thedelusionreaderbitch - Tumblr blog

thedelusionreaderbitch · 4 days ago

Text

change in perspective.

you never thought jamie tartt could be anything but a prick.

a/n: i have no explanation for this other than i just finished ted lasso (fashionably late as always) and this man makes me giggle like a little school girl :) (this is also not spellchecked! i'll do it later ;))

pairing: jamie tart x f!assistant coach!reader

“Does someone want to explain to me just what exactly Jamie Tartt is doing out on the field?”

All three coaches turn to you at the sound of your voice, but it’s Ted’s eyes that light up the second he registers your presence. A smile curls onto his lips as he turns to face you, posture nonchalant with his hands shoved into his pockets. “Ah! Well, if it isn’t my favourite assistant coach, Y/N! I was worried something had happened.”

Blinking back at Ted, you simply cross your arms over your chest. “What is Jamie doing out on the field?”

Ted lets out a laugh but it comes across more as a grimace as he rubs the back of his neck, turning his head to glance at Nate and then Beard.

It’s Beard who explains.

“Ted invited him back to the team.”

The water bottle you’d been holding in your hands promptly falls to the ground with a thud as your lips part, mouth left wide open, staring blank faced at Ted who continues to laugh somewhat uncomfortably.

“What?”

Beard raises his hands as if to gesture that he is an innocent party in your accusation all whilst you shift your shocked expression to a glare at Ted.

“Well, you know… I–I just thought that, well… he’s a good player, yeah?”

Shaking your head, you huff; “regrettably so.” Because even you weren’t bitter enough to not admit that Jamie was a great football player. Fantastic really. But–But he was an absolute prick who you’d thought you’d never have to work with ever again.

“And this team needs a little something to spice us up, yeah?” Ted, in Ted style, does a little dance (that’s meant to make you laugh) to add to the effect of his words.

“No,” you say blankly, before Ted raises a brow at you. Sighing, your shoulders fall. “Yeah.”

Offering you a smile, Ted rests his hand on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “Give him a chance, okay?” He asks, his eyes pleading as he nods down at you. “I think he really means to make up for it all.”

You seriously doubt that. But, you don’t voice that opinion.

“Fine,” you surrender, dropping your hands to your side. “But I’m allowed to laugh at him when this team kicks his arse. Which they will because he deserved it.”

Ted snorts at that, “don’t worry, Nate’s already got you beat on that front.”

Your eyes shift to said man, and he’s sending you a wide grin and a thumbs up in a way that makes you chuckle despite how truly unhappy you were with Jamie only a few feet away from you, on your team.

The only thing that had made practice somewhat bearable was seeing Jamie repeatedly knocked on his ass.

And then mocked by the rest of the team.

Truly, it brought a smile to your face.

You’re still laughing to yourself about it as you finish packing up your stuff in the office you shared with Nate. Him, Ted, Beard and pretty much most of the team were already gone or on their way out the door, but you usually elected to stay a little longer than everyone else trying to come up with new gaming strategies, plays and honestly, team bonding exercises since you found it incredibly important that the team genuinely care for one another if they were going to play on a team together.

You’re just sliding your laptop into your bag when a knock pulls you from your musings.

“Oh, Sam, just give me–”

Except, it isn’t Sam when you finally glance up. It’s Jamie.

You’re leaping to your feet before you can stop yourself, a surge of panic running through your body as your wide eyes meet his. He’s blinking back at you, as if as shocked by your reaction as you were, and before you know it you’re glancing around, half expecting Ted or Beard to be there because why else would Jamie be here?

But neither of them are there, of course, they’d left twenty minutes ago.

“Coach Lasso and Beard have already left,” you explain before he can say anything. “You’re gonna have to wait until tomorrow to talk to–”

Shaking his head, Jamie takes a step towards you. “I wasn’ lookin’ for them. I, uh… was lookin’ for you actually.”

You blink. Once, twice, before your brows furrow. “What?”

He steps towards you again, fully stepping into your office as he scratches at his face absentmindedly, looking just as uncomfortable as you felt. He glances around for a moment before his gaze focuses back on you, and the serious expression on his face is one you’re not used to or know how to react to so you continue to stare blankly at him.

“I wanted to, em, apologize, I guess? Actually, no, not I guess. I am sorry. And I want to apologize for how I treated ya in the past. You know, for all the shitty things I said and did.”

You must be dreaming.

Surely, you’re dreaming.

There’s no way that the Jamie Tartt, famed football star and resident asshole, is apologizing to you. Some random female assistant coach on a team he’d once laughed at for existing? Yeah. Not possible.

But… it’s either that or he’s taking the piss out of you.

Whatever it is, the shock fades in seconds and is quickly replaced by an indescribable amount of anger.

Because, honestly? Screw him. Screw him for thinking he could walk in here, say sorry and it’d all be okay. After all that he did.

“You’re sorry?” You ask, pointing at him.

He nods, slowly.

“That’s funny,” is what you end up saying, letting out a snort as he blinks at you in surprise. “You sure didn’t seem sorry all those times you laughed at me when I tried to coach you. What was it you used to say?” You quirk a brow at him as his face falls, the hopeful glint that you’d accept his apology fading from his eyes as you laugh at him. “Oh, that’s right! That I wasn’t meant to be a coach because I’m a woman and rather, I should just look pretty and help make you look good. And if it wasn’t you belittling me for my job, it was you trying to get in my pants and then laughing about it as if that’s some sort of joke.”

You finish your rant with a huff, shoulders rising and falling heavily as Jamie continues to stare back at you.

You hadn’t really realized how much his comments had truly hurt until that moment. Or, rather, you’d pushed them down so far to the back of your mind that it had been bubbling up until this very moment where he tries to apologize offhandedly like that was going to somehow make things better.

“I may have only known you for a little bit before you left us for Manchester, Jamie,” you add, voice considerably calmer as you frown at him. “But you sure left an impression. And one little apology is not gonna make up for the amount of times I went home crying and feeling worthless, because of you.”

Jamie doesn’t say anything. His lips part like he means to you, but he ends up just gaping at you like a goldfish, looking rather stupid, before there’s a light knock on the door and you’re pulled from your thoughts only to find Sam poking his head into the office. He looks concerned, eyeing Jamie out of the corner of his eye with a certain edge, before turning to you.

Biting your lip, you blink, hating the way your vision blurs and quickly you wipe at your face before any tears can fall.

You refused to cry in front of Jamie.

“Just a second, Sam,” you call, offering him a small, somewhat forced smile. You turn to your desk, grabbing your bag and doing a quick survey to make sure you hadn’t forgotten anything before promptly pushing your way past Jamie and slipping past Sam. He sets a hand on your back to guide you forward, blocking you from Jamie’s view and you don’t see it, but just before Sam turns to walk away himself, he’s sending Jamie a rather nasty glare.

The message is clear; leave her alone.

The next morning there’s a vase of flowers sitting on your desk.

Nate is eyeing them when you walk in, before he blinks at the sight of you and quickly turns away as if afraid you caught him staring. You just blink at him, before looking at the flowers once more.

Poking your head out to the main office, you gesture over your shoulder; “where’d the flowers come from?”

Beard raises his hands in a silent gesture that they’re not from him, before your gaze falls to Ted.

“Don’t look at me,” he shrugs. “You’d know if I got you flowers,” he winks with a light chuckle and rolling your eyes as you make your way to your desk. There’s a card in front of the vase and as you take a seat, you take the card, flipping it open.

All that’s written on it is the name of the flowers; Lily of the Valley.

Frowning, you let your eyes wander across the white flowers, leaning forward to smell them and letting your eyes fall shut at the sweet scent.

Only thing is, who sent them?

Leaning back on your chair, you peek into the locker room, trying to see who of the players is there. There’s not too many. There’s Sam, but you walked in with him so you know it’s not him, also he most likely would’ve just given them to you if he was going to get you a bouquet of flowers. Isaac’s there, but you doubt he’d give them to you. Richard and Dani are there, but they're much too forward to try and secretly give you flowers.

And then your eyes fall on Jamie. He’s already looking at you, but he’s quick to glance away the second your eyes fall on him, his cheeks turning a bit red.

Your brows furrow.

It couldn’t–

“Apparently, Lily of the Valley symbolizes apology. Specifically when one doesn’t know how to apologize.” Nate explains, reading off of his phone, the card from your desk in his other hand, before he glances at you with a curious smile. “I wonder who wanted to apologize to you?”

You glance at Nate, before the flowers, before peeking back at Jamie who’s tying the laces of his boots, pointedly not glancing up.

Moving back towards your desk, you stare at the flowers a moment longer.

What the actual hell.

“Oh, just–”

Before you can properly register the voice, a blur of blue is suddenly in front of you, opening the door you’d been about to open yourself before your hand can even reach for the handle.

Slowly your eyes flicker upwards to fall on Jamie as he stands beside you, holding the door wide open, a rather proud smile plastered onto his face.

“There ya go,” he offers, head tilting towards the door. “Ladies first.”

Quirking a brow, you nod at Jamie slowly, stepping through the door while you try to fight the smile that threatens to curl onto your lips.

“Smooth, Tartt,” you offer over your shoulder.

He grins back at you, nodding at you.

You can’t help the laugh, however, when instead of stepping through the door like you expected (assuming he’d only done it cause he needed something from here in the first place), he lets the door shut with a goofy wave, leaving you alone in the room.

Pausing, you shake your head.

That was new.

“And you, Coach?”

It takes you half a second to realize Jamie is talking to you and you only really realize it because Ted, Beard and Nate are all looking at you, waiting.

Blinking, you swallow thickly, eyes falling back on the team only to see they’re all staring at you as well, also waiting. Your eyes fall on Jamie and he’s smiling at you, happy and all teeth as he rocks on his feet, patiently waiting for you to say anything you might or might not have to say.

It’s not like the rest of the team hadn’t ever asked you for your opinion or if you had any pointers. And of course Ted made sure to consistently ask for your suggestions, wanting to make sure you felt your voice was heard and included.

As the only female coach for a male’s football team, you’d managed to find yourself an incredible group of boys who listened to you despite your gender and actively made sure to try out anything you suggested.

But never had you ever had all their attention like you do in that moment. All of them just standing there, solely focused on you.

And that was because of Jamie.

Biting your lip, you shuffle on your feet. “Oh, well… I–”

But your voice is shaky and you’re not sure how to say what you want, but as your eyes flicker back over to Jamie he’s still grinning at you, smile never wavering and he’s sending you a thumbs up.

As if to say; you got this.

And then the words just seem to pour from your lips after that.

The addition of Roy Kent to the line up of coaches is both positive and negative.

And really, it isn’t negative for anyone but yourself. Not that having Roy on the team was negative, just, well… It was already hard enough being the only women assistant coach with two other men, but now you were competing with three men and Roy was nothing if not an intimidating and commandeering addition to the team.

His desk had been squished in between yours and Nate’s and while the man was lovely, if not a little aggressive, by the end of his first day you found yourself drained and feeling like a fool. Roy wasn’t just another man, but he was a previous football star himself; he had the on field experience to back up his suggestions and he knew what he was talking about so that when he did say something, no one really batted an eye to his suggestions.

Or, at least, questioned them.

Worst part was you liked Roy. Sure he swore a lot, and sometimes he’d grunt instead of replying to you but before he’d had to leave the team, he’d always listened to your suggestions with an open mind and never made you or the suggestions feel less just because it was a woman saying them. He was an absolute sweetheart underneath all of the gruff, and you knew him outside of work quite well as well because he was dating Keeley.

So, with the jealousy that you couldn’t help but have, you also felt extremely guilty.

“Are… Are you alrigh’?”

Gasping, you sit up at the voice, panicked eyes glancing around until you settle on Jamie.

“Jesus, Tartt,” you breathe, pressing a hand to your chest as you shake your head. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry,” he offers with a light laugh. “I didn’ mean to.”

“It’s fine,” you sigh, letting yourself relax once more as you slump against the wall behind you, pulling your knees closer to yourself. “I just thought I was alone. Didn’t think anyone would come wandering in here.”

Jamie steps into the room at that, letting the door shut behind him as he nods. “Saw you come in ‘ere,” he explains, taking a seat across from you. “Wanted to make sure you were alrigh’”

Shaking your head, you brush him off; “I'm fine.”

“You, um… you sure?”

Turning to Jamie, he’s staring back at you in a way that tells you he doesn’t believe you. He’s got a concerned look in his eyes and he’s fidgeting with his fingers, his knee rocking nervously as he tries to find the words to say.

Sighing, you shake your head; “it’s stupid.”

“Not when it comes to ya.”

Blinking, you turn to Jamie, lips parted in surprise. Except, he doesn’t seem shocked by what he said or embarrassed. He continues to stare back at you with that concerned look in his gaze, patiently waiting for you to explain what’s going on.

“It’s just… It’s hard,” you start, struggling to find the words. How do you explain to him, not only a man but the same man that used to belittle you for the exact same thing you’re feeling self conscious about, that you feel like you’re being tested in your own job everyday just because you’re a woman? You weren’t sure he’d understand. And honestly, although you’ve seen the changes in him and regrettably started to believe them, you weren’t positive he wouldn’t just laugh at you for it anyways.

And yet, you continue to speak.

“Being what I am at my job,” you add, eyeing him carefully.

Jamie frowns. “Being a woman?”

Inhaling sharply, you nod; “yeah. I know Ted and the rest of the guys would never belittle me or make me feel less because I am, but… It’s just hard being the only woman coach for a team of men. Even if you guys don’t mean to, and I know you don’t, you all naturally gravitate towards Ted and the guys more than you do me.”

Lips parting, Jamie stares back at you.

Avoiding his gaze, you glance down at your lap. “Makes me doubt myself sometimes.”

“Oh.”

Nodding, you pull at a thread on your pants. “Yeah. Oh.”

Silence follows and you feel ten times more uncomfortable as the seconds pass. You can still feel Jamie’s gaze on you, watching, waiting, maybe trying to find something to say, and it’s making you feel more and more embarrassed as time goes.

Shaking your head, you suddenly move to a stand.

“Anyways, it’s late so you should–”

“I think yer an amazing coach.”

Lips left parted, you turn, only to find Jamie suddenly standing in front of you.

“You make great strategy plays, you are undeniably smart about the terminology and nobody cares about the wellbeing of the team more than you,” he continues, his gaze never once faltering. “You cheer us on and never ever make us feel like we’re doing something wrong or stupid for askin’ for help. I know it feels like we listen to the guys more, but every single one of us leans on your advice heavily and we’d be lost without yer support and guidance.”

Eyes widening, you don’t realize it until you blink that you’re crying.

Your hand falls to your cheek, feeling wetness.

“Shit,” Jamie curses and your eyes fall back on him. “I didn’t mean to make ya cry, I just–”

Your arms wound around him before he can finish, pulling him flush against you as you press your head into the crook of his neck. Jamie freezes at the touch, body tensing but just for a second before he eases, his own arms coming around to wrap around you in return.

“Thank you,” you whisper to him, “I… Thank you so much.”

“O-Of course,” he murmurs, voice low and you can feel his chest rumble against your cheek. “I just… thought ya should know.”

Biting your lip, you pull back at that, quickly wiping the tears off your cheeks as you step away from him. Jamie lets you go with ease, both of your cheeks red, yours burning when you realize you’d not only just flung yourself at him but you’d gotten his shirt wet with your tears.

“I.. I’m sorry,” you whisper, gesturing to his chest. “I didn’t mean to cry on you.”

Jamie shrugs; “no worries, love.”

Meeting his eyes, the two of you stare at each other for a moment, before you’re quickly stepping past him. “Anyways, I should… I should go.”

“Oh. Oh, yeah. Me… Me too.”

Reaching for the door, you glance back at him; “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Nodding, Jamie grins down at you; “see you tomorrow.”

“We’ve got a problem.”

Both Keeley and Rebecca turn to you at your words, whatever they’d been saying promptly getting cut off the second they see the panic on your face.

Rushing you inside, they settle on either side of you on Rebecca’s couch in her office, Keeley’s arm wrapped around your waist and Rebecca offering you a cup of tea as they turn to you with concerned eyes.

“Okay, lay it out,” Rebecca says, “what’s wrong and who do I have to fire?”

Letting out a light laugh, you shake your head. “You don’t have to fire anyone.”

“Good,” she nods, “because I didn’t want to fire anyone.”

Rolling your eyes teasingly, you take a sip of your tea before reaching forward to set it on the table.

“Okay, then, babes,” Keeley speaks up, frowning at you, “then what’s the matter? You came in here looking like something horrible’s happened.”

Letting out a groan, you press your hands to your face; “that’s because something horrible has happened.”

“What?” Keeley presses, squeezing your arm.

Taking a deep breath, you hesitate a moment, eyeing the both of them, before you whisper in shame; “I think I fancy Jamie.”

There’s a beat of silence, before;

“Like Tartt?” Keeley asks, eyes widening in absolute surprise. “Jamie Tartt? Our Jamie Tartt?”

“Like on my team Richmond, Jamie Tartt?” Rebecca adds, pointing at herself before gesturing to her office.

Cheeks burning, you hide your face in your hands again. “Yes.”

Keeley and Rebecca eye each other for a moment, before Rebecca’s pulling your hands away from your face.

“Y/N.”

You just shake your head, trying to grab a pillow to further hide yourself.

“Babes, stop,” Keeley laughs lightly. “Explain to us why you fancy Jamie.”

“Yeah,” Rebecca encourages. “It’s alright.”

Hands falling to your lap with a huff, you frown. “It’s all his fault,” you whine. “Because he’s trying to be better now and I can’t handle that. Before, you know, when he was a prick, that’s just it! He was a prick. And I’m sorry Keeley for saying this but I always found him a little attractive.”

Snorting, Keeley shakes his head; “babes, why do you think I dated him?”

Biting your lip, you sigh. “But he was awful, right?” She nods and Rebecca snorts, clearly feeling that’s an understatement. “And when he came back, I was so mad. Mad because he was so mean and laughed at me and belittled me for being a woman, and not to mention he was terrible to the whole team. Like when he used to bully Nate or hog the ball and never give Sam a chance to show his skill.”

They both nod to your words.

“So I was upset. Upset because he was back and because Ted didn’t tell me or ask me how I felt. And I said to myself that this whole apology thing was just an act and he’d go right back to being his old self in a few days. I was proud of myself too because when he tried to apologize, I didn’t let him.” Keeley squeezes your arm at that and Rebecca smiles proudly. “But then the next day I came in and he bought my flowers!”

Their eyes widen.

“He did?”

“Yeah,” you nod at Keeley. “A big bouquet of Lily of the Valley and you know what Lily of the Valley symbolizes?”

Keeley shakes her head and Rebecca sighs, shoulders falling. “Apology,” she explains for you. “You give them to someone you hurt and don’t know how to apologize to.”

Keeley’s lips part in disbelief; “I never got fucking Lily of the Valley’s.”

Sinking into the couch, you cry out; “exactly! And then he starts opening doors for me and helping me pack things up… he’s listening to me in practice when he never used to, deliberately asking for my opinion after practice after the rest of the coaches have said their pieces. He tells the rest of the team to shut up if he feels they’re not listening to me and he asks me for pointers alone so he can get better. And! God! I was upset and he made this whole big speech about how amazing a coach I am and how the team appreciates me and shit and then I hugged him and cried on him and he didn’t laugh at me or make me feel like shit. He… he was actually really fucking sweet.”

The second you’re done ranting, Keeley and Rebecca glance at each other, before coming to the same conclusion.

“Well,” Keeley says hesitantly. “It definitely sounds like you fancy him.”

Pulling at your hair, you let out a cry.

“No, no,” Rebecca shakes her hand, pulling your hands away from your face and holding them safely in her own. “It’s fine, love. Jamie has really turned himself around.”

“He has,” Keeley is quick to agree. “I mean, he never did any of that stuff for me and we were already in a relationship.”

“But it isn’t fine,” you argue, shaking your head. “Because he’s Jamie Tartt, and he’s fucking fit and now he’s nice too… and he’s a star football player and I’m just Y/N Y/L/N, some random assistant female coach on a team of male football players. No one knows me and I’m not special and I’m not a model or a celebrity or any of the usual types he goes for.”

“That is absolutely not true,” Rebecca says instantly, face appalled as if she can’t believe you’ve just said what you have.

“You are Y/N fucking Y/L/N.” Keeley adds, moving to grip your cheeks tightly between her hands. “The first and only female assistant coach of Richmond who has come up with more strategy plays that have helped us win than anyone else. Not to mention, you are proper fit. You are an absolutely fucking gorgeous and successful woman that Jamie would be incredibly lucky to have.”

Lips parting, you blink. Keeley and Rebecca are both looking at you in a way that leaves no room for arguments and feeling your eyes water, you pout; “you mean that?”

“Of course I fucking mean that.”

“Y/N,” Rebecca calls, squeezing your hands tightly. “I am so proud of you and the woman that you are and incredibly lucky to have you as a coach for my team. I know that, Keeley knows that, the team knows that and it looks like Jamie is aware of that more than anyone else. I know it’s hard to leave yourself vulnerable like this, but at least give him a shot.”

Biting your lip, you meet her eyes, finding the reassurance in them you needed before you glance over at Keeley who is grinning widely, nodding.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”

You’d believed what Rebecca and Keeley said.

Of course you did because you know they’d never lie to you.

And you’d promised them you’d give Jamie a chance before simply believing there’s no way he’d like you. But promising and doing was a lot different, and it’s hard to find the chance to say anything to him over the next few days.

The whole team is anxious because of the game against Manchester City coming up, especially since the last time they’d played them, it was the match that had gotten them regulated. Adding even more to that, Jamie had been on the Manchester team when that had happened and even though you know he’d made great strides towards making up with the team since coming back to Richmond, he was just anxious as the rest of them.

For a multitude of reasons you didn’t understand.

So, there wasn’t a chance to say anything.

And there certainly wasn’t one now that they’d lost. You’d briefly wondered to yourself that if they won, maybe you could run to Jamie and just confess your feelings then, thick in the adrenaline of it all. Like they did in the movies. All sweet and romantic.

Only, Richmond hadn’t won and you certainly weren’t going to now.

Especially when you were just as disappointed as the rest of them.

You’re speaking with Ted and Roy in the locker room when Jamie’s father comes in, and any conversation you’d been having falls silent the second he does.

You watch in stunned silence as Jamie’s father makes an embarrassment of himself, laughing and joking as he makes fun of the team's loss before zeroing in on Jamie himself. He says the cruelest things, and everything clicks in that moment why Jamie was the way that he was before he’d left Richmond.

And when Jamie punches his father straight across the face, you jump and your hands fall to your lips but you’re not shocked and you don’t think Jamie is wrong either.

No one says anything and no one does anything as Beard drag’s Jamie’s father out of the locker room and Jamie stands there, still standing in a defensive position. You want to do something, you want to say something, but you don’t think it’s your place. And you don’t know if Jamie would even feel all that much comfort with having you do anything.

Roy steps past you in the next second, taking Jamie into his arms and he loses it then, his sobs echoing throughout the otherwise silent room.

Ted runs past you at one point, but you don’t notice, eyes stuck on that of Jamie and Roy.

Then, Roy’s pulling away, but Jamie’s still got tears in his eyes, pressing his hand to his eyes as he tries to hide away. Suddenly, Roy’s eyes are on you, and he’s smiling in a knowing way, before promptly kicking everyone else out of the room. Your eyes widen as he does, body tensing in panic as Roy nods at you just before shutting the door behind him, leaving just you and Jamie in the room alone.

You can hear him sniffling to himself, a small sob breaking past his lips as you stand there, feeling out of place and like you’re stepping past his boundaries. So, slowly, you step towards him. “I can, uh, leave too if you’d like some–”

“No,” is all Jamie says before he’s pulling you into a hug, arms wrapping around you tightly as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. You freeze at the action at first, unsure what to do or say, before slowly your body eases, and your arms are raising, hands falling to his back as you squeeze him tightly.

He clutches onto you, sobbing into your neck, and you let him wordlessly, rubbing his back in smooth, slow patterns in a way you hope is comforting.

And the two of you stay like that for a while.

Your relationship from then on changes.

More than it already had.

You find yourself willingly hanging out with him when you would’ve avoided it otherwise before. Jamie always seems to be there, lending a helping hand or letting you talk his ear off about something or another.

The two of you never really spoke about what had happened in that locker room but you didn’t need to. It went without saying. You understood Jamie in a way that you hadn’t before, and although it didn’t excuse it, it made sense why he’d been the way had been before and it showed him trying to be better meant a lot more than it had before.

So, the season ends, and you watch the changes Jamie’s doing with a smile and a completely different attitude. When he gives Dani the shot, or when he joins in on team chants before matches. He’s still arrogant and cocky, but it’s in a more loveable way than it had been before, and now when he comes in every morning wearing his stupid ICON hat and dumb sunglasses, you can barely hide the smile that curls onto your lips.

Or the way that despite him wearing such stupid things, you think he looks ridiculously hot.

The season ends and then the new one starts up with one less coach after Nate had left only to join West Ham. It had certainly been a betrayal and you’d be lying if you said it hadn’t hurt. You’d always felt like Nate had understood you in a way maybe some of the others didn’t and the two of you had shared that office alone for so long that you couldn’t help the way you’d cried when you’d realized what he’d done.

Jamie holds you through it.

A soft, gentle and comforting presence that never makes you feel silly for feeling so hurt and betrayed and for that, you’re eternally grateful.

Suddenly, Jamie is someone you can’t live without. You look forward to every morning you see him walk into the locker room, and you find yourself texting him at night, unable to stop the giddy feeling that floods you every time you hear your phone ding and see it’s him calling or texting you.

Keeley and Rebecca tease you all whilst constantly trying to get you to confess. You always say that you will, but you never do.

You’re mad for him, that you know but you don’t know if he’s mad for you and you don’t want to ruin the relationship the two of you have built just because of your stupid feelings. It was nice having him as a friend, and although every time you saw him you just wanted to kiss him, you didn’t want to lose that friendship either.

So you never say anything.

“So, I would suggest just–”

“Y/N–?”

Lips left parted at the sound of Sam, you turn to him as he pokes his head into the office. He freezes when he sees Jamie standing behind you, the two of you going over one of his plays, your hand left held with the whiteboard marker and he winces. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to interrupt you two.”

Jamie is waving his hand in reassurance as you smile at Sam, letting your hand fall; “it’s fine, Sam. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to let you know that I won’t be able to drive you home tonight,” he explains, chancing a quick glance at Jamie before focusing back on you. “I have to run by the restaurant before heading home and I’m not sure how long it will take.”

“Oh,” you blink, shaking your head. “It’s fine, Sam. I can walk home tonight. It’s no problem.” Then, cheekily, you can’t help but add; “as long as when you finally do let me see your restaurant, everything is on the house.”

Laughing, Sam shakes his head; “it already was. And for you,” he points at you with a grin, “it’ll always be.”

Smilingly, you nod, waving him goodbye as he does the same, slipping out of the office. You laugh quietly to yourself as he does, before turning to find Jamie’s eyes on you, and you blink; “sorry,” you offer bashfully. “Where were we–”

“I didn’t know Sam drove you home?”

Pausing, you shift back to face Jamie. “Oh, yeah. He saw that I was walking home one night, offered me a drive and it’s been like that since.”

Jamie nods, slowly. “You two are close.”

“Um, yeah?” You agree with a shrug. “Sam is easy to talk to, I guess. Super friendly and kind.”

“Hm,” Jamie hums lightly. “He does look like he’d make a good boyfriend.”

It takes you half a second to register what Jamie’s said both because you feel that’s a weird observation for Jamie to make and also because when in that conversation did you say he was your boyfriend?

“We’re not dating,” you explain, shaking your head as you laugh. “We’re just friends.”

Jamie’s eyes widen, cheeks warming in faint embarrassment but… is that a hint of relief you see? Probably not, you’re just psyching yourself out.

“Oh.”

Nodding, you bite your lip; “yeah.”

“Cool,” Jamie hums and you raise a brow at him, before turning back to the whiteboard.

“Did you wanna…?”

Jamie is quick to agree, shifting on his feet to put his focus back on what you were saying before Sam had stepped in. But then, just as your lips part to continue, Jamie is interrupting you;

“I could drive you home.”

He says it so nonchalantly you think you imagine him saying it at first.

You glance at him over your shoulder, and he turns to you.

“If you’d like.”

“Um,” and you hate the way your voice shakes or the nerves that rattle your entire being. “Sure… Sure, that’d… that’d be great. If you don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” he assures with a grin. “Why would I mind having a pretty girl in me car?”

Cheeks burning you quickly glance back ahead of yourself to not let him see how much that simple comment made your heart flutter and your insides feel like jelly. Inhaling sharply, it’s hard to fight the smile from curling onto your lips as you move to continue saying what you’d been trying to say before.

You’re so focused that you don’t see Jamie watching you, a grin curling onto his own lips when he sees how flustered you are.

“Pretty coach.”

Halting in your step, you glance up, only to have to crane your head upwards when you find Zava, the star player Rebecca had managed to score, staring down at you. He’s tall, very tall, and you’re not exactly sure why he’s here, in the middle of the hall, or why he’s talking to you.

“Zava,” you greet nervously, offering a small smile.

He’s stepping towards you, effectively closing the distance between you as your eyes widen, freezing when he reaches forward to take your hand in his own. Before you know it, he’s pressing his lips against the top of your hand, a gentle, swift kiss as he glances at you through his lashes, smirking.

“I look forward to working under you as my coach,” he explains, accent thick as he pulls his lips away. It doesn’t escape your notice that he doesn’t let go of your hand, though.

“Oh, um, me–me too. But you’ll mainly be working under Coach Lasso since he’s the head–...”

Your words trail when you realize he’s not really listening. He’s just… staring. Directly at you.

Swallowing thickly, with your free hand, you touch your face; “is there something on my–”

“Oh no, no,” he laughs gently, squeezing your hand. “You just have the most beautiful eyes.”

Feeling yourself warm, you meet his eyes in surprise before glancing down at your feet, “oh, um, thank–”

“Oi.”

The new voice is sharp and your head is spinning over your shoulder only to see Jamie promptly making his way over to you. You’re surprised by how angry he looks, but his attention isn’t focused on you and rather Zava as he quickly makes his way over, pulling your hand out of Zava’s and gently pushing you behind him as he blocks you from sight from Zava. You flush when you realize Jamie’s still holding onto your hand, before slowly peeking over his shoulder.

“Tartt,” Zava grins, “it’s wonderful to see you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jamie huffs. “Just keep your hands to yourself, okay?”

Raising his hands in surrender, Zava laughs, stepping back as he moves to walk away. His eyes catch yours and he winks at you before turning to walk off.

“Prick.” Jamie hisses under his breath.

You pause at that, turning to him only to see his eyes set in a glare, watching Zava disappear down the hall before you let out a giggle. Jamie’s eyes fall on you the second you do, gaze softening when he sees you giggling.

“What?”

“Nothing,” you smile, biting your lip as you glance up at him. “Just funny. You're calling him a prick.”

Jamie’s eyes widen in mock hurt; “he is!”

“Sure,” you shrug. “And so were you.”

“But not anymore,” he teases, rolling his eyes at you.

“True,” you agree, shocking him by how easily you do. You just continue to smile at him, “definitely not anymore.”

Jamie stares down at you, eyes never leaving your face. “He’s right about one thing, though.”

Quirking a brow, you tilt your head; “yeah? And what’s that?”

“You do have the most beautiful eyes.”

That was the last thing you expected.

Lips parting, you’re burning red as you promptly slap Jamie in the arm.

“Ow!” He hisses, pulling away as his hand (regrettably) leaves yours. “What was that for?”

You just stare back at him, pouting, embarrassed, hoping he can’t hear how fast your heart is beating.

Or notice that the way he said it meant way more than it did coming from Zava.

“Prick.”

Jamie just blinks, pouting; “what did I do?”

You let out a laugh as Jamie comes running up on the bus cheering about seeing Windmills, shaking your head with a grin as the rest of the guys cheer him on.

He walks down the aisle, high fiving a few of the guys until his eyes settle on you. Leaning your head against the seat, you grin cheekily up at him. “Did you have a fun night?” You ask with a head tilt, biting the inside of your cheek.

Smiling down at you, Jaime nods; “yeah, you?”

“Perfect,” you assure. “Spent a quiet night in my room.”

“The boys didn’t keep ya company?” He frowns, and he looks like he’s about to say something before you quickly reach forward, grabbing his wrist.

“That was team bonding stuff, silly,” you roll your eyes. “Besides, I had the most relaxing bath. It was fine.”

He glances down at you, not saying anything, but you feel your chest tighten when you see the way his eyes glance across your entire figure at the word bath.

Ignoring the butterflies, you smile; “saved you a seat, see?” You gesture to the empty window seat next to you, and Jamie laughs.

“You want the window seat?”

“Yup,” you grin, shuffling over to the other side as Jamie takes your old spot. You settle down next to him, arm brushing against his as he grins over at you.

“You got lots of training done last night?”

Jamie nods, “yup. Taugh’ Roy how to ride a bike.”

Brows furrowing, you briefly wonder how that happened in the midst of training but you let it go all the same, shrugging as you laugh. “But you made sure to get some rest, yes?” You add, turning to him with a quirked brow. “Because you remember what I said about training? If you push yourself too hard, you’re not going–”

“–to help anyone,” he finishes for you with a chuckle. “Yes, I remember.”

“Good,” you nod, squeezing his arm.

“And you?”

Blinking, you turn to him.

“Did you get some rest last night?”

You nod, touched by his concern. “Yeah,” you assure, “like I said, spent the night in my room, resting.”

“Good,” he repeats your words from earlier and you turn your head away to the window when you feel yourself smiling.

Yet, despite that, an hour later, you’ve passed out on Jamie’s very own shoulder, softly snoring away.

Jamie is careful not to move, not wanting to wake you up, but when Dani turns to take a photo excitedly, he doesn’t stop him.

“Hey,” he whispers to Dani, “send that to me, okay?”

“You need to talk to Jamie.”

Raising a brow, you glance up at Roy.

“...I do?”

“He’s a mess,” is all Roy says.

“Okay…?”

“And you need to talk to him.”

Biting your lip, you hum; “because?”

Huffing, Roy rolls his eyes like you’re the one being annoying. “Because you’re the only one he’ll listen to, so you need to talk to him and get him out of whatever funk he’s in.”

“Okay,” you nod, “I’ll talk to him.”

You don’t get the chance to talk to him until you’ve arrived at the hotel the night before the game and even then it’s not really you talking to him.

The movie you’d all watched together is over and Ted had set a curfew but Jamie is taking your hand in his, throwing his hood up and leading you out of the hotel without another word. You glance over your shoulder to see Roy glancing at you in confusion, but you just shrug your shoulders and then Keeley is sending you two thumbs up with a bright grin and before you know it, you both are out the hotel and making your way across the street.

You let him lead, expecting him to say something, but he never really does. He’s eerily silent the entire walk, and it isn't until twenty minutes have passed that you finally tug on his grip and pull him to a stop. He glances back at you in surprise but you’re just shaking your head up at him, confused.

“If this is your way of getting me alone to murder me, I’m going to be really upset.”

He blinks at your words, confused at first, before he shakes his head. “No, no… of course not. I… I want you to meet someone.”

“Oh,” you mumble, feeling yourself ease as you meet his gaze. He’s staring back at you, obviously waiting for you to agree and with a gentle smile, you nod.

“Okay.”

It’s his mom.

He wanted you to meet his mom.

You’re confused, extremely so, as Jamie leads you up the steps to a house, knocks and some older gentleman opens the door. He recognizes Jamie and invites the both of you in, and you’re left standing in the entrance way, baffled as you hug your coat closer to yourself, until a woman comes running down the stairs, screaming Jamie’s name and then suddenly she’s in his arms and he’s spinning her and calling her ‘mommy’ and it all clicks.

You can't help the smile that curls onto your lips at the sight, feeling like you’re being allowed to see a side of Jamie others rarely were.

And when Jamie introduces you to his mom, the smile turns into shock when she says; “you’re the one Jamie’s told me so much about!” And before you even have time to register those words or see Jamie glancing at you, she’s wrapping you up in her arms and hugging you so tightly as she gushes about how much she’s wanted to meet you.

You spend the night being welcomed by his mother and her boyfriend, before you leave Jamie to have his much needed conversation with his mom. Simon shows you around the house, before leaving you to glance around Jamie’s childhood bedroom yourself. You all but squeal at his Roy Kent poster, before rolling your eyes at Keeley’s, but happily glance round the rest of the room. You look at all his trophies and childhood photos, little drawings he’d done or books he’d read.

Before you know it, Jamie’s poking his head into the room and calling for you.

“Oh, Jamie,” you smile, “are you all done catching up with your mom?”

He nods, “yeah, you wanna get out of here? Go back to the hotel?”

“Sure,” you agree with ease, stepping toward him. He sets his hand against your back, leading you back towards the door where you say your final goodbyes. You thank Simon for the tour and give Georgie a huge hug, expressing how happy you were to meet her before she makes you promise you’ll come by and visit again.

You’re not quite sure how to reply to that, but it’s okay because Jamie does it for you, promising the two of you will stop by for an actual dinner soon.

And then, it’s just the two of you, making your way back to the hotel.

“So,” you call out, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “You told your mum about me?”

Jamie rolls his eyes at that, huffing. “Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?”

That certainly isn’t the response you were expecting, so, with warm cheeks, you glance at your feet.

“Got it all sorted now?”

Jamie hums, “yup. Sorry if I worried ya.”

You shake your head. “Think you had Roy in more of a panic, if I’m being honest. Poor man couldn’t breathe, he was so worried.”

Jamie snorts at that, lightly nudging you with his arm. “So, ya weren’ worried at all?”

Turning your head, your smile fades as you meet his gaze. “No, I was. I just didn’t want to overstep.”

“You could never overstep,” Jamie assures, “I should’ve been open about how I was feelin’. Just needed to sort it out for meself.”

Smiling softly to yourself, you hug your hands behind your back. “Well, I’m glad you figured it all out, Jamie. Really. Now you can kick some serious ass tomorrow, yeah?” You’re smiling as you say it, nudging him back with your own arm as the two of you continue to walk.

Then, suddenly, Jamie stops.

Frowning, you glance back at him; “are you–?”

“Me mum helped me with somethin’ else.”

“Oh,” you mumble, not sure where he was going with this. “What’s that?”

“Said I should stop being such a pussy and tell you how I really feel.”

Lips parting, you freeze. “Oh.”

Jamie nods, slow, and you can tell he’s nervous by the way he’s shuffling on his feet. “So… here goes.”

Your eyes widen when he steps forward, closing the distance between the two of you until he’s right in front of you, inches away. Your eyes follow him, head tilted back as you stare up at him, unsure what to do or say. But you don’t need to, because Jamie is speaking up in the next second.

“I’m in love with ya,” he confesses, letting the words just slip past his lips. “I’ve been in love with ya since you hugged me after me dad in Wembley. Maybe before that, I dunno. All I know is that when I came back to Richmond, all I was focused on was makin’ everyone like me again and then you yelled at me that day in yer office and I realized it was more than that. It wasn’t just about makin’ people like me, but makin’ up for the cruel things I'd done. I’m so sorry for the way I treated ya before, but I want you to know that I think the absolute world of ya. You are kind and sweet and smart and proper fit and… I dunno, you might not feel the same but I don’t wanna go on another day not having you know how crazy I am for ya.”

His words settle, carry on in the silence, as you stare back up at him, lips left parted, disbelief coursing through your veins.

Jamie’s confidence wavers as the silence carries and he’s shuffling on his feet in worry as he swallows thickly. “You don’t have to say anythin’,” he assures, rambling now with nerves. “I just wanted ya to know, so–”

But you cut him off by pressing your lips firmly against his own.

Jamie stumbles back from the pure force of the kiss at first, before he catches his balance and the shock fades and his hands are falling on your waist as he squeezes, returning the kiss with just as much passion. Maybe more. He kisses you like he’s been waiting to do this for weeks, and you realize, he maybe has. He holds you like you're the only thing in that moment that matters and you let yourself sink into his touch, turning to putty in his hands as you thread your fingers through his hair.

Then, slowly, you pull away, breathless as he smiles down at you.

“I love you too,” you whisper, “since the day you left me those flowers.”

Jamie’s eyes widen and his lips part but you don’t have the care to be embarrassed by your confession; it just felt good to finally, finally be able to say the words out loud.

“And I am so excited to see you kick ass tomorrow.” You breathe out, pressing your hands to his cheeks as you smile up at him, eyes dazed and sparkling with delight.

Pressing his forehead against yours, Jamie presses a gentle kiss to your lips.

“And I can’t wait to see you kick ass tomorrow.”

3K notes · View notes

thedelusionreaderbitch · 8 days ago

Note

Hey girl!!! I was just wondering if I could get a Joaquin x Reader fic where Joaquin gets caught in an explosion and gets temporary amnesia?

I absolutely adored writing this fic. Thank you so much for you request, Rowan!

The Heart Always Remembers

You met Joaquin Torres on the first day of basic training. The moment the squad assignments were read out, your names were called back-to-back—Torres, then yours. A nod passed between you—brief, professional, curious. No handshake. No words. Just a shared look that said, All right. Let’s do this. From the very first drill—the first scramble through knee-deep mud, boots sloshing, voices cracking with effort as the drill sergeant barked—something locked into place. You didn’t need a learning curve. No awkward trial runs, no figuring each other out.

While others stumbled over timing or left gaps in formation, you and Joaquin moved like twin currents in the same stream. You covered each other’s blind spots without hesitation. Backed each other in hand-to-hand combat, even when paired with opponents twice your size. You pivoted in sync during live-fire exercises like you’d choreographed the whole thing in advance. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. It didn’t take long for people to notice.

“Instructors kept watching us,” Joaquin once murmured to you, after lights-out, both of you wide awake and staring at the ceiling of the barracks. “Like they were trying to figure out the cheat code.”

Your squad noticed too. At first, it was side-eyes and whispers. Nothing direct, nothing hostile—just the kind of wary curiosity people get when they can’t explain what they’re seeing. One guy, Powers, tried to break the tension during downtime.

“So… you two like psychic or something?” he joked, trying to keep it light. You just shrugged, and Joaquin didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle.

Another time, after a particularly brutal obstacle course that ended with the two of you dragging half the squad to the finish line, someone muttered, “They’ve gotta be cheating.” No one replied, but the air got tight for a moment. You were still catching your breath, mud streaked up your arms, lungs burning. You heard it—felt it, more than anything. The weight of accusation dressed up as sarcasm. The kind of comment that didn’t need to be serious to sting.

Your eyes flicked up. Joaquin’s jaw flexed, subtle but sharp. He didn’t say anything either. Just stood there beside you, breathing hard, fists still half-clenched. His gaze didn’t even shift toward the guy who said it—but you knew him well enough by now to read the shift in his stance. He was pissed, but he wouldn’t rise to it.

That was the thing about the two of you: you didn’t waste your breath on people who couldn’t keep up. You didn’t need to defend what you’d already proven in sweat, bruises, and hours. Still, your pinky twitched by instinct nudging his pinky, like a quiet prod. Let it go, it said. We’ve got bigger things to prove.

Without looking down, Joaquin hooked his pinky with yours, just for a second, just enough. Then he let go, exhaled slowly, and took a step forward. You followed without a word, side by side as always, leaving the tension behind in your wake. Because the truth was, it didn’t matter what they said. You weren’t here to impress anybody. You were here to survive—and do it together.

There were bets, theories. Rumors that maybe you’d trained together before enlisting. That maybe you’d grown up in the same town. Shared a childhood. Shared more. But every time someone asked, you both gave the same answer: Nope. Met on day one.

Still, it didn’t make sense to anyone how you always seemed to anticipate each other’s moves, how you never needed to speak. Even in chaos, even under pressure, your rhythm stayed intact. And that confused people. Sometimes confusion looks like admiration. Sometimes, it looks like resentment.

There was a stretch where a few squad-mates tried to break the pattern. They tried to insert themselves into the formation during drills, edge their way between you two during tactical exercises. It didn’t work. It never worked and not because you pushed them out, but because it was like your bodies and instincts rejected the interference. The timing collapsed; the symmetry vanished.

You weren’t cold about it, just focused—and focus earned results. You passed every exam, every simulation, with scores that made even the instructors squint. If there was a partner exercise, your names were locked in before the sergeant even called them.

During group tasks, everyone started looking at you two first waiting to see how you’d move, what call you’d make, how you’d fall into formation. Respect didn’t come overnight. It came slowly, quietly. The jokes thinned out. The jabs stopped. One by one, your squad-mates stopped trying to figure you out and started trusting you instead—started following your lead.

By the end of month two, no one asked anymore why it worked. They just made room for it. Because whatever this was—whatever you and Joaquin had—it got results. And in basic, that was the only thing that really mattered. No one knew how to counter it.

In combat sims, you swept through rooms like a storm, without a word spoken. You traded weapons mid-fight without looking. Communicated in eye contact and shoulder nudges. When one of you went down during training, the other made it their mission to carry both of you across the finish line.

It didn’t take long for instructors to start using you as examples.

“Move like The Ghost.”

“Cover your six like they do.”

“Train until you’re even half as coordinated as The Ghost.”

One of them, Staff Sergeant Morales, said it loud enough for the entire class to hear after a brutal room-clearing exercise: “If I had ten more just like them, I could win a war with my damn eyes closed.” He didn’t say it like a compliment. He said it like a warning. Some recruits hated it. Others watched in awe. Instructors admired it. Leaders feared it. Regardless, no one stayed indifferent for long.

The bond followed you into active duty. By the time you deployed, people knew to look for you two together. You sat next to each other on transport flights. Shared gear. Shared rations. Picked up each other’s slack without being asked. He knew how you took your coffee; you knew how to spot when he was hiding an injury. Your squad placed bets—first on who’d screw up and break formation (neither of you ever did), and later, on when you’d finally cave and admit you were in love.

You pretended to be annoyed by it, but the truth was … they weren’t wrong. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a quiet understanding that grew over late-night fire watches and adrenaline-soaked post-mission come-downs. You looked at him and felt steady. Looked at you and saw home. Joaquin never said it outright, not at first. He didn’t have to because you just knew.

So when the explosion hit—when the world erupted in fire and dust and you watched Joaquin vanish under a collapsing roof top—it felt like someone had ripped the oxygen from your lungs. You didn’t think. You ran. You ran through fire, through shouts, through people trying to hold you back. You found him crumpled under half a collapsed wall, suit blackened and wings mangled, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. You dropped to your knees, shaking hands pressed to his pulse point.

Joaquin’s heart was still beating but barely. You whispered his name over and over. When they carried him off in the evac chopper, your hands were still stained red from holding him together. You were too stunned to move, and your two best friends had to quite literally drag you after Joaquin towards safety.

Joaquin spent three days in a medically induced coma. You sat by his bedside the entire time. You didn’t leave except to wash off the ash in the ensuite bathroom. You didn’t sleep except in 30-minute intervals. Every beep of the monitor, every shift of his fingers, every flicker of breath—you memorized it all.

Until finally, on the third morning, his eyes fluttered open. You surged forward in the chair beside his bed, your heart catching in your throat. But the second he looked at you—truly looked at you—you knew something was wrong. Joaquin didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for you. He blinked slowly and said, in a hoarse, confused voice:

“¿Dónde estoy…?” Joaquin croaked, his eyes panning the room. Your breath caught. And then—barely audible, like it cost him everything to say—“Who… who are you?”

The words hit harder than the blast had. Harder than the moment you saw him fall. Three words. Who are you? They split something open in your chest.

You’d prepared for wounds, for rehab, for months of physical therapy. You’d braced yourself for the nightmares, for the scars, for helping him heal. But not this. Not him waking up and looking at you like a stranger. Not the emptiness in his voice where your name should’ve been. You gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white, willing yourself not to cry—not yet. Not when he was alive. He was here. He was here with you, even if he didn’t remember you, even if he didn’t remember The Ghost Formation.

Before you could speak—before you could shape the reassurance that had been burning in your chest for three endless days—Joaquin’s face crumpled. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, chest rising too fast.

“I don’t—” he rasped, eyes darting around the room like he didn’t recognize any of it. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t—why can’t I remember—”

His hands trembled. His voice cracked.

“I’m—I’m scared,” he gasped, the words tearing out of him between labored breaths. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

You were crawling into his bed in seconds, legs hanging off the side, torso hovering over his, hands hovering just above his arms—close enough to comfort, not close enough to overwhelm.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you said, voice low and steady, the way you used to talk to him in the field when the adrenaline got too loud. “You’re safe. Breathe with me, okay?”

Joaquin’s eyes found yours again—wide and wet now, tears slipping down his cheeks. A fresh ache bloomed in your chest, but you pushed it down. Swallowed it. Because this wasn’t about you.

“I don’t know you,” he whispered, voice cracking like it hurt to admit it. “Why don’t I know you?”

“You do, Quino,” you said gently. “It’s okay if you don’t yet. I’m not going anywhere until you remember me.”

His hands clenched weakly into the blanket. The monitor beeped faster as his breaths became shorter, more panicked. You reached out—slowly, carefully—and set your hand over his. The touch was electric for both of you. It was warm, solid, and real.

“Just breathe with me,” you whispered. “In and out. That’s all you have to do right now.”

Joaquin listened and followed you. His breaths were ragged at first but became steadier. Then, barely audible but certain enough to break the tension, he repeated, “You’re here … and I’m okay … I’m because you’re here.”

As he said it, his fingers twitched—almost unconsciously—and slowly, he intertwined your fingers. Your thumb instantly traced over his knuckles. His grip was tentative at first, then with growing strength. Joaquin squeezed your hand hard, not letting go. The words trembled out of him again, shaky and unsure, but they were yours. His words were a lifeline thrown across the darkness. You smiled through the tears you’d been holding back. You heard a nurse jog into the room, their steps rushed to a halt when they realized what was happening.

“Yes,” you assured him quietly, your fingers tightening gently around his. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You stayed right there, never breaking eye contact, never letting go of his hand.

“I’ve got you,” you told him softly, anchoring both of you with those three words.

You weren’t leaving. Even if he didn’t remember. Even if he was scared. Even if your name didn’t mean anything to him—yet. Somewhere beneath the panic, the confusion, the fear you saw something in his eyes: a flicker. Not quite recognition but undisputed trust. It was instinctive, unexplainable—like something in him still knew. You held onto that. You held him through the shaking, the tears, the jagged breaths. You would keep holding on until he remembered everything you were. Until he remembered everything you still are.

For the rest of the day, nurses came in and out, checking vitals, adjusting equipment, but they never tried to pry you away. Their hearts were breaking for you. And even if they wanted to, they couldn’t bring themselves to ask you to step aside. Joaquin didn’t let go of your hand for at least an hour—not until one nurse carefully said she needed to place a pulse oximeter on his index finger. He hesitated, fingers curling tighter for a moment as if he was afraid.

Then, reluctantly, he let go, but his gaze never left yours. Was he worried you’d be angry? Worried you’d vanish if he loosened his grip?

“It’s okay,” you whispered. You gently placed his hand on his knee, just above the blanket.

That small gesture seemed to settle him as he slowly let the nurse take his hand. You settled onto the bed for the rest of the day; stretched your legs out toward the headboard so you could watch him from near the foot of the bed. Your knees bumped lightly against his in quiet solidarity, an unspoken connection.

As visiting hours approached late that evening, the attending doctor stepped in. None of the nurses had the heart to ask you to leave—they all knew you didn’t want to leave.

“It’s time to leave now that he’s awake,” the doctor said softly.

Your mouth twitched, ready to protest, but deep down, you knew. You should leave. You should give Joaquin the space he needed… After all, he didn’t remember you. Then, quietly, low and sure, Joaquin spoke:

“She stays.”

You and the doctor both whipped your heads toward him, mouths open in stunned surprise.

“It’s okay, Quino,” you stammered, your voice shaky. “I—I can leave—you need to rest—”

But he was firm now: “You stay.”

Joaquin’s hand reached for yours, but he hesitated. His fingers hovered, confused, unsure if he should bridge the gap again. And then, softly, almost shyly, he said, “You said we’d watch that movie about the lion fighting his uncle.”

A lump caught in your throat. That memory—the movie you both loved, the one you’d promised to watch together as soon as he woke from the coma—was buried deep beneath the fog. Somehow, it was still there. It was a beacon, a thread back to you. You squeezed his hand, voice thick with emotion.

“I’m here,” you whispered, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since the explosion, you saw something more than confusion in his eyes. You saw hope. At that moment, the cracked door swung wide as two nurses filed in quickly. One held the TV remote, fingers already tapping to pull up The Lion King online. The other came bearing sheets and pillows, her arms full, setting about making the room more comfortable.

You glanced at Joaquin, who was watching them with wide, curious eyes. Before you could say anything, two more nurses appeared, wheeling in a cot. They placed it carefully between Joaquin’s bed and the window, creating a small, cozy space for you to rest. The room, once sterile and tense, softened instantly. It felt less like a hospital room and more like a place where you could start reclaiming your life together.

You settled in next to Joaquin, the familiar opening chords filling the air. As the movie began, you held his hand tightly, ready to rebuild every memory, every promise—one scene, one smile, one heartbeat at a time.

The doctors called it traumatic retrograde amnesia. They explained it carefully, their voices clinical but tinged with gentle caution. It was likely temporary, they said, but no one could say for sure. The explosion, the crushing force, the head trauma—all mixed with prolonged oxygen deprivation—had scrambled his memories like a shattered puzzle. The pieces were blurred, missing, scattered beyond recognition.

His long-term memory had been fractured. They warned you not to push him. They warned you to take it slow, to let his brain find its way back on its own terms. You nodded, smiled politely at their advice, but inside—inside you broke. Because when Joaquin looked at you for the first time since waking—when his eyes settled on your face—you were a stranger. Not the partner who had moved with him in perfect sync through every mission. Not the friend who had shared every secret, every laughter-filled night beneath endless stars. Not the soulmate who had bled and fought by his side.

None of it was there. Not the spark in his eyes when he looked at you. Not the private grin he reserved just for you after a mission went sideways and you both limped back in one piece. Not the playful bickering or the quiet moments that once said home better than any place ever had. Now, there was only a blank canvas where your history should have been; a raw, untouched surface that stared back at you with no recognition, no anchor.

But still—you stayed. You never actually left, not once. You didn’t ask to stay. Joaquin never begged the doctor, never pleaded with the nurses. Neither of you had to bring it up at all. It became a quiet, unspoken agreement among everyone involved—medical staff, command, even Sam—that you would be there. You’d stay at least for a few days. No one challenged it. No one wanted to challenge it. Sam showed up the second night with your go-bag slung over one shoulder.

He had stuffed your bag with changes of clothes, travel-sized toiletries, your phone charger, and a battered paperback Joaquin had tried to convince you to read a hundred times before. Sam didn’t say much. He set the bag on the empty chair beside you, gave your shoulder a squeeze, and left without making you speak.

The nurses began folding extra blankets at the foot of the cot without asking. One of them quietly replaced your coffee with fresh mugs when yours had gone cold. Another started bringing you a second tray at mealtimes, no matter what the hospital’s policy was.

You slept in half-hour bursts with your head on the edge of Joaquin’s bed, your hand tucked in his. You learned the rhythms of the monitors like lullabies. The quiet hum of the machines, the occasional beep, the steady whoosh of the oxygen line—all of it became the soundtrack of your new reality. You filled the silence with the pieces of your life he’d forgotten.

You turned on the music you used to dance to in your kitchen. You started with the playlist he made for you after your first joint deployment. It was the one with soft Latin ballads and throwback pop and that ridiculous ‘80s synth song you used to mock but secretly loved. Joaquin didn’t recognize the songs at first; he didn’t respond immediately, at least not with words, but his fingers twitched against the sheets now and then, like his body remembered what his mind couldn’t.

You wore his favorite hoodie—the soft one that hit you mid-thigh, sleeves too long. The one he used to say made you look like you'd “stolen his wings and weren’t planning on giving them back.” Joaquin didn’t say anything about it the first few days, but by day four, his gaze lingered a little longer when he looked at you in it. You told him stories. You recounted all kinds of stories.

Funny stories like the time you accidentally wandered into a drill formation and almost got tackled by a training dummy before Joaquin swooped in with a ridiculous cover story about a “classified base scavenger hunt.”

Sad stories about family. About missing home. About that one guy in your unit who used to sing lullabies in Tagalog on night watch, just to keep everyone grounded.

And the quiet ones—the stories you only ever told him. The ones about your childhood. Your fear of heights. Your dreams of opening a tiny bookstore in a coastal town once this life—the military life–was done.

You called him mi amor—not out of habit, but because it still felt true. At first, he didn’t even blink, didn’t flinch when you said it. In fact, he didn’t respond at all. You thought he didn’t react out of pity, afraid of offending you if he showed any negative reaction to the affectionate term. But you kept saying it. You whispered it like a thread tying you back together … and by the end of the first week, it landed.

You said it softly—“Buenas noches, mi amor”—and turned to gather your bag. Then you heard it. A breath. A shift. You looked back and found him watching you, eyes softer than you’d seen them since the blast. And then came that slow, crooked smile—the one that never reached his face unless it was real.

“I… think I like when you say that,” he mumbled, voice raspy but honest.

Your heart nearly stopped. Your knees almost caved. It wasn’t everything, but it was something. And in this quiet, in-between place where love held steady and memory had gone wandering, something was more than enough. You smiled back, tears in your eyes, and said it again—stronger this time.

“Good,” you murmured, setting on the side of his bed to brush his bangs off his forehead, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

The breakthrough came on a stormy night five weeks after he woke up. You hadn’t stayed the night for at least a week, and the nurses agreed to let you spend the night again tonight. Lightning flashed outside the hospital windows, and thunder shook the building. You were curled up on the couch in his room, half-dozing, when you heard him whimper loudly. You bolted up right in seconds. He was sitting up, drenched in sweat, chest heaving.

“Joaquin?” you gasped. You crossed the room in two steps, crawling into his bed.

“I saw you,” he whispered. “In a dream. We were dancing. You were laughing. We were—we were happy. And I think—” he swallowed, voice cracking, “I think I loved you.”

“You still do,” you said, voice breaking. “You just forgot for a little while.”

He stared at you like the sun had risen in the middle of the night.

“Your name, it’s…” he murmured. You nodded, tears falling freely now. “And I called you ‘vida mía,’ didn’t I?”

“You still do,” you whispered. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It all came back, little by little after that night. The smell of burnt coffee on your first night deployed. The time you patched up his arm with duct tape and a broken compass. The way your voice sounded in the dark, steady and calm, when everything else fell apart.

Eventually, he remembered your first kiss—after a mission gone sideways, covered in bruises and laughing in disbelief. He remembered whispering that he didn’t care if anyone else knew, that you were the only thing that mattered.

And on a quiet morning, months later, he turned to you in the apartment you’d shared long before the explosion, wrapped his arms around your waist, and murmured: “I remember everything.”

You pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “So do I.”

People still talk about The Ghost Formation. It’s in after-action reports, highlighted in red ink and circled twice. Instructors still cite it during training sessions, pointing to old footage and whispering to recruits, “This is what real trust looks like.” It’s even been immortalized in the rumors that echo through enemy channels—those who survived long enough to tell stories of the shadow-pair who moved as one. Who never spoke but always knew. Who cleared rooms like ghosts and left behind nothing but silence and stunned disbelief.

But for you, it’s never just been a nickname. It was never just tactics or coincidence. It was a promise. A vow forged in the dirt of the training field and tempered in the fire of every mission, every shared wound, every look that said I’ve got you without needing to speak. It held strong when everything else fell apart, when the blast hit, when the memories vanished… When the boy you loved looked at you with empty eyes and no trace of the thousand moments you’d built together.

Even then, The Ghost Formation held. Because it was never just in his memory. It lived deeper—in his instincts, his bones, the pull of his heart that still knew yours by feel. And now? Now, Joaquin is back and he’s not just breathing and not just surviving. But he’s here—with you—eyes clear, smile familiar, arms wrapping around you like they were made for that purpose alone.

You still fight side by side, still fall asleep tangled together on long flights, your heads bumping lightly as the engine hums. You still argue over whose kill count was higher on the last mission, and you still laugh so hard your ribs ache when he does that ridiculous impression of your old drill sergeant. But there’s a softness now, a stillness.

The kind that comes after weathering the storm and knowing you’ve earned every second of peace that follows. Sometimes, late at night, he’ll reach for your hand without a word and you’ll squeeze back—just once—like always.

The Ghost Formation didn’t end in that explosion or in the hospital or when the world tried to shake it loose. It survived because it was never about memory. It was about choice. You chose each other every day in every way that counted. And you still do.

246 notes · View notes