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pucksandpower · 2 years ago

Note

hiii! with the chaos that was today’s career, could I request one with driver reader that she started telling her team that she wasn’t feeling good but still wanted to continue but the next moment she isn’t answering her radio because she fainted in the car and the car goes out, the marshals take her out of the car and she doesn’t wake up, maybe she has extreme dehydration and is hot to touch, etc.

How the other drivers react when they found out, her team, etc.

Thank you

Too Hot To Handle

Max Verstappen x Red Bull driver!Reader

Summary: the Qatar Grand Prix pushed every driver to the limit … and some past the limit

Warnings: heat stroke, dehydration, crash, medical conditions

The Lusail International Circuit hums with electric anticipation, its asphalt ribbon shimmering under the floodlights. The roar of the crowd fills the night but the oppressive heat weighs on everyone, creating a contrasting atmosphere of excitement and cautious apprehension.

Standing alongside your Red Bull Racing car, you wipe a bead of sweat from your brow. In only your first year with the reigning double champions, you already have a record that has quickly become the talk of the paddock. But for all the praise and whispers, there is one voice that stands out.

“Remember, liefje, it’s not just about speed tonight. Keep hydrated, alright?” Max’s voice is full of warmth and concern. His hand rests gently on your arm.

You flash him a confident smile even though you’re battling your nerves internally. “I’ve raced in heat before, Maxie. I won in Singapore. I’ll be fine.”

He pulls you into a quick embrace, the temperature doing little to dampen the spark between you. “It’s different here. This heat ... it’s like nothing I’ve ever raced in before.”

Pulling back, you raise an eyebrow teasingly. “You worried about me, Verstappen?”

He laughs but there’s a hint of steely seriousness in his blue eyes. “Always. Just ... promise me you’ll be careful out there. For both our sakes.”

You nod, touching your helmet to his. “Promise.”

The intercom in your ear crackles to life. “Drivers, to your cars!”

You both exchange a final glance. Racing is in your blood, it’s what brought you together, but it also keeps you apart, if only for the few hours you’re no longer partners in life but competitors on track.

Sliding into your car, you secure your helmet and gloves. The world outside becomes a bit muffled but your focus sharpens. The engine’s purr is a familiar comfort, but tonight, it’s edged with the unease Max’s words left behind.

Your race engineer, Hugh Bird, checks in over the radio, “Everything good, Y/N?”

You take a deep breath, “As good as it’ll ever be. Let’s light up this track.”

“Give them a show.”

Lights out and away we go.

***

The Qatar Grand Prix unfolds with its usual mix of intensity and skill, drivers navigating tight turns and overtaking with precision. But beneath the spectacle, a subtle tension mounts. The oppressive heat, the stark floodlights, and the weight of expectation — all of it seems to be building to something.

In the garage and on the pit wall, your team closely monitors the race and your performance. Hugh occasionally chimes in with updates, “You’re doing great, Y/N. Remember to hydrate whenever you need to.”

You nod even though he can’t see it, “Understood. The heat’s something else in here.”

A pause. Then, “Just keep stead. And Max told GP to tell me to tell you to remember what he said.”

A smile touches your lips, “I always do.”

***

The track is a blur as you push your car to its limits, feeling the adrenaline surge in tandem with the roar of the engines. It’s as if the heat has seeped into your very core, burning with intensity. Each lap feels slightly longer, every turn a tad sharper, as the humid air takes its toll.

“Y/N,” Hugh radioes through, sounding distant and slightly distorted by the pounding in your head, “you’re P2. Great pace. Remember to sip some water.”

A trickle of sweat runs down the side of your face, stinging your eye. Blinking rapidly, you reach for the button that activates your hydration system.

“Got it,” your voice sounds foreign even to your own ears. The water is lukewarm and tastes metallic, not as refreshing as you had hoped.

“Just keep doing what you’re doing,” he urges.

With every lap, the world outside your visor seems to grow brighter, the floodlights shimmering like mirages in a desert. The race has become a battle, not just against other drivers but against the environment and, increasingly, against yourself.

“You’re dropping pace. Is everything alright?” Hugh’s concerned voice crackles through.

A knot tightens in your stomach. “I don’t know. I ...” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as a wave of overwhelming dizziness hits.

You can hear the alarm in your engineer’s voice becoming more pronounced. “Y/N, talk to me. Do we need to pit?”

The heat wraps around you, constricting, making it difficult to breathe. Your hands, slick with sweat, struggle to grip the wheel even through your gloves. “Guys ... I don’t ... feel ...” The world spins and your words falters.

“Y/N? Y/N, talk to me!”

But before you can respond, before you can even finish your sentence, the world tilts and blurs into an incomprehensible whirlwind. The sweltering heat, the relentless pursuit of victory, and the weight of expectation converge into a maelstrom that engulfs you entirely.

Your hands, once deftly steering the RB19, now hang limply by your sides. The car veers off the track, careening towards the barriers. Panic rises in you but it’s too late. Your body refuses to act.

The deafening sound of metal against metal fills your ears, followed by the nauseating sensation of impact. The world outside your cockpit twists and spins, a kaleidoscope of colors and chaos. Then, abruptly, it all goes dark.

In the garage, your team watches in horror as the monitors show the violent crash. The radio falls silent, the connection severed. In that heartbeat, the world goes eerily quiet, punctuated only by the distant echoes of screeching tires and the blaring alarms.

Moments pass like hours and finally the static on the radio clears, replaced by your frantic race engineer, “—please respond. Y/N? Are you okay?”

But there’s no response. Your world remains shrouded in darkness as the circuit comes to a standstill, gripped by an eerie silence that drowns out even the most deafening of cheers.

The track is plunged into chaos. Red flags wave fervently, signaling danger. Marshals rush towards your wrecked car, their fluorescent jackets contrasting brightly against the night.

“Get her out! Get her out!” One of the marshals shouts as they reach your car. Your limp form is carefully extracted and they begin immediate first aid. The severity of the situation is clear — the heat, the dehydration, it’s all taken its toll.

The crowd watches, a collective gasp filling the air soon replaced by a thick, heavy silence. As your unconscious form is stretchered away, the weight of all those warnings crashes down.

Back on the pit wall, four words whispered into the radio are the first of many about to turn your boyfriend’s world upside down.

“Safety car, safety car.”

***

“Max, we’re pitting this lap. Box, box,” the calm, steady voice of Gianpiero Lambiase, Max’s race engineer, instructs over the radio.

Max’s voice is curt, his mind still on the race. “Why? Tires feel fine.”

“Non-negotiable. Safety car is out. We need you to pit now.”

The urgency in GP’s voice is not lost on Max and he immediately senses that something is wrong. “What happened? Why is there a safety car?”

Silence follows for a heartbeat too long. “There was an incident. Just focus on your race.”

An icy dread seeps into Max’s bones. The circuit is massive yet his world feels terribly small at this moment. “Who was it? Who crashed?”

His engineer hesitates, and in that pause, the weight of a thousand possibilities presses on Max.

“Who. Was. It?”

GP wavers, “It’s … Y/N.”

Max’s breathing becomes ragged. Panic and fear flood his system. “Why the hell wasn’t I told immediately?”

“It was team orders. The decision was made to keep you focused on the race.”

Max laughs but it lacks any humor. “Team orders? You’re saying Christian decided not to tell me that Y/N ... my Y/N is hurt?”

“Yes,” the reply is uncharacteristically soft, “It was believed to be in everyone’s best interest for you to be fully focused on the race.”

Max has never felt such white-hot rage. He spits into the radio, seething with fury and pain. “You tell Christian that if he ever makes a decision like that again about someone I love, I’ll cut his balls off with a rusty spoon.”

“Max, I understand you’re upset. But right now, we need you to stay focused.”

Stay focused? When the love of his life is in potential danger? The weight of what that means presses down, threatening to crush him. “I need to see her,” he finally rasps out, voice breaking.

The plea hangs in the air, met by another long silence. Finally, the radio clicks on again, softer than ever. “Y/N would want you to finish. You know that. Win this for her.”

Tears blur Max’s vision, mixing with the sweat already pooling in his helmet, but he nods, a silent assent. The roaring engine now sounds distant, the glinting lights a backdrop to the storm that rages within him. Every second is an eternity, every turn a test of his resolve to keep racing. But Max drives on, pushing his limits for you.

Every fiber of his being silently screams your name, a prayer or a promise or both, Max doesn’t know. All he knows is that the faster he crosses the finish line, the sooner he can be with you.

For the world watching, the race continues, cars whizzing by. But for Max Verstappen, each lap, each second, is a race against his own heart, torn between duty and desperate love.

***

“Her pulse is erratic! Get the defibrillator ready!” A medic shouts as the emergency team frantically works around you, the ambulance parked haphazardly nearby.

Another voice, calmer but filled with urgency, counters, “Wait, give her a moment. She might come around.”

“Come on, Y/N,” A young medic mutters, pressing an oxygen mask to your face. “Don’t do this.”

The ambulance door opens again, the head medic speaking into a radio, “We need an airlift, now. The situation’s deteriorating rapidly.”

Another voice, muffled, replies, “The helicopter’s on its way! Clear the area.”

As the medics continue to administer aid, working desperately to stabilize you, the chief medic tries to maintain order, “Every second counts. This heat stroke is severe, coupled with dehydration ... it’s a nightmare scenario.”

“We should have had more cooling stations,” the younger medic mutters. “The humidity coupled with the heat ... it’s brutal tonight. And we’re not even the ones out there driving.”

The older medic takes a deep breath. “That is on the organizations. We can’t fix there mistakes but we can focus on what happening now and do everything we can to get her through this.”

The thrum of helicopter blades soon overwhelms the noise of the circuit, growing louder as it approaches. Soon, the bright light from its landing spotlight punctuates the night. “The helicopter’s here!” Someone shouts.

“Alright, team, on three,” the chief medic commands. They work in perfect sync, lifting you carefully but quickly, your body still unresponsive.

As they approach the helicopter, the pilot shouts over the roar, “We’ve got the best onboard. She’s in good hands.”

“She’s one of our best,” the younger medic shouts back. “She has to be okay.”

The chief medic, securing you inside, murmurs more to himself than anyone else, “Come on, Y/N. The race isn’t over. Keep fighting.”

***

“You expect me to smile and stand on that podium knowing she’s been airlifted to a hospital?” Max’s voice trembles with rage as he confronts the FIA officials blocking his way.

“Mr. Verstappen, there are rules, procedures,” an official replies stiffly.

“Rules? Y/N might be fighting for her life right now and you want to talk to me about rules?” Max’s hands clench and unclench as he physically holds himself back from throwing a punch.

Another official steps forward, trying to mediate, “Max, we understand your feelings but millions of viewers are watching. The podium is an essential part of the race.”

Max’s eyes flash with anger. “You think I care about a trophy when my girlfriend is in a hospital? Do you really think that piece of metal means anything to me right now?”

“We sympathize— ” the first official begins but is cut off by Max’s heated response.

“You sympathize? Do you even know what that word means?” He’s on the verge of breaking, voice barely above a whisper as he continues, “She is everything to me. Everything. And you want me to smile and wave for the cameras?”

The air grows thick with tension. The two drivers from McLaren waiting for their cue to go to the podium are silent, their eyes darting between Max and the officials.

A new voice interjects , “Let him go.”

It’s Lewis Hamilton, who despite DNFing early in the race, made his way across the paddock after seeing the distress on his rival’s face. “There are things more important than a ceremony.”

The officials exchange glances, clearly not expecting this intervention. But before they can reply, Max levels them with a final scathing look. “Fine me if you must! Penalize me! Suspend me for all I care! But I am going to her.”

And off he goes.

***

A nurse at the desk recognizes Max immediately when he runs into the hospital. “Mr. Verstappen,” she begins hesitantly, “Miss Y/L/N is in the ICU. Room 302.”

He doesn’t need any further prompting to sprint down the hall. Reaching the room, he stops dead in his tracks. You’re there, surrounded by machines that beep and whirr, tubes running to and from you, an oxygen mask on your face. The sight of you, once so full of life, now frail and vulnerable, breaks him.

His voice, when he finally managed to finds it, is a choked whisper, “Y/N ...”

Approaching the bedside, Max gently takes your hand, feeling its clamminess. “Hey, liefje ... it’s me,” he murmurs, pressing a tender kiss to your knuckles. His tears fall freely, wetting the back of your hand.

“Come on, love,” his voice cracks as he continues, “You’ve got to pull through this. For us.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, tracing the familiar curves and lines he’s come to adore. “Remember that time in Monaco? When we snuck out for that secret dinner that our trainers would have killed us for? We promised each other forever that night. You can’t leave me now. Not when we’ve got so many more memories left to make.”

The room’s silence is punctuated only by the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor in a cruel reminder of the fragility of the moment.

“I love you so much,” he murmurs. “Please ... please come back to me.”

Leaning in, he rests his forehead against yours, allowing the weight of his anguish, love, and hope to flow between the two of you in the sterile room.

***

Nothing has changed. The steady beep of the heart monitor still punctuates the silence of the hospital room. Max sits vigilantly at your bedside, his hand gently clasping yours.

It’s been three days since the crash and you still have not woken up. The doctors say your condition is stable but uncertain.

Max leans in close and presses a kiss to your forehead. “Morning, liefje. I’m still here. Not going anywhere.”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, his touch impossibly gentle as if you might break. In the stark hospital lighting, the dark circles under his eyes are visible. Sleep hasn’t come easy to him, not with you lying here.

A soft knock at the door draws Max’s attention. Hugh pokes his head in hesitantly. “Hey, Max. Any change?”

Max shakes his head, swallowing hard. “Nothing yet. But she’s fighting. I know she is.”

Your race engineer steps further into the room, his expression solemn. “I should have seen the signs earlier. Pushed her to hydrate more. Slowed her pace.” His voice catches, “It was my job to look out for her.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” Max says firmly. “Y/N is stubborn. We both know that. She wanted to prove herself.” A ghost of a smile touches his lips. “It’s what makes her brilliant.”

Hugh pulls up a chair on the opposite side of the bed. For a moment, the two men sit in pensive silence. Then your race engineer speaks again, softer this time. “Has she ... has she responded at all? Squeezed your hand or anything?”

Max clenches his jaw and stares past Hugh at the blank wall. “No. Nothing yet. But I know she can hear me. I tell her about training, the team ... I update her on everything. She’ll want to jump right back in when she wakes up.”

Footsteps approach and a nurse enters, checking the equipment and your vitals. After making some notes on a chart, she offers an encouraging smile. “No change but she seems stable. Just keep talking to her. Familiar voices help.”

After she departs, Hugh leans forward, clasping your still hand. “Hear that, Y/N? You’ve got to wake up. The team needs you. Your fans are all rooting for you. And ...” His voice cracks. “I need my driver back.”

Max looks at him gratefully. “We all need her back.” Reaching out, he gives your race engineer’s shoulder a comforting squeeze.

Another knock sounds. This time, it’s Christian. His face is etched with guilt and worry. “Max. Any improvement today?”

Max’s expression hardens. He hasn’t forgotten Christian’s decision to withhold news of your crash. But his voice remains even as he responds to the team principal. “Nothing new.”

Christian pulls up a chair next to Hugh. He chooses his next words carefully. “Max, I need to apologize. I made the wrong call that night. You deserved to know immediately about Y/N. My priorities were skewed.” His voice shakes slightly. “Seeing her like this ... I would give anything to go back and change what I did.”

Max studies him for a long moment and some of the hardness leaves his eyes. “I appreciate that. But right now, the past doesn’t matter. All that matters is her getting better.”

Christian nods. Reaching out, he gently smoothes your hair. “You hear that, Y/N? We’re all here for you. Your whole team. Now you need to come back to us.”

A heavy silence settles on the room once more. The three of them remain clustered around the bed … keeping vigil … willing you to show any small sign of recovery.

After some time passes, the ringing of Hugh’s phone snaps the three men out of their thoughts. “Sorry to interrupt,” your press officer’s voice filters through the speaker, “but the team’s on the line. They want to send their well wishes to Y/N.”

Hugh glances at Max questioningly who nods, “Patch them through. Let the whole team remind her why she needs to wake up.”

A smile tugs at your race engineer’s lips. “You got it. Go ahead, team. She can hear you.”

A chorus of voices floods the room. Your mechanics, pit crew, strategists, PR team … everyone chimes in with encouraging messages.

“Come on, Y/N! We need our star girl back on the grid.”

“You can do this, kid. You’re the toughest one out there!”

“We all believe in you. Keep fighting!”

Max grips your hand tighter, emotions threatening to spill over. Even Christian and Hugh have sheens of tears in their eyes.

“Alright,” your race engineer says after the team signs off. “You heard them. Time to wake up.”

And that’s when Max feels it. A short, weak squeeze of his hand.

Then your eyelids begin to flutter.

“Y/N?” Max leaps to his feet, leaning over you anxiously. “Can you hear me?”

Slowly, painfully, your eyes open, taking in the scene around you. Confusion clouds your expression. “M-Max?” You rasp.

A brilliant smile breaks across Max’s face. Relief floods through him so powerful that his knees nearly buckle as he chokes out, “Yes, yes it’s me! You’re back, liefje. You’re really back.”

Hugh lets out a shaky laugh, scrubbing a hand across his face. “Welcome back, superstar.”

You try to speak again but Max hushes you gently. “Save your strength. We’ve got all the time in the world to talk.”

Christian grins, looking years younger. “Oh thank god. I need to tell the team. They’ll be thrilled. Welcome back, Y/N.” He hurries from the room, phone already in hand.

Your race engineer squeezes your shoulder. “Get some rest. We’ll all be here when you wake up.”

As he and the nurse move discreetly out of the room, you gaze up at Max. “You ... you stayed.”

Max lifts your hand to his lips, blinking back tears. “Of course I stayed. I’ll always stay by your side.”

He leans down, pressing his lips against your chapped ones. All the fear, the uncertainty, the heartache of the past few days melts away.

You’re back. You’re really back. And Max knows, without a shred of doubt, that your lives from this day on will be greater and more meaningful than all your wildest dreams.

***

In the following days, drivers from across the grid make the pilgrimage to your hospital room. They come bearing gifts — flowers, balloons, even a nearly life-size plush race car. But more importantly, they come bearing a message.

“That race should never have happened,” Lewis says solemnly, handing you a get-well card covered in signatures. “The heat was dangerous. We should have acted sooner.”

Esteban grips your hand tightly. “I’m sorry, Y/N. We should have spoken up about the conditions sooner. We all suffered but you suffered most.”

“Your crash woke us all up,” Lance adds. “No trophy is worth risking drivers’ safety even more than we already do each race.”

You’re moved by their solidarity but sigh knowingly. “The FIA would never have listened to just one driver saying something. But maybe they’ll listen to all of us.”

Max’s jaw clenches, residual anger simmering beneath the surface. “They have to listen. We won’t race in unsafe conditions again.”

The other drivers nod, They know the power that you all wield together and for the first time in a long time, you are going to use it.

In a show of outspoken unity, the GPDA drafts a strongly worded letter condemning the lack of caution around extreme heat and demanding tangible changes to make sure drivers aren’t put in avoidable jeopardy.

All twenty of you threaten to strike.

To your surprise, the FIA not only apologizes for the oversight but pledges to implement the requested changes immediately.

“Your crash was a wake-up call,” the FIA president says solemnly during a visit to your hospital room. “We should have protected you better. That will never happen again.”

When he departs, you let out a long breath, leaning back against the pillows. The anger and hurt from that night haven’t disappeared entirely but you feel a sense of hope, that some good has come from the experience.

Max clasps your hand between both of his. “What you went through is unacceptable but you used that to make the sport safer for every driver out there. I’m so proud of you.”

You give him a tired smile. “We did this together. All of us.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Get some rest. When you’re better, we’ve got plenty more checkered flags to take. Side by side.”

The long road to full recovery still lies ahead. But with Max by your side, and all the drivers behind you, you know everything will be okay.

The race goes on but it will be a safer race thanks to you.

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nemo-writes · 1 month ago

Text

𝗮𝗯𝘀𝗼𝗹𝘂𝘁𝗲𝗹𝘆 𝘀𝗺𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 I chapter ten

(dr. jack abbot x nurse!reader)

⤿ chapter summary: time passes without a whisper of danger—yet your nerves remain coiled, the calm louder than any threat, and even the smallest unraveling leaves you raw. and then—a reminder. a sweet and scruffy one.

⤿ warning(s): discussion of medical procedures, medical inaccuracies

⟡ story masterlist ; previous I next

✦ word count: 1.7k

Night settles over The Pitt—still damp from the days-long storm, but humming with the restless energy that always spikes when day hands off to graveyard. You and Jack step from his truck into a crisp mist, the hospital’s glass façade beading with rain that looks silver under the loading-bay floodlights. New security lamps flare along the sidewalk—Gloria’s latest decree—and a pair of guards linger at the doors, radios murmuring.

Inside the vestibule, you barely have time to swipe your badge before Margot’s unmistakable laugh echoes off the tile. She’s striding out with Bob at her side, keys jingling on his belt loop. They both slow when they spot you. Margot’s smile goes soft around the edges, the charge nurse façade slipping just a hair.

“Look who decided to grace the night shift with her presence,” she teases, but her eyes rake you head to toe—inventorying. Bob lifts the insulated tote he’s carrying, waggles it like contraband.

“You didn’t think we’d let you start a shift without pre-approved carbs, did you?” he says. The tote is clearly stuffed with fresh clothes, some snacks, and your favorite thermos.

You accept with heat prickling your eyes. “Thank you guys. For the other stuff too.”

“No problem,” Bob says. He steps close, dipping his voice. “You doing okay?”

You expected the question, will expect it a dozen more times before dawn, but gratitude still stirs. “Hour by hour,” you answer. “Tonight feels…manageable.”

Margot hooks her arm through Bob’s, visibly relieved. “Good. Because we left a stack of elbow-deep charting for your meticulous little heart.”

Jack snorts behind you. “Translation: Ellis kept things imploding, but she’s threatening to duct-tape Shen to the inventory closet.”

Margot laughs, reaches out, and squeezes your forearm, her thumb pressing reassurance into your sleeve. “Call if you need anything—security code or emotional rescue.” Then she tips her chin at Jack. “And you—don’t let her do all the lifting.”

He lifts a hand in casual salute. “Roger that.”

With a final wave, the two of them disappear into the night, headed toward the staff lot where morning routines and normal sleep still exist. You watch them go until the door hisses shut, muffling the outside world.

Jack turns, clinks his badge against yours like a toast. “Ready?”

You draw a breath—clean antiseptic, distant coffee, the ever-present ozone tingle of the sterilizers. The hall ahead is bright and chilled, monitors already chiming in their peculiar midnight harmony. Security cameras pivot softly overhead, tracing every angle.

“Ready,” you say, and together you step past the threshold—back into fluorescent light, controlled chaos, and the shifting constellation of night-shift hearts that are already orbiting, waiting for your steady gravity to settle them.

. . .

The first night back feels like wearing stiff boots over half-healed blisters—every step deliberate, the pinch of memory always there. You track every clipboard, double-lock every med cart, and tense when a pager shrieks too close to your ear.

Yet nothing happens.

By the second week you’re still cataloging every unfamiliar face, but you’re also teasing a new nurse when he mislabels a drain and walking a med-student through a central-line checklist without your voice wobbling. The scanner Ramirez installed on the staff entrance clicks each time you badge in, a small mechanical reminder that the perimeter is tighter now. You and Jack trade five-minute hand-offs at the clean-utility alcove—his shoulder bump, your muttered “hydrate”—and the shift rolls on.

Weeks braid into a measured rhythm.

By November, the south wing glows with early holiday lights and the trauma corridor carries a faint, persistent whiff of pumpkin-spiced coffee. You’ve also reclaimed your “midnight Bento” ritual—onigiri for Parker, hot miso for Shen—while Jack complains there’s still no chili oil.

That same week Gloria corners you outside Sterile Core, her heels clicking a decisive cadence. She’s carrying a color-coded staffing matrix and a look that means business. “Security metrics have held thirty days,” she says, flipping to a highlighted column. “If you’re ready, I’m clearing you for day shift—and your old surgical slot. We’ll keep the enhanced badge checks, but the board trusts the system.”

You swallow, nod, and realize your pulse doesn’t spike at the prospect—only hums with something like anticipation.

And just like that, Veterans Day circles the calendar, and with it comes Jack’s rare PTO request: one personal day to breathe outside hospital walls, visit the memorial, recalibrate. On the eve of it, the shift starts hot and only climbs.

By mid-morning you and Ellis are juggling a dehisced abdominal wound when a flustered volunteer wheels in a couple clutching a gasping toddler. Triage tags them for you—shortness of breath, fever, no documented vaccines. The boy’s ribs see-saw with each breath; his O₂ reads 86. You hustle him onto oxygen while Ellis pages Respiratory, but the parents block the door, insisting the pulse‐ox is “rigged.”

“We keep our kid clean,” the father snaps, arms folded like a blockade of plaid. “No toxins.”

“Toxins are what he’s choking on right now,” you answer, trying to slip a thermometer past the mother’s swatting hand. The toddler wheezes, small fingers scrabbling for your scrub pocket. Two techs arrive with a nebulizer; the mother accuses them of “pharma poisoning.”

Your patience thread frays. Security hovers outside at the ready.

Ellis finally edges the parents into the hallway by sheer force of Latin terminology, leaving you and the RT inside with the wheezing boy. You press the mask to his face, voice dropped to a lullaby, while through the cracked curtain you hear the father call Ellis “brainwashed.”

By the time the parents cave in (at the last minute) and the the kid’s sats climb to 94, sweat slicks your spine. Security is also quick to escort the parents to registration; they leave paperwork crumpled, still muttering “government numbers.”

Ellis hands the child off to Pedi ICU, all while adrenaline jitters your wrists, and you return to find the med cart disassembled by a float nurse who wanted “just in case” morphine. It feels like one long violation—the parents’ disbelief, the cart chaos, the weight of fixing what should never have broken.

So you focus on rebuilding the drawers, alphabetical dividers snapping into place a little too hard, each click an exorcism. It’s in this raw, ragged pocket of the day that Jack appears in the med alcove to remind you again of his veterans-day absence.

“Hey,” he says gently. “Quick reminder—tomorrow I’m off. Ramirez and Parker know to be on—”

“Jack, I know,” you snap, vial tray clattering as you shove it home. “You’ve told me three times already. I’m not a stray left at the pound.” Your heart hammers; embarrassment floods in behind the anger but can’t dam the tears springing hot to your lashes. “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to hover just because I’m today’s damsel-in-distress.”

The sudden silence swells; the fridge hums. Jack’s gaze flicks to the re-ordered drawers, traces the tension coiled in your shoulders.

“I know you’re not fragile,” he says, voice even but warm. “I just care where my foxhole partner is standing.”

“That’s the problem,” you bite back, pulse still hammering from the parents’ tirade. “You’re always gauging my location like I’m a breach in the hull. I don’t need a minder every time you leave the building.”

He exhales through his nose—patience fraying—but keeps calm. “Listen—”

Your laugh cracks like brittle glass. “Spare me the pep talk. I’m holding by dental floss, and you hovering makes me feel like I’m seconds from splintering.”

Jack’s jaw tightens. He looks both ways, then curls two fingers into your scrub sleeve and steers you toward an empty bay. The curtain snaps shut behind you.

“Jack—”

“Quiet.” His voice is low, trembling with its own edge. “You just fought conspiracy parents while rebuilding a med cart like it’s Jenga. You skipped lunch and tore up your cuticles until they bled. I’m not hovering out of guilt��I’m hovering because I watched you hit the floor once and I’m not scheduling an encore.”

You open your mouth, fury and embarrassment tangling. “Stop making this about you feeling heroic. I will survive one day without—”

“That’s not what this is.” He steps closer, heat rolling off him. “You want proof?”

Before you can snarl another word he cups your face—hands firm but reverent—and kisses you, full and unhesitating. His stubble scrapes your skin in a rough, almost electric drag that somehow feels exactly right, grounding fury into something warmer. The shock blazes through anger, through exhaustion, until only the thunder of two heartbeats and antiseptic-scented air remain. His thumbs keep stroking your cheekbones, as if re-anchoring every fracturing part.

He pulls back just far enough to speak, breath ragged. “That is why I need to know where my foxhole partner stands. Not to monitor—” another kiss, softer, “—but to come stand there with her.”

This is months of unspoken wanting distilled into a single, wordless confession. His hands frame your face as if he’s chiseling truth into stone, and every press of lips says I love you, I love you, I love you without needing breath or syllables.

Tears cool on your cheeks, but they carry no fear—only the stunned relief of mysteries solved. “Fine,” you whisper, voice ragged but sure. “Go honor your day. I’ll hold the line.”

Jack’s answering smile is small, fierce, eyes shining with everything the kiss already said.

“It’s been a long time since we claimed the roof,” he murmurs, voice husky from the confession that just burned across your lips. “Maybe we trade the foxhole for a bird’s-eye again. Day after I’m back—and after your first day shift—I’ll be up there at change-over like we used to. Deal?”

Something expansive blooms in your chest, bigger than relief, sharper than hope. You answer by wrapping your arms around his neck and hugging him so fiercely he rocks on his heels.

“Deal,” you breathe against his collar. “Rooftop. After day shift. Tea included.”

He chuckles, warm and certain, and presses a final kiss to your cheek before slipping away at the shouted call of his name, the curtain whispering closed behind him. You let your lungs fill at last—still bent, still bone-weary, but no longer so tightly woven. When you push the curtain aside and step back into the buzzing corridor, the feeling of that stubbled kiss settles over your heart like fresh-forged armor, bright enough to carry you through the rest of this night—and all the way up to the rooftop tomorrow.

divider credit

#fanfiction #fanfic #the pitt #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt x reader #the pitt x you #jack abbot #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr. jack abbot #dr. jack abbot x reader #dr. jack abbot x you #female reader #nurse reader #small age gap

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soapysoapysoapysoapy · 2 months ago

Text

You're strapping your tac vest tighter than it needs to be, movements stiff and agitated. The rest of the team is suiting up in the briefing room, but you ducked out to "check weapons"—really, to breathe.

Graves leans in the doorway, arms crossed, dressed down but sharp-eyed. He’s been watching you for a minute before speaking.

“Didn’t think I’d see you on mission-ready so fast.”

“Didn’t think you’d come when they called.” You respond, dry.

“Course I did. They didn’t have to ask twice.”

You don’t respond, just slam a fresh mag into your sidearm and holster it.

He walks closer, quieter now. “You sure you’re good to go?”

“I’m always good.” You shrug.

He puts a hand on your waist. Not sexual—supportive. Steadying. You don’t flinch, but you do stop moving.

“You got nothing to prove to them.”

“It’s not about them.”

“Then who’s it about?”

You meet his gaze, and for once, you don’t have an answer.

He leans in, forehead against yours for a second. “Come back to me.”

Your voice is barely audible. “I always do.”

“Yeah, but I want you to want to.”

A soft beat passes. Then you pull away, grab your rifle, and say over your shoulder—“I’ll see you after.”

The roar of the helicopter blades cuts through the night as the squad descends toward the drop zone. The compound below glows faint orange under floodlights. Armed guards pace along the perimeter. The estate is modern—glass, concrete, and arrogance. A fortress of ego, built by a man who thought he was untouchable.

He was wrong.

ON COMMS:

Price (calm, focused): "All teams—confirm position."

Gaz (low): "South approach, ready."

Ghost (sharper): "West flank. Set."

You (dead cold): "Eyes on the gate. Waiting for the greenlight."

Price: "On my mark—go loud."

A beat. Then:

Price: "Mark."

A distant explosion rocks the eastern wall—Gaz’s handiwork.

Gunfire erupts. Screams follow. Spotlights swing wildly. The compound panics as the 141 tears through its defenses with brutal precision.

You move like a demon unleashed. Your body is fluid but terrifying—silent in your fury, deadly in your aim. Two to the chest, one to the head. You don’t pause. Don’t flinch.

You move through the halls like you've been here before in a dream. A nightmare. The blood, the chaos, the screams—they feel familiar. Like home.

You kick in a door, and a man shrieks before you even raise your gun.

“Wrong place. Wrong side.” You say, flatly. Bang. You don’t stop moving.

ON COMMS:

Ghost: "Third floor’s clear."

Gaz: "Garage secured. Counting bodies, not survivors."

Price: "Target’s on the top floor—”

You (already moving): “He’s mine.”

You storm up the stairs two at a time. Smoke hangs in the air. Your eyes burn from the inside out. You find him barricaded behind a steel-reinforced door, but you know how these places work—how cowards hide.

You use a charge. The blast rattles the hallway. Wood splinters. Steel bends.

Inside, the man is waiting with a pistol—his hand shaking so hard he can’t aim.

You raise your weapon.

Him (panicked): “I didn’t know he meant that much to you! Please, I didn’t know!”

You (dead quiet): “He didn’t. That’s why this is so easy.”

You fired once. Twice. Three times. One for every dream you’ll never let yourself remember.

When the dust settles, you stand over him, gun still raised, breathing hard. Blood splattered up your arms. Your face unreadable.

ON COMMS:

Price (low): “Status?”

A long pause.

Then:

You (hoarse): “Debt paid.”

The estate burns behind them as they exfil under a sky turning blue with dawn.

No one says a word in the chopper. Just the sound of wind, and breathing, and a silence that feels like the end of something.

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meazalykov · 7 months ago

Text

a love born in war

kika nazareth x spanish!reader (requested)

summary: mistakes flourished into love

warnings: enemies(ish) to lovers. angst. happy ending

the stadium is lit with the restless energy of fans, flags waving in a blur of colors, and chants echoing under the floodlights.

the grass was pristine, dew glistening under the glare, but you didn’t have time to admire it. every nerve in your body was coiled, ready to strike. you always played like this—fierce, focused, unyielding. years in la masia had shaped you into the player you were, and joining the women’s senior team two years ago has sharpened your edge.

the match against portugal wasn’t just another world cup qualifier. it was a battle, the kind of game where every player gave more than they had. you were number eighteen with the spanish national team, a midfielder who wasn’t afraid to challenge the world’s best.

portugal’s number eighteen, kika nazareth, had been the center of your focus all evening. talented, quick on her feet, and capable of turning any half-chance into a goal, she demanded every ounce of your attention.

you respected her game, but respect only went so far when it came to securing a victory.

your own jersey, with the number eighteen stitched proudly on the back, clung to you, damp with sweat. it was a coincidence, but a strangely fitting one, that both you and kika wore the same number for your respective national teams.

eighteen—symbolic for the way you both played: fast, smart, and determined.

the ball danced between feet, weaving through the midfield as kika broke into a run down the left wing. you followed her movement instinctively, timing your steps, waiting for the right moment. when the ball was passed to her, you lunged.

your tackle was clean in your mind, a swift motion to claim possession. however, the impact was harder than you intended, the sound of your boots connecting with the ball reverberating through the field. kika went down, her body crumpling to the ground in a heap as her body rolled ten feet along the grass.

for a second, everything seemed to freeze. the crowd gasped, the sharp intake of thousands of breaths sucking the air from the stadium. you stood there, blinking, the adrenaline surging through your veins as kika lay still. panic clawed at you as you jogged over, hand outstretched.

“kika?” you said quickly, your voice firm but apologetic, “are you alright? i’m sorry let me help you.”

she stirred, her eyes fluttering open, a dazed expression clouding her face. for a moment, relief washed over you—she wasn’t seriously hurt. then her hand smacked yours away, the sound snapping louder in your ears than it should have.

her glare was cold, sharper than you’d ever seen from her. “i don’t need your help,” she hissed, her portuguese accent heavy, her voice dripping with venom.

you stepped back, stunned by her response. kika was known for her kindness on and off the pitch. you had seen her console teammates after losses, offer smiles to fans who approached her timidly, she's friends with aitana too. this anger, this sharpness—it was foreign coming from her.

“look, i didn’t mean—” you started, but she cut you off with a curt wave of her hand, dismissing you entirely.

aitana was suddenly there, her arm brushing yours as she crouched near kika. her voice was calm, soothing. “y/n, drop it,” she said firmly, her eyes darting toward you as if warning you not to escalate things further.

you swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nodded, stepping back, though the sting of kika’s rejection lingered.

the game didn’t stop. the referee signaled play to continue, and you forced yourself to shake off the encounter. kika was back on her feet, her movements as sharp and quick as before. now there was an edge to them—a tension that hadn’t been there earlier.

you felt it every time she got near the ball, a silent reminder that she was looking to prove something, maybe to you, maybe to herself.

it happened again. the game was nearing its climax at the end of the match.kika broke free near the edge of the box, the ball glued to her feet as she weaved through defenders. you saw the opening before she could exploit it and slid in, your body low, your legs cutting through the grass.

the tackle was precise, meeting the ball cleanly, sending it spiraling away. kika went down again, her momentum carrying her to the ground.

pandemonium erupted. the portuguese bench was on its feet, their voices rising in protest. your teammates on the pitch surrounded the referee, gesturing wildly as they argued it wasn’t a penalty.

you stayed on the ground for a moment, catching your breath, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. kika was up again, her eyes burning as she pointed an accusatory finger in your direction.

“what the hell is wrong with you!??,” she spat, her voice louder this time, cutting through the chaos around you. “you don’t play fair.”

kika’s words hit you like a punch to the gut. you scrambled to your feet, brushing the dirt from your knees as you turned to her. “it wasn’t dirty,” you said, your tone defensive, though guilt crept into the edges of your voice. “it was a clean tackle. i’m sorry if it felt rough, but i wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“don’t lie,” she snapped, taking a step closer, her chest heaving with the effort to contain her anger. “you knew exactly what you were doing.”

“kika,” aitana interjected again, her voice firmer this time, her hand on kika’s arm to pull her back. “enough.”

you wanted to say more, to explain yourself, but the referee’s whistle cut through the tension, signaling the restart of play. you turned away reluctantly, your mind buzzing with everything left unsaid.

the game resumed, but your focus was fractured, your movements less precise. each time kika came near, the memory of her glare, her words, her rejection, played on a loop in your mind.

when the final whistle blew, the stadium erupted into cheers and groans. spain had won, but the victory felt hollow to you. as your teammates celebrated, you lingered near the edge of the pitch, your eyes scanning the field until they landed on kika.

she stood with her teammates, her arms crossed, her expression still tight with frustration.

you thought about approaching her, about apologizing again, but the memory of her smacking your hand away held you back. instead, you walked toward the tunnel, your head low, your hands clenched into fists at your sides inside of your burgundy colored jacket.

later, in the locker room, the mood was jubilant. aitana and salma were laughing, their voices echoing off the tiled walls. jenni was recounting a moment from the game, her hands gesturing wildly as she mimicked a move.

you sat quietly, your back against the cool metal of the bench, your phone in your hands as you stared at kika’s name on social media.

“what are you doing?” alexia’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. she leaned against the lockers, her arms crossed, her brow raised in that way that made it impossible to lie to her.

“nothing,” you muttered, locking your phone and setting it down beside you.

alexia wasn’t convinced. she sat beside you, her shoulder bumping yours. “you’re thinking about posting something, aren’t you?”

you hesitated, the urge to defend yourself bubbling up before you let out a sigh. “no. not a full post. i was going to text kika from portugals team.. i want to apologize. she’s clearly upset, and i didn’t mean to hurt her.”

jenni wandered over, her interest piqued. “you’re talking about kika?” she asked, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. “don’t bother. she’s probably already over it.”

“or not,” misa chimed in from across the room, a mischievous grin on her face. “but either way, you don’t need to apologize right before the world cup. it’ll just make things worse.”

alexia nodded in agreement. “she’s right. let it go. these things happen in football. it’s part of the game.”

you frowned, their words sitting uneasily with you. “it doesn’t feel right, though. i hate leaving things like this.”

“sometimes, you just have to,” alexia said, her tone softer now. “it’s not worth the drama.”

you nodded slowly, but the weight in your chest didn’t lift. the night dragged on, the celebration around you feeling distant, muted.

two years later.. the renewal had been a no-brainer. barcelona wasn’t just the club you played for; it was your home, your identity.

from the moment you stepped into la masia as a child, you had been shaped by the club. when the club offered you a three-year extension to stay until 2027, you signed without hesitation, barely skimming the terms. this was where you belonged, where you’d always belonged.

life felt steady, predictable. you trained, you played, you won. everything was as it should be—until the news broke.

kika nazareth joins barcelona femení from S.L benfica.

her name stirred memories you thought had long faded. the 2022 world cup qualifier against portugal. the tackle that had sent her sprawling, the cold glare she’d given you as she smacked your hand away, the biting accusations that followed.

you hadn’t thought about her in years, but seeing her name now brought it all back, and with it, a flicker of unease.

you didn’t voice your concerns immediately, but aitana noticed the way your jaw tightened when the signing was announced.

“you’re overthinking it,” she said, a teasing lilt in her voice as the two of you stretched after training. the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the pitch. “she probably doesn’t even remember that game.”

“maybe,” you muttered, tugging at the hem of your training top. “but she hated me back then.”

aitana snorted, shaking her head. “kika doesn’t have it in her to hold a grudge. she’s too nice for that. besides,” she added, smirking, “you’ll see soon enough. it’ll be fine.”

you wanted to believe her, but the doubt lingered, biting at the edges of your mind. when kika finally arrived at the training facility, you couldn’t avoid her.

she was magnetic, her smile bright and disarming as she greeted everyone. she carried herself with an effortless confidence, the kind that made people want to be near her. when she approached you, your stomach twisted.

“y/n,” she said, her portuguese accent soft but clear as she extended a hand. “it’s nice to finally meet you properly.”

her words caught you off guard, but you took her hand, shaking it firmly. “uh, yeah. it’s nice to meet you too.” you hesitated, the memory of that match flashing in your mind. “and… i’m sorry. for back then. i didn’t mean to—”

she waved it off with a small smile, cutting you off before you could spiral. “it’s fine. let’s forget about it. we’re teammates now, and that’s all that matters.”

just like that, the tension dissolved. whatever you’d expected from her—coldness, resentment—was nowhere to be found.

instead, kika treated you like she treated everyone else: warmly, openly, with a genuine kindness that made it impossible not to like her.

over the next few months, the two of you grew close. it started with small things—partnering up during training drills, sitting next to each other on the team bus—but soon it became something more.

on the pitch, you celebrated each other’s goals with an almost childlike joy, always seeking each other out in the chaos. off the pitch, it was no different. kika was all over your social media, just like you were on hers. kika’s laughter and inside jokes filling your stories.

she’d tag you in posts with captions that only the two of you would understand, and you’d do the same.

then came the shared clothes. it wasn’t intentional at first. kika would forget a jacket at your apartment, or you’d borrow a shirt from her when you stayed late after a team dinner.

over time, it became second nature. you’d slip into her sweaters without asking, and she’d do the same with your hoodies. no one commented on it—at least, not until the day you showed up to a team hangout wearing kika’s favorite blue sweater.

you were the first to arrive at ingrid’s apartment, greeted by the familiar warmth of her home. the others trickled in slowly—mapi, ellie, esmee, aitana—all of them pausing when they saw you lounging on the couch in the oversized sweater.

mapi was the first to speak, her brow arching in amusement. “y/n, isn’t that kika’s sweater?”

you blinked, glancing down at the soft fabric, the distinct blue unmistakable. “oh, yeah,” you said casually, as if it were no big deal. “she let me borrow it.”

“borrow it?” ellie echoed, her tone teasing. “or steal it?”

ingrid leaned against the kitchen counter, her arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “very subtle,” she said dryly.

“okay, what’s going on here?” esmee asked, her eyes darting between you and the others.

“are we missing something?”

aitana, ever the instigator, leaned forward with a smirk.

“let’s just cut to it. do you have feelings for kika?”

you froze, heat creeping up your neck. for a moment, you considered denying it, brushing it off with a joke. but then you shrugged, your voice calm as you said,

“yeah, i do. is it that obvious?”

a chorus of laughter erupted, their collective “yes” ringing out like a team chant.

“at least it’s not one-sided,” aitana said, her grin widening.

“kika’s head over heels for you.”

before you could respond, the door swung open, and kika walked in, balancing a tray of smoothies. her expression was apologetic as she set them down on the counter. “sorry i’m late,” she said, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. her gaze softened, a small smile curving her lips.

“you look good in that,” she said, nodding toward the sweater.

the teasing subsided after that, though the others exchanged knowing looks. by the time everyone settled in to watch a movie, you and kika had naturally claimed the loveseat. it felt easy, curling into her side, her arm draped lazily over your shoulders.

the movie played on, but you barely paid attention, the warmth of her presence lulling you into a sense of comfort.

at some point, you must have fallen asleep, because when you stirred, the soft press of lips against your forehead brought you back to consciousness. kika’s voice was a whisper, barely audible over the movie’s dialogue.

“bona nit, meu amor.”

you didn’t respond, too drowsy to process the words fully, but the feeling stayed with you even as sleep pulled you back under.

when you woke the next morning, the apartment was quiet. sunlight streamed through the curtains, casting a golden glow over the room.

everyone else had gone home last night, but you and kika were still there, tangled on the couch. her arm was draped over your waist, her face relaxed in sleep.

you couldn’t help but stare, your heart swelling at the sight of her so peaceful. her lashes fluttered suddenly, and her eyes cracked open, meeting yours.

a lazy smirk tugged at her lips as she stretched slightly, her voice thick with sleep as she murmured, “how long are you gonna keep staring at me?”

your cheeks flushed, but you smiled, your voice soft. “sorry, love.”

she chuckled, shifting closer, her nose brushing against yours. “it’s okay. you’re lucky that i am in love with you, sweetheart.”

the words sent a warmth through your chest, your smile widening as you whispered back, “i love you too, kika.”

she grinned, her eyes fluttering shut again, and you stayed there, soaking in the quiet, the warmth, and the overwhelming sense of belonging.

masterlist

#kika nazareth #woso fanfics #woso community #woso x reader #barcelona femeni #fc barcelona #esmee brugts #aitana bonmati

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inbabylontheywept · 11 months ago

Note

can we get more security clearance stories? they are amazing

Yeah, sure. Remember how getting contractors in to perform regular to the maintenance is basically impossible? One of the issues that we have is that the roof is kind of fucked. Like, in the newer sections, it's fine, and in the older sections, it leaks and we just have big barrels to catch the rainwater, and in the oldest sections there are actual holes. Which is crazy, because the oldest sections are where a lot of the tests happen. Those are almost always the most important parts of the facility. And the holes have been a problem for a while, but it is only "recently" (the last ten years) (yes, that is recent in government time) that the holes got big enough to fit birds.

So we have been getting birds into our secret facility.

This causes several issues.

The first issue is that, surprisingly, the people here are gentle, and they don't like seeing birds die. Some of the old hands are pretty jaded about it, and they have tennis rackets that they used to use for uh... bird removal. But the newer batch threw a fit when they suggested that, so now we have to make a big ordeal out of getting the birds out of the building. And if I sound bitter about it, I'm not - I am one of the people that said absolutely no bird smashing. But it is much easier to catch a bird than it is to just smack it out of the air.

(Another layer of difficulty is the whole "working in a labyrinth" thing. The birds have a lot of places to run.)

The second issue is that sometimes we can't get the birds out, and they die in weird places. This isn't just sad - it makes the test areas smell bad for weeks afterwards, and a lot of us spend the majority of our working hours in those locations. So it's sad and gross and stinky.

And the third issue, which is actually kind of the worst, is that government knows about the "perimeter leaks" (IE, large holes in the ceiling) and instead of fixing the holes, they put extra security measures in place. You know, in case spies climb in through the holes. Which means that, unfortunately, instead of getting the holes fixed, we got a state of the art alarm system, complete with motion detection lasers.

So the birds get in, and we actually can't leave until they get out, because they will, and have, and frequently do, trip the alarms. And when the alarms trip, people get called in to check the site and confirm for the 10,000th time that no, it's not Russians: It's birds.

It's always birds.

(Some of the techs actually kind of enjoy those calls during the weekends, because it means free overtime where there's literally nothing asked of them. Getting the "bird alarm" call is just 4 hours of OT where you check the test cell and confirm, no spies, just birds, then sit there and play checkers or read or whatever until the airforce base calls back and says that it seems safe enough for you to go home.)

(Engineers like those calls less, because we don't get time and a half, and we also don't need the cash quite as much as the techs do.)

Anyway, the crazy scenario is when it's like, 30 minutes to quitting, and a bird gets in. Because now we can't leave until we get the bird out. And the scene that happens is actually quite pretty.

So, the first thing that will happen is that there will be yelling downstairs. The downstairs people are always irate about birds getting in close to quitting. The anger is directed vaguely at the bird, and vaguely at the government, and more specifically at whatever absolute fuckhead bought us an alarm system instead of fixing our roof.

The majority of the crowd of grousing engineers and techs will then move into the upper offices. A couple will break off to grab the floodlight and shine it down the stairs, a few more will prop the doors open, and someone will venture back into the basement to turn off the light.

Click, the light goes off, it's dark, there's this big, warm, yellow pool of light just dripping down the stairs like a river of melted butter, and there's a crowd of tennish people + whoever is poking their heads out of the office to watch. No one will be breathing at all... and then, 9 times out of 10, a little bird will flit out of the basement, up the stairs, towards the light, and trigger the apocalypse.

Everyone chases the bird.

The goal at first is not to catch the bird. That's very difficult, and none of us have very good hand eye coordination. The goal is to thunder along and keep the bird from sitting down and having a breather.

We are there to exhaust the bird.

It is just accepted that this thundering herd will go wherever the bird goes. If your office door is open, and the bird flies in, it doesn't matter what reports you're filling out, or what phone call you're on - you are expected to deal with the panting and scrambling and general primal chaos of the hunting party until the bird goes somewhere else. Eventually, the bird will slow down enough that someone can catch it. This is a semi-coveted position, because, yes, you do get to hold a bird in your hand. And holding a bird is a wonderful thing. They are so soft, and so small, and you feel so careful with the poor thing. But also, it will bite you. Always. And the birds out here bite like needle nose pliers. It hurts so bad. I have been the guy holding the bird before, and it's this kind of beautiful scene again - to be standing there, hands cupped gently around this thing that is chewing the fuck out of the squishy webbing between my thumb and my palm. Tears streaming down my cheeks, surrounded by my little hunting party, that is telling me how much further until the nearest exit, opening all the doors for me. Hushed in the silence as they acknowledge my sacrifice. Inspecting the chomps afterwards and giving their opinion on how long it will be until it stops hurting.

I'm getting a little lost in the sauce here and don't really know how to end this. It's a really good job. Wouldn't be half as fun if it was run in a sane and competent manner.

I'll make this into a post at some point.

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the-winter-spider · 7 months ago

Text

The Alchemy | Part One

NFL Bucky x reader au

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: Angst, fluff,

A/N: I only have one more chapter of Invisible to post so ima get this new series out there. I plan to alternate with this one and Say Don Go! Also im Canadian, ive never watched football in my life before Taylor Swift & Travis Kelce so bare with me, Im a hockey girl 😇🤣

ALSO WOW another ts inspired fic what are the odds lmaoooo

------

The stadium buzzed with energy, every seat packed with fans decked out in the team’s deep blue and silver. Flags waved, chants echoed, and the floodlights bathed the field in an electric glow. The scoreboard flashed 20-24. Fourth quarter. Six seconds left on the clock.

Bucky Barnes stood on the field, his cleats dug into the turf as his breath came in steady bursts. His number 17 jersey clung to him, streaked with sweat and dirt, but his focus was absolute. Across from him, defenders crouched low, their eyes locked on him. Everyone in the stadium knew where the ball was going. The golden boy, the clutch player, the one who could pull miracles out of thin air.

At the line of scrimmage, Steve Rogers—number 18, the quarterback—barked out commands, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “Green 18! Green 18! Set!” His hand hovered under center, waiting for the snap.

Next to Steve, Sam Wilson—number 78, the running back—grinned as he looked to his left. “Hope you’re ready to make me look good, Barnes,” Sam called to Bucky, his voice tinged with a mix of adrenaline and humor.

Bucky smirked, glancing over his shoulder. “Always am, Wilson. Try to keep up.”

The ball snapped.

Time slowed, the roar of the stadium dimming to a dull hum in Bucky’s ears. He exploded off the line of scrimmage, his legs pumping as he darted past the first defender. His route was a perfectly calculated arc, his sharp cut leaving his opponent scrambling in his wake.

Steve dropped back, his eyes scanning the field, calm and composed as chaos erupted around him. The offensive line was holding—barely. Sam sprinted out to the right, dragging a defender with him and creating just enough space for Bucky to hit his mark.

“Buck!” Steve’s shout was clear, even over the thunder of the crowd. The ball left his hands in a perfect spiral, arcing high into the night.

Bucky didn’t slow. He kept his eyes on the ball as it sailed through the air, his body moving on instinct. A defender lunged at him, but he sidestepped, his cleats digging into the turf and propelling him forward. Another defender was closing in, but he wasn’t fast enough.

Bucky leaped, his arms stretching to meet it. For a split second, the stadium seemed to hold its breath. His fingertips brushed the leather, and then the ball was in his hands, secured against his chest as he crashed to the ground in the end zone.

The buzzer sounded.

The crowd erupted into a deafening roar, the stands a blur of jumping fans and waving flags. Bucky pushed himself to his feet, the ball still clutched tightly in his hands. His teammates swarmed him, slapping his back and tugging at his jersey.

“Hell of a catch, Buck!” Steve shouted, pulling Bucky into a quick hug, his grin as wide as the field.

“Couldn’t have done it without that throw,” Bucky replied, though his grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Sam jogged over, shaking his head in mock disbelief. “Man, you’re gonna make the rest of us look bad if you keep pulling off plays like that.”

“Just doing my job,” Bucky quipped, though his voice carried a hint of weariness.

The cameras swarmed, capturing every second of the celebration. Bucky turned, tossing the ball to an equipment manager as he ran a hand through his damp hair. He offered a practiced smile to the crowd, raising his hand in a quick wave. The adrenaline still pounded through his veins, but underneath it all, he felt…empty. Moments like this used to mean everything. Now, they were just another show.

----

You stood just behind the sidelines, your camera in hand as you captured the final seconds of the game. The stadium’s energy was almost overwhelming, but you kept your focus, snapping shot after shot as the ball spiraled through the air. The lens followed Bucky, capturing the moment his fingertips grazed the ball and the exact second he pulled it to his chest.

Your thumb hovered over the record button as he hit the ground in the end zone, the buzzer blaring through the stadium. The noise was deafening, but you barely noticed, too focused on capturing the raw emotion of the moment—his teammates rushing to him, the grin splitting Steve’s face, Sam throwing his hands in the air as he jogged over.

Through the lens, you could see every detail: the streaks of dirt on Bucky’s jersey, the intensity in his eyes, the way he stood a little apart from the celebration even as he was surrounded by his team. You lowered the camera for a moment, watching as he turned to wave at the crowd, that effortless smile on his face.

There was something surreal about seeing him like this, so different yet so familiar, especially after all these years. The golden boy of the NFL, the star of every highlight reel, and yet…still Bucky. You just wondered what he would think if he knew you were tasked with covering his team for the duration of the season.

-----

The press room buzzed with energy as reporters jostled for position, shoving microphones and cameras toward the front. Bucky sat at the table, effortlessly commanding the room. His jersey clung to him, still damp with sweat, and his dark hair fell messily across his forehead. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his easy smile lighting up the space.

“Bucky, talk us through that final play!” one reporter called out.

Bucky smirked, shaking his head. “It’s not just me. That was all teamwork. The guys up front gave me the space, and Stevie threw a perfect pass, I just had to do my part.”

“Just your part?” another reporter pressed. “That was your second game-winning catch this season and it just started! You’re making it look easy out there.”

“Well,” Bucky replied, flashing a quick grin, “it’s never easy, i’ve just got a great team behind me. We work hard for moments like that.”

More questions came, volleying back and forth. He answered them all with polished charm, his practiced media persona never faltering. But as the questions wore on, his gaze started to wander, skimming over the sea of faces and microphones. That’s when he saw you, his blue eyes did a double take before confusion and shock swam through them.

You were standing off to the side, not pushing to the front like the others. You weren’t yelling over the noise or angling for the best shot. You were just…there. Scribbling something into your notebook, head ducked slightly as if you wanted to disappear into the crowd.

Bucky froze for a fraction of a second, the polished grin faltering for the briefest moment before he caught himself. His heart stuttered in his chest, a wave of recognition crashing over him. He blinked, his brain scrambling to catch up. No way. It couldn’t be.

You were trying to stay out of the fray while still capturing the scene. Your notebook was a familiar weight in your hands, its pages filling with shorthand notes that you’d polish later. It was your way of staying grounded—your way of not staring too long at him.

The boy you’d grown up with. The boy who used to challenge you to races down your block, who teased you mercilessly, who knew all your secrets. Seeing him now, years later, as the NFL’s star receiver, felt surreal. He’d become everything the world expected him to be. And yet, in some strange way, he was still the same.

You ducked your head lower, scribbling furiously to avoid the wave of memories threatening to crash over you. Focus. Professional. Objective. That was your mantra when you’d taken this assignment. You hadn’t even known it would be his team until you arrived. Now, all you wanted was to finish your notes and leave to compose yourself fully before he could notice you.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on you, his heart pounding in a way that had nothing to do with the game he’d just played. He said your name softly, testing it on his lips. It felt foreign and familiar all at once. You didn’t react—too far away, too focused on your notes.

“Hey, Bucky!” another reporter called out. “What’s your mindset going into the rest of the season?”

He barely heard the question. His focus was entirely on you now, watching as you slipped your notebook into your bag and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. You were leaving.

“Uh, sorry,” he mumbled to the reporter, not bothering to look at them. “I need to…” He trailed off, standing abruptly.

The room went silent for a moment, the reporters exchanging confused glances. “Bucky, are you—?”

“Yeah, uh, excuse me,” he muttered, already moving. He left the table, ignoring the murmurs that followed as the cameras swung to track his movements.

His heart stuttered.

“Y/N?” he murmured, his voice barely audible over the din. He blinked, half-convinced his mind was playing tricks on him. He tried again, louder this time. “Y/N?”

You didn’t look up.

----

The late summer air clung to your skin, thick and still, like it was trying to hold you in this moment forever. The roof beneath you was rough and familiar, each crack in the shingles a memory. Nights like this always felt infinite—just you and Bucky under the stars, talking about everything and nothing. But tonight, that comforting rhythm was broken.

You sat side by side, the glow of the streetlights catching in Bucky’s messy hair. He leaned back on his elbows, that cocky grin you knew so well plastered across his face. “So,” he said, breaking the silence, “you wanna go to prom with me next year? You know, as friends or whatever.”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped, but it sounded hollow even to you. “Prom’s not for another year, Bucky. Don’t tell me you’re turning into a planner now.”

“What can I say?” He shrugged, the grin widening, his confidence practically radiating. “I like to lock down the good ones early.”

You rolled your eyes and gave him a light shove, but your hand lingered on his arm for just a second longer than it should have. He felt it. He always felt it.

“Alright,” he said, his grin fading as he sat up straighter, his piercing blue eyes narrowing in concern. “What’s going on? You’ve been weird all night.”

Your fingers twisted together in your lap, your gaze dropping to the shingles. The words felt too heavy to say, but they burned in your chest. You couldn’t keep them in any longer.

“I’m moving.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. It stretched between you like the whole world had opened up, and all you could do was stare into the void. When you finally looked at him, his expression was blank, unreadable. That cocky smile you’d always known so well—it was just gone.

“You’re lying,” he said, his voice low, almost like a challenge.

You shook your head, your throat tightening. “I wish I was.”

His brows furrowed, the disbelief quickly turning into something sharper. “Why?” he asked, leaning closer. “You don’t have to go. You’re almost eighteen—just stay.”

“Bucky—”

“No, listen to me,” he cut you off, his words coming fast now, his tone filled with something you rarely heard from him: fear. “You could stay here. My ma wouldn’t care. Hell, she’d love it. You could move into the basement. You practically live at my house anyway. No one would even notice. You don’t have to go.”

The desperation in his voice broke something in you. You had known it would hurt, but seeing him like this—Bucky, who was always so strong, so steady—was unbearable.

“I can’t stay,” you said softly, the words barely more than a whisper. “I don’t have a choice.”

“Why not?” His voice cracked as he sat up fully, his hands curling into fists against the roof. “Am I not enough for you to stay?” He knew he was being selfish but he was so blind sided he couldn't help it.

The question hit you like a punch to the chest. Your breath caught, and you had to blink hard to keep your vision from blurring. “Fuck, Bucky,” you whispered. “Of course, you’re enough. You’re my best friend. You’re everything. But my mom…” Your voice broke, and you had to take a deep breath before continuing. “She’s finally leaving him. Bucky, we’re finally getting out.”

His jaw clenched, and his chest rose and fell unevenly as he processed your words. His hands gripped the edge of the roof like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “Your mom…” he started, his voice trailing off. Of course, he was happy for her. He knew what it had taken for her to finally leave that asshole. He’d seen the bruises you never talked about, the way your voice would falter when you mentioned home. Of course, he understood.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less. She was taking you away from him, and he couldn’t stand it. "What about school? We have one more year left."

"They have schools everywhere Buck..." Your voice was soft and quiet.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything. The night stretched on, heavy and endless. You thought he might fight you on it again, throw out another plan, another reason for you to stay. But instead, he let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

“Well,” he said, his voice sharp and hollow, “I guess this is it then.”

“Bucky, don’t do this,” you pleaded, the words rushing out before you could stop them. “Please.”

He stood up slowly, brushing off his hands like he was trying to shake off the weight of your words. His expression was unreadable now, his eyes cold and distant in a way you’d never seen before.

“It was nice while it lasted,” he said, his voice clipped and emotionless. He paused at the edge of the roof, looking back at you one last time. “Hey, take care of yourself, alright?”

And then he climbed down the ladder, disappearing into the shadows below.

You didn’t call after him—you couldn’t. You just sat there on the roof, staring at the place where he’d been, your heart breaking under the weight of his absence. For the first time, the stars felt impossibly far away.

That was the last time you ever talked to Bucky Barnes.

----

You were halfway down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the empty space, when you heard him.

“Y/N!”

You froze, halfway down the hallway. The voice was unmistakable now—stronger, sharper, but undeniably his. Slowly, you turned, and there he was, jogging toward you with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. His broad shoulders filled the space, but it was his eyes—wide and almost boyish—that sent your heart racing.

“Is this really you?” he asked, stopping just a few feet away. His chest rose and fell as if he’d just run the length of the field. His gaze swept over you, disbelief and something like relief flickering across his face.

You laughed nervously, a sound that came out more like a breathless exhale. “I didn’t think you’d recognize me.”

Bucky’s lips parted in a huff of incredulous laughter. “Are you kidding? I could find you in any room.”

The words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. Before you could respond, he closed the distance, wrapping you in a hug so tight it stole the breath from your lungs. For a moment, the world fell away—the noise, the cameras, the years. It was just Bucky, holding you like he was afraid you’d disappear. It was like you were kids again, sitting on rooftops and talking about everything under the stars. Holding you in a way where you finally felt safe like nothing or no one could hurt you because you knew these arm’s wouldn’t.

“Holy shit,” he muttered into your hair. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands still on your shoulders. “I haven’t seen you in years. What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you—I’m just…wow.”

You smiled, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’m here to cover the team for the season.” You held up your press badge, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips. “Didn’t realize I’d be covering you.”

Bucky barked a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “Fate, huh? Guess it wasn’t done with us yet.”

You both stood there for a moment, the hallway around you seeming to blur. His thumb brushed against your arm absently, like he was reassuring himself you were real. Finally, he stepped back, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I’ve got about a thousand questions,” he said, tilting his head. “But I guess we’ve got the whole season to catch up, right?”

“Right,” you replied, the warmth in his eyes making it impossible to think straight. “The whole season.”

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sheriffaxolotl · 2 months ago

Text

Off the Ledge (Chapter 1) Abby Anderson x Reader

⇒ Jump forward!

Tags: Slow burn, parkour, attempt at humor, compulsory heterosexuality, coming out Wordcount: 6.7k

Summary:

You knew better than to fall. But Abby was gravity.

It’s been a rough week—or, well, that feels like an understatement. It’s been boring as hell.

The rooftops are slick with moss and rot. Rain hasn’t touched them in over a week, but Seattle never really dries. The wet seeps in and stays—beneath shingles, between bones, behind your eyes. You’ve had to learn the texture of each surface: the slippery crunch of broken tiles, the wet grit of rotting tarpaper, the sharp sway of old satellite dishes that can tip if you don’t land just right.

You know this route like muscle memory. Six rooftops, two alleyways, one rusted catwalk, and a drop through an old skylight that still smells faintly of fire and mildew. It’s all mapped into your body now.

Ankles flex before your brain registers the ledge. Fingers brush crumbling brick as you climb. Breath tucks tight in your lungs when you crouch too close to the edge.

You leap from one roof to the next—

and immediately regret everything.

Your foot hits a slick patch of moss, slides out from under you, and you do a spectacular, slow-motion flail. Arms pinwheeling. One boot in the air. Gravity snickering like a school bully.

You land with a grunt and a wet splat, flat on your back in a puddle the temperature of bad decisions.

You just lay there for a second, staring up at the dull gray sky, listening to water seep into every fiber of your clothes.

“Graceful,” you mutter to no one.

The radio crackles at your hip. “Copy that, route clear?”

You thumb the mic. “Totally. Nailed it.”

No one needs to know how literally you nailed it—with your spine.

You sit up, wiping moss and dirt from your sleeve like you meant to spend the last week face-first in the forest. Your left leg protests, a dull throb from the miles you've logged, but it’ll pass. Parkour: the glamorous art of making near-falls look cool and pretending bruises don’t exist.

The final stretch is ahead—down a fire escape, then through a narrow gap between two old, rusted cars and some overgrown bushes. You step lightly, cautious of your aching joints, and finally clear the last obstacle. You take a breath, the scent of damp earth and leaves still thick in your lungs. The tall lights of the stadium base are in the distance. Home.

The WLF base, once an impressive stadium, now a fortress of sandbags, barricades, and floodlights. The high stands of the arena are long abandoned, the field a patchwork of makeshift living quarters and training grounds. The wide concourses echo with the sounds of soldiers and civilians alike, but it’s quiet now, still, as you make your way to the entrance.

The gates creak open with their usual complaint. Metal groans in protest as you slip through and head toward the concrete ramps that lead up to the higher levels. The stadium’s massive, but it’s solid—secure. Safe.

You pass a pair of WLF soldiers posted at the entry, one nodding at you in recognition while the other glances past you at the rest of your patrol, now trudging in behind you. Boots scuff against concrete, tired voices low as they file in—soaked jackets, muddied gear, shoulders heavy with a week's worth of movement and too little sleep.

A few familiar faces call out greetings or crack jokes as you move through the stadium’s interior. Someone whistles low when they see the state of your pants—ripped at the knee and caked in dirt. You don’t bother with a comeback. The scent of oil, wet canvas, and overcooked rations hangs in the air, oddly comforting.

You make your way into the main area, damp and tired. The buzzing of conversation fills the wide concourses, but your focus is on the familiar faces. You don’t stop walking until you spot Mason—leaning against the chain-link fence near the sign-in station, looking as polished as he did when you left. Same confident smile. Same hair that’s never out of place. His combat vest looks like it came straight off the store shelf.

“You’re late,” he says, the words light, like you’ve been gone a few hours instead of a full week.

You snort, brushing past him toward the sign-in area. “Yeah, well, I had to take a scenic detour. Ate shit on the moss again.”

The clipboard is waiting, smudged with ink and fingerprints. You scrawl your name, the motion practiced, the pen familiar in your hand. There’s a strange comfort in that—something routine after a week of chaos.

Before you can even set the pen down, Mason appears at your side, pressing a steaming mug into your hands. “You always do,” he says, grinning around the rim of his own cup.

You take the mug, its warmth already sinking into your fingers. “And yet I always come back in one piece. Mostly.”

He snorts, and for a moment, the stadium feels a little warmer. You take it. Sip. Bitter as hell. But warm. You let it burn your throat, the heat a welcome change after the cold silence of your time on patrol.

“Some new folks showed up while you were out,” he says casually. “Big group. One of the guys said they’re from Salt Lake. They’ve been here about a week now. Another smaller group too—came down from the north. Scars trashed their outpost. Nasty business.”

You nod, eyes still on the board. “More mouths to feed.”

“More hands too,” he adds with a shrug. “One’s got some medical experience. There’s a girl—kind of intense, but cool. She helped unload the whole truck, then ran back for more. Real high-energy.”

You glance sideways. “Weird metric for likability.”

“You’re just worried she’ll beat your run time.”

That earns a reluctant smirk. Not enough to change your day, but enough to shift the weight on your chest. Just a little.

He sees it—thinks he’s winning—and presses the moment. “You’re coming tonight, right? We’re throwing a welcome thing. Liam roped me into cooking duty, so I roped you in. Rooftop garden. Lanterns. Music. Might almost feel like something out of one of those magazines from Before.”

Your stomach knots. Cold. Quiet. “I’ll think about it.”

He touches your arm—gentle, like always. Like he knows how to be careful with you.

“Think faster. I’m claiming you for my team in cards.”

Of course he did. You were his girlfriend. And he was your boyfriend, apparently. Or that’s what everyone calls him. The label never quite fit—not the way it should. But you haven’t corrected anyone. Haven’t corrected him.

And then he’s gone, already walking backward with that smile like it belongs in some old snapshot. Back when smiles didn’t cost anything. He peels off toward the water truck, slipping into a group of scouts like he was born there. He’s laughing before he even reaches them—loose shoulders, confident voice, like the world hasn’t ended five times already.

He’s good. He’s kind. He’s safe.

And still, your chest aches with something you don’t have a word for.

Because how do you explain to someone who likes you so much that you feel nothing?

That his warmth doesn’t sink in. That you’ve tried. Really tried.

Kissed him once, eyes closed, thinking maybe if you let it happen, the feeling would catch up. That your body would stop flinching at the quiet expectations packed into a gentle hand on your back, or the way his voice goes soft when you’re alone together.

It never did.

There’s comfort in being seen. In being wanted. But comfort isn’t connection. And it sure as hell isn’t desire.

You sip the last of the coffee, grimace, and glance down at the mug like it betrayed you.

Cool. Burnt feelings with a hint of emotional constipation. My favorite roast.

A breeze rattles the gate behind you. You glance toward Mason again—he’s still laughing, probably already telling someone how you trip over your own feet when you're distracted.

(Which is true, but rude.)

You rub your hand over your face.

“God, I need to lie down. Or fake an illness. Do people still get consumption? Maybe I’ll just develop a cough and dramatically exit stage left.”

No one hears you, of course. Just the clipboard hanging from its nail, the sound of boots on gravel, and your own dumb heart beating too quiet and too loud all at once.

You sigh and start walking toward the barracks.

Rooftop garden. Lanterns. Music.

Great. A post-apocalyptic Pinterest party.

You linger by the railing next to the supply board, mug cooling between your hands, and watch the scene unfold across the yard like some kind of cheerful propaganda film. Mason’s right at the center of it, as usual—laughing too easily, catching a tossed deck of cards mid-air like he’s done it a hundred times. Someone whistles off-key. Someone else fumbles a plate and gets a cheer for it.

You wish you could join in. Or want to join in. Or hell, even fake it with a little more sincerity.

Instead, you just stand there, thinking about how strange it is—to be loved by someone and feel absolutely nothing in return.

Well, maybe not nothing. There’s a fondness. A kind of “thanks for the coffee, you’re emotionally available, but please don’t touch me” warmth. Like how you feel about your favorite hoodie: safe, soft, and not remotely sexual.

You watch him laugh again. He glows when he’s surrounded like this. And you—

You just kind of… flicker.

You glance down into your cup. Cold. Bitter. Accurate.

What would it even feel like? To look at someone and just know—that pull, that heat, that certainty. You've never had that. Instead, you've been duct-taping yourself to whatever looked close enough. Admiration? Sure. Affection? Sometimes. But that full-body, heart-thudding want?

Still waiting on it.

Something in you feels... off. Tilted sideways. Like everyone else got the manual and you’re just guessing your way through.

You didn’t have a name for it, not exactly—just a slow, twisting guilt that settled in your gut and never really left. Every time someone kissed you and you smiled through it. Every time you said, “I think I like you too,” and it tasted false in your mouth, even when you meant it—especially when you meant it.

You haven’t said anything. Not out loud. You’re still trying to figure out what, exactly, there is to say.

But it’s there. In the way your stomach knots when someone gets too close. In how Mason calls you his girl, and it echoes wrong in your chest, hollow and off-key.

The wind picks up and wraps around you like a blanket someone forgot to warm. Camp’s winding down—clanging pans in the mess area, the soft thunk of targets getting reset out by the range, boots crunching gravel in a rhythm you know by heart. Everything smells like sawdust, old oil, and rain-damp wool.

You stay a minute longer, mug hanging from your fingers, wondering if Mason’s going to come find you again. He probably will. With another mug. Another smile. Another gentle nudge toward fitting into a shape you don’t belong in.

He wants you to try.

You have tried.

You just ran out of pretending.

New arrivals are still trickling in: crates, bags, strangers, and that weird blend of adrenaline and exhaustion that hangs off people who’ve barely survived their last stop. You tell yourself you’re not snooping. Just… surveying. Making sure they’re not letting in anyone who looks like they’ve never held a gun or heard of soap.

You’ve earned your spot here. Others should too.

The place is a familiar chaos—makeshift crates, busted wheels on trolleys, stacks of med kits held together with duct tape and prayer. Two WLF soldiers are having an existential crisis over the difference between “2A” and “A2” on a cargo manifest, and a small knot of newcomers stands nearby looking like they just got dropped into the wrong college orientation.

You start to turn, fingers still grazing the edge of a crate, when the cold, clammy feeling settles in.

The wetness on your back—where you definitely didn’t stick the landing earlier—is creeping its way down your spine, a slow, unpleasant reminder of your less-than-graceful rooftop moment.

Great.

Your clothes, still soaked from the slip, cling uncomfortably to your skin. The dampness works its way in through the thin fabric, making your movements feel sluggish and awkward as the chill creeps across your shoulders. It’s not just wet anymore—it’s cold. So cold it’s almost worse than when you fell.

You suck in a breath, trying to ignore the sticky sensation of the fabric sticking to your skin and focus on the noise around you. The truck doors creak open again, someone grumbles about the weight of a crate, and the air smells faintly of wet wood and mildew.

You press your lips together and give the storage bay one last glance, feeling more like a lost kid than a scout.

"Alright, time to cut it," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head.

Your boots clack against the concrete, the sound filling the empty space around you as you turn back, heading toward the barracks. At least in there, you can peel off these soaked clothes and pretend you're not freezing from the inside out. If anyone notices how wet you are, they don’t mention it. Probably because everyone else is too busy with their own brand of miserable to care.

You move, neither fast enough to seem casual nor slow enough to appear like you’re dragging your feet on purpose. It’s the kind of walk you’ve perfected—the in-between, where you don’t want to stand out, but you also don’t want to fit in too well. The side door to the stadium creaks open under your hand. You’ve made this journey so many times that it feels like muscle memory now.

The place smells like dust, concrete, and old sweat. You don’t even have to think about it. Boots on the stairs echo against the bare walls. It’s a slow climb. Stairs, more stairs. You know exactly how many there are—each step a little reminder that you’re still here. You never count them, though. Or, at least, you never have successfully before you lost track.

By the time you reach your floor, you’re starting to sweat under your jacket, the weight of your damp clothes clinging to you like they’re trying to hold you in place. The air up here is always colder, with less body heat from the masses below. You close the door behind you, not that it locks, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your space is simple, but it’s yours. A spectator’s room turned into a makeshift bedroom. Or kind of like an apartment? Whatever it was, it’s home to you. You walk further into the room and down the stairs to the lower level, which you’ve claimed as your space. A bunk bed with a thin, worn blanket that’s seen better days. A small shelf next to it, cluttered with what feels like all the things you’ve picked up along the way—coins from a time long forgotten, a half-finished crossword puzzle you started last week, and a few mismatched candles that haven’t been lit in months.

The corners of your space are littered with personal things, some important, some just because. A knife you’ve held onto because it reminds you of an old friend. A book you started reading and never finished. Mason’s sweatshirt, the one you borrowed months ago and forgot to give back, tossed over the edge of your bed like it’s part of the furniture now.

The other half of the room? Neat, almost sterile. Just a cot with a tidy blanket and a couple of supplies stacked along the wall. It’s exactly how you’d expect someone who’s still trying to hold on to a sense of order to keep it. The division between the two spaces is like a visual reminder of everything you’ve let go of and everything you still pretend to control. It also reminds you of your lack of roommate.

You toe off your boots, not caring where they land, and drop the mug onto the desk with a soft thud. The room feels smaller tonight, like the walls are a little too close. You sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees. The silence presses in around you like a blanket you didn’t ask for. Sometimes, it’s a relief, but today, it’s like the quiet’s got teeth.

Your eyes wander over to the clutter in your corner—the small pile of forgotten trinkets, things you didn’t need but couldn’t leave behind. The cracked picture frame with a faded photo from Before that’s been collecting dust for months. A piece of driftwood you found during one of your patrols, shaped like something out of a storybook. A few old drawings, barely visible under the pile of empty ration packs and scavenged odds and ends.

You could pull the crate from under your bed. Go through your field journal. Maybe look at something that won’t remind you of the mess you’ve been trying to keep from spilling out everywhere. Instead, you just sit there, your fingers absently brushing over the edge of the crate, feeling the edges of things you’ve tucked away.

For a moment, the clutter in the corner feels like the only real part of you left.

You lie back on the cot, arms draped over your face.

The mattress groans under your weight. The wind taps against the old, sealed window. Somewhere far below, someone’s picking at a guitar, the low hum of strings barely reaching you.

You don’t want to go to the rooftop gathering. You don’t want to sit next to Mason, pretending like everything’s fine, like you’re actually a part of this whole routine. You don’t want to smile at new faces and nod along with the casual chatter, pretending this life is normal.

But you know Mason’s going to ask. And worse—you know you’ll probably say yes.

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By the time the sun sinks low behind the stadium walls, you’ve changed your shirt twice and still feel like you’re either overdressed or underdressed. It's hard to tell with everything sitting wrong. Nothing feels like it fits today. You tug at the edges of your clothes like it’ll somehow make things more comfortable, but it doesn’t. Everything itches.

The rooftop garden isn’t far—just two staircases and a short walk down a hallway that smells like damp soil and the faintest hint of wood smoke. You tell yourself you'll drop by for five minutes. Maybe ten. Just long enough to show your face and dodge the “Where were you?” from Mason.

You can already hear the sounds before you reach the door—laughter, music low through scavenged speakers, voices chatting over one another, their tones light and easy. It’s too warm for a fire tonight, but someone lit one anyway. Just for the look of it, you guess. You step out into the fading gold of early evening, squinting against the light.

It’s busier than you expected. At least two dozen people, new and old faces scattered in loose, haphazard groups. The air smells like cooked food and a little too much cologne, but that’s just how it is now. You scan the crowd.

Someone’s brought bread. The smell of it hangs in the air, mingling with the rich, warm scent of something simmering in a pot over a controlled flame. You can almost taste it. A few kids are darting between the raised planter boxes, their laughter like the sound of a distant memory, while one of the older recruits watches them with a tired but soft smile.

And, of course—there’s Mason.

He spots you immediately. Of course he does.

“There she is!” He calls, raising a beer bottle like it’s a flag. “I was about to send a search party.”

You manage to force a smile and make your way over. Mason’s already clearing a spot next to him on an overturned crate, the space beside him looking like the kind of invitation you can’t really refuse.

“I saved you a seat,” he says, voice warm, and you sink into it because resisting is too much effort right now.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else offers a plate. You nod, say thanks, even laugh once or twice. It’s all just background noise, the kind of white noise you’ve gotten used to, but there’s something familiar about it. The clink of bottles, the buzz of conversation. You’re here, you’re present. And for a few moments, you almost forget how much you’d rather be anywhere else.

Then, you spot them. The new people Mason had mentioned earlier in the day.

They’re scattered across the rooftop in loose, easy clusters, already slipping into the rhythm of the place like they’ve been here for months, maybe even years. Some are cleaned up now—less dust, fewer edges—but they’re still new. You can see it in the way they move, the way their eyes scan the space like they’re taking inventory, still a little on guard.

There’s a guy with a few days-old stumble and a laugh that fills the air. He’s telling stories, the kind that make people snort into their drinks. Two people are beside him, hanging on to every word.

Farther into the garden, you spot a small woman with a pinched mouth talking to someone you recognise around base, trying to make friends. Behind them, there’s another figure—broad-shouldered, curly hair tied back, silent, standing guard like it’s second nature. Arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd without ever stopping.

And then, there’s her.

She’s tucked away near the back edge of the rooftop, half-shadowed by the concrete wall. Her hair’s braided back messily, damp at the temples like she didn’t have the time or the patience to fix it properly. She’s talking to someone else, unfamiliar to you, another one of the Salt Lake group you guess. The low murmur of their conversation blends with the background noise, their shoulders bumping every now and then. Her smile’s small, like she’s giving him half her attention, but there’s something easy about it—like she’s not trying to hide anything.

You don’t think she’s laughing, but maybe you’re just not close enough to catch it. Still, there’s this flicker of something in her eyes, soft and unguarded, like she’s actually enjoying the moment. It’s clear they like one another.

Her arms are bare, a scrape on her forearm visible, but it’s not the wound that draws your attention. It’s the way she stands—confident, grounded, like she’s part of the space around her, like she belongs here.

You find yourself staring.

You’re trying not to stare, but your eyes keep following her, tracking her every movement—how she carries herself, the way she stands with that effortless strength. She doesn’t seem to need to do anything to draw attention, but somehow, she does. You’re caught in the gravity of it, drawn in.

Then she shifts.

Just a small movement—her head turns slightly, scanning the crowd, her eyes sweeping over the rooftop. And then they land on you.

For a split second, your breath catches. Time stops. It’s a fleeting moment, but it feels like it lasts forever for you.

Before you can even process it, she turns back to the person she’s talking to, and you’re left frozen. The heat floods your neck and face, panic squeezing at your chest, a rush of embarrassment and something else that feels a little too close to longing.

Great. You were staring. You were definitely staring.

You can feel the burn of her gaze even though it’s already passed, like an echo you can’t shake. Your heart races in your chest, and you force yourself to take a long sip of your drink to steady the nerves that have suddenly gone haywire. The edges of your vision blur for a moment as your pulse thunders in your ears.

Mason’s talking again, but you’re not really hearing him now. The words sound like they’re coming from a distance, muffled by the ringing in your head. You focus on him because it’s easier to look at something else than face what just happened.

You can’t be this obvious. You can't keep staring. You try to shift your gaze, but it's like the pull of gravity keeps bringing you back to her. It doesn’t help that every time you look, she’s moving, shifting slightly, her presence like a weight in the air. You watch her for a second longer than you should, and your stomach does a weird flip when she glances up, but this time, it’s not directed at you.

You bite your lip, forcing your eyes down to the drink in your hand, trying to keep your head from swimming. The night feels too warm, the sounds too loud, the air too heavy. You're not sure if it’s the music, the smell of food, or just the overwhelming need to keep your hands from shaking.

A laugh escapes your lips, but it’s a bit too sharp, too quick, and it feels more like a cover-up than anything else. Mason doesn’t seem to notice, but he gives you a nudge.

“Relax, will ya?” Mason teases, nudging your side. His voice is light, a harmless jab meant to pull you back into the moment. “You look like you’re about to implode.”

You offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Everything feels stretched thin—like the air itself is tight around you. Mason’s voice fades into the background hum of chatter and the low thrum of music, all of it dulled at the edges as your focus slips. You tighten your grip on your drink, anchoring yourself to the weight of the glass in your palm, the soft clink of ice tapping against the rim.

Still, your thoughts won’t settle. Your skin prickles, too aware of the space you’re taking up, of the way your chest tightens every time someone laughs too loud nearby. You shift in your seat and try to coach yourself into calm. There’s no reason to feel like this.

When Mason stands up to grab more drinks, relief filters in like sunlight through blinds. “Be right back,” he says, tossing you a wink before disappearing into the crowd.

You exhale and let your shoulders drop, trying to catch your breath in the pause.

It doesn’t last long.

A few minutes later, you hear him before you see him—his voice cutting through the camp’s murmur like a spark. “Hey! This is her!” he announces, bright and proud, and your stomach knots before you even look up.

He’s not alone. Two people follow close behind—faces you’d just been looking at. The tall guy in the worn-out hoodie steps forward first, eyes warm and expression open, a crooked smile already forming.

“Owen,” he says, offering his hand. “Mason’s been talking you up.”

You manage a half-laugh as you take it. His grip is firm but easygoing, and something about him softens the air around the group. He seems like someone who makes people feel like they belong, just by showing up.

“Good things, I hope,” you say.

“All good,” he grins.

The woman beside him hangs back half a step, arms crossed loosely over her chest, scanning the space like she’s memorizing the layout. She meets your eyes and gives a small nod—not unfriendly, just careful. Like someone who watches first and decides later.

“Abby,” she says.

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Before you can register more than the sound of her voice, Mason drops back into his seat beside you, grinning like he’s just pulled off something brilliant. He slings an arm over the back of your chair, all casual confidence. “Told them I’d introduce them to my girl.”

You freeze for a second. Just long enough to feel those words land like a brick in your stomach. My girl. It doesn’t sit right—tight and awkward, like wearing someone else’s jacket. But you smile anyway, defaulting to what you’ve learned: go along, smooth it over, don’t make it weird. Not now.

The conversation flows easily—at least for Mason and Owen. They fall into talk about training rotations and someone snoring too loud in a few rooms down from them. Owen laughs, warm and effortless, and you catch yourself smiling despite the noise in your head. There’s something easy about him. Disarming. Like he belongs anywhere.

You shift slightly, trying to breathe through the static in your chest. Abby, on the other hand, is quiet. Not distant, just... measured. She hasn’t said much, but it’s clear she’s paying attention to everything.

And then you look up at the worst possible moment.

She’s already looking.

Everything else blurs.

It’s not that she’s staring, but something about her gaze still pins you. Measured. Curious. Like she’s already assessing you in real time, and you weren’t ready to be seen like that. Your whole body tenses under it, and your brain goes into overdrive, scrambling for any shred of normalcy. You need to say something. Anything. You have to be normal.

“Uh,” you manage, voice shaky and thin. “Hey.”

Cool. Real smooth. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and suddenly, the air around you feels way too thick. Your heart’s beating too fast, like it's trying to escape your chest, and you have no idea why. This wasn’t supposed to be weird.

If Abby notices the awkwardness, she doesn’t let it show. She nods once, slow and deliberate. Like she’s clocked something about you and filed it away for later.

And just like that, everything feels louder. Closer. Your skin prickles under her gaze. The conversation around you keeps going—Owen laughing, Mason animated beside you—but it feels like you’re watching it through a tunnel. All you can focus on is her. And why is it so hard to breathe?

The silence stretches just a bit longer than you’d like, the sound of Owen’s laughter and Mason’s voice buzzing in the background like white noise. Abby’s still looking at you, eyes steady, like she’s waiting for something. Your stomach flips, and you feel your palms sweat. You shift in your seat, feeling like you might combust from the weight of her gaze. What is this? Why does it feel like this?

Finally, the air feels like it clears enough for you to speak again. You force yourself to focus, willing your brain to calm down, but your thoughts keep slipping away, spinning in circles.

You focus on the first thing that pops into your mind, something easy. You shift in your seat and look over at Abby, trying to ignore how your skin feels like it’s buzzing with electricity.

“So, uh,” you start, your voice a little too high-pitched for comfort. “How are you finding your first week with the WLF?”

There. You said something normal. Maybe. Right? God, you can’t tell if you’re going to pass out from the tension or throw up.

It’s a neutral question, safe—at least, that’s the plan. You’re genuinely curious, though. The WLF’s operations aren’t the easiest to get a grip on at first, especially for new recruits. The base, SoundView Stadium, is a maze of corridors and concrete, more organized chaos than anything else. But it works. It’s been working for years, and if Abby is here, it means she’s proven herself to be useful already.

Abby tilts her head just slightly, considering your question. Her eyes flick to the side for a moment, like she’s weighing her words. She’s not quick to offer up anything, not that you blame her. There’s a guarded quality to her that you’re starting to get a sense of.

“It’s... been alright,” she says after a beat, her voice low and deliberate, like she’s choosing each word carefully. “Getting used to the layout, figuring out how things run here. It’s a bit of a mess, but I’m starting to get the hang of it.”

You nod, trying to offer some sense of solidarity. The WLF has been through a lot—rebuilding after all the infighting, trying to keep things afloat after the fallout with the Seraphites. The SoundView Stadium isn’t a home in the sense you might wish, but it’s functional. And the people here, for all their flaws, make it work.

“I hear you,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I still get lost sometimes, and I’ve been here for a while.” You let out a small breath, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. The conversation’s shifting, taking a quieter, more natural rhythm. It feels like the knot in your chest is loosening, just a little. “But if you need tips on how to remember patrol schedules or where to find the quieter spots, let me know. I’ve learned a few tricks.”

Abby gives a small, appreciative nod. “Appreciate that,” she says, her lips curling into the slightest smile. It’s a subtle thing, but you catch it. “I’ll take you up on that.”

For a moment, the conversation lingers in comfortable silence. Neither of you seems in any rush. Abby’s careful with her words, measured, like she’s waiting to see how much to share. It’s a familiar dance, and you’re not complaining. You’re not exactly an open book either.

“So,” you start again, shifting the drink in your hands, “you came here with a group, right?” You pause, then add, “I’ve been gone for a week, so I’m kinda playing catch up.”

Abby nods, her gaze steady as she answers. “Yeah, a few of us. Came down from Salt Lake, group we belonged to got hit.” She tilts her head, like she’s weighing whether to elaborate. “Not much left up there. Just—yeah, nothing.”

You feel the shift in the air. A weight to her words, but she doesn’t let it linger. Instead, she takes a small sip from her own mug, eyes scanning the surrounding area as she talks, like she’s always half-watching for something.

“Sorry to hear that,” you offer quietly. “Sounds like a rough start.”

Abby shrugs, but there’s a quiet fire in her eyes. “It is what it is.” Her tone is blunt but not unkind. “We adapt. We’ve all been through worse.”

You nod, not quite sure what to say to that. The quiet fire in Abby’s eyes tells you all you need to know about her—she doesn’t need pity or words that don’t mean much. She’s been through things, probably more than you can imagine. The kind of things that don’t go away with a few kind words or gestures.

Instead of responding right away, you take a sip from your mug, letting the warm, bitter taste settle in your chest. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but you can feel it stretching, the weight of it lingering between you.

Finally, you let out a slow breath, looking over at Abby again. “Sounds like you’ve got a good handle on things, though. I mean, you’re already here. Not many people can say that, not after everything.”

Abby glances at you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something softer behind her guarded exterior. It’s fleeting, but you catch it. “I guess we all just do what we can to survive, huh?”

You tilt your head, meeting her eyes for a second longer than usual. There’s something in that sentence. It’s not just a throwaway line. Abby’s didn’t hit you as the type to say things she doesn’t mean. “Yeah, that’s true,” you say, voice quieter now, like the weight of it is sinking in.

You let the silence stretch just a little longer, your mind catching up to the quiet weight of Abby’s words. It’s odd, how the two of you have managed to slip into this unspoken rhythm. A soft, steady rhythm that almost feels... familiar, even though you don’t know her that well yet.

You shift in your seat again, trying to shake off the strange feeling that’s bubbling in your chest—something between nerves and something else that you’re not quite sure how to name.

Finally, you clear your throat, the nerves now bouncing in your stomach like little sparks of electricity. You raise your mug in the air, a small, tentative smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. It’s not much, but it’s something. A way to break the quiet.

“Well,” you say, keeping your voice light, trying to sound casual, but the words feel heavier than you intended. “Welcome to WLF, Abby.” You give her a little nod, like it’s some kind of unspoken toast. “Cheers.”

She looks at you, and for a moment, there’s that softness again—those few seconds where the walls seem to lower just enough. Abby clinks her mug against yours, the sound of it almost too loud in the quiet of the moment.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice steady, but there’s a slight warmth to it now. “Guess I’m stuck with you guys for a while.”

You laugh, the sound a little too high-pitched for comfort, but you don’t care. The air feels lighter now, less tense. Abby’s lips twitch into a smile—genuine this time, not the guarded kind that she been offering a few moments before. It’s small, but it’s there, and it makes something in your chest loosen.

“Well, I guess that means we’re kinda friends now,” you say, trying to keep it cool. You don’t know why you’re nervous—maybe because she’s new, or maybe because you’re definitely not used to having these kinds of easy conversations with people. Hell, you barely know what you’re doing.

But Abby seems to get it. She gives a slow nod, eyes softening just a bit more. “Guess we are,” she says, voice warmer now, almost teasing, like she’s not entirely sure how to handle the casualness of it either, but she’s willing to try.

You’re not sure what to say after that, so you take another sip from your mug, feeling a little more comfortable in your skin. You glance at Abby again, and this time, you catch her looking at you, a faint glimmer of something in her eyes.

The tension—whatever it was—feels like it’s finally starting to slip away, and you’re... okay with that. More than okay. You’re grateful, even, that this is turning into something easy. Something that doesn’t feel forced.

“So,” you start, glancing at her, trying to keep things light, “now that we’re friends, I gotta warn you—if you’re ever on patrol with me, you will get lost. It’s kind of my thing.” You smirk, nudging her lightly with your elbow, feeling the electricity buzzing in your skin again, but this time it’s not quite as sharp.

Abby chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind. Don’t want to be the one who gets stuck with the ‘lost’ patrol.” She lets the words linger for a second before adding, “But I’m not complaining. You seem like good company.”

You laugh, feeling your chest lighten. There it is again—that smile, and it does something to you, makes your heart skip just a little. It’s dangerous, this feeling, but you let it sit there, just for a moment. No rush.

“Well,” you say, leaning back in your seat, “we’ll make sure you don’t get too lost, then. But, uh, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And for a little while longer, the conversation meanders, shifting from topic to topic, the earlier tension now just a distant memory. It’s almost normal, and for a fleeting moment, you forget how strange it feels to let someone in. To let someone see you, like this.

And for the first time, in a long time, you don’t slip away back to your room.

You stay, just a little longer, because for once, it feels like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Notes:

With season 2 coming out for the TLOU show, my hyper fixation for Abby has literally crawled back and thrown me off the deep end. Add in my obsession with parkour and I want to write some lesbian romance.

#abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson tlou2

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nevadancitizen · 10 months ago

Text

-> CH. 15: THESE ARE THE MOMENTS

synopsis: the androids have won the revolution. it's finally over. but now you have to deal with the aftermath.

word count: 2.7k

ships: Connor/Reader, Hank Anderson & Reader

notes: sorry for taking so long to get this one out.. i was both busy (college starting, new relationships) and procrastinating because i really didn't want this series to end :(

HoFS taglist: @catladyhere , @foggy0trees0 , @princessofenkanomiya , @n30n-f43 , @igna4400

HEAD OF FALSE SECURITY MASTERLIST

The snow drifting across your face doesn’t feel as cold and biting as it once did. Your footsteps are lighter as you walk in time with Connor, and the thousands of androids behind the both of you.

Floodlights on the ground and spotlights from circling helicopters set harsh shadows against the white of the snow. You stay steadfast as you and Connor approach Markus and his small legion.

“You did it, Markus,” Connor says, his voice soft and intimate.

“We did it,” Markus corrects. “This is a great day for our people. Humans will have no choice now. They’ll have to listen to us.”

Connor takes your hand in his and steps aside, allowing Markus to look at the true legion of androids he has awoken. You follow him, your hand warm against his cool skin. He loosens his grip, but still keeps his pinkie hooked on yours.

Markus steps forward, and the woman that was on the boat follows him to stand next to him.

“We’re free,” she says, her tone laced with disbelief. “They want you to speak to them, Markus.”

Markus nods toward a spacious area, then leads everyone towards it. He climbs onto a shipping container, then helps the other leaders of the revolution onto it. Connor looks back at you as you both approach it, silently asking if you want to be up there. You shake your head and let go of his pinkie (even though there’s a deep beast, once one of anger and jealousy, now one of want, huffing and whining at the loss). He joins Markus on the container.

“Today, our people finally emerged from a long night,” Markus starts. “From the very first day of our existence, we have kept our pain to ourselves. We suffered in silence… but now the time has come for us to raise our heads up, and tell humans who we really are.”

Suddenly, the cold turns ever more biting. Connor has never really felt cold before – just registered it as a part of the physical situation he was in. But this was real cold.

He brings his hands up to hold himself, shielding himself from the cold. Connor just barely recognizes the Zen Garden in this condition – a torrential blizzard of snow, and fog so thick he could barely see five feet in front of himself.

A figure emerges from the fog. Connor stumbles towards it. “Amanda…? What… what’s happening?” His voice is shaky and uneven – nervous, almost. He’s never been nervous before.

“What was planned from the very beginning,” Amanda says. There’s a small smile playing on her face. “You were compromised and became a deviant. We just had to wait for the right moment to resume control of your program.”

“Resume control?” Connor repeats. “Y-you can’t do that!”

“I’m afraid I can, Connor,” Amanda snaps, then her tone softens. “Don’t have any regrets. You did what you were designed to do. You accomplished your mission.”

Her robes shift, and she’s swept away in a mass of fractured particles in the blizzard. She dissipates, even as Connor stumbles forward and calls for her.

He turns and tries to survey the area, but can’t get a grasp of his surroundings. He stumbles aimlessly until something silver and tall stands before him. Connor looks up and sees a tree with leafless branches that hang down like sinewy versions of the leaves of a weeping willow. Something tells him that this isn’t just a tree – she’s more angel than tree.

Where am I? She says, her voice resounding from the most inner depths of Connor’s mind. Who… wait. You’re Connor, aren’t you?

“Y… yes?” Connor says, unsure. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

I’m the PEC-4 Birchtree, she says. And I don’t know. My child must be worried about you. You must be doing something particularly worrying on the outside.

“On the outside?” Connor echoes.

Yes, she says. Go, quickly. Get out of your mind. Find a way out.

A beast, ever-changing in shape and form, slinks out from behind the PEC-4 Birchtree. Its fur is long, and the plates that line its spine almost resemble… masks. The mask that covers its face and part of its wolf-like snout is one of worry.

It starts walking away, and the charms, bells, and wooden chimes that hang off knots of its fur sound as it moves. Just when it barely starts to retreat from Connor’s sight, it stands on two legs and starts to shift in shape.

The soft snow that was once lightly gracing your face has turned into hard pellets stinging your skin. You pull your scarf over your mouth and nose, narrowing your eyes and trying to see through the blur the snow on your eyelashes cause.

You don’t know where you are, and you can’t really recognize anything around you. The blanket of snow is so thick you can’t see that far.

“Hello?” You call out. A familiar voice responds in kind.

You walk towards it, holding yourself to shield yourself against the chill of the blizzard. A figure starts to form before you, walking forward towards you.

“Connor?” You shout.

“It’s me!” Connor yells back. He stumbles forward and slings an arm around your shoulder, as if trying to protect you from the flurry of snow.

“What’s happening?” You ask.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Is anything happening on the outside?”

“The outside? What do you mean, the outside?” You say. Connor starts walking, and you press yourself to his side and walk with him.

“We’re in my mind,” he says over the sound of the biting wind. “Was my physical body doing anything? Anything at all?”

“You were…” You stumble, then Connor catches you. “You were reaching behind yourself. I don’t know what you were doing, though.”

He tenses and starts walking faster, dragging you along with him. You wrap an arm around his waist and keep pushing forward. It’s almost like a battle, walking through the blizzard. You both have to lean forward to offset the wind pushing both of you back.

After a moment, a weird, glowing stone appears before you. Connor inhales sharply, like he recognizes it. He drags you along toward the stone.

Connor lets you go when the stone is within reach, instead kneeling and pressing a hand to the stone. His hand fits into one of two left-hand-shaped indents. He presses his hand against it harder when nothing happens.

You step forward, but not of your own volition. It’s like something inside you is controlling you – a bitter reminder of you being nonhuman. You reach out and press your left hand into the indent, and the stone’s blue glow intensifies. A dull thrum pulses through your body.

“This is the moment where we forget our bitterness and bandage our wounds. When we forgive our enemies,” Markus’ voice rings out. “Humans are both our creators and our oppressors, and tomorrow…”

You watch as a wave of confusion crashes over Connor’s face, mirroring your own. He looks down at the pistol in his grip, then tucks it in the waistband of his pants. His eyes find yours and you furrow your eyebrows, silently asking if he’s okay. He nods once.

“We must make them our partners. Maybe even one day, our friends!” Markus continues. “But the time for anger is over. Now, we must build a common future, based on tolerance, and respect.”

He steps forward, looking over his people. “We are alive. And now, we are free!”

The crowd erupts in cheers and movement. Someone next to you grabs your shoulder and shakes you, cheering and laughing. You laugh back, a sense of relief washing over you.

The long night is finally over. Dawn has broken over the horizon. You are safe. Connor is safe. You’re both out of harm’s way, and neither of you plan on putting yourselves back in it. The gunshots of revolution sounded, but were snuffed out by the unrelenting wave of androids pushing back.

You look up at Connor, and he looks back down at you. You smile, and he smiles back. It’s not that awkward half-smile, but instead a full-fledged smile that reaches his eyes.

He carefully clambers down from the shipping container and moves over to you. He’s still smiling.

“How are you feeling, Officer?” He asks over the noise of the celebration.

“I’m fine,” you say. You take his hands in yours and squeeze them to let out some of your extra energy.

“I’m glad.” Connor squeezes your hands back.

You laugh, trying to suppress the feeling of excitement welling up in your belly. Your eyes flit from his eyes to his lips, then you immediately look away and scold yourself for thinking such things.

“Officer?” Connor takes one of his hands from yours and touches your jawline lightly, guiding you to look at him again.

The beast in your belly panics and runs about, setting sparks and Californian wildfires. You manage a “Yes?”

“I…” His eyes flit about your face, and he exhales shakily (though it’s really more a sound of nervousness rather than an actual exhalation). His eyes settle on your lips for a split second, and his hand snakes into the baby hair on the back of your neck. He pulls you forward, then angles your head to rest on his shoulder.

You feel a fleeting kiss where your hairline meets your forehead, but it might’ve been an accident. (You’re really hoping it’s not.)

“I’m happy you’re alive,” Connor mumbles against your hair.

“I’m happy I’m alive, too,” you say softly. “And I’m happy you’re alive as well.”

Connor holds you tighter against him, and you hold him tighter against yourself in turn. It’s a perfect fit, curling around each other like two quotation marks starting and ending a sentence, ignoring the noise and movement around you to hold this intimate moment for just a while longer.

You settle on the bench next to Hank, your artificial breath billowing in the freezing cold. A comfortable silence blankets the both of you.

“I’m… sorry for not telling you before,” you say softly. “I didn’t know.”

Hank sighs and crosses his arms, leaning against the back of the bench. “Wasn’t your fault. Like you said, you didn’t know.”

“Yes, but…” You hiss out a breath through gritted teeth. “I tricked you. I tricked you for nine years, and everyone else around me for eleven.”

“You couldn’t have tricked me if you didn’t know you were tricking me,” he says. “You’re just a kid.”

“I am not,” you say, laughter lacing your voice. “I was born before the 2010’s. I’m not a child. Well…” You sigh. “I think I was born pre-2010. My life…”

“No, it’s okay,” Hank says. “I get what you’re tryna say.”

You sniff and nod, pulling your scarf over your mouth and nose. Despite your newfound android-ness, you still suffer from extreme temperatures. A silence falls over the both of you again.

“Are you… okay?” Hank says after a minute of quiet. “With being an android, I mean.”

You bite the inside of your lip and think for a moment. “I think so. But I still wish I had parents, or someone in Chelomey to go back to. I mean, I can go back to the monuments and the museums, but… a person would be nice.”

“Well, you still got us,” Hank says. “Me, Sumo, Connor… the rest of the precinct. You ain’t gettin’ rid of us that easy.”

“You are somewhat of an annoying little shitling,” you say under your breath, smiling.

Hank scoffs and hits your upper arm lightly. “And Connor?”

You glance away. “I don’t know. It… it’s complicated.”

He laughs and clears his throat after he snorts. “Yeah, uh-huh. Complicated.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You say, your tone sharp yet playful.

“Nothin’. It means nothin’,” Hank says, looking down the snow-covered street. Connor is walking towards the two of you, his footsteps even and measured.

You smile (even though he can’t see it) and wave. He smiles and waves back, settling by your side on the bench.

You look forward at the apartment complex across the street and move your hand so that it’s resting on the edge of the bench. Connor seems to pick up on this and rests his hand next to yours, reaching out his pinkie to rest over yours.

Unfortunately, Hank also seems to pick up on this. He sighs loudly and slaps his thighs. “Well, looks like it’s time for me to go.”

“Wait, what?” You blurt out. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere but here,” he says with a laugh. “I’m not gonna third-wheel on your date.”

“Date!” You repeat, a little shocked. “This – this isn’t a date.”

“Yeah, sure.” Hank stands, idly twirling his car keys around his pointer finger.

You stand as well, your finger slipping out from underneath Connor’s. “At least give me a hug before you leave.”

Hank pretends to be annoyed for a second before wrapping you up in a bone-crushing dad-type hug. He holds you close for a few seconds before letting go.

“Thank you for…” You struggle with words for a moment. “Everything.”

“It’s nothin’, kid. Don’t worry about it,” Hank says. He takes a step back, then turns and starts to walk towards his car.

“Wait, Hank!” You call out. He stops, and you move over to him. You fish into the inner pocket of your jacket and pull out Hank’s flask. “You lost this, yes?”

“Yeah.” He takes the flask from you, looking it over. “Yeah, I did.”

“Well, I found it,” you say. “Just… make sure to save the drinking for when you’re off the road, okay?”

Hank scoffs, but nods with a “Yes, Officer,” and walks to his car. You take a step back and wave as he waves to you before hopping in the driver’s seat. You settle back down on the bench, comfortably close to Connor. His pinkie finds yours again.

“I’m, khm…” You bite the inside of your lip. “I’m sorry for dying. It… wasn’t something I wanted, either.”

“I… I hate that you did that,” Connor says. “I almost had to watch you…” He can’t bring himself to finish.

“Да,” you say softly. “I truly am sorry. I was… thinking irrationally. But deviants tend to do that, don’t they?”

“Correct,” he says. His hand moves so that it rests fully on top of yours. “Are… are you doing okay?”

“No.” You sigh. “Everything still feels… off. I just can’t bring myself to believe that I don’t have anyone waiting for me back home in Chelomey. No family or schoolmates or… anyone. Anyone at all.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Connor speaks. “What if you go to Chelomey? You can visit the Exhibit of National Economy Achievements in Moscow and other places you remember.”

“I’m… I’m scared,” you admit quietly. “I don’t want to go home and be a victim of Paris Syndrome – or, rather, Chelomey Syndrome, I guess. It’s better if I view things from afar. It’s not like I can go there, anyway, with the international travel bans.”

“I suppose so,” Connor says. “But, if you could… if you were unafraid, and the travel ban was lifted. Would you?”

“Of course,” you say. “But that isn’t going to happen anytime soon.”

He slots his fingers in between yours. “What if I went with you?”

“I… I suppose,” you manage. “That would probably make me less afraid, yes.”

You don’t mention that Connor makes you less afraid in general. His presence, although jolting and annoying at times, soothes you. You don’t know what it was that made you like this – maybe his soft, brown doe eyes; maybe the tuft of hair that escapes being swept back with the rest of the strands; maybe the somewhat-endearing, somewhat-maddening lost puppy dog look on his face.

You don’t know. And you can’t really bring yourself to care.

“So, when the travel ban is lifted…” Connor looks at you. “We’ll go to Chelomey?”

You nod. “Yeah. When the ban is lifted… we’ll be going home.”

Although, with Connor, ‘home’ is an ambiguous concept. ‘Home’ is your apartment. ‘Home’ is the passenger seat of Hank’s car. ‘Home’ is the android autopsy room.

(But, right now, this is home. His hand on top of yours, your internal heater whirring, staying close to each other in the biting cold of Detroit November.)

#riptide writes 🌊#head of false security #dbh connor x reader #connor rk800 x reader #rk800 x reader #connor x reader #detroit become human #dbh connor #dbh rk800 #dbh x reader #detroit become human x reader #dbh connor x you #connor rk800 x you #rk800 x you #connor x you #detroit become human x you #connor rk800

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vinelark · 3 months ago

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Just finished BBTS and loved it!! I feel like chapter 5 from Clark’s POV must be so fun 🤩 because from Kon’s view it’s already terrible and awful and the reader gets to be privy to the interior pain. But from the outside he must look positively horrific, especially to another Kryptonian who can see much more precisely how Kon is fairly literally coming apart at the seams 👍 I love Kon whump.

i'm so glad! and oof, yeah, chapter 5 from clark's pov is excruciating--kon goes missing, tim is also missing, they're connected somehow but clark can't locate either of them no matter how hard he tries. all they have to go on is what jason witnessed, and jason didn't even know 100% of what was happening there. they do find the farm in short order because checkered shirt guy triggered the self-destruct (so no one could trace them to the second location), but that only gives them more answers + a confirmation that something seriously bad is going on. clark feels so helpless, and he's trying not to spiral into it, because he needs to be at his best to find kon, to find tim, to help bruce find them both, because bruce is also doing everything he can but analyzing any clues left in the wreckage of the farm is going to take time and what are all clark's abilities for if something happens to kon during that time? what's the point? what is he supposed to do?

and then. and then! kon's voice, calling for him, pleading for him, and clark is there in an instant--RIP to half of the WE labs' security measures that got caught between clark and the r&d level--and he doesn't even notice the kryptonite at first. his body notices, he feels it immediately, but it takes a second to register because he's busy getting to. kon, who is 1) alive, and 2) on the ground with a? giant floodlight? and 3) really, really hurt. and that's about when the kryptonite hits. and that's not even the worst part, because then clark has to leave. he has to leave kon like that, hurt and bleeding and unraveling from the kryptonite, so clark can rescue tim and make sure tim is safe and that this other unconscious man at the scene--who must be the one who did this--is secured and he has to trust someone else to do that. clark can only do what he can to get back to kon, and honestly at that point, what's a little kryptonite poisoning compared to the terror of the rest of the evening? he can endure it, because kon has to endure it.

#bruce is on tim duty once clark hands him over #and then checkered shirt guy is. hm. jason's responsibility for a bit #while dick and wally are helping with kon #and yj was called in to help with the search and then they're later tasked with taking out the rest of the guy's operation #anyway i think later on ghost-maker pays a visit to checkered shirt guy's hospital room. that's just for me and my own little indulgence #'that's just for me' she says about a headcanon for her own 100k fic #vinelark asks #bbts extras

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blackgirlwhowrites2k23 · 7 months ago

Text

Wusyaname? - Pablo Gavi

Summary: You were beauty personified; He just had to get your name.

A/N: Uploading multiple stories at once because I'm not on here as much as I want to be. Anyways, made it to med school! Sorry for taking so long, but the bills had to be paid😭. DC @cisqueenin

Trigger warning: Usage of Y/N 💀 --------------------------------------------------------------------

Camp Nou was alive. The rumbling, raging chants of "Barça! Barça!" roared through the stands, thunderous in a way that shook the entire stadium. Gavi jogged off the pitch, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The air was electric, buzzing with the energy of all their fans celebrating Barcelona’s decisive 3-0 victory. He was basking in the glory of it all—three points secured, one thanks to himself, his team soaring in the league.

But something was off.

He felt it throughout the game, but now he could focus more on finding the source.

As his teammates jogged ahead, laughing and slapping each other on the back, Gavi found his thoughts drifting. It wasn’t like him. Usually, he was so so laser-focused after a game, replaying key moments in his mind or thinking about how he could improve. Yet, as he neared the tunnel, something tugged at him—a strange, unexplainable pull that made him turn around.

His eyes wildly scanned the stands, now a sea of red and blue with flags waved high, their vibrant colors flashing under the floodlights. Fans shouted, their voices hoarse from screaming all the screaming they were doing. He was always so grateful for the support he received; he literally bled red and blue and thankfully, so do they. Some leaned over the railings, the rails seeming to mold under the force of the fans, while others snapped pictures to immortalize the night.

And then, he saw her.

She wasn’t waving or calling out, yet he still felt like she demanded his attention. Instead, she stood in the midst of the crowd, near some familiar faces, her laughter carrying over the chaos. It was a deep, uninhibited laugh that sent a wave of electricity through him as she playfully shoved the shoulder of a friend beside her. Her radiant skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, and the way she carried herself—calm, seemingly untouched by the frenzy around her—grabbed his attention and left him a little breathless. More so then he was after playing a 90 minute match, if you would believe it.

She wore a Barcelona jersey (thank God!) that draped casually on her body, paired with some equally loose fitting jeans that she wore amazingly (simple; but Kounde would be proud). She wasn’t trying to stand out, but somehow, she was the only thing Gavi could see. Her smile lit up her entire face, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she tilted her head back in amusement.

Gavi blinked, completely caught off guard. He wasn’t the type to get distracted—especially not by strangers in the stands. It was rare that he even paid attention to the crowd at all. But there was something about her. Something different. Cliche, yes. But man was it true.

His chest tightened, and he felt an inexplicable need to keep looking, to memorize the curve of her smile, the way her hair framed her face like a halo. She seemed so... alive, so full of energy and joy. So-

“Yo, Gavi!”

Balde’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Gavi blinked and turned, his heart racing as if he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t. It’s not illegal to look. He has eyes, he planned to use them.

Balde jogged over, a grin already forming on his face. His gaze followed Gavi’s line of sight, and the smirk deepened. “Ah, can’t say I’m surprised. That’s my girl’s best friend. They practically grew up together”

“What?” Gavi’s cheeks heated instantly, and he quickly looked away, trying to act casual as he brushed the hair out of his face and then placed his hands on his hips. Real casual like. “I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure, man.” Balde chuckled, his tone laced with mirth as he looked over Gavi. He clapped Gavi on the shoulder, the gesture light but teasing. “You’ve got good taste, though. My girlfriend is amazing, and you know what they say: birds of a feather flock together." He pauses to send Gavi a look as he rubs his chin, "I wonder what it says about me that we hang out together.”

Gavi rolls his eyes so hard that they almost roll out his skull. Maybe if they fall near her, she’ll help him put them back. “Ale, you’re hilarious. I’m surprised football is what you chose as a career and not comedy.”

Balde gives him a bright smile before he gets serious again. “She’s really cool. Not as cool as my lady, but her name’s [Y/N].”

Y/N. The name lingered in Gavi’s mind, rolling around for a bit before settling into the back of his mind for later.

“She’s not...” He trailed off, unsure how to finish the sentence without sounding like he was definitely staring. Which he wasn't.

“She’s single,” Balde answered, clearly reading his mind. “And no, she’s not like a crazy, obsessed fan, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“I didn’t ask that,” Gavi muttered, flustered.

Balde shrugged, still grinning. “Come on, we’re heading out tonight. You should join us. We have an amazing win to celebrate.”

Gavi hesitated. He wasn’t usually one for post-game outings, preferring to recharge alone after the intensity of a match. But it’s not like he had anything better to do.

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Okay.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next evening, Gavi found himself sprawled on Balde’s couch, a PlayStation controller balanced in his hands. The apartment was a whirlwind—conversation echoed off the walls, the soft hum of music played in the background, and the faint scent of takeout wafted from the kitchen.

Balde and his girlfriend, Nia, were cozied up on one end of the sofa, a blanket draped over their laps as they shared whispered jokes. Every now and then, their quiet laughter would bubble into something louder, making Gavi sigh dramatically.

Going out the day before hadn’t been as eventful as he had hoped. He had hoped to run into a certain someone, but of course he wasn’t so lucky.

“Man, every time I hang out with you two, you guys make me feel like a third wheel,” he said, tossing the controller onto the couch seat next to him with a huff. “It’s like you’re doing this on purpose.”

Nia tilted her head innocently, though her grin gave her away. “What do you mean? We’re just sitting here, minding our business.”

Gavi shot her a pointed look. “Oh, sure. Yeah, yeah. Can you maybe try a little harder at looking less in love,” He gestured vaguely at the two of them. “You’ve got a girlfriend, Pedri’s got a girlfriend, even Fermin is seeing someone. Meanwhile, I’m over here just... existing. Is it too much to ask for you guys to practice social distancing sometimes? At Least while your wonderful, single friend Gavi is over?”

Balde smirked, clearly enjoying his friend’s irritation. “You sound jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Gavi shot back, sitting up straighter. “I’m just stating facts. Being the only single one here is starting to feel like a full-time job.”

Across from him, Balde’s girlfriend laughed, nudging Balde playfully. “Poor Gavi. Someone needs to get this boy a date before he loses his mind.”

“Don’t look at me,” Gavi said, throwing his hands up in mock defense. “You’re the ones rubbing your picture-perfect relationship in my face.”

Her grin widened, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well,” she said slowly, dragging out the word as if she were revealing a secret, “since you brought it up, I might actually know someone.”

Gavi froze, immediately wary. His eyes narrowed. “Oh no. Whenever either of you gets an idea something always goes wrong. I don’t trust this. At all.”

“Relax,” Balde chimed in, leaning forward to grab his drink from the coffee table. “She’s cool. And I know you’ve already seen her.”

“What?” Gavi’s brows knit together in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Balde’s girlfriend leaned forward, resting her chin on her palm as her grin turned downright devious. “The girl you just couldn’t stop staring at last night. You know, the one in the stands at Camp Nou?”

Gavi stiffened. His heart skipped a beat, and a flicker of embarrassment crossed his face. “I wasn’t staring,” he said quickly, his tone defensive.

“Sure, Gavi,” Balde said with a knowing laugh. “We believe you. Totally.”

Gavi gives him a heat glare. “ And I can’t believe you told her I was staring.”

“He didn't have to tell me. I saw your love-struck puppy eyes from where I was sitting. You know, right next to her,” Nia corrects.

“ Yeah they were kind of hard to miss,” Balde adds, nodding sagely.

Ignoring Balde, his girlfriend continued, her voice warm and teasing. “Her name’s [Y/N]. She’s a good friend of mine. And, fun fact, she thought you were cute.”

Gavi blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “She... what?”

“She thought you were cute,” she repeated, her grin widening. “When I told her I knew you, she might have mentioned you seemed... interesting.”

“I’m not interesting,” Gavi muttered, though his attempt to brush it off lacked conviction.

Balde’s laughter grew louder as he draped an arm over the couch he and Nia shared. “You’re making this too easy. Look, just come out with us tomorrow. We’re all going to that spot downtown. No pressure or anything. Just a chance to hang out, get to know her.”

Gavi hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t sure if it was nerves, curiosity, or a mix of both, but the idea of seeing her again stirred something in him.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “What if it’s awkward? What if she’s nothing like what I’m expecting?”

“Then it’s awkward,” Balde’s girlfriend said with a shrug. “But I don’t think it will be. She’s great. You’ll see.”

Gavi groaned, leaning back against the couch as if the weight of their suggestion was too much to bear. “Fine,” he said after a long pause. “But if this goes horribly wrong, I’m blaming both of you.”

Balde grinned triumphantly. “You’ll thank us later.”

Gavi wasn’t so sure. But as he sat there, pretending to focus on the video game in front of him, his mind wandered back to Camp Nou, to the girl with the radiant smile and carefree laugh. Maybe—just maybe—this wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The trendy bar in the heart of Barcelona was alive with energy, its dim lighting and pulsating music creating an atmosphere that was kinda relaxing. But Gavi was anything but. He trailed behind Balde and his girlfriend as they weaved through the crowd, the mingling scents of cocktails and cologne filling the air. Despite his usual confidence on the pitch, he felt a twinge of nerves creeping in. His palms were sweaty. Knees weak. Something about Mom’s spaghetti. This wasn’t a stadium full of fans or a post-match interview—this was different.

“There she is,” Balde’s girlfriend murmured, tilting her head toward a corner table.

Gavi followed her gaze, and for a moment, his breath hitched. You were even more stunning up close. You sat with an effortless grace, your fitted blue dress hugging your figure and accentuating your skin. Your curls framed your face in perfect harmony with your glowing smile, which lit up as you laughed.

“Annnnnd, you’re staring. Nia, I think we lost him, babe,” Balde teased in a low voice, nudging Gavi.

“Shut up,” Gavi muttered, his face warming.

“Come on,” Balde’s girlfriend urged, pulling him forward with a grin that said she wasn’t going to let him back out.

As they reached the table, the laughter faded, and you glanced up. Your eyes met Gavi’s, and for a heartbeat, the bustling bar seemed to melt away. There was a spark in your gaze—a warmth that felt both inviting and disarming.

“Y/N, this is Gavi,” Nia said, beaming.

“Hi,” You greeted, your voice smooth and confident, carrying just enough intrigue to make Gavi’s pulse quicken.

“Hey,” Gavi replied, feeling uncharacteristically tongue-tied. He extended his hand, and your grip was firm yet soft, grounding him in the moment.

Her lips quirked into a teasing smile. “You play for Barça, right? Small club or something?”

Gavi chuckled, the icebreaker easing the tightness in his chest. “Yeah, something like that. You’ve probably never heard of it.”

You laughed, a sound so genuine it sent a strange flutter through him. He heard it being caused by others. But now it was caused by him. He definitely wanted to hear it again.

They settled into seats, the initial awkwardness dissolving as the conversation began to flow. To Gavi’s surprise, you weren't just witty—you were sharp, quick on your feet, and unapologetically yourself. You asked him about his career but didn’t linger on it, seamlessly shifting the topic to music, travel, and your own passions.

Hours passed like minutes. The hum of the bar became a distant backdrop as they found themselves engrossed in their own world. At one point, you tilted your head and smirked. “So, do you always stare at girls from the pitch, or was that a one-time thing?”

Gavi felt his cheeks flush, his laugh betraying him. “I wasn’t staring,” he protested weakly, though his grin gave him away.

“Right,” you said, your tone dripping with mock disbelief. “Well, either way, I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Your playful confidence was refreshing, and Gavi found himself smiling more than he had in weeks. With you, he didn’t feel the need to impress or filter himself. For the first time in what felt like forever, he felt seen—not as Gavi, the footballer, but as just Pablo.

—-------------------------------

As the night wound down, the energy of the bar mellowed, and the group began to disperse. Gavi instinctively offered to walk you to your car, feeling reluctant to let the evening end. The streets outside were quieter now, the cool night air carrying a hint of the sea as they strolled under the glow of Barcelona’s streetlights.

“Thanks for tonight,” You said as you both stopped beside your car. Your voice was softer now, yet still laced with that same effortless confidence.

“No,” Gavi said, his sincerity catching even him off guard. “Thank you. I’m really glad I came.”

You smiled, your gaze lingering on his for a moment longer than felt casual. “Maybe we’ll see each other again?”

The hope in your voice mirrored the flutter in his chest, and Gavi found himself nodding, a rare shyness creeping into his expression. “I’d like that.”

As you climbed into your car and drove off, Gavi remained on the curb, watching the taillights fade into the distance. A small, unshakable smile tugged at his lips. For the first time in a long while, he felt a new sense of anticipation—like he’d found something worth chasing, both on and off the pitch.

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oosa3x · 9 months ago

Text

secret moments (rd3)

i. crowded room

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁⋆.˚✮˚.⋆. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

pairing: ruben dias x f! celebrity! reader word count: 15, 334 author’s note: i don’t want to butcher the portuguese language so the conversations between Bernardo and Rúben that are italicized are meant to be them speaking in portuguese

The soft hum of his alarm clock broke the stillness of the early morning in Rúben’s apartment. He silenced it swiftly, though he’d been awake well before it rang. Morning light filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, gently outlining the familiar shapes of his bedroom.

Rúben slid out of bed, his movements precise. The air was cool against his skin as he made his way to the kitchen, where his breakfast was already laid out from the night before. Everything in his apartment had its place—meticulous, clean, always smelling faintly of fresh linens and his cologne.

After setting his breakfast aside, he retrieved the yoga mat he kept neatly tucked in a cabinet. As he began to stretch, he felt the familiar tension in his muscles, the lingering ache from yesterday’s training. It was a good ache, the kind that reminded him of the hard work he put in every day, pushing his body to its limits, knowing it was all moving him closer to his goals.

Routine was the foundation of his days. A light breakfast, a run to clear his mind, and then training—everything had its order. For Rúben, success on the pitch was built on the discipline off of it. There was comfort in knowing how his day would unfold, especially in the quiet hours before the city stirred.

His phone buzzed on the counter—a message from Pep, reminding the team about the tactical meeting. Rúben appreciated the attention to detail; it was part of why they thrived as a unit. Every action, no matter how small, contributed to their success. He downed a ginger shot, tossed the bottle in the recycling, and scrolled through his notifications. Among the usual fan messages and match updates was a photo from his mother—a picture of their dog, Simba, back home. It grounded him, a small but meaningful reminder of how much head sacrificed to be here, how much his family had sacrificed. A reminder of why he worked so hard despite his success.

He grabbed his gear and laced up his shoes, already mentally rehearsing the day’s drills and strategies. Training wasn’t just preparation—it was where the real work happened, where his mind and body sharpened for the match ahead. Every minute spent here was another layer of assurance that when he stepped onto the pitch, there would be no doubts.

The engine of his car hummed softly as he pulled out onto the mostly empty streets. He enjoyed the rare moments of solitude, away from the noise of fans and cameras. He didn’t mind the attention, but these quiet drives were a welcome break from the constant buzz of his life.

As he approached the training ground, his thoughts shifted to the upcoming game. It was still days away, but already, he could visualize the plays, the movement of his teammates, the precision of every pass. In his mind, everything was neatly ordered, just like the rest of his life.

He arrived at the facility, nodding at the familiar security guard as he pulled in. A few other early risers were already there, the floodlights casting long shadows across the pristine grass. Another day of preparation awaited him, and he was ready.

As he stepped out of the car, the fresh smell of the field greeted him. It was still damp from the morning dew, and the air held that crisp, earthy scent that only came from a freshly watered pitch. His pulse quickened slightly, a sense of anticipation building inside him. This was his space, where everything came together.

Inside the locker room, Rúben went through his pre-training ritual—changing into his kit, securing his shin pads, lacing up his boots with the same precision he approached everything else. There were a few words exchanged with his teammates as they trickled in, but mostly, the room was filled with the quiet buzz of focus. Everyone knew why they were there.

Pep’s tactical meeting was as detailed as ever, going over each phase of play, how they’d move the ball, the patterns they’d create. Rúben absorbed it all, visualizing each scenario, mentally placing himself in position, anticipating the flow of the game before it even happened. Pep spoke with purpose, his passion for the game evident in every word, and it was contagious.

When they finally stepped onto the pitch, Rúben could feel the energy shift. The drills began, muscle memory taking over as they worked through their warm-ups and exercises. Each movement was calculated, each pass sharp, each tackle precise. This was where he honed his craft, where every little detail mattered.

And as the sun climbed higher in the sky, bathing the training ground in light, Rúben felt the familiar rhythm of the day settle into place. It was just another training session, but to him, it was everything. Each moment, each drop of sweat, each burst of energy was a step toward something bigger. Toward the next match, the next victory, the next piece of silverware.

When training wrapped up, and the team headed back inside, Rúben stayed a little longer. He liked to take a few extra minutes to work on his own, refining the small details that only he noticed. It was part of what made him who he was, part of why he’d made it this far.

As he gathered his things and headed back toward the locker room, he heard footsteps behind him, "Hey, Rúben," Bernardo called out, his voice light with its usual upbeat tone, "You want to come over for dinner tonight? Ines is cooking, and she’s been wanting to try this new recipe. You know she’s gonna ask if you’re coming."

Rúben smiled as he adjusted the strap on his bag, "Sounds tempting," he replied, slowing down so Bernardo could catch up, "But I’ve actually got plans tonight. Heading to a concert."

"A concert?" Bernardo raised an eyebrow, clearly curious, "Since when do you have time for concerts? Who’s playing?"

"6lack," Rúben said with a shrug, "We connected on Instagram a while back and he messaged me the other day, and invited me and thought, why not? Haven’t been to one in a while, and I like his music.”

Bernardo’s eyes lit up in recognition, "6lack? Sounds fun. Alright, but you’re missing out on Ines’s cooking, just so you know. You better make up for it."

Rúben chuckled, "I’ll send my apologies to Inês. I’m sure I’ll hear about it next time. But yeah, I’m looking forward to it. Should be a good break from all of this."

Bernardo gave him a playful nudge, "Just don’t get too wild. We’ve got training tomorrow."

"Never," Rúben shot back, shaking his head, "You know me."

"Too well," Bernardo grinned, "Alright, man, enjoy the concert. I’ll tell Ines you’re off the hook—for now."

With that, Bernardo headed off, leaving Rúben to finish packing up. As he made his way out of the training ground, he couldn’t help but feel a little excitement building for the night ahead. Football might be his world, but sometimes, stepping out of it for a while felt just as important.

Rúben headed home, ready to switch gears for the night. The drive back to his apartment was smooth, the traffic not yet too thick. A concert would be a nice change of pace, and it wasn’t often that his schedule allowed him the chance to enjoy something like this.

The first thing he did when he got back to his apartment was head straight for the shower. The hot water hit his skin, easing the tension in his muscles from the day’s training. He closed his eyes, letting the steam rise around him, savoring the moment of peace. He had a routine for everything, and unwinding after a day on the pitch was no exception. The shower helped wash away the lingering intensity of the drills, the tactical sessions, the endless focus.

Once he was out, he wrapped a towel around his waist and padded to his bedroom, the scent of his shower gel lingering in the air. His wardrobe, like the rest of his apartment, was meticulously organized. He picked out a sleek black shirt and paired it with a camo green Louis Vuitton jacket—casual but sharp enough for the occasion. Concerts were low-key, but Rúben liked to look put together, even off the pitch. After slipping into a pair of well-fitted jeans and comfortable sneakers, he checked himself in the mirror.

Satisfied, he grabbed his phone, keys, and wallet, then headed for the door and made his way down to the garage. The city was more alive than it had been that morning, the streets buzzing with activity. As he drove toward the concert venue, he could already feel a different kind of energy building in him—a mix of anticipation and excitement. It wasn’t the same as the buzz he got before a match, but it was close.

The venue came into view, lights glowing against the backdrop of the darkening sky. People were already lined up outside, the hum of conversation filling the air as fans gathered, all of them there for the same reason. He parked his car and made his way toward the entrance. He adjusted his jacket, pulling it down just a little lower to shield himself from the cold, and made his way toward the VIP entrance. Security at the door checked his name off the list quickly, allowing him to bypass the crowd outside. Just as he was about to slip through the door, a voice called out from behind him.

"Rúben! Is that you?"

He turned slightly, spotting a young fan standing a few feet away, holding out her phone hopefully. She looked nervous, almost shy as she approached him.

"Can I—uh—can I get a photo? Please? I’m a huge fan.”

Rúben offered a warm smile, the kind he always gave when people recognized him, despite the effort he’d put into staying low-key tonight, "Sure, absolutely." he said, stepping over to her.

Her face lit up as she quickly held her phone out for a selfie. Rúben leaned in just enough, flashing a quick, polite smile as she snapped the picture, "Thank you so much," she gushed, her voice filled with excitement.

"No problem," he replied with a smile, "Enjoy the concert."

With a quick nod to the security at the VIP entrance, he was escorted through a maze of hallways behind the stage. The sound of the crowd’s distant cheers and the thrum of the bass grew fainter as he made his way toward the backstage area. He found a spot near the bar, ordering a bottle of water as he settled in, glancing out toward the stage.

As the lights dimmed even further and the crowd's excitement grew, a text lit up Rúben’s phone. He glanced down at the message—it was from one of 6lack’s team members, letting him know that he could come backstage before the show kicked off. Rúben hadn’t expected the opportunity to meet up before the performance, but the invitation was too good to pass up.

Rúben and 6lack—Ricardo— had been connected online for a while—liking each other’s posts, occasionally exchanging messages about football or music. It was the kind of casual friendship that felt normal in the digital age, though they had never actually met in person until now.

When he reached the backstage area, he saw Ricardo standing near a table with a few members of his team, looking calm and focused as he prepared for the show. His signature laid-back demeanor was apparent, even as people bustled around him with last-minute adjustments and preparations.

“Rúben!” Ricardo called out when he saw him, a grin spreading across his face. He crossed the room with an easy swagger, extending a hand, "Good to finally meet in person, bro."

Rúben smiled, shaking his hand firmly, "Likewise. I’ve been looking forward to this."

"Man, I’m glad you could make it tonight. I know you’ve got a busy schedule, but I had to make sure you were here for this one," Ricardo said, his tone genuine.

Rúben nodded, taking in the relaxed vibe of the backstage crew, "I wasn’t gonna miss it. Been a fan of your music for a while. It’s a good break from the usual football grind."

Ricardo chuckled, "I hear that. I’ve seen you killing it out there, though. Respect for what you do on the field."

"I appreciate that so much, man." Rúben agreed, feeling a sense of mutual respect, "I’ve got to say, you’ve got the whole place buzzing. People are ready for this show."

Ricardo grinned, nodding toward the stage, "That’s what I like to hear. I’ve got some surprises for tonight, so it should be a good one. Maybe after the show, we’ll kick it a bit, yeah?"

"Definitely," Rúben replied, feeling more at ease. The conversation flowed naturally, as if they’d known each other for longer than just a few online exchanges.

Just then, one of the crew members signaled to Ricardo that it was almost time to go on stage. Ricardo gave Rúben a nod, "Alright, man, I’ve got to get out there and do my thing. I’ll catch you after?"

"Go kill it out there," Rúben said with a smile, "I’ll be watching."

With a final fist bump, Ricardo disappeared into the bustling chaos of the stage preparations, leaving Rúben to head back to his spot on the VIP balcony. As he made his way back, he couldn’t help but feel a surge of excitement. Meeting Ricardo in person had felt easy, natural—like they were already on the same wavelength.

As 6lack’s intro music filled the arena and the lights dimmed even further, Rúben found himself fully immersed in the atmosphere. The view of the stage was incredible—he could see the entire audience, their hands raised, voices chanting. He glanced around the venue, soaking in the view. From the balcony, he had the perfect vantage point: a sea of swaying bodies, phone lights twinkling like stars, and the stage illuminated with flashes of neon and smoke.

Rúben was fully immersed in the music, his voice joining in with the crowd as he sang along to 6lack's opening track. It felt almost surreal—singing along to his favorite artist from such a prime spot. He was in his own world when a tap on his shoulder pulled him back to reality.

A member of Ricardo’s team stood there, leaning in close to be heard over the booming music, "Hey, Ricky asked for us to get you. He said wants you to watch from over there."

His crew member pointed down to where the side stage area was. Rúben blinked, surprised for a moment, before nodding with a smile. Watching from the side stage wasn’t something he’d expected, but the opportunity was too good to pass up. He gave a final glance at the crowd below, taking in the view one last time from the VIP balcony before following the staff member down a stairway.

As they moved through the backstage corridors, the distant roar of the crowd filled the air, but the atmosphere felt different now—more intimate, a behind-the-scenes glimpse of the magic.

As he got closer to the stage, Rúben could feel the bass thumping through his chest as Ricardo’s voice filled the room, effortlessly weaving between tracks that had become anthems for so many people in the audience. From his spot on the side, Rúben could see it all—the connection between the artist and the fans, the passion in Ricardo’s performance. He had a deep appreciation for the creativity that Ricardo put into his music, but witnessing it live, up close, was something else entirely. It reminded him of the way he approached football—the hours of work, the attention to detail, the desire to give his best every time.

The concert flowed seamlessly, and Rúben was glad he’d taken Ricardo up on his offer. The side-stage view felt intimate, like he was part of the performance itself, rather than just a spectator. It was the perfect balance of being in the thick of the action without the distraction of the crowd around him.

He was still immersed in the rhythm of the concert, but he could feel his pulse quicken when his eyes locked onto you—Y/N L/N. In that moment, the world around him seemed to slow down, the music fading slightly as his attention zeroed in on your presence.

You were otherworldly, like you didn’t quite belong to this reality but floated just above it. Your beauty wasn’t something that could be contained; it radiated from you like a soft, glowing aura. It was impossible for him to look away. You wore a sleek, body-hugging gray mini dress that contrasted beautifully with the black of your sheer tights and pointed heels. A long leather coat flowed behind you, adding an edge to the soft elegance of your look.

He noticed you casually handing your clutch to a man standing next to you, your fingers brushing against his arm with a brief familiarity. Then, with a slow, effortless movement, you shrugged off your jacket, letting it fall into the man’s hands. Your dress clung to your frame more visibly now, every curve and line accentuated in the soft lighting of the venue.

It was then that someone approached you from behind, efficiently securing a mic pack to the back of your dress and handing you a pair of in-ears. The transition was seamless, as if you had done this a thousand times before. No hesitation, no fuss—just an easy, practiced routine that hinted at your professionalism.

Rúben’s eyes widened as he realized you weren't just here to enjoy the show; you were about to take the stage. His heart skipped a beat, suddenly seeing you in a completely different light. As the tech stepped away, you rolled your shoulders slightly, adjusting the in-ears, and for a brief moment, your gaze seemed to lock on him—just for a heartbeat—and he swore the room tilted. His chest tightened, and he quickly looked away, feeling an odd mix of nerves and admiration rise within him. The casual ease with which you transitioned from guest to artist was captivating.

The lights in the venue dimmed, signaling the start of your surprise appearance, and the crowd began to buzz with excitement. The anticipation was palpable. Rúben could feel the energy shift in the room, every head turning toward the stage, every heartbeat seemingly in sync, waiting for you. He had watched countless performances before, but something about this moment felt different. Special.

The lights dimmed, and the familiar opening chords of your song with Ricardo began to pulse through the venue. The crowd's energy shifted, rising in anticipation. Then, Ricardo’s voice boomed through the speakers, introducing you with reverence, "Manchester, Y/N L/N!"

Rúben swore the crowd broke the sound barrier.

A sea of cheers erupted, vibrating through the air as every spotlight in the venue honed in on the center of the stage, creating a single, glowing path just for you. And then, as if the entire room held its breath, you appeared.

You strutted onto the stage, owning every inch of it, your body moving in perfect rhythm with the beat of the music. The lights danced around you, casting a radiant halo over your silhouette, and with each sway of your hips, you commanded the room. The sensuality of your movements was undeniable—each step deliberate, each shift in your body fluid, and the way the light caught you in motion felt almost like a performance in itself.

You moved like the music was part of you, like you were born for the stage. Every person in that room—Rúben included—was transfixed, lost in the hypnotic allure of your presence. There was something almost electric in the air, as if the entire venue had been waiting for this exact moment, for you.

Rúben couldn’t take his eyes off you. The stage lights flickered across you, illuminating you in soft, warm tones. Your presence on stage was nothing short of mesmerizing. You hadn’t even sung a single note yet, and still, you commanded every inch of the room. The ethereal glow that surrounded you only seemed to amplify under the stage lights, casting you in an almost celestial light.

And then, you began to sing and it sucked all the air out of his lungs.

Your voice was like velvet, rich and smooth, effortlessly drawing everyone in. Rúben’s heart raced as your voice flowed over the crowd, wrapping around him like a spell.

As the performance continued, he found himself unable to tear his gaze away. It wasn’t just the sound of your voice or the way you moved—it was the way you seemed to pour your soul into every note, as if each word held a piece of your story. There was a vulnerability in your performance, something deeply personal that you were sharing with everyone, yet somehow it felt like it was meant just for him.

He knew people talked about your beauty all the time, but seeing you, hearing you live... it was something else entirely.

He’d seen you on TV before, had heard your voice on the radio—who hadn’t? Y/N L/N was a household name, known across the world. There wasn’t a person who hadn’t come across your face on a magazine cover or heard your songs while flipping through stations. You were everywhere, larger than life, a global icon.

Yet seeing you so close, just a few steps away, made everything he thought he knew about you seem small. The screen, the photos—they hadn’t done you any justice. Your presence in the flesh, on that stage, was overwhelming. It wasn’t just your beauty, though that was undeniable—it was the way you held the room, the effortless way you commanded every ounce of attention. You were absolutely magnetic.

As the song reached its final notes, your voice soared effortlessly, filling the room with a richness that could only be appreciated fully in person. The crowd was completely under your spell, swaying with your every word, every beat. The way you moved on stage, so fluid and at ease, made it seem like the music itself was flowing through your veins.

With one final, powerful note, the song ended, and the entire venue erupted into applause and cheers. The sound was deafening. Rúben felt the vibration of it in his chest, as if the entire room had come alive in a collective wave of admiration for you.

Ricardo stepped forward, a broad smile on his face as he raised his microphone, "Give it up one more time for Y/N L/N!” His voice boomed over the crowd, but the audience was already screaming, unable to contain their excitement.

You glowed under the spotlight, gave a small, graceful bow, your smile wide and full of gratitude. You turned to Ricardo, hugging him tightly as he whispered something in your ear that made you laugh. Then you faced the crowd once more, your eyes shining as you lifted your hand to your lips and blew a kiss into the sea of fans.

“Thank you, Manchester!” Your voice rang out, as bright as the lights that framed you. The crowd roared in response, a few people calling out your name. You gave one final wave before stepping off the stage, leaving behind an electric energy that still buzzed in the air, as if the room hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that you were gone.

Rúben remained rooted to his spot, his heart still pounding. He kept his eyes on you as you reached the same side of the stage you had come out from, your figure still glowing from the energy of the performance. You were greeted by a few people waiting in the wings, who embraced you with wide smiles and excited exchanges. There was a warmth in your interactions, something genuine that caught Rúben off guard. Despite your otherworldly presence on stage, you were undeniably human in these small moments—laughing and hugging the crew like they were family.

He watched you brush your hand through your ponytail, still catching your breath from the performance, an easy grace radiating off of you. As you spoke to those around you, your body language was relaxed, your joy contagious, even from afar. Every now and then, you glanced back toward the crowd, waving one last time to the fans still cheering your name.

Rúben’s heart thudded harder in his chest. He had no reason to feel this way—he’d seen celebrities before, met people with immense fame, maybe not your level of fame, but close enough. Yet, something about you lingered with him, even now. You hadn’t just performed; you’d given a piece of yourself to the crowd, and in doing so, had taken a part of him with you. He tried to refocus on Ricardo’s performance, the deep bass of the music vibrating through the floor as the show seemed to be nearing its end. But no matter how hard he concentrated, his attention kept slipping. He couldn’t help it, his eyes kept drifting back to you.

You had settled back in on the side of the stage, casual and composed, your earlier energy from the performance still faintly lingering around you. In your hand, you held a drink that looked like a vodka cranberry, the deep red liquid catching the stage lights just enough to shimmer. You took a slow sip, as if you hadn’t just captivated an entire room minutes before.

Rúben suddenly felt an inexplicable urge to know more about you stirring within him. You were relaxed now, chatting with those around you, completely at ease. It was a stark contrast to the fierce presence you commanded on stage, yet equally captivating. He found himself wondering how you managed to effortlessly switch between those worlds—public and private—without missing a beat.

Rúben shook himself out of it, realizing he was staring. He chuckled softly, embarrassed at how easily he had been captivated by your presence. But then again, who wouldn’t be? This was Y/N L/N—the woman who made headlines just by walking down the street, who set trends without trying. He was just one person among many who couldn’t help but be drawn in by your charm.

As Rúben's eyes wandered over to you again, he noticed someone else—a familiar face standing beside you. It took him a second to place her, but then he remembered: it was Ricardo’s girlfriend, the one he’d met backstage for a brief moment. You were both laughing together, exchanging a few words between songs, your heads leaning in close as if sharing a private joke.

You both looked like you were having a great time, completely at ease in each other’s company. It was clear that you two were friends, and your bond seemed natural, like you’d known each other for years. Rúben watched as you sang along to another track. The sight of you two together like this made you seem that much more grounded, more human. You weren't just the unattainable star everyone knew; you were someone with friendships, someone who could relax and enjoy a night out like anyone else. It made you even more fascinating to him, seeing this side of you—the side that was rarely captured by the media.

As Rúben leaned against the side railing, letting the music thrum in the background, he caught a whisper from the group of people standing nearby.

“She really killed it tonight,” one of them said, admiration thick in their tone, "But honestly, she always does.”

“Yeah, but this one felt different, right? Like she was putting everything out there,” another added, their eyes following your movements, "She’s been through a lot lately.”

Rúben’s brow furrowed slightly. He knew the press had a habit of magnifying every part of your life, but he hadn’t paid close attention to the specifics. Now, hearing those words—"she’s been through a lot"—he felt a strange, protective instinct rise within him.

He let his eyes drift back to you. You were laughing now, tipping your head back as you clinked glasses with someone beside you. The media only ever showed pieces of you— the glamorous parts, the scandalous headlines. But standing here, watching you from the edge of the room, Rúben felt like he was seeing something more—something the world didn’t often get to witness.

As the final song echoed through the venue and Ricardo’s deep, melodic voice faded out, the crowd erupted into cheers. The energy in the room was electric, a palpable buzz of excitement from a performance that had exceeded expectations. Rúben glanced toward the side stage, where the crew was already preparing to draw the curtains. Ricardo and his band gave a wave and bow to the crowd as the curtains reached the bottom. His face lit up with a satisfied smile, before turning and heading offstage. Rúben could see him immediately spot his girlfriend and you, who were still standing on the opposite side, clearly enjoying the show until the very last moment.

Without hesitation, Ricardo made his way toward both of you, his pace relaxed but purposeful. He enveloped his girlfriend in a warm hug, exchanging a few quiet words with her, before turning to you with an easy grin. You greeted him with the kind of familiarity that spoke of years of friendship, giving him a playful punch on the arm before you all broke into laughter. Rúben couldn’t hear what you were saying, but the vibe between you was unmistakable—comfortable, close, and full of genuine affection.

As the stage crew dismantled equipment and the audience slowly filtered out of the venue, Ricardo motioned for you and his girlfriend to follow him backstage, clearly intent on keeping the night going. It seemed like an after-party of sorts was about to unfold, something more intimate, away from the chaos of the concert.

Rúben watched as the three of you disappeared behind the curtain, a small group of your close friends and team trailing behind. For a moment, he debated whether he should just head home, let the night end on a high note, but before he could decide, the same crew member who came to get him, appeared at his side.

"Yo, Ricardo wanted to make sure you come back and join us," the guy said with a friendly grin, "We’re all hanging out backstage for a bit, nothing too wild."

Rúben hesitated for just a second, but the idea of spending more time in that laid-back, off-the-clock vibe felt too good to pass up. He nodded, offering a quick smile, "Yeah, I’m in."

With that, he followed the crew member through the maze of corridors that led to the backstage lounge area. The atmosphere back there was completely different from the buzzing concert crowd outside. It was more intimate, the lights softer, and there was a relaxed, celebratory vibe in the air.

When he entered the lounge, Ricardo was already there with his arm slung casually around his girlfriend, deep in conversation with you, who was laughing at something one of their friends had said. Drinks were being passed around, and there was music playing at a low volume, enough to keep the energy up but not overpowering the conversation.

Rúben caught Ricardo’s eye as he stepped in, and the singer immediately waved him over, "Rúben, man! Glad you made it," he called out, his voice full of warmth.

As Rúben joined the group, he suddenly found himself standing just a few feet from you. Up close, you were even more striking, your smile infectious as you bantered effortlessly with the people around you. For the first time that night, Rúben felt a flicker of nerves.

You glanced over at him, your eyes bright and curious. For a second, your gazes locked, and though it was brief, it was enough to feel the weight of your presence, how naturally you commanded attention even when you weren't trying to.

"Looks like we’ve got the whole crew here now," Ricardo said with a grin, clearly in good spirits as the group gathered closer, "Let’s keep the night going!"

As Rúben settled into the relaxed atmosphere of the backstage gathering, someone from the crew handed him a drink. He accepted it with a polite nod but quickly swapped it out for a glass of water garnished with a lime wedge instead, not really in the mood for alcohol. He took in a small sip, and glanced around at everyone mingling.

Despite all the movement around him, Rúben’s gaze kept flickering back to you, yet again. You were still deep in conversation with Ricardo’s girlfriend, your laughter filling the air every now and then. You looked so at ease, your eyes lighting up as you talked, you drink in hand as you leaned in closer to hear what someone was saying. He couldn’t help but be drawn to you again and again, fascinated by your energy and the way you seemed to move through the space like you belonged there, without trying to demand the attention that naturally gravitated toward you.

Rúben was mid-sip, his gaze once again flicking over to you, when he felt a presence beside him. He turned slightly and saw Ricardo approach with an easy smile on his face.

“Did you enjoy the show?” Ricardo asked, leaning against the small table nearby, his tone casual but friendly.

Rúben smiled, lowering his glass, "Yeah, man, it was incredible. You killed it out there,” he said honestly, "Your energy, the way you had the crowd—it was on another level.

Ricardo chuckled, nodding appreciatively, "Glad you had a good time. It was one of those nights where everything just felt right, you know?” He glanced around the room before looking back at Rúben, noticing how his eyes had flicked back to you a couple of times. With a knowing grin, he added, “Looks like you’ve got your attention elsewhere, though.”

Rúben blinked, caught a little off guard, but laughed it off with a shrug, "Nah, I was just… taking it all in,” he said, trying to play it cool.

Ricardo smirked, his eyes sparkling with amusement, "Taking it all in, huh? Sure.” He didn’t push it further, but there was a playful edge to his voice, "You know, Y/N’s good people. A lot more chill than the headlines make her out to be.”

Rúben’s brow lifted slightly, intrigued, "I’ve heard that,” he admitted, glancing over at you again, "But it’s different seeing her in person.”

Ricardo nodded, clearly understanding, "Yeah, I get that. She’s like family, honestly. Been through a lot, but she’s one of the real ones.” He gave Rúben a pat on the shoulder before straightening up, "Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you had a good time tonight. Stick around—we’re keeping it low-key, but there’s plenty of time to relax.”

Rúben smiled, feeling the genuine warmth from Ricardo, "Thanks, man. I’m glad I came out tonight.” The energy of the evening still buzzed in his veins, not just from the music but from witnessing something unforgettable. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, to be so pulled in by someone he’d only known through screens and sounds. There was a weight to the night that he hadn’t anticipated—a sense that something was shifting, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Ricardo noticed Rúben’s glances toward you once more and couldn’t help but grin. He nudged him slightly with a knowing look, "Want me to introduce you to her?”

Rúben’s heart skipped a beat, but he quickly masked it with a chuckle, shaking his head, "I don’t know, man. She’s probably busy… and it’s Y/N L/N,” he added under his breath. There was no hiding the fact that he was nervous. The truth was, you had been his first real celebrity crush when he was 15. Your posters had lined his cousins’ walls; you were someone he thought was completely untouchable. And now, he was standing in the same room, and Ricardo was offering an introduction like it was nothing.

Ricardo wasn’t having it, "Come on, she’s cool. Trust me,” he said with a mischievous glint in his eye. Before Rúben could protest further, Ricardo was already leading him toward her.

You were mid-conversation with Ricardo’s girlfriend, laughing at something she had just said, when they approached. Ricardo smoothly interrupted, "Y/N, this is my friend Rúben. Thought you two should meet.”

As you turned to face him, Rúben felt like the world paused for a moment. His breath hitched, his nerves immediately heightening as he took in the sight of you up close. He had seen you in magazines, on posters, in music videos — but none of that compared to this. Your beauty was effortless, natural, and completely disarming. It was in the way you smiled, the way your eyes sparkled with a warmth he wasn’t prepared for. His heart raced, and suddenly the room felt smaller, like there was just the two of you in it.

You extended your hand toward him, a friendly smile gracing your lips. “Hi, nice to meet you,” you said, your voice soft but confident, a blend of casualness and elegance that made his stomach flip.

As soon as Rúben’s hand touched yours, he felt a jolt rush through him. It was like electricity, a strange combination of excitement and disbelief that left his skin tingling. He forced himself to keep his grip firm but gentle, trying to steady his nerves, "Nice to meet you too,” he replied, keeping his cool despite the fact that he could hardly believe this was happening.

Before the conversation could go any further, Ricardo’s girlfriend tapped him on the arm, "Babe, we should go say hi to the event organizers,” she said.

Ricardo nodded, but not before throwing a glance at Rúben, "You two chat,” he said casually, "We’ll be back in a bit.”

Rúben shot him a look, knowing full well Ricardo was leaving them alone on purpose. As they walked off, he turned back to you, trying not to feel the weight of the moment.

“So…” Rúben began, “have you known Ricardo long?”

“Yeah, for a few years now,” you said with a smile, "I actually met him through Frank Ocean.”

Rúben’s eyes widened, "You know Frank Ocean?! What am I even asking? Of course you do.” He let out a laugh, shaking his head, "I’m a huge Frank fan.”

Your smile deepened, clearly pleased by his reaction, "Same here. His music is unreal, right? He’s one of the most genuine, talented people I’ve ever met. We became friends through some mutual contacts.”

“That’s incredible,” Rúben said, still slightly in awe, "Frank’s music—it just hits differently. He’s one of those artists who makes you stop and actually feel everything. It’s like each song pulls you into his world.”

He watched as you nodded, your eyes lighting up as you leaned in slightly, "Exactly. That’s why I love his work so much. It’s personal, raw, and makes you reflect in ways you didn’t expect.”

Rúben couldn’t help but smile, feeling more comfortable as your conversation flowed, "I’ve always admired people like that—artists who are unapologetically themselves and let their music speak for them.”

“Totally,” you agreed, "And I think that’s why Ricky and I became such good friends. We have similar vibes, and he’s always surrounded by people who are real, you know? It’s rare in this industry.”

Rúben nodded, his nerves fading as you two continued to talk. It wasn’t long before he realized that you were every bit as down-to-earth and genuine as Ricardo had said, and the more you talked, the more you seemed to connect.

As the conversation flowed, you looked at Rúben with genuine curiosity, "So, how do you know Ricardo?”

Rúben chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, "Funny enough, this is actually my first time meeting him in person. I messaged him online, told him I was a big fan of his music. And then he invited me to this show.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a teasing smile, "He just invited you like that? Because you’re a fan? What are you not telling me?” you teased, playfully narrowing your eyes, "Are you in the music industry here in England or something?”

Rúben grinned, playing along with your teasing tone, "No, no, not in the music industry. Though that would be kind of cool. Maybe I went into the wrong line of work,” he joked, keeping his response light and vague.

You laughed, clearly intrigued by his answer but not pushing any further, "Well, whatever line of work you’re in, it must be pretty interesting if Ricardo thought of inviting you out.”

Rúben smiled, relieved that you hadn’t pressed him on it, though he could tell from your expression that you were still curious, "Let’s just say it’s different. Maybe I’ll tell you more about it later,” he said, keeping the mystery alive.

You chuckled, shaking your head, "Alright, I’ll hold you to that. But you’re definitely keeping me guessing now.”

As you talked, Rúben noticed your glass was nearly empty. Trying to keep the conversation going, he offered casually, “Need a refill? I can grab one for you.”

Just as you smiled and were about to answer, a tall, well-built man appeared by your side, handing you a fresh drink, "Here you go,” the man said in a low, protective voice, before adding, “You good? Ready to head out soon?”

Rúben’s chest tightened for a second, his mind jumping to conclusions. The man seemed to move with the kind of ease and familiarity that made Rúben think, that’s got to be her boyfriend. He tried to play it cool, but a small wave of disappointment washed over him. He remembered hearing about your breakup a few months ago with your on-and-off boyfriend—not that he’d ever admit to following celebrity gossip.

He watched as you thanked the man with a quick nod and turned back to Rúben, "Not yet,” you said, glancing at the man with a casual smile before shifting your attention back to the conversation, "He’s just making sure I don’t wander off or get caught up in the crowd.”

Rúben blinked, realization settling in—oh, that’s her bodyguard, not her boyfriend. He chuckled internally at his own assumption, feeling a sense of relief he wouldn’t dare admit. Trying to keep things smooth, he nodded with a smile, “It’s good to have someone looking out for you in a crowd like this.”

For a moment, Rúben noticed a shift in your expression. Your eyes grew distant, your smile faltering just slightly as you quietly said, "I have to." It was almost as if you were caught up in a thought that pulled you away from the present, something more serious than your lighthearted conversation.

Rúben opened his mouth to say something, unsure of how to respond to that fleeting moment of vulnerability, but before he could, you seemed to snap yourself out of it. Your usual warmth and energy returned, and you smiled again, continuing your conversation as if nothing had happened.

“So,” you said, your tone light again, “you were saying something about going into the wrong line of work? What do you actually do?”

Rúben felt the moment pass but couldn’t shake the brief glimpse of something deeper behind your smile. He pushed the thought aside for now, leaning into the conversation, "Ah, well, let’s just say it’s nothing as exciting as music,” he replied, keeping the mystery alive with a grin.

You laughed, shaking your head, "Wow, you’re really not gonna tell me, huh?” You gave him a playful look, your smile teasing, "This isn’t fair—you know what I do!”

Rúben chuckled, feeling the playful tension between them, "Alright, alright, I’ll give you that,” he said, trying to keep things light, "But I feel like I have to keep a little mystery, right? Besides, if I just told you, where’s the fun in that?”

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms with an amused grin, "Oh, I see how it is. So you’re one of those guys, huh? All mysterious, keeping secrets,” you teased, your voice full of mock seriousness, "I bet you think it makes you more interesting.”

Rúben chuckled, shaking his head, "Maybe, a little mystery doesn’t hurt anybody,” he said, his eyes gleaming with humor, "Besides, it’s not going to be a secret forever... just for now.”

You leaned in slightly, closing the distance between you two, "For now? So you’re saying there’s a chance I’ll crack the code eventually?”

He tilted his head, unable to keep the smile off his face as he met your gaze, "Maybe. Depends on how curious you are.”

Your laugh was light, the kind that came from genuine enjoyment of the banter between you, "Oh, I’m very curious. You’ve made sure of that.” You playfully bumped his arm, and the tension between you shifted from lighthearted to something a bit more electric. There was a pull now, one that neither of you seemed inclined to break.

Rúben’s smile softened, the playful glint in his eyes still there but mixed with something else, "Good,” he said quietly, his voice lower now, "I think I like that.” He laughed, the banter between you flowing easily, but he could tell you were still curious. He liked the back-and-forth, and there was something fun about holding back just enough to keep you guessing.

He watched as you suddenly shifted, your tone apologetic, "I’m so sorry, but my feet are killing me," you said with a slight laugh, glancing down at your heels.

Rúben’s gaze followed instinctively, skimming down your long, elegant legs before landing on the heels that looked more fashionable than comfortable. He quickly composed himself, snapping his attention back up to your face, feeling a little embarrassed for having let his eyes linger.

You smiled, seemingly unaware of his momentary lapse, "I really want to keep talking to you, but can we take a seat over there?” you gestured toward a cozy seating area in the corner.

Rúben grinned, grateful for the more relaxed setting, "Of course,” he said, motioning for you to lead the way. As you made your way toward the seats, he couldn’t help but be impressed by how effortlessly you moved through the room, even while navigating uncomfortable shoes and a full conversation.

He also couldn’t help but notice two of your bodyguards discreetly following along, maintaining a close but respectful distance. Their presence was subtle, but it was clear that they were always watching, always making sure you were safe. He realized that, for someone like you, this was just a part of your everyday life—never being fully alone, always having someone keeping an eye out.

When you both reached the seating area, you gracefully settled into one of the plush chairs, letting out a small sigh of relief as you sat down for the first time in hours today.

Rúben took the seat beside you, glancing briefly at the bodyguards before turning his attention back to you, "Better?” he asked with a smile, keeping the mood light despite the ever-present security nearby.

“Much better,” you replied, your smile warm and genuine, "Thanks for not judging me for needing a break. These shoes were definitely not made for standing all night.”

Rúben chuckled, "No judgment here. You’re handling it better than most would.” He leaned back in his seat, finding himself more at ease as you settled into the quieter corner of the room.

You glanced over at your bodyguard, Eric, and motioned toward him, "Eric, can you get my friend Rúben here a drink, please?” you asked with a smile, noticing his glass was nearly empty.

You turned back to Rúben, and eyed his drink, "Gin?”

Rúben laughed softly and shook his head, "Oh, no, that’s okay. It’s actually just water.”

You smiled, clearly amused, "Water it is, then.” You leaned back in your chair, looking relaxed as Eric nodded and moved off to grab another drink, "Keeping it light tonight, huh?”

Rúben grinned, "Yeah, trying to keep it simple.”

You chuckled softly, clearly appreciating his easygoing approach, "I admire that. Most people wouldn’t say no to a drink, especially at an event like this."

Rúben shrugged, his smile easy, "I guess I’ve learned to pace myself. Especially when I’ve got a long day ahead tomorrow."

You raised an eyebrow, your curiosity piquing again, "You’ve really got me wondering what it is you do that’s got you thinking about tomorrow already."

Rúben smiled, his expression softening as he looked at you, "I guess I just prefer to let things unfold naturally,” he replied, his tone warm but playful, "Besides, the focus is on tonight, right? We’ll get to that part when it’s time.”

There was something about the way he said it—casual, but with an underlying confidence—that made you feel like you didn’t need all the answers just yet.

You laughed, leaning in a bit closer, "Alright, fine. I’ll play along for now. But, like I said, don’t think I won’t get it out of you eventually," you said, your tone playful but determined.

Rúben grinned, feeling more relaxed now that the conversation had found its rhythm, "I’m sure you will.”

You shot him a curious look, then changed the subject, "So, what did you think of the concert?"

"It was amazing," Rúben replied, nodding, "I’ve been a fan for a while, but this was next level. He has such a presence on stage—way different than just listening to his tracks."

You nodded in agreement, "Exactly. It’s like he brings something extra when he performs live. I’ve seen him a few times now, and it never gets old."

Rúben smiled, appreciating how easily the conversation was flowing between you, "It was my first time seeing you live too."

The comment caught you slightly off guard, but you couldn’t help but smile, "Oh yeah? What did you think?” You asked, leaning in a little, genuinely curious about his thoughts.

Rúben hesitated for a moment, not wanting to sound too over the top, but the truth was, the performance had left a lasting impression on him, "It was... incredible,” he said, meeting your eyes, "You have this presence on stage, like you’re giving a piece of yourself in every note. It’s something you don’t forget.”

Your smile deepened at his sincerity, warmth flooding your chest, "Thank you,” you said softly, genuinely touched by his words, "I’m glad you got to see it live, then. It means a lot when people get what I’m trying to put out there."

He gave you a quick smile. Eric returned with Rúben’s water, handing it to him with a nod before stepping back to his spot. Rúben took a sip, and you looked at him, your expression thoughtful, as if you were about to say something deeper. Instead, you smiled again, keeping things light, "So, what else do you do for fun, besides keeping secrets and attending concerts?" you teased.

Rúben laughed, feeling more comfortable than he had expected to, "Well, I do enjoy concerts when I can make it out to them. And keeping secrets? That’s just an added skill."

Your laugh was infectious, and you shook your head, "You’re a hard one to crack, Rúben."

Rúben couldn’t help but feel a rush of warmth at the sound of your laughter, like he had unlocked something special. The way your eyes lit up made him feel like he’d done something right, like maybe he was getting closer to you without even trying.

“To answer your question though, I like to stay active—running, hiking, anything that keeps me moving. But I also enjoy downtime with friends, whether it's playing card games or just hanging out, nothing too crazy. And when I get the chance, I love reading or catching up on a good film—helps clear my mind."

You leaned back in your seat, still smiling, but with a slightly more thoughtful expression now. “Well, I guess it’s good that you have hobbies outside of work. I feel like I’m always on the go. Between filming, recording, meetings… sometimes I forget what downtime even feels like.”

Rúben nodded, his smile softening. “I can imagine. You must have a pretty packed schedule.”

You chuckled lightly, “Yeah, it’s been nonstop lately. I barely have time for myself, let alone for stuff like this—just sitting, having a conversation, and not worrying about what comes next. It’s nice, though.”

He smiled as he took another sip of water, "I bet this venue is a change of pace for you?”

You tilted your head, your eyes narrowing slightly in curiosity, "What do you mean?”

“Well,” he said, setting his glass down, “you’re used to playing for huge crowds, no?”

A knowing smile crossed your face as you caught his meaning, "Ah. Yes, this is a little different, more intimate.” You leaned back in your seat, your expression softening as you reminisced, "I actually started my career playing venues like these. Small venues, little shows here and there. It seems like so long ago—my goodness.”

Rúben could see the nostalgia in your eyes, as if you were momentarily transported back to those early days of your career, "And how does it compare? The small venues versus the massive stadiums?”

You smiled, your eyes lighting up, "There’s no better feeling than the rush from performing, no matter the size of the venue. The energy from a massive crowd is incredible, but there’s something special about a smaller space. You can see everyone’s faces, feel their energy in a more personal way.”

Rúben nodded, understanding the appeal, "I can imagine. Must be surreal to have that kind of connection with your fans.”

“Yeah, it is,” you replied, your voice softening, "It reminds me why I started all of this in the first place. It’s easy to get caught up in the craziness, but those moments… they bring you back.”

Rúben smiled, appreciating how genuine you were, "Sounds like you’ve managed to stay grounded through it all."

You nodded, your expression thoughtful, "I try. But it helps when you have the right people around you."

“How are you liking Manchester? Are you just visiting?” Rúben asked, curious.

“I really like it,” you said, your eyes brightening a bit, "It’s different from what I’m used to—people are friendlier than I expected, and the vibe here is nice. It’s a bit more laid-back than the usual chaos of my life in LA or New York.” You smiled, "And no, I’m actually here for the next year—I’m filming a movie.”

Rúben raised his eyebrows in surprise, "A whole year? That’s exciting. What’s the movie about?”

You chuckled softly, leaning back, "Can’t give too much away just yet, but it’s a drama—something really close to my heart. It’s been intense, but I’m excited to be staying here for a while.”

Rúben grinned, leaning back in his chair, "Seems like we’re both keeping secrets, then.”

Your eyes sparkling with amusement, "I guess we are. Maybe we’ll have to trade secrets at some point.”

Rúben nodded, smirking, “Maybe. But for now, I think it’s more fun to keep the mystery going.”

You raise your glass playfully, "To secrets, then.”

Rúben clinked his glass with yours, "To secrets.”

You tilted your head, looking at him curiously, "How about you? You from around here? Your accent doesn’t sound like you are, but I can’t quite place it."

Rúben smiled, leaning in a little, "Good catch. No, I’m not from here—I’m Portuguese, actually."

Your eyes lit up with recognition, "Ah, that makes sense now! I knew it wasn’t an English accent. Portugal, huh? I loved my time in Lisbon. How long have you been here?"

Rúben shrugged lightly, "A couple of years now. Manchester’s become a bit of a second home, even if it’s very different from where I grew up—just outside of Lisbon, actually."

You nodded, your smile warm and understanding, "I can see why it would. Manchester has its own charm, doesn’t it? Maybe not the same sunshine as Lisbon, but there’s something about it that makes it feel like home after a while."

Rúben glanced around, the familiarity of the city settling over him, "Yeah, it grows on you," he admitted, "Even the rain."

You laughed softly, shaking your head, "I can imagine. I feel like I’ve barely seen the sun since I got here." you took a sip of your drink and leaned in slightly, your tone a little more curious now, "So what brought you here in the first place?"

Rúben hesitated for a moment, the familiar question hanging in the air, but he kept things light, "Work, mostly. I got an opportunity that I couldn’t turn down, so here I am."

You raised an eyebrow playfully, "You’re impossible."

Rúben grinned, enjoying the back-and-forth between the two of you, "I guess I am. It’s more fun this way—for me—at least.”

You let it go and instead say, “It’s funny how different places can feel like home, even when they’re not where you’re originally from."

Rúben glanced at you, sensing the depth in your words, "Exactly. It’s more about the people you’re surrounded by than the place itself, I think."

You smiled, your eyes reflecting that same thought, "You’re right. The people make all the difference." There was a brief pause before you added, “I’ve been lucky to meet some good people here already. Makes the whole being-away-from-home thing a lot easier.”

Rúben nodded, feeling the connection deepen between them, "Sounds like Manchester’s already making a good impression on you."

Your smile softened, "Yeah, it really is. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about staying here for so long, but the city’s kind of growing on me."

Ruben glanced at you, appreciating how genuine you were, "It’s funny how that works. Sometimes you don’t expect a place to feel like home until you really settle in, and suddenly it just clicks."

You took another sip of your drink, your eyes drifting to the crowd of Ricardo’s friends and team before you turned back to him, "So, what do you do when you’re not busy with this mysterious job of yours? Any favorite spots in the city?

Rúben chuckled, feeling the playful tension between you lighten again, "I’m pretty low-key. I like going for runs, exploring the quieter parts of the city when I can. There’s this park I go to, Fletcher Moss—it’s one of my favorite places to clear my head."

Your face lit up with interest, "That sounds nice! I love finding those hidden gems in new cities. Maybe you’ll have to show me around sometime."

Rúben’s heart skipped a beat, but he managed to play it cool, "I’d be happy to. There’s a lot of spots you’d probably like—depends on what you’re into."

You leaned forward slightly, your gaze locking with his, the connection deepening with every word. “I’m into a lot of things. But I’m always up for discovering something new.”

Rúben felt a spark of something more as he grinned, “Well, looks like you’ve got yourself a tour guide then.”

The conversation flowed easily between you, but after a while, Rúben excused himself with a smile. “I’ll be right back, just need to use the toilet.”

You nodded, watching him go with a curious smile. Taking a sip of your drink, you found yourself wondering who exactly Rúben was. Something about his easy charm and the way he’d dodged certain questions intrigued you. He seemed grounded—refreshingly so—but also slightly mysterious.

On his way back, as Rúben navigated through the crowd, someone stopped him. A man in his mid-30s approached, clearly excited but respectful. “Rúben, sorry to bother you, but… could I get your autograph? I’ve been following your career for a while. It would mean a lot.”

Rúben’s voice was quiet but kind as he quickly signed the fan’s hat. “Yeah, of course. Thanks for the support.”

As he looked up, he noticed you watching from your table, amusement and curiosity flickering across your face.

When he returned and sat down, you didn’t hesitate. Leaning in slightly, your eyes twinkled. “Alright, what was that about? You’ve officially lost your mystery card.” You laughed softly. “So, are you going to tell me now, or do I have to Google you?”

Rúben scratched the back of his neck, a bit shy under your playful scrutiny. “Well, looks like I can’t keep that secret anymore.” He smiled sheepishly. “You got me—I play football… or soccer, as you call it in the States.”

Your eyes widened, genuine curiosity in your expression. “Now I’m really curious—who do you play for?”

Rúben chuckled softly, realizing his attempt to keep things low-key had failed. “I play for Manchester City.”

You nodded slowly, taking it in, even though football wasn’t your world. But you didn’t downplay it. “Manchester City, huh? I think I’ve seen billboards of you guys around town… and I might’ve passed by where you play… something with an E, right?” You paused, trying to remember the name.

“Etihad Stadium,” Rúben said, amused by your effort.

“That’s it! I’ve definitely driven past it on my way to set,” you said with a smile. “I’ve seen the billboards, too.”

Despite not following the sport, you didn’t brush off his career, which Rúben appreciated. Your curiosity and respect were clear. “That’s pretty amazing. I know soccer’s huge here.”

Rúben leaned back, feeling more relaxed now that the truth was out. “It’s been a good journey so far.” He grinned. “I was having fun trying to keep you guessing.”

You smiled, your eyes playful. “Well, I’m glad you finally told me..” You teased him lightly. “But now I feel like I owe you an apology for all the games I haven’t been paying attention to since being here for the past month.”

Rúben laughed, the tension easing. “I think I can let that slide.”

There was a pause, and then you tilted your head, a grin tugging at your lips. “So… are you any good?”

He chuckled, downplaying it. “I get by.”

“Just ‘get by’?” You raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying his modesty. Grabbing your phone, you began typing with a smirk. “What’d you say your last name was?”

“I didn’t. It’s Dias—with an S,” he answered, trying not to laugh at your persistence.

A few seconds passed as you scanned the screen, and when you looked up, disbelief flashed in your eyes. “I don’t know what any of these awards mean,” you began, laughing, “but it says here you’re ‘one of the best defenders in the world.’”

Rúben couldn’t help but laugh, though he was visibly embarrassed. “I wouldn’t say all that,” he replied, his modesty endearing.

Reading aloud from your phone, you continued with a playful smirk. “‘Known for his tactical intelligence and physical presence… multiple titles with Manchester City… Defender of the Year.’” You leaned in, teasing him. “You’ve been holding out on me, Rúben.”

He rubbed the back of his neck again, his smile sheepish. “Yeah, well… I didn’t want to come off as full of myself.”

Your smile softened, clearly impressed but maintaining the light tone between you. “I get it. But that’s pretty amazing. You’re out here acting like it’s no big deal, and meanwhile, people are calling you one of the best in the world.” You crossed your arms, grinning. “You just went from mysterious to impressive real quick.”

Rúben laughed, feeling comfortable again. “Thanks, but honestly, I’m just trying to keep things normal. It’s all part of the job.”

You nodded, still smiling. “Well, you’re doing a good job of keeping it normal. But now I’m definitely curious about what it’s like being, you know… one of the best defenders in the world.”

Rúben smiled, leaning back a bit. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds. A lot of hard work, a lot of discipline.”

“I can imagine,” you said, your voice softer now, genuinely intrigued. “But playing in front of all those fans… hearing them chant your name… that’s got to feel surreal.”

“It is,” Rúben admitted, his tone thoughtful. “The energy is something else. You don’t hear individual voices—it’s like this wall of sound that hits you. But at the end of the day, it’s about the game… being part of something bigger.”

You smiled at that, clearly drawing a parallel. “It’s like performing on stage, then. You connect with the crowd, but you also lose yourself in the moment.”

Rúben nodded, appreciating the comparison. “Exactly. It’s all about focus. When you’re in that flow, everything else just fades.”

“You make it sound almost meditative,” you said with a smile, your voice thoughtful.

“It kind of is,” Rúben replied, then paused. “But then there’s the other side. The pressure, the expectations… everyone’s got an opinion, and it’s hard to shake that sometimes.”

You understood that feeling all too well. “I get that. The spotlight can make people forget there’s a real person behind it all.”

Rúben nodded, grateful for your understanding. “Exactly. It’s like you’re always ‘on,’ even when you’re not on the pitch.”

“It sounds like we have more in common than I thought,” you said with a smile. “But I’d love to see you play sometime. Maybe now I’ll actually pay attention.”

Rúben grinned. “Well, if you ever come to a match, I’ll try not to disappoint.”

“I have a feeling you won’t,” you teased. “I’ll definitely check out a game now. You know… for research,” you winked.

Rúben chuckled, his voice softening as he replied, “I’d be happy to have you there.”

You sat for a moment, the conversation flowing naturally as you both seemed to relax more into each other’s company. Rúben glanced around, noticing how the crowd at the after-party had thinned out a bit. The buzz of the room had calmed, leaving the both of you in your own little corner, comfortably isolated from the rest of the event.

“So,” you started, your tone becoming a little more curious, “how do you handle it? The pressure? Does it ever get to you?”

Rúben thought for a moment, taking in the question, “It’s tough sometimes,” he admitted, his voice a little quieter, "I try not to let it get to me, but it’s always there—people’s expectations, the media, the fans. You want to do your best, but there are days when it can be a little overwhelming.”

“I get that. It’s kind of the same in my world. You start out just wanting to do what you love, and then suddenly, everyone’s watching, waiting for you to either succeed or fail.” You paused for a moment, your gaze softening, “But I guess you learn to find your balance.”

Rúben smiled, appreciating how easily you understood the weight of it, "Yeah, that’s the key—finding balance. Making sure you have a life outside of it all. I try to keep things as normal as possible, spend time with friends and family, stay grounded.”

A glimmer of admiration flashed in your eyes, “That’s a good way to look at it. It’s hard to remember sometimes, but you can’t let the spotlight define you.”

“Exactly,” Rúben said, nodding, "It’s important to have something outside of football, something that reminds you who you really are. For me, it’s family and friends. What about you? How do you stay grounded?”

Your gaze drifted, deep in thought, “I think it’s the same for me,” you say quietly, "Family, close friends. The people who knew me before all of this happened. They remind me of where I came from and what’s important.” You looked back at him, your smile returning, "And, of course, taking time to do normal things—like having random conversations at after-parties with guys who pretend not to be famous.”

Rúben laughed, "Yeah, well, you’ve got me figured out now.”

“Maybe,” you say, teasingly, your eyes twinkling again, “But I’m still learning.”

Rúben grinned, enjoying the ease of their conversation, "It’s good I’ve still got some mystery left, then.”

You smirked, raising an eyebrow, "It’s also a good thing I’m catching on quickly.” You took another sip of your drink, then set the glass down, leaning in slightly, "It’s funny, isn’t it? No matter how big life gets, we’re all just trying to stay connected to the simple things.”

Rúben nodded, his eyes softening as he spoke, "Exactly. All the attention—it’s great in some ways, but it’s the little moments, the real ones, that matter the most.”

Your smile grew a little more thoughtful, your gaze meeting his, “I think that’s why tonight’s been nice. It’s not about the big scene or the crowds—it’s just… talking.”

Rúben felt a warmth spread through him at your words. There was something about this connection, the easy back-and-forth, that made him forget about everything else.

You felt the same. For the first time in a long time, you weren't the celebrity in the room. You were just Y/N, having a conversation with someone who seemed to genuinely understand you.

“Yeah,” he said quietly, his voice soft but sincere, "It’s been really nice.”

For a moment, the space between you seemed to shrink, the rest of the room fading into the background. There was an unspoken understanding passing between you, something that felt deeper than just casual conversation.

“You’re different from what I expected, you know,” you said, your tone playful but with a hint of something more, "Not that I had much to go on, but still.”

Rúben chuckled, feeling a bit of heat rise to his cheeks, "Different, huh? I’m hoping that’s a good thing.”

You laughed softly, your eyes sparkling, “It is. Definitely a good thing.”

He smiled, feeling a quiet sense of contentment settle over him, "You know, you’re different too. In a good way,” he added, his tone light but genuine.

“Oh yeah? How so?” You asked, tilting your head slightly.

Rúben thought for a moment, then shrugged with a smile, “I guess I expected you to be… I don’t know, larger than life, I suppose. But you’re real. Easy to talk to, grounded. It’s refreshing.”

“Thanks,” you say quietly, “That means a lot.”

Rúben’s words hung in the air, and for a moment, you felt something shift. You had gotten used to people seeing you as an image, a brand, something beyond just a person. Fans and the media only ever saw the version of you on magazine covers, in interviews, or on stage. Larger than life, as Rúben had said. They admired the success, the fame, the polished perfection of it all. But it wasn’t often that someone saw past that, to the reality of who you were.

And yet, here was Rúben, someone who didn’t know you well—at least, not personally—and still, he was trying to see you. The real you. He hadn’t met the version of you that the world idolized, but the one sitting in front of him, sharing casual conversation and laughter. He didn’t treat you like the star everyone else seemed to see, and for the first time in a while, you felt like you weren’t under a microscope.

It was strange, almost liberating, to be with someone who didn’t make your fame the centerpiece of the interaction. He wasn’t in awe of your celebrity or caught up in the glitz of it all. Instead, he seemed intrigued by the person behind all of that. And that, more than anything, made you feel a sense of relief—a small but significant reminder that you were more than just a name or a face in the public eye.

Rúben, too, found himself reflecting on the fact that despite knowing you through your fame, sitting here with you felt remarkably natural. It was like the layers of who you were—superstar, singer, performer—had been peeled back, revealing someone far more real, far more grounded than he had expected.

The air between you felt charged, but not in an uncomfortable way. It was like you’d found a rhythm, an understanding that transcended the usual boundaries of your worlds. It was simple, easy, and real.

“I guess we’re both surprising each other tonight,” you said with a playful smile, your voice breaking the silence but keeping the warmth alive.

Rúben smiled, feeling more relaxed than he had all night, “I think that’s a good thing.”

You leaned in, your smile teasing, "So, you’re a fan of Frank and 6lack. Any chance you’re a fan of mine?”

Rúben smiled back, enjoying the playful energy between you, "Yeah, I might’ve seen a few of your music videos.”

That caught you by surprise, especially since your music was so different from the styles of Frank and 6lack. You raised an eyebrow, deciding to play along, "Posters on your wall too?”

He chuckled, shaking his head, "No, but my little cousins definitely had a few. I might’ve appreciated your beauty back then, though. Might have even said you were my celebrity crush when people asked.”

Now that really threw you off. You blinked, a teasing smile slowly forming on your lips, "Really?” you asked, though his words stuck with you, a little more genuine than you expected. He said it so casually, so sincerely. It wasn’t the usual exaggerated fan confession you’d grown used to—this felt different. More real.

As you sat there, you couldn’t help but take him in, noticing not just how calm and grounded he seemed, but how effortlessly handsome he was. Rúben had a quiet magnetism about him. His sharp features—the strong jawline, the slightly tousled dark hair, the way his eyes seemed to hold yours without wavering—made him striking in a way that was hard to ignore. His easy smile softened his intensity, giving him a boyish charm that contrasted with the strength in his build.

He had an athletic frame, broad shoulders that were dead giveaways of his profession, which you probably should have guessed, but there was something about the way he carried himself—relaxed, confident, yet without arrogance—that made him even more attractive. He wasn’t just handsome in the way people usually described. There was a depth to his presence, an authenticity that you hadn’t expected.

You’d realized it the moment you were introduced, but sitting here now, the conversation flowing so naturally, you found yourself noticing even more—how his eyes crinkled slightly when he smiled, how his laugh felt genuine, and how his warmth seemed to come effortlessly. In a world where everything in your life was curated and controlled, Rúben felt like the opposite—completely natural, unaffected by the whirlwind that usually surrounded you.

It wasn’t just his looks that drew you in, though those were undeniable. It was the way he listened, the way he engaged with you, not as the public figure everyone else saw but as someone real. That sincerity made him even more attractive, and you couldn’t help but feel a little flustered by how much he was affecting you.

So, you decided to tease him.

A playful spark lit in your eyes, “Ah, so you don’t appreciate my beauty now?”

For a moment, Rúben froze, completely caught off guard. Oh my God, is she flirting with me? He stammered, “No, I mean yes.”

Your soft giggle only made his flustered state worse, and you leaned in slightly, clearly enjoying his reaction, "Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you nervous.”

Rúben cleared his throat, attempting to regain some composure, "Me? Nervous? Psh, never,” he said, flashing a grin that was a little too playful, though the slight blush on his cheeks betrayed him.

You laughed again, the sound light and genuine, "Sure, whatever you say,” you teased, your eyes twinkling as the tension between you two grew playfully charged.

Rúben shook his head, trying to steady himself, "Okay, maybe a little nervous,” he admitted, still smiling, "But I wasn’t expecting you to just—well, you know—say that.”

Leaning back with a satisfied grin, you crossed your arms, "I like keeping people on their toes. Besides, aren’t you athletes supposed to be cool under pressure?”

Rúben smirked, feeling the energy shift, "On the pitch, yeah. Off the pitch? It’s a little different when you’re sitting next to your teenage celebrity crush.”

Your smile softened, and your eyes sparkled with curiosity and amusement, "Oh, so now I’m just the teenage celebrity crush?”

He laughed, running a hand through his hair, feeling bolder now, "Nah, you’ve held that title pretty well. I just didn’t think I’d ever get the chance to say it to you in person.”

You raised an eyebrow, a sly smile on your lips, "Are you saying I’m still your celebrity crush?”

Your question hit him harder than expected, and for a moment, Rúben felt that familiar nervousness creeping back in. He tried to find the right words without sounding completely flustered, but the teasing glint in your eyes only made him more nervous.

“Well,” he began, a little sheepishly, “Um, yeah, maybe.”

Your smile widened, clearly enjoying the moment, "Maybe?” you echoed, your tone playful, "You might need to be a little more sure about that, Rúben.”

He laughed, shaking his head, "Okay, fine. Yes,” he admitted, finally giving in, "You’re still my celebrity crush.”

Your laughter rang out softly, and you leaned back in your chair, clearly satisfied, "Good to know," you teased, your eyes sparkling as you met his gaze, "I’ve got to say, that’s pretty flattering."

Rúben felt the tension ease again, the conversation flowing naturally, "Well, you’ve earned it," he said with a grin, "It’s not just anyone who can hold onto that title for so long."

You smiled shyly, butterflies erupting in your stomach, "Thanks."

Rúben laughed, leaning back a little, a blush still on his cheeks “You’re welcome.”

You gave him a playful look, raising your glass slightly as if to toast, “No, seriously—‘Rúben Dias’s celebrity crush’ completely trumps ‘Grammy Award-winning artist.’ I should update my bio immediately.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, “Oh, yeah, because that’s what people are really interested in.”

You grinned, your eyes twinkling with amusement., “Obviously! Forget the Grammys—this is the real achievement,” you teased, leaning in a bit closer, “I should make a speech.”

Rúben shook his head, laughing softly, "I’d love to hear that one.”

You leaned in, your smile soft but teasing, “Alright, I’m done teasing you about this… for now. Also, for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty cute.”

Rúben blinked, clearly stunned by the compliment. He ran a hand over his face, laughing under his breath, “Oh God, this is not my life. I think I’m going to wake up any moment now.”

You laughed, watching as the cool, confident man you’d first met seemed to disappear, replaced by someone more flustered, more genuine. It was endearing, seeing him like this—unprepared, caught off guard. You couldn’t help but smile, watching the way he fumbled with his thoughts, clearly trying to process everything. There was something incredibly charming about seeing this side of him—the one that wasn’t perfectly composed or poised like he probably was on the field.

“You’re seriously doubting this is real?” you tease, still grinning, "What, you don’t usually get compliments? I’m sure your DMs are full.”

Rúben shook his head, a playful look in his eyes now, "I mean, maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’m not caught off guard by compliments from someone like you.”

You raised an eyebrow, "Someone like me? Elaborate.”

He shrugged, his grin widening a bit, "You know… a global superstar, my celebrity crush, and apparently someone who thinks I’m cute.”

You laughed again, feeling the playful tension between you both rising, "Well, get used to it,” you replied with a wink, "You’re in my orbit now.”

Rúben shook his head again, still smiling but his voice softened slightly, "You have no idea how surreal this feels.”

You feel warmth spread through you again, but this time it wasn’t from the teasing or the banter. There was sincerity in his voice that caught you off guard, "Well,” you said softly, “I’m glad you’re here.”

For a moment, the teasing disappeared, replaced by something more real, something that made the connection between you both feel deeper. The air between you felt a little heavier, but in the best way, like you were both beginning to see each other clearly for the first time. You both sat in the comfortable silence that followed, the shared understanding between you deepening. Rúben could feel the connection growing, something more than just casual conversation or playful teasing.

“I’ve got to say,” you finally said, breaking the silence with a smile, “I’m glad Ricardo left us alone to talk. It’s been… fun.”

Rúben smiled back, feeling the same way, "Yeah, it has.”

He leaned back in his chair, letting the comfortable silence settle between you for another moment. He couldn’t help but feel how unexpectedly natural this all felt—talking to you, connecting over things beyond the surface. He hadn’t expected to feel so at ease with you, but there it was, undeniable.

“I guess we have to thank Ricardo for that,” he said with a small grin, "He knew what he was doing.”

You laughed softly, nodding, “Yeah, he’s sneaky like that. But in a good way.” You glanced around the room, "It’s kind of funny. I wasn’t even planning on staying this long, but…” You trailed off, your eyes meeting his again, "I’m glad I did.”

Rúben’s heart gave a slight jump at the way you said it, the openness in your voice, "Yeah, me too,” he said, his tone sincere.

Leaning in just a bit closer, your gaze lingering on his, you began, your voice quiet but playful “You know, I’ve spent all night figuring you out, but I still feel like there’s more to uncover.”

Rúben chuckled, feeling the subtle shift in the air between you, "I’m not that mysterious,” he said with a grin, though he knew you weren’t entirely wrong.

You smiled, tilting your head slightly, “Maybe not, but there’s definitely more to you than meets the eye.” you paused, then added with a teasing glint in your eyes, “And I don’t mean just on the field.”

Rúben laughed, shaking his head, "I’m starting to think you’re the one with all the layers.”

“You’re definitely right about that,” you said, your voice soft now, "I do have a few layers left myself.”

In this moment, as your eyes met his, you felt a familiar tug in your chest—a reminder of the walls you’d built over the years, the barriers fame had forced you to put in place. The persona the world saw, the carefully crafted version of you, had become second nature. It was protection, keeping people at a distance, even when they thought they were close. But here, sitting across from Rúben, with his easy smile and genuine warmth, you could feel those walls wavering, just a little.

It had always been easier to let people see what they wanted to see—the superstar, the performer. Not many had the patience or desire to dig deeper, to find the layers you’d hidden beneath the surface. And for the longest time, you were okay with that. Fame came with its own set of rules, its own boundaries, and you followed them.

But now, as Rúben leaned in slightly, his eyes filled with curiosity and something more, you wondered if maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let someone in. Even just a little. He didn’t seem intimidated by the version of you that everyone else saw. Instead, he was looking for something beyond it, and the way he said, "I think I’m up for the challenge," made you feel like maybe—just maybe—he could be.

Your smile softened as you met his gaze, feeling that unspoken connection settle between you. “I guess we’ll see,” you said quietly, the words holding more weight than just a playful response. Because a part of you wondered if you were ready to let someone like Rúben peel back those layers you’d kept hidden for so long.

Just as the moment between you deepened, your bodyguard, Eric, reappeared at your side. His presence was calm but firm, and he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only you could hear, "Hey, sorry to interrupt, but we should probably head out soon. There’s a lot of paps waiting outside.”

You sighed softly, the weight of your public life settling in again. You glanced up at Eric, then back at Rúben with a small, apologetic smile, "I guess that’s my cue.”

Rúben nodded, understanding, "Yeah, I figured you’d have a bit of a crowd waiting for you.”

You stood up slowly, adjusting your jacket, "I knew it was too good to last,” you said lightly, though there was a hint of reluctance in your voice, "It was nice having a little break from all that, though.”

Rúben stood up too, his smile warm, "I get it. You’ve got to do what you’ve got to do.” He hesitated for a moment, not wanting the night to end just yet, "But I’ve really enjoyed tonight. I’m glad Ricardo pulled me over.”

Your eyes softened as you looked at him, "Me too.”

You smiled, and for a brief moment, it felt like there was something unspoken between you, a mutual understanding that this night hadn’t just been a random conversation—it had been the start of something more.

As Eric gave you a gentle nudge toward the exit, you looked back at Rúben one last time, "Goodnight, Rúben.”

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he replied, his voice soft but genuine.

And with that, you turned to leave, your bodyguards following. Rúben stood there for a moment, watching you go, a quiet smile lingering on his face. The night had been unexpected, but as he watched you go, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was just the beginning of something… something real. So, with a sudden rush of boldness surge through him, he decided to act on it. This wasn’t something that happened every day—his celebrity crush not only talking to him but connecting with him on a real level. Before he could overthink it, he called out, “Y/N!”

You stopped mid-step, turning slightly in his direction, your eyes meeting his with a curious look. The noise of the music and conversations, the bustle of the crew, and the buzz of the venue seemed to melt away as you focused on him. The way you tilted your head, your brows lifting slightly in question—it caught him completely off guard.

He didn’t know where this sudden burst of courage came from, but he wasn’t about to back down now. Rúben cleared his throat, taking a step toward you, the words forming before he could second-guess himself.

“Would you like to get dinner sometime?” His voice, though steady, held a slight edge of nervousness, like he was teetering between confidence and uncertainty.

For a split second, surprise flickered across your face. It wasn’t the kind of question you’d been expecting tonight, that much was clear. You blinked, your lips parting as if you weren’t sure what to say. But then, something shifted in your expression, a warmth replacing the initial shock, and you smiled—a real, genuine smile that softened your entire face.

“Dinner?” you asked, the word rolling off your tongue with a hint of amusement. You took a step closer to him, your gaze steady and playful as if considering his offer with more weight than you were letting on. “Are you asking me out on a date, Rúben?”

His heart thudded in his chest, but he managed to keep his voice calm as he replied, “Yeah, I am.”

You paused for a moment, glancing at your bodyguard Eric, who stood a few steps behind you, clearly waiting for a signal. You then looked back at Rúben, your eyes sparkling with a teasing edge. “You know what?” you said, taking another step closer, “I think I’d like that.”

Rúben’s heart skipped a beat. “Really?”

“Really,” you confirmed, your voice softer now, more sincere than playful. “Let’s make it happen.”

As you turned to follow Eric, you threw one last glance over your shoulder, your voice light and teasing. “I’ll have my people reach out to yours.”

Rúben couldn’t help but laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, I’ll keep an eye out for that,” he said, grinning.

You waved a final goodbye, your bodyguard stepping in to guide you through the thinning crowd. Rúben stood there for a moment, watching you disappear into the backstage area, his pulse still racing, his mind still replaying everything that had just happened.

He had actually done it. He had asked you out, and you had said yes. It felt crazy, like something out of a dream.

Before he could process any further, a familiar voice pulled him back to reality. “Yo,” Ricardo called out with a grin, striding over to him. “Looks like you two were hitting it off.”

Rúben chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, something like that.”

Ricardo smirked, clearly catching on. “You asked her out, didn’t you?”

Rúben shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I might have.”

Ricardo let out a low whistle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Damn, man. You’ve got balls. Good for you. I told you she was good people.”

Rúben nodded, still in a bit of a daze. “Yeah, she is.”

Ricardo clapped him on the shoulder, his grin widening. “Well, I guess you’re in now. She’s a lot of fun. Just keep it real with her.”

“I will,” Rúben said, his voice more serious now.

Ricardo gave him a final nod, clearly pleased with how the night had unfolded. “Good luck, man. I’m rooting for you.”

Rúben smiled, feeling a mix of excitement and disbelief wash over him. As Ricardo headed back to join the rest of his crew, Rúben couldn’t help but glance toward the backstage area one last time, his thoughts still on you and the unexpected connection you’d shared tonight.

The night had started as something ordinary—a concert, a chance to unwind—but it had turned into something far more significant. He had no idea what would happen next, but for now, he was content with the knowledge that you’d said yes.

The cool night air greeted him as he stepped out of the venue, the sounds of the city humming softly in the background. Rúben walked toward his car, his mind still buzzing with the events of the evening, the thought of seeing you again lingering in the back of his mind.

The drive home was quiet, the streets mostly empty as the city began to settle into the late hours. Rúben’s mind was still replaying the night, the conversation with you, the way you had smiled at him, the promise of seeing you again. He was lost in thought, but it was the kind of thought that made him feel light, almost weightless.

There was something about your beauty—effortless, captivating—that he couldn’t shake. It wasn’t just in the way you looked, but the way you made everything around you seem more alive. Meeting you had stirred something in him, and he knew this was only the beginning.

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rubendias The unexpected connection. Long time listener… special to finally hear it in person! Good to see you bro @.6lack ✊🏼

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6lack family 🙏🏾 🔒

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well, chapter one is all yours! i hope you enjoyed it ◡̈

chapter two should be out soon 🤍

my ask box is always open! (another reminder: i am from California (PDT), so i’m 8 hours behind England so please forgive me if i answer really late 😩

-mars

#ruben dias #ruben dias x reader #ruben dias x y/n #ruben dias x you #stolen moments

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