eriksrightnipplering

[eriksrightnipplering]

no clue what to name this, but ya know, gn!reader helps Tryst get some more time with his daughter. I named the daughter and the mom bc I cannot remember if they were named, but I don't think so. Either way, enjoy :)

“Shit,” Tryst grumbled, looking down at his phone as you waited for the minivan to pass by in the parking lot.

You shifted the shopping bags in your hand, curling your fingers around his wrist to tug him forward as the vehicle rolled past. “What is it?”

“I didn’t realize the time,” he muttered, already fishing his car keys out of his pocket, the worn leather fob dangling from his hand. His brows pinched together as he unlocked the car with a beep. “It’s Saturday.”

You glanced at your watch as the two of you stepped off the curb toward his beat-up sedan. Saturday, 2:12 PM. You felt your stomach drop a little, your pace slowing as the realization clicked into place. Hope’s weekly visits. They always started at three sharp, but he liked to get there early. Said sometimes her mom ran late, and on good days, that meant he’d get a few extra minutes. Maybe fifteen, maybe twenty, if he was lucky.

He told you about his daughter back on your fourth date. Sat across from you at that tiny Thai place with the bad service and flickering candlelight, fiddling with the condensation on his glass as he explained it all from the custody arrangement and the rules Natalie had set in place to the fact that she’d come first every single time. You remembered nodding, shaking your head in that way that said yeah, that’s how it should be, before reaching across the table to brush your fingers over his wrist.

Now, you patted his arm gently, shifting the weight of the shopping bags against your hip. “Leave me here. I’ll call someone or take the bus, I don’t mind.”

He tilted his head, one foot already at the edge of the driver’s side door. His expression softened for a second before he shook his head. “No, no, it’s on the way home.”

“You sure?” You hooked your fingers around the straps of your bag, eyeing him carefully. You didn’t want to slow him down. You knew how much these Saturdays meant to him.

“Yeah.” He popped the trunk, tossing in the bags with a clatter of groceries. His voice dropped slightly, rough around the edges. “Just… stay in the car, alright?”

You caught the edge of hesitation in his tone, the quiet plea buried under practiced calm. The driveway wasn’t exactly friendly territory for him. His ex wasn’t either, from the sound of it. You weren’t sure if Natalie had even been told about you yet.

You nodded without argument. “Sure.”

Sliding into the passenger seat, you pulled the door shut, the faint smell of his cologne lingering on the seatbelt. He settled behind the wheel, already shifting into reverse with practiced urgency, jaw tight as he made his way out of the lot.

As the car rumbled to life and he merged onto the main road, your fingers itched to reach for his, but you didn’t. You just sat quietly, knowing your presence was already enough weight for him to carry on a day like this.

The clock on the dash read 2:15. Plenty of time to get there early. Plenty of time to hope for those extra stolen minutes.

The neighborhood looked like something out of a catalog, a glossy, picture-perfect suburb with manicured lawns, matching mailboxes, and wide, tree-lined streets that curved into cul-de-sacs you knew you'd never afford in this lifetime or the next. You tried not to gawk as Tryst pulled into the driveway of a white two-story house with navy shutters, the front porch dressed with wicker chairs and flower boxes brimming with petunias. His jaw was tight, eyes forward, shoulders squared with a stiffness that told you he wasn’t just here to visit. He was bracing himself.

The car rolled to a stop. Tryst killed the engine and opened the door without a word, grabbing a small black tote bag from the backseat before closing the door with a muted thunk. You stayed where you were, hands folded in your lap, trying to blend into the leather upholstery. He’d asked you to stay in the car, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t belong here, not in this polished, careful neighborhood, and definitely not in this moment.

Through the glass, you watched as the front door opened and a woman stepped outside, cradling a small pink bundle against her chest. Her brown hair was pulled into a neat ponytail, her clothes crisp and expensive in that casual, effortless way that only came with money. You couldn’t help but glance between her and Tryst, piecing together fragments of their history based on posture, expression, and distance.

Tryst approached slowly, his hand tightening around the strap of the tote. His body language was careful, like he was approaching a stray animal that might bolt at the wrong move. You saw his lips move as he spoke, but their conversation came muffled through the rolled-up windows, the only sound filling the car the steady hum of distant lawnmowers and birdsong.

The woman shifted Hope in her arms, adjusting the pink blanket so only the faintest peek of her dark hair and round cheeks was visible. You pressed your palm against the window absentmindedly, wishing for a closer look, even if you knew it wasn’t your place.

Natalie, her name drifted back from stories Tryst had told you in pieces. Late-night confessions over takeout, quiet frustration during long drives. You’d never seen her in person until now, but something about her posture told you everything you needed to know. She kept Hope angled away from him, her arms protective and firm, her expression unreadable from your distance.

Tryst pulled the black tote open, reaching in and producing a small, well-worn stuffed bear. You recognized it immediately from when you helped him move from his mom's house to your apartment. A faded brown bear with one crooked ear and stitching along its side, the kind of toy that looked like it had history. He held it up for Natalie to inspect, his features softening despite the tension lining his jaw.

She didn’t take the bear right away. Her gaze flicked between him and the toy, some unspoken boundary thick between them. Eventually, with a slight incline of her head, she relented, and Tryst tucked the bear gently beside Hope, careful not to overstep, careful not to reach for her. You could tell he wanted to. His fingers hovered near her blanket for a heartbeat longer than necessary, but he pulled back, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets.

Not even ten minutes passed before he was walking back toward the car, the black tote now empty at his side, his shoulders slumped with something heavier than exhaustion. You quickly settled your expression into something neutral as he slid behind the wheel, slamming the door shut harder than he probably intended.

The car was quiet except for the faint click of his seatbelt. You waited, your throat dry, until he exhaled roughly and started the engine.

“She doing okay?” you asked carefully, your voice low, almost unsure if you should say anything at all.

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, knuckles paling. “Yeah,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the road ahead as he backed out of the driveway. “She’s good.”

You didn’t push. You let the silence stretch as the perfect little houses blurred past the window, his jaw clenched tight enough you thought it might crack. You rested your hand lightly on the console between you, close enough for him to reach for, but far enough he wouldn’t feel pressured. He didn’t say another word until they’d left the neighborhood entirely, the towering homes shrinking behind you like they’d never existed at all.

+++

You’re not sure what convinced you to come back. Maybe it was the way Tryst’s eyes stayed distant for the rest of the weekend, his usual quiet slipping into something heavier, like the weight of that driveway still clung to him. Maybe it was how he didn’t mention Hope again. Not once, even though you caught him scrolling through old photos when he thought you weren’t looking. The way his thumb hovered over the screen, his jaw tight, his face unreadable.

Whatever the reason, by Wednesday afternoon, you were parked outside that same house, rehearsing words that now felt flimsy and foolish. You’d practiced every sentence, every soft approach, every carefully balanced phrase meant to sound non-threatening, understanding, but the second your knuckles rapped against the glossy navy door, your brain emptied like a sink drain.

It swung open a moment later. A tall man with graying hair and kind eyes answered, dressed neatly in a navy sweater and jeans that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe. His expression was polite but guarded. “Can I help you?”

You opened your mouth and nothing. Every carefully chosen word you’d repeated during the drive over evaporated. “I’m a… I’m…” You faltered, nerves bubbling up as your fingers twisted in the hem of your sleeve. Then, a nervous chuckle slipped past your lips. “Sorry. God, I had this whole speech planned.”

The man’s brows lifted, his lips curling with faint amusement. “Don’t worry,” he offered, that guarded edge softening just slightly.

You cleared your throat, steadying yourself. “I’m a friend of Tryst’s,” you explained, finally finding your footing, even as the air between you shifted. His smile dimmed, his posture tensing just enough to notice. “I was hoping to talk to your daughter… about their child.”

The words sounded heavier out loud than they did in your head. You braced for a door slammed in your face, for clipped excuses or cold dismissal. But to your surprise, neither came.

“I know Tryst can come speak to you himself,” you added quickly, your voice steady but low. “But I just… I thought maybe it’d mean something different, coming from someone else. Someone not caught in the middle.”

The man studied you for a long, quiet moment. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but eventually, his shoulders eased, and he stepped aside, holding the door wider.

“Come on in,” he said simply.

The inside of the house was exactly what you expected. Immaculate, with gleaming hardwood floors, crown molding along the ceilings, and the faint scent of expensive candles lingering in the air. You followed him down a short hallway, heart pounding against your ribs.

“Tea?” the man offered, already halfway to the sleek, open kitchen that gleamed with marble countertops and stainless-steel appliances.

You shook your head, hands clasped politely in front of you. “No, thank you.”

Truthfully, your stomach was twisting too tight to keep anything down. Your throat felt dry, but the idea of lingering longer than necessary didn’t sit right with you either. You hovered awkwardly near the entryway until he gestured toward the living room with a nod, and you finally forced yourself to settle onto the couch.

The cushions sank beneath your weight, soft and expensive, too expensive. The pale fabric looked freshly cleaned, probably some delicate linen or wool blend you couldn’t pronounce, and the sheer thought of what this couch likely cost made your palms sweat. You curled your feet beneath you, tucking your muddy shoes as far away from the pristine rug as possible, though you were sure the soles had already tracked something over it. The rug alone probably cost more than your entire bedroom set. Maybe your entire apartment.

You glanced around, taking in the framed photos along the built-in shelves, the tasteful art, the neat stacks of hardcover books arranged just so. Everything screamed order. Wealth. Control. It only made your nerves buzz louder beneath your skin.

Footsteps padded softly down the hall, and you turned toward them just as she appeared.

Natalie.

You recognized her immediately despite the more casual clothes, a pair of fitted jeans, and a soft cream sweater. Her hair was swept up into a bun, and she balanced Hope on her hip with ease, the little girl perched there like she’d belonged no place else her entire life.

Hope was smaller than you imagined, all chubby cheeks and tiny fists, her pink socks mismatched in that way only toddlers managed. Her little hand lifted in an unsteady wave, fingers splaying before curling back toward her palm.

“Hi,” you breathed, voice gentling despite the nerves still coiled tight beneath your ribs.

The first thing you noticed, aside from how shockingly much she looked like Natalie, was her eyes. Blue. Wide. Curious. You knew those eyes. Hope might’ve been a carbon copy of her mother, with the same soft features, same delicate nose, same brown curls already starting to frame her face, but those eyes were Tryst’s, through and through. Unmistakable.

Natalie’s expression stayed unreadable, her grip steady on Hope’s waist. There was no warmth, no hostility either, just caution. You could feel her assessing you the same way her father had, weighing your presence like a threat she wasn’t sure how to categorize yet.

But Hope wiggled in her mother’s hold and offered another tiny wave, her lips pulling into a shy, toothy grin. You smiled back, pulse fluttering, wondering how the hell you were supposed to get through this without falling apart. Natalie's mother handed Hope a little stuffed duck, holding the poor thing tightly in her arms.

You took a deep breath, smoothing your hands over your thighs.

“First off,” you began, voice steady but gentle, “Tryst can advocate for himself. Fully. He knows what he wants, and he knows what he needs to do to get it.”

Natalie’s lips tightened just a bit, bracing for the rest.

You shook your head, holding her gaze.

“But he won’t,” you continued, “not out of respect for you and your family. He doesn’t want to push, or guilt anyone, or make this harder than it already is. He’d rather suffer quietly than do anything that might upset Hope’s routine.”

The silence was heavy, broken only by the little girl’s gurgling laugh as she squeezed her duck tighter.

“He’s trying so hard,” you added, heart aching as you thought of Tryst’s tears over Hope when you weren't looking. “And he’s terrified of messing up. He just wants… a chance.”

Natalie shifted Hope to her other hip, glancing down at her daughter’s happy face, then back to you.

“I’m not here to demand anything,” you said. “I just… I thought you deserved to hear how hard he’s been working. And how much he loves her.”

Hope, oblivious, squealed again, delighted with her duck's floppy feet, one dangling lower than the other.

You smiled, trying to swallow down the lump in your throat.

“I’m not asking for an overnight stay or anything crazy,” you continued, voice calm and reasonable. “Just… invite him inside. Let him spend some time with her that isn’t an awkward exchange in the driveway.”

Natalie shifted again, biting at her lip. Her mother looked skeptical, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Tryst has been showing up, every single time,” you said softly. “He stands there in the cold, in the rain, in whatever, just to see her for five minutes. And he never asks for more than you’re comfortable with. I think you know that.”

Natalie looked away for a second, hugging Hope a little tighter, but you could see she was listening. Really listening.

“He’s done a lot of work,” you added, keeping your tone measured. “Therapy, parenting classes, everything they asked him to do. I’m not saying he’s perfect, but… he’s trying. And it’s killing him to feel like he’s still on the outside.”

Hope, oblivious to the tension, looked between you and her mom, eyes sparkling, that same wide grin on her face. She giggled again, kicking her feet in the air.

You couldn’t help but smile back at her.

“Just an hour,” you offered, as gently as you could. “Inside. Where he can see how she plays, how she eats. Where he can be a dad, even for a little while.”

Natalie’s shoulders slumped, her face caught somewhere between exhaustion and emotion. You could see how hard this was for her too. A war where she was protecting Hope, protecting herself, protecting what was left of her own peace. Finally, she looked you straight in the eye. Hope babbled again, completely unaware of how important this moment was, her tiny hand reaching toward her mother’s necklace and tugging gently. Natalie sighed, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s hair.

Natalie’s parents shared a look, something long and silent passing between them before her father finally spoke up.

“It’s Natalie’s decision,” he said, voice low but even.

Her mother nodded, though her arms were still crossed protectively. “Whatever she feels is best.”

You watched Natalie’s eyes, saw the whole debate play out there. The fear, the worry, the tiny flicker of longing that maybe, just maybe, Hope could know her father without getting hurt.

You shifted uncomfortably on the couch, feeling like you’d intruded on something sacred.

“Look, I’m… I’m sorry,” you murmured, swallowing the guilt that had been rising since you walked through the door. “I shouldn’t have put this on you. You’ve already got enough to think about. This conversation-” you gestured faintly at the room, at Natalie’s guarded expression, “-it never had to happen. It shouldn’t have been me.”

You stood up, smoothing the front of your shirt, trying to gather what was left of your courage. “I just… wanted to try.”

Natalie didn’t say anything, still working through that impossible tug-of-war in her mind.

You nodded to her parents in quiet respect, took one more look at Hope, who was now twisting in her mother’s arms, trying to spot you over her shoulder.

You turned to go, feet heavy on the hardwood floor, heart hammering in your chest.

But as you reached the entryway, Hope let out a high-pitched, garbled shout. “Bah-bah!”

You paused, turning back, and saw her waving her tiny hand, a giant, toothy grin on her face.

Your chest tightened as you lifted your own hand to wave back, a small smile breaking through despite everything.

For just a split second, you met Natalie’s eyes. There was a glimmer there, something softer, something that maybe, with time, might shift toward yes.

You held that moment close as you stepped outside into the cool afternoon air, letting the door click shut behind you.

The drive home felt heavy, every mile weighed down by that conversation, by the look in Natalie’s eyes that wouldn’t leave you alone. When you finally stepped inside, the apartment smelled faintly of popcorn.

Tryst was on the couch, head tipped back, remote clutched loosely in his hand like he might change the channel if he could find the energy. He looked so different now than when you’d first met him. Then, he was a live wire on the edge of a breakdown, pounding down Red Bulls like they were water, twitchy and sleepless, half-crazed with fear and regret.

Now he was calmer, more centered, even if exhaustion still clung to him like a second skin.

You walked over and pressed a long, gentle kiss to his forehead, breathing him in, letting his familiar scent ground you. He barely stirred, just cracked one bleary eye and tried to smile.

“Hey,” you murmured, brushing a hand through his hair.

He made a soft, content hum in reply, half-asleep already.

“I’m gonna start on dinner,” you told him quietly, not expecting an answer. You stepped away before he could ask where you’d been, praying he never would. That conversation at Natalie’s house was yours to carry alone. A kindness, you decided, one less weight on his back.

That weekend, you found yourself riding shotgun again, hands twisting together as you watched him in the rearview mirror while he walked up to Natalie’s house. This time, you stayed in the car, window cracked, ears straining to catch every word through the glass.

You could see how hard he was trying not to fidget, keeping his shoulders steady, his voice even. Natalie was there, Hope on her hip, that same soft duck clutched tight.

Natalie took a breath and asked, “Do you want to hold her?”

You saw it instantly, how the question hit him like a lightning bolt. The grocery bag in his hand nearly slipped to the ground, and he scrambled to set it down carefully before he could even answer.

“Yeah,” he breathed, voice cracking, nodding so fast you were afraid his neck might snap.

Natalie passed Hope over, slow and cautious, and Tryst gathered her against his chest like she was made of spun glass. You could see every muscle in his body tense with awe and terror and love, all at once.

Hope reached up, tiny fingers grabbing at the scruff on his jaw, babbling something that made him laugh, a sound so unguarded you felt it down to your bones.

From the car, you watched as he whispered something to her, his forehead pressed gently against her soft hair.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Tryst looked like he could breathe.

[eriksrightnipplering]

[eriksrightnipplering]

Erik Campbell - Icons

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[eriksrightnipplering]

silly billies :3