ve trained for worse,” he replied smoothly. “Carrier takeoffs. Survival school. The time Hangman tried to deep fry a turkey on base.”

That made you laugh. But your peaceful moment was cut off as Bob’s phone lit up on the dash with a group FaceTime call.

Rooster’s name was at the top.

“Oh god,” you muttered, already bracing for it. Bob hit answer.

The screen lit up with Rooster’s wild curls and sunglasses, squinting at the camera as airport noise swirled around him. “Where the hell are you guys?! Our flight boards in an hour!”

From the backseat, Noah immediately yelled, “LANGUAGE!”

Bob calmly reached over to adjust the volume. “You heard the kid.”

Rooster sighed, rubbing his face. “Sorry. Where heck are you guys?”

“On the freeway,” Bob answered. “Twenty out.”

Rooster’s screen flickered, and suddenly Phoenix popped into frame behind him, sipping a smoothie. “Tell them to hurry. I am not checking in alone while you clowns are playing Mario Kart in real life.”

“We’re not playing Mario Kart,” Fanboy argued from the backseat. “Yet.”

As if summoned by chaos, the call added another screen — this one of Hangman, wearing sunglasses and yelling over the noise of music and wind. “I TOLD YOU, WE SHOULDN’T HAVE LET PAYBACK DRIVE.”

“YOU SAID YOU NEEDED A NAP,” Payback shouted from somewhere offscreen. “AND NOW YOU WANNA COMPLAIN ABOUT MY ROUTE?!”

“No,” Hangman snapped. “I wanna complain about you stopping for donuts when we’re already late.”

“But you ate three of them,” Coyote chimed in, popping into view from the backseat, donut glaze on his cheek.

Hangman didn’t blink. “They were stress donuts.”

Bob blinked at the screen. “Did anyone think to check traffic before you left?”

“Did you?” Hangman retorted.

Bob smiled, dangerously calm. “I mapped three alternate routes. With timed estimates.”

The call went quiet.

You leaned over and whispered, “You scare them.”

“I know.”

Mia, still holding her Minnie Mouse plush like a weapon, leaned forward between the seats. “Tell Uncle Jake I’m gonna beat him on Slinky Dog Dash.”

“You hear that?” you asked, angling the phone toward her. “You’ve got competition.”

“Oh, it’s on, Mini Mouse,” Hangman grinned. “But only if you actually get to the park.”

“We’re on our way!” Mia and Noah chorused.

Rooster sighed again. “Just—try not to traumatize TSA when you get here.”

“I make no promises,” Fanboy said.

Bob ended the call with a tap and a tired breath. “Okay. Who brought snacks?”

Noah perked up. “I have Go-Gurt and gummy bears.”

Mia held up a bag of goldfish. “I have emotional support cheese crackers.”

Fanboy lifted his duffel and dumped out a mix of candy, Tic Tacs, and what looked like emergency espresso shots. “I have enough sugar to launch us into orbit.”

You stared at him. “You are never allowed near my children again.”

“They’re not your children,” Fanboy said.

You looked at Bob. “Tell him.”

Bob took a sip of his coffee. “They are today.”

And with that, your car sailed down the freeway — snacks flying, Disney playlists queued up, and your boyfriend driving like he didn’t have three chaos gremlins behind him arguing over who got to sit next to Uncle Coyote tomorrow.

By the time you swung through the automatic doors at San Diego International Airport, the departures hall was already awake: rolling suitcases clacking over tile, pre-boarding announcements blurring over the PA, the smell of burned espresso drifting from a crowded Peet’s. You steered your carry-on in one hand and Noah’s Avengers backpack in the other, while Bob walked just behind you with Mia riding high on his shoulders like a parade marshal waving a half-inflated Buzz Lightyear bubble wand she’d insisted on bringing through security “so he can see the airplanes.” Fanboy trudged a step behind, overloaded with everyone’s last-minute “it didn’t fit in my suitcase” overflow gear and already sweating through his hoodie.

You spotted Rooster first — tall, loud, fully visible even in a crowd because he was windmilling one arm like a runway signalman. Beside him, Phoenix leaned against a column near the Southwest / Delta check-in queue, iced coffee in hand, unreadable expression that said she’d been here on time and wanted everyone to know it.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” Rooster barked the second you were in range.

Bob didn’t break stride. “Language.”

Rooster paused mid-glare, glanced at Mia’s wide eyes above Bob’s head, then muttered, “Where the heck have you guys been?”

“Snack reconnaissance,” you said, deadpan. “Vital mission support.”

“Uncle Roos, look what I got!” Noah held up a plastic sleeve of trading pins he’d charmed out of an airport gift kiosk with the kind of smile that bankrupted relatives. “For the pin swaps. We have to be prepared.”

Rooster blinked. “We haven’t even left California.”

“Preparation is everything,” Phoenix said, not looking up from scanning boarding passes on her phone. “Unlike some people who showed up six minutes before bag drop closes.”

Fanboy wheezed. “Time is a social construct.”

Mia bent sideways off Bob’s shoulders until she was nearly upside down. “Aunt Nat! I’m gonna beat Uncle Jake on the teacups!”

Phoenix finally cracked a grin. “Record it. I want proof.”

Before you could answer, a whole new wave of volume hit behind you — Payback’s rental SUV crew had arrived. Hangman burst through the sliding doors backwards, still arguing with Payback about “aggressive left-lane energy,” while Coyote rolled three hard cases like he was moving military hardware. All three were wearing the custom “DAGGER DOES DISNEY 2025” t-shirts you and Bob had made as a joke. Hangman had cut the sleeves off his.

Rooster pointed. “You’re wearing the shirt.”

Hangman spread his arms. “Brand unity.”

Coyote: “He got cinnamon roll icing on the front before we got out of the car. Cutting the sleeves was damage control.”

Payback leaned over to look at Mia. “Alright, Mouse Squad, form up. Bags tagged? IDs out? Who’s TSA PreCheck?”

“Me!” Fanboy lied.

“No, you’re not,” Phoenix said without glancing up.

“Emotionally,” he amended.

You dropped your carry-on handle and clapped once, rallying. “Okay, listen up! We’ve got nine checked bags going in, four carry-ons, one stroller we swore we didn’t need but definitely do, and two small humans who believe churros are a core food group. We are checking everything that doesn’t have a charging cable attached to it. Questions?”

“Yeah,” Hangman said. “Which terminal bar has bottomless mimosas?”

Phoenix handed him a roll of Children’s Dramamine. “You’re on kid watch first leg. Hydrate.”

While the squad groaned, Bob crouched so Mia could slide off his shoulders. He clipped her little purple MagicBand+ to her wrist — unlinked for now, but she wanted to “practice scans.” He checked Noah’s ID sleeve (laminated, of course), made sure his booster tag was taped to the gate claim stroller, then quietly passed you an envelope.

“What’s this?” you asked.

“Printed backups,” he said. “Boarding passes, hotel confirmations, Lightning Lane windows, car transfer from Orlando. If phones die, we don’t.”

You stared at him. “Marry me.”

He smiled. “Already took you to Disney. That’s basically a proposal.”

Behind you, Hangman stage-whispered to Coyote, “See? That’s why you print things. Romance is paperwork.”

You split into pods: You + Bob + Kids + Fanboy in one check-in line; Payback + Coyote + Hangman at the kiosk across the way; Rooster + Phoenix already through bag drop and hovering like boss-level supervisors. The kids compared backpacks while the squad live-updated the group chat with photos: Mia vs. scale weight, Hangman losing a fight with a luggage tag, Rooster labeling everyone by gate group.

Noah tugged at your sleeve. “Auntie… what if our plane goes faster than the sun?”

“It will,” Bob said, printing baggage tags. “We’re basically time travelers.”

Mia gasped. “Does that mean it’ll be night and morning and night again?”

Phoenix, overhearing, leaned over the rope barrier. “Yep. That’s why naps are mandatory. Jet lag is canon.”

Hangman groaned. “Are we briefing them in time math now?”

“Better we do than some rando on TikTok,” you said, slapping the last bag tag on Mia’s rolling case. “Okay — bags up.”

Everyone hoisted in unison. Six checked bags thunked onto the belt like a supply drop. TSA agents glanced over, clocked the matching shirts, the kids in mouse ears, the military-adjacent posture, and visibly decided not to ask questions.

You gathered just outside the escalators to security. Beyond the glass wall, the checkpoint lines curled like spaghetti, families in matching outfits, business travelers speed-walking, a kid wailing at full volume.

Rooster checked the time. “Boarding in fifty-five. We split here or die in line.”

Phoenix pointed: “Line One — families. That’s you,” she told you, Bob, the kids, and Fanboy (designated stroller wrangler). “Line Two — chaos element.” She angled her chin at Hangman, Payback, and Coyote. “Try not to get flagged.”

“Line Three,” Rooster said, lifting his own boarding pass, “PreCheck elite. Try not to resent us.”

“Too late,” Payback muttered.

Mia hugged each “uncle” and “aunt” like she was leaving for deployment. Noah fist-bumped everyone twice. Hangman knelt and swore on his aviators that he would sit in the row behind them if anyone tried to recline into their space. Phoenix whispered to Noah, “Text me if Bob snores.”

“Hey,” Bob said.

“I’m doing recon,” she said.

Then, as you all turned toward the escalators, Bob’s hand found yours. Just a squeeze. Just long enough to say we planned this. We got them here. We can do the rest.

You squeezed back.

The PA dinged overhead. “Attention passengers for Delta Flight 218 to Orlando…”

Mia bounced. “That’s us!”

And just like that — bags checked, squad accounted for, kids vibrating with excitement — you started down the escalator into security with your family.

Because that’s what this was now. Loud, half-coordinated, deeply loved family.

“Alright, squad, let’s move,” you said, clapping your hands like a kindergarten teacher trying to rally twelve gremlins through an obstacle course. “Group E is up. That’s us. Let’s go.”

Fanboy looked up from where he was kneeling beside Mia’s carry-on, attempting to zip it shut. “Why are we always Group E?”

“Because God hates us,” Phoenix said brightly, slinging her backpack over one shoulder.

Bob gave her a look. “Language.”

“Oh come on,” she whispered. “That was the mildest thing I’ve said today.”

Mia reached up to grab Bob’s hand, while Noah plowed ahead like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. You had him slow his roll before he mowed down a family with a stroller.

“Stay behind Uncle Coyote,” you warned.

“I’m ten. I’m basically in middle school.”

“That’s great. You’ll be able to write an essay about ‘airport trauma’ when we get home.”

As you stepped onto the plane, the humidity inside the cabin hit immediately — stale air, artificial lemon, and panic. A flight attendant greeted you with a fixed smile and the dead eyes of someone who knew what she was in for the second she saw ten adults and two sugar-loaded kids in matching MagicBand+ wristbands.

“Four-seat middle row, rows 25 and 26,” she said. “Three-seat rows on either side.”

“Perfect,” Bob said, gently guiding Mia down the aisle. “Everyone, let’s stick to the plan.”

“There was a plan?” Hangman asked behind you.

“Yes,” you said. “The plan is survive this flight without ending up on a TikTok compilation titled ‘Chaotic Plane Passengers.’”

Row 25: Middle Seats

Bob slid into the left-most middle seat, placing his bag at his feet and motioning for you to take the one beside him. Mia and Noah immediately claimed the two seats to your right, with Noah bolting in first.

“I call TV remote!”

“There is no TV remote, bud,” Bob said, helping Mia with her seatbelt. “It’s a touchscreen.”

“Cool,” Noah said. “Then I call first snack.”

“We brought snacks for everyone,” you reminded him, pulling out your backpack and immediately shoving it under the seat. “You do not get priority boarding privileges just because you woke up at 4 a.m. on your own.”

Fanboy dropped into the 3-seat row beside you with all the energy of a man who had already given up.

“This is it. This is how I die.”

Rooster followed, groaning as he jammed his backpack in the overhead bin like it personally wronged him. “I told you to bring the duffel. You brought a brick with straps.”

“Sorry I like to be prepared, Bradley.”

“For what? The apocalypse?!”

“Y’all need to quiet down,” Coyote said, plopping into the window seat beside Rooster and snapping on his seatbelt. “The kids are more organized than you.”

“Because they had Bob and her planning this trip,” Phoenix said, turning in her seat directly in front of Rooster and grinning smugly. “You two clowns couldn’t plan your way out of a vending machine.”

“You’re in front of me?” Rooster asked. “Why is she in front of me?”

“Assigned seating, man,” Payback said, settling into the aisle seat next to her. “Should’ve checked in earlier.”

Hangman slid into the middle seat between them, leaned his head back, and smirked. “Hope y’all like knees in your spine. I’m reclining the whole way.”

Phoenix snapped upright. “Try it, and I swear to God I will personally remove your kneecaps.”

Bob leaned over to you and muttered, “This is going to be the longest five hours of our lives.”

You looked down the row. Noah was already attempting to open his tray table and Mia was singing a Frozen mashup under her breath. “You think?”

Across the aisle, Fanboy was struggling to wedge his backpack under the seat in front of him.

Rooster watched in horror. “You’re gonna break it—stop—just jam it in sideways!”

“I am jamming it—Bob! Help!”

Bob sighed and stood up, using exactly one calm movement to maneuver the bag into place before returning to his seat like nothing happened.

Fanboy blinked. “Okay, but why does it listen to him?”

“He’s Bob,” you said. “Inanimate objects fear disappointing him.”

The plane began to fill up with passengers, a steady trickle of annoyed vacationers and overworked parents who all slowed when they passed your rows.

One dad paused. “Are… are you all together?”

“Tightly bonded by chaos and aviation,” Coyote answered.

“We’re a squad,” Mia said proudly.

Bob nodded. “Squad goals.”

The pilot came on over the PA: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re just about ready for takeoff. Please fasten your seatbelts, return your tray tables to the upright position, and keep in mind this is a full flight with limited overhead space. We thank you for your patience.”

“I give it twenty minutes before Fanboy asks for extra pretzels,” Hangman whispered.

Fanboy was already raising his hand. “Excuse me, do they have cookies yet?”

You sank further into your seat as Mia tugged on your arm. “Are we flying yet?”

“Not yet, baby,” Bob said gently. “We’re just backing up from the gate.”

Noah pressed his face to the window. “Why aren’t we going faster? I could drive this thing better.”

“You can’t even reach the pedals,” you muttered.

As the plane began to taxi, you caught Rooster across the aisle making a silent bet with Coyote about how soon someone would cry.

It was probably going to be you.

Bob leaned toward you and smiled. “At least we’re in the same row this time.”

You glanced at him, the soft glow of the cabin lights catching in his eyes, and felt your chest squeeze just a little.

“Yeah,” you said. “It’s almost worth the trauma.”

Forty-five minutes into the flight, and the only thing that had remained calm the entire time was Bob’s left knee — and that was only because Mia had fallen asleep on it.

Your row was a delicate balancing act:

Bob had been quietly helping Mia color a Princess and the Frog page with little stubby crayons from her activity book.

You had one earbud in, one eye on Noah, and one hand curled around your tiny half-cup of airplane ginger ale.

Noah had discovered the in-flight trivia game and was now trying to beat every other passenger’s high score like it was a military mission.

“Uncle Bob,” he said, jabbing the screen in front of him, “What’s the capital of Lithuania?”

“Vilnius,” Bob said without looking up, like this was common knowledge and not a war zone.

“How do you know that?” you asked.

Bob shrugged. “I read.”

Fanboy’s voice floated over from the row beside you: “BOB, CAN YOU BE STUPID FOR FIVE SECONDS SO I CAN WIN SOMETHING IN FRONT OF THE KIDS?!”

Noah grinned, “I’m beating you, Uncle Mickey.”

Fanboy gasped like he’d been stabbed in the chest. “Oh it’s on, little man. No mercy now.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned forward slightly to glance down the aisle. Hangman had fully reclined his seat — and by fully, you meant dramatically.

“Jake,” Phoenix growled, her voice dangerously level from the row behind him. “I said do not recline.”

“I said I would,” he replied. “I warned you.”

“Your seat is crushing my knees.”

“That sounds like a you problem,” he said, smug and unbothered.

There was a loud thunk. Hangman’s seat jerked forward suddenly.

Phoenix’s voice: “Oops. My coloring book fell.”

Coyote cackled from beside her. “That wasn’t a book, that was a tactical strike.”

Meanwhile, Payback had fallen asleep with his mouth wide open and a pretzel wedged against his cheek like a sad edible Band-Aid.

The snack cart creaked down the aisle, and you could see the light of God shining off the Biscoff cookies in the flight attendant’s bin.

“I will give my life for those cookies,” Fanboy whispered.

“Don’t make it weird,” Rooster muttered. “Just ask.”

“No. I want them to offer.”

The flight attendant reached your row. “Drinks or snacks?”

Noah immediately sat upright. “Can I have apple juice and a cookie?”

Mia stirred on Bob’s shoulder but stayed quiet, her hand still gently clinging to his sleeve.

You smiled apologetically. “Just ginger ale for me. And a cookie, if you have any.”

Bob handed Mia’s coloring book back into your bag one-handed, speaking softly. “She’s sleeping. But could I get a water? And… two cookies? Please?”

Fanboy leaned all the way across Rooster. “Three! Three cookies! I swear I’ll Venmo you five bucks.”

The attendant, with the calm resignation of a woman who’d seen worse, passed out drinks and three carefully counted cookies. Fanboy bit into one dramatically and sighed like he was in a Michelin-star restaurant.

“God. They never disappoint. That dry, cinnamon-dust taste of victory.”

Rooster took his soda and leaned back just as Noah launched into another trivia round. “Auntie, what’s the biggest animal on Earth?”

“Your uncle’s ego.”

“HEY,” Hangman called from the row in front, “I heard that.”

Bob looked up calmly. “Wasn’t about you.”

“Oh,” Hangman nodded. “Fair.”

Just as things began to settle — Mia snoozing again, Noah quietly winning his eighth trivia match, the aisle dimming for in-flight “quiet time” — turbulence hit.

Not light turbulence. Not a cute little wiggle.

This was: your-seatbelt-does-nothing-you-are-the-wind-now turbulence.

The seatbelt sign lit up. The plane jerked slightly. There was a collective woahhh from everyone under the age of twelve and oh no from everyone older than twenty-five.

Mia blinked awake and gripped Bob’s hand. “Are we crashing?”

Bob squeezed her hand gently. “No, sweetheart. Just a little bumpy. Like a roller coaster.”

She frowned. “I don’t like this ride.”

“Same,” you muttered.

“Same,” Fanboy echoed.

Across the aisle, Coyote white-knuckled his armrest. “I’m not scared. I’m just spiritually bracing.”

Rooster looked at him. “You screamed on the Dumbo ride last year.”

“It went up fast, man!”

The plane dipped again, this time sharper, and Mia squeaked in fear — not loud, but just enough for your heart to snap in half. Before you could reach for her, Bob had already wrapped his arm around her, pulling her into his side, speaking quietly.

“Hey. Breathe. You’re okay. It’s just air bumps.”

Her lip trembled. “You promise?”

Bob nodded, forehead resting lightly against hers. “I promise. I’m right here.”

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until the plane evened out again.

You reached over and took Noah’s hand too, who was trying very hard to pretend he wasn’t scared.

“Still better than your mom’s driving,” you whispered.

He gave a weak little laugh and nodded.

“I heard that too!” Hangman called.

“Why are you even listening to this row?” you shouted back.

“I’m nosy,” he shouted. “Don’t act like you didn’t know that when we got on the plane!”

Eventually, the cabin calmed. The lights dimmed again. Kids dozed. Snacks were munched. Fanboy finally stopped narrating his trivia score.

You glanced over at Bob, who still had Mia tucked into his side, her head resting against his chest now. She was out cold. And Bob? He was watching her like she was the only thing in the whole cabin worth paying attention to.

You couldn’t help it — your chest clenched again. That quiet, aching squeeze of oh, no, this man was made for this.

Made for kids. Made for calm. Made for long-haul flights and keeping tiny humans safe through chaos.

Made for… this life.

With you.

The plane touched down with a screech and a bounce that had Hangman yelling, “We’re alive, baby!” and Coyote visibly crossing himself like they’d just survived D-Day.

Bob was the first to unclick his seatbelt — gently, quietly — because Mia was still sleeping on his lap. She’d passed out during the descent, lips parted, arms curled under her chin like a kitten.

You rubbed your eyes. Noah stretched so hard he whacked Fanboy in the nose mid-yawn.

“Ow. I’m bleeding,” Fanboy said dramatically.

“You’re not bleeding,” you said.

“Let me believe, woman!”

Rooster groaned. “Can we please disembark without another incident? Just one?”

Phoenix leaned over her row. “You’re the reason we had four incident reports last time.”

“I WAS CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES,” Rooster snapped.

Hangman reached up to open the overhead bin—

and immediately had a neck pillow, backpack, and one rogue box of granola bars fall on his face.

“Who packed a Costco-sized box of snacks?” he barked.

Payback raised his hand. “I get hangry.”

“You don’t pack for hangriness. You warn the group first.”

“I did. I sent a memo.”

“You sent a meme, Payback!”

Meanwhile, Noah stood ready in the aisle like a tiny soldier, his Avengers backpack strapped to his back.

“Can I help with bags?” he asked Bob.

Bob smiled, balancing Mia in one arm and reaching for the bags with the other. “Thanks, buddy. Just hold your tablet and stay close, okay?”

Mia mumbled something about Cinderella and snuggled closer into Bob’s shoulder. The man carried her like it was the easiest thing in the world, while also dragging a duffel with his free hand and somehow managing not to bump a single person in the aisle.

You? You were just trying to grab your backpack without hitting anyone in the face.

Spoiler: you failed.

Fanboy: “Ow.”

You: “Sorry.”

Phoenix: “You did that on purpose.”

You: “I did not!”

Rooster: “You did a little.”

The jetbridge felt like a tunnel into hell. It was hot, sticky, full of impatient people, and Mia was now half-awake and whispering “where’s Elsa?” like this airport might magically turn into Arendelle.

You followed Bob through the crowd, keeping Noah sandwiched between you and Fanboy. Rooster took point like he was leading a SEAL team to baggage claim.

That’s when the chaos began.

At the first hallway split, Phoenix, Coyote, and Hangman went left. You, Bob, and the kids went right.

Fanboy paused. “Are we splitting up?”

“Follow the signs,” Rooster barked.

“There’s two signs,” Payback yelled from behind, “and they both say Baggage Claim!”

You were too tired to care. Bob was still carrying Mia like a pro, whispering to her about princess dresses and maybe getting a milkshake later if she wanted.

Noah skipped ahead, nearly crashing into a luggage cart. “Auntie! I see a Dunkin Donuts!”

You made a mental note to buy five coffees and pour them all into your body.

Finally — finally — you reached the baggage carousel.

It was already spinning.

Not fast. Not helpful. Just… menacingly.

Your group slowly trickled together again like survivors of a plane crash.

Phoenix looked winded. “Who. Designed. This airport.”

Hangman was holding a bag. “Whose is this?”

Fanboy squinted. “Not mine.”

“It has lip gloss in the front pocket,” Hangman said.

“Definitely not mine,” Rooster muttered.

“That’s mine,” Phoenix snapped, grabbing it back.

Mia blinked awake in Bob’s arms and pointed at the carousel. “That’s our pink suitcase!”

Bob gently set her down, still sleepy and floppy, and gave you a look — go time.

You and Noah lunged for the bag like it was the last slice of pizza on Earth. He grabbed the handle, you caught the zipper, and Bob stepped in smoothly to lift it off with one arm like a damn Marvel character.

“Where’s the rest?” Rooster called out. “We had, like, ten bags!”

“Nineteen,” Bob corrected.

“NINETEEN?!”

“Six of them are for the kids,” you defended. “Mia has an entire backpack just for her plushies.”

“And three dresses for every day,” Bob added.

“And four pairs of ears,” you said.

“She’s got taste,” Hangman shrugged.

The carousel kept spinning. Fanboy grabbed a black duffel, examined the name tag, and sighed. “This one’s mine. I think. Or it belongs to another Mickey.”

Rooster pulled his suitcase off with a grunt and glared at Payback, who was sitting on the carousel. “Seriously? Get off.”

Payback held up his phone. “No, hold on, I’m recording a time-lapse.”

“Of WHAT?”

“Of our descent into madness.”

You finally got all the luggage in a pile. Bob stacked it like Tetris. Phoenix commandeered a cart. Hangman handed Noah a Gatorade and somehow convinced Mia that he had spoken to Elsa and that she’d left a message: “Meet me at Magic Kingdom tomorrow, and wear the blue dress.”

Mia’s eyes lit up like the sun.

You felt like you’d survived a warzone.

As you pushed your way toward the exit, six adults pushing luggage, two half-sleeping kids, and enough chaos to qualify as a sitcom, the automatic doors opened—

The humidity hit you like a truck the moment the sliding doors at Orlando International opened.

Noah gasped dramatically, fanning himself with a laminated Disney map he’d picked up from a kiosk. “This isn’t weather. This is soup.”

“It’s the East Coast,” Rooster said, tugging off his aviators and already looking like he regretted every clothing choice he’d made. “You’ll get used to it. Maybe. Probably not.”

“Uncle Rooster, why is it wet?” Mia asked, squinting at the sky like it had personally offended her.

“It’s called humidity, sweetheart,” Phoenix said with a grin, swinging her backpack over one shoulder. “It makes your hair frizz and your deodorant cry.”

Fanboy was already dying. “I’ve been here for five minutes and I feel like I need a shower and a priest.”

“Welcome to Florida,” you muttered, pulling your sunglasses on as Bob opened the trunk of the rented SUV. “Land of gators, goosebumps, and regretting everything.”

Bob, as always, was the calmest man in America. “C’mon,” he said, patting the hood. “Let’s get to the hotel before we all turn into puddles.”

The drive to the Disney resort took about forty-five minutes, and by the time you pulled into the sprawling, palm-lined entrance, Mia and Noah were practically vibrating in the back seat.

“We’re staying here?” Mia shrieked, pressing her face to the window as the sign for the resort came into view.

“Oh my god, oh my god, I see Mickey! Is that Mickey? Is that his actual house?”

“No,” Noah said in the most exhausted voice a ten-year-old could possibly muster. “That’s a topiary.”

“What’s a topiary?”

“Plant shaped like stuff.”

“Okay, nerd.”

“You’re literally seven.”

“You’re literally annoying.”

“Kids,” Bob said evenly, not even fazed. “We’ve got nine days together. Save some of that energy for the actual theme parks.”

You leaned forward between the seats, catching Mia’s eye. “Hey, guess what this resort has.”

She blinked up at you, wide-eyed. “What?”

“A pool shaped like a piano. And they do Mickey-shaped waffles. Every. Single. Morning.”

Mia screamed. Noah screamed louder just to beat her. Fanboy covered his ears and dramatically declared himself legally deaf.

It was like Disney magic slapped you in the face with a fresh lei and a pineapple scent diffuser.

“LOOK AT THE TORCHES,” Mia squealed from the back.

Noah gasped. “There’s a volcano in the pool!!”

Hangman got out of the van, stretched like he just got back from war, and whispered, “I smell churros.”

You barely made it through the automatic doors before chaos resumed.

The lobby was pure chaos: hula music playing, kids running in mouse ears, someone taking photos with a life-sized Moana statue, and the Dagger Squad rolling in with enough luggage to outfit a boy band for a world tour.

Mia stood in awe. “Is this where Elsa lives?”

“No, baby,” you said. “She’s over at Magic Kingdom.”

Mia gasped. “We’re going there?!”

“Tomorrow,” Bob said, ruffling her hair.

“I’m gonna cry,” she whispered.

Same.

Inside the resort lobby, the squad checked in at the front desk while Bob wrangled the luggage cart and you wrangled the children. Noah had already disappeared to inspect the arcade. Mia was clinging to Hangman’s leg like he was a particularly sun-kissed tree.

“Uncle Jake, are we going to the pool right now?” she asked, dangling from him upside-down.

“Darlin’, we just got off a five-hour flight,” Hangman drawled, shifting her onto his back piggyback-style. “But if you give me thirty minutes to find my soul again, I’ll race you to the slide.”

“Deal!”

“Hangman,” Bob said with a raised brow, “remember: no diving competitions. We talked about this.”

“I make no promises,” Jake replied, saluting with a towel already slung over his shoulder.

As the elevator dinged and you all piled in, shoving suitcases, kids, and Hangman’s protein bars into the cramped space, you realized this was it. The real trip had begun.

The chaos.

The laughter.

The magic.

And in Bob’s case — the fact that he’d somehow become honorary Disney Dad #1 in the span of six hours.

Room Assignments:

Room 1: You, Bob, Mia, and Noah had one of the bigger family suites — two queen beds and a bunk bed that Mia immediately claimed by flinging her Minnie plush on the top bunk like it was a flag.

Room 2: Hangman and Coyote dropped their bags on one of the queen beds and immediately argued over who was sleeping closest to the air conditioner.

Room 3: Rooster, Payback, and Fanboy had the two queens and a pullout couch, which Fanboy only agreed to take after Rooster bribed him with control of the TV remote for the week.

Room 4: Phoenix had her own single-bed room, and you could already hear the blissful silence seeping through the walls.

Noah jumped on one of the queen beds in your room. “Okay, dibs on this one!”

“You don’t get dibs when you’re ten,” you said, yanking him off mid-bounce.

“But I’m growing. Uncle Coyote said boys need space to grow.”

“He meant emotionally.”

Bob dropped the last suitcase onto the luggage rack and turned to you with a small smile. “We made it.”

You collapsed onto the second bed dramatically. “Barely.”

Mia was already unpacking her Minnie ears. “Tomorrow’s Magic Kingdom, right? Uncle Bob, you promised!”

Bob pulled her into a hug and ruffled her hair. “First stop tomorrow morning: castle, churros, chaos.”

You let your head fall back on the pillow, staring up at the ceiling fan. “I’m going to need so much caffeine.”

Bob leaned down to kiss your cheek. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ve got a detailed itinerary, six backup chargers, and caffeine money in singles.”

You turned your head and grinned. “God, I love you.”

From the other room, you could already hear Hangman shouting, “COYOTE STOLE MY SOCKS!”

And Payback yelling, “There’s no hot water, WHAT DO YOU MEAN THERE’S NO HOT WATER—”

And Rooster screaming, “IF YOU LEFT THE DOOR OPEN ONE MORE TIME I SWEAR TO GOD—”

Bob looked at you. “Vacation.”

You groaned. “You planned this.”

He smiled. “And you love me for it.”

You really, really did.

The smell of maple syrup and bacon hit you before your eyes had even adjusted to the harsh resort lighting.

Noah was already ahead of you, weaving through the buffet line like a man on a mission. “I NEED FIVE WAFFLES.”

“You don’t need five waffles,” you called, tugging Mia gently along beside you as she yawned in her fuzzy pink Minnie pajamas.

“Yes I do,” he shot back, grabbing a tray. “Uncle Fanboy said I was in my ‘growing boy era.’”

“That doesn’t mean you get to go feral in public.”

Bob chuckled behind you as he helped Mia pick a cereal. “Let him eat the waffles, sweetheart. He’s gonna walk like twenty thousand steps today.”

“You’re enabling him.”

“I’m surviving,” Bob corrected gently, sleep still in his voice. “This is survival mode.”

You blinked up at him, taking in the messy blonde curls, the glasses slightly askew, the navy NASA tee shirt and gray athletic shorts combo he’d thrown on. He looked good. Really good. Like “dad on vacation who knows where all the outlets are” good.

Mia leaned against his leg, pointing at the waffle machine. “Uncle Bob, can you help me make the Mickey?”

“Absolutely.” He knelt beside her, showing her how to pour the batter while Noah loaded up his plate with exactly four sausages, two pancakes, and yes, five waffles. You watched Bob lift Mia up just enough so she could press the handle down herself.

She giggled. “It’s Mickey-shaped!”

“You’re Mickey-shaped,” Bob said softly, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear.

You looked down at your tray — two coffees, a croissant, fruit for the kids that you knew would go untouched, and a plate of eggs and hash browns that were probably going to end up in Fanboy’s stomach.

Across the room, the rest of the squad had claimed a long booth near the windows overlooking the resort’s piano-shaped pool.

“Y’all took long enough,” Hangman called as you approached, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just insulted a toddler.

“Some of us have actual children to dress, not just emotionally,” you said pointedly.

Fanboy reached across the table and snatched one of your extra hash browns. “You love us anyway.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do,” Bob said at the exact same time, handing Mia her Mickey waffle, perfectly golden brown.

“Gross,” Noah muttered, shoving a sausage into his mouth. “Can you guys stop flirting before breakfast?”

“You’re eating five waffles,” you deadpanned. “You don’t get a say in anything.”

Operation: Get Everyone Ready for Magic Kingdom Without Losing Your Mind

You were on the floor of the hotel bathroom brushing Mia’s hair while she sobbed over her Minnie ears.

“I WANTED THE RED POLKA DOT ONES!”

“These are the pink sparkly ones you picked last night.”

“But I don’t want pink anymore!”

You exchanged a look with Bob in the mirror. He was standing in the middle of the room trying to convince Noah to wear sunscreen like he was negotiating a hostage situation.

“Just your face,” Bob said. “You’ll thank me later.”

“No I won’t. You’re not even my dad.”

Bob didn’t flinch. “Nope, but I’m the guy who controls the Dole Whip budget.”

Noah froze. “…Fine. But only my nose.”

Bob leaned over and whispered in your ear, “That’s a win.”

You handed Mia a tissue and helped her into her outfit for the day: tiny jean shorts with Mickey patches, a “Magic Vibes Only” tee shirt, and her sparkly pink ears — which, by some miracle, she had stopped crying about.

Across the room, Bob was now kneeling by Noah, helping him tie his sneakers.

“You excited for Space Mountain, bud?”

Noah shrugged. “Depends. Will I puke?”

Bob smiled. “Fifty-fifty.”

You adjusted your sunglasses on your head and looked at the full picture in the mirror: Mia clutching her Disney autograph book, Noah with a fanny pack slung across his chest like he was prepping for war, Bob smoothing down his blue polo and digging park tickets out of the backpack like a dad on a mission.

You?

Matching Mickey shirt with Mia. Hair pulled back. Comfy sneakers. Fully caffeinated. Ready for hell.

“Let’s go raise some Disney-level hell,” you said.

Bob kissed your temple. “Magic first. Then hell.”

9:02 AM — Main Entrance, Magic Kingdom

The second you scanned through the entrance gate and heard the faint sound of the Main Street Philharmonic playing in the distance, Mia screamed. Like, actual scream.

“I SEE THE CASTLE!”

“She’s gonna pass out,” Noah said dryly, though his own eyes were wide as he clutched the park map like it contained the secrets of the universe.

The air smelled like sunscreen, popcorn, and faintly like happiness. Bob adjusted the big Disney parks backpack on his shoulders — sunscreen sticking out of one side pocket, your phone charger barely zipped into the other — and looked over at you with the we made it face.

“You get that lightning lane booked?” he asked.

“Already on it,” you said, tapping your phone. “We’ve got Haunted Mansion at ten. But if we sprint, we can hit Peter Pan’s Flight first.”

Fanboy popped up behind you. “Haunted Mansion? At ten in the morning?”

“Yeah. Ghosts don’t sleep.”

“Speak for yourself,” Rooster groaned, rubbing his eyes behind his aviators. “This is my personal Vietnam.”

Hangman sidled up next to Coyote, sunglasses pushed to the top of his head. “You guys see the price of the churros yet?”

Payback slapped a hand over Noah’s ears. “Language, man, there are children.”

“I didn’t even say anything yet—”

“I SEE DONALD DUCK,” Mia screeched, pointing like she’d just spotted the Pope.

Before you could stop her, she took off like a rocket down Main Street toward the character meet and greet area, autograph book flailing in the air.

Bob immediately broke into a jog after her. “I got her! She’s cutting in line—oh god, she’s—okay. Okay, she’s hugging the wrong person. That’s someone’s dad in a Hawaiian shirt—MIA, WAIT.”

You turned to Noah. “Do not move.”

“I would never,” he said seriously. “I need to find the churro cart first.”

Phoenix leaned over. “You raising feral children or…?”

“Borrowed chaos. Thanks.”

9:36 AM — Peter Pan’s Flight Queue

The line moved like molasses. You had Mia on your hip, Noah leaning against the railing, and Bob holding two Mickey pretzels because Mia needed one “for the ride.”

“I forgot how weirdly intense the Peter Pan queue is,” you muttered.

Fanboy, right behind you, whispered, “Okay but why do I feel like the Tinker Bell animatronic is judging me?”

“She definitely is,” Phoenix whispered. “She sees your sins.”

Mia gasped as you reached the ride loading area. “WE’RE FLYING IN A SHIP.”

Bob helped lift her in, settling beside her in the front. You took the seat right behind them, with Noah beside you, mouthing along to the entire intro like he was auditioning for a role.

“You’re so embarrassing,” he said casually, even though you weren’t even doing anything.

“I will throw you into the Thames,” you whispered.

“You don’t even know where that is.”

“London.”

“Oh.”

10:08 AM — Haunted Mansion Queue

Rooster was already pacing. “I swear to God if a single animatronic jumps out—”

“It’s literally not a jump scare ride,” Bob said, now balancing Mia on his hip while she clung to her new Minnie plush.

Noah looked up from his churro. “How many ghosts do you think are in there?”

“999,” you and Bob answered in unison.

Hangman pointed at you. “See, this is why you two are the married ones.”

You blinked. “We’re not married.”

Phoenix made a mmhmm noise under her breath. “Yeah, okay.”

Fanboy nudged Noah. “Wanna sit next to me and scream at every portrait we pass?”

Noah grinned. “You’re on.”

11:10 AM — Fantasyland Rest Area

The group collapsed into a shaded picnic table area like survivors of a disaster. Bob handed out waters, you passed out sunscreen, and Mia spilled Goldfish crackers all over Hangman’s lap.

“I’ve been physically attacked,” he said dramatically, brushing crackers off his shorts. “By a toddler.”

“She’s seven,” Bob said. “And she’s winning.”

“Uncle Jake,” Mia said sweetly, “you dropped your snacks.”

Coyote nearly choked on his water.

You leaned against Bob’s shoulder, stretching your legs out under the table. “How we feeling?”

“Like I ran a marathon,” Payback groaned.

“Like I could nap on a trash can,” Phoenix said.

Bob rubbed your back gently, voice low enough only you could hear. “You’re killing it.”

You tilted your head up at him. “You too.”

He smiled softly. “Still wanna ride Space Mountain?”

You smirked. “Only if I get to sit with you.”

Mia tugged your hand. “Can I go on it too?!”

Bob immediately said, “Nope.”

The sun was directly overhead, the castle shimmered in the distance like a hallucination, and you were pretty sure your sunscreen had already sweated off before you even made it past Main Street. Bob had one hand on the double stroller you’d rented “just in case,” and the other was expertly balancing two melting Mickey-shaped ice creams. Your hair was sticking to your forehead, Noah’s map had already torn at the seams, and Mia was singing Let It Go at the top of her lungs with zero shame or pitch accuracy.

You glanced back to where Hangman was being chased by a line of ducks.

“No, seriously, they’re following me,” he yelped, nearly running into a popcorn cart. “Why are they following me?!”

“Probably because you smell like a churro,” Payback yelled. “Didn’t you drop one in the parking lot?”

Hangman turned around like a hunted man. “That was for the aesthetic!”

Coyote, walking beside him with a Dole Whip in hand and sunglasses crooked from getting body-checked by a stroller earlier, snorted. “Man, the aesthetic is sweating through your third t-shirt before noon.”

Fanboy was trailing the group wearing matching Mickey ears with Mia — not by choice. “She told me I needed to commit to the theme,” he muttered. “She said I ‘lacked whimsy.’”

“She’s not wrong,” Bob said simply, stopping at the map kiosk. “Okay. Who still hasn’t done Space Mountain?”

“Me!” Noah shouted, nearly knocking over a passing tourist. “I’ve only been emotionally preparing for it since the second grade.”

“Wait,” Phoenix said, adjusting her backpack straps. “Didn’t you go already?”

“No,” you said, forehead creased. “We thought we were in the line for Space Mountain, but turns out it was a forty-minute wait to take pictures with Stitch in a pirate costume.”

“He was worth it,” Mia insisted proudly, her face stained blue from a cotton candy slushie.

Rooster, who’d just returned from getting a pretzel bigger than his face, frowned. “Wait. So what have we actually accomplished?”

“Let’s see,” you said, counting off on your fingers. “We lost the map, lost Fanboy’s water bottle, lost Bob for a second when Mia sprinted into a shop screaming about princess dresses—”

“I was in line for coffee,” Bob added helpfully.

“—got kicked out of line for Big Thunder Mountain because Payback accidentally said ‘this looks like it could kill someone,’ and had to double back because someone, ahem, dropped their sunglasses on the teacups.”

Hangman raised both hands defensively. “In my defense, I was trying to get a slo-mo video of Mia mid-spin and she elbowed me in the chest.”

“Because you told her to spin faster,” Coyote said. “You’re lucky she didn’t throw up on you.”

“She almost threw up on Uncle Rooster,” Mia said gleefully.

Rooster paled a little. “And that’s when I knew I was out of my depth.”

Just then, Noah grabbed your arm. “Auntie. Auntie. Please. Please. Can we go now? Can we please do Space Mountain?”

“Can we do it in shifts?” Phoenix asked. “Because I might kill someone if I have to wait in another line with children screaming the lyrics to Encanto.”

“They weren’t screaming,” you said. “They were passionately belting. There’s a difference.”

Bob was already pulling out the Genie+ app, navigating the labyrinth like a seasoned pro. “I’ve got us a return time in forty minutes. We can do snacks, the kids can meet Mickey, and then we go scream in the dark.”

“Screaming in the dark is the most honest metaphor for this entire trip,” Fanboy muttered.

“Yeah,” Rooster added. “And I’m not saying we’re doing bad, but at one point I saw another family stare at us like we were a traveling circus.”

“We are a traveling circus,” you said. “We just happen to have matching MagicBands.”

“And heart,” Bob said, leaning over to kiss your temple as Mia and Noah latched onto his arms.

“And we’re never going to make it to Animal Kingdom alive,” you whispered under your breath.

“Good,” Bob replied. “I heard the Yeti’s looking for a roommate.”

You had never seen a ten-year-old move as fast as Noah did when the lightning lane opened. He sprinted ahead like he’d trained for this, weaving between dazed tourists with the agility of a Navy SEAL on a mission. Bob jogged after him with one hand clutching Mia’s, the other keeping his ballcap from flying off. You lagged just behind them, glancing back at the rest of the squad to make sure they were keeping up.

Spoiler: they were not.

“Why is it so dark in here already?” Fanboy asked, gripping Rooster’s sleeve like he was entering a haunted house.

“Because it’s space, idiot,” Rooster said, shaking him off. “It’s called immersion.”

“I feel like I’m about to be abducted,” Hangman muttered, adjusting his sunglasses even though you were already indoors.

“They literally tell you not to wear sunglasses on indoor rides,” Coyote said. “That’s why the last ride photo looked like a Men in Black audition.”

Mia was bouncing on her toes beside Bob, nearly vibrating with excitement. “Is it scary? Is it fast? Will I scream?”

Bob crouched down beside her, all calm dad-energy. “You might scream, but I’ll be right next to you. And it’s not scary if you remember it’s just pretend.”

Mia beamed. “Even if I scream, I’m not scared. I just scream for fun.”

“That’s the spirit,” Phoenix said, stepping past with her arms crossed. “I scream because I am scared, but I fake confidence better than most adults.”

They loaded you into rows of two — Noah demanded front row, dragging Bob with him. You and Mia followed in the next car, with Fanboy and Phoenix behind, and Rooster, Hangman, Coyote, and Payback in the last two seats.

“Why are we splitting it like this again?” Rooster called up.

“So I don’t have to hear you scream like a banshee again,” Fanboy replied over his shoulder.

“I DO NOT SCREAM—”

The ride jerked forward, and that was the end of that argument.

You barely had time to tuck Mia’s hair into the collar of her shirt before the car launched you all into the galaxy. Stars spun around you. The blackness felt like infinity. Somewhere behind you, Hangman screamed, “OH MY GOD MY SOUL LEFT MY BODY,” while Payback cackled like a villain in a horror movie.

Mia? Mia was howling with laughter.

“This is the BEST RIDE OF MY LIFE,” she screeched as your cart dipped and turned in pitch-black madness.

Bob, in front of you, had his hand raised in the air — steady, fearless, and making sure Noah didn’t try to stand up mid-ride.

When the ride finally coasted to a stop, everyone looked mildly shaken except Mia, who bounced out of the cart like she’d just had three espresso shots.

“That was AWESOME,” she shouted.

“I think I left my pancreas in a star system,” Fanboy said faintly.

Phoenix was half-laughing, half-coughing. “My hair whipped me in the face so hard, I saw Jesus for a second.”

Bob stepped out, checked all the kids were still alive and accounted for, and then patted his chest.

“Still got my wallet. Still got my soul. We’re good.”

Rooster stumbled out, eyes wide. “Guys. GUYS. I screamed so loud I think I actually strained my voice.”

“I told you you scream,” Fanboy said smugly.

Hangman was still gripping the lap bar. “I saw death.”

“You saw the ride camera and panicked,” Coyote corrected, holding up his phone. “Oh look, they already uploaded the photo. Hangman’s got his mouth open like he just saw his taxes.”

You leaned over to Bob, your hand slipping into his. “So… one more time?”

Mia gasped. “Can we?!”

Bob smiled at you both. “After we hydrate and no one throws up, sure.”

“Deal,” Noah said, already heading toward a nearby slushie stand. “But I want to ride in the front again.”

Fanboy groaned. “We’re gonna die.”

“No,” Bob replied with a grin, tightening his grip on your hand. “We’re gonna survive Disney. Barely.”

By the time noon rolled around, it was a war zone.

You’d lost count of how many times someone said “I need a snack,” how many strollers had clipped your ankles, or how many times Rooster claimed he was this close to passing out from “heat exhaustion and emotional trauma.”

“Why is it so hot?” Hangman whined dramatically, standing in the shade like a melting popsicle. “I’m from Texas and even I’m struggling. Someone get me a churro and an IV drip.”

“You’re just mad because you dropped your Dole Whip three steps after buying it,” Phoenix shot back, wiping sweat from her forehead.

“It slipped! It was condensation! It’s not my fault they served it in a paper cup like we’re savages!”

Meanwhile, Bob was crouched beside a bench, gently brushing melted chocolate off of Mia’s fingers while you tried to stop Noah from feeding a duck half his Mickey-shaped pretzel.

“Noah,” you said slowly, “you can’t feed the wildlife.”

“But he looks hungry.”

“He’s a duck. He lives here. He’s fine.”

“But—”

Bob turned around, gentle but firm. “If the duck gets sick from that pretzel, I have to explain it to Guest Services. Please don’t make me do that.”

That worked.

Mia, still sticky but content, looked up at you with wide eyes. “Can I meet a princess now?”

“Better,” you said. “We’re going to meet Mickey Mouse.”

The group reaction was a mix of excitement, confusion, and horror.

Fanboy dropped his churro. “You mean, like… the big guy? The mouse? The actual boss of the park?”

“I thought he wasn’t real,” Hangman said under his breath. “I thought he was like, a government hologram or something.”

You stared at him. “What—”

Coyote cut in. “Don’t ask. You’ll only make it worse.”

The line for the Mickey meet-and-greet was long, but mercifully shaded. And it was air-conditioned at the front — which was the only thing keeping Rooster from fully losing his mind.

“This line is longer than my last deployment,” he muttered, fanning himself with a park map.

Mia, Noah, and Fanboy spent the wait planning out poses for the picture, while Hangman leaned against the rope like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“Okay, so we go in, take the pic, and leave,” Hangman said. “Right?”

Wrong.

The second Mia saw Mickey Mouse, she lost her damn mind.

“MIIIIICKEYYYY!!” she screamed, sprinting toward the oversized mouse like she was being reunited with a long-lost father.

Bob instinctively lunged to grab her, but she made it. Full-on tackle hug. Mickey — bless his costumed soul — handled it like a pro, arms wide and waddling back only slightly under the force of one determined seven-year-old.

Noah followed with a cool, casual fist bump. “Yo.”

Fanboy bowed. “Your Majesty.”

You tried to usher everyone together for a photo, but chaos hit hard and fast.

Hangman, crouching for the group shot, slipped on someone’s melted Mickey bar and faceplanted into Coyote’s shoulder. Phoenix was caught mid-sneeze. Rooster, being dramatic, threw an arm up and accidentally smacked Payback in the nose. Mia was smiling like an angel. Noah was blinking mid-sentence. And Bob — precious Bob — somehow managed to keep a perfect smile while holding onto both kids like a practiced jungle gym.

You, in the middle of it, had one Mickey ear tilted off your head and were holding Mia’s melted ice cream cone away from your shirt like it was a live grenade.

The camera flashed.

“Beautiful,” the attendant said flatly, looking at the photo on the screen.

“We look like a taxidermy exhibit gone wrong,” Coyote muttered.

“I’m buying it,” Fanboy said. “I want it framed.”

“Same,” Bob agreed, wiping chocolate off Mia’s chin again. “That was a moment.”

Mia turned to you, beaming. “Best. Day. Ever.”

You smiled, grabbing her hand. “And it’s not even over yet.”

By 2:30 p.m., you were all clinging to sanity with the same kind of raw determination that one clings to a soggy park map after getting caught in the rain. Which was fitting—because just as the loudspeaker boomed an announcement about the Festival of Fantasy Parade rolling down Main Street, the clouds decided to flirt with Florida’s daily afternoon mood swing.

But rain or shine, the parade was happening.

“I feel like I’m being held hostage by cheerful music,” Rooster muttered, standing behind the kids who were crouched at the curb like parade-hardened veterans.

“Better than being held hostage by a churro shortage,” Hangman grumbled, aggressively sipping from his lemonade like it had wronged him personally.

Noah and Mia had front-row seats—literally. They were pressed up to the curb with their bubble wands going full blast, fogging the air in a five-foot radius like they were trying to create a theme park-themed fog machine.

“My nose itches,” Fanboy whispered, blinking through the cloud. “I can taste bubbles. I think they’re watermelon.”

“Stop licking the air, you freak,” Phoenix said.

Coyote glanced at the stormy clouds. “How long do we think until it rains?”

“Too late,” Payback said, just as the tiniest mist hit his forehead.

It was enough to set off the perfect storm of overstimulation.

First, Mickey rolled out on a giant float, fireworks shot up from the castle, and a bubble popped directly into Mia’s eye.

“OWWW—MY EYYYYE!”

Bob immediately crouched down. “It’s okay—it’s just soap. Blink a few times—yeah, there you go.”

Then, Noah whipped around. “Did you see that dragon? It literally breathed fire! Is that legal?!”

“Probably not,” Hangman said. “But that’s what makes it cool.”

Fanboy, now completely soaked in bubble residue, was trying to explain to a five-year-old next to him that Goofy wasn’t real while simultaneously debating the logistics of living in Cinderella’s Castle.

You turned your head to look at Bob just as the rain officially began. Not a downpour—just a chaotic Florida sprinkle that made everything worse without actually providing relief.

“We brought ponchos, right?” you asked, already knowing the answer.

Bob reached into his backpack and pulled out two. “I packed two.”

You stared at him.

“And we are nine.”

“I was focused on snacks!” Bob protested, holding them up like he could divide them with goodwill and optimism.

At the same time, Rooster tried to cover Mia with the souvenir bag, Coyote offered his shirt as a makeshift towel, and Hangman—refusing to admit defeat—held a park map over his head and started shouting facts about the float choreography like he was on a tour.

“Did you know they use synchronized wireless transmitters to keep the floats in time? You’re welcome for that useless knowledge—AH, BUBBLES IN MY MOUTH.”

Phoenix tried to step back, misjudged the curb, and almost tripped directly into a toddler with a turkey leg. She caught herself, barely.

“Okay,” she hissed. “We’ve reached Maximum Chaos.”

But the kids? Absolutely thriving. Mia was screaming every time a princess waved. Noah tried to join the dancers mid-performance and had to be gently redirected by a cast member named Kyle who definitely wasn’t paid enough for that job.

By the time the final float rolled by, the squad looked like a pack of drowned rats.

“I need a drink,” Rooster said.

“I need a nap,” Coyote said.

“I need to sue the bubble wand company for psychological damage,” Hangman said, wringing out his shirt.

But Mia turned around, cheeks flushed, bubble wand still going, and beamed. “That was the best parade of my whole life.”

Bob, still crouched beside her, smiled and fixed her Mickey ears. “You looked like a pro out there.”

You handed Noah a water bottle as he climbed back up on the bench, smiling through the drizzle.

And even through the rain and the chaos and the mental scars from Goofy’s terrifying wink, you kind of agreed.

It was 4:15 p.m. when you staggered into Cosmic Ray’s Starlight Café like soldiers returning from a battlefield called Main Street USA. Everyone was soaked, sticky, sunburnt—or, in Fanboy’s case, all three. The air-conditioning hit like a religious experience, and no one even complained about the weird smell that always seems to hover in Disney quick-service restaurants (somewhere between fried food and kid tears).

“Okay,” you said, scanning the crowded chaos. “Operation: Feed the Troops. Bob, you and I handle ordering. Everyone else—grab tables. Preferably ones not already colonized by feral toddlers.”

“I’m not sitting next to Hangman if he’s still leaking bubble juice,” Payback muttered.

“I’m fresh now,” Hangman argued, shaking out his hair like a wet golden retriever. “Phoenix sprayed me with hand sanitizer like six times. I’m basically sterile.”

“That’s not comforting,” Coyote said.

Meanwhile, the kids immediately turned into tiny gremlins. Noah made a beeline for the window seats, yelling, “I CALL THIS WHOLE TABLE,” while Mia followed close behind shrieking, “NO YOU DON’T!”

“Just give them food,” Rooster groaned. “They’ll either stop yelling or pass out.”

You and Bob were tag-teaming the screens, both of you hunched over like it was a NASA launch panel.

“Okay, so we need two chicken nugget kids’ meals with apple slices, one burger with no pickles, one veggie wrap, two fries, three sodas—wait, does Fanboy drink soda or is he still in his hydration era?”

Bob scrolled frantically. “He’s doing both. He said, and I quote, ‘Gatorade is for the body, Coke is for the soul.’”

You sighed. “Okay, add one Gatorade, one Coke, one iced tea, and—wait, do you think Rooster meant spicy or regular?”

“Spicy. He’s a menace.”

“And Hangman?”

“Chicken sandwich. Extra sauce. He made me promise.”

You stared at the screen. “We’re feeding a small army. I think this receipt is longer than my college thesis.”

Bob reached into his wallet. “Good thing I didn’t spend that emergency credit card on lightsabers yet.”

At the Table

Coyote had built a napkin fort between him and Payback. “No offense, man, but you keep breathing like you just ran a marathon.”

“That’s just how I eat,” Payback said through a mouthful of fries.

Fanboy had created some kind of dipping sauce buffet on his tray—ranch, barbecue, honey mustard, and a suspicious mystery sauce labeled “zesty.” He dipped one fry in all four. “Mmm. Regret.”

Phoenix was nursing her iced tea and her patience.

“I swear,” she muttered to Rooster, “if one more child kicks my chair—”

“Too late,” he said, glaring over her shoulder. “That little Buzz Lightyear is relentless.”

Hangman was fully reclined, his tray balanced on his lap like he was on vacation.

“I love it here,” he said. “It’s like chaos, but with condiments.”

Meanwhile, you and Bob slid into the booth with the kids, who had already demolished their fries and were demanding sauces like tiny warlords.

“Noah, you’re not allowed to drink barbecue sauce.”

“Says who?!”

“Says the Geneva Convention.”

Ten Minutes Later

Mia was singing to her chicken nuggets.

Fanboy was crying laughing because Coyote accidentally squirted ketchup on a tourist behind him.

Hangman was trying to flirt with the cashier again because she smiled when handing him his tray (“She totally winked. You saw it, right?” “She blinked, Jake.”).

You leaned your head against Bob’s shoulder and sighed, watching Noah try to balance three cups on top of each other like he was building a soda pyramid.

“You good?” Bob asked quietly.

You smiled. “I mean, I’m covered in sweat, soda, and bubble residue. But the kids are full, no one’s crying, and my legs are temporarily off-duty. So yeah… I’m golden.”

He looked at you and grinned. “Welcome to Disney.”

The sun had finally dipped below the skyline, bathing Magic Kingdom in a glowing haze of pink and gold. The lights along the walkways flickered on like magic. Kids were starting to unravel (including your own), the crowds thinned just a little, and everything started to feel a bit… dreamy.

For exactly ten seconds.

Then Noah turned to you and said, “Can we do Space Mountain again? I’m not even scared this time. I barely screamed last time. I didn’t even pee a little.”

Bob choked on his churro. “Wait—what?”

“I barely screamed,” Noah clarified, emphasis very much on barely.

“I think I’m still dizzy from the first time,” Fanboy mumbled, clutching his Sprite like it was holy water. “That ride should come with a chiropractor.”

“I’m in,” Hangman said, cracking his neck. “One last intergalactic trauma? Count me in.”

“I will literally throw up on you,” Coyote warned. “Don’t test me.”

“I volunteer to stay back with Mia,” Phoenix said immediately, one hand on the little girl’s head like a knighted protector. “She already said Space Mountain is ‘too dark and smells like robot farts,’ so we’ll be over there watching the people mover.”

Mia nodded solemnly. “It does smell like robot farts.”

“Confirmed,” Payback agreed. “That queue is like gym socks and space dust.”

Space Mountain Round Two

The cast member waved your group through with the blank, exhausted stare of someone who’s seen too much. Noah and Bob were in the very front, naturally—Noah wanted to “conquer his fears,” and Bob got dragged along in the name of honor.

You, Rooster, and Fanboy followed in the second cart, with Hangman, Payback, and Coyote in the back row like a ticking time bomb of chaos.

As the ride pulled away from the platform, Fanboy whispered, “Why is it so dark in here—OH GOD WE’RE MOVING—”

You shriek-laughed as your cart launched into the void.

Somewhere behind you, Hangman screamed, “I LOVE YOU ALL—TELL MY MOM I DIED A HERO—”

Rooster shouted, “THIS WAS A MISTAKE—”

And then a loud, terrifying thud followed by a very suspicious “OW MY FACE” echoed in the dark.

You all stumbled off the ride looking like survivors of an alien abduction. Noah looked like he’d just conquered Mount Everest. Bob looked vaguely pale but proud.

“How was it?” you asked, rubbing his arm.

“I think my soul is still in there,” he said, pointing back at the ride entrance.

Fanboy sat on a nearby bench and whispered, “I saw God. He was wearing mouse ears.”

Noah fist-bumped Hangman. “That was so SICK.”

Hangman looked windburned. “I’m never emotionally recovering.”

Payback pulled out his phone. “My photo didn’t load. I demand a refund or free therapy.”

Coyote lifted his shirt to reveal a seatbelt burn. “That ride just slapped me and stole my wallet.”

Meanwhile, Phoenix and Mia rejoined, both holding giant pretzels.

“Y’all looked like you saw the end of days,” Phoenix said casually. “We had snacks and people-watched. One guy tried to propose on the people mover and dropped the ring into the bushes.”

Mia looked up, chewing thoughtfully. “She said yes. But she looked mad about it.”

Just before you called it a night, the group made one last stop—Pirates of the Caribbean. Low stakes. Calming music. Animatronics singing about rum.

“This is my speed,” Bob muttered, sliding into the boat beside you and Mia, who was now wearing pirate Mickey ears and holding your hand sleepily.

“I’m so tired I might think Jack Sparrow is real,” you whispered.

Fanboy sat behind you with Coyote and Payback. “I’m just here for the cool air and morally questionable pirates.”

Noah dozed off halfway through. You didn’t blame him. By the end of the ride, you felt like your bones had melted into the seat.

Hangman accidentally got splashed and declared he was “personally attacked by 17th-century water.”

You pushed the stroller out through the glowing castle lights, Noah now sleepily hanging off Bob’s back like a tiny, snoring backpack. Mia clung to your arm, half-asleep and still holding her pretzel. Which was honestly crazy cause what was even the point of the stroller?

Everyone was sunburnt, emotionally battered, and dragging their feet like wounded warriors. It was perfect.

“I can’t feel my legs,” Rooster mumbled.

“I can’t feel my soul,” Fanboy added.

“Worth it,” said Bob, his hand brushing yours.

You grinned. “Totally worth it.”

By the time the squad stumbled back into the hotel, you were all running on pure willpower, sugar crashes, and the kind of delirious exhaustion only Disney parks could summon.

Room 1 — yours, Bob’s, and the kids’ — was first to unlock. Bob opened the door, Noah hanging limp over his shoulder like a tiny, sweaty corpse.

Mia, still half-asleep in the stroller, blinked once. “I want a bath with bubbles and no talking.”

You nodded solemnly. “We can make that happen.”

Bob straightened his back. “You take Mia, I’ll start with Noah—if I can wake him up. He keeps muttering about pirates stealing his Fruit Roll-Up.”

It began peacefully. It did not stay that way.

You set up a warm bubble bath for Mia with her favorite pink fizzy unicorn bomb from home. She climbed in, peaceful as a lamb… until she spotted the teeny hotel shampoo bottle.

“I need the sparkly shampoo, not the ugly hotel one!” she screamed.

“Mia,” you said calmly, “you packed the sparkly one. It’s in your Ariel bag.”

She froze. “Oh. Okay.”

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Bob tried to undress a completely boneless Noah, who kept flopping dramatically every time his uncle-dad-auntie’s boyfriend made progress.

“I think he’s been possessed,” Bob said as he tried to pull off one sock.

Noah suddenly sat upright, eyes wide. “Can we do Space Mountain again tomorrow?”

Bob flinched. “Absolutely not.”

After twenty minutes of negotiating, four bedtime stories, and one minor injury (Bob stubbed his toe on the bunk ladder and shouted “motherFU—dge fudge sticks!”), the kids were finally tucked in:

Mia was in the top bunk, surrounded by plushies like she was sleeping in a Build-A-Bear explosion.

Noah was sprawled in one of the queen beds, completely unconscious with an empty juice pouch next to his face.

Bob collapsed next to you on the other bed, his hair still damp from a three-minute speed shower, wearing a NASA shirt and flannel pajama pants.

He tilted his head toward you and smiled sleepily. “I love them. But I think I blacked out between shampooing and putting conditioner in my own hair.”

You laughed and leaned into his shoulder. “I found string cheese in the bathtub. Don’t ask me how.”

You’d just pulled up the covers when your phone buzzed. The group chat had awakened.

📱 DAGGER SQUAD 💥🔥🍗

[Fanboy, 11:24 p.m.]

why does my pillow smell like sunscreen and betrayal

[Phoenix, 11:24 p.m.]

Coyote is snoring like a man who swallowed a leaf blower

[Hangman, 11:25 p.m.]

Payback keeps calling me “princess” in his sleep and i am NOT okay

[Coyote, 11:25 p.m.]

shut up. i’m dreaming of churros. leave me be.

[Rooster, 11:26 p.m.]