xoxokiaraaxoxo

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

sequins, sobs, & someone who gets it

summary: you start the day feeling unstoppable, armed with glitter glue and cramps. but by afternoon, your mood flips like a switch, and jazz comes home just in time to find you spiraling over a crooked label.

word count: 5.4k words

a/n: this was a request! i hope you enjoy! thanks for your love! i love you guys!

⸻

You wake up to that familiar, dull ache low in your abdomen the one that announces itself before your brain is even fully online. It’s not sharp, not yet, just a heavy throb that feels like your body’s way of saying “Good morning. Everything’s terrible.”

You groan into your pillow, eyes still barely open, and blindly pat around your nightstand like a half conscious archeologist. Your fingers finally land on the ibuprofen bottle, knocking over a chapstick and yesterday’s half drunk gatorade in the process. Whatever. You twist the cap off and dry swallow two pills with a sip of lukewarm water from the bottle you left sitting overnight. It tastes like plastic and regret.

For a second, just one you consider sinking back into the covers, hiding under the weighted blanket, and disappearing for the next 6–10 business hours.

But then, something weird happens.

You sit up slowly, wincing a little, and drag yourself to the bathroom. You brush your teeth, splash cold water on your face, and stare at yourself in the mirror for a moment eyes puffy, bun lopsided, hoodie two sizes too big. You should look defeated. But instead, you feel oddly productive.

The cramps are still there, but they’ve faded into a dull hum. The fatigue that usually hits like a freight train on day one is suspiciously absent. You pull Jazz’s old hoodie tighter around you and shuffle toward the kitchen in fuzzy socks like a woman on a mission though you’re still not sure what the mission is.

Then you see it.

That one corner of your apartment, the clutter corner. Overflowing with a mess of unfinished crafts, tangled yarn, dusty sketchpads, a sad glue gun that may or may not still work, and a scrapbook you abandoned months ago after one crooked sticker ruined your flow. You’ve walked past it every day. Ignored it. Resented it. Today? It’s calling your name like a siren song.

Fifteen minutes later, there’s lofi beats spilling softly from the bluetooth speaker, and you’re a full blown menace. Your hair’s twisted up in a messy bun, your sleeves are rolled up to your elbows, and your dining table looks like an unsupervised art class exploded.

Scissors. Scrapbook paper. Glue sticks. Paint pens. Yarn. Glitter. It’s giving daycare gone rogue and you love it.

You’re deep into it now. Cramps still buzzing in the background, but you’re riding the wave. You pull out the Yankees themed tote bag you started customizing back in spring training, the one with the half drawn logo and a pencil sketch of Jazz’s number you never got around to outlining. Not today. Today, the silver puffy paint flows like divine inspiration. You outline his number slowly, carefully tongue poking out the side of your mouth like you’re trying to win a national art competition.

Every few minutes, you pause just long enough to eat a single pringle, sip your ice coffee, and admire your work with a nod of approval like a mad genius. The glitter is everywhere. Your hands are sticky. You may or may not have glue on your knee. But for the first time all week, everything feels in sync.

There’s something weirdly empowering about the chaos. Like you’ve taken your pain and turned it into something sparkly and oddly functional. Every brushstroke is a protest against your uterus. Every ribbon placed just right is a tiny rebellion against hormonal nonsense. You are crafting through the pain. You are unstoppable.

By 11 a.m., your cramps have made a quiet comeback, but you barely notice. Your heart feels light. The playlist is hitting. Your coffee’s gone warm, but who cares?

You’re humming softly to yourself somewhere between a tune and a hum completely unaware of how locked in you are until your phone buzzes next to the glitter pile.

Jazz: “You good, Picasso? Don’t burn the place down.”

You snort, grin, and wipe a smear of blue paint off your cheek with the back of your hand before texting him back.

You: “Vibing. Don’t ask questions. Bring snacks later.”

You toss the phone aside, crank the music a notch louder, and dive right back into your craft kingdom like a woman possessed, a queen in a hoodie, ruling her sparkly, sticker strewn empire.

⸻

By 2 p.m., the vibe shift isn’t subtle. It’s immediate. Violent. Unforgiving.

One moment you’re adding tiny rhinestones to the edge of a ribbon like some sparkly goddess of productivity, and the next, your body turns on you like a shakespearean betrayal.

The cramps return with the force of a thousand betrayals like they’ve been doing push ups, drinking protein shakes, and bench pressing your uterus during your little arts and crafts high. Your heating pad, which you’d flung onto the couch hours ago like a shed skin, is now your holy grail. But it’s too far. Across the room. Out of reach. Might as well be in another dimension.

You’re sweating, but also cold like your body can’t decide if it’s fighting off a virus or hosting one of those weird ice and heat therapy sessions athletes do. Your hoodie is sticking to your back in a way that makes you irrationally furious. And your fuzzy socks, once the comfort MVPs of your morning, now feel like suffocating foot prisons. You kick one halfway off and immediately regret it.

And then, you notice it. The color scheme. Your color scheme.

You stare at the Yankees tote bag the same one that brought you pride and purpose just hours ago and now it looks like a crime scene. The silver paint is uneven. The navy feels too navy. The sparkles are giving 2012 middle school binder, not the elegant fan art meets function masterpiece you imagined. What even is this vibe? Yankee glam? Baseball bedazzle? Trash.

You’re convinced you’ve ruined it. Still, you try to rally. You refuse to go down without a fight. You snatch the glue gun with trembling hands, your heartbeat loud in your ears like it’s the final round of Chopped: Craft Edition.

You squeeze and instantly regret it.

The glue hits your finger like lava. You yelp, more offended than hurt and fling the gun. It lands directly onto the open scrapbook page you were working on. Right on Jazz’s smiling face in a printed photo from spring training. A shiny, scalding string of betrayal now runs diagonally across his cheek like some weird artsy scar.

You blink. Once. Twice. You want to cry. Or scream. Or both. Then it gets worse. The sticker. The sticker. The one you spent a full five minutes lining up just below the photo. The one that said “Best Day Ever” in metallic cursive.

It starts peeling. At first, just the corner. Then it curls in on itself like a villain in a disney movie. It folds. Sticks to your wrist. You try to pull it off and it rips in half.

You freeze. Inhale. Exhale. Hold it together.

Then spotify skips. The lofi playlist that’s been your emotional crutch all morning jumps to that song. The one you hate. The one you’ve deleted off your playlist three times, and yet it rises from the dead every single time like some musical poltergeist.

Then, the final straw your front door creaks from the air pressure shifting, and somehow the sound manages to sound judgmental. Passive aggressive. Like even the hinges are tired of you.

And finally, your sock. The one still half on. Slips further off your heel. Just enough to bunch up. Not enough to fall off. You snap.

You stand in the middle of the chaos glitter in your hair, hoodie bunched around your waist, finger still stinging and you throw your arms out like some apocalyptic art student mid-monologue.

“WHY do I even own washi tape with tacos on it?! Who AM I?! Why would I EVER need taco themed tape?! I don’t even LIKE tacos that much!! This whole thing looks like kindergarten threw up on a tote bag!!”

Your voice echoes. No one answers. Not the glue stick hanging half off the table like it, too, has given up. Not the lone sticker stuck to your thigh. Not the cooling paint that smells faintly like defeat.

You drop to the floor, collapsing dramatically like you’re auditioning for a sad indie film. Legs splayed. Glitter on your face. Hoodie sleeves bunching around your wrists. You fling one arm over your eyes like you’ve read too many tumblr posts from 2014.

Your phone is somewhere under the mess. You claw around for it like a raccoon in a glitter pit and finally find it screen cracked slightly, battery low. You open your messages and type with the kind of emotional chaos that can only be summoned once a month.

babe idk why everything sucks but it sucks

and also i ruined my scrapbook

and now it looks like kindergarten threw up

and also i’m bloated

and my uterus is doing parkour

and i think i glued a sequin to my thigh

pls bring snacks or a hug

idk which one i need first

You don’t reread it. You don’t add punctuation. You don’t care. You send it. Just like that. Then you drop your phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh like the world has personally wronged you. All the glitter in the world can’t save this moment. Only Jazz can.

Preferably with fries.

⸻

It’s 4:32 p.m. when the front door opens with a quiet click and the familiar shuffle of cleats being kicked off in the entryway.

Jazz steps inside, still wearing his post practice uniform: loose clubhouse tee, grey joggers slung low on his hips, sneakers unlaced. His duffle bag hangs casually off one shoulder, and his fitted hat is pushed back just enough to give him that effortlessly cocky look like he’s ready to be annoying in the most affectionate way possible.

He’s humming a little to himself, scrolling through a few unread texts as he walks, already thinking of what dumb thing he’s going to say to make you roll your eyes and laugh. He’s imagining finding you mid-hobby high paint on your fingers, hair up, floor scattered with ribbons and yarn and chaos.

He’s picturing your usual crafting trance, music in the background, a snack in one hand and a glue stick in the other. Maybe you’ll be dancing around in mismatched socks again. Maybe you’ll hold up that Yankees tote bag he saw you working on and pretend to sell it to him for $1,000.

He even has a line ready.

“So when do I get my sparkly one, Picasso?”

But the moment he turns the corner into the living room he stops cold.

The whole vibe is off.

No music. No humming. No half laughing “don’t look at this mess” energy. No. What Jazz walks into is nothing short of a crime scene. There’s glitter on the floor. Not like a dusting like a spill. Like a unicorn wandered in and exploded mid-sneeze. It shimmers ominously across the rug, in the air, on the coffee table.

The glue gun is on its side, the cord twisted like it tried to run. There’s a sad, lonely trail of sour gummy worms leading from the craft zone to the couch, like a candy breadcrumb trail of despair. A half eaten bag of chips sits sideways on a pillow. A scrapbooking sticker is somehow stuck to the side of the dog’s water bowl.

And you, you’re in the middle of all of it.

Sitting cross legged on the floor, slumped in on yourself like a sad, sparkly little goblin. Still wearing his hoodie from this morning. Arms crossed tightly over your chest. Bottom lip jutted out in a pout so dramatic it could be taught in a drama class. A single tear is drying on your cheek like punctuation.

Your hair looks like you fought a static charged balloon and lost.

Jazz’s eyes land on the tote bag beside you.

Yankees logo backwards. The silver puffy paint has smudged into the navy fabric like a melted galaxy. A single rogue sequin sits in the middle of the number “2,” like it was supposed to be there but definitely wasn’t. The edges of the bag are crusted with what might be glue or pain.

And you don’t move. Just blink up at him with that face. That look.

That deadly combination of “say one wrong word and I’ll cry” and “say two and I will throw this glue stick at your head.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

Abort mission. Abort teasing mission. He raises both hands in immediate surrender, like he’s just been caught in enemy territory.

“Noted.”

He drops his bag without a sound and tiptoes into the room like it’s an active minefield. He sidesteps the glitter like it’s sacred ground. Literally moves around it, wide berth, like the floor is lava and he’s not about to be the guy who steps on your last nerve.

When he reaches you, he crouches down slowly like approaching a spooked animal. Like any sudden movement might trigger a meltdown.

He levels with you, voice so soft it barely registers.

“Okay,” he says carefully, like each word is a puzzle piece he has to place just right. “What do you need? Food? A blanket? The glitter to disappear? Me to rewind time and tackle you before you ever picked up the hot glue gun?”

You sniff once. Shoulders sag a little.

“Maybe all of that.”

He nods. Solemn. Understanding. Completely serious.

“Okay. Got it. You don’t even have to move. Don’t lift a finger. Just stay exactly how you are. I got you.”

Something about the way he says it so calm, so steady makes your throat tighten. Your chin wobbles. The threat of more tears builds at the corners of your eyes. But you don’t sob. Not yet. You just sit there, surrounded by chaos, looking up at him like he’s the last stable thing on earth.

Jazz doesn’t tease. Doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t roast you about the glitter stuck to your cheek or the taco patterned washi tape still stuck to your sock.

He just gently pats your knee as he stands, whispers, “Hang tight, Captain Crafty,” and heads into the kitchen like a man preparing to save a life.

⸻

Jazz doesn’t say a word. Not right away.

He just walks over, slow and steady, letting the silence do the work. His duffle bag’s still at the front door, his sneakers half off, but he doesn’t even glance back at them. All his attention is on you, sitting crumpled on the floor like the last sad petal on a glitter drenched flower.

He crouches behind you and places a hand gently on top of your head, fingers spreading through your hair in slow, grounding strokes. He doesn’t say anything about the fact that it’s sticking up in five directions or that there’s a sticker in it shaped like a taco. He just keeps smoothing it back, thumb brushing over the crown of your head like you’re something delicate and precious that needs soft hands and a quiet moment.

Then, without a single word, he leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple. It’s not performative. Not rushed. Just soft. Warm. Present. The kind of kiss that says, I see you. Even like this. Especially like this.

He disappears for a moment you barely register the sound of him moving through the apartment and then he’s back, draping your favorite blanket over your shoulders. The one that smells like clean laundry and a little bit like him faint cologne, locker room soap, maybe even leather from his glove. He wraps it around you carefully, tucking it beneath your arms with a precision that makes it feel like a hug you didn’t have to ask for.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle, like he’s coaxing you out of a cave. “Let’s get you horizontal.”

You don’t even argue. You let him guide you up with the kind of limp cooperation usually seen in tranquilized zoo animals. Your limbs feel too heavy to move with intention, so you just kind of go where he nudges you toward the couch, still swaddled in the blanket like some sad little human burrito.

You drop onto the cushions with a soft huff, face first, cheek smushed into a throw pillow that smells like fabric softener and stale potato chips. He tucks the blanket tighter around your legs and smooths the edge down like he’s tucking in the final piece of a puzzle.

“No teasing?” you ask, voice small, surprised. One eye peeking up from your pillow.

He flashes the briefest smile one of those soft, mouth corners only smiles that barely lifts his cheeks.

“Not today,” he says, and there’s no sarcasm, no punchline. Just a quiet sort of knowing.

Then he straightens, hands on hips, and surveys the room like a man trying to calculate how bad the damage really is. He doesn’t flinch at the glitter bomb that’s detonated across the floor. Doesn’t bat an eye at the washi tape stuck to the wall or the half empty snack bags in strange places.

There’s ribbon on the lampshade. There’s a button on the ceiling fan. He exhales through his nose. Long. Patient.

“I’ll clean this up,” he says casually, like he’s offering to take out the trash. “Go lay down, yeah?”

You make a noise something between “thank you” and “end me” but you roll onto your side and curl into the blanket anyway, letting it swallow you whole.

Then Jazz switches into full MVP boyfriend mode.

First up, the heating pad. He plugs it in with a little nod of approval when it lights up, then carefully slips it beneath the blanket and adjusts it right over your lower abdomen. He doesn’t ask if it’s helping he just knows it is. And if it’s not yet, it will be soon.

Next, he disappears into the bedroom and comes back holding your favorite socks the fuzzy ones with the little pink hearts on the soles that he always teases you about but secretly loves because they make your feet “look like cartoon feet.”

He kneels at the edge of the couch, gently takes one foot in his hand, and pulls the sock on like he’s helping cinderella try on a slipper. You don’t have the energy to be embarrassed. It’s too tender. Too good. Too him.

Then comes the snack tray. He clinks around in the kitchen for a minute and reappears with a full offering, one bottle of cold red gatorade, a little bowl of pretzels, and like a shining beacon from the snack gods themselves the emergency chocolate bar he keeps hidden behind the cereal box in the pantry.

You blink up at him.

“Where’d you—?”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, setting it gently on the coffee table in front of you like it’s an offering to a period goddess. “Sacred snacks only.”

And then, without warning, he walks back to the scene of the craft explosion, cracks his knuckles, and picks up the hot glue gun like he’s about to perform surgery.

You squint over at him, suspicion rising. “Jazz, what are you doing?”

He glances over his shoulder with a wink. “Saving your tote’s dignity.”

You groan into the pillow. “Jazz. It’s beyond saving.”

He ignores you. He’s already hunched over the table, tongue poking out the side of his mouth, eyes narrowed like a surgeon threading a needle. He fumbles with the glitter, tries to realign a wonky sticker, and squints at the backwards Yankees logo like it personally insulted his family.

“Jazz, seriously, don’t—”

“Too late,” he mutters, laser-focused. “I’m in the glue zone now.”

Click. Drip. Sizzle.

“OW.”

He jerks back, holding his hand in the air like it’s been burned by dragon fire. “Okay, why is that glue hotter than hell?!”

You burst out laughing.

Like actual laughter. Not a tired chuckle. Not a sarcastic snort. Real laughter. Full body, belly shaking, tear stinging kind of laughter. The kind that breaks through the fog of cramps and sweat and irrational mood swings and feels like breathing for the first time all day.

Jazz grins through the pain, clearly proud of himself despite his now glued fingertips.

You wipe your eyes, still giggling, and look over at him. “I’m sorry I was cranky.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Baby, you’re allowed to spiral once a month. Minimum. This was a mild one. You didn’t even throw anything.”

You snort, flopping to your back with a dramatic sigh. “There’s still time.”

He crosses the room, picks up a glitter covered pillow from the floor, and hands it to you with a theatrical bow. “Here if you’re gonna throw something, at least let it match the theme.”

You shake your head, smiling, as he finally sits next to you careful not to jostle the heating pad and throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you in. His fingers find your upper arm beneath the blanket, rubbing slow circles there, anchoring you with quiet warmth.

And just like that, the chaos doesn’t feel so heavy anymore.

⸻

Once the laughter fades and the heating pad starts to really work its magic, your body sinks even deeper into the couch cushions, slowly unraveling from the tension you didn’t realize you’d been carrying all day. The ache in your lower belly is still there, but it’s dulled now muted by warmth, snacks, and the quiet, grounding presence of Jazz sitting beside you.

The snack tray sits half empty on the coffee table. Your fuzzy socks are pulled up to your calves like armor. Jazz’s hand hasn’t left your arm in ten minutes his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against your sleeve like he’s keeping time with your breathing.

Just as your eyelids start to flutter closed, the comfort threatening to lull you into a nap, Jazz shifts beside you. You feel his weight leave the cushions slightly as he leans in and presses a soft kiss to your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing a few stray hairs off your forehead with a gentleness that feels almost reverent. “Don’t get too cozy. I’m upgrading your comfort package.”

You crack one eye open. “Huh?”

He smirks and stands, stretching a little as he backs away. “Stay here,” he says firmly, one finger pointed toward the couch like he means business. “No peeking. I mean it.”

Before you can protest or ask what he’s up to, he’s already walking off, disappearing around the corner toward the bathroom like a man on a sacred quest. The door clicks shut, and within seconds, you hear the unmistakable sound of running water. And then because it’s Jazz you hear him through the door, voice muffled but unmistakably dramatic.

“Yes, queen lavender and eucalyptus, do your thing! Let her ascend from the glitter grave!”

You groan, but you’re smiling. Wide. Genuinely. A moment later, another declaration, just as absurd, “She deserves better. She deserves bubbles and grapes and reparations.”

You roll your eyes, face buried in the couch pillow. “You are so dramatic,” you call out.

“Facts,” he yells back without missing a beat. “But also, I’m correct.”

Ten minutes pass, ten full minutes of splashing and candle clicks and what sounds suspiciously like him humming Tank or Usher under his breath before the door swings open again.

Jazz steps out with the proud, over the top smile of a man who believes he has personally cured menstruation. He bows slightly, arms out, and announces, “Your throne awaits, my hormonal goddess.”

You sit up slowly, the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders like a cape. You blink at him, wary. “I’m scared.”

“You should be,” he says gravely, gesturing dramatically toward the bathroom. “Of how good it is. Come, witness the healing power of essential oils and my unwavering devotion.”

You snort, but you’re already getting up, dragging your blanket behind you like a tired child at a sleepover. The second you step into the bathroom, your jaw drops.

Steam curls up from the tub, thick and floral in the air. There are candles flickering from every safe surface your favorite lavender ones lined up neatly along the edge of the counter, plus a few rogue tea lights in mismatched holders that look like they were yanked from the back of a junk drawer in desperation. Somehow, they all work. The soft glow makes the bathroom feel like something sacred.

The bath is already full and bubbling, thick clouds of foam resting atop the water like a cloud bank. A wooden bath tray stretches across the tub, perfectly balanced and stocked with offerings, a chilled bottle of red gatorade, already uncapped and waiting, a small bowl of cold grapes, the green kind you like best, and your bluetooth speaker playing soft, slow R&B, the playlist you once said helps your brain slow down on rough days.It smells like heaven. It looks like peace. It feels like love.

You turn back to him, eyes glossy now. “You did this, for me?”

He tilts his head, mock offended. “Who else in this house is melting down over a backwards Yankees logo and taco themed tape?”

You let out a watery laugh and stretch up to kiss his cheek, arms still tucked into your blanket. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m incredible,” he corrects, backing out of the doorway with a satisfied grin. “Now go soak before I start singing old school Usher under the door.”

You laugh again really laugh and step into the tub, the warmth swallowing your aching body in an instant. Your shoulders sink, your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time all day, the tension in your chest finally lets go. You breathe.

The minutes slip by in blissful quiet. You sip your gatorade. You eat your grapes one at a time. The music washes over you in waves. You lose track of time.

Twenty glorious, bubble scented minutes later, you reemerge from the bathroom wrapped in a towel, skin flushed pink and hair damp, and tug on your softest pajamas the ones with the stretched out collar and the faded cartoon characters Jazz always teases you about. But they’re clean. Cozy. Safe.

You pad into the living room expecting to find him scrolling his phone or half asleep on the couch, maybe distracted by a game. Instead?

Your favorite takeout is already laid out on the coffee table. The packaging’s been opened neatly, the containers arranged by order of your weirdest cravings. Extra sauce. The exact combo you always get. Perfectly warm.

The couch looks like a literal cloud blankets piled high, pillows fluffed and rearranged like a fort built by someone who cares. The lights have been dimmed to that soft, golden glow that makes everything feel ten degrees cozier.

And on the tv? Your comfort movie is queued up and ready to go. He’s already skipped the intro, because he knows. You don’t need setup. You need serotonin.

Jazz looks up as you enter, one arm thrown casually across the back of the couch. He pats the seat beside him, smile lazy and warm. “Come here.”

You flop down into the blanket pile without hesitation, and he immediately lifts one side to wrap it over your lap. His hands find the heating pad again, adjusting it back into place without you even asking. He tucks it close, just the way you like.

Then he hands you your takeout container like it’s a sacred ritual, eyes twinkling.

“We’re gonna eat noodles,” he says, “and pretend today didn’t try to assassinate you.”

You lean into his shoulder, the food warm in your lap, the movie starting up in the background, his arm tight around your back.

And you smile. Soft. Tired. Whole.

“Deal,” you whisper.

And for the first time all day, everything feels just right.

⸻

The movie plays softly in the background, flickering against the walls in gentle, rhythmic light. It hums like a lullaby beneath the surface of your thoughts just enough noise to let you both sink into the same wavelength without needing words. Warm. Fed. Finally still.

Jazz shifts beside you, adjusting his weight into the cushions with a soft sigh, legs stretched long beneath the blanket fort you now fully occupy. One arm is still looped around your shoulders, fingers tracing the edge of your sleeve in slow, absent circles like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. His presence is steady and grounding, like the hum of a song you didn’t realize you missed until you heard it again.

Your takeout container sits precariously in your lap, half-eaten and forgotten, while your fork has mysteriously disappeared somewhere in the folds of a throw pillow probably never to be seen again. You’re too comfortable to care.

Then, without warning, Jazz reaches over, plucks a noodle out of your bowl with the stealth of a trained thief, and twirls it dramatically around your fork like he’s plating it for a michelin tasting menu. His pinky lifts as he raises the bite toward your mouth with over the top flair.

“For the queen,” he declares, voice suddenly deep and booming like he’s reading from a scroll. “Presented with love and extra soy sauce.”

You roll your eyes but open your mouth anyway, letting him feed you the bite. You chew slowly, side eyeing him with a smirk.

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to stab you,” you murmur.

He grins, already reaching for another bite. “Oh, you say that with love,” he says airily. “Deep, noodle fed love.”

You nudge him gently with your elbow, letting your head fall against his shoulder as the movie continues on, mostly ignored. The storyline fades into the background, the sound of Jazz’s breathing and your shared laughter filling the space instead.

You shift closer, burrowing against him, tucking your legs up as your body molds perfectly to his side like you were made to fit there. He doesn’t move. If anything, he pulls you tighter, rests his chin lightly on the top of your head, and exhales like the day’s finally let him breathe again too.

Minutes pass like that quiet, steady, whole. Eventually, with your cheek pressed to his chest and your fingers idly playing with the hem of his sleeve, you mumble, “Thanks for not being annoying today.”

He pauses mid-forkful and looks down at you with mock offense, brows raised.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says ominously.

You blink up at him, confused. “Why?”

He smirks, then reaches up, gently brushing his thumb across your eyebrow. He pulls his hand back and holds it in front of your face. There, glittering under the dim lamplight, is a single rogue speck of glitter. Just one. Shimmering, defiant, clinging to the pad of his finger like it’s sworn a personal vendetta.

“There’s more where that came from,” he says gravely. “And if we don’t deal with it, you’re gonna wake up tomorrow looking like tinker bell lost a fight in your sleep.”

You groan and immediately smack your forehead against his shoulder. “God, I’m going to be finding glitter until next year.”

He chuckles and kisses the exact spot where your head landed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is a bad thing.”

Jazz shrugs like he disagrees. “Glitter’s festive. Fun. Slightly dangerous. Kinda like you.”

You lift your head just enough to glare. “Remind me to never craft again.”

He grins wider, absolutely unbothered. “Never say never. You in glitter is kind of hot.”

You swat his thigh with your free hand, but before you can pull away, he catches it, lacing his fingers through yours and tucking them both under the blanket. His grip is loose but sure warm and worn in, like everything else about tonight.

The movie reaches the slow part the montage you’ve seen a hundred times and the volume dips just low enough to let the quiet settle again.

You yawn without meaning to, and Jazz doesn’t say anything. He just presses a kiss to your hairline and adjusts the blanket over your lap. Then he starts gently picking through your hair, humming softly, pretending to be on the lookout for more glitter, even though he’s not really checking anymore. He just likes the excuse to touch you.

And for the rest of the night, he stays right there beside you feeding you noodles one minute, untangling your hoodie strings the next, and making absolutely sure the glitter situation is handled before you pass out on his chest, safe and tucked beneath his heartbeat.

All in a day’s work for your soft, sparkly, occasionally glue scarred MVP.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

endless gifs of max fried because i’m insane 70/???

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

8/6/2025

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

grumpy, meet sunshine

summary: you’re the bubbly neighbor who talks to plants and says hi to every dog and max fried is the closed off yankees pitcher who’s been avoiding feelings until you showed up with sunshine and stubbornness.

word count: 7.4k words

a/n: WE WON!!!! enjoy this max imagine! i love you guys! thank you for reading!

⸻

Max didn’t expect much from the new place, that was the whole point.

No roommates. No high rise echo chamber. No media in the lobby pretending not to recognize him. Just a quiet, unassuming brownstone tucked far enough uptown to feel like a different city entirely. The kind of street where you could hear yourself think. Where the biggest excitement was probably a runaway trash bin on a windy day.

Perfect.

The moving truck had pulled away twenty minutes ago, leaving behind the faint smell of oil and cardboard in the stairwell. Inside, the apartment already looked more settled than most people’s after a month. Boxes were stacked by size labeled in blocky capital letters, KITCHEN, BEDROOM, MISC, and GEAR. He’d mapped out where everything would go before he even signed the lease. Couch against the back wall. Bookshelf by the window. Knives in the second drawer, not the first.

Max thrived on order. Order meant control. Control kept everything else in check.

He was crouched by the kitchen counter, slicing through the last strip of packing tape with the same slow, practiced ease he used on the mound. The knife set was unwrapped one by one. Each blade wiped clean, lined up in the drawer just so.

The silence suited him. No music. No TV. Just the steady rhythm of unpacking. Of settling in.

Then, a knock. Three short taps. Light. Friendly. He froze mid-reach, brows pulling together. No one was supposed to know he was here. The team had kept it quiet. The building manager had said the neighbors were lowkey. Private. Mind their own business types.

Another knock.

Max stood, rolled his shoulders once, and crossed the room. He opened the door cautiously, the kind of cautious that didn’t look like caution just quiet restraint.

And immediately regretted it.

The first thing he saw was brightness. Color. Life.

You were standing there in a paint splattered hoodie and leggings with a tray balanced in both hands, covered by the most aggressively cheerful tea towel he’d ever seen. Polka dots. Actual polka dots. Your sneakers were neon pink. Your hair was windblown. You looked like a walking serotonin boost.

And you were grinning at him like he hadn’t just looked at you like a deer spotting headlights.

“Hi!” you chirped, like you hadn’t just climbed four flights of stairs carrying a full tray of baked goods. “I’m your neighbor next door, the one with the ridiculous amount of plants. Sorry in advance. I figured moving day kind of sucks, so I brought you something.”

Your voice was friendly. Confident. Warm in a way that immediately filled up the small hallway between you.

Max stared for a beat too long. Not because he was annoyed just startled.

People didn’t usually come at him with sunshine and baked goods.

You held the tray out toward him like a peace offering. “Banana bread. With chocolate chips. Unless you’re allergic,” you added quickly, tilting your head. “In which case, forget I ever knocked and I’ll go hide in shame.”

He blinked. A full two seconds passed before he remembered how words worked.

“No allergies,” he said, voice low and neutral. He took the tray slowly, like it might explode. “Thanks. That’s very kind.”

You opened your mouth, probably to keep the conversation going maybe to ask his name, maybe to launch into a recommendation about the cafe down the block that made decent lattes but terrible muffins. But he was already retreating.

With a polite nod, Max took a step back into the apartment, and before your smile could wobble or turn awkward, he closed the door. Click. Silence again.

You blinked at the door like it had just personally offended you, then let out a soft laugh the kind that said you’d seen this before.

“That’s how we’re playing it, huh?” you muttered, hands on your hips. Then, smiling to yourself, you turned and bounced back down the hall with a renewed spring in your step.

“Challenge accepted.”

⸻

Max kept telling himself it was just coincidence.

New building. New neighborhood. New rhythm. It made sense, statistically you run into people who live near you. That was normal. Predictable. Nothing strange about seeing the same face now and then.

Except you weren’t just any neighbor. You were the neighbor.

Banana bread girl. Barefoot on the stoop girl. Somehow best friends with the mailman on day one girl. The one who hummed when she watered her plants, who waved at strangers like you’d known them for years, who talked to the dog across the hall like it was a person. That neighbor.

And apparently, you were everywhere.

⸻

The first time after moving day, it was in the hallway.

Max had just come back from the gym, earbuds in, hoodie pulled low. He’d timed it on purpose midday, off peak, no one around. He figured he looked unapproachable. That was the goal.

But as he turned the corner, there you were kneeling at your door, struggling to wedge a full brown paper grocery bag through it while balancing a precarious stack of library books on top.

He slowed automatically, eyebrow lifting. You looked up and grinned like it was fate.

“Oh hey, mystery man! Survived week one?”

His hand moved up to tug one earbud out. “Yeah. Quiet’s nice.”

You smiled like he’d said something poetic. Max stared for half a second too long.

“Glad you’re settling in,” you continued, brushing a strand of hair out of your face with the back of your wrist. “Oh and your banana bread dish is still on my counter. I might’ve been using it to hold lemons. I’ll get it back to you.”

“Take your time,” he said, giving a polite nod before slipping past.

He didn’t glance back. But by the time he closed his own door, there was the ghost of a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth.

⸻

Next time was the coffee shop.

His spot quiet, dim lighting, no fuss. He liked that the barista didn’t make small talk. He liked that no one cared who he was. It was the kind of place that let him be invisible.

Or it had been.

You were at the counter when he walked in, animated and laughing with the barista like it was a reunion.

“You cannot tell me you voluntarily wake up before 7 a.m. for fun,” you were saying, mock scandalized. “That’s practically a war crime.”

Max slid into line behind you, cap low, hands in his pockets. He stared straight ahead and tried not to let your voice make his shoulders relax.

You glanced over your shoulder and lit up. “Oh hey! Look at you venturing out.”

He blinked. “I live here?”

You gasped. “Max speaks. Someone alert the press.”

The barista snorted. Max gave a tight smile, biting back the laugh that nearly slipped out.

You moved aside to wait for your drink, and when it was his turn, he muttered, “Double espresso. No room,” without meeting your eyes.

But as he walked outside drink in hand, sun already too bright he glanced back through the window.

You were standing at the counter, tea bag swinging in lazy circles, grinning at something the barista said. Then you caught him looking and waved. With the tea bag. He rolled his eyes. Barely.

And came back the next morning at the exact same time.

⸻

Trash day was next.

You were dragging bins to the curb in a hoodie and one sock the other foot bare on the cold cement muttering to yourself about “poor infrastructure” as a cardboard box flopped out of your arms. You tripped on the curb, arms flailing like a cartoon character, and Max fresh out the door in black sweats and a Yankees hoodie caught your elbow before you could eat pavement.

His grip was steady. Solid. No words. No dramatic flair. Just instinct.

You looked up, hair in your mouth, stunned and breathless. “Wow. Do you moonlight as a superhero or is that just a tuesday thing?”

He shook his head, a barely there huff of air leaving his chest. If you squinted, it might’ve been a laugh.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

“Graceful as ever,” you said, brushing yourself off. “Thanks, neighbor.”

He didn’t answer. Just bent down, picked up a few rogue cans, and righted your bin like it was second nature.

You stared at him for a second. Really stared. And he saw it the way your expression softened. Like you were adding something new to your mental file on him. A quiet softness that surprised you.

Max didn’t say a word, but he felt it in his chest anyway.

⸻

It kept happening.

The run ins. The overlaps. The subtle gravitational pull he couldn’t seem to shake.

Every time, Max told himself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t a thing.

But little things started to shift. He started pausing at his door, listening for your voice in the hallway before heading out. Started recognizing the cadence of your laugh before he saw you. Started glancing into the coffee shop window to see if you were there before stepping inside. Not waiting for you, just noticing.

When he passed you in the lobby one night arms full of takeout, earbuds in, still managing to wave to the doorman with a grin he didn’t say anything. Didn’t even slow down. But the second the elevator doors closed behind him, he leaned against the wall and exhaled.

Long. Quiet. A little crooked at the edges. She’s everywhere and the worst part?

He didn’t mind, not one bit.

⸻

The rain had been falling all day steady and grey, like the sky had finally given up pretending it had better things to do. No thunder. No drama. Just an endless, whispering drizzle that painted the sidewalks darker and left everything damp and slow.

Max liked this kind of weather.

It was predictable. Controlled. The kind of stillness that softened the edges of the world the honking horns became background hums, conversations turned to murmurs under umbrellas, and even the wind seemed gentler, brushing along the brownstone windows like it knew it wasn’t welcome inside.

Days like this made the city feel manageable. Smaller. Like maybe he didn’t have to brace for it quite so much.

Still, his mood matched the sky.

Two straight losses. A no decision he couldn’t stop replaying in his head. His mechanics felt off. His release point had been drifting. He could feel the tension in his scapula even after ice, stretching, and a full hour in the training room.

“Fine,” the coaches had said. Max didn’t do fine. Fine was the word people used when something wasn’t worth fixing and he didn’t believe in letting things sit like that.

So he ran. Not because he had to. Not for cardio or conditioning. Just because it was something he could control. Pace. Breath. Distance. No noise. No voices. Just him and the sidewalk, even if it was slick with rain and the hood of his sweatshirt stuck to his neck.

His sneakers squelched with every step as he rounded the corner back to the brownstone, earbuds now hanging loose around his neck. He was cold. He was wet. He was somewhere between frustrated and exhausted.

And then he saw you. On the stoop. Hood pulled up over your head, rain jacket zipped to your chin. One hand clutching a drink tray like a treasure map, the other hovering above it like a makeshift umbrella. You looked ridiculous. Ridiculously you. Your face lit up the second your eyes met his. Like the clouds hadn’t dulled you at all.

“Hey! Perfect timing,” you called, like you’d been waiting for him all morning. “I was just about to knock.”

Max stopped at the bottom of the steps, blinking through rain speckled lashes.

“On my door?”

You held out one of the cups with a shrug and a crooked grin. “Rainy day coffee delivery. You looked like you needed it.”

He just stared at it. At you. At the fact that you were standing out here like it was the most normal thing in the world to give your grumpy neighbor a drink just because the weather sucked and his expression screamed leave me alone. You were already waving off his hesitation.

“It’s not poisoned, I swear. Just black coffee. I figured rainy days are, like, ten times worse when you’re forced to be vertical and honestly, you looked like you lost a fight with the sky.”

Max glanced down at himself. Damp hoodie. Sweatpants soaked at the cuffs. Hair dripping into his eyes. Fair. Still, something in him stalled. Not because he didn’t want it, but because no one did things like this for him. Not unless they wanted something in return. And you? You were standing there on a rainy stoop in the middle of a Thursday, offering him coffee like it meant nothing at all. He reached up, slow and unsure, and took the cup.

“Thanks,” he said, voice rough with the chill. He cleared his throat. “That’s thoughtful.”

You gave a one shouldered shrug, sipping your own drink. “Don’t make it weird.”

And then it happened. The twitch. The flicker. The brief upward pull of his mouth that never quite got to be called a smile except it was. Small. Blinking you’d miss it real. You caught it, of course. Didn’t call it out. Didn’t make it a thing. You just looked up at the rain, like it was an old friend, and let the silence hang easy between you. Max stood there a moment longer debating the right thing to do, the usual exit lines, the reasons to go inside and pretend like this never happened. Then, without a word, he sat down on the step beside you.

The rain kept falling. You didn’t speak. But something shifted.

A quiet, tentative hum in the air not quite a beginning, but no longer an ending.

⸻

It didn’t change overnight.

But after that, something in him loosened. You started seeing more of him. Not because he suddenly became chatty or expressive, but because he stopped running from the spaces you filled.

He lingered when you passed in the hallway. Asked how your day had been.

Nodded toward your half wilted pothos plant and asked, “Is that thing supposed to be that color?” like he hadn’t already googled it.

Once, after a win, he held the elevator door open even though you were still halfway down the hall tote bag slipping off your shoulder, umbrella dripping all over the floor. He didn’t say anything. Just waited, quietly, until you made it in.

And when you told him a ridiculous story about getting locked out of your apartment wearing fuzzy socks and a bathrobe with flamingos on it, he actually laughed.

Not a huff. Not a smirk. A laugh. Low. Soft. Real.

And it wrecked you a little bit, because you hadn’t known how badly you wanted to hear it until then. Then there were the looks. The quiet ones. The ones you weren’t meant to notice.

When you were watering your plants barefoot on the stoop, or talking to the old man across the hall, or helping a neighbor carry groceries up the stairs. You’d glance toward the windows sometimes and spot him there coffee mug in hand, shoulder leaning against the frame, eyes on you.

He never looked away in a hurry. Never scowled or ducked out of sight. He just watched. Calm. Thoughtful. Like he was trying to figure out something he hadn’t let himself think about until now. And maybe he was. Because somewhere between the banana bread, the accidental run ins, and the coffee on the stairs you’d become part of his rhythm.

And for once, Max didn’t want to change the pace.

⸻

It started with a light in the window.

You were coming back from a late shift body aching in that dull, heavy way that settles after hours on your feet. Your hoodie was pulled up, but the rain had already seeped through at the edges. The streets glistened, not with magic, but with wet concrete and traffic light reflections. The kind of night where the whole world felt like it was exhaling.

The brownstone was quiet when you turned the corner tucked between sleepy buildings and shuttered cafés. The kind of quiet that made your footsteps feel too loud, even on the soaked pavement. But there, on the third floor, glowing like a steady heartbeat, was Max’s window.

Warm. Soft. Familiar, somehow.

It wasn’t unusual you’d noticed it before. Not on purpose, just over time. Little things. The way that particular lamp cast a yellow honey light. The silhouette of a figure pacing occasionally. The stillness that always followed.

You hadn’t meant to start keeping track. It just sort of happened. A comfort, maybe. A rhythm you hadn’t realized you were syncing to.

Tonight, though something tugged at you.

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe the silence. Maybe the way your day had frayed at the seams and you wanted a small win something that made you feel like yourself again. So you pulled out your phone, thumb hovering.

“Are you rereading The Martian again or just scared of the dark?”

You hit send with a smirk, already halfway down the hallway. You figured he wouldn’t respond. Max Fried wasn’t exactly known for his emoji use. But before you even unlocked your door, your phone buzzed.

Max: 😐

You stopped in your tracks. Blinked. Then laughed out loud, bright and genuine the kind of laugh that cracked the tension right down your spine. Alone in the hallway, grinning at your screen like an idiot.

“Victory,” you whispered, and opened your door.

⸻

After that, things shifted. Subtle. Easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But you were.

Max helped you carry your groceries up the stairs a few days later didn’t ask, didn’t offer. Just took the heavier bags from your arms like it was second nature. Like it didn’t cost him anything to do it. When you unlocked your door and offered him a cookie from the bakery box you’d impulse bought out of stress and sugar cravings, he took one. Said thanks. Didn’t bolt.

He stood there for a moment longer. Like he didn’t want to bolt.

Another night, you knocked on his door. Hair frizzy from the shower, socks mismatched, and holding a sandal like it was a weapon.

“Spider,” you said seriously. “Living room. Big. Disrespectful.”

He blinked once, then sighed but he followed you anyway. No questions. No teasing.

The spider was curled near your window, menacing and completely unmoved by your shrieks. Max crouched, dealt with it in under ten seconds, and stood up like he hadn’t just saved your life.

“You’re a hero,” you said solemnly, watching him from behind the safety of your kitchen doorway.

He just shook his head, but you caught it. The flicker of a smirk as he left, silent and satisfied.

⸻

Then came the night that cracked something open.

He’d just gotten back from a late game. Not his start, but the team had taken a tough loss. One of those nights where the air felt heavier, like everyone was carrying their own personal storm.

You spotted him on the stoop hoodie on, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, legs stretched out, ankles crossed. He wasn’t doing anything. Just sitting. Letting the night settle on his shoulders like he didn’t feel it.

You didn’t say anything at first. You just sat beside him, handing him your half eaten container of pasta without looking. No expectations. No pressure. Just warmth in a box and a moment shared. After a while, you nudged his elbow with yours.

“I made too much,” you murmured. “Come inside before I throw it at the raccoon that keeps taunting me.”

He didn’t laugh, exactly. But he let out a slow breath, like you’d opened a window somewhere inside him. He hesitated, eyes flicking toward the building like the stairs might collapse under him if he said yes.

But then quietly, simply he stood and followed you in.

Your apartment wasn’t perfect. There were dishes drying on the counter, books stacked in teetering piles, a blanket half fallen off the couch. But it was warm. It smelled like garlic and basil, and your playlist was still humming from earlier low, cozy, intimate. You didn’t hover. Didn’t ask if he wanted anything else. Just handed him a bowl, sat across from him at the kitchen table, and started eating.

A few bites in, he spoke. “I don’t know how to explain it,” he said, eyes on his food. “Sometimes it feels like everything’s moving too fast, and I’m the only one trying to stay still.”

You looked at him, but didn’t fill the silence. Just let it stretch.

He kept going, slower this time, like he was testing the weight of each word.

“I love what I do. I do. But some days I wonder if I’d still be me without it. Or if I’ve built so much of my identity around it that I wouldn’t know how to exist without a schedule. Or a jersey. Or… the pressure.”

You didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t offer advice or some tired line about balance and gratitude. You just let it hang there.

Real. Raw. Honest.

“That’s a lot to carry,” you said softly, fingers tracing the condensation on your glass.

He looked up at you then, really looked and for once, didn’t look away.

“It is,” he admitted. “And I don’t really talk about it.”

“You don’t have to,” you said. “But if you ever want to I’m not going anywhere.”

The words weren’t heavy. Weren’t a promise or a plea. Just steady. Like a foundation being laid, quiet and slow.

He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to.

When you stood to do the dishes, he reached out, gently took the bowl from your hands, and started rinsing it without a word.

And when he left an hour later hoodie back on, rain misting down like a hush over the block he paused at the door.

“Thanks,” he said.

Not just for the food. You knew that. So did he.

⸻

You weren’t heartbroken. It wasn’t that kind of date.

It was a friend of a friend situation. A “you two would totally get along” with zero actual foundation and one vaguely promising exchange over text. Coffee at a small cafe, early evening, casual. You didn’t even wear real mascara.

Just enough effort to signal “open.” Not enough to make it hurt.

But still, standing outside that tiny cafe, umbrella closed and dangling from your wrist, the string lights above flickering like they were debating whether to stay on, your phone glowing blank in your hand it stung.

Not because he didn’t show, because he didn’t even bother to cancel. No text. No excuse. Just silence.

You gave him the benefit of the doubt for fifteen minutes. Then five more. Then, with your chin up and your mouth fixed in a practiced smile, you turned and walked away like it didn’t touch you at all. Like the disappointment wasn’t already curling around your chest, sharp and quiet.

The rain had started again not a downpour, just that misty, miserable drizzle that clung to your skin and made everything feel colder than it was.

Of course it had.

By the time you turned onto your block, your hoodie was damp at the seams and your throat felt too tight. You were already rehearsing what you’d tell your friend who’d set it up something breezy, something sarcastic, something to laugh off like it hadn’t landed.

Then you saw him. Max. Stepping out of the corner bodega, brown paper bag tucked against his side, hoodie up, earbuds slack around his neck.

Your pace slowed instinctively.

He looked up. Met your eyes.

You tried really tried to summon the smile he was used to. The one that said I’m fine, the one that always rose like a reflex when things didn’t go as planned.

But it faltered. Just for a second.

And Max? He caught it. He always did.

His brows dipped. “You good?”

You nodded too fast. “Yeah. Totally.”

You waved a hand like you were swatting away a cloud.

“Just casual night out. Casual disappointment,” you added, tone light, like a joke you’d already told yourself. “Got stood up. Classic.”

You laughed once, sharp and thin.

Max didn’t.

He didn’t frown. Didn’t tilt his head or try to fix it. He just looked at you steady, quiet like he was holding space without needing to say anything at all.

And somehow, that made it harder to pretend it didn’t matter.

⸻

You didn’t go back to your apartment that night.

He didn’t say, Come in. Didn’t say anything, actually.

He just opened his door a few minutes later like it was something he’d already decided before he saw you and you stepped inside without hesitating.

There was tea waiting on the coffee table. Your favorite throw blanket already draped over the arm of the couch. A movie queued up but not yet playing, the room lit only by the glow of the lamp near the window.

He didn’t ask questions. You didn’t offer answers.

You just curled up beside him not close, not yet but in that quiet proximity that buzzed like electricity just under the skin. You could feel him, even without touching. Could feel the weight of the air between you. Could feel the way your breathing synced up over time.

The movie started. Something you’d both seen. Something low-stakes and familiar. You weren’t watching it.

Halfway through, your fingers shifted on the cushion. And his grazed yours.

Not deliberate. Not forced. Just contact. You didn’t pull away. Neither did he.

⸻

The silence between you stretched. Not empty charged.

Full of all the things you hadn’t said over coffees and stoop conversations and spider rescues and pasta on rainy nights. Full of this this thing that had been building, humming quietly under every shared glance, every almost smile.

You felt it before he said anything.

The shift in his posture. The way his shoulder leaned just slightly closer. The way the air between your hands felt thinner, like the space didn’t want to be there anymore.

Then, soft so soft you almost missed it.

“I don’t know what this is”

Your breath caught. You turned your head, and he was already looking at you. Already there.

“but I think about you more than I should.”

The words settled in your chest like gravity. Not heavy just real. Raw. He didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The movie kept playing. Some laugh track rolled through a scene in the background. But here, in the glow of the lamp and the warmth of this almost moment, it all felt a thousand miles away.

His phone buzzed on the table. Once. Twice.

The name on the screen lit up someone from the team, probably. Maybe his agent. Maybe a reminder of everything outside this bubble that wasn’t as quiet, as safe, as you. He reached for it instinctively, paused with his fingers just grazing the screen.

Then he exhaled. Hard. Leaned back. Pulled away. Only an inch. But it felt like a mile.

“I shouldn’t” he murmured. His voice had a rasp to it now. Tight. Careful.

“Not yet.”

You didn’t ask what not yet meant. You knew.

It meant this matters. It meant I’m scared of ruining it. It meant please don’t stop looking at me like that. So you didn’t move. You stayed. Close but not touching, your pinkies still resting side by side. And when the movie ended, neither of you got up. Because sometimes the almost is loud enough.

And sometimes it’s everything.

⸻

The silence started the next morning.

No text. No knock on your door. No light in his window at 1 a.m. Just absence. Deliberate and obvious and echoing a little too loudly down the hallway between your apartments. You told yourself it was fine. That it didn’t mean anything. That almost didn’t come with rules, and silence wasn’t the same as rejection.

But still, the ache settled in anyway. Quiet. Constant. Like the echo of something you weren’t quite allowed to call heartbreak.

You kept your routine. Got up. Went to work. Watered your plants. Smiled at your neighbors like nothing inside you had paused.

But three days passed. Three long, dragging days where Max avoided you with a precision that felt practiced. He wasn’t subtle.

Skipped the coffee shop during your usual window. Took the back stairs when he used to take the front. And once, once you swore you heard his door click shut the second your keys jangled in the lock across the hall.

It was like trying to hold onto fog. And maybe, maybe it would’ve stung less if he hadn’t said anything that night. If he hadn’t looked at you like he knew you. Like you were something steady in a world that rarely offered him stillness.

But he had. So yeah. It stung.

⸻

The next time you saw him, it was on the front steps.

He was unlocking his mailbox hoodie up, head down, jaw tight like he was bracing for a storm that hadn’t started yet.

You were coming up the stoop with a bag of groceries balanced on one hip, earbuds in, sunglasses on even though the sky was more gray than sunny. You saw him a beat before he looked up.

And when he did, when your eyes met you gave him a polite nod.

“Hey.”

Not soft. Not warm. Not you. Just neighborly. Distant. Efficient. The kind of “hey” you’d give someone you used to know. You didn’t wait for a response. Just kept walking, keys already in hand.

Max froze.

Stood there in the doorway with the mailbox still open and his fingers curled a little too tightly around the metal.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t follow. Just let you go.

But your voice cool and clipped and so far from the version of you he’d come to crave echoed longer than it should’ve. It rang in his ears through the rest of the day, folding itself into his thoughts like a crease he couldn’t smooth out. He told himself he was doing the right thing. That pulling back was smarter. Cleaner. Safer. That you deserved someone who wouldn’t hesitate when things got close.

But that didn’t stop the part of him that hated himself for walking away.

⸻

The game was bad. Not catastrophic. Not career ruining.

Just off.

Everything felt a beat behind his delivery, his rhythm, his grip on the ball. He wasn’t unraveling. Just unraveled. Quietly. Internally. From somewhere he couldn’t quite reach.

He got through four innings. Maybe five. It was all a blur.

By the sixth, he was on the bench. Hood over his head. Hands clenched. Eyes fixed on a patch of grass he’d stared at a thousand times before but never noticed until now.

The stadium was alive crowd noise, vendors yelling, teammates talking down the line. But it all faded. Because his mind was somewhere else.

Back in your apartment. On your couch. Your voice in the dark. The way your fingers had barely brushed his. The way he’d let fear win.

And worse, the way you hadn’t chased him when he pulled away. You’d let him go. That hurt more than he expected. So when the final out came and he’d showered and changed and slammed his locker door shut like it might answer something for him, he pulled out his phone.

Stared at your name. Typed. Deleted. Typed again.

Max: You home?

He didn’t wait for the read receipt. Didn’t try to justify it. Didn’t give himself time to change his mind.

He just got in the car.

⸻

You heard the knock before the text buzzed.

When you opened the door, he was already standing there hoodie on, hat pulled low, expression unreadable but body tense like he was holding himself together by force.

You didn’t say anything. Just stepped aside. He moved past you with a quiet, unsure sort of energy. Like he didn’t know why he was here, only that he couldn’t not be.

His keys hit the counter with a dull clatter. He dropped into the couch without speaking. Leaned back, eyes closed, arms slack at his sides like every inch of him was tired not just physically, but in that deep, soul heavy kind of way.

You watched him from the doorway for a long moment. Then, without a word, you crossed the room, opened the little tin on the shelf the one you always pretended was just for guests and pulled out a cookie. You walked over, knelt beside the couch, and gently pressed it into his hand.

Max blinked. Looked at it. Then looked up at you. His eyes were glassy. Not wet, but too bright. Too unguarded. He stared at you like he wasn’t sure if you were real. Then, finally after four days of radio silence, of distance and pride and all the noise inside his own head he let out a soft, breathy chuckle.

Almost a laugh.

“I missed this,” he said.

His voice cracked just slightly around the words. You didn’t ask what this meant. You already knew.

This couch. This quiet. This soft, steady version of you that didn’t ask him to be more than he could offer but somehow made him want to be, anyway.

So you sat beside him. Not touching. Not pushing. Just there. And slowly carefully, like he didn’t want to startle the moment Max leaned just slightly your way.

Not fully in. Not yet. But closer.

Like maybe, this time, he wouldn’t run.

⸻

It was late.

The kind of late that softened the edges of everything.

That liminal hour where the world felt half asleep and half listening, where even the rain outside seemed to forget its urgency now just a hush against the windows, like a lullaby for the restless.

Your apartment had settled into its own version of stillness. The kitchen light cast a golden glow, soft and flickering, while the tv played to no one a muted show neither of you had paid attention to in hours. The only real sound was the occasional clink of ceramic when someone shifted near the forgotten mugs on the coffee table, and the quiet, steady breath that had started to match between you.

Max sat beside you on the couch, as he had a dozen times before. But tonight felt different. One leg stretched out, the other bent close. His elbow rested just inches from yours, fingers loose and unmoving in his lap. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up halfway, exposing his forearms a detail so simple, so casual, and yet somehow it made your chest ache. Because he looked soft. Raw. Like the armor he usually wore had slipped just far enough for the real version of him to peek through.

But there was tension in him, too. In his shoulders. His jaw. The way his thumb pressed absently into his palm. Like he was on the edge of something not panic, not flight, just truth.

You were curled up sideways, knees tucked beneath you, your body angled instinctively toward him. You hadn’t moved much either. Didn’t want to. The air between you was full of things unsaid, of almosts and maybes and what ifs. Not heavy, not suffocating. Just waiting. He hadn’t pulled away this time.

Not when your thigh brushed his. Not when your head had leaned close enough to skim his shoulder. Not even when your laughter the real kind, unfiltered had made him crack a half smile that he didn’t bother to hide. But he hadn’t leaned in, either.

The line the one you’d both been dancing around for weeks was still there.

Faint. Fragile. But unmistakable. Until now. Until the silence stretched past comfort and into something else something that hummed beneath your skin and Max shifted beside you. Just a breath, just a tilt of his body. But enough. His voice broke the quiet like something sacred.

“I didn’t mean to let you in.”

You turned toward him slowly, your heart catching on every beat. He didn’t meet your eyes not yet. His gaze stayed fixed on the faint light flickering across the tv screen, his brows drawn tight, his mouth pressing into a thin, unsure line.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said, and there was a tremor in his voice, like he wasn’t used to hearing himself speak this honestly. “I thought I could keep it simple. Just neighbor stuff. Banter. Banana bread.” A faint huff of a breath escaped, almost a laugh. “But then you were just there. All the time. Watering your plants. Talking to strangers like you’d known them forever. Leaving coffee on my step when it rained like it wasn’t a big deal.”

He swallowed.

“And suddenly” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper now. “It felt quieter when you weren’t around.”

That line that one sentence, settled in your chest with a kind of aching gentleness. Not painful. Just true.

He wasn’t saying I’m in love with you. He was saying I noticed when you weren’t there. He was saying you mattered before I could admit it. He was saying you got past everything I never let anyone near.

You didn’t rush to answer. Didn’t break the moment with words that might crumble under too much weight. Instead, you smiled. Soft. Certain.

“Good thing I’m loud, then.”

He looked at you. Really looked. And for the first time, the storm behind his eyes eased. No hesitation. No fear. Just relief. Like something inside him something that had been wound tight for longer than even he realized finally let go. He reached for your hand then. No brushing fingertips. No half measure. He took it.

Slowly. Deliberately. Like he was choosing this, choosing you. And when your fingers laced through his without hesitation, he let out a breath that sounded like coming home.

Then, carefully like every movement mattered, Max leaned in. Not to kiss you. Not yet. Just close enough to press his forehead to yours.

A silent confession in itself. A moment suspended between breath and meaning. Like this you, him, here was all the noise and all the quiet he needed.

And this time, there was nothing left between you but yes.

⸻

It didn’t happen overnight.

There was no switch flipped. No sudden moment when the walls all came down at once. It was slower than that quieter. Like sunlight shifting across a room, unnoticed until you realized everything looked warmer than it used to.

But over time, the sharp edges softened. The pauses between glances disappeared. The invisible line faded. Max learned how to exist in your sunshine without shrinking.

He stopped bracing when you came into the room mid-sentence, laughter still clinging to your words. Stopped freezing when you tossed him your phone with a “look at this dog” or danced around the kitchen in mismatched socks. He stopped watching you like you were going to get tired of him like he was a passing season you’d eventually move on from.

He stopped guarding so tightly and started opening. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in the way he lingered in doorways longer than necessary. In the way he asked about your day and actually listened. In the way he stood behind you while you cooked and rested his hand lightly at your waist like it had always belonged there.

He learned to let you take up space not because you demanded it, but because you filled it without apology. Because you didn’t shrink to make him comfortable. And because you never asked him to be anything but exactly who he was.

And you? You learned when to be quiet with him.

When to sit next to him in stillness, your foot resting against his under a blanket while he flipped through a book. When to let him stew in his own thoughts without poking too soon. When to run your fingers through his hair instead of asking him why he was tense. When to press your lips to the edge of his shoulder and whisper, “You don’t have to talk. I’m just here.”

But you also learned when to push when to tease him out of a mood with a well placed smirk or a sarcastic one liner. When to jab him in the ribs until he broke into reluctant laughter and muttered your name like it was a warning he never really meant. There were still days when the weight of everything the game, the pressure, the headlines sat too heavy on his chest. 

But he never pulled away again and you never asked him to be louder than he was ready to be.

⸻

You started leaving him sticky notes.

Not every day. Not in any pattern. Just when the feeling struck.

Bright neon Post its on his doorframe. Folded into the seam of the windshield wiper on his car. Once, inside his glove compartment you never told him how you got in.

Reminder: You’re not allowed to frown until after coffee.

Today’s a “wear the hoodie I like” kind of day. Just saying.

You made the mailman blush today. Again. Congratulations.

PS: I still have your hoodie. No, you’re not getting it back.

—Your favorite neighbor (and objectively the funniest).

At first, he didn’t say anything. Just read them, pocketed them, and moved on.

But then, one morning, there was a single daisy taped to your door.

No note. No explanation. Just something simple and quietly thoughtful like him.

Then it was wildflowers. A little chaotic, a little messy, clearly not from a florist. Like maybe he picked them up on a whim or asked for “whatever looks like her.”

Then a tiny potted plant “so you don’t steal more of mine,” he grumbled when you asked about it.

And then a sprig of dried lavender pressed into the pages of the book you’d left on his coffee table. Your favorite passage underlined.

You never really talked about it, but it became a language all your own.

When baseball season came again, things changed. The rhythm shifted.

There were early mornings. Late flights. Games in cities you’d never been to, broadcasts that cut to his face too often when the camera knew he wouldn’t react. But nothing felt uncertain.

There were more texts. More airport pickups. More half asleep phone calls where neither of you said much, but the silence didn’t feel like absence it just felt like you.

You didn’t need declarations anymore. He was yours and you were his.

⸻

That morning the one where he was leaving for his first road trip of the season you leaned in the doorway of his apartment, arms crossed, hair still damp from your shower, wearing his hoodie over your pajama shorts like it was armor.

Max was in full game day mode. Jacket zipped. Duffel over his shoulder. Cap pulled low. But when he looked at you, some of the sharpness faded from his eyes.

“Crush it,” you said with a little smirk. “Or at least don’t glare at your catcher this time.”

He arched a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“No promises.”

You stepped forward, smoothing a wrinkle on his sleeve that didn’t need fixing. He let you. Watched you like it still stunned him that you were here. That you stayed.

Then, without a word, he leaned down and kissed your forehead. Soft. Steady. Familiar. And then his voice low, rough, right against your skin.

“Only if you’re still here when I get back.”

You didn’t tease him for saying it. Didn’t crack a joke. Just reached for his wrist, curled your fingers gently around it, and held on for a second longer than you had to. Your smile was quiet. Certain.

“You’ve always come back,” you said. “And I’ve always been here.”

And when he left, your sticky note was waiting for him inside his duffel.

Play smart. Play steady. Come home safe. I’m saving the last cookie for you. Probably.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

rain delay

summary: when a rainy day cancels their plans, you and aaron spend the day in with penny and gus in the rhythm of rain that feels more like home than anything else.

word count: 5k words

a/n: this was a request! i missed him, i hope he does better we're not saying anything else about the game. thanks for reading, i love you guys!!!

⸻

You wake before the alarm, the room still cloaked in that quiet, silvery dimness that only rain can bring. The world outside is painted in soft shades of gray, the edges of the windowpane blurred by droplets racing each other down the glass. The steady tap tap tap fills the silence like a lullaby in reverse gentle, soothing, but just loud enough to pull you from sleep.

You stay still at first, cocooned in warmth, the sheets tangled loosely around your legs, the duvet rising and falling with each slow breath. There’s a comfort in not moving. In letting your senses slowly adjust before the day begins.

You stretch beneath the covers, spine arching, arms reaching up over your head until your fingers brush the cool edge of the headboard. Toes curl against the sheets, legs flexing lazily. The air is crisp from the rain, but the bed is warm, and for a few extra seconds, you savor that in between feeling awake, but not quite ready to let go of the quiet.

You smile before your eyes even open. You’ve always loved rainy mornings. Something about them makes the world feel softer. Slower. Like time itself has exhaled. The pace eases. Expectations loosen. It’s as if the universe is pressing pause, giving everyone permission to just stay. Breathe. Be.

At the foot of the bed, Penny is curled into a perfect little loaf her fur blending into the throw blanket, nose tucked beneath her tail, her little snores barely audible beneath the rain. Completely unbothered by the world.

But Gus? Gus is wide awake the second you stir. His ears twitch. His head lifts. And then comes the tail thump, thump, thump against the mattress like a small drum roll announcing his arrival.

A second later, he bounds up toward you, paws pressing into your ribs as he launches himself into your space with zero regard for your face.

“Gus” you laugh, muffled beneath his enthusiastic licks, trying to dodge. He manages to get your cheek, your chin, the corner of your nose.

You squirm, reaching up to gently push him back, but his tail is wagging so fast it’s a blur, and there’s no stopping him when he’s this happy to see you.

Eventually, you wrangle him into a cuddle, burying your face into his soft fur as he settles between you and Aaron like he owns the space. He does. He always does. His tail gives one final satisfied thump before going still, like even he knows it’s a stay in bed kind of morning.

Behind you, Aaron stirs. His body shifts just slightly before a sleepy arm drapes over your waist, anchoring you to him with a quiet kind of ease. Familiar. Natural.

“Mm,” he mumbles, voice thick and gravelly with sleep. “It’s raining, huh?”

You nod, even though he probably can’t see it. “Mmhmm.”

He exhales into the back of your shoulder, warm breath fanning across your skin. Then his hand flattens against your stomach, pulling you closer until your back is pressed fully against his chest.

“Love the rain,” he murmurs, barely awake, his words half melted into your skin.

You tilt your head slightly toward him, voice soft. “Let’s not go anywhere today.”

There’s a pause. A beat of silence between breaths, between rain drops. Then the faintest press of lips at your temple warm and certain.

“Didn’t plan on it,” he whispers.

Outside, the rain keeps falling. Steady. Calm. Inside, you close your eyes again and settle deeper beneath the covers. Gus shifts once, sighing in that dramatic dog way he does. Penny doesn’t even twitch.

And you?

You let yourself stay in that moment, wrapped in love and limbs and the kind of quiet that doesn’t need anything else.

⸻

The house smells like rain and comfort.

That earthy, rain on pavement scent filters through the slightly cracked kitchen window, mixing with something warm and faintly sweet like the ghost of last night’s vanilla candle still lingers in the air. Everything feels still, like the walls themselves are exhaling slowly. Contentedly.

You pad out into the kitchen, the hardwood cool beneath your feet. Aaron’s hoodie hangs loose on your frame, sleeves draping over your hands so completely that you have to tuck them up into your palms to keep them from dragging. It smells like him. Like detergent and worn cotton and something deeper familiar and grounding. Like home.

You find him already at the counter, half awake and barefoot, hair flattened on one side from sleep. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows as he moves around the kitchen with the kind of lazy rhythm that only comes from years of routine.

The dogs are already up and in full morning mode. Gus is doing frantic loops across the kitchen tile, paws clicking, tail wagging like it’s got its own battery pack. He nearly skids into a cabinet corner but recovers quickly and keeps zooming, ears flapping.

Penny, meanwhile, sits neatly beside her food bowl like a tiny, regal queen. Patient. Poised. But when Aaron doesn’t move quite fast enough for her taste, she gently noses her bowl forward with the kind of subtle insistence that only she can pull off.

Aaron chuckles, still not quite opening his eyes fully as he bends down to scratch behind her ears. “I see you, Pen,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to a person.

You lean your elbows on the island, chin in your hands, watching him move through the familiar motions. The way he crouches for Gus’s water bowl, how he double checks the food portion in Penny’s dish even though she’s never once not finished a meal. It’s mundane. Ordinary. But it tugs at something in your chest.

You watch like it’s your favorite show. It kind of is.

Once the storm of zoomies and bowl scooting dies down, Gus finally planted in front of his food, devouring it with cartoon like urgency Aaron drifts toward the coffee maker without needing to ask. No words. No eye contact. Just the kind of knowing that only comes with time and tenderness.

He opens the cabinet, grabs your favorite mug cream colored with a little chip in the rim you refuse to let him throw away and sets it down gently. He pours slowly, the dark liquid swirling with steam. Then he reaches for the creamer from the fridge, gives it a lazy shake, and adds just a splash. He stirs it twice before handing it over.

No words. Just care.

You take it from him with both hands, your fingers instantly warming against the ceramic. He doesn’t look at you, but he doesn’t need to. The gesture says everything.

You smile, soft and unspoken. That’s what gets you. Always. Not grand gestures. Not dramatic declarations.

This. The quiet. The ordinary. The kind of love that wakes up early and still knows how you take your coffee.

You drift over to stand beside him, both of you sipping slowly, the backs of your arms brushing gently. Through the glass doors, the backyard looks washed in watercolor trees blurred, grass glistening, the sky a soft, sleepy gray. The rain falls steady, rhythmic, like the background track to your life this morning.

Penny pads over and circles once before lying down in front of the doors, her head resting on her paws. She stares out at the rain like it’s a movie she’s seen before but still loves to watch.

You take a sip, savoring the warmth on your tongue, and glance up at Aaron. His gaze is soft. Distant. Lost somewhere out in the garden where the wind pushes against the trees just enough to make them sway. He’s close enough to touch, but the quiet between you feels sacred. Uninterrupted.

You reach for your phone without thinking, framing the shot quickly the rain, the dogs, his sleepy profile next to yours, both mugs in hand. The lighting is soft. Honest. Real.

You type the caption almost automatically.

my whole world in one frame

Then hover over the “share” button for a beat.

But you don’t press it. You just save it.

Because some moments aren’t meant to be posted. Some moments are just for you. For later. For when the world feels louder than this. For when you need to remember how it felt to be here in this kitchen, in his hoodie, in this kind of love that doesn’t beg to be seen to be felt.

Right now, it’s quiet. Right now, it’s enough.

⸻

It’s the kind of day where the hours melt together, slow and syrupy. Time doesn’t move forward so much as it pools around your feet. Rain still hums against the windows, steadier now, like it’s decided to settle in for the long haul. No sun. No urgency. Just the soft gray of a world that’s taken one look at the chaos and chosen stillness instead.

You both agreed without even needing to say it that today wouldn’t include cooking. No standing at the stove. No pans to scrub. No “babe, where’s the garlic?” shouted from across the kitchen. Just warmth. And ease. And something that arrives in a brown paper bag, steaming and too hot to touch right away, but perfect once it’s cooled just enough.

“Pho,” you suggest from the corner of the couch, phone glowing in your lap. “Or ramen?”

Aaron doesn’t look up he’s lounging the way only someone who’s decided to do absolutely nothing can lounge. Legs stretched out in front of him, one sock clad foot nudging your shin lazily, remote dangling between two fingers like it weighs more than it does.

“Grilled cheese and tomato soup,” he says.

You peer at him over the screen. “That’s very third grade of you.”

He grins like he’s won something. “Exactly. It’s nostalgic. Rainy day approved.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re six-seven and play baseball for a living. Nothing about you is third grade.”

Aaron shrugs like that just makes his point stronger. “Which is why the food should be. Balance.”

You snort. “So you’re a five tool player with a palate that peaked at alphabet soup?”

He points at you. “Alphabet soup slaps. Don’t disrespect the letters.”

After a few minutes of back and forth bickering, one dramatic flip of a coin (which you’re pretty sure he cheated, he looked far too smug), and a shared moment of craving something that tastes like childhood, you settle on grilled cheese and tomato soup. With sweet potato fries on the side, which he insists he won’t touch but you know better. He always says that. And he always steals the crispiest ones.

By the time the food arrives, the living room is glowing gold with lamplight. It casts shadows that flicker gently against the walls, wrapping the space in something cozy and close. The curtains are drawn halfway open, letting in just enough of the gray to remind you it’s still raining still soft, still steady. Still here.

You pass Aaron his sandwich and watch as he immediately dips it in the soup with the reverence of someone performing a sacred ritual. He takes a bite, chews once, and hums like it might be the best thing he’s had all year.

You smile and quietly do the same. Then comes the real test of compromise.

Movie picks.

You curl up into your corner of the couch, legs tucked under you, bowl balanced in your lap. Aaron’s already cycling through the action section fast cuts, louder than necessary soundtracks, explosions mid-sentence.

“Absolutely not,” you say, pointing at the screen like it’s personally offended you. “I am not watching something where every other line is ‘we’ve got company.’”

He glances at you, deadpan. “It’s a classic.”

“So is You’ve Got Mail,” you counter. “And that one doesn’t end with an entire city in flames.”

He exhales, dramatically flopping backward into the cushions like you’ve crushed his soul. “I just want one explosion.”

You toss a throw pillow at his chest. “You’ll survive without one.”

He catches it easily. “Doubtful.”

But ten minutes and four trailers later, you land on something safe. Familiar. Something you’ve both seen a million times enough to quote it, to laugh in anticipation of the punchlines, to hum along to the soundtrack without even realizing it. One of those movies that just fits.

The food disappears between the two of you. Gus tries to sneak a bite of crust and fails spectacularly. Penny remains curled neatly by your side like the world’s most disciplined shadow. Eventually, the dogs migrate Penny pressing her head into your hip like she was always meant to be there, Gus flopping over Aaron’s lap like a sack of potatoes with paws.

You settle in under the blanket, the plush kind that feels like it weighs ten pounds but hugs like it knows your secrets. Your body curves naturally into Aaron’s side, your head finding its way to his chest like it always does. You feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek, steady and grounding.

His heart beats slow and certain. You listen as it falls into rhythm with the rain, a syncopated harmony of life outside and the quiet in here. His hand finds your waist beneath the blanket, warm and gentle, fingers tracing absentminded shapes through the fabric of his hoodie still wrapped around you. Neither of you speaks.

The movie plays. The dogs snore. The storm intensifies, rain pouring harder against the glass like it’s trying to join you, to press itself up against the glass and feel what this is. This peace. This stillness. This ordinary, extraordinary moment.

You close your eyes, not to sleep, but to memorize it. To file away the sound of his heartbeat, the curve of his hand, the warmth of soup still lingering in your chest. The smell of rain. The feel of his hoodie. The quiet, absolute certainty that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You could stay like this forever.

And if the way Aaron leans his head down a little, pressing the softest kiss to your hairline without needing a reason, if that’s any indication maybe he’s thinking the same thing too.

⸻

The rain hasn’t let up.

If anything, it’s gotten more dramatic fat drops sliding down the windows like they’re in a race, tracing crooked paths down the glass in slow motion. Thunder rumbles now and then, low and lazy, like the sky is clearing its throat but isn’t quite ready for theatrics. The kind of weather that makes the rest of the world feel far away, wrapped in fog and muffled quiet.

You’re curled up on the couch again, legs draped across Aaron’s lap, a half empty bowl of popcorn nestled precariously between you. One of your socks is slipping off, and neither of you has moved to fix it. The dogs are passed out nearby Penny curled tight like a croissant at your feet, Gus snoring softly with his head hanging off the edge of the couch like he gave up mid-movement.

You lean forward slightly, pointing at two droplets near the top of the window one thin and steady, the other wide and wobbly.

“That one’s mine,” you say, tapping the glass. “The wobbly one with the tail.”

Aaron follows your finger, squinting. “No way. That’s mine. Yours is the one losing traction.”

“Pick another,” you say sweetly, already smiling. “Mine’s about to win.”

He scoffs, mock offense all over his face. “We’re betting now?”

You nod, reaching for another handful of popcorn. “Loser takes Gus out for the next bathroom break.”

Aaron groans immediately, head thunking back against the cushion. “That’s cruel. You know he waits until the ground is exactly the right level of muddy. And then somehow finds more mud.”

You shrug, smug. “May the odds be ever in your favor.”

The race begins. Neither of you speaks for a full minute, too busy tracking the erratic descent of your chosen droplets. His gains speed fast, jetting downward with confidence before hitting a dry patch and slowing to a crawl. Yours veers unexpectedly to the left, picks up a trail from another drop, and almost disappears behind a curtain of condensation. It’s close. Closer than it should be. You’re both leaning forward now, popcorn forgotten, whispering commentary like sportscasters.

“C’mon, c’mon”

“Pick up the pace, you traitor—”

And then, with the smallest stutter of motion, your drop crosses the bottom edge of the glass a full millimeter ahead.

You throw both arms up like you’ve just hit a walk off homer. “Justice!”

Aaron lets his head fall into his hands. “This is rigged. You’ve formed an alliance with the window.”

Ten minutes later, he’s reluctantly tugging on his sneakers at the back door, muttering under his breath as Gus spins in excited circles like he’s just won the lottery. You lean against the doorway, holding your mug, grinning. “Bring back mud,” you say cheerfully. “He likes variety.”

Aaron just groans again and disappears into the rain. They’re gone for maybe six minutes. Maybe. When they return, it’s pure chaos.

Gus barrels through the door like a cannonball, shakes from nose to tail with olympic intensity, and sprays the entire entryway with a fine mist of dog water. Aaron tries to shield you like a human umbrella but fails miserably he’s soaked, Gus is drenched and delighted, and the floor looks like someone spilled a mop bucket in all directions. Aaron just stands there, dripping, sighs once through his nose, and reaches for the towel on the hook.

“Why,” he mumbles, crouching to dry Gus off with the resignation of a man who knows he’s fighting a losing battle, “do we even bathe him?”

Gus just sneezes in response and bolts immediately tracking back out onto the patio to do it all again. Penny lifts her head from your feet with the slow, unimpressed energy of a retired queen. She blinks once, deliberately, like she’s judging all three of you. Then curls tighter into her nap spot like, pathetic. You try not to laugh too hard. Try being the keyword.

The afternoon blurs into early evening, golden light from the kitchen mixing with the silver gray from outside. The playlist from earlier soft R&B, mellow acoustic covers, the occasional lofi beat, keeps playing in the background, blending with the sound of the rain until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

You don’t need to say anything. You just walk over and reach for him fingers finding the hem of his shirt, tugging gently. He looks at you, then smiles. That soft, crooked one that means he’s already yours.

He pulls you in without hesitation, arms wrapping around your waist, and your cheek finds its place against his chest. His hand comes to rest at the small of your back, warm and solid.

The two of you sway, slow and aimless. No rhythm. No destination. Just movement. Just together.

“You smell like my hoodie and coffee,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hairline.

You smile against his chest. “You smell like wet dog and pancakes.”

He lets out a deep laugh, that kind of laugh that shakes through your whole body because you’re pressed so close. Then he leans down and kisses you soft, warm, smiling.

Not rushed. Not showy. Just honest. Like a thank you. Like a promise. Like I love this. Like I love you.

You don’t say it. Not out loud. But it’s there.

In the way he holds you tighter. In the way your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt and don’t let go. In the way the dogs settle again at your feet Penny loyal, Gus finally tired and the house returns to a kind of stillness that feels earned.

Sometimes love looks like fireworks. Other times?

It looks like betting on raindrops. Towel drying a muddy dog. And dancing barefoot in a living room that still smells like grilled cheese and rain.

⸻

The afternoon fades slowly, like the sky can’t quite make up its mind between day and night. The gray deepens to charcoal, clouds heavy with the kind of weight that promises the rain isn’t letting up anytime soon. The light outside turns blue and cool, but inside, the world is gold soft lamplight bathing the living room in a honeyed glow.

The rain never stops. It’s gentler now. Less chaotic, more constant. A hush. Like the sky is whispering lullabies to the pavement, to the rooftops, to anyone willing to listen.

You and Aaron lie side by side on the couch, your bodies molded to the shape of it, legs tangled under a shared blanket. The kind that’s too soft and always ends up covered in dog hair, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything. Penny is curled at your feet like she was sewn there, her chin resting on your ankle. Gus is sprawled across the rug nearby, belly up, snoring faintly with all four paws in the air like he’s dreaming of running.

Aaron’s fingers rest on yours, tracing slow, lazy patterns into the back of your hand. You’re not even sure if he knows he’s doing it it’s that absent, instinctual kind of affection. His thumb grazes your knuckle every few seconds like it’s checking in. Like it needs the reminder that you’re still here.

Neither of you speaks and you don’t need to.

There’s something sacred in this kind of quiet. The kind that doesn’t beg to be filled. The kind that feels like trust. Like being seen without having to perform.

Outside, the rain paints the windows with a steady rhythm. The occasional gust of wind presses droplets harder against the glass, but even that feels soft. Safe. Like the storm is choosing not to touch you.

Eventually, you talk. Not loudly. Not urgently. Just thoughts. Memories. Ideas spoken into the space between breaths.

Future trips. Places you’ve both always wanted to see. A tiny cabin in the mountains where the stars don’t have to compete with city lights. A quiet beach town with no reception and too many hammocks. A food tour in Tokyo, where Aaron swears he’d embarrass himself by crying in public over ramen.

You lift your head slightly and give him a look. “You already cried over grilled cheese today.”

He doesn’t even pretend to be ashamed. Just grins and says, “And I stand by it.”

You talk about Penny’s judging face how she doesn’t even try to hide it, how she’ll stare straight at you like she’s the matriarch of a dynasty and you’re the help. How Gus once ate a sock whole and strutted around afterward like it was a personal accomplishment. How the apartment somehow feels bigger in the rain, like the sound stretches the walls a little and makes room for you to breathe deeper.

The conversation shifts after that. Gently. Like a current changing direction beneath your feet, pulling you somewhere softer.

You turn your face toward him, your voice barely above a whisper. “The first time I knew I loved you,” you say, “was that night during the away series. You facetimed me after midnight. You didn’t even say hi, just started talking like you needed to hear your own voice bounce off me.” He’s quiet at first. Not because he doesn’t remember, but because he does.

Aaron turns his head, resting his temple against the back of the couch, looking at you sideways like the memory is playing in real time. His eyes flicker over your face, studying you like you’re more than just familiar, like you’re home.

“You were wearing that ugly sweatshirt,” he says eventually, mouth tugging into a smirk. “The one with the hole in the sleeve.”

You nudge him gently with your foot. “It’s vintage.”

“It’s falling apart.”

You smile, a little soft, a little shy. “And?”

His breath leaves him slow, like the weight of the moment sinks deeper than either of you expected. “And you looked exhausted. But you still stayed on the call. You just listened. You didn’t care that I was rambling or that it was late or that I probably didn’t make sense. You didn’t try to fix anything. You just stayed. That’s when I knew.”

You don’t say anything. Just let the moment sit. Let it breathe. Because sometimes the most important things aren’t the ones you rush to answer. Then, after a beat, he says it. So quietly it nearly disappears into the background noise of the rain.

“Rain used to feel like delays. Missed games. Missed reps. Wasted time. But with you”

He looks down at your joined hands, fingers still tracing.

“it’s peace.”

You feel your heart tighten not from pain, but from fullness. From that kind of beautiful ache that comes when someone sees you and chooses you in the quiet moments. When love isn’t a grand gesture, but a soft truth spoken between raindrops. You shift closer until you’re half on his chest, your hand resting right over his heart. You can feel it there, strong and steady beneath your palm, syncing with your own.

“Rain used to make me feel lonely,” you whisper. “Now I never want it to end.”

He doesn’t answer with words. He just presses his forehead to yours. Eyes closed. Breathing slow. Holding you like it’s a promise. The rain keeps falling. The world stays still. And in this moment, you’re not waiting for the storm to pass.

You’re living inside it.

Together.

⸻

Dinner is quiet. Easy. Reheated tomato soup still warm enough to fog your spoon, sweet potato fries crisp from the oven all over again. There’s no table setting, no “sit up straight” energy just plates balanced on knees and mismatched bowls passed between the two of you like a rhythm you’ve done a hundred times before.

You’re curled up beneath the same blanket that’s followed you through every part of this rainy day its softness worn in, the edges frayed, but loved. It smells faintly like detergent and Penny’s fur and Aaron’s hoodie. Like home.

Outside, the rain has softened to a whisper. A gentle drizzle that slips down the windows without urgency. More like a hush than a storm now. Like even the weather has decided to rest.

The house feels like it’s exhaling walls no longer echoing but settling. Lamplight spills golden over the hardwood, puddling in corners, casting long soft edged shadows that flicker every time you shift. The scent of warm food and worn fabric mixes with the trace of rain that clings to the windowsills.

Penny is curled neatly between the couch and your feet, her head nestled against the side of your leg like a little heater. Her breathing is slow and rhythmic, occasionally punctuated by a soft sigh, as if the weight of her responsibilities has been lifted now that the house is quiet again. Gus, in typical Gus fashion, is sprawled out on the other end of the couch, belly up, his front paw twitching like he’s dreaming of chasing something slow and silly.

You and Aaron eat slowly, without words. Every so often, you nudge a fry his way. Every so often, he offers you a spoonful of soup like he’s testing to make sure it’s still good. (It is. Mostly.)

His leg rests against yours under the blanket, steady and warm. There’s no rush in the way you move. No urgency to finish. No plans waiting after this. Just the soft comfort of a day that gave you permission to do nothing, and the quiet joy of having done it together.

Eventually, Aaron picks up the remote and starts scrolling halfheartedly. “We never started that one,” he says, nodding toward the screen. “Everyone keeps saying it’s amazing.”

You glance at the title, then tilt your head against the couch pillow. “I’ll give it ten minutes.”

He snorts, calling your bluff, but hits play anyway. You make it twenty eight.

Gus is the first to go his snores deepening into something that sounds like a tiny, determined engine sputtering to life. Then Penny shifts and disappears entirely under the blanket at your feet, burrowing down like she’s building a fort out of your calves and couch cushions.

Your eyes start to close in increments, like your body’s slowly giving in. You try to stay awake for the plot, but it’s hard when Aaron’s shoulder is right there, warm and solid beneath your cheek, and the sound of rain blends so easily into the voices on screen.

Aaron doesn’t move much just enough to adjust the blanket around your shoulders when he notices you shiver slightly. He tucks it beneath your chin with the same careful ease he always shows when he thinks you’re almost asleep, the kind of care that’s become second nature.

Then he leans down, brushing his lips over the top of your head. The kiss is soft, unhurried. Lingering like a full thought behind it. Like a thank you. Like a promise. Like he doesn’t want the moment to pass, but if it has to, he wants you to feel this first.

“Best rain delay I’ve ever had,” he murmurs against your hair.

You smile, barely opening your eyes, your voice soft and coated in sleep. “Let’s do nothing again tomorrow.”

He doesn’t even pause. Just lets out a low laugh content, worn in and answers, “Deal.”

The movie fades into background noise. The storm outside quiets to something smaller than a whisper. A secret between the sky and the earth.

And as the night settles softly around you dogs asleep, your bodies tangled beneath the blanket, his hand finding yours beneath the folds like it knows the way there’s nothing else you need. No better place to be.

You don’t fall asleep so much as drift. Slowly. Together. Because some days are loud. Some are busy. Some demand everything. And others?

Others are for soup and socks and dogs and raindrops on windows. For nothing, and for everything that lives quietly inside that nothing.

For this.

Just this.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

endless gifs of max fried because i’m insane 69/???

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

giancarlo stanton 7/30/2025

ft. aaron judge (do no separate them)

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

current?

summary: you call giancarlo your “current boyfriend” for a tiktok, he drops the bags and says, “i’m not temporary. i’m the endgame.”

word count: 5.3k words

a/n: this was a request! i hope you guys enjoy! i did that prank headcanon not thinking much of it, but you guys loved it so here is the extended version of giancarlo! but my question for everyone is what's your worst damage at target? i think mine was about $300, my vice is books, viynls and candles. i appreciate all of the people supporting my writing and page you guys are the best, i love you all🫶🏽🫶🏽

⸻

The sun is starting to dip behind the skyline, spilling golden streaks of light across the apartment walls like lazy brushstrokes. That late afternoon quiet has settled in the kind where the day exhales and everything feels slower, softer. The living room smells faintly of laundry detergent, fabric softener, and Giancarlo’s body wash clean, warm, and familiar, like home wrapped in cotton.

He’s stretched out across the couch like he owns it which, in fairness, he kind of does. Shirtless, freshly showered, skin still dewy from the steam, his chest rises and falls in a calm rhythm. A pair of gray joggers hangs low on his hips, clinging just enough to remind you of the gym honed body underneath. His feet are bare, one ankle crossed over the other, and his long legs take up most of the cushions. One arm is tossed casually over the back of the couch, the other holding his phone, thumb lazily scrolling through without much interest.

You finish slipping on your sneakers by the door, glancing back at him with a knowing smile. “Try not to miss me too much while I’m gone.”

Giancarlo doesn’t even glance up at first just lifts one brow and launches the small towel from his lap in your general direction. It lands on the floor a full foot away from you.

“Don’t take three hours in target,” he mutters, eyes flicking to yours now with a teasing glint. “You always go in for shampoo and come back with $200 worth of candles and throw pillows.”

You cross the room in mock offense, walking with exaggerated flair as you point dramatically toward the door. “It’s called retail therapy, thank you very much. A coping mechanism for women everywhere.”

He snorts, locking his phone and tossing it on the coffee table. “It’s called highway robbery.”

You lean over the back of the couch and press a gentle kiss to his forehead, letting your lips linger just long enough to make him smirk. “You’ll survive.”

“You say that like I haven’t been abandoned in this apartment before.”

“You’re dramatic.”

He lifts a hand lazily to swat at your thigh. “You’re a shopping addict.”

“You love it,” you call out, already halfway to the door.

You grab your keys and push your sunglasses into your hair, and just as your fingers wrap around the door handle you feel it. That familiar, sharp but affectionate smack to your butt. You yelp, laughing as you turn your head over your shoulder.

“Be reasonable,” he says, eyes narrowed like he knows damn well you won’t be.

You offer him a sweet, wide eyed smile. “No promises.”

He watches you go, head tilted slightly, the light from the window casting a soft glow over his face. You’re already gone when he exhales a laugh under his breath, shaking his head as the door clicks shut behind you.

And yeah he’s already mentally preparing himself to carry a trunk full of target bags when you get back.

⸻

Target was supposed to be a quick stop. In and out. Shampoo and maybe a pack of gum. You told Giancarlo that, too hand on your heart, all fake sincerity and wide eyed innocence as you slipped out the door.

But the second those red sliding doors whooshed open and the perfectly chilled air hit your face, you knew. You were lying to both of you. The dollar section greeted you like an old friend. Cheeky seasonal signs, tiny ceramic pumpkins (even though it’s barely August), mini whiteboards shaped like clouds you didn’t stand a chance. The cart you didn’t really need to grab? Yeah, already half full within ten minutes.

A fuzzy, neutral toned throw blanket caught your eye. Did you need another one? Absolutely not. But it was soft, and neutral goes with everything, and it was on sale. So, in the cart.

Next, an iced coffee scented candle. You don’t even burn candles like that Giancarlo always says they just sit there collecting dust until you forget about them but it smelled like a cozy cafe in the fall, and that was reason enough.

And then there it was a seasonal mug. “Cozy Vibes Only” written in delicate gold cursive, complete with tiny marshmallow illustrations. You rolled your eyes at yourself as you picked it up, already picturing Giancarlo’s reaction. He’d spot it the second you unpacked the bags, pick it up dramatically, and go, “Didn’t realize our cabinet had a time share program for unnecessary mugs.”

You smiled anyway and placed it in the cart. From there, it was a slippery slope.

The shampoo you actually came for got buried beneath a soft beige hoodie (perfect for “lounging”), a glass storage set you told yourself was for “being more organized,” a pair of gold hoop earrings you’ll probably wear twice, and a multi-pack of razors you didn’t technically need but they were pink and came with a free mini shaving cream.

Honestly, it was an art form. You moved through the aisles like you were strolling through a museum admiring, occasionally adding to your cart, sometimes doubling back because you weren’t done with the home decor section yet. You spun the cart around corners like a pro, only mildly aware that it was beginning to squeak under the weight of your “quick stop.”

By the time you finally approached checkout, your cart looked like you were stocking up for an apocalypse one where throw pillows and wax melts were currency.

You slid into the back of a line and reached for your phone, thumbing through tiktok to pass the time. A few dance challenges, a cooking hack you’ll never try, and a chaotic dog video later, you stopped on a post that made your head tilt with interest. The video showed a girl filming herself with a soft smile. Her boyfriend was behind her, folding laundry. Then came the line.

“So a lot of you have been asking about my current boyfriend”

You watched the guy freeze mid-fold. Slowly, he looked up, brow furrowed like she’d just told him the dog died. You stifled a laugh, scrolling to the comments.

“That man immediately entered crisis mode.”

“She’s gonna find her clothes folded in a cardboard box tomorrow.”

“You can see his soul leave his body 💀”

You could so clearly imagine Giancarlo in that exact scenario. He’d hear you say “current boyfriend” and stop whatever he was doing. Wouldn’t say anything at first just give you that look. The slow head turn. One eyebrow cocked. Arms crossed. That little smirk he gets when he pretends to be offended but is secretly enjoying every second of the drama.

God, he’d hate it. He’d also absolutely live for it.

You tapped the audio to save it, biting back a grin as you slipped your phone into your bag. The plan was forming already, crystal clear and chaotic. You didn’t even care that your cart was overflowing you were officially on a mission now.

As the cashier began scanning your mountain of justification, you mentally rehearsed your delivery. “He’s sweet. Carries all my Target bags. Makes me cry happy tears” Yup. You were gonna get the exact reaction you wanted.

Best worst idea of the week.

⸻

Your car idles at a red light, the turn signal ticking steadily as the target bags in the backseat rustle with every subtle movement. There’s a soft chorus of plastic shifting with each breath of the car like the soundtrack to your impulsive spending spree. The trunk is packed tight. The back seat is overflowing. And in the passenger seat, cradled like royalty by the seatbelt you definitely buckled around it, sits a giant fuzzy blanket the color of oat milk. It’s soft. It’s oversized. It’s everything you didn’t need. You glance at it and grin.

Giancarlo is going to say so many things about it. He always does. And yet somehow, every time, he still meets you at the curb like the target haul is sacred cargo.

You’re already smiling as you unlock your phone and pull up his contact, thumb hovering over the call button. Your heart’s doing that little excited skip not because you’re nervous, but because you know this is about to be fun. You’re about to mess with him, and it’s going to be so good. You hit the call. It rings twice.

“Hey,” he answers, voice low and a little sleepy, that post shower rasp still clinging to the edges. You can hear the faint hum of a game playing in the background, probably something he’s only half watching while lounging like a king. You match his calm energy with the exact opposite.

“Baaaabe,” you coo, dragging the word out like a lullaby dipped in mischief. “I’m like two minutes away. Can you come outside and grab the bags?”

A pause. Not silence exactly, more like quiet suspicion. You can practically hear the gears turning in his head, processing your tone. Then, a groan.

“You did the thing again, didn’t you?”

You blink innocently at the windshield, feigning confusion as you ease up to the next red light. “What thing?”

He exhales sharply, dramatically the sound of a man emotionally preparing to carry fifteen bags of candles and throw blankets through the threshold of his home.

“That thing,” he says flatly, “where you ‘just need two things’ and somehow come back with half the damn store.”

You stifle a laugh, biting your lip. “That’s such an exaggeration.”

“Oh, really?” he deadpans. “So I’m not about to carry in a dozen bags, three candles that smell like dessert, and a mug that says ‘something stupid”

You glance toward the blanket riding shotgun. “Okay  first of all, the mug is adorable. And second—”

“—I love carrying your bags?” he finishes, already resigned.

“No,” you say sweetly. “I was gonna say you love me, which is why you carry the bags without complaining.”

“I love you, which is why I tolerate the bags,” he corrects. “Big difference.”

“You��re such a good man,” you reply in that sugary voice again.

“I’m a man in denial,” he mutters.

You laugh, pulling into your complex and spotting your usual space. You can already picture him, hair still damp, probably still in joggers, standing at the front door like a reluctant golden retriever about to be dragged into nonsense.

Poor guy. Completely relaxed. Utterly unsuspecting. About to be emotionally side swiped by a fifteen second tiktok prank.

“See you in a minute!” you sing, throwing the car in park.

“You owe me,” he says, and you can hear the smile behind it.

You hang up, still grinning, and reach over to grab your phone mount from the glove compartment. You angle it just right on the dashboard. The blanket, the bags they can wait. First, you’ve got a fake vlog to film.

It’s time to act innocent, it’s time to set him up.

⸻

You’re barely out of the driver’s seat when the front door creaks open, there he is.

Giancarlo steps out onto the walkway like a man reluctantly reporting for duty. His hood is pulled up over his head, casting a soft shadow across his face, and the sleeves of his oversized gray Yankees hoodie drape past his knuckles. He’s in black slides, no socks, because he claims it’s not that cold and the sound of rubber against concrete is the only noise breaking the lazy quiet of the street.

He doesn’t even try to hide the sigh that escapes him as he slowly descends the steps, hands tucked into the front pocket of his hoodie, expression already reading, What did you do this time?

You lean casually against the car door, fighting the urge to laugh. His eyes land on you first, softening instinctively, but then they drift toward the trunk and that’s where he freezes. He blinks once. Then again.

“Jesus, babe,” he groans, dragging a hand down his face like he’s just seen something traumatic. “What, did you buy the entire candle aisle?”

You lift one shoulder and shrug, wide eyed and completely unrepentant. “Define entire.”

The look he gives you is classic. That familiar blend of I love you and you are single handedly supporting this company, all pressed into one tired expression. His jaw flexes slightly as he walks around to the back of the car.

With the softest click, you pop the trunk. It rises slowly, almost dramatically, like it’s revealing a secret. A giant, red and white, retail sponsored secret.

There are bags everywhere stacked in layers, tucked into corners, one even spilling out slightly over the lip of the trunk like it gave up trying to fit. The target logo stares back at him over and over again like it’s mocking him. You swear the plastic rustles louder than usual. He stares at it all in silence for a second too long. Then sighs again, this time with more resignation.

“You went to war,” he mutters, hands on his hips.

You nod solemnly. “Retail therapy is a contact sport.”

He doesn’t reply right away. Just rolls his eyes with the same fondness he gives you when you’re three episodes deep into a show he swore he wouldn’t watch. Then he moves.

With a quiet kind of grace, Giancarlo rolls up the sleeves of his hoodie not because it’s necessary, but because he knows exactly what he’s doing. He starts collecting bags with practiced ease two in each hand, another looped through his pinky like a shopping sherpa badge of honor, and one more balanced across his forearm. He does it all without fumbling, without complaint.

Like he’s done this before. Like he always will. You trail behind him, phone in hand, pretending to check a message as you unlock the screen. But your fingers move with purpose. Camera. Video. Record.

You angle the shot perfectly, catching the way his hoodie lifts slightly at the back as he adjusts the weight of the bags, exposing a glimpse of toned skin beneath. The way his shoulders move. The silent strength of it all. Honestly, it’s giving, muscle ad for domestic boyfriend magazine. He pauses at the edge of the sidewalk, glancing back over his shoulder just enough to catch you in the act.

“Don’t post this,” he warns, brows knitting slightly. “I’m not letting the internet see me become a glorified delivery guy.”

You give him your best innocent smile, already recording. “Oh, don’t worry,” you say sweetly. “This is just for memories.”

He narrows his eyes. “Right.”

You fall into step behind him, the camera steady in your hand, your voice steady in your throat.

You’ve got him in the frame. You’ve got the bags. You’ve got the perfect boyfriend doing what he always does showing up without asking, carrying the weight without complaint.

It’s almost go time, one line is all it’ll take.

⸻

The second you step inside behind him, your phone is already in position just high enough to look like innocent scrolling, low enough to avoid suspicion. The screen brightness is dimmed, your grip is casual, and you even open your texts for half a second just to sell the act.

Giancarlo walks ahead with that relaxed, post workout swagger, heading straight for the kitchen island like it’s routine. Because it is routine. He’s been roped into enough target hauls to know the drill by heart. You watch as he starts unloading bags with effortless efficiency, sorting them like muscle memory. Home stuff goes to the left. Pantry snacks to the right. The mystery bags stuff you plan to explain later, if ever he doesn’t even question. He just places them in their own quiet, judgment free zone near the end of the counter.

He doesn’t ask what’s in them. Doesn’t ask what it all cost. He just unpacks. Like he always does, you hit record.

The little red light glows at the top of your screen. You bite back a grin. Then you drop your voice into that soft, almost sing songy tone you hear on every tiktok voiceover. The one that sounds casual but curated, sweet but just annoying enough to provoke him.

“Hey guys,” you whisper sweetly, giggling as you slowly pan the camera toward the back of his hoodie. “So a lot of you have been asking about my current boyfriend…” And that’s all it takes. He freezes mid-bag drop.

Not dramatically no gasps or sharp turns just a small, precise shift. His spine straightens by an inch. His shoulders stiffen. The kind of pause that’s so subtle, so measured, it screams suspicion.

Then, slowly, his head turns. You catch the angle of his jaw just as it tightens, the faintest lift of his eyebrow, and yep. There it is. The side eye. Not full-blown confrontation. Not yet. But it’s the I heard that kind of side-eye. The kind that simmers. The kind that means he’s giving you a chance to fix it.

You don’t. You double down.

“He’s super sweet,” you say dreamily, smiling at your phone like a girl who doesn’t see her doom walking toward her. “Carries all my target bags. Makes me so happy all the time sometimes I even cry from happiness. He’s definitely obsessed with me.”

The silence behind you sharpens like a dropped pin and then he moves. You glance up, just in time to see Giancarlo turn fully to face you. Arms folded across his chest. Hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms. His expression unreadable calm, calculated, almost too calm. The kind of look he wears at the plate when a pitcher thinks they’ve got him fooled.

He watches you for a full two seconds before finally speaking. “Current?” he repeats, voice low and slow, every syllable dipped in that signature Stanton warning tone. You smile wider. “Hmm?” His smirk grows. Dangerously. “So this is, what a trial period?” he asks, voice still level but amused. “Like I’m on boyfriend probation? You seeing if I meet the criteria before offering me the permanent role?”

You try to hold your phone steady, but your hands are shaking from trying not to burst out laughing. “I didn’t say that,” you offer sweetly.

“No, no,” he continues, nodding as if he’s working through a spreadsheet of your betrayal. “You said current. Which implies, temporary. Like I’m a guest star in the show that is your life. A limited series.”

He starts pacing one slow step to the left, then another still facing you, still entirely in character. His arms stay crossed. His face? Pure dramatics.

“And to think,” he sighs, looking off to the side like the moment deserves background music. “I’ve been carrying your target bags like a husband.”

“Babe—” you start, voice already cracking.

But he cuts you off, raising one hand. “No, no. It’s fine. Totally fine. I’m just a placeholder. A seasonal boyfriend. I’ll go stand next to the pumpkins and throw pillows where I belong.”

You can’t hold it in anymore. 

You’re wheezing, pressing your hand to your chest as you set your phone up to record in the corner of the kitchen. 

You glance back at him, grinning. “Damn right.”

⸻

“Current, huh?”

His voice cuts through the kitchen like a quiet thunderclap low, deliberate, and dripping with mock betrayal.

You freeze mid-step, already mid-smile. You know that tone. It’s the one he uses when he’s about to roast you into another dimension calm, collected, and slightly offended in the most entertaining way possible.

Your eyes flick to the corner of the kitchen where your phone is discreetly propped up on the spice rack, camera angled perfectly toward the kitchen island. Still recording. Still capturing everything.

Giancarlo doesn’t know it yet.

He’s by the counter, standing completely still over the last of the target bags. Then—with painstaking precision—he lifts it by the handles and sets it down. One loop at a time. A soft thud followed by another. Like a final punctuation mark on your crimes.

And all the while? He doesn’t break eye contact. Not once. No smile. No blink. Just that slow burning stare that somehow manages to be both amused and deadly serious. He rises to his full height. Folds his arms across his chest. Tilts his chin ever so slightly like a disappointed guidance counselor who just found out their star student failed a pop quiz.

Your heart kicks up. Not in fear. But in anticipation. You know exactly what’s coming. And you’re already trying not to crack.

“So this is like” he starts, each word slow and purposeful. “A trial period?”

He nods to himself as if confirming the worst. “Got it. I’m on boyfriend probation.”

You clamp your lips together, already shaking with laughter. Then he starts to pace.

Slow, deliberate steps across the tile like he’s walking through the wreckage of your target receipt, building his case for emotional damages. The hoodie hangs loose around his waist.

You swear you can hear the fake courtroom music playing in his head.

“I just think it’s wild,” he mutters, now facing a cabinet like it’s part of the problem. “I’ve been out here doing everything right. Holding doors. Carrying your bags. Running out at eleven o’clock at night because someone needed that one specific ice cream flavor they only sell at that cursed bodega with the flickering lights and the haunted freezer section.”

You’re biting your knuckle now to keep from bursting out laughing. The camera catches everything your crumbling expression, his back-and-forth pacing, the dramatics of a man wronged by tiktok. He spins around and points toward you like a closing argument.

“Do I need to reapply to be upgraded to permanent status?” he demands. “Was there a form? A waiting list? A google doc labeled ‘boyfriend eligibility rubric’ I was supposed to fill out? Because I swear to god, I would’ve attached references.”

You lose it. “Oh my God—”

“I want a performance review,” he continues, not missing a beat. “A full relationship audit. I want feedback. Charts. I want examples. Effective immediately.”

You’re bent over the kitchen stool now, face in your hands, shoulders shaking as you try to hold it together.

“I share my fries,” he says louder, waving his hand dramatically. “I let you put your ice cold feet on me every night without complaint. I watched a three hour rom-com trilogy last weekend and only cried once. And this is how I find out I’m temporary?”

“It’s just a tiktok trend!” you gasp, breathless with laughter.

But he’s already on the move, steps slow and purposeful like a villain entering frame.

“Wild,” he says again, shaking his head. “Wild. Good luck finding another man who carries your target bags, knows your coffee order better than you do, and makes you cry happy tears watching people get engaged on boats in Italy.”

“They were on a canoe,” you squeak. “And it was beautiful.”

“Sure,” he says, completely straight faced. “Nothing says forever love like a shaky boat proposal and questionable footwear.”

You point toward the phone, barely able to catch your breath. “You’re mad.”

“I’m insulted,” he says, still completely calm, which somehow makes it worse. “I thought I was the final boyfriend. The forever boyfriend. Not some limited time emotional support man. I’m not a starter pack. I’m the whole subscription.”

And then, without warning, he turns to the phone. You barely have time to shout “Wait—!” before he strides over, plucks it from its perch like he knew where it was all along, and flips the camera.

The frame catches his face serious, confident, perfectly lit by the under cabinet lights.

“Hi, tiktok,” he says flatly. “Just to clarify, I’m not her current boyfriend. I’m her last boyfriend. As in, the final one. End of the line. Nobody comes after me.”

He pauses, expression unmoving. Then, as if signing off a press release, he hands the phone back to the counter and walks away with a soft pat on your shoulder. You’re doubled over in laughter, nearly wheezing, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. He crosses his arms again, leans against the fridge, and watches you unravel.

“I hope that camera caught all of it,” he mutters, smirk finally creeping through. “Because that was Oscar-worthy.”

⸻

You’re still laughing, folded over the kitchen counter like your body physically can’t hold itself up anymore. One arm is cradling your stomach, the other gripping the edge of the counter for dear life. Your cheeks ache. Your ribs hurt. You’ve reached that stage of laughter where no sound is coming out just wheezing, silent gasps, and the occasional squeak when you try to speak and fail miserably.

“Final boyfriend,” you echo through your breathless giggling, shaking your head. “You are too much.”

But you don’t even get to finish your sentence before you hear the soft pad of his slides moving across the tile.

Giancarlo doesn’t say anything he just closes the space between you in a few slow steps. Like it’s instinct. Like being close to you is the natural conclusion to every joke, every meltdown, every ridiculous tiktok trend you rope him into.

You barely have time to straighten up before his arms are around you.

He slides them around your waist from behind, locking you in like you belong there and you do. You feel the weight of him behind you, broad and warm and solid, like an anchor. He pulls you flush against his chest and rests his chin lightly on your shoulder, his breath brushing the side of your neck as he exhales.

The target bags are still scattered across the counter, half-unpacked, half forgotten. A candle is teetering on the edge of the stove. Your phone is still wedged between the cinnamon jar and the olive oil bottle, its camera light blinking softly like a witness to the aftermath.

But none of it matters. Not when his hands are holding you like this.

He dips his head just enough to press a kiss to your temple gentle, warm, the kind of kiss that speaks more than it needs to.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he murmurs, voice soft and unreasonably fond.

You smile without even thinking, eyes fluttering closed as you lean back into him. The fabric of his hoodie is soft against your cheek, still faintly warm from the dryer. The steady rhythm of his breathing, the lazy way his fingers trace slow, aimless circles across your sides every bit of it feels like a lullaby.

“No,” you whisper back, tucking your head under his chin like it’s your favorite place in the world. “You’re obsessed with me.”

He huffs a low laugh, one that rumbles through his chest and straight into your spine.

“Damn right,” he says, another kiss pressed to the top of your head. “And now the entire internet knows it.”

You lift your head just enough to glance up at him, catching the slight curve of his smile the teasing one he tries to fight but never quite manages to hide. His eyes meet yours, soft and bright and unguarded in a way that still manages to knock the breath out of you, even after all this time.

He looks at you like there’s no one else in the room. Like you hung the moon. Like you are the moon.

You blink up at him, resting your chin on his chest. “I’m still posting it.”

He rolls his eyes but can’t suppress the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I figured.”

“And if it goes viral,” you add sweetly, “you’re buying me a second mug.”

He groans, dramatic. “You already bought the mug.”

You shrug. “Then I want matching socks.”

He laughs, one arm loosening just enough so he can tap a finger gently against your nose. “Deal. But if Judge sends me a screenshot of it, I’m blaming you.”

“I’ll print it and frame it.”

He laughs again, tilting his head to rest it lightly against yours, and for a long, quiet moment, neither of you moves. The room softens around you warm light filtering in from the living room, the lingering scent of that iced coffee candle you definitely didn’t need, and the background hum of a dishwasher that never quite turns off all the way.

You’re wrapped up in each other, surrounded by impulse buys and good intentions and overpriced coziness, and you wouldn’t trade a single second of it. Somewhere in the corner, your phone’s camera is still rolling. Quiet. Steady. Capturing the afterglow of chaos and comfort.

But neither of you looks at it, because you’re both exactly where you’re supposed to be.

⸻

It’s well past midnight when the lights finally go out in the living room.

The glow from the tv fades to black. The only light left is the faint gold wash from the kitchen under cabinet bulbs dimmed, but still casting soft shadows across the room like the final exhale of a long, laughter-filled day.

The dishes are still in the sink. A half eaten bag of sour gummy worms sits abandoned next to the remote. The target bags? They’re exactly where you left them slumped near the kitchen island like tired soldiers, one of them still tipping over with fuzzy socks, off brand granola bars, and the “Cozy Vibes Only” mug Giancarlo dramatically refused to acknowledge even though you both know he’s going to be drinking out of it by Friday.

The iced coffee candle you lit for the aesthetic has long since burned out, the faint scent of vanilla and fake espresso still lingering in the air. And the only sound left in the apartment is the quiet hum of the AC and the barely audible click of your phone screen going dark right after your breathing slows, your shoulders settle, and you finally drift off to sleep.

You’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled over his lap, face hidden entirely in the oversized gray hoodie you stole from his drawer without asking (though he definitely noticed). You’ve practically melted into him, body warm and loose and heavy with that soft, happy exhaustion that only comes after a night of too much laughter, too much teasing, and too many inside jokes.

Your hand is tucked under his. Your nose pressed somewhere near his collarbone and he hasn’t moved in ten minutes.

Giancarlo’s still awake. Barely. His thumb lazily scrolls on his phone while his free hand rests on your thigh, fingers tracing light, absentminded patterns along the seam of your leggings. The kind of touch that says, I’m still here. I’ve got you.

His chest rises and falls slowly. The weight of you curled into him makes his whole body feel calmer, heavier, like his muscles remember how to rest when you’re this close.

His head turns just enough to glance down at you. You don’t move completely knocked out, your breathing even and slow. Only the tip of your messy bun peeks out from under the hood, the tiniest bit of your cheek visible where it’s squished into the curve of his chest.

And he smiles. Not the press conference smile. Not the post home run, crowd hype grin. This one’s smaller. Private. He lifts his phone with a quiet sigh, angles it low and slightly off center. No flash. No prep.

Just click. The selfie is grainy. Dim. Slightly tilted. And perfect.

He stares at it for a few seconds, thumb hovering over the “Add to Story” button. Then he types slowly, thoughtfully.

@/Giancarlo818: Not current. Permanent.

No tags. No emojis. No filter. Just the truth. He hits post.

Then leans his head back against the cushion, closes his eyes, and lets the peace settle in.

⸻

Aaron Judge: Trial period, huh? Lemme know how the review goes. 🤝

By the time Giancarlo stirs awake still on the couch, still holding you, you hear his phone buzz once.

He shifts, reaches for it with one arm still around you, and squints at the screen.

Giancarlo lets out a sleepy laugh and kisses the top of your head.

“Too late to delete it now,” he mutters.

And you, half asleep, buried under hoodie and blankets and love, just mumble back.

“Good. They needed to know.”

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

i need aaron judge back expeditiously

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

the first night

summary: after suffering his devastating ankle injury oswaldo comfort in the quiet strength in you who stays by his side all night at the hospital, reminding him he’s never alone.

word count: 5.3k words

a/n: this was a request! i hope you enjoy! i miss oswaldo so bad, this is his full debut in my imagine world! i hope you guys enjoy!

⸻

The air at T-Mobile Park hums with late afternoon energy that perfect kind of golden hour glow where the sun dips low enough to make everything feel a little enchanted. The infield grass practically sparkles. The skyline peeks over the top of the stadium. Every sound the snap of leather, the crack of a bat, the low rhythm of cleats on concrete feels heightened, cinematic, like it belongs in a montage.

You lean against the rail near the tunnel, one foot resting on the lower ledge, the other planted firm. Your press lanyard is tucked discreetly into your hoodie pocket not that anyone would stop you. Not anymore. You’ve been here enough times for the regular staff to nod when you walk by, for the clubhouse attendant to ask if you want your usual gatorade, and for Oswaldo to leave your pass at will call without even texting first. You’re pretending to scroll on your phone, but really? You’re watching him.

Oswaldo Cabrera. Number 95. Switch hitter. Human spark plug. Grinning like the game is his favorite joke and he’s in on the punchline. Right now, he’s chirping at Volpe across the foul line, both of them miming exaggerated batting stances and laughing like kids on a summer league field instead of two pros warming up for a night game. He’s loose, easy, hands flying as he talks. You catch the words “smoothie,” “double or nothing,” and “you’re just mad I pulled lefty, bro,” and then Volpe playfully flips him off with his glove hand.

He still hasn’t spotted you, which is fine by you. There’s something warm about watching him like this. From a distance. Happy. In his element. But then he turns glove tucked under his arm, bat slung lazily over his shoulder and sees you. His whole expression shifts. Like someone flipped a switch behind his eyes. Like the sun just moved. He lights up instantly.

“Hey, hey,” he calls out, bounding over with that familiar pep in his step half cocky, half soft, all Oswaldo. “They let you in here again?”

You tilt your head, playing along. “Didn’t even have to sneak through security this time. Your fault, really.”

He smirks, toeing the edge of the dugout wall, leaning forward just enough to close the space between you. “What can I say? I like having you around. Gotta make it easy for you.”

Behind him, the other guys are tossing balls, stretching, one of them already yelling at Oswaldo to quit flirting and come stretch his hamstrings before he pulls something. He ignores it. Right here in the shade of the tunnel, tucked just far enough from the field to feel like your own little corner, it’s just the two of you. He leans in, voice lower, softer. The brim of his cap brushes gently against your forehead as he presses a kiss there unhurried, warm, grounding. His thumb slides a quick path along your jaw, like he doesn’t want to leave, like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Wish me luck, cariño,” he murmurs.

You tilt your chin up, meeting his eyes. “You don’t need luck. You’ve got me screaming louder than half the bleacher creatures.”

He grins, that slow, crooked grin that always makes your stomach do something embarrassing. “Just don’t fight anyone in the second inning again, okay?”

“That guy said you were overrated!”

“And you dumped beer on him.”

You shrug, unapologetic. “He started it.”

Oswaldo shakes his head, but he’s still smiling like he wouldn’t have you any other way. “Be good.”

“No promises.”

He backs away, walking backward for a few steps, gaze lingering on you like it’s magnetic. “I’ll wave if I homer.”

“You better.”

He winks. Full smile. Full heart. And then he turns, jogging back onto the field where the rest of the team is warming up. He slips right back into game mode, but every so often, he glances back just a little, like he’s making sure you’re still there. You stay by the tunnel a moment longer, sunlight hitting your face, pulse still warm from his touch. You watch him run sprints down the foul line, laugh with Judge, take a few warmup throws. Everything feels light. Right.

You have no way of knowing that in a few innings, he’ll be on the ground clutching his ankle and that this golden little moment will be the last quiet one before everything changes.

⸻

It’s somewhere in the sixth when it happens.

You’re in the stands tonight not working, just watching. Oswaldo had insisted. “No cameras,” he’d said earlier with that familiar grin. “Just come be with me.” And you had press lanyard tucked into your bag, hat pulled low, legs curled into the faded plastic seat beside another girl, who’s been narrating every pitch like it’s her job to will him into the highlight reel.

It’s been a good night. Until now. The bat cracks loud and clean. A sharp grounder to the right side.

It’s a routine play. Should be. But Oswaldo bolts for it anyway. Like he always does. Full sprint. Laser focus. Heart first. And then he twists. It’s subtle. Quick. But the second it happens, you feel it in your own body.

He pivots on the grass. His cleat catches. His momentum carries him the wrong way. One leg gives. The other doesn’t follow.

He crumples. Hard. Like someone cut the strings on a marionette.

You jolt forward in your seat, nachos nearly flying from your lap. “Wait—”

He doesn’t get up. The ball is already fielded. The out is already made. But Oswaldo doesn’t move. His face is pressed into the dirt. 

The stadium goes quiet. Not silent. Not yet.

But hushed. Like every single person inside T-Mobile Park just forgot how to breathe.

You don’t even realize you’re standing until you feel her grab your elbow. “That’s—he’s—”

“I know,” you say. Your voice doesn’t even sound like your own. Your ears are ringing.

The camera cuts to him. On the jumbotron. Too close.

His face is pale, jaw clenched so tight you can see the tension in his temples. His knuckles are white like he’s trying to rewind time with sheer force.

Trainers are already running. And now? 

Now it’s silent. All these people. Dead quiet. You feel your chest drop like your ribs caved in and forgot their purpose. Because you’ve seen Oswaldo take hard slides. Seen him catch line drives to the ribs and laugh them off. He’s tough. Stubborn. Unshakable.

But this? This is different. This is panic.

“Shit,” you whisper, already moving.

You nearly trip over someone’s feet as you shove your way down the row, muttering rushed apologies, dodging spilled drinks, climbing over knees and snack trays and confusion.

“I have to get down there.”

“You’re not allowed on the field!”

“I don’t care.”

You burst through the aisle and straight toward the first security member you can find, practically shoving your credentials in their face.

“Please,” you gasp. “I need to get to the tunnel. I work with the team. He—Oswaldo—he’s—” Your voice cracks. “I just need to be there.”

The man looks at you, startled, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to say no. You glance back at the field. The cart is rolling out.

Oswaldo still hasn’t stood. Hasn’t waved. Hasn’t smiled.

He’s curled into himself, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other still latched around the trainer’s wrist like he’s afraid if he lets go, the pain will win.

And then they lift him. Carefully. Too carefully.

He’s grimacing, jaw tight, head tilted up just enough to scan the tunnel as the cart begins to roll. And that’s when his eyes find you.

Wide. Glassy. Unsteady.

And so, so scared. Not of the pain. But of what comes next. You’ve never seen him look like that. Not once. And it undoes you completely.

“Please,” you beg again, this time to anyone who will listen. “Just get me to him. Please.”

Because you don’t know if it’s a sprain or a tear or a break or the end of a season or worse, the end of something bigger.

But you do know this, you’re not letting him face it alone.

Not for a single second. Not if you can help it.

⸻

The fluorescent lights in the emergency room buzz just a little too loud. Or maybe it’s your ears still ringing from the crowd’s collective gasp, from the pounding of your own heart, from the echo of Oswaldo’s name cutting through the stadium speakers just before he went down.

You’ve been pacing for what feels like hours thirty minutes, maybe forty your footsteps tapping out anxious rhythms across the linoleum floor. You tried sitting. Tried scrolling. Tried texting for distraction. But nothing helps. Not when the only thing you can picture is the way he clutched his ankle. The way his body went still.

Your phone is a dead weight in your hand. You’ve already called the clubhouse twice. Left voicemails. Texted two different staffers one gave you a vague “he’s stable,” the other a thumbs up emoji that made you want to throw your phone across the room. Neither told you what you needed to know.

So now you’re here. Alone. Wrapped in a hoodie that still smells like his cologne borrowed from his locker that afternoon and chewing on your bottom lip like you can bite your way through the uncertainty.

The waiting room is quiet, sterile. Beige walls. Plastic chairs. A muted tv playing some sitcom rerun no one’s watching. The air smells like hand sanitizer and overworked HVAC. And even though you’re technically not supposed to be here not a spouse, not a sibling you showed your credentials, begged your way past the front desk, and promised to sit still and not cause a scene.

You haven’t caused a scene. Yet. You start pacing again three steps forward, three steps back and almost don’t hear the nurse’s voice until she’s standing right in front of you.

“Are you here for Oswaldo Cabrera?”

Your head snaps up. “Yes, yes, I’m with him. I mean technically, I’m not family, but—” 

The nurse’s smile is kind. Patient. “He’s asking for you. Come on back.”

You leave your bag. You don’t even think about it. Just follow her through a maze of too, white halls, your shoes scuffing noisily as you try to keep up and keep breathing. And then you see him.

Room 7. Curtain drawn. Lights dim.

Oswaldo’s lying on the narrow hospital bed, reclined just enough to see the monitors beside him. His right leg is propped up in a thick foam brace, foot elevated, toes uncovered  the swelling already visible. A plastic wristband encircles his forearm. He looks smaller somehow without his jersey, his hair damp from the postgame rinse, his skin pale in a way that makes your stomach clench. But then his eyes find you just over the edge of the nurse’s shoulder and everything about him shifts. His lips part in relief. The tiniest smile blooms on his face, like the mere sight of you eases something in his chest. Like you’re his anchor.

“You made it,” he says, voice rough. 

“Of course I did,” you breathe, already crossing the room. Your hand finds his before you can even register it. 

He squeezes like he needs it like he needs you his thumb moving restlessly against your skin. He tries to hold it together, that smile. That steady breath. But there’s something cracked behind his eyes. Not just pain. Something deeper. Fear. Helplessness. The dawning realization that something might have changed forever in that one wrong step.

“It looked bad, didn’t it?” he asks, his voice thin.

You sink into the chair beside his bed, your thumb brushing over his hand. You want to lie. Say it didn’t. Say the replays weren’t that awful, that he bounced right up, that the whole thing felt minor. But you can’t.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “It looked bad.”

He nods slowly, eyes falling shut, and for a moment you think he might cry again you can see it, the tears burning behind his lashes, the weight of everything crashing down all at once. But he doesn’t. He just presses his head into the pillow and breathes like he’s trying to find his center.

You don’t speak again. You just stay. Your fingers tangled in his. His grip warm, grounding, desperate. The steady beep of the monitor filling the silence. A nurse checking something quietly in the background. The sound of a gurney wheeling past the doorway. And all the while, he doesn’t let go. Because you don’t have answers. Not yet. Not about MRI results or recovery time. Not about next steps or missed games or what this means for his season, for his future. But he’s here.

And you’re here. And for right now, that’s all he needs. And all you’ll ever give him.

⸻

It doesn’t take long for the doctor to return, but it feels like hours. You’re still seated beside Oswaldo’s bed, your fingers intertwined with his, the way they’ve stayed since you first arrived steady, quiet, and anchoring. Your thumb traces the same line along his knuckles again and again, like muscle memory, like a promise. Neither of you has said much. There hasn’t been a need. There’s a kind of comfort in the stillness in the shared weight of fear neither of you wants to say aloud.

Then comes the soft knock at the edge of the curtain. Oswaldo’s grip tightens. The doctor steps in clipboard in hand, a calm expression that’s too practiced to mean anything good. Her white coat rustles when she shifts her stance.

“Mr. Cabrera,” she says gently, offering a look to you as well, “We have the imaging results. You’ll be off the field for the rest of the season. We’ll have ortho consult with you about casting versus a boot, but either way, you’ll need rest. Physical therapy. Time.” 

Each word lands heavier than the last. She continues speaking about follow ups, pain management, the importance of avoiding weight-bearing too soon but it’s all muffled now, like someone submerged your head underwater. You barely notice the sound of your own heartbeat getting louder until you realize it’s not yours, it’s his.

Because Oswaldo is staring at the wall again. Like he can’t bear to meet her eyes. Or yours.

His jaw sets. His eyes don’t blink. His body which had been tense from the moment she walked in seems to deflate all at once, and he turns his head slightly to the side.

The doctor finishes with a few quiet words of reassurance and leaves the curtain swaying behind her.

You wait.

One second. Two.

And then you hear it.

Barely above a whisper.

“I was just starting to feel like I belonged.”

It guts you. Because this is Oswaldo the guy who always has a joke, who’s first to throw an arm around a teammate, who grins like he was born in pinstripes even when the rest of the world questioned if he had a place here. And now he’s lying in a hospital bed, staring at a blank wall like it’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Like he doesn’t want you to see what’s left when the lights go off and the stadium noise fades. You shift your chair closer, knees bumping the side of the bed. Your hand slides up to his cheek, thumb brushing softly against his hair messy now, flattened on one side from the stretcher, but still so unmistakably him.

“Hey,” you whisper, leaning in until your forehead almost touches his. “You belong everywhere, baby. This doesn’t change that.”

His eyes flutter shut, lips parting like he wants to believe you like he’s trying so hard to hold it in, but then it breaks. The first tear slips out silently, followed by another and then his shoulders start to shake. Quietly. Hopelessly. He curls in on himself just slightly, one arm curling up to shield his face, the other still clutching your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth.

You don’t tell him to stop. Don’t tell him to breathe. You just sit there, strong and soft and steady, brushing his hair away from his forehead again and again until the shaking slows and his grip loosens just enough to let himself feel it.

Because this is the part no one prepares you for not in the training rooms, not in spring camp, not in the clubhouse speeches. Not the helplessness. Not the ache of the dream being paused just as it was starting to feel real.

But you’re here and you’re not moving.

You kiss his temple, slow and sure. “You’re still you,” you whisper. “Still everything that got you here. Still everything that’s gonna get you back.”

And even as his face stays turned to the side, even as the tears come slower, you feel his hand squeeze yours again. He believes you even if just for a second and that’s enough.

For now.

⸻

It’s nearing midnight when the knock comes.

Soft. Hesitant. Like whoever’s on the other side isn’t sure if they’re allowed to cross this line between chaos and quiet.

You glance up from the chair beside Oswaldo’s bed the room dim now, lit only by a single overhead fixture and the soft green pulse of the heart monitor. Everything feels still. Not peaceful. Just suspended. Like the night hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be.

Oswaldo hasn’t said much in the last hour. He’s propped up slightly, leg still elevated, face pale and pinched with a dull throb of pain that no amount of hospital grade meds seems to dull. His eyes drift between half closed and open not really resting, not really alert. And then the door creaks open slowly.

You sit up straighter, instinctively more alert, and Oswaldo turns his head toward the noise. Two familiar silhouettes step into the glow of the hallway light. Aaron Judge. Anthony Volpe.

Both in Yankees hoodies and joggers, their postgame clothes wrinkled and still faintly marked with the scent of turf and sweat and detergent. Their hair is damp, like they didn’t even towel off properly before rushing out. Volpe’s got a half full gatorade tucked under his arm. Aaron’s holding nothing but his keys and a quiet determination.

Oswaldo’s brow furrows in disbelief. “Wait, what are you guys—?”

Aaron doesn’t answer at first. He crosses the room in three easy steps and stops at the side of the bed. No big speech. No dramatic hug. Just a firm, grounding hand on Oswaldo’s shoulder, steady and warm.

“We’re not letting you spend the night alone,” he says softly, voice a little hoarse around the edges.

Oswaldo stares up at him, stunned. “But it’s late. You didn’t have to—”

“Shut up,” Volpe says gently, already dragging a chair across the floor and settling into it beside yours. He plops the gatorade down on the tray table and slides Oswaldo’s cap onto the edge of the bed. “We didn’t even talk to the media. Just showered and came here.”

He says it like it’s obvious. Like it was never even a question.

Oswaldo huffs out a shaky breath one that almost sounds like a laugh, but not quite. “I thought you’d be mad.”

Aaron raises an eyebrow. “Mad?”

Oswaldo nods slowly. “I got hurt. I made it a thing.”

Aaron actually laughs a short, tired exhale that makes Oswaldo blink.

Aaron shifts his weight, hand still steady on Oswaldo’s arm. “You looked up at me leg bent the wrong way, face white as a ghost and go, ‘Judgy did I score?’”

Volpe snorts. “No way.”

“What?”

“Oh, yeah,” Aaron says, smiling now. “All that pain and drama, and you were worried about scoring.”

Oswaldo lets out a groan and covers his face with one hand. 

“You’re kidding.”

“You think I’d make that up? Man, it actually made you smile. Barely, but I saw it.”

Aaron shrugs. “You did score.”

Volpe leans back with a smirk. “Honestly, that question might’ve been the only thing keeping us from falling apart.”

Oswaldo shakes his head slowly, eyes glassy again. “I really scared you guys, huh?”

Aaron nods. The teasing fades, his voice gentler again. “Yeah, man. You did. But you’re here. You’re okay. That’s what matters.”

“We couldn’t even talk,” Volpe adds. “Me and Judge just sat on the bench after the game. Full uniforms, cleats and everything. Like statues. We all did.”

And that’s what does it. Oswaldo’s throat works around another breath, but it catches, and when he finally exhales, it’s wet. Barely held together. His hand, already wrapped in yours, squeezes tighter. His other curls into the blanket like he’s trying to keep from unraveling entirely.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Aaron says again, quieter now. “But we love you, man.”

There’s a pause. No one says anything. No one needs to. The weight of love of brotherhood settles like a blanket over the room. No cameras. No stat sheets. Just three teammates and you, sitting together in the late hours of a long night.

Oswaldo finally nods, just once. Not to agree. Just to say he heard them. He shifts just slightly, pressing his head back into the pillow, and lets his eyes flutter shut. The tears don’t fall this time. But you can see them still, caught in the corners. Not fear now. Just gratitude. His hand stays in yours.

And when you glance at Aaron and Volpe sitting in mismatched chairs, gatorade sweating on the tray, silent but solid you realize this is what family looks like.

Not perfect. But present. And that’s everything.

⸻

The clock on the hospital wall ticks past midnight, but none of you seem to notice.

The room has settled into something quiet and sacred dim lighting casting soft shadows, the steady rhythm of Oswaldo’s heart monitor fading into the background like a lullaby. The fluorescent hum that once felt harsh now hums like white noise, a gentle soundtrack to the kind of late night conversation you only get when everything else has been stripped away.

The panic is gone now, replaced by exhaustion but the good kind. The kind that comes after a storm has passed and you’re still standing. Aaron is slouched in the corner chair, too tall for the cramped space but making it work, arms crossed loosely over his chest like he’s keeping watch. His Yankees hoodie is rumpled, pulled halfway over his hands, and he’s got the kind of calm that only comes from being someone everyone else leans on.

Volpe’s nearby, perched in a chair he’s spun backward and straddled like a teenager killing time in a locker room. He’s nursing a half empty gatorade, flipping Oswaldo’s cap through his fingers with idle precision the same way you’ve seen him flip a baseball before an at bat, something rhythmic and grounding. His eyes bounce between the three of you, sharp and steady.

Oswaldo’s reclined in the bed, his injured ankle propped up with extra pillows and blankets, the outline of the foam brace thick beneath the sheets. He’s still in his game undershirt, face pale from pain and meds but his whole body’s looser now. His fingers, still twined with yours, aren’t trembling anymore. The worst of it is over. At least for tonight.

And somehow, this feels like healing. Aaron’s voice cuts through the quiet first, low and warm.

“You know the first time I got hurt? I was twenty three. Tweaked my oblique trying to hit a ball into the Ohio River.”

Volpe snorts into his gatorade. “That’s not even a real sentence.”

Aaron grins. “Swear. First pitch of BP. Took a daddy hack. Heard something pop in my ribs. Couldn’t laugh for a week without crying.”

Oswaldo cracks a smile, head rolling toward Aaron. “Did you cry?”

Aaron lifts an eyebrow. “Almost. But I mostly cursed a lot and watched six seasons of friends on a heating pad.”

Volpe shakes his head solemnly. “Man of culture.”

You laugh softly beside Oswaldo’s bed, and he squeezes your hand just once, just enough. His smile lingers a little longer this time.

“I’m gonna lose my mind if I can’t walk soon,” he mutters eventually, shifting with a wince. “I already hate being still.”

Volpe perks up like he’s been waiting for that. “Perfect. That’s why I’ve been shopping for scooters.”

Oswaldo blinks. “No.”

Volpe grins, devilish. “Yes. One of those little electric ones with LED lights. I’ll put flames on the side. Call it ‘The Wally Mobile.’”

“Do not call it that.”

“We’ll race in the clubhouse. Winner gets aux for a week.”

Aaron groans. “Security is gonna throw both of you out.”

“I’ll livestream it,” Volpe offers proudly.

Oswaldo laughs full on, this time. His head falls back against the pillow, his shoulders shaking as the sound fills the small room, light and bright and real. And for the first time all night, he looks like himself.

You feel your throat tighten as you watch him. Because god, he needed this. And you didn’t even realize how much you did too. The boys settle again. Volpe’s rambling about decals and scooter mods. Aaron’s shaking his head with that familiar, tolerant older brother smile. Oswaldo’s watching them both like he can’t believe they’re really here like some part of him thought he’d be forgotten the second he wasn’t on the field.

But he isn’t. Not even close. And when he speaks again, his voice is soft. Barely above the beep of the monitor.

“I love you guys.”

Aaron doesn’t hesitate. “We know.”

Volpe nods. “Love you too, Wally.”

The words land like a blanket over the room. Heavy with meaning. Light with peace. You don’t say anything, just glance sideways at Oswaldo and reach up to brush your fingers along his curls. He turns toward you eyes a little glassy, but the tears aren’t panic anymore. They’re gratitude. Warm and wide and wordless. You lean in and kiss his temple. And for a moment, no one speaks. The world outside the headlines, the rehab schedules, the uncertainty of the weeks ahead feels miles away. Right now, there’s only this room. This bond. This team that’s far more than stats and uniforms. You lean back, watching the three of them with your heart so full it aches.

Because this? This is family. And family always shows up.

⸻

Eventually, even the best kind of company has to go.

Aaron checks his phone and winces at the time. “Damn, it’s almost one.”

Volpe is already halfway through yawning as he stands, stretching with the sort of exaggerated groan only someone who’s twenty four and still convinced he’s indestructible can get away with. He ruffles a hand through his curls and gives Oswaldo a grin that doesn’t fade, even in the dim hospital light.

“You good?” Aaron asks, stepping close to the bed. He rests a hand briefly on Oswaldo’s foot careful not to bump the brace and meets his eyes like he’s making sure it’s not just an automatic answer.

Oswaldo nods. “Yeah. Better now.”

Volpe gives the edge of the bed a light tap. “We’ll be back tomorrow, okay? With snacks. And maybe a racing helmet.”

Oswaldo huffs a laugh tired, but sincere. “Only if it’s matte black.”

“Obviously,” Volpe replies, like anything else would be criminal.

Aaron leans down and squeezes his shoulder, firm and steady. “You’re not doing this alone. Not for one second.”

Oswaldo blinks fast too fast and nods again, jaw clenched just enough that you know he’s swallowing something deeper. Then they go. The door swings open and shut, sneakers squeaking one last time as they disappear into the quiet hallway. The room settles again, dim and still. Only the soft beeping of the heart monitor, the occasional distant cough, the rustle of nurses down the hall. The kind of quiet that aches when you’re left in it too long. Oswaldo doesn’t speak for a while. His fingers twitch slightly in yours. He’s still propped up, still fighting sleep, but you can tell his mind is drifting somewhere heavier. You think maybe he’s already half gone into it when.

“I really thought I was gonna be alone tonight.”

It’s not a dramatic line. Not even particularly loud. But it breaks something open in your chest. His voice is hoarse, barely audible, like he’s confessing it to the dark more than to you.

You don’t answer right away.You just rise from your chair and move closer, closer than before. You tuck your leg under yourself and gently climb into the chair beside the bed, pulling the extra hospital blanket over your lap and reaching to adjust the edge up around him. You smooth it over his torso with practiced care, the way you would if he were half asleep on your couch after a long flight. The way you would if you were home. Then you reach for his hand again. Squeeze it. Thumb brushing the back of his knuckles, grounding him in the here and now.

“Never,” you whisper. “You’re never alone.”

His breath hitches, just barely. Like he wasn’t ready to hear it out loud. He looks at you then really looks. Something raw in his eyes, something young and scared and grateful all at once. And you stay steady for him, keep holding his hand, keep breathing slow and sure like it might help him match the rhythm. His eyes linger on yours for a beat. Then another. And then, finally, they flutter closed, slow and heavy, like even surrendering to rest is something he has to give himself permission to do. But the lines on his forehead ease. His grip in your hand loosens not from distance, but from comfort. And when his breathing evens out, it’s with his fingers still curled loosely in yours, blanket tucked high, the tension in the room dissolving inch by inch into something safe. You lean back against the chair and exhale slowly, watching the monitors blink soft green against the dark. He’s okay. Not perfect. Not healed. 

But safe. And you’re here. Still holding on.

⸻

The hospital room is still, bathed in the faint gray blue glow of pre dawn.

The monitors continue their steady hum, casting soft green reflections onto the wall. The world outside hasn’t quite woken up yet not the sun, not the city, not the ache of everything waiting on the other side of daylight.

Inside, it’s peaceful.

You’re asleep in the chair beside Oswaldo’s bed, curled awkwardly but unmoving, your body slack with exhaustion. One hand still rests in his, fingers gently tangled like your grip never loosened, even in sleep. Your head is tilted sideways, nestled against the edge of the mattress, the hospital blanket pulled up halfway around your shoulders.

Oswaldo is still out, breathing slow and even. His ankle’s elevated, the brace stiff and clunky, but his expression is soft now. Less pain. Less fear. Something steadier.

At 5:03 a.m., the door creaks open with a whisper.

A nurse steps in, clipboard in hand, ready to check vitals and change the IV.

She pauses just inside the doorway. Her gaze lands on the two of you your stillness, the way your fingers are still wrapped in his, the soft rise and fall of both your chests in sync with the steady rhythm of machines. She smiles. The kind of smile that comes from witnessing something gentle in an otherwise harsh place. Without a word, she backs up slowly and eases the door shut behind her.

Letting the room stay quiet. Letting you both rest safe, together for just a little longer.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

off the bat

summary: ben didn’t mean to hit you with a foul ball but the postgame apology makes you realize the bruise might’ve been worth it.

word count: 4.4k words

a/n: this was a request! i hope you enjoy! as a floridian yankee fan, i'm glad i saved my time and money this weekend and didn't go to miami that is all i have to say on that topic please enjoy this ben imagine as retribution.

⸻

You’re halfway through a sad container of lukewarm leftovers, hunched over your laptop, rereading the same email draft for the third time, when your front door opens without warning.

Layla strides in like she owns the place which, to be fair, she basically does every weekend wearing a tied up Yankees jersey and a mission. Her sunglasses are perched on her head like a crown, and she’s radiating “I have plans and you’re part of them whether you like it or not” energy.

You don’t even flinch. “Do you knock anymore, or are we just pretending locks are a suggestion now?”

“Emergency,” she says, ignoring you completely. She tosses a clean Yankees cap onto your couch like it’s a grenade. “Get dressed. We’re going to the game.”

You look up from your tupperware with the dead eyes of someone who hasn’t had a day off in a month. “Hard pass.”

She gasps dramatically. “You didn’t even hear the pitch!”

“I don’t need to. Baseball? In this economy?”

Layla groans and drops onto the couch beside you, kicking your legs off the throw blanket. “It’s a beautiful day. The sky is blue. The vibes are high. And you haven’t seen the sun in, like five business quarters.”

“I have a window,” you mutter, stabbing at your overcooked pasta.

“That doesn’t count. You need vitamin D, dopamine, and eye contact with a man who wears eye black and compression sleeves.”

You blink at her, unimpressed. “That’s a very specific prescription.”

Layla smiles like she’s about to change your entire life. “You’re welcome.”

You raise a skeptical brow as she tugs the blanket off your lap. “I don’t even like baseball.”

“I’m not taking you for the baseball,” she says, standing dramatically and spinning like Vanna White (i grew up on wheel on fortune don’t hate). “I’m taking you for Ben freaking Rice.”

You stare at her blankly. “I have no idea who that is.”

She clutches her chest like you’ve personally offended her soul. “Ben Rice is the rookie catcher. Lefty. Big swing. Dumb smile. Thighs like tree trunks. He looks like he’d offer to split the bill and then secretly venmo you your half anyway because he ‘feels bad.’”

You squint. “That’s weirdly specific.”

“Exactly! He’s the kind of guy you trip over a curb for and then fall in love with by accident.”

“I don’t even know what position that is.”

Layla waves her hand. “That’s okay. No one really understands baseball anyway. You just have to sit there, look hot, and watch me black out every time he adjusts his batting gloves.”

You open your mouth to protest again, but she’s already halfway to your bedroom, yelling, “Don’t wear those sweatpants that make you look like you’ve given up on joy!”

You sigh deeply, louder than necessary. “If I go,” you call out, “you’re buying the first round of nachos.”

“Deal!” she shouts back. “And the pretzel with extra salt!”

You pause. “And you’re not allowed to post me on your instagram story unless I look at least semi-decent.”

Layla reappears in the doorway, grinning like she just won the lottery. “I make no promises.”

You stare at the cap on the couch for a long second. Then sigh. Then reach for it.

“god, I hate you.”

She claps once like a game show host. “We’re getting you a sunburn and a minor emotional crisis over a man you don’t even know yet!”

“Great.”

But you’re already standing.

⸻

You show up in a borrowed Yankees cap, sunglasses, and an oversized hoodie you only grabbed because Layla yelled “layers!” at you from the hallway. You didn’t mean to match her jersey navy blue, cinched and tied like she’s auditioning for a team girlfriend tiktok but here you are, a coordinating duo.

Layla takes one look at the two of you in the stadium mirror and gasps. “We look like girlfriends of the bullpen.”

You groan. “I look like I got dressed in the dark.”

“You look like someone’s about to fall in love with you from the field,” she corrects, eyes gleaming.

You roll your eyes, but truthfully? The vibe is kind of perfect. The sun is warm but not melting, the crowd is buzzing with pregame energy, and the entire stadium smells like sunscreen, popcorn, and testosterone. You’re not a sports girl never have been, but there’s something electric about being here. Like something could happen.

Layla is already standing on the concrete step in front of you like it’s her personal stage. “Okay, okay, okay. That’s Judge, you know him. Legend. Giant. Hits like a truck.” You follow her finger to where Aaron Judge is casually stretching like a greek god in cleats.

“Over there? That’s Volpe. Shortstop. Baby golden retriever energy. Like if sunshine could swing a bat.”

You squint. “That one?”

“Yup. And there—” She suddenly slaps your arm, almost knocking your sunglasses off. “That’s Ben Rice. Number twenty two. Rookie. Hot. Can probably lift a car and make you breakfast without a shirt on in the same morning.” You blink toward home plate. He’s crouched behind it in full catcher’s gear, warming up the pitcher chest protector, shin guards, mask, the whole thing. You can’t really see his face, but you can see his build, the way his forearms flex with every throw back to the mound, and the easy, practiced rhythm of his body. Okay. You’ll give her that one.

“He’s fine,” you say with a shrug, trying not to sound too impressed.

Layla gasps like you just said yes to a proposal. “Progress.”

You roll your eyes but sit back, trying to relax into the moment. There’s something kind of nice about being here. No emails. No group chats. Just blue skies, crackling stadium energy, and people yelling “Let’s go Yanks!” like it’s gospel. You pull out your phone, scroll a little, half listening as the game begins. The first pitch gets a cheer. Someone in your row spills a beer. The guy in front of you is wearing a custom jersey that says DAD BOD 69.

Honestly? You’re not even mad about being here. Your nachos arrive, a glorious pile of golden chips drowning in molten cheese and jalapenos. Stadium overpriced. Stadium perfect. You take your first bite, mid-scroll through instagram stories, barely registering the rising pitch of the crowd when it happens.

CRACK. It cuts through the air like a gunshot. Sharp. Loud. Electric. The stadium inhales.

You look up, instinct more than thought and see the ball. Or rather, a blur, arcing too low and too fast. It’s not a fly ball. It’s a missile. And it’s coming straight for your section.

Your brain doesn’t register it fast enough. Too fast.

Too late.

THUD.

The impact smacks your shoulder just above the collarbone, jolting your whole body like you’ve been struck by lightning and launching your tray of nachos into the air in a slow motion explosion of cheese and disbelief. A gasp rips from your throat before you can stop it.

Your sunglasses are crooked. Your jaw is open. Your shoulder burns.

“Ow, holy shit—”

Layla is already out of her seat, grabbing your wrist. “Oh my god. Oh my GOD. Did you just get hit?”

You’re still blinking, still stunned. The pain is blooming in sharp pulses, but it’s not broken bone pain. It’s more holy hell what just happened pain.

“I think so?” you manage, voice breathy.

An usher appears out of nowhere, kneeling at your feet like you’re in labor. “Miss? Can you breathe? Are you conscious?”

“I’m—yeah.” You wince as you shift. “I think I’m okay. Just knocked the wind out of me.”

Layla is spiraling beside you. “We need ice. We need a medic. We need a full body x-ray and a lawyer. Do you want to sue? I support suing. I’ll file it myself.”

You glance down. There’s cheese on your hoodie. Jalapeno juice on your thighs. The faint imprint of red blooming across your shoulder where the ball struck you. Somewhere above you, the crowd has started to clap, probably because you’re not dead.

The man in front of you turns around, wide eyed. “You okay, kid?”

You nod, breath still shaky. “I think I just got baptized by cheese and trauma.”

Someone hands you a napkin. Someone else offers you a free drink voucher. The usher radios for stadium medical. Layla is still vibrating like she drank six red bulls and saw your future flash before her eyes.

And then she leans down, whispering urgently into your ear. “You know who hit that, right?”

You blink at her. “What?”

Her eyes are wide. Smug. Absolutely unhinged.

“Ben. Freaking. Rice.”

⸻

Back on the field, Ben is frozen behind home plate.

Helmet off. Chest rising and falling like he just sprinted the bases when all he did was swing once and send a baseball hurtling into the stands. His eyes lock onto the section just above first base. A mess of fans, movement, and the aftermath of what he just did.

You.

He squints, scanning like he can zoom in with his eyeballs alone. But he knows what he saw.

He saw the ball slice right off the bat not even a clean foul, just a brutal ricochet off the end of the barrel. Saw a flash of your blue hoodie. A burst of yellow cheese. A blur of motion like someone mid-bite, mid-scroll, mid-not even looking.

Then came the moment a tray of nachos flying into the air in a sticky, molten arc. Your sunglasses askew. Your face shocked. Your hand on your shoulder like you were checking to make sure the bone was still there.

His stomach drops like a lead weight in a diving cage. Hands on his hips, mouth dry, he says it once a whisper,  “Oh my god.”

Then again, louder, to no one in particular. “Oh my god.”

It’s all he can say. Someone in the dugout shouts something across the field maybe Volpe, maybe Judge, but Ben doesn’t hear it. The crowd is still murmuring, the ushers are crowding your row, and all he can see is you waving them off like you’re the one who did something wrong.

You’re still holding your shoulder. Still visibly stunned. Still trying to smile through it.

That makes it worse. Way worse.

Because if there’s anything that wrecks Ben Rice, it’s watching someone play tough when they really shouldn’t have to. And he knows, just by the way you’re sitting there still, trying to laugh it off, covered in nacho carnage and pride that you’re the type to say “I’m fine” even if your arm’s about to fall off.

He hates it. Between innings, he jogs into the dugout, still shaken. Peels off his gear. Helmet clatters. Shin guards thunk.

“Dude,” someone says, clapping him on the back. “You good?”

Ben runs a hand through his damp curls and huffs. “No. I drilled her.”

“Pretty sure it was a foul—”

“Yeah, and I still drilled her.”

Volpe, sitting on the bench across from him, snorts. “At least you didn’t hit a kid this time.”

Ben shoots him a look. “You’re not helping.”

He’s already rummaging for something to write with, heart still pounding like he’s the one who got hit. All he finds is a wrinkled paper towel from the snack bin and a dying sharpie from next to the gum bucket.

It’ll have to do. His handwriting is rushed, uneven, but legible enough.

I’m so sorry. If you’re suing me, please wait until I make more money. — Ben

He wraps it around a fresh ice pack and grabs a clean ball from the bag behind the bench. Signs it. Number 22 under his name.

Then he finds one of the younger clubbie runners barely twenty, definitely overwhelmed and shoves it into his hands.

“Section 112,” he says, pointing. “Three rows back. Blue hoodie. Nacho casualties. Don’t screw this up.”

The kid takes off like he’s delivering classified intel to the Pentagon.

⸻

Meanwhile, up in the chaos of your row, you’re still dazed ice pack pressed to your shoulder, the faint sting of impact pulsing under your skin.

You’re not sure what hurts more, the actual hit or the fact that your nachos didn’t survive.

Layla is in full blown influencer mode, phone out, camera rolling, zooming in and out like she’s directing a reality show in real time. “Oh my god,” she whispers dramatically, framing the shot just right. “You’re living a rom-com. Like an actual foul ball to lover pipeline. Someone call netflix.”

You shoot her a tired glare. “He probably thinks I’m going to sue him.”

“Which is so hot,” she says, zooming in on your face now. “You should sue. Then fall in love. Then drop the lawsuit because he brings you soup.”

You groan, but before you can throw your napkin at her, someone from stadium security appears.

“Uh, this is for you,” the man says, holding out a lopsided bundle.

You blink, then take it. An ice pack. A signed baseball. And a note scribbled on a crumpled piece of paper towel that reads.

I’m so sorry. If you’re suing me, please wait until I make more money. — Ben

You laugh a full, shocked laugh despite the pain in your shoulder. Layla shrieks.

“You guys,” she stage whispers to no one in particular. “He’s funny. He’s hot and funny. I’m going to cry.”

You press the ice against your collarbone and glance down toward the field like you could pick him out in the dugout crowd. And somehow, you do. Ben’s leaning against the railing, staring directly at you with wide eyes and the kind of guilt ridden expression usually reserved for soap opera confessionals.

When you raise the ball slightly and give him a tiny, tentative wave. He waves back. Small. Sheepish. A little stunned. And Layla lets out a sound that’s somewhere between a gasp and a squeal.

“You are not allowed to wash that hoodie,” she says, dead serious. “It’s historical now.”

You just shake your head and try not to smile too hard. 

But you fail.

Miserably.

⸻

The game ends in a blur not because it wasn’t good (the Yankees won, you think?), but because your arm is throbbing, your head’s still spinning, and every time Ben Rice so much as steps onto the field, you feel a secondhand burst of embarrassment that travels from your scalp to your shoelaces.

You swear he glanced over at least three times after the incident. Once after striking out, twice while tugging his gear off. Maybe even during the pitching change when he definitely should’ve been looking anywhere else.

But no his eyes kept drifting toward your section, like he was checking if you were still alive. Or still mad. Or both.

Layla, of course, has been providing live commentary the entire time like she’s auditioning for ESPN: Rom-Com Division.

“He’s been glancing at you every other inning,” she whispers, practically vibrating with joy during the seventh inning stretch. “I’m pretty sure he forgot there was a game happening.”

You roll your eyes and mutter something about restraint, but it’s hard to argue when you’re still cradling a signed baseball, an ice pack that’s now more water than cold, and the paper towel apology note folded neatly in your hoodie pocket like it’s a love letter from war.

You stayed till the final out. Partly because Layla refused to leave. Mostly because you couldn’t bring yourself to go. Something about it felt unfinished.

Now the crowd is thinning. People are filtering toward the exits, stretching their legs, tossing cups into trash cans. You rise slowly, testing your shoulder still tender, still bruised and wince as the stiffness catches you off guard.

That’s when a man in a Yankees staff polo appears near your row, looking around like he’s searching for someone specific.

“Uh hi,” he says, adjusting his cap when his eyes land on you. “You’re the foul ball girl?”

You blink. “Wow. Iconic.”

He winces. “Sorry. That came out weird. I just meant Rice, uh Ben. He asked if you were still here.”

Your brain short circuits.

“He asked?”

“Yeah,” the guy says, like he’s not entirely sure he’s allowed to deliver fangirl dreams as part of his job. “He’d like to say hi. If you’re up for it.”

Layla doesn’t miss a beat.

“YOU’RE GOING.” It’s not a suggestion. It’s a divine decree.

You give her a look. “I mean, should I? Isn’t that kind of weird?”

“He hit you in the chest, apologized with a sharpie, and has been making stolen eye contact for two hours,” she says, already gathering your things. “You’re not just going. You’re going down in history.”

You hesitate. “I don’t even know what I’d say. Like, ‘Hey, thanks for the impromptu full body chiropractic adjustment’?”

Layla digs into her purse like she’s Mary Poppins and shoves a compact into your hand. “Here. Lip gloss. Go.”

You frown. “Seriously?”

She levels you with a look. “If Ben Rice hit me with a baseball, I’d be reapplying every ten minutes and thanking him for the bruise.”

You sigh because she’s right and unhinged all at once and swipe on the gloss with shaky hands, suddenly hyperaware of your hoodie, your hair, the lingering cheese stain on your thigh.

The staffer clears his throat gently. “No pressure. He just said if you were still here, he’d like to you know. Make sure you’re okay.”

You nod slowly, heart hammering. “Sure. Yeah. Okay.”

He gestures toward the tunnel. “I’ll walk you down.”

You take one step into the aisle, then glance back and there’s Layla, wiggling her eyebrows like a game show host, giving you two very dramatic thumbs up.

“You’ve got this,” she mouths, before pulling out her phone like she’s going to film your walk to destiny.

You whisper under your breath as you follow the staffer down the concrete steps. “Not internally bleeding. Not suing. Just casually going to meet the guy who beamed me with a baseball.”

Your hand tightens around the signed ball in your pocket. No big deal. Totally normal.

Definitely not about to have a full blown cardiac event in the Yankees’ tunnel.

⸻

The tunnel smells like fresh laundry, gatorade, and concrete. It hums faintly with postgame energy a mix of laughter, the low thrum of music bleeding from the clubhouse, and the steady rhythm of cleats tapping against the ground as players disappear behind heavy doors.

And there he is. Just past the chain link gate, standing in a spill of overhead light, is Ben Rice. Joggers. Gray Yankees hoodie. Towel slung around his neck like he forgot it was there. Hair damp from a rushed shower. No gear. No mask. Just him. And he looks nervous. In a way that surprises you.

His head lifts as you approach, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pocket, like he’s bracing for an awkward moment or your full legal wrath. His eyes sweep over you quickly from your messy hair to the half melted ice pack you’re still carrying and when he sees you’re upright, breathing, smiling even just a little, his shoulders drop.

“Hey,” he says, a little breathless, like he wasn’t sure you’d actually show.

“Hey.” Your voice is softer than you meant it to be.

You stop just in front of him. Not too close, but close enough that you can see the red indentation the strap of his chest protector left on the side of his neck.

There’s a weird pause not quite tension, not quite silence. Just two people both trying to find the right thing to say first. He beats you to it.

“You okay?” he asks quickly, taking a half-step forward. “I swear I didn’t mean to target you. It was the wind. Or karma. Or I don’t know, maybe I broke a mirror this morning.”

You blink, thrown by the pace and the ramble. “I mean, I was mid-nacho. So, like, partial fault?”

His eyes widen. “No, no. Don’t do that. I literally assaulted you with a baseball.”

“It grazed my shoulder,” you offer, shrugging slightly.

“It launched your nachos,” he counters. “I saw the whole thing. There was cheese in the air. It was a war crime.”

You try not to laugh. Fail. “Okay. Fair. R.I.P. to the cheese.”

He cracks a grin, the kind that tugs slow at the corners of his mouth, like he’s not sure he deserves it but can’t help it anyway.

“Seriously though,” he says, voice dropping. “Are you alright?”

You nod. “Just sore. Dramatic bruise incoming. Possibly a mild ego injury. But I’ll live.”

He exhales. “God. Good. I feel awful. I told the guys I was gonna be on tiktok tonight for braining a civilian.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think that’ll get you canceled?”

He shrugs. “Depends on how charming my apology is.”

You smile. “Well, the paper towel note was a strong start.”

Ben groans, dragging a hand down his face. “God, don’t remind me. That was the only thing I could find. I panicked. I was sweating through my jersey and I had cheese trauma flashbacks.”

“You had cheese trauma?”

“You don’t understand,” he says gravely. “The velocity. The splash radius. The jalapenos.”

You laugh fully, freely and something in his expression shifts. Softens. He stares like he wants to memorize the sound. The silence that settles between you this time is different. Warmer. You can feel the energy between you humming just beneath the surface, like static in the air before thunder.

You shift your weight and say, “If it helps, I didn’t even know who you were until today.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “No?”

You shake your head. “My friend dragged me here. I thought you were number ninety three.”

Ben places a hand on his chest in mock betrayal. “Wow. Wounded and disrespected.”

“I’ve learned a lot,” you say, grinning now. “Your name. Your number. Your aim.”

He lets out a short laugh and tips his head at you, eyes sparkling. “And now I’ve made a real impact.”

You tilt your head. “Literally.”

His gaze drops for a second to your shoulder, to the signed ball peeking out of your hoodie pocket and then lifts again, slower this time. More certain.

“Can I, um…” He clears his throat. “Make it up to you? Properly?”

You lift an eyebrow, curious. “How do you plan on doing that? Another baseball?”

He chuckles. “No. No more projectiles, I promise. I was thinking, dinner. Or coffee. Or a voucher for free nachos and an emotional support helmet. Dealer’s choice.”

You can’t help the flush that creeps up your neck. “Maybe start with the nachos.”

His grin widens. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Then we’ll see.”

Ben shifts a little closer. Just a bit. “Deal.”

And for a moment in the quiet, fluorescent glow of a cement tunnel under Yankee Stadium you both just stand there, grinning like idiots.

⸻

Ben’s still smiling that kind of half crooked, boyish smile that makes you feel like maybe this entire mess was written into the universe on purpose. Like maybe the bruise on your shoulder was a cosmic slapstick meet cute. Like maybe he’s been waiting for a reason to talk to you all day and just happened to hurl a baseball in your direction first.

He shifts his weight, scratches the back of his neck a little nervous again, even now. But there’s a spark under it. He’s standing a little taller, more relaxed, like the ice (and the nachos) have officially been broken.

“So” he starts, eyes dancing. “How should I make this up to you?”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I could offer coffee,” he says casually, then adds, “Or”

He pauses lets it sit, milks it just a little.

“Batting cage revenge?”

You blink. “You’re offering me the opportunity to publicly humiliate you with a wiffle ball?”

“I’m offering you healing through violent release,” he says seriously. “And maybe the chance to beam me with a fastball. If you’ve got good aim.”

You squint at him like you’re sizing him up. “What if I bring a glove next time?”

His laugh is instant and delighted surprised and impressed at once. “Okay. You’re dangerous.”

You shrug. “You started it.”

Ben reaches into his hoodie pocket, pulling out his phone. His fingers hover for a second like he’s working up the nerve. And then like it’s nothing but also everything he glances up, his voice just a little quieter this time.

“Can I give you my number?” he asks. “In case your bruises need updates? Or if the nacho grief hits hard later.”

You smirk, your heart doing a tiny, inconvenient flip. “Sure. For medical purposes.”

“Exactly,” he says, grinning now as he hands over his phone like it’s some kind of truce offering. “Strictly clinical.”

You type your number in, fighting the urge to add something dumb and flirty but you keep it clean. Just your name. You hand it back, watching his thumbs move as he saves it. Quick but careful. Like he doesn’t want to forget even one letter.

He looks up. “Thanks for not hating me.”

“Thanks for not ducking into the clubhouse and pretending it never happened.”

He winces with a guilty little grin. “I thought about it. I really did. But you had cheese in your hair. I felt morally obligated.”

You groan. “Please don’t tell anyone that.”

“No promises,” he teases. “Might be the best thing that happened to me this week.”

You laugh full, from the belly and something about the way he looks at you then makes the world go a little quieter. It’s soft, almost reverent, like your laugh just knocked him off balance in a way a fastball never could.

You shift back a step, lifting a lazy wave. “Guess I’ll see you around, Rice.”

He nods, but you can tell he’s not quite ready to let you go. And just as you’re turning away halfway to the tunnel, already smiling.

He calls after you. “Tell your friend she was right.”

You pause, glance back over your shoulder. He’s grinning now, fully.

“I am Ben Freaking Rice.”

You don’t even break stride. You just flip him off without looking. And you’re smiling the whole damn way out phone in your pocket, bruise on your shoulder, and absolutely no idea what you’re going to text him first.

But you already know you will and he’s already waiting for it.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

say less

summary: a midnight demo and your voice on his track dom had no idea you were the harmony he didn’t know he needed.

word count: 4.6k words

a/n: this was a request! i hope you enjoy!

⸻

Your phone buzzed just after midnight, one sharp vibration across the marble countertop where you’d left it charging, barely loud enough to break the quiet hum of your apartment.

You padded across the floor in socks, half-asleep and still glowing faintly from the aftertaste of a long studio day, and flipped the screen over.

Kevin Abstract: 😏[Google Drive link: Geezer (Dom’s Crybaby Demos)]

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Typical Kevin. No explanation. No context. Just vibes and a vaguely suspicious file title. Still, your curiosity got the better of you. You grabbed your headphones off the couch, plugged in, and opened the link.

The first file was unlabeled, just a string of numbers and the word “rough.”

Classic Dom.

You hit play. The track opened with a few scratchy bars of guitar, stripped raw like it had been recorded in the middle of the night on the first take because knowing Dom, it probably was. Then came his voice. Softer than usual. Unpolished. Honest in that way that made your chest pull tight before you even caught the lyrics.

You sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, the city quiet outside your windows as the song filled the room like a secret. His voice cracked halfway through the second verse not because he missed the note, but because he meant it. It was that Dominic Fike signature, a little reckless, a little broken, impossibly beautiful in its imperfection.

He sang like he didn’t know anyone would ever hear it and god, something about that made your heart ache. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until the track faded out and the silence hit, sharp and sudden.

Your phone lit again.

Kevin Abstract: You didn’t hear this from me. But Dom’s been stuck on this one for weeks. He won’t admit it, but he wants a feature just won’t say who😮‍💨

You read the text twice, eyes darting back to the open file. You could still feel the ghost of his voice in your chest. Then three dots appeared.

Kevin Abstract: You in?

You stared at the message for a long second, thumb hovering over your screen, suddenly way more awake than you had any right to be. Your heart beat faster not with nerves, exactly, but with knowing. Like standing on the edge of something that already felt inevitable.

Because the thing was this wasn’t the first time the idea had come up.

Dom had teased it months ago casual, offhand, almost like he was testing the waters. “We should do something sometime. Would be fun.”

And you’d played it cool. Laughed, shrugged, said something deflective. But deep down, you’d wanted it. You’d wanted this. Him. In that creative space with you. Not just as the boy who made your heart race, but as the artist who made your head spin.

You wanted the mess and the magic and the way his voice curved around emotion like it was carved to fit. You wanted the real Dom. In the booth. No filters. No ego. Just you and him, and whatever the hell you could make together.

Your fingers moved before you could second guess it.

For Dom?

Say less.

⸻

You pulled into the back lot just before 1 a.m., headlights cutting briefly across the side of the building before flicking off. The engine hummed in the silence for a beat too long before you finally killed it, sitting still in the dark for a moment hoodie drawn low over your head, sunglasses still perched on the bridge of your nose despite the fact that the moon was the only thing watching.

Classic L.A. behavior. But tonight wasn’t about being seen. Tonight was about being felt. Kevin met you at the side door, hoodie up and grinning like a kid sneaking into his own birthday party. He cracked the door open just wide enough for you to slip in.

“You look like you’re about to rob the place,” he whispered, eyes dancing.

You tugged your hood a little lower, lowering your sunglasses just enough to peer at him. “Well,” you deadpanned, “I am stealing his song. Temporarily.”

Kevin snorted, quickly locking the door behind you. “Fair.”

The studio smelled like long hours faint incense, leftover takeout, and the warm metallic tang of gear that had been humming all day. Most of the overheads were off, casting the space in a soft, golden half light. The mixing console glowed like it had a secret, and maybe it did.

You stepped inside and let the door shut behind you with a soft click, muffling the rest of the world. The city could wait. Kevin didn’t say anything as he moved toward the booth just pulled up the project file and clicked through the tracks like he’d done it a hundred times. He paused with one finger over the play button, glanced over at you, then gave the smallest nod.

You pulled your hoodie back and slipped on the headphones. Then play. Dom’s voice hit you instantly. No build up, no polish. Just him.

Raw. Quiet. Close.

You swore you could hear the room he recorded it in the creak of the stool, the breath he took before the first line. The guitar was barely there, more feeling than sound. The drums whispered underneath like they were afraid to interrupt. And his voice god, his voice. It wasn’t perfect, and that’s what made it brutal. That familiar rasp. The little cracks in the second verse where it sounded like he might break but pushed through anyway. Like every word cost him something to say.

You sat down slowly on the edge of the couch, elbows on your knees, your thumb absently tapping your bottom lip as you listened. It felt like he was confessing something he hadn’t even admitted to himself yet. Like this track wasn’t made for release it was made because he had to. The bridge hit and took your breath with it.

“Did you know I only write about the things I never say out loud?”

Your chest ached just a little. You smiled, small and reverent.

“Jesus, Dom,” you whispered.

The track faded into silence, and the room held its breath with you. You didn’t move for a second. Didn’t want to. But the moment passed like all moments do. And then, your instinct kicked in.

“Can you loop the second half?” you asked, voice low but steady, rising from the couch with a new kind of energy threading through you.

Kevin was already on it. The mic smelled faintly like eucalyptus and old stories. You adjusted your headphones, tapped the stand once, and rolled your shoulders back. No plan. No scribbled lyrics. Just your voice. And his.

You started small, a low hum that curled under his vocals like a second thought. Then came the harmonies, soft and close, shaping themselves around his melody with the kind of ease that only came when you weren’t thinking too hard. It felt like talking to him through the music. Like answering something he didn’t know he’d asked. Then came the verse.

Not too clean. Not too sharp. You didn’t want it perfect. You wanted real. Your voice dipped and rose, danced with his, not overpowering, just with.

The words came easy. The emotion, easier. Kevin sat back in the chair, hands frozen on the console, lips slightly parted like he forgot how to breathe. When you finished, you pulled off the headphones slowly, your breath still shaky from the last note. The studio fell into that sacred kind of silence the kind that follows something true.

Kevin didn’t speak. Just hit play again, eyes focused, jaw slack. When the final harmony faded, he let out a low exhale and swiveled in his chair.

“He’s gonna flip when he hears this.”

You leaned against the booth doorway, arms folded, the smallest smirk tugging at your lips.

“That’s the idea.”

⸻

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Dom wasn’t even meant to be at the studio until the afternoon. That was the plan a late call time, a slow ease into the day, maybe some half-hearted journaling and a smoothie before diving into the tracklist. He’d even told Kevin he needed “a reset,” like his brain was a dusty etch a sketch that just needed shaking.

Kevin had nodded, said “bet,” and planned everything around it.

But Dom being Dom got restless. He woke up early, mind spinning, something tugging at him like gravity. So he threw on a hoodie, didn’t brush his hair, grabbed the first snack he could find, and headed to the studio like a man possessed.

At 10:47 a.m., the side door clicked open.

“Yo,” he called out casually, stepping in mid-thought, half of a granola bar clutched between his fingers and his phone still lit with scribbled voice memo notes. “So I was thinking, for the bridge on ‘Ghosts’ maybe we strip the drums out entirely. Just let the vocal carry it like, almost naked, right?”

He didn’t get to finish. Because something was playing through the monitors already. Low volume. An old mix, maybe? He didn’t really clock it until it hit the second verse. His voice. The one he recorded weeks ago raw and too emotional, the kind he almost didn’t want anyone to hear. And then her.

Dom froze in the middle of the room, the granola bar halfway to his mouth, his sentence stalling midair like someone had hit pause on his entire body. Her voice. Clear. Warm. Cutting through his like sunlight through a dusty window. It was hers, no question and yet it blended with his in a way that felt seamless. Like her voice had always been there, quietly haunting the edges of the song, just waiting to be turned up.

The sound wrapped around his second verse like it belonged there. Intimate. Intentional. Soft in the places he broke. Strong in the places he held back.

He blinked, shoulders stiffening, foot still slightly raised like he’d forgotten how to finish the step he started.

“Wait, hold up,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. “Is that…?” He walked forward, slowly now, pulled like a tide he didn’t understand. Around the corner. Past the racks of cables. Straight toward the booth.

And then he saw her.

You.

In his booth.

Completely in your own world, headphones on, hoodie sleeves pushed to your elbows. One hand cupping your ear. The other tapping against your thigh in time with the beat. You were humming into the mic, soft background harmonies, tucked right under his vocal line. Your expression focused, peaceful. You didn’t even look like you were trying hard. You were just being and it was stunning.

His chest went tight. And then warm. And then all kinds of messed up.

You hadn’t seen him yet. Which made it worse or better. He couldn’t decide.

Kevin, meanwhile, was absolutely thriving. Leaning back in the engineer’s chair with his feet propped up and a shit eating grin stretching across his face, he looked like a man watching a rom-com unfold in real time.

“Surprise, bro,” he said, not even trying to hide the delight in his voice.

Dom didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His mouth was open, but the words weren’t working. All he could do was look at you, at the way you moved, at how effortlessly your voice wove into his, at the way you somehow made his unfinished track feel finished.

His heart was doing the absolute most in his chest. A full sprint. No warm up.

You finally glanced up, sensing the shift in energy and your eyes locked with his through the booth glass.

For a second, time stretched. Hung. And then, without missing a beat, you smiled. Not an apologetic one. Not shy. Just that easy, knowing grin the kind that said yeah, I did this on purpose.

And then you winked. Playful. Shameless. A little too good. Dom clutched his hoodie strings like they might ground him.

His hand went to his mouth instinctively, like it could hold in the reaction the grin that broke across his face so fast it startled even him. His eyes softened in real time. That wide, awestruck, what the fuck kind of look that no one ever got from him unless they’d earned it. He looked like he’d just walked straight into a dream and wasn’t sure whether to speak or sit down and thank someone.

Kevin, barely containing himself, leaned over the console and stage whispered like David Attenborough narrating a wildlife special. 

“Look at him. Man’s done for.”

And yeah he absolutely was.

⸻

By the time the booth door finally opened and you stepped out, Dom still hadn’t fully recovered.

He was leaning against the console like it was the only thing holding him upright, one hand still absently clutching the headphones he’d ripped off minutes ago, eyes locked on you like he didn’t quite trust that you were real.

He was smiling wide, open, soft around the edges. The kind of smile people tried to write songs about and never quite got right. Like someone had just handed him his dream on a silver platter and whispered, it’s yours if you want it. Like if he blinked, you’d vanish.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said, his voice low, a little breathless, like he was trying to sound annoyed but couldn’t stop his mouth from curling into a grin.

You crossed your arms loosely, fighting your own smirk. “Wasn’t my surprise to ruin.”

He ran a hand down his face like he didn’t know what to do with himself. Looked at Kevin through the glass like he was debating whether to throw hands or give him a standing ovation. Kevin just threw up two triumphant thumbs and slapped the record button like he was directing a rom-com.

And then it was on. You slipped back into the booth, this time with Dom beside you, both of you facing your mics, your lyric sheets, your self control.

Your mics were spaced out enough to keep it technically professional. Emotionally? Not even close. The second playback started, something shifted. The air in the room turned electric sharper, heavier. Like the music was pulling some invisible thread tighter with every bar.

You came in first your harmonies sliding in like smoke curling under a door, instinctive and warm. Dom turned his head slightly when he heard it again, like it was the first time, like it still surprised him how right it sounded.

By the time his verse kicked in, you were already scribbling ideas, adjusting phrasing in your head. You didn’t want to just fit into the song you wanted to answer it. Echo it. Challenge it.

Dom caught you flipping through your notes between takes, a grin tugging at his lips.

“I think I’m gonna flip the second line,” you said, chewing your pen cap as you made a quick edit. “Make it more of a response. More bite.”

Dom raised a brow. “You’re rewriting again?”

You didn’t even look up. “Keep up, rockstar.”

His laugh was immediate, full and unfiltered. It bounced off the booth walls and landed right in your chest.

Kevin’s voice crackled through the talkback mic. “God, this is gross. Can y’all flirt after we get a clean take?”

Dom looked toward the glass, deadpan. “We’re professionals, Kevin.”

You turned to him, raising your brows like are we really doing this? “Are we?”

He lost it. Full body laugh. Head back. Shoulders shaking. One hand pressed to his chest like you’d just knocked the wind out of him with a single sentence. You tried to keep your expression straight, but it was a losing battle. He was grinning too hard. You were grinning too hard. It was chaos. It was chemistry. It was the most fun either of you had had in a studio in months.

“This is insane,” he muttered after he got his breath back, adjusting his headphones. “You’re way too good at this. It’s rude, actually.”

You scoffed. “I’m rude?” You gave him a mock scandalized look. “Coming from the guy who casually drops heartache into a demo like it’s no big deal?”

Dom shrugged, smirking. “I do what I can.”

You rolled your eyes but your smile betrayed you. And then the track rolled again. This time, your voices didn’t just blend they collided, danced, tangled. You didn’t have to look at each other to know exactly where to pause, where to push, where to leave space for the other. It was effortless. And completely not safe. Every glance between takes held a little more weight. Every note hummed with something unspoken. Every harmony was less about pitch and more about tension. Kevin let it go for a while, but eventually, even he couldn’t take it.

“Yeah, we’re not finishing this song today,” he muttered under his breath, dragging his hoodie over his face like he needed to shield himself from whatever emotional firestorm was happening on the other side of the glass. “Y’all are killing me.”

Dom just leaned toward you slightly, the corner of his mouth still quirked.

“Not to be dramatic or anything,” he said, softer now, “but this might be my favorite version of this song. Ever.”

You didn’t say anything at first. You just bumped your shoulder gently into his, close enough that your arms brushed. And stayed that way. The track rolled again.

And neither of you moved away.

⸻

The studio was almost completely silent now.

No music. No buzzing monitors. No Kevin shouting sarcastic commentary through the talkback mic. Just stillness soft and golden and sacred in that way studios get when the work is done, but the moment isn’t over.

The overheads had been dimmed to their lowest setting, casting a warm glow across the space like dusk frozen in amber. It pooled in corners, softened edges, made shadows look kinder. The leather couch you’d collapsed onto hours ago creaked faintly as you shifted, worn and familiar and exactly the kind of place you could stay for a while.

Kevin had left with a dramatic flourish and a parting shot something about “you two better name your duo project after me or I’m suing for emotional damages” and then he was gone, the click of the door leaving a new kind of hush in his absence.

Now it was just the two of you. You and Dom, legs stretched out in opposite directions, one of his socks balled up on the floor like it had tapped out first. A single water bottle being passed back and forth without a word, condensation slicking your fingers each time.

You were both flushed skin warm, cheeks pink from laughing too hard and singing too long and maybe from the fact that you still hadn’t quite come down from whatever that was in the booth. That feeling like the two of you had cracked something open. Not just in the music but in each other.

Hair messy. Clothes rumpled. The kind of tired that felt earned. Dom tilted his head back against the cushion with a quiet sigh, like it had taken him all day to remember how to exhale like that. His fingers drummed absentmindedly against the bottle cap as he turned to look at you.

And then he didn’t look away. He just watched you for a moment really watched you like he was letting himself see you without the adrenaline and distractions. Without the music playing or the mics hot. Just you, sitting next to him in this soft, suspended quiet.

“You didn’t have to do all this for me,” he said finally, voice low, the kind of low that feels like a secret. Like truth slipping out before ego can catch it.

You blinked, surprised by the seriousness in his tone. But then you smiled, slow and sleepy, like the answer was obvious. “Of course I did.”

He shifted slightly, his knee brushing yours. Not an accident. You didn’t move away.

“You’re brilliant, Dom,” you said simply, your voice matching his unpolished but true. “You just don’t always see it.”

You shrugged like it was nothing. Like that kind of faith in him didn’t cost you anything. But it kind of did. It was that rare, unguarded kind of belief that only came when you really meant it. He looked at you like he knew that.

Stared for a beat too long, like he was searching your face for whatever it was you saw in him. And then he looked down, let out a breathy, broken little laugh not the flirty kind, but the overwhelmed kind. The you’re wrecking me and you don’t even know it kind.

His voice cracked slightly as he said, “You’re the most talented person I’ve ever met.”

You froze just a second. Then you tilted your head, caught off guard by the sincerity pouring out of him. But you didn’t stop him. You wanted to hear it.

“Not just like ‘she’s hot and can sing,’” he added quickly, like he was trying to untangle his thoughts and failing spectacularly. “Even though that’s, like obviously true.”

You snorted quietly.

“But you’re it. You’re the real deal. You don’t just walk into a room and light it up you build the fire. You make the whole thing warmer.”

He swallowed hard, eyes flicking down to his lap, like he hadn’t meant to say it quite like that. Like it slipped out too honest.

“I still don’t get how I got lucky enough to have you here. On my song. In my booth. Sitting here like this.”

Your heart thudded, quiet but certain. Like it had been waiting for that moment. For him to see you back. You didn’t rush to answer. You just leaned over and gently bumped your head against his shoulder soft, slow and said, “Well. You’re welcome for your best track.”

That made him laugh, really laugh. The kind that made his whole chest move, made him shake his head like he couldn’t believe you.

He nudged your knee with his again. “See? That’s the problem,” he muttered, voice warm and wrecked and full of something he wasn’t quite naming yet. “You’re cool and you’re humble. It’s exhausting, honestly.”

You grinned and let your head stay there, resting against him. Neither of you said anything else for a while. You didn’t need to. The music was gone, but the moment stayed. Full and quiet and golden. Heavy in the way only intimacy can be when it sneaks up on you and settles in without asking. The studio didn’t feel like a workspace anymore. It felt like a secret. And neither of you rushed to break it.

Because some silences feel less like an ending and more like the start of something you don’t want to name just yet.

⸻

The track rolled from the top, crisp and clean this time the final mix, every piece of it sharpened and smoothed like glass. The harmonies tucked just right under the melody. The bass line hugged the low end without smothering it. The reverb on your last note faded out with the kind of timing that made Kevin sit back and mutter, “Damn, that’s cinematic.”

But somehow, it still felt raw. Still felt like the first time you heard it. Like it hadn’t been touched at all. Like it came straight from a heartbeat.

Dom’s head was bobbing before the first chorus even hit, one leg bouncing, lips moving with the words like he couldn’t help but sing along. His hoodie sleeves were shoved up to his elbows, exposing the fading imprint of his guitar strap across his arm. He looked like a kid on christmas morning wide eyed, beaming, a little stunned.

The grin tugging at his mouth was huge unguarded, messy, pure. The kind of joy that couldn’t be staged or filtered or rehearsed. The kind that only happened when something finally came together in a way that made you come together too. 

He kept sneaking glances at you out of the corner of his eye, like he needed to check if you were hearing it the same way. If you knew. Because this wasn’t just a track anymore. It was yours. And his. And no one else’s.

When the final harmony faded that soft, aching note you added at the very last second, the one that sounded like the emotional equivalent of a hand brushing skin the room dipped into silence so full it was almost holy. Dom let out a low whistle, exhaling like he’d just held his breath for the entire track.

And then, without missing a beat, “This one’s not going on the album.”

You blinked, turning toward him, one brow raised. “Excuse me?”

He looked at you, completely serious, but the grin on his face betrayed him. He looked ridiculous. Giddy. A little in love.

“It’s going on every album. From now on. All of them.”

You burst out laughing, leaning back on your palms. “At least put me on the deluxe, damn. Let a girl breathe.”

He was halfway through forming a reply and judging by the look on his face, it was going to be flirty and probably a little unhinged when the door creaked open behind you.

Kevin strolled back in like he hadn’t just left a nuclear moment brewing in his absence. Snapple in hand. Hoodie sleeves bunched up. Chaos in his eyes.

“Or,” he said casually, eyes flicking between the two of you, “you two could just date already and make a whole joint project. Blush x Lovers collab incoming.”

The silence that followed was immediate and deafening. You and Dom froze. The kind of stillness that’s instinctual like your bodies knew before your brains did that this was a moment.

Then you looked at each other. Then immediately looked away. You felt it the second it happened the heat rising from your collarbones to your cheeks, ears burning like someone had spotlighted you onstage with no warning. Dom wasn’t any better his face had turned the color of his snapple cap, and he was suddenly very interested in the floor. You snatched the nearest throw pillow off the couch and launched it at Kevin. It hit him square in the chest. He didn’t even flinch. Just took a long sip of his drink like he’d been waiting for this exact moment to unfold.

“I’m just saying,” he added, completely unfazed. “It’d go platinum.”

You looked at Dom, waiting for him to protest to roll his eyes or deflect or change the subject. But he didn’t. He just smiled slow, quiet, genuine. And blushed even harder.

You squinted. “You’re seriously not gonna defend yourself right now?”

Dom shrugged, eyes twinkling with something warm and weightless and way too honest. “He’s not wrong.”

Your heart kicked in your chest too fast, too full. You didn’t push it. You didn’t name it. But you didn’t deny it either. You just gave him that soft, tilted smile the one you always gave when you meant something but didn’t want to make a big deal about it. The one that said I see you.

And Dom? He gave it right back. Like yeah. I see you too.

The track looped again in the background, quieter this time like it was bowing out, letting the moment take center stage. And it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like the start of something you hadn’t even written yet.

Something unreleased. Unlabeled.

But already playing on repeat.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

wednesday's still open, right?

summary: a few days after the game that changed everything, a question from alana, “can we go see him again?” sets something new in motion and this time, it’s not just about baseball.

word count: 6.7k words

read part 1 here

a/n: this was a request! i had a couple requests to do a part two for alana and her momma (stadium steps & snack breaks) so here we go i hope you enjoy!!!

⸻

The apartment was quiet that kind of deep, still quiet that only came after a long, joy filled day.

No cartoons humming in the background. No dishwasher running. No hurried footsteps or half finished conversations. Just stillness.

Alana was already out cold, tucked into bed in her favorite blanket, one arm curled tightly around the signed ball like it might disappear if she let go. Her new Yankees cap the one that had barely left her head all day now sat on her pillow beside her, slightly askew. The glitter from her “#1 Judge Fan” sign had somehow made it to her cheeks, still faintly pink from a full day in the sun.

You stood in the doorway, watching her. So small. So full of wonder. So completely at peace.

Your heart tugged, slow and tender. A snapshot you wanted to remember forever. Then, as quietly as you could, you eased the door almost shut and padded down the hall, the hush of the apartment wrapping around you. You passed the couch, the crumpled blanket from your quick post game collapse earlier still tossed across one cushion, and dropped your bag nearby.

Shoes off. Lights dim. Hoodie still smelling faintly like ballpark air and cotton candy. You sank into the cushions with a quiet sigh not the kind dragged out by stress or burnout or the weight of another endless day, but something else entirely. Something easier.

The kind of tired that came with a full heart and sore feet. The kind that told you this day had been worth every second. Then your phone buzzed in your back pocket.

You fished it out without much thought, half expecting a notification from work. Or a payment reminder. Or some pointless group thread you’d muted three weeks ago.

But instead.

Aaron Judge: Just making sure you both made it home safe. And that my hoodie survived the train ride.

You blinked. Then smiled. Your stomach did that fluttery, unhelpful thing again and you let it. For once, you didn’t shove the feeling down or try to be rational. You just felt it.

You typed back quickly “Barely. I think it’s sticky with cotton candy now.”

You hit send and let your phone rest on your lap but it didn’t stay still for long. The reply came faster than you expected. Like maybe he’d been hoping you’d write back.

Aaron Judge: Worth it. Let me know when you want a second round, stadium or dinner.

You stared at the screen, heart thudding a little harder in your chest. The words were simple. Easy. Playful. But the way they made you feel? Not simple at all.

You thought of the way his eyes had found yours in the crowd. The gentle way he carried your daughter like she already meant something to him. The sound of his voice saying your name for the first time. The soft kiss he pressed to Alana’s forehead like it was instinct.

None of this was simple. It was something. Something new. Something good. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the words almost forming a yes, a joke, a maybe but then paused. You didn’t need to rush it. He’d wait.

Instead, you tucked your phone against your chest, curled into the corner of the couch, and let yourself breathe. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t just winding down from the day.

You were looking forward. To the next message. To the next game. To Wednesday. To whatever this was whatever it could be.

Because deep down, where it mattered, you knew. Something had shifted. And this time, it was just for you.

⸻

The morning light poured in through the kitchen window, painting soft gold stripes across the table and the mess of crayons, glitter markers, and half curled construction paper scattered across it like confetti from a party only one person had attended and fully enjoyed.

Alana sat cross legged on one of the chairs, her legs swinging slightly in midair, tongue poking out in concentration as she colored with intense focus. Her Yankees cap now officially her favorite was perched crooked on her head, the brim turned slightly to the side, doing a poor job of taming the halo of wild curls that had sprung free overnight. She kept brushing them away with the back of her hand but never stopped coloring.

She was working on a new sign, of course. You’d gone through nearly a dozen sheets already this week, most of them covered in glitter glue and marker hearts. This one read “Go Yankees!” in big, uneven block letters. The Y in “Yankees” had been accidentally written backwards, but she’d turned it into a little baseball bat with sparkles around it. Beside the “99,” she’d drawn a star and added a pink heart her signature move now.

You leaned against the doorway, coffee mug warm in your hands, watching her with a soft smile that tugged at something deep inside your chest. That quiet kind of love the kind that wrapped itself around your ribs and settled there.

You were just about to ask if she wanted waffles when her voice broke through the hum of the morning.

“Mom?”

You lifted your brows. “Yeah, baby?”

She didn’t look up just kept coloring like her brain was halfway between bold lettering and a big question she’d been saving for just the right moment.

“Can we go see him play again? Judge, I mean?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Again?”

Now she did look up. And her eyes bright and certain, like this was the most important thing in the world locked on yours.

“It was the best day ever,” she said with the kind of conviction only a five year old could manage. “Like ever, ever.”

There was marker smudged across her cheek and marker on her fingers and hope written all over her little face.

Your heart pulled tight in your chest. You didn’t answer right away. Just crossed the room slowly, your socked feet barely making a sound on the floor, and crouched beside her.

You tucked a curl behind her ear. “You really liked it that much?” you asked gently, even though you already knew.

She nodded so fast her hat slid sideways again. “He threw me the ball, Mom. That means we have to go back. I didn’t even get to show him my cartwheel yet.”

You laughed soft and real and fuller than it had been in weeks. And then your eyes drifted toward the kitchen counter. Your phone sat where you’d left it hours ago next to your half finished grocery list and the worn Yankees tickets you couldn’t bring yourself to throw away.

Aaron’s message still sat there in your texts. “Worth it. Let me know when you want a second round stadium or dinner.”

You hadn’t replied. Not because you hadn’t wanted to. Because it scared you, a little how easy it had been to fall into step with him, how kind he’d been with Alana, how warm and sure he’d looked when he handed you back your world in a tiny baseball cap.

You’d replayed his words a hundred times since that night. You just hadn’t known what came next. But maybe your daughter did. You leaned over, kissed the side of her head, and whispered, “We can go again.”

She beamed. Absolutely beamed. And just like that, she was back to her sign as if her job was done now, like she’d made something happen by asking. And maybe she had. Because when you finally picked up your phone, thumbs hovering over the screen, your heart wasn’t racing with doubt anymore.

It was humming with something else. Something steadier. You tapped out a message something easy, something simple. And as it flew off into the quiet hum of the morning, you looked over at Alana, still coloring like her life depended on it, and thought.

She wasn’t the only one who got her wish.

⸻

It was just after lunch when the house finally exhaled.

The sink was empty, the counters wiped down, and the lingering smell of grilled cheese and strawberries hung faintly in the air. Alana was planted in front of the tv in the living room legs kicked out, water cup in hand, fully engrossed in whatever animated chaos was unfolding on screen.

You leaned against the kitchen table with your coffee reheated but still warm and allowed yourself to sit. Really sit. No rush. No list. Just stillness. And then your eyes flicked to your phone.

It was facedown on the table, but you didn’t need to check the lock screen. You already knew what name was sitting at the top of your messages the one you hadn’t stopped thinking about since Saturday.

You picked it up, thumb hesitating for only a second before unlocking. There it was.

Aaron Judge: Let me know when you want a second round, stadium or dinner.

You hadn’t answered. Not because you didn’t know what you wanted. But because something about it felt too good. Too easy. Like if you pressed send, it might disappear like those dreams that feel real until the alarm goes off.

Still, your heart had circled the moment again and again. The walk through the tunnel. His arms around Alana. That soft smile, so sincere it made you blink. The way his number had already been saved in your phone.

You took a breath and looked around the kitchen.

Alana’s newest “Go Yankees!” sign was still taped proudly to the fridge glitter slightly smeared, a heart drawn next to the number 99. One of her little socks was on the floor, how it always was. The other clung to the bottom of your pajama pants.

Your life wasn’t quiet. Or neat. Or scheduled in a way that ever made space for things like this. But suddenly, you wanted to.

So you tapped your fingers against the side of your mug. Smiled. And typed.

“So, she’s requesting an encore.”

You pressed send. And then waited, breath caught somewhere in your chest. It buzzed back almost instantly.

Aaron Judge: Smart girl. What about dinner instead this time? Unless she’s got a better offer.

You laughed not just at the text, but at the way your heart fluttered again, like it had been waiting for permission.

You typed. “She’s booked for cartoons Friday. But I think we can fit you in Wednesday.” 

Your phone buzzed before you’d even set it down.

Aaron Judge: Free agent territory. I’m in.

You leaned back in the chair, eyes still on the screen, lips tugged into a smile so soft it felt stitched into your whole body. This wasn’t just a maybe anymore. It was happening.

And in the next room, Alana burst into a fit of giggles, her voice rising with delight at some ridiculous cartoon plot twist. You looked toward the sound, heart full, and for the first time in a long time, it felt like you weren’t just managing your days you were building toward something.

Something good. Something real.

And Wednesday, couldn’t come soon enough.

⸻

The soft glow of the hallway light spilled in through the open door, casting a warm, amber wash across the hardwood and catching the shimmer of glitter on Alana’s sneakers as she bounced beside you a tiny, restless storm of excitement and nerves, barely contained in her sparkly shoes and crooked Yankees hat.

And then there he was. Aaron stood just beyond the threshold, casual and composed, somehow both larger than life and completely grounded. Worn jeans. A navy quarter zip with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. A plain white T-shirt underneath that peeked at the collar.

He looked unfairly good. Effortlessly good. Not made up or put together just him. And something about it made your pulse skip and your stomach flip like it was the first time all over again.

His eyes found yours instantly. And when he smiled that familiar, warm, gut punch of a smile it softened everything.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, quiet, almost like he didn’t want to break the moment. “Told you I’d show.”

It was just a word, but the way he said it casual, calm, tinged with something more carried more weight than it should’ve.

You tried to speak, but for a moment, the words caught somewhere behind the lump in your throat. Because you hadn’t been expecting it to hit like this. The sight of him. The feeling of this.

“Hey,” you said finally, and your voice came out softer than you meant it to.

Alana, who had somehow managed to stay still until now, peeked around your hip like she hadn’t just been vibrating with excitement for the last five minutes. She tilted her chin up, full of pride and five year old certainty.

“I wore the hat,” she announced, giving it a little tap for emphasis.

Aaron’s smile widened immediately, his entire expression shifting as he crouched down to her level, balancing on the balls of his feet like it was second nature. “I noticed,” he said, eyebrows lifting with mock seriousness. “And the shoes wow. That’s some serious game day energy.”

“They’re Judgey,” she said, completely serious.

You had to turn your face for a second to keep from laughing.

Aaron nodded solemnly, his mouth twitching. “Elite style. Honestly, I might need to step up my own game.”

That earned a giggle. A real, full bellied one. And just like that, she turned and bolted back toward the living room. “I have to get my drawing! Don’t move!”

You exhaled your first full breath in minutes and stepped slightly into the doorway, one hand braced lightly against the frame. Your eyes met his again.

And this time, the air between you felt different. Not charged or nervous but full. Like something was settling. And it hit you, how much had changed in such a short span of time. How easily this man, standing just outside your door with his sleeves pushed up and that look in his eyes, had threaded himself into your days. Into you.

Aaron didn’t look away. Not once. His eyes flicked across your face like he was memorizing it not in a way that made you self conscious, but in a way that made you feel seen.

“You look” he started, then paused.

His brow lifted slightly, like he was sorting through words he didn’t want to overdo.

“Happy.”

You swallowed, hard, and nodded. “Yeah,” you said softly. “I am.”

And it was the truth.

He smiled, and it wasn’t his usual press conference grin or ballpark charm, it was something quieter. Something real.

Then, from down the hall, “MOM! I can’t find my good crayons!”

You turned halfway toward the sound, laughing under your breath, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to melt. “That’s the crisis of the night.”

Aaron stood, slow and easy, his grin returning. “I’m ready. Backup crayons, moral support whatever you need.”

But he didn’t step forward. He stayed where he was. Right there on the welcome mat. Not rushing, not assuming. Just, waiting. Because he understood what this was. That stepping into your home meant stepping into something else too.

You looked at him, heart full and fluttering, and realized.

You were almost ready.

Not just for the night.

For all of it.

⸻

Aaron didn’t move at first.

Not because he didn’t want to you could see it in the slight flex of his fingers around the bakery box, the way his weight shifted ever so subtly forward like his body was ready before his mind gave him permission. But still, he waited.

Respectful. Still. Quiet in a way that made the air feel charged, not awkward. He wasn’t waiting for an invitation to cross the threshold not really. He was waiting for you and somehow, that made all the difference.

Your eyes met his again, those warm, searching eyes that held none of the bravado or ease he could’ve leaned on if he wanted to. No, what was there instead was something honest. Something tentative. Like this mattered. Like you mattered.

You nodded. Just once. Small. Simple. But enough.

“Come in,” you said, your voice soft the kind of softness that comes when you’re not just opening a door, but something else. Something that’s taken time.

He exhaled, slow and grateful, and smiled a sheepish, crooked little thing that tugged at something behind your ribs.

Then he stepped inside. Careful. Conscious of the moment. Of you.

The cinnamon sweet scent from the bakery box drifted between you as he passed, and you caught it warm and indulgent, just like the gesture. The door clicked quietly shut behind him, sealing out the city noise, the evening chill, the world. In here, everything was still. Settled.

Alana’s laughter carried in from the other room like music, and for a moment, you both stood there him near the doorway, you only a few steps ahead suspended in the kind of quiet that doesn’t need to be filled. He looked down, noticing the trail of glitter that shimmered faintly across the hardwood like breadcrumbs.

“Hope she’s not expecting me to match her outfit,” he said, lifting his brows with mock apprehension.

You arched an eyebrow. “Too late. You’re already underdressed.”

That pulled a laugh from him real and easy, and his shoulders dropped as some invisible weight slid off with it.

“I’ll try harder next time.”

You tilted your head, catching the edge in his words. “Next time?”

It wasn’t just a joke. Not the way he said it. His eyes met yours again steady, sure and this time there was no hesitation in the warmth there.

“If I’m lucky,” he said quietly.

Before you could even form a reply, a whirlwind of curls and energy bounded back into the room.

“LOOK!” Alana beamed, her drawing held high like a winning lottery ticket. “It’s us at the game!”

The paper was a masterpiece of squiggly lines, neon marker streaks, and enthusiastic sticker placement. Three big headed stick figures smiled beneath a sun that had way too many rays. One of them the tallest, naturally held a massive pink blob in one hand.

Aaron crouched down immediately, setting the bakery box on the bench with a care that mirrored how gently he leaned toward her drawing.

“Is that, cotton candy in my hand?” he asked, pretending to squint like it was abstract art.

Alana nodded, completely serious. “Because you bought it. And you’re nice.”

He smiled, glancing up at you that soft, sidelong look again. The one that didn’t quite ask a question but lingered like a maybe.

“I do try,” he said.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. “Flattery will get you dessert.”

Alana was already off again, twirling the new t-shirt in her arms like a flag. “I’m putting this on right now! Then we’ll match for dinner!”

“Matching for cinnamon rolls,” you called after her. “That’s the new standard.”

You turned to Aaron and nodded toward the kitchen. “Plates?”

He straightened slowly, watching you like he was memorizing the ease of it all the way you moved, the way this moment had opened up between you without either of you needing to force it.

“You coming?” you added, already heading toward the kitchen with that familiar smile tugging at your lips.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there for one heartbeat more, watching the space you’d just filled.

Then, softly “Always.”

And when he followed you past the entryway, past the threshold of uncertainty it didn’t feel like stepping into someone else’s life.

It felt like arriving at the start of something that had been waiting for him.

⸻

The kitchen buzzed with warmth not just the kind rising from the stove or the faint heat of the oven ticking in the background, but the kind that bloomed in the quiet corners of a room when something good was happening. When something real was taking shape.

It was in the way Alana’s giggles echoed off the tile backsplash. In the way Aaron’s voice softened whenever he spoke to her. In the way your spatula stilled for just a second longer than necessary between flips like even the grilled cheese knew not to rush this.

You stood at the stove, golden slices sizzling gently in the skillet, their buttery edges crisping to perfection, the kitchen filled with the comforting scent of melted cheese and toasted bread. Behind you, chaos reigned in the best possible way.

Aaron was planted on the floor in front of the fridge like it was a blank canvas. He sat cross legged, long legs folding awkwardly beneath him, one hand gripping a sheet of sparkly puffy stickers, the other raised in surrender as Alana hovered beside him with all the focus of a tiny art director on deadline.

“No, no,” she said, nudging his arm like she was moving a chess piece into place. “The glittery star goes above the pizza cat. Duh.”

Aaron studied the fridge with comical intensity, then turned to the sticker. “Above the cat? Bold move.”

Alana gave a firm nod. “It’s the sky. You can’t put stars on the floor. That’s science.”

From the stove, you bit back a laugh and tossed a pinch of shredded cheese into the pan for good measure. “She’s not wrong.”

Aaron looked up at you with a grin, then turned back to the fridge. “Well. Far be it from me to disrespect the laws of physics.”

He carefully peeled the glittery star from its backing and stuck it exactly where she directed. Alana beamed like she’d just secured a win for all of NASA.

By the time the sandwiches were perfectly crisped, Alana had bounced up beside you with wide eyes and sneakered feet that squeaked against the floor with every shift. “Are they done? I need to do the test.”

You arched a brow, flipping the last triangle onto the plate. “Test?”

“Yours versus his,” she said seriously, crossing her arms. “We have to find out who’s better.”

Aaron froze mid-reach for a juice box, straightening like he’d just been challenged to a playoff tiebreaker. “Oh, it’s like that?”

You smirked. “Apparently.”

Alana pointed at the plates. “No helping.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, stepping back and raising both hands. “This is a completely unbiased competition.”

You handed her one triangle from each plate identical on the surface, but apparently, that wasn’t the point.

She took a deep, dramatic sniff of each one. Then a bite of yours. Chewed slowly. Thought. Then a bite of his. Her eyes narrowed, like she was evaluating wine notes instead of grilled cheese.

Then, for added flair, she circled the kitchen island once with her eyes closed, murmuring something about “taste”

Aaron leaned in close to your side, whispering behind his hand, “I’m getting outclassed by a five year old right now.”

You grinned. “She trained for this.”

Finally, Alana opened her eyes with a flourish and pointed like a reality show judge delivering a verdict. “I pick his!”

Aaron gasped, feigning shock. “No way.”

She giggled so hard she almost dropped her half eaten sandwich. “It’s gooier!”

“I knew I nailed the gooey,” he said proudly, crouching down to fist bump her. “Unstoppable team, right here.”

You clutched your chest in mock betrayal. “Wow. After years of feeding you, this is the thanks I get?”

Alana shrugged with a grin. “It was close.”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Aaron said, nudging her playfully. “She’s just trying to keep you humble.”

You laughed, real and unfiltered and reached for the extra slices to plate the rest. But then something pulled you back. Something quieter.

You turned slightly, catching the way he looked at her with easy affection, gentle attention. No hurry. No performance.

Just Aaron. He ruffled her hair without thinking, like he’d been doing it forever. And when she leaned into it, your chest squeezed in a way you didn’t expect.

You paused, spatula forgotten in your hand and just watched him. Not the guy in the pinstripes. Not the name on the jersey. Just him. The way he crouched to her level without hesitation. The way he played along like she was the most important person in the room. The way his laughter cracked open something light in the air and made the walls of your kitchen feel just a little wider.

He looked up suddenly like he could feel your eyes on him. And he caught you watching. But instead of teasing or brushing it off, he just held your gaze. Steady. Quiet. Soft. Like he saw you seeing him and was glad.

Your lips twitched into a smile before you could stop it. And maybe it was just grilled cheese and stickers and a five year old’s brilliant science, but standing there in your kitchen, you knew this was going to stay with you. Because some moments weren’t meant to be big. They were just meant to be real.

And this one? This one already was.

⸻

After dinner, the living room melted into that kind of soft quiet that only happens when everyone’s full, warm, and entirely at ease. The cartoon flickered gently on the screen bright colors, silly voices, a plot line that made absolutely no sense while the dishwasher hummed faintly from the kitchen like background music for a night that didn’t need much else.

You’d dimmed the lights without really thinking, letting the gentle glow from the tv and a nearby floor lamp cast the whole room in a kind of warm haze. The scent of cinnamon still lingered faintly from the bakery box, and someone probably Alana had spilled exactly five gummy bears between the couch cushions.

It didn’t matter. Because the three of you were tucked in together on the couch like puzzle pieces. Close. Unhurried. Full of grilled cheese and something even heavier, even sweeter comfort.

Alana had wedged herself right between you and Aaron, blanket pulled up to her chest, legs folded crisscross and one sock half off. Her curls were slightly flattened from the hat she refused to remove, and her cheeks still held the rosy glow of all the laughing she’d done over dinner.

She pointed at the tv with complete authority. “That one plays first base,” she announced, gesturing at a rotund cartoon bird wearing a sideways helmet. “But only on Tuesdays. Because of allergies.”

Aaron blinked. “Allergies?”

“To dirt,” she said seriously, like this was common knowledge. “But he still tries really hard.”

You covered your mouth with your hand, trying not to laugh. Across from you, Aaron leaned forward slightly, his expression fully solemn.

“Well,” he said, “that’s dedication. I respect that.”

Alana nodded, clearly pleased with his response. “And she’s the best pitcher in the league,” she added, pointing now to a squirrel with a bionic tail who had just launched a flaming acorn into a cannon. “But only under a full moon.”

You raised an eyebrow. “So, like twice a month?”

“Yeah,” she said, completely unbothered. “She has other hobbies.”

Aaron chuckled, and you felt the couch shift as he stretched his arm along the backrest not quite touching you, but close enough that you felt the warmth of him settle along your shoulders. You pretended not to notice. Or maybe you didn’t want to stop noticing.

“I’m taking notes,” he said. “Might have to call her agent.”

“She’d love that,” Alana whispered, her voice beginning to fade, words blending into each other like a lullaby she hadn’t meant to sing.

Her narration slowed. Then stopped. You glanced over.

Her head had tipped onto Aaron’s shoulder, her blanket now bunched at her waist, fingers still loosely clutching a purple crayon she must’ve taken from the kitchen. Her mouth had fallen slightly open that deep sleep kind of open and her breathing had evened into that soft, fluttery rhythm you’d memorized long ago.

Aaron didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. He just sat there, completely still, eyes on her with a kind of awe that made your throat tighten.

“She’s out,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

He nodded once, slowly. “Like a light.”

You stood carefully, every step slow and deliberate as you leaned over and scooped her into your arms. She curled against your chest without protest, head finding your collarbone like it always did. She smelled faintly of apples and crayons.

You carried her down the hall, brushing a kiss to her temple before lowering her into bed. Her hand twitched once as you adjusted her blanket, and you gently pulled the Yankees cap from her head, resting it on the nightstand beside her glitter glue drawing.

You lingered. Just a second. Then turned and walked back down the hallway. And found him still there. Still on your couch, legs stretched out, his gaze soft and steady like he hadn’t even considered leaving. The cartoon was still playing, but he wasn’t watching. Not really. His eyes found yours the moment you stepped into the room.

You leaned against the doorway, arms folded loosely. “You didn’t have to stay.”

Aaron shrugged, but his voice was calm. Certain. “I know. But I wanted to.”

There was no hesitation. No charm layered over the truth. Just him. And you felt something loosen in your chest something that had been locked up tight for a while.

You crossed the room and sank into the spot beside him again, the space between your knees brushing now, the heat from his arm ghosting along your shoulder. The cartoon ended. A new one started. Neither of you moved. 

Because she was asleep. And he stayed.

And something about that felt bigger than anything either of you had the words for yet.

⸻

The lights were still low, casting warm shadows across the walls, and the cartoon on the tv had long since lost its plot either looping from the beginning or drifting into something entirely new. You weren’t sure. You weren’t really paying attention.

Because there he was. Aaron sat comfortably on the couch like he’d always belonged there one ankle resting across his knee, remote in hand, flipping idly through channels without any real intention to land on one. His Yankees cap was pushed up just slightly now, his hair messier than before, and a dumb little smile curved at the corners of his mouth.

A quiet kind of smile. Like the day had worn him down in the best way. And he looked for once completely at ease. Not the giant on the billboard. Not the captain on the field. Just a man on a couch, bathed in cartoon glow, with his shoulders relaxed and his guard down. 

He clicked the tv off, remote thunking gently onto the armrest. And for a second, the only sounds were the distant hum of the fridge, the faint murmur of traffic outside, and your own heartbeat in your ears.

The pause felt like an inhale waiting for an exhale. And then you said it the thing you hadn’t even realized was sitting on your chest until it slipped out:

“I think I forgot what it felt like to just breathe.”

Your voice wasn’t shaky. Just tired. Bare, in the way truth is. Aaron didn’t answer right away. His head tilted slightly, his gaze dropping to the dark screen in front of him like it was easier to speak to something that wouldn’t look back.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “Me too.”

You turned toward him a little, folding one leg beneath you. The silence opened a little wider, giving him room.

“There was this week last season,” he said after a while, voice quieter now. “Couldn’t get a hit to save my life. Press was on me. Fans were on me. And I was smiling through every bit of it saying all the right things. You know the drill.” He gave a dry, humorless laugh. “But I was drowning. Felt like I couldn’t even think straight. Like every breath I took didn’t reach all the way down.”

You didn’t interrupt. Didn’t try to fix it. Just let the words land. Because you knew that feeling, too.

“I’ve been juggling everything,” you said after a moment. “Work, the house, being Alana’s walking calendar slash lunchbox refiller slash math tutor. And trying to look like I have it under control while grocery bags rip in the parking lot and emails go unanswered for three days.” You smiled, small and weary. “Dropping balls left and right.”

“Doesn’t look like it from here,” he said, turning to face you now fully, openly. “You make it look easy.”His tone wasn’t flippant. There was no teasing in it. Just admiration, quiet and clear. And that that sincerity hit deeper than anything else could have.

“It’s not,” you whispered. You didn’t look away. He didn’t either. 

The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt earned. Shared. The kind that made you aware of every little detail the heat where his knee brushed yours, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers had started tracing the seam of the couch cushion beside you, slow and absentminded.

His arm shifted again, stretching along the back of the couch. Not quite reaching for you, but it was there. A question waiting for an answer. Your shoulder eased just slightly closer. A breath. A lean. Not enough to touch, but almost.

Your eyes met again, and the air between you crackled not loud, not fast, but deep. The kind of spark that builds over time, layer by layer. Trust by trust.

No kiss.

Not yet.

But it was there humming beneath the surface, filling the space between your words, your glances, the way neither of you pulled away.

And suddenly, breathing felt easier again.

⸻

The quiet between you had settled into something steady. Not heavy not anymore but full. Full of all the things left unsaid, the kind of silence that didn’t feel like an absence, but a presence. Something you could lean into. Something that made you feel grounded. Safe.

Aaron shifted beside you the smallest movement but enough that his knee brushed against yours again, a soft point of contact that neither of you pulled away from this time.

When you turned your head, you found him already watching you. Not in a way that asked anything of you. Just looking, like he was memorizing the feeling of this moment. Of you.

His voice was low when he finally spoke, a soft ripple in the stillness. “Can I see you again?”

The question wasn’t sudden. It had been hanging in the air for a while now, unsaid but felt trailing behind every smile, every shared glance, every soft breath you’d both taken since dinner ended.

Still, hearing it out loud made your chest tighten. Not with nerves. With want. And then he added, even quieter, like he was giving you an out or offering something more sacred.

“Outside the stadium, outside bedtime cartoons, just us?”

His eyes didn’t waver. No teasing this time. Just a kind of honest, open hope that caught you completely off guard. You didn’t answer right away. Not because you were unsure, but because you wanted to sit with it. Let the weight of what he was asking and what you were ready to give settle in the quiet between you.

Your lips curved, the smile tugging gently before you could stop it. Your arms folded across your chest, half to steady yourself, half because that small spark in your chest was starting to glow too bright to hide.

“I’ll have to check her calendar,” you said, tilting your head toward the hallway, your voice light but layered with something real. “She’s a pretty tough manager.”

Aaron’s grin came instantly wide and warm, his eyes crinkling in the corners the way they did when he was really smiling. It lit up his whole face.

“I’m still betting on Wednesdays,” he said, like he already knew that somehow, against all odds, that little gap in the middle of the week had become something of a tradition.

A thread neither of you wanted to let go of and honestly?

It kind of was.

⸻

The night had settled into its softest version the kind that wraps around you like a blanket you didn’t realize you needed. The tv was off. The dishes were done. The lights had been dimmed. And for the first time in what felt like forever, your home didn’t feel like a balancing act.

It just felt full. Not loud. Not chaotic. Not like something you were desperately trying to hold together. Just full.

Aaron stood near the front door now, hoodie zipped halfway, cap tugged low to hide his eyes again. His hand hovered near the doorknob, but he hadn’t turned it yet.

Instead, he glanced down the hallway toward Alana’s room, where the door was left cracked just enough for the soft glow of her nightlight to spill across the floor in a warm, crescent shaped arc. He didn’t step closer. Didn’t try to peek in. Didn’t say her name like a goodbye. Just whispered soft, reverent, like it was something sacred.  

“Goodnight, Boss Lady.”

The words were simple. But the weight of them the warmth, the tenderness landed right in your chest.

When he looked back at you, his eyes held that same quiet gentleness they always seemed to wear when she was involved. But tonight, there was something else too. Gratitude. Fondness. Maybe even something starting to bloom.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and the way he said it made you still. “For letting me in tonight.”

You didn’t have to ask what he meant. Because he wasn’t just talking about grilled cheese and cartoons and sticker covered fridge doors. He was talking about all of it. The quiet parts. The in between parts. The space you hadn’t let anyone into in a long time.

You opened your mouth maybe to say you were glad he came, maybe to say it felt right but before you could, he leaned in.

No rush. No second guessing. Just a slow, unhurried press of lips to your cheek barely there, but enough to light every nerve ending in your skin like a fuse. Enough to remind you that it had been a long time since someone had touched you like this. Gently. Like a promise, not a question.

When he pulled back, he didn’t look away. Just smiled soft and boyish and maybe a little shy like he didn’t want to leave, but knew it wasn’t the end.

He opened the door, letting the cool night air sweep in, brushing gently between you like a punctuation mark on the moment. And then he jogged down the front steps the same way he had the first night light footed, easy. But this time, he paused at the bottom. Turned back. His cap was pulled low again, but it didn’t hide the warmth in his grin when he called up.

“Same time next week?”

You stood in the doorway, arms folded loosely, heart steady in your chest in a way it hadn’t been in a long, long time. You didn’t answer with words. You just smiled. And it was enough. He nodded, like he understood and disappeared into the quiet dark.

You lingered there a moment longer, the breeze brushing against your skin, your fingers rising absently to your cheek.

Still warm. Still real.

Eventually, you stepped back inside, closing the door behind you with a soft click. The silence wrapped around you like a gentle exhale not lonely. Not tonight.

And just as you turned toward the hallway, you heard it the soft rustle of blankets, the sleepy shuffle of a child turning over in bed. You padded down the hall and pushed Alana’s door open a little wider.

She was curled up on her side, one arm flung across her pillow. You knelt beside her and brushed a loose curl off her forehead, tucking the blanket closer to her chin. She stirred, mumbling something too slurred to understand but her breathing stayed slow, peaceful.

You leaned in close and kissed her temple. Then whispered just for her. “We’ll go again, baby.”

And this time?

You both would be ready.

⸻

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

"current boyfriend" prank headcanon yankees edition

a/n: this was a request! i this think trend is so funny, their wives and girlfriends should do it on them! i did the guys on the team i thought would have good reactions, enjoy!

Ben Rice:

He hears it and immediately starts grinning like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“‘Current boyfriend’ interesting wording,” he says, stretching out the phrase like he’s tasting it.

Then, without missing a beat:

“So what time’s your little fake facetime over? I gotta figure out if I’m still your dinner date or just some guy who lives here.”

You can’t even finish the video because he’s cracking you up.

“Babe,” he laughs, “I’m keeping the dog if this is how I get dumped.”

Aaron Judge:

You say it mid-conversation like it’s casual, and he doesn’t even blink.

Instead, he calmly sets his water bottle down, looks at you for a beat, and goes,

“‘Current boyfriend’ sounds like something someone says right before they get tackled on the couch.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure that’s the phrase you wanna go with?”

You break first, and he just chuckles under his breath.

“Mmhm. That’s what I thought.”

Max Fried:

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just blinks at you, slow and blank.

“Current?” he finally asks, voice calm but tight.

Then he nods once, stands up, and walks toward the door like he’s leaving dramatic silence.

You yelp his name and he stops, looks over his shoulder with the smallest smirk.

“Glad that got your attention.”

Jazz Chisholm Jr.:

Immediate reaction: “Damn, that’s crazy.”

He clutches his chest like you just broke his heart and starts pacing.

“Not ‘my man Jazz,’ not ‘my future husband,’ not even ‘the love of my life’ just current boyfriend??”

You’re doubled over laughing.

“Say less,” he says, pulling out his phone. “I’m texting your mom and telling her you’re wildin’.”

Anthony Volpe:

“You’re what now?”

He looks genuinely distressed. Like you just told him Santa isn’t real.

“No no no, don’t just say something like that and keep talking,” he pleads, leaning forward.

You crack before he does, laughing into your sleeve, and he lets out a groan.

“I’m sweating, bro. I thought I was getting dumped on a random Tuesday.”

Giancarlo Stanton:

“Current?”

He says it so softly, you almost miss the edge in his voice.

Then he leans back, arms crossed, smirk on full display.

“You mean, like, this is a trial period?”

You’re trying not to laugh, but he raises an eyebrow. “That’s wild. Good luck finding another man who carries your Target bags and makes you cry happy tears.”

Jasson Domínguez:

He glances up from his phone, brow furrowed.

“Current boyfriend?” he repeats, calm but lowkey confused.

He doesn’t get dramatic just gives you that serious stare like he’s reading between the lines.

You try to laugh it off, but he tilts his head slightly and says,

“You’re not trading me like a prospect, are you?”

Then he cracks a smile. “I mean you’d regret it. Big time.”

Luke Weaver:

He full on gasps like you just insulted his cooking.

“Current?! Excuse me??”

Dramatically clutches his chest and falls back on the couch like he’s dying.

“This is betrayal. I cook for you! I fold your laundry!!”

You’re laughing too hard to breathe. He peeks up and mutters, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Oswaldo Cabrera:

Looks at you with his classic innocent wide eyes.

“¿Qué? What do you mean ‘current’?”

You repeat it and he puts a hand to his chest.

“Oh my God. You break my heart like this?”

Dramatic and playful, he lies back on the floor like he’s dead from heartbreak.

You try to apologize and he pops up “Nah I’m good. Just making sure you love me the most.”

Trent Grisham:

He turns his head slowly, deadpan expression.

“Wow. Cold,” he mutters.

Then he tilts his chin, studying you like he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious.

You stifle a laugh, and that’s when he raises a single eyebrow.

“Guess I’ll hold off on making your playlist then. Hate to waste a perfectly good ‘Trent’s Girl’ spotify cover.”

You bust out laughing and he finally smirks. “That’s what I thought.”

Cody Bellinger:

He’s reclined on the couch, eyes half closed, and you’re not even sure he heard you.

But after a beat, he opens one eye.

“‘Current’?” he asks slowly. “That’s wild.”

Then he looks off into the distance and mumbles, “Didn’t realize I was on a temp contract.”

You’re giggling and he just nods to himself like he’s reflecting on life.

“Alright. I’m just gonna start emotionally detaching now. No worries.”

MASTERLIST

[xoxokiaraaxoxo]

press conference chaos

summary: you only meant to make ben laugh not out himself and you in front of a dozen reporters and half the internet.

word count: 4.5k words

⸻

You’d only been dating Ben for a few months, but somehow it already felt like second nature like slipping into a favorite hoodie or falling asleep to the sound of rain. Easy. Familiar in the best way.

There was something about him that quieted the noise. Maybe it was the way he always listened like nothing else mattered. Or how he touched you like he’d memorized the map of your skin and was always trying to trace his way back home. Whatever it was, being with Ben didn’t feel like some shiny new thing you had to tiptoe around it felt like something you’d been waiting to fall into.

Ballpark dates had become your version of “normal” nights spent in the stands with the sun setting behind the outfield, the crack of the bat ringing in your ears, and Ben grinning up at you from behind home plate like he knew exactly where to find you. Post game kisses were routine by now, stolen beneath the shadow of his cap just out of sight of the media scrum and still, every time, your heart flipped like it didn’t know better.

You were halfway through brushing your teeth when your phone buzzed against the nightstand, screen lighting up with his name.

Ben: Double if I hit a home run. Triple if you wear that jersey I like. Press pass waiting at Will Call.

You let out a quiet laugh, foam and all, before rinsing your mouth and grabbing the phone.

You: You’re lucky I’m already planning to scream like a lunatic.

You didn’t have to wait long. The three little dots appeared almost instantly like he’d been hovering, waiting for your reply with that crooked smile of his and fingers already poised over the keyboard.

Ben: That’s my girl.

You rolled your eyes, but the grin that tugged at your lips was unstoppable. You could practically hear it that lazy drawl in his voice when he said it out loud, the slight rasp like he’d just gotten off the field, still amped from adrenaline. You could see the smirk, the way his dimples crept out when he was especially pleased with himself. And the way he always said “my girl” like it was the easiest truth in the world.

You set the phone down on your bed with a sigh that was all affection and mock annoyance, already pushing to your feet and crossing the room to dig through your dresser. The jersey was there half buried under a sweatshirt and still faintly smelling like his cologne. Just oversized enough to fall off your shoulder when you weren’t paying attention. Just worn in enough to feel like it belonged to both of you now.

He’d left it at your place after a rain delay a few weeks back. Swore it was an accident. You’d caught him grinning as he walked out the door in a hoodie instead, and you knew just knew that it was on purpose. The kind of boyfriend move he didn’t say out loud but definitely meant.

You held it up in front of the mirror for a second, then folded it over your arm with a shake of your head. Game day hadn’t even started, and he was already winning. And tomorrow? You’d let him.

Just this once. Maybe. Definitely.

⸻

You showed up early.

Not just “gates open”, the kind of early where the parking lot was still half empty, the turnstiles weren’t spinning yet, and the stadium felt like it was still waking up from a nap. The sky overhead was streaked in soft peach and gold, the last hints of sun stretching lazily across the upper deck as the lights buzzed to life, one section at a time.

The whole place had a sleepy hum to it vendors setting up their carts, wiping down counters, ice churning in coolers, and the low murmur of walkie talkies crackling through the tunnels. The scent of popcorn was already curling through the air, mingling with grilled onions and ballpark sausages like a promise of what was coming.

It was the calm before the chaos and you were so ready.

Yankees jersey, check. His number stitched across the back in bold not custom, but his actual jersey. He’d slipped it to you one night postgame with a shrug and a quiet, “Looks better on you anyway.”

Hair pulled back into a low ponytail, tied off with a navy scrunchie you may or may not have bought in a three pack labeled “team spirit.” And the snack bag oh, the snack bag. That was the piece de resistance.

Tucked into your tote like a sacred offering, one protein bar (he’d forget to eat postgame otherwise), a pack of sour gummies (for your own fourth inning anxiety), and his favorite chocolate chip granola the one he always pretended to hate until it magically disappeared from your pantry the morning after he slept over.

You flashed your press pass at security with a practiced smile, breezed past the barricades, and made your way down to your usual spot just past the dugout, close enough to smell the fresh cut grass and hear the players joke during warmups.

You leaned casually against the railing like you hadn’t been bouncing on your toes with excitement since breakfast. He saw you before you even waved.

Ben was in the middle of a conversation with one of the coaches, glove tucked under his arm, but his head turned on instinct eyes scanning the crowd like they were trained for you specifically. And the second they landed, everything about him softened.

His brows lifted in recognition, and that familiar, slow grin spread across his face like a sunrise. His eyes dropped to the jersey, lingered there a beat too long, and when you gave him a lazy spin with your arms outstretched, like what you see? he just shook his head, lips pressed together to hide how smug he looked.

Between innings, the little glances kept coming. He’d toss a baseball toward the dugout, then glance your way with a wink. You’d cheer obnoxiously whenever his name got announced the kind of cheer that turned heads and he’d pretend to cringe, but the corners of his mouth always twitched upward.

When the ump made a bad call, you cupped your hands around your mouth and let out a loud, “Open your eyes, blue!”

Ben’s laugh echoed from the bench, but he covered it with his glove like he wasn’t supposed to find it funny. A few of his teammates glanced up, smirking when they spotted you gesturing wildly from the stands.

At one point, you mimed a dramatic strike call two fingers to your eyes, then flinging them toward the plate with a theatrical gasp. He caught it. Shook his head. Bit back a smile like he could not believe you were doing this in front of fans and cameras and everyone.

And then came the moment. He stepped out of the on deck circle, tapped his bat twice on the plate, and adjusted his grip. But before he settled into his stance, he looked up and found you immediately.

You didn’t say a word. Just locked eyes and mouthed, Hit it to me. He raised one brow, head tilting slightly, then gave the faintest nod. Challenge accepted. And on the second pitch crack.

That sound. Sharp. Clean. Electric. The kind of sound that turned heads before the ball even cleared the infield. You stood before the crowd did, hands already in the air, eyes tracking the ball as it soared.

Over the outfield. Over the bullpen. Gone. The stadium exploded.

You shrieked loud, unfiltered, no shame whatsoever and jumped like you’d just won the lottery. The sour gummies went flying. The protein bar skidded across the concrete. You were laughing so hard you nearly doubled over, hands on your head in disbelief.

Ben rounded first, then second, grinning like an idiot the entire way. He tried, he really tried to school his expression, but his dimples gave him away. His helmet was barely staying on as he rounded third, cheeks flushed, face lit up like a kid on Christmas.

And when he crossed home plate, he immediately turned to you. Tipped his helmet. Pointed dead at you, like there was nobody else in the stadium but the two of you.

You covered your face, laughing into your hands. “Triple if you wear that jersey I like,” huh? Oh, he was so smug. You were gonna need a bigger prize.

And he? He knew it.

⸻

The postgame buzz was still alive in your chest, humming like a second heartbeat as the crowd slowly funneled out of Yankee Stadium. It was a warm, electric kind of feeling the kind that lingered in your skin, in your bones, in the way your cheeks still hurt from smiling.

You hadn’t stopped grinning since the ball left Ben’s bat and cleared the wall in a perfect arc. And from the looks of it, neither had he.

Your sneakers scuffed softly against the concrete as you made your way down one of the stadium tunnels, past clubhouse doors and storage rooms, your press lanyard swinging against your chest. Somewhere nearby, you could still hear the roar of postgame music, the murmur of player interviews, and the distant clatter of cleats on tile.

You were mid-scroll through your camera roll reviewing the blurry video you took mid-scream like it was a cinematic masterpiece when someone in a Yankees polo stepped directly into your path.

“Press pass for you,” they said, expression neutral, clipboard in hand.

You blinked. “How’d you kn—?”

They just smirked and handed it over. You flipped it over as you walked, curiosity quickly replaced by amusement.

MEDIA GUEST

Last Name: Rice

First Name: Guest :)

You stopped walking for a second, holding it up with an incredulous laugh. Your smirk could’ve powered the stadium lights.

“Subtle,” you muttered under your breath, looping the lanyard around your neck like it was part of your outfit and striding toward the press room with your head a little higher.

Inside, the atmosphere was a strange contrast to the high energy stadium outside. The room was a low lit hive of routine reporters tapping away at keyboards, camera crews adjusting angles, a few half eaten granola bars and crumpled coffee cups on side tables. The occasional sound of laughter or sarcastic sports banter broke through the monotony most of these people had probably seen a hundred pressers just like this one.

But this time, you were in the room and you were not here for business.

You slid into the last row like you belonged there, legs crossed, ankle bouncing just enough to let the movement speak for itself. You rested your elbow casually on the armrest and unlocked your phone, screen brightness turned low like you were preparing for something secret.

You were. You had a plan. You weren’t just here to be supportive. You were here to cause just enough chaos. Ben didn’t know it yet, but the postgame pressure wasn’t over.

A few minutes later, the room stirred, just a subtle shift in attention as the door at the front opened and Ben walked in like he’d done it a thousand times. Calm. Collected. Focused. You, on the other hand, sat up straighter in your chair like a cat who’d just spotted a mouse.

He looked stupid good. Still flushed from the game, skin glowing in that post performance way. His jersey was half unbuttoned, exposing the edge of his undershirt, collarbone peeking through like it was intentional. His hat was flipped backward, hair curling slightly at the edges, a little damp like he’d barely had time to cool down before being thrown in front of a wall of cameras.

His eyes scanned the room once, briefly, and then refocused forward as he settled behind the mic. And you knew, knew that now was the time.

You tapped out a message, thumb hovering over the send button with pure mischief in your veins.

You: Why do you look like you just walked out of a GQ shoot? Chill. It’s a baseball game.

A beat passed. Then another. And then the buzz of his phone on the table.

His eyes flicked down. Just for a second. You watched him try to maintain the mask the calm press conference ready expression, but his mouth twitched. His jaw flexed, just slightly, and his fingers drummed once against the table before he stilled them.

You were practically glowing.

You: I think the camera angle is catching your good side. Just FYI, that’s my side. Don’t let it get cocky.

Another buzz. He didn’t even try to hide his smile this time just pressed his lips together and tilted his head slightly, like someone in the room was testing his patience and he was absolutely letting her.

You tucked your phone into your lap and crossed your arms, smug as hell. You knew that face. That microexpression. That you’re playing with fire and I’m gonna let you look.

He was hanging on by a thread.

And you?

You weren’t even close to finished.

⸻

Ben was handling the press conference like a pro answering questions with that calm, steady voice that made it sound like he had never once blushed in his life.

Cool. Collected. Just enough edge to be charming, just enough polish to make you forget he hit a baseball into the stratosphere less than an hour ago.

He sat behind the table with a bottle of water in front of him, fingers loosely laced, posture perfect. The lights overhead were unforgiving, but he didn’t squint. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t hesitate. He responded with smooth nods, thoughtful answers, the occasional quip that made the reporters chuckle a postgame performance as controlled as the one he gave on the field.

And yet, you knew better.

You knew how tightly he rolled his shoulders when he was trying not to squirm. You knew the difference between his real laugh and his press conference laugh. And you definitely knew that the flush on his cheeks wasn’t from the stadium lights or the home run trot.

It was you. It was you, sitting pretty in the back of the room like a wolf in lip gloss and mascara, with your phone in hand and a devil’s grin pulling at your mouth. You hadn’t said a word hadn’t even waved but he knew you were there. Knew exactly what you were capable of. So you made your move.

You: That’s my boyfriend. He’s so articulate. 😍

You watched his gaze drop, just for a moment. A flicker toward his thigh where his phone buzzed against his leg under the table.

He blinked. Once. Then again. Then he cleared his throat, recovered like a seasoned veteran, and launched into a breakdown of pitch selection in the seventh inning. His tone was still smooth, but you caught it the subtle pause, the half second longer it took to find his footing again. You leaned back in your chair and smirked like the match had just been struck.

You: Who picked your shirt? Fire them immediately.

This time, his nostrils flared. Barely. A microexpression. But enough.

One of the beat reporters laughed at something completely unrelated a comment from the bullpen earlier, but Ben’s eyes flicked sideways like he was mentally narrowing down who gave you access to a phone and a front row seat to his postgame composure.

He didn’t crack, though. Not yet.

You crossed your legs slowly, thumb hovering over the screen. You were being unfair and you knew it. He was trying to be serious. Professional. Represent the team. But you were never one to let him have too much control for too long.

You: You’re so hot when you talk about slugging percentage.

His hand twitched. Actually twitched. His fingers flexed once, then lifted to rub along the sharp edge of his jaw like he was trying to ease the tension out of his skin before it gave him away. He leaned forward slightly a shift in body language that probably looked confident to everyone else.

But you saw it. The slight shake of his head. The flicker of a smile that broke through before he could stop it. You bit your lip.

You: I dare you to say the word hydration in your next answer.

That was the one. You could feel the internal debate. The muscle in his jaw ticked, and he exhaled softly through his nose like a man teetering on the edge of something entirely avoidable if only he weren’t dating you.

Then the question came. Something about endurance, stamina, and how the team was staying sharp through the late innings of a long homestand.

He looked directly at the reporter. Leaned into the mic. His voice didn’t waver.

“Well,” he said, “obviously, rest and hydration are key.”

Your eyebrows shot up. Oh, he did not.

Ben didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. But you saw it  the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth as he lifted the bottle of water beside him and took a long, slow sip like a man absolutely winning the war. Then, without turning his head, he glanced toward the back of the room.

Not at the cameras. Not at the PR team. Not even at the guy who just asked the question.

At you.

His gaze locked with yours for the briefest moment, sharp and steady an unspoken challenge glowing behind it like a lit fuse.

No smirk. No wink. No crack in the armor. But the message was clear.

Your move. 

You grinned like the menace you were already drafting your next text.

⸻

He’d almost made it. Almost.

Ben had survived twenty solid minutes of questions pitch strategy, swing mechanics, clubhouse leadership, even one awkward curveball about his rising jersey sales (“Do you think the sudden spike is about your performance or, um your tikok popularity?”). He didn’t flinch. Didn’t stumble. He handled it all like a seasoned vet with media training in his back pocket. Like a man who was not currently under siege by the girl in the back row who knew exactly how to mess with him.

But you could see it the small cracks spreading across the surface of his carefully laid composure.

His shoulders, usually relaxed during these things, were just a bit too square. His hand kept drifting to his jaw between questions, fingertips brushing lightly over the stubble like it grounded him. And every so often, his gaze would shift not obviously, not enough for the cameras to catch it, but enough for you to notice flicking to the back of the room with a silent, pointed look.

Behave.

You smiled sweetly. Crossed your legs. Texted him a gif of someone winking.Because the thing was you couldn’t behave.

Not when he looked like that. Not when his hat was still on backwards and his jersey was still clinging to his chest from the heat of the night. Not when his voice was low and steady and confident, the kind of voice that sounded even better whispered against your skin. Not when his tongue had flicked across his bottom lip exactly three times since he sat down, and you were keeping count just to make yourself crazy. And not when you knew exactly how close he was to breaking.

Then it happened. The final question. A young reporter near the front, still clutching his notepad like a lifeline, tilted his head slightly and asked, “What’s been the key to your consistency this week?”

Simple. Innocent. The kind of question Ben could answer in his sleep.

And yet there it was.

The pause.

Not a long one. Not awkward. Just enough for you to sit up straighter in your seat.

Ben blinked slowly, and his lips twitched just at the corners. You could see the gears turning in his head, weighing the cost of professionalism against the satisfaction of calling you out in front of a full room.

You thought he might play it safe. Thought he might offer something about preparation, about trusting his mechanics, about staying mentally sharp in long series.

But then he exhaled through his nose and leaned forward just slightly elbows on the table, hands folded and let the grin settle in.

“Honestly?” he said, voice a little lower than before, a little more dangerous. “My girlfriend’s been texting me non-stop during this press conference…”

There was a beat of silence. Then it hit.

The room chuckled low at first, then rising as a few people looked up from their laptops, amused. A couple of Ben’s teammates, lingering near the exit, laughed a little louder than they probably should’ve.

You sat back slowly, your lips parting in something between horror and delight. Oh, he was not doing this right now.

Ben glanced down for a second, smile curling wider, then looked back up fully relaxed now, entirely amused.

“…and I’ve never had to focus harder in my life.”

That did it.

The whole room cracked. A wave of laughter rolled through the rows of seats, the sound echoing off the walls and bouncing off the mic like applause. A few reporters twisted in their seats, casually glancing over their shoulders like they were trying to find you without being obvious.

Your cheeks flushed with heat not embarrassment, but adrenaline. You were caught. Exposed. On record. But you couldn’t stop smiling if you tried.

And just when you thought it was over, he struck again. Ben leaned into the mic like he was sharing a secret casual, pointed, dangerous.

“She thinks she’s being sneaky.” He paused. Let the moment breathe. “She’s not.”

The laughter grew again louder this time. Phones were up. People were definitely tweeting it. Even the PR rep at the edge of the room looked like she was trying not to laugh into her clipboard. Ben didn’t look back at you after that. Didn’t need to. He simply reached for his water bottle, took a long sip like he hadn’t just completely outed your ongoing war, and sat back in his chair like the picture of innocence.

But you saw it the slight twitch of his brow, the smallest curl at the corner of his mouth. A private victory. Checkmate. You stared at him from across the room, expression smooth but eyes gleaming. He might’ve called you out in front of the entire press corps. But he’d also just admitted, on live camera, that you’d been in his head the entire time.

So really?

You won.

And judging by the look on his face?

He’d let you do it again.

⸻

You didn’t wait in the hallway like a sweet, supportive girlfriend.

No.

You waited like someone deeply wronged.

Arms crossed. Weight shifted to one hip. Eyes narrowed into your best fake scolding glare the one that could make grown men freeze mid-sentence. The only giveaway that you weren’t actually mad was the small, traitorous smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. That, and the way your heart was still galloping like it had taken off the moment he said “my girlfriend” into a live microphone and still hadn’t slowed down.

The press pass hung heavy around your neck, swaying gently every time you shifted against the cool concrete wall outside the locker room. The hallway was dimly lit, echoing with muffled conversations and the distant thump of cleats on tile. Your phone buzzed constantly in your hand texts from friends, notifications from twitter, and at least one unhinged voice memo from your best friend screaming, “YOU’RE SO ANNOYINGLY CUTE, I HATE YOU.”

You didn’t answer any of them. Because a minute later, the locker room door creaked open. And there he was.

Ben.

Hair still damp, pushed back in that messy, effortless way that made it look like he’d barely touched a towel. His postgame shirt clung slightly to his chest, sleeves rolled up just high enough to show off his forearms, veins still raised from adrenaline. His duffel hung over one shoulder. And his face?

Smug. So, so smug.

That same damn grin relaxed, dimpled, infuriatingly satisfied like he hadn’t just outed your entire private text war in front of multiple media outlets and god knows how many cameras.

He spotted you instantly and slowed his pace, eyes raking over your stance the glare, the posture, the way you were clearly waiting for him with judgment in your veins and sass on your tongue.

He stopped a foot in front of you.

You didn’t budge. Just arched a brow and tilted your head.

“Did you just out me to a room full of media professionals?”

Ben barely blinked. His expression didn’t change. If anything, the corners of his mouth twitched like he was daring you to push it further.

He shrugged. “You started it.”

Your jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“Also,” he added, stepping closer, “you told me to say hydration.”

“That was a dare,” you said, pointing an accusatory finger at his chest which, infuriatingly, did not flinch under your touch.

“And I accepted it,” he said, voice smooth, the glint in his eyes bordering on cocky now.

You huffed a sound that was supposed to be annoyed but came out more flustered than anything. You tried to stay in character, tried to keep the fake-scolding tone in your voice, but the way he was looking at you made it very hard to remember what, exactly, your argument was supposed to be about.

Ben gave you that look again the one that melted every coherent thought out of your brain. Soft, but electric. Like he was thinking about what it felt like to kiss you before he even did it.

Then he leaned in, slow and easy, like gravity was guiding him.

“I said what I said,” he murmured, his voice low enough to vibrate through your ribcage. One arm slid around your waist, fingers spreading across the small of your back with zero hesitation.

“Best distraction I’ve got.”

You swallowed hard, the fight draining from you instantly.

You tried to hold the pout. Really, you did. But your knees were already giving up. Your fingers curled reflexively into the fabric of his shirt like they couldn’t help themselves.

And then he kissed you.

Right there. Against the hallway wall. In full view of anyone still lingering in the tunnel.

Press pass and all.

It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t frantic. Just slow, warm, and entirely sure of itself like he knew he had you right where he wanted you, and he wasn’t in any kind of hurry to prove it.

Your eyes fluttered shut, hand sliding up to the back of his neck, fingertips brushing against the damp edges of his hair. His thumb moved in a soft, slow circle against your hip. His other hand braced gently against the wall beside your head.

By the time he pulled back, your heart was no longer racing it was flat out sprinting. He rested his forehead against yours for a second, breath warm and steady. Then, just loud enough for only you to hear, he murmured, “Next time?”

You hummed, barely able to respond.

“You’re sitting in the front row,” he continued, lips brushing the edge of your cheek. “No more sneak attacks.”

You laughed softly, chest still rising and falling against his.

“Front row sounds dangerous,” you whispered.

Ben leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“So are you.”

⸻

MASTERLIST