❦ - One Wrong Digit.

hey guysss since schools started again i’ll be quite slow on requests but i PROMISE to get them all done within the next 3 weeks! i didn’t expect to get this many but i love and appreciate every single one i receive so thank you for all the support and patience!! xx 🤍

UGHH the things this man makes me wanna do is soooo i just wanna bite his hands bro THOSE VEINNNSSS OMDSSSS🥴🥴

I want him to look at me like that bro like stawppp😝😝🤪

joao felix headcanons with a s/o who is very sassy and girly?

❦ - joao felix x sassy gf headcannons

summary:: you’re joaos sassy girlfriend (joao is apart of sassy man apocalypse so honestly it’s hard to beat him)

warnings:: none xx

writers note:: yet again another gorgeous request. where have i been you might be asking, and the answer to that is idek myself… guys i’m working on the fics / req it’s js gon take time also i had sm fun writing this bc i fear im sassy myself.! 🤍

ꨄ - first of all, the media EATS YOU GUYS UPPPP. tiktok and everything loves you two because you’re iconic?? and the outfits you two have are chefs kiss

ꨄ - your comebacks are insane, you’re always keeping him on his toes bc you could say something diabolical

exhibit a ; ‘score a hattrick and then MAYBE i’ll let you choose dinner’

ꨄ - he SPOILS you. dior, lv, you name it, if you even mention it, it’ll appear within 2-3 business days

ꨄ - following that up, flowers will appear at your doorstep after you finish work almost every day

(IM LIT RAISING MY OWN STANDARDS WTF)

ꨄ - oh you best believe that you’re dragging him to the nail salon w you. he protested against it at first but honestly he grew to like it.

ꨄ - he’s definitely jealous of the chicks sliding into your dms

‘you got a dm on insta’

‘oh check who it’s from’

‘who’s j2trappy, he looks like a child… why’s he asking if you’re single’

ꨄ - you’re supportive but absolutely extra, you need to be known as chelsea’s favourite wag. you rock up to matches in full glam, hair and makeup wearing joaos shirt but his number and name is bedazzled

ꨄ - he gives you princess treatment but only for you; he’ll open doors for you, carry your shopping bags and treats you as if you’re the queen.

ꨄ - you send him texts during matches so he can read them afterwards

‘why didn’t you pass it there… even i could’ve scored that goal??’

‘okay i’m sorry carino, i’ll pass to you next time’

ꨄ - whenever you’re out shopping you’ll drag him with you for him to give his honest opinion on everything but it always ends in ‘you look perfect in everything’

ꨄ - before big matches, you’ll give him pep talks but always include some sort of attitude

‘okay baby, if you win today, i’ll let you choose the next vacation spot.’

you always said it in a joking tone but he secretly took it to heart and he definitely worked harder

ꨄ - you have a range of nicknames for him, ranging from ‘golden boy’ to ‘my ronaldo in progress’

I feel like if you openly support a team in the league you are president of, then you should not be the fucking president of said league

let me tell you smth that I'm in love with every single fic that you write!! either they make me smile like an idiot if it's a fluff or make me cry if it's an angst (I'm sensitive a lot yes but wtv). literally you're one of the best writers out here. keep it up!! 💋💋💋

first of all thank you so much, you’re one of the reasons i’ve started writing because your work inspired me and seeing this now has made my year. thankyou endlessly bc ydek how much praise means to me!! 🤍

EYES ON YOU PART 3 ✧.* joao felix

requested by: @iluvjoaofelix14

part 1 part 2

warnings: none

MASTERLIST

It had been a week since your first date with Joao, and yet, you still weren’t over it.

You and Lila were sprawled across your bed, a bowl of popcorn between you as music played softly in the background. Lila was lying on her stomach, scrolling through her phone, while you stared at the ceiling, reliving every little moment from that night.

"So, let’s recap," Lila said, tossing a piece of popcorn in the air and catching it in her mouth. "You guys went to that cute little Italian place, talked for hours, he walked you home, and then—"

You groaned, covering your face with a pillow. "Lila—"

She grinned. "And then he kissed you on your doorstep like something straight out of a rom-com!"

Your face heated up. "Okay, yes, fine. He kissed me."

Lila sighed dramatically. "Ugh. It’s like a football fairytale. Do you think I should start writing wedding speeches now, or—"

You threw a pillow at her. "Shut up."

She cackled, but before she could continue, your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You reached for it lazily, not thinking much of it—until you saw the name on the screen.

Joao.

Your heart did a little flip. He hadn’t called you out of the blue before.

Lila immediately noticed your expression. "What? Who is it?"

You swallowed, turning the phone toward her.

Her eyes widened. "Oh, my God. Answer it! What are you waiting for?!"

You took a deep breath, then picked up. "Hey, Joao."

There was a pause. Then, finally, his voice—soft, hesitant. "Hey."

Something was wrong.

You sat up, suddenly alert. "What’s going on?"

Another pause. Then—

"I’m leaving England."

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. "What?"

Joao exhaled. "I just got the call. I’m going on loan to AC Milan. I leave tonight."

Your heart dropped. "Tonight?"

"I wanted to tell you sooner, but everything happened so fast," he said, his voice tinged with regret. "I don’t want to leave without saying goodbye. Can you come to the airport?"

You felt like you couldn’t breathe. Joao was leaving. Just like that.

Lila sat up beside you, watching your expression shift from confusion to sadness. She didn’t know what was happening yet, but she could tell something was wrong.

You swallowed hard, gripping the phone tighter. "Yeah," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "I’ll be there."

Joao let out a small breath, like he was relieved. "Okay. I’ll see you soon."

When you hung up, Lila grabbed your shoulders. "What happened? What’s wrong?"

You blinked, trying to process it all. "Joao’s leaving. He’s going on loan to Milan. Tonight."

Lila’s mouth fell open. "What the hell?!"

"He wants me to come to the airport so we can say goodbye."

Lila was already jumping off the bed. "Then what are we waiting for? Let’s go!"

The drive to the airport was a blur. You stared out the window, trying to keep yourself together, but the lump in your throat was growing by the second.

"He’s going to come back, you know," Lila said, glancing at you. "It’s just a loan. He’s not leaving forever."

You nodded, but it didn’t make it hurt any less.

By the time you arrived, the departures terminal was busy with travelers rushing around, but you only had eyes for one person.

And then—you saw him.

Joao stood near the check-in area, hoodie pulled over his head, hands tucked into his pockets. But when he saw you, his whole face softened.

You barely took two steps before he was in front of you, looking down at you with those warm, familiar brown eyes.

"Hey," he said softly.

You swallowed. "Hey."

His gaze flickered over your face, like he was trying to memorize every detail. "I didn’t want to leave without seeing you."

You nodded, trying to smile, but your throat was tight. "I’m really gonna miss you, Joao."

His brows furrowed, and then suddenly, his hand was cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing gently against your skin. "Don’t cry," he murmured. "I’ll come back."

You let out a shaky breath. "You promise?"

His lips quirked up in the smallest, saddest smile. "I promise."

And then—he kissed you.

Soft, warm, lingering. Like he wanted to stay in this moment forever. Like he didn’t want to leave at all.

Lila, standing a few feet away, practically squealed under her breath. "Oh my God."

But just as you melted into the kiss, something inside you snapped.

You suddenly pulled back, heart racing.

Joao blinked in confusion. "What’s wrong?"

You didn’t even think before you said it. "I’m going with you."

Joao’s eyes widened. "What?"

"You can’t," he stammered, looking completely overwhelmed. "You have a life here—"

"Yes, she can," Lila interrupted, stepping forward with a wicked grin. "I’ll pack your stuff and send it to you. Go."

You turned to her, heart pounding. "Are you sure?"

Lila rolled her eyes. "Babe. The love of your life is about to get on a plane. Go."

Tears welled in your eyes, but this time, they weren’t from sadness. You threw your arms around Lila, hugging her tightly. "I love you so much."

She laughed. "I know. Now get out of here before I start crying too."

You turned back to Joao, who was still staring at you like he couldn’t believe this was real.

"You really want to come with me?" he asked, voice soft, uncertain.

You smiled, taking his hand in yours. "There’s nowhere else I’d rather be."

For a moment, he just looked at you, his lips parting like he wanted to say something. But then, instead of speaking—he kissed you again.

And this time, it wasn’t a goodbye.

and i will fuck you, like nothing matters; part three

pairing: gavi x ofc

summary: gavi wants coral to be his. she's scared of their fame.

taglist: @htpssgavi ; @joaosnovia

masterlist // series masterlist // I do not take requests

Gavi took a deep breath. He had faced guys twice as tall as him in World Cup matches, shot penalties and done post game interviews for the Cahmpions League, but he had never been as nervous as he was parking by Coral's apartment.

He ahd been coming so often that when he crossed paths with one of thr neighbours she just smiled and greeted him by his name, adding a small comment about how Coral had been playing guitar all day long, and how delightful her new song was.

Gavi shared that fondness, he wanted to listen to Coral's music for hours every day for the rest of his life. He took the stairs jumping two steps at a time, his usual impatience getting the best of him. By the front door of her apartment, the soft chords of a song Gavi had not heard yet could be heard.

He felt a little guilty, ringing and interrupting the music, but seeing Coral standing on the other side of hte door, an oversized Barça hoodie on, her hair mess and her lips pink from biting them, like she always did, when she was concentrating; made it all worthy.

Gavi almost fell to his knee and asked for her hand in marriage, but her suspected that such proposal would not be accepted before he fixed their current situation.

"Gavi! I'm so busy right now, I don't think it's the best time to fuck right now..."

Right, that.

Their relationship was based around sex, the friends with benefits label falling over them easily after his ugly break up with Sandra. With a shattered heart and ego, the internet creating demeaning memes at lightning speed and everything he thought to be true crumling around him, Gavi had found shelter between Coral's arms.

But that shelter was not enough, not when he needed to really be hers.

For a long time he had been the heartbroken boy fucking his anger away. Now he was a smitten man, ready to ask Coral to be his girlfriend.

"I didn't come for that," he explained. Her eyes fell to the bouquet of flowers he was holding.

"Oh."

"Yeah." he scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. "Do you think I can come in?"

"Yeah."

Coral stepped aside so he could walk inside. The apartmwnt was a mess, the way it became when she was composing a new song.

That was what had her so busy.

"Coral..." he started, handing her the flowers. "I'm pretty sure you can already figure out where this is going..." he laughed nervously. "I like you, Coral. A lot. It think you could tell already."

"I had a small idea..." she was already smiling brightly, her cheeks pink. It gave him confidence on what he was about to ask.

"Would you be my girlfirend, please?"

Coral didn't reply. She threw her arms around Gavi's shoulders, and kissed him hard.

"I love you," she said ending the kiss, with his hands around her waist. "But I really need to finish this song before inspiration leaves."

Gavi smiled. If there was soemthing he knew, it was that big emotions triggered her creativity and she would be writing for hours.

But now he could watch her work, like the lovee sick puppy that he was.

gang i’m 5’7 too 👅

tags:: @barcapix @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp ; SORRY FOR UNWANTED

@ mutuals rb this w how tall you are i wanna know

i’m 4’11

hmmm so i lowk want sleepy franco, bc i had a dream abt him last night no joke. let's see. okay. we're on a plane, his like travel director guy? idk what he's called, but he books the wrong ticket so franco has to sit in economy class (horror) and he's all grumpy and tired and his curls are peeking thru his hoodie (HEHE) idk if you wanna make us a fan of him or not, i truly don't care ill read it anyway, and then drumroll please, TURBULENCE, and we hold hands and end up talking and then fall in love mwah

❦ - ‘la concha de mi madre’.

warnings:: cussing.

writers notes:: IM SORRY IF YOU SPEAK SPANISH AND UNDERSTAND THE TITLE 🥀. if you get the reference then you get it but if u don’t then it’s bc he said it on team radio 😔.

tags:: @barcapix @n0vazsq @httpsdana @paucubarsisimp @cherryloveshs ; lmk if u wanna be added

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

you’re already exhausted when you get to the gate. the kind of tired that settles behind your eyes and makes everything feel just a little bit blurry. it’s a late flight, barely-full, and you’re silently thanking the universe for that as you scan your boarding pass.

economy. window seat. quiet.

until he walks in.

it’s subtle at first. just a little wave of tension that passes through the gate area like a ripple, the way it always does when someone vaguely famous walks into a space not meant for them. people don’t scream or swarm, but you hear the hushed whispers, the occasional, poorly-hidden phone snap. and then you see him.

franco.

hood up. head down. dragging a carry-on with one hand and a coffee in the other like it might be the only thing keeping him awake.

he looks like he was just pulled out of sleep and shoved into an airport. grey hoodie. black joggers. a duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. and his curls, god, his curls, are peeking out from under the fabric like they’re trying to escape. messy and soft and unfairly pretty.

you try not to stare.

he looks grumpy. not mean, not rude, just tired in the way only someone who was promised comfort but got chaos instead can be. he stops by the flight attendant, glances down at his phone, then mutters something in spanish you don’t catch but feel in your soul. it’s giving: ‘how did i end up here?’

you turn back to your book, pretending you’re not watching him weave down the aisle, scanning seat numbers, getting closer and closer until

he stops. right beside you.

your row.

he double checks his pass. stares at the seat. stares at you. then groans, barely audible, and sinks down into the seat next to yours like it personally offended him.

‘la concha de mi madre… wasn’t supposed to be here,’ he mumbles, more to himself than you.

you don’t say anything at first. you just glance sideways, taking in the way his knees hit the seat in front of him. he’s clearly too tall for this. he exhales sharply through his nose and tilts his head back, letting it thud softly against the wall.

‘rough night?’ you ask gently.

he peeks one eye open.

‘travel guy booked the wrong class. s’posed to be business.’ he sounds like he’s explaining a grave injustice. and honestly, to him, maybe it is.

you bite back a laugh. ‘and now you’re slumming it with the rest of us.’

he looks at you properly now. eyes sharp despite how sleepy he is. ‘you make it sound like i’m gonna die in here.’

‘you might,’ you tease. ‘depends how dramatic you get.’

he cracks a smile, small, sleepy, but real, and pulls his hoodie tighter around him. then it’s quiet again. the kind of quiet that fills a plane before takeoff: muted announcements, seatbelt clicks, the soft shuffle of passengers settling in.

you go back to your book. or try to. it’s hard to focus when an f1 driver is breathing softly beside you, head tilted toward the window, lashes brushing his cheekbones, hands folded loosely over his stomach.

he looks peaceful like that. tired, yes, but soft in a way you didn’t expect. like he’s finally stopped fighting the chaos and just let himself be still.

you’re almost asleep yourself when it happens.

the plane jerks. a sudden lurch. not violent, but sharp enough to pull you from the edge of sleep and snap your heart into alert.

your hand flinches toward the armrest, gripping it tight.

and then another bump, this one stronger. someone across the aisle lets out a small yelp.

your stomach twists.

and then

warm fingers slip over yours.

it’s so casual, so easy, like he’s done this before. his hand is big, firm, grounding. he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even open his eyes, but the pressure of his palm against yours is enough to slow your breath just a little.

‘just turbulence,’ he murmurs, voice low, raspy with sleep. ‘happens all the time.’

you don’t know why you believe him. maybe because he sounds so calm. maybe because your hand fits stupidly well in his. or maybe because, deep down, part of you likes that this stranger, this famous, hoodie-wearing, grumpy stranger, is the one keeping you steady.

when the turbulence fades, you think he’ll pull away.

he doesn’t.

you glance over. his eyes are open now, just barely, looking at your joined hands with an unreadable expression.

‘you don’t have to keep holding it,’ you say quietly.

he shrugs, thumb brushing against your skin. ‘you looked scared.’

you don’t answer. just look away, heart thudding a little too loud in your chest.

after a beat, he shifts in his seat, turning slightly toward you.

‘i’m franco, by the way.’

you blink. not because you didn’t know. but because it feels strange, intimate, for him to offer it like that.

‘y/n,’ you say back, voice softer than before.

he nods once. ‘pretty name.’

you smile, small and a little shy. and for the first time, you notice how close you are. how your knees almost touch. how your fingers are still tangled like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

somewhere over the clouds, in a cramped economy seat beside a boy who was never supposed to be here, something starts.

it’s quiet. unexpected. but it’s there.

and neither of you let go.

you land just after sunrise.

the light filters through the little oval window in soft streaks of gold and peach, brushing over franco’s curls as he stretches beside you with a sleepy groan. his hoodie’s slipped a little down his shoulder, revealing a white t-shirt and a glimpse of collarbone, and you don’t mean to stare, but also, maybe you do.

‘how’d you sleep?’ he asks, voice gravelly and barely awake.

you smile. ‘not much.’

‘same.’

you both sit there for a second, still tangled in the strange bubble that formed somewhere midair. he shifts, glancing down at your hands, still close, not quite touching anymore, but close enough to feel the leftover warmth. his fingers twitch like maybe he wants to reach back.

you beat him to it, brushing your pinky against his.

he looks over, and he’s smiling.

‘you hungry?’ he asks, suddenly casual. like you didn’t just hold hands for three hours in silence. like you didn’t fall asleep with your shoulder brushing his in the middle of the sky.

you blink. ‘what?’

he rubs the back of his neck, curls wild now, sticking out in soft little tufts. ‘there’s this café i always go to when i fly through here. their croissants are insane. i can… show you?’

your heart does something stupid.

‘yeah,’ you say, voice softer than you mean it to be. ‘sure. croissants sound good.’

you gather your things. he waits for you. and as you walk off the plane, into the cool, early morning quiet of the airport, something about it feels like a movie. the way your suitcases roll in sync. the way his hoodie sleeve brushes your arm every few steps. the way people glance over, eyes widening slightly, not because of you, but because of him.

he doesn’t seem to notice. or care. he’s too busy walking beside you like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

‘so,’ you say, just to fill the silence, ‘did your travel guy get fired yet?’

he snorts. ‘he’s on very thin ice.’

you laugh, and he grins, bright and sleepy and a little crooked.

the café is tucked in a quiet corner of the terminal. tiny tables. warm lights. the smell of espresso thick in the air.

he orders two croissants and two coffees like he’s done it a hundred times before.

‘you bring all your turbulence buddies here?’ you tease as you settle into a table by the window.

he smirks. ‘nah. just the brave ones who hold my hand mid-air.’

you roll your eyes, but your cheeks are warm.

the coffee is good. the croissant is better. and the company, well, that’s the best part.

you talk. about little things. stupid things. favorite movies. airport horror stories. he tells you about the time his luggage got sent to a completely different continent. you tell him about the time you missed a flight because you fell asleep at the gate. he laughs, really laughs, and you catch yourself watching the way his face lights up, the way his eyes crinkle, the soft edges of his tired smile.

you’re both halfway through your second coffee when his phone buzzes. he glances at it, then groans.

‘my ride’s here.’

you nod, trying not to look disappointed.

he stands slowly, stretching again, hoodie riding up just a little, and then looks at you like he’s not quite sure what to do.

you break the silence first.

‘it was nice flying with you.’

he huffs a laugh. ‘yeah. it was.’

you expect him to walk away. just wave, say bye, disappear into the crowd.

instead, he hesitates. looks at you like he’s debating something.

then

‘can i see you again?’

you blink. ‘what?’

he runs a hand through his curls. ‘i mean… if you want. i know it was just a weird flight and some turbulence and coffee, but…’ he shrugs, like he can’t quite explain it. ‘i liked this. i liked you.’

your heart stumbles.

‘yeah,’ you say, quiet but sure. ‘i’d like that too.’

he grins. pulls out his phone. you exchange numbers, fingers brushing as he hands it back.

‘don’t ghost me,’ he says, teasing.

you smirk. ‘only if your travel guy doesn’t mess it up again.’

he laughs again, starts to walk backward toward the exit, still facing you.

‘see you soon, turbulence girl.’

and then he’s gone.

but your phone buzzes thirty seconds later.

franco: next time i’m booking us both business class. just saying.

you grin.

yeah. you’ll see him again.

it starts with texts.

a few here and there. late at night. early morning. sleepy updates and little inside jokes. a photo of his breakfast one day. a screenshot of your playlist the next. nothing dramatic. nothing loud.

just a slow, easy kind of beginning.

and then one day, he sends you a message that says:

‘are you free this friday? i owe you dinner. and business class. but we’ll start with dinner.’

you say yes.

and that’s how you end up outside a small restaurant tucked between quiet streets, heart thudding in your chest as you spot him leaning against the wall, hoodie up, curls peeking out just like that first night.

but this time, he looks up and smiles as soon as he sees you.

‘you came,’ he says, stepping forward, pulling the hood down.

‘you asked,’ you reply.

he holds the door open for you, and it’s something about the way he looks at you, like he’s been waiting to see you again since the second you left, that makes your stomach do something ridiculous.

the restaurant is small. warm. dim lighting and quiet music. you sit across from him, nervous at first, picking at the edge of your napkin.

but he’s soft. all soft.

asking how your week was. telling you how training’s been. joking about how he’s still haunted by the flight. and you both laugh, really laugh, like it’s been forever since something felt this easy.

somewhere between dinner and dessert, the conversation shifts.

you’re talking about the places you want to visit. the little corners of the world that live on your bucket list. he’s leaning in, chin resting in his hand, eyes never leaving you.

‘so what you’re saying,’ he murmurs, ‘is that you’d need a travel buddy.’

you raise a brow. ‘you offering?’

he smiles slow. ‘i already know how you handle turbulence.’

you toss a sugar packet at him. he catches it.

and when the night ends, and you’re outside again in the cool air, he walks you to your car without saying much.

just before you open the door, he stops.

‘can i—’ he rubs the back of his neck, like he’s nervous now. ‘i wanna see you again.’

you tilt your head. ‘another flight?’

he chuckles. ‘hopefully without economy class.’

you step closer. your hands graze.

‘i’d like that,’ you say.

and this time, this time when he leans in, it’s not your hands that touch first. it’s his forehead resting lightly against yours. soft, sweet. the kind of almost-kiss that says everything without rushing it.

his voice is barely a whisper.

‘goodnight, y/n.’

and you smile, feeling weightless.

‘goodnight, franco.’

you fall asleep on facetime the first time it happens.

you’re both in bed, screens glowing in the dark, him in a hoodie again, hood up, hair a little messy from running his hand through it too much. you’re curled beneath a blanket, barely lit by your lamp, yawning as he tells you something dumb one of his teammates said in the locker room.

you’re not sure when you drift off, only that when you open your eyes again, the call is still going.

his camera is angled up now, like he fell asleep too. his face half-buried in a pillow, breathing slow. the little rectangle on your screen shows the soft rise and fall of his chest, a peek of his collarbone, the edge of his hoodie slipping down one shoulder.

you watch him for a moment.

just… watch.

something tugs at your heart. soft and sure.

you end the call before your screen dies, and sleep comes easier after that.

the next morning, he texts you:

‘slept better than i have in weeks. you?’

you type:

‘same. weird.’

he sends a photo. his pillow, a bit messy. the corner of his hoodie in the frame.

‘blaming you. don’t leave next time.’

and you want to tell him you won’t. that you’ll stay on the line until the sun rises if that’s what he wants. but you just reply:

‘no promises.’

he calls you that night too.

and the one after that.

the first kiss comes later.

not during a date. not at dinner. not even with music or city lights or anything remotely romantic.

it’s raining.

you weren’t supposed to see him. just dropped by his place to return something, a hoodie you stole without realizing. but he opens the door and grins like he hasn’t seen you in weeks instead of days.

‘you’re wet,’ he says, brushing a hand over your shoulder.

‘yeah, well, the weather’s rude.’

you’re about to hand him the hoodie when he steps back and says, ‘come in. or you’ll catch something.’

and you do.

you sit on the edge of his couch, water dripping from your sleeves. he disappears for a second, returns with a towel and a mug of something warm. tea. maybe. you’re not sure. you’re too busy watching the way his lashes stick together from the rain. the way his hoodie is half-zipped, revealing the curve of his throat.

he crouches in front of you, drying your hands first.

‘you didn’t have to,’ you murmur.

he shrugs. but his hands linger.

‘you’re kind of important,’ he says, soft. like it’s not a big deal.

you look at him. really look.

his curls are damp. his eyes are tired but bright. his thumb is brushing along the back of your hand like he doesn’t want to stop touching you.

and you lean in first.

not much. just a little. but enough.

his breath catches, and he moves with you. quiet. slow. no rush.

his lips find yours like they’ve been waiting.

just the softest pressure. the rain still pattering outside. his hand resting against your jaw, thumb grazing your cheek like you might disappear if he doesn’t hold you right.

when you pull back, he stays close.

forehead to yours.

‘finally,’ he whispers.

and you smile.

epilogue::

he’s already seated when you get there.

hood up. headphones around his neck. hoodie sleeves bunched up on his forearms. curls peeking out messily. the most him he’s ever looked.

you stop in the aisle for a second, grinning.

‘you’re in the window seat?’ you tease.

he peeks up at you with that sleepy half-smile, eyes already warm.

‘wanted to watch the clouds. but i’ll trade if you want it.’

you shake your head and slide into the seat beside him. ‘nah. wanna lean on you.’

he makes a soft sound, half a chuckle, half a breath, and reaches for your hand almost immediately. it’s instinct, at this point. the way his fingers find yours without looking. the way his thumb brushes over your knuckles like he needs to remind himself you’re here. his.

you tuck your bag away, get comfortable, rest your head on his shoulder as the plane starts taxiing.

‘remember our first flight?’ you mumble.

he hums. ‘economy class. tragic.’

you laugh, sleepily. ‘you were grumpy.’

‘you held my hand during turbulence.’

‘you fell in love.’

he turns his head a little, presses his lips to your hair.

‘yeah,’ he says softly. ‘i did.’

you close your eyes, smile against his hoodie.

there’s no rush. no uncertainty. no almosts anymore. just his hand in yours, the hum of the engine, and the quiet thud of your hearts keeping time.

somewhere in the sky, between time zones and cloudlines, he whispers:

‘i’d sit in economy again if it meant meeting you.’

you don’t open your eyes. you just squeeze his hand and whisper back:

‘good thing you don’t have to.’

and he smiles, forehead resting against yours, while the plane lifts into the sky.