Archive of Our Own

It started wrong. 

She knows that.

But it started. And that was what she cared about.

She's not expecting anyone, so the doorbell nearly makes her jump out of her skin. 

She expects him least of all, especially after Beard had come up to her office barely an hour after lunch to let her know Roy was running afternoon practice, that he was taking Ted home. She's known him long enough now to read between the lines – he'd had a panic attack, a bad one, and needed to relax.

She doesn't know that he did actually relax though, because he's standing on her stoop looking a little worse for wear. Hair disheveled, clothes too, still in the same blue sweater, same khakis he'd nervously tapped his fingers against all through biscuits with the boss that morning. In hindsight, she probably should've seen it coming – he wasn't quite himself earlier.

"Ted," she says, letting the surprise leak into her voice.

"Hey,” he says shortly, smiling, but it isn't quite right either.

She just steps aside, nods him in.

He follows her to the living room, where she'd just been getting ready to pack it in, take her tea to the kitchen and her book up to bed.

"How are you?" she asks as he drops himself into the sofa. She joins him, bending her legs up under her to face him. "Figured you had an early night ahead of you."

He can't seem to relax – he sits rigid and tense next to her, though she can see him trying to disguise it, sitting back against the cushions. 

"Tried to take a nap earlier, but didn't have much luck," he says. "It's…I'm…" He shakes his head, eyes closing for a moment.

"It's alright," she says. She doesn't want to push him, not when he looks like he just came off his attack, not like it's been at least seven hours since. "Can I get you anything?"

He shakes his head again, "No, no thank you. I'm just…what've you been doing this evenin'?"

He looks like he's searching for a distraction, hunting for a reason he's here, and she takes mercy on him, knowing how shaken he must still be, understanding he just might simply not want to be alone.

She extends an arm, gesturing first to the coffee table, her book, her empty tea, then to herself, in nothing more than a loose v-neck and some soft shorts. She smiles gently, "You're looking at it."

And he does – his eyes take in the table, then jump the gap, landing on her legs and traveling up, up, up. 

When he meets her eye, she realizes it's the first time he's done so.

She also realizes she was wrong – he knows exactly what brought him here, and in the same moment, with a tiny catch of her breath, she does too.

Everything shifts – her thoughts, his face, the very air in the room.

His dark eyes flick over her face, searching, then land on her lips. The moment slows and unless she stops him she has about six seconds to decide what she wants. 

It takes no more than two.

Him. She wants him. It's been him for months. She's had a sore throat for weeks for all the feelings she's been swallowing down. Feelings that leap to her mouth every time he catches her eye, every time his default smile softens into something warmer when she laughs, every time he sets a pink box on her desk.

She ignores how her heart revolts, how it screams at her that she's simply the only unattached female around that he's familiar with. She ignores how her stomach rolls with the knowledge that if her oldest friend was in town he wouldn't be here, like this – he'd be with her.

By the time his lips land on hers, she's boxed it all up and shoved it away. She wants him.

He kisses her gently, though she can feel it in him, the energy buzzing under his skin, the desperation seeping from his pores. It's in the taut muscles of his hand as it lands tentatively on her thigh, the rigidity of his arm when her own hand lands there.

She kisses him back, part of her breaking, part of her soaring as her lips part and let him in. His grip on her leg grows firmer when his tongue sweeps into her mouth, then relaxes into something closer to a caress.

He kisses her harder, pressing closer, and his need feels electric, sharp and bright and flashing. His hand skates a little further up her thigh and she has to clench them together, feeling sparks blaze down her spine, pooling between her legs.

He breaks away from her and she hadn't realized how far he'd pressed her back until she has trouble holding the position without his pressure.

"Am I pushing?" he breathes.

She knows he doesn't mean literally. "No."

His eyes are shadowed as they bounce between hers. "You sure?"

"Yes."

His lips are on hers again then and his hands far more active as they pull at her hips, tugging her under him and she goes willingly, tilting back. She can do this for him, wants to do this for him, give him the release, the extraction from his head he needs.

She's playing with fire but she doesn't care. She wants him. 

She unfolds her legs, lets him lay her back, lets his weight come to rest between her legs. He presses his hips down into hers and she presses back, growing desperate herself but intent on letting him drive this.

His lips break from hers then and she gasps, lungs a little deprived as he traces a line down her neck. She memorizes the feeling, his mouth on her skin, wet heat and the scratch of his mustache. If this is all she gets of him, all she can be to him, a post-panic remedy, she's going to hold it all in her mind for as long as she can.

He traces the neckline of her top, rising and sinking with her chest as it heaves, lips skating along to the deep point of the V. His hands slip under to find the dip of her waist, warm against her skin, heating all of her.

"Rebecca…" He presses the word between her breasts, sounding stressed, but relieved, sounding…fuck, she doesn't know. But something in it makes her reassure him.

"It's okay," she breathes.

He exhales and pushes at her shirt. She pulls it off, leaving her bare beneath him and instantly that wet heat closes on one of her nipples. She inhales sharply and his tongue laves over her, teeth tugging gently, plucking hard at a direct line to her clit. Her hips press up into his and she lets a hand sink into his hair as he starts on the other side.

This was truly the last place she expected to end this day, beneath Ted with his lips on her tit.

Her hands slide down his shoulder blades, gripping his sweater, pulling and pulling and pulling at his layers until she finds skin to press her fingers into. His mouth pops from her breast and he pulls up, but not before landing on her mouth again, tongue pressing against hers. Her hands slide up his back as she arches, lifting up against him, cheap soft cotton feeling luxurious against her bare chest.

She makes an unintentional little noise against his mouth and he breaks away, breathing heavy as he tears his layers off in one pull. He pauses before he sinks back down, eyes taking her in, looking their fill before they lift back to hers. She can't identify what's in his eyes any more than what was in his voice but it's deep and swirling and a little pained.

He kisses her again, gently, almost chastely before he makes his way back down her chest, her belly.

She didn't expect, well, this. Didn't expect him almost making love to her. When she realized what they were about to do, she half expected to lose her shorts and free his cock and…

But his hands smooth up her sides, cup her breasts as he kisses his way down. He touches her with single minded focus, all of his attention absorbed with her, making her feel as good as he can. No room left for anything else, any worries, any other thoughts at all. 

She's nearly on the brink when his fingers hook in her shorts and she bends her legs so he can pull them down. Her legs settle on either side of him once more and then his hand is there, fingers parting her, dipping into her. She lets out a strangled little cry when his fingers slide in, curling upwards against her and pressing. He bends down then and she watches him as long as she can, until his lips are closing over her clit and her eyes are fluttering shut with a stuttering inhale. 

His tongue presses and circles, sucking delicately, building her up alarmingly fast, and just two more pushes of his fingers have her shattering, walls clenching around his fingers as her orgasm rocks through her body, hand clenching on the front of the couch cushion, the other twisting in a throw pillow above her head. He doesn't stop as she comes, drawing out every little aftershock. 

But when he does finally slow to a stop, he pulls himself away abruptly, standing and jerking his belt from its buckle. His eyes land on her as he starts on his fly and she drapes a leg over the back of the couch, her other foot pressing flat against the front of it, legs falling open wide for him. 

His hands falter on their task, then double down, shoving his pants and boxers from his hips. He takes his hard length in his hand almost immediately, absentmindedly stroking it as he plants a knee on the couch. The sight has her clenching around nothing, wanting him inside her with the same urgency he's now exhibiting. He lines them up, just the head of his cock pressing in before he leans over her.

"Gorgeous," he mumbles. It sounds like he hadn't even meant to say it out loud, let alone to her. "Just gorgeous."

His forearm slips beneath her in the space her arched spine creates, the other planting itself over her shoulder. He lets out a breath and she sucks one in as he fills her, his mouth at her collar bone, arm tugging her up even tighter against him once their hips are flush.

It feels fucking exquisite. The stretch of him, yes, but even just the way her heart feels, spinning through her chest, armor flying off as it careens towards something that's not hers.

She tightens around him as he retreats, then sinks back in, wasting no time in setting up a smooth but strong rhythm. 

She wants her hands on his back, wants to scratch and pull and mark and scream his name and make sure he doesn't forget her like this too quickly. But she doesn't – her arms stretch above her head, tossing the pillow out of the way and pressing her hands flat against the arm rest, keeping her from shifting away from him with each hard thrust of his hips.

He kisses at her throat as he fucks her and she tips her head back to let him, the warmth of his mouth, his gentle lips making her feel…fuck. Making her feel so wanted.

Her feet hunt for purchase against the couch, trying to counter him, to spur him on even further. Her foot hits the floor and she cries out with the new perfect friction, her toes curling against the rug. He groans in response, weight shifting to his elbow without missing a beat, his hand following her arm up until it lays flat over hers, fingers pressing into the tops of her knuckles.

It's too much, they're connected too many places in too many ways and she feels her muscles tensing, trembling as she starts to come around him with a noise that could be a cry or a whimper or a moan, she doesn't know. She knows he pounds harder in answer to it and she's flying high as he chokes out a strangled noise against her sternum, hips halting and flexing hard into hers as he comes, his arm around her anchoring her to him. 

The waves of pleasure slow and stop, the flexing of his hips stops. The tension in him, that buzzing has stopped. He turns to liquid over her, relaxing exactly like she'd hoped, and then eventually, their gasping stops.

Her brain doesn't stop. All the places they're connected don't stop. She can't even move a muscle, can't pull her hand from under his, despite the protestations of her shoulders. She doesn't want to let him go, can't stand the thought of untangling herself from him.

She thanks God for her stupid IUD because she doesn't remember the last time she had such irresponsible sex.

Fuck. 

She just had sex with Ted.

His sigh washes over her only slightly heaving chest and she feels it sink from the skin of her chest to way down deep inside her.

"Thank you." 

He mutters it so quietly she thinks he may be hoping she won't hear. But she does, and he sounds so truly grateful, so blissfully relieved to be free of his racing mind that she can't even find it in her right now to be regretful that this happened this way. 

She finally pulls her hand from his, arms coming down, the ache in her shoulders flaring. She lets them rest around him, lets herself hold him for barely a moment, lets her palms land on his warm sweat-slick back. Then she hums a noise, pushing gently for him to let her up – she needs to clean up and take a deep breath and if she's going to freak out about this, she'd rather do it alone.

He lifts up and she moves out from under him, feeling the loss of him keenly as she does. He lays his cheek against the couch, pushing a hand through his hair as he takes the same kind of deep breath she needs.

She loves him. That might be a problem, she thinks. 

She pulls a throw from the armchair, trying not to be self-conscious about being naked and vertical when she turns back to find his eyes on her. She drapes the blanket over him, lowering herself to pull it over his shoulders. He watches her, worry creeping into his eyes again, and she shakes her head. 

"You're okay," she murmurs. It doesn't help much. 

"I'm okay," she adds. 

That does help. 

His eyes fall shut with another deep breath and she stands, snatching her clothes and retreating to the bathroom.

The desire to hide here forever is tempting but not overwhelming. She braces her hands on the sink once she's cleaned up and dressed again, staring herself down in the mirror. She's fine. Everything's fine.

Except she just took a hell of a leap and she feels like she's still flying, or falling, without any idea where she's landing yet. There's this tearing, warring feeling in her chest like she's just made a huge mistake that she wouldn't undo for all the world.

Her eyes take in her own face, cheeks still flushed, green eyes bright, lips dark pink. She follows the slope of her neck and her breath catches when she sees the little red splotch developing at the base of it.

Ted did that. Ted's lips put that there.

Her head drops and she takes a deep breath. 

He didn't want her – he just wanted to stop thinking, some mindless sex to clear his head. And she would do well to remember it.

When she finally comes back out, he's asleep on her couch – one that will probably need professionally cleaned now. She finds a second blanket and lays it over him in case the skimpy throw isn't enough, then sets a couple pillows by the couch, close at hand, in case he wakes and needs them. She drops to the floor next to him as she sets them down, pausing for a moment to watch him, folding her arms on her knees. 

She ought to go to bed, get some sleep. She ought to decide how to play this. Right now all she wants to do is sit here with him.

She still has the note she'd found on the stack of neatly folded blankets on her sofa the next morning, scribbled in this loopy hand on plain cream paper from the pad in the kitchen.

You're okay

I'm okay –

We're okay? 

It's wrinkled now, lined and crumpled from the number of times she's tried to throw it away. She fishes it from the bin every time – sometimes immediately, sometimes hours later, always smoothing it out against the marble counter with tears in her eyes, pissed at him for hurting her, but more pissed at herself for letting him.

The ease with which they pick up their friendship is almost excruciating. Further confirmation that the whole experience was the equivalent of a yoga class and a nap to him.

It may have helped him find some calm initially but it doesn't last long. Within the week he's tapping, clenching, eyes shifting once more and she wonders at the source of it.

She hopes it isn't her. She'd sent him a text as soon as she found his note the morning after their tryst, a simple vague Yes that she knew he'd understand. He'd sent back a little yellow heart that she's actively not reading into.

They're both so good, too good, at selective memory. It's like it never even happened.

So it must be something else. But he hasn't told her and her gentle prodding is met with solid brick. She even tried to get it out of Beard at the pub one evening when Ted left them alone to procure another round. That was met with his own characteristic stoicism. 

"I will not break his confidence, Rebecca, you know that."

She'd nodded in concession but it hadn't helped the ball of worry in her belly.

This is not typical for him. It's so persistent, so constant, there has to be something on his mind. And it's killing her to see him so exhausted. His smiles take too much effort, his laughs too rare. She hopes he's talking to Beard at least and letting him help carry whatever burdens are weighing in his mind. Because he's certainly not talking to her. Not about anything truly important.

It takes 9 days.

When she pulls the door open, his hair is falling across troubled eyes. His chest is heaving slightly and she isn't sure which side of a panic attack he might be on. The war in him is as obvious as the one in herself – the part of him that knows they're toeing or crossing or bending an important line holds his feet to the ground while his desperation for reprieve tries to bridge the space between them without the rest of him.

She doesn't know what her face does as she looks at him. She knows her heart twists sharply. She knows fear collects in her gut. She knows her clit throbs at the look in his eyes. 

She knows her feet step aside, opening the door wider and something happens in him, something cracks as she lets him in.

Once is…but twice…twice is pattern. Twice is habit forming. Twice is dangerous.

She shuts the door behind him and the dim entryway echoes with the quiet sound. 

She exhales slowly, toe to toe with him, mere centimeters between their noses.

And then just waits. 

He's tense, as restless as he had been the first time, eyes shut, breaths forcibly even. She takes in his face, features traced in gold from the light at the far end of the hall. It hurts unbelievably to see him tortured like this. If she thought dropping to her knees and begging him to talk to her would do anything at all, she would do it.

His hands are fisted in his pockets, like he's trying, despite allowing his feet to carry him here, to hold himself back.

She's not sure why. 

"Rebecca." He says it quietly, but he might've screamed it for all the pain it carries. It lashes at her heart, whether it's because of this or a result of whatever's weighing in his mind, she can't bear to hear her name, in his voice, laced with so much torment. 

"It's okay," she breathes. She brings a hand to gently circle his wrist, not pulling, just resting there. The contact pulls his eyes open and they're dark, clear, bouncing all over her, but nowhere else, like his focus is already narrowing onto her. 

Her touch must set something off – which wasn't her intention, not at all – but he tips himself forward, closes that tiny distance, and presses his lips to hers.

She had no idea how much she'd missed it over the past week until she has it again. Like she'd been bereft, having known and then been deprived of him. It sets something else off, something in her too, something almost tangible between them both, because they're of one mind as they stumble together until her back hits the wall. His hands lift to hold her face, his tongue surges into her mouth, tracing the edges of her own and she makes a needy sound against him.

He pulls back, exhaling sharply, "Yes?"

She nods and tugs him back, fire flaring inside her.

"Yes."

They don't even make it any further into the house – they're twice as frantic this time, like they got their polite introductions out of the way last time and now can just get right to business.

Greedy hands pull at clothes until they're gone, greedy lips sucking at skin, nipping at jaws. She lets her kisses scratch over his stubble just once, terrified to give too much away, to make this even more complicated than it is with all these feelings in her heart. 

Her head tips back against the wall with a hollow thunk when his hand drops from her breast and pushes two fingers into her. His thumb lands on her clit and her eyes fall shut as the contact zips through her. His hand works her steadily, pulling noises from her with ease. She watches him from under her lashes, wondering at the intensity of his gaze, taking in her face as it tenses with pleasure, bouncing down her neck to her chest a time or two. 

When she finally comes, toes curling on the cold tile, hips surging against his hand, fingers digging hard into his flesh, he watches her with searing attention, dark eyes flashing when she thoughtlessly lets his name fall from her lips.

Her hands grab tighter at him as she comes down, knees weak beneath her. He pulls his hand from her and his palm lands on the back of her thigh, lifting and hitching it onto his hip. His other hand follows suit and then he's the only thing holding her up, pressing her to the wall, her legs circling him, hands clinging to his shoulders.

"Might need a hand," he says, interrupting the kisses he was dotting along her neck.

Her hand sinks down his chest, nails scratching lightly just for good measure. She takes his cock in her hand to line him up but can't resist the urge to stroke him. She hears his forehead hit the wall next to her as he exhales sharply, hands clenching on the flesh of her thighs and it feels so unbelievably good to know how it's affecting him.

When he sinks into her, she almost wants to cry at how good it feels – again. Being surrounded by him, filled with him, feeling tension drain from the backs of his shoulders. They're pressed together from hip to cheek, her legs locked around him, arms circled around his neck, the wall at her back. Nothing could touch her here. She's certain of it.

He starts slowly despite their earlier desperation, pulling back and sinking into her with a measured pace, his hot exhales washing over her neck, building her pleasure up once more with care. 

She wonders if it's not even in his realm of thought, the idea of a quick fuck. She wonders if he's ever felt safe enough with anyone to let himself be a selfish lover.

She wants him to take. Wants him to find whatever he needs in her and just take it. If this is the only way he'll let her help him, soothe him, she wants it to be substantial.

He works up to something faster, steadier, but she shifts her hips needily when he pulls back and his grasp falters for barely a second.

"Don't do that," he breathes. "I don't wanna drop ya." His voice in her ear drops straight to her core, an unmistakable reminder that this is Ted, her Ted doing this to her. His pace picks up even further and her nails sink into his shoulder blades. 

"The last thing," he pants, breath catching as she tightens around him, her orgasm coiling tightly in her belly. "The last thing I'd ever wanna do," he tries again, breath harsh, "is hurt you."

Those words land heavily in her chest, a whimper falling from her lips that's equal parts pleasure and despair. She hopes he misses the sound under his own choked off groan as he thrusts into her just a hair faster, sending her spiraling into her orgasm. 

Her teeth clamp on her lip to keep any words in, neck straining, head falling back against the wall. Her heart pounds harshly in her chest as her body tenses and trembles, his hands tight on her, his pace unrelenting until he's gasping with her, choking out a sharp "Fuck," against the corner of her jaw.

It's a long moment of panting in each other's ear before anyone moves. He turns his head, presses his lips very gently to the space under her ear, and she almost can't suppress the urge to slide her hand to the back of his head and hold him there forever.

He pulls out of her with a soft noise, then releases one of her legs, waiting until she gets it under her to release the other. 

She starts to unwind her arms from his shoulders but her legs are like jelly beneath her, shaky and unsteady as blood returns to them and she doesn't trust them just yet. She tightens her arms around his neck again, giving him some of her weight as he catches her against him, his hand warm on her back.

"Sorry,” she breathes.

She feels him shake his head, then sigh contentedly. "Don't be." 

His hand smooths up and down her back, just the one, and it takes her a moment to realize the other is flat against the wall behind her and they're basically – barely – holding each other up.

There's an ache in her hips, satisfaction in her belly, a chill that chases his hand up and down her spine, the warmth of his skin all along her front. His come is leaking out of her and her legs are probably fine now to hold her but she just doesn't want to let go of him. 

She has to though. He's not really hers, despite all of that.

She unwraps herself from him slowly, leaning back on her heels, arms loosening. She meets his eye, palms sliding down his arms as his hands rest loose and relaxed on her hips, making sure she's steady. It's like night and day, the difference in him. She understands why he seeks this out, can see how much tension has left him, how settled his mind is.

She doesn't care if it becomes a habit. She doesn't care if he comes and finds her at every single twinge of stress. She'll give him anything, everything he needs, whatever he wants.

And she's so disappointed in herself for it.

It happens again, and again, because of course it does – they're good at it and it works, sort of, and his anxiety isn't lessening, but growing as the days go on. 

And she can't resist. She won't say no, not when she's never felt more useful, more important, more loved – no matter how surface level, or how one-sided it is – than when she's under his hands. Not when it feels so bloody good to have him at all.

She's dying inside only a little bit each time he leaves her, scuffing his shoe like a schoolboy, looking relaxed but with something pained in his face. She gets the sense he wishes he had someone else, someone he really felt strongly for to ease that tension and every time she thinks it her heart hurts at the thought that she's such a poor substitute.

She nearly has her own panic attack after the second time he presses her into her sofa again. He'd shown up with red teary eyes, hands stiff and voice hoarse, very very fresh off a panic attack and the thought occurred that she might be crossing her own lines at this point. Because she wants him, savors these encounters even as she despairs at him needing them, and she can't help but wonder how sound his judgement is. It's not like they've talked about it – she doesn't have a clue how he ends up feeling hours, days out from leaving her house…if he regrets it, if he thinks he shouldn't have. If he thinks of this, of her at all.

They ought to stop but she doesn't think she could bear it now if they did.

When they go to Liverpool, she doesn't text Sassy. She tells herself she doesn't think of it, that she doesn't want to bother her, or something equally half-assed, but her excuses to herself amount to nothing. Keeley texts her. And she appears with bawdy jokes about her team that set Rebecca's teeth on edge just a little bit through the whole game. She's tempted beyond belief to beg off celebrating the win with the boys, but she won't deny them her support and pride in them. They deserve it.

So she goes down to the boisterous locker room, gets and gives her hugs, carefully measures how long she stays in Ted's arms, murmuring her thanks and congratulations in his ear. He looks okay, a little better, less on edge than he has lately. She smiles at him as she pulls away and watches him return it before his eyes land over her shoulder. They widen and she tears herself away from him then, walking away quickly, not even wanting to see him greet and hug her.

It's not…it's not about Sassy. Ted's allowed to want whoever he wants. She doesn't have a claim here. She's just…she doesn't know what she's doing. And Sassy's good at making her feel second best. She always has been – making herself the funniest, the loudest, the most outgoing, the most outrageous, all because Rebecca, through no fault of her own, has always been the taller, the curvier, the bustier. As if being stared at lecherously everywhere was something to be envied.

They hunt down a bar, somewhere loud and thumping that the younger boys picked. She does a shot with the team instead of her usual cocktail, then says fuck it and throws back a second one, getting cheers from the boys. She focuses on spending time with her team, because it keeps her occupied with something other than Ted and Sassy.

She can't stop her eyes from finding Ted, though, checking on him like she's grown used to doing the past few weeks. Which means her eyes keep finding Sassy, who's never very far from him.

She knows she's not acting right when Keeley corners her, tugs her down to put her lips at Rebecca's ear and asks if she's alright.

Her eyes find Sassy leaning on the bar next to Ted, watches him smile at whatever she says, and decides she's done torturing herself.

"My head is killing me," she nearly shouts in Keeley's ear. "I'm gonna head back."

Keeley pulls back, brows lowering. "We can go someplace quieter, leave the boys to it."

She shakes her head before she even finishes speaking, "No, it's alright. I think I'd like to be alone tonight."

She looks apologetically at Keeley but she just smiles softly up at her. "Alright," she says. "Text me when you get to the hotel. And text me in the morning – if you're up for it I'll sneak up to yours and we can have breakfast, just you and me."

She nods and presses a long kiss to Keeley's cheek. "I love you," she says. "Make my excuses?"

Keeley kisses her cheek right back.

She glances back, sees Ted even closer to Sassy and takes her leave.

She strips down to nothing in her hotel room. She takes solace in pulling it all off, in baring herself with no one around. All her armor falls – heels, skirt, blouse, jewelry. She washes her face bare and looks at herself, stripped down, for a long time. Her heart expands, free from its constraints, and the hurt inside grows right along with it. 

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

She knew, she knew, she was going to get hurt with this. And she hates herself for doing it anyway. For not resisting. For, once again, taking what she's given instead of demanding what she deserves. 

She feels tears press at the backs of her eyes as she wraps herself in a soft robe and climbs up on the bed.

She's not ever going to get it, is the thing. Whether she deserves it or not, whether she deems herself worthy, this is what life is giving her. What's she supposed to do? How can she be blamed for scarfing up these scraps of affection she's given when her only other option is to refuse and starve? 

She doesn't want to be alone. She wants someone to love her, to look at her like this, in all her sad, fucked up glory and want her anyway.

That's a lie. She doesn't want someone, she wants him.

She just lets the tears come, raging at herself for falling into old habits, comforting herself with the knowledge that she makes her own choices now, even if all she does is hurt herself with them. It isn't all that much comfort.

She wraps her arms around her knees, thinking she should've just skipped the whole celebration, skipped the shots…skipped the falling in love.

She scoffs a laugh at herself and then a sob punches through her throat. Like she could've even helped it.

It's almost funny that she should find it – a real love that sits in her chest day in and day out, one that makes her feel like she can be any, every, version of herself – and then be so incapable of actually acquiring it, of having it returned.

She can't force him to love her though.

There's a knock on her door and she glances at the clock. It's late but still earlier than she expected them all to be back. She grabs a tissue as she rises, wiping at her face, her nose. She can't imagine it's anyone but Keeley, unable to wait until morning to check on her, and that's really the only reason she pulls the door open.

It's not Keeley – it's Ted rocking on his heels in the hallway.

About fifteen different things happen in her head all at once in those few seconds.

Her first thought is that he's here. With her. Over anywhere else.

Her second is that he had a panic attack, that he's here to… 

That sends her heart through a complicated maneuver – disheartened that he could turn around so quickly from how at ease he seemed earlier, but secretly pleased that he would come to her, then terrified at the thought of him needing her here, like this, when she feels so torn open. 

Except he looks perfectly calm – very calm, and her heart turns to lead as she considers that he's already unwound elsewhere.

Then she watches him take her in, watches his eyes line with concern, and she realizes with abject horror how she must look right now, bloodshot teary eyes and bare face.

Her heart finally comes to a standstill from its tumbling in her torso when he speaks.

"Hey."

"Ted," she pushes out, clearing her throat. "Something wrong?"

"Well, yeah. The boss tapped out early on a very lively celebration." He gives her a soft smile. "Keeley said you were alright, but I just wanted to make sure."

She sighs, gesturing to herself, "And I'm sure I've just undone any reassuring she'd managed."

His brows come down a little, but a corner of his mouth tugs up. "Yeah, you kinda did."

"And I suppose you're not going to take 'I'm fine' for an answer?"

He half shrugs sheepishly, "Not without at least the minimum requisite pushing."

She steps aside, letting him in with a long breath.

He leans back against the desk as she drops down on the end of the bed. This is already a bad idea. She's exhausted, overwrought, ready to say too many things, things she doesn't mean as well as things she means far too much.

"You wanna tell me what's wrong?"

I'm in love with you but you just want me as a friend and an anxiety fuckbuddy and I don't have the integrity to refuse you even though I'm just a stand in for my childhood best friend and I'm really, genuinely worried about you but am so hyper-aware of how I engage with you now that I'm afraid to reveal too much by showing all my concern.

Yeah, no.

"Not really."

He searches her as if his eyes can reach down into the depths of her and pull the truth from her. 

She thinks in the state she's in, maybe he could.

She looks down, swipes the tissue over her nose one more time before she rises, moving around the bed. She tosses the tissue on the nightstand, swaps it for a hair elastic.

"I hope you didn't cut your night short just to come check on me." 

She drops herself on the edge of the bed, turned to face him, watching him watch her as she bundles her hair in her fist, tying it back quickly, trying to regain even a fraction of the defenses she'd already stripped off for the night.

"It was lively, as I said, but a little too lively for the old folks," he says. "Beard and I walked back, left 'em in Roy's capable hands."

"Christ, if you turning in now makes you old, I'd hate to think what me turning in two hours ago means."

"Means you're sensible," he says easily.

"Or senile." 

She watches him push off the desk, coming over to sit on the bed next to her. He just looks at her for a moment before he lifts his hand. Something clenches in her stomach thinking he's about to kiss her, but instead he stretches out a single finger.

"Don't move," he murmurs. "You've got an eyelash, right…" His finger lands just under her eye, swiping gently. "There."

He pulls his finger away, eyelash balanced on the very tip, and holds it in front of her with a soft smile. "Make a wish."

She stares at the little black line, throat tensing. She doesn't even try to form her thoughts into something coherent, just shoves everything bubbling out of her heart up to her lips, purses them, and blows the eyelash away.

Her thoughts carry her away with it, far off to another world where her wish comes true. Where she is…is enough, enough to inspire real love and devotion. Where she gets all the things she's still struggling to convince herself she deserves. Where she has a soul as gorgeous as Ted's that loves her.

"Rebecca?" he whispers, pulling her from her daydream. She looks up at him, away from where his finger no longer hovers in the air in front of her, and finds a little line between his brows. His hand lifts again, this time swiping a knuckle up her cheek, tracing a tear track, and her face burns hot with embarrassment. She hadn't even realized it had fallen until he gathered it back up like he could undo all the hurt in her. 

"You sure you don't wanna talk to me?"

No, she doesn't want to talk. She wants to feel safe enough to just lay her head on his shoulder, to let him wrap her up in his arms, to kiss him not because he needs out of his head but because she needs to feel loved.

With that thought, the temptation is overwhelming. It floods through her whole body, her whole mind. 

His thumb swipes over the apple of her cheek, his hand still there against her face, and she turns into it just barely. Her eyes close, her lips ghosting over the rough heel of his hand.

The only thought in her head is that she needs him. That he's the only one who can close the wound she's gouged in herself tonight, that no one else could ever come close to what he can give her. Every other thought is gone; shoved away forcefully or scampering away on its own.

Her grasp on her resistance breaks like a rubber band with a jarring snap, and she presses a kiss to the base of his thumb.

That's all she does. And then she waits.

Waits for him. Waits for him to drop his hand, or for him to stand and walk away, or for him to speak, ask what she's doing.  

It feels like they're dancing in the dark. She has no idea if she's crossing a line, if he has the sex aspect of their relationship firmly contained somewhere far from where they're sitting. She keeps her eyes shut as she waits for him, not wanting to see whatever thought process he's going through, if he's confused or shocked or amused or–

She feels the warmth of his breath wash over her cheek before the heat of his lips lands there, gentle and tentative, like he's answering even if he isn't sure he heard the question right.

Her head turns on its own, like he's repolarized them, the pull of him too strong, her nose bumping his. 

He's matched her step. Her turn.

"Will you…" she whispers. Her lips brush his as they form the words and she feels him exhale. She doesn't like her voice, doesn't like how cracked it sounds, doesn't like how she can't even force her tongue to ask for what she needs.

Her hand lands on his side, fingers bunching in his sweater. She forces herself not to pull at him, still unsure, trying to hunt down the right words. She's too close to see him, to even try to read his eyes, or ask with hers.

"Yes," he breathes, not even needing the rest of the question. "Yes, I will."

Her hand tightens in his shirt, and her heart tightens in her chest. "Can you…"

She stops herself intentionally this time, the words forbidden and sour on her tongue. Even that much shouldn't have escaped.

Can you pretend you love me?

She just closes the gap to shut herself up, pressing her lips against his. He holds her face gently, his other hand covering hers on the bedspread just behind them, then sliding up, leaving a trail of warmth up her forearm.

He kisses her so tenderly, so sweetly that something flares a little inside her. It can't be anything but pity and she hates how needily she claws at it, how desperate she feels for something so empty.

She presses harder against his lips, tongue more insistent, and he relents easily, opening up to her. It's different – the way he concedes to her, letting her take, the way he touches her, already relaxed, without the buzzing tension she's grown used to. 

She lays back as he guides her down and that's different too, the way her mind clears, all her thoughts spilling out of her head across the bedspread.

He kisses her deeply but gently, his hand trailing down her neck. His fingers follow the line of her robe down to the tie. His mouth breaks from hers then and she can finally really look at him – he's as unreadable as ever, but his eyes are clear and…and somehow just as focused as when he needs this distraction for himself. 

He drops kisses down her neck, trailing along the same path his hands took. He noses at the neckline of the robe as his hands untie it. 

It's…It's all different – the way he looks at her when he pushes her robe aside, the way his hands touch her body, her breasts, her abdomen, her hips, the way he savors it all.

She pulls at his clothes, needing him as exposed as she is, and he pulls off his shirts as he sinks to kneeling on the floor in front of her. He slides her to the edge of the bed, mustache tickling as it trails up her thigh.

Her breath picks up as he touches her – she knows she's making him work a little more than usual. She's usually very ready for him very quickly, the rush of adrenaline accompanied by the rush of moisture when he comes to her, but tonight is different. She hadn't anticipated this.

He doesn't seem to mind – he kisses at her thighs, stimulating the sensitive skin there with his lips and his mustache as his fingers explore her. He's a font of patience, taking his time, giving her time. His hands glide up to caress her nipples, or scratch down her sides, tongue reacquainting itself with her folds, her clit. He just touches her, licks and sucks and nibbles at her until she's melted into the bed, dripping wet, body thrumming with arousal.

He changes little at that point. All he does is slide a finger into her slowly and focus more attentively on her clit, finding a rhythm to build her up with.

He does so steadily, working her up and up until her breath sharpens into tiny gasps. She lets out a noise when he adds a second finger, curling them up. His eyes are closed when she glances down at him, but the sight of him down there, his mouth on her, dedicated not just to making her come but to giving her a good, solid orgasm, just brings her leaps and bounds closer to that edge.

She falls off it when he opens his eyes, amber blazing up at her from between her legs and her head falls back, shoulders digging into the bed as her back arches. Wave after wave washes over her, each one feeling exquisite, a rushing reminder of who's making her feel this way, of how much she adores him. 

He follows her undulating hips until her whimpering stops and he begins to slow. His tongue laps at her, flat and wide, sending aftershocks through her and making her clench around his fingers when he catches her clit.

She feels empty when his fingers finally leave her, his face pressing to her abdomen for a moment. He catches his own breath there against her belly, exhales hot against her skin.

Eventually, he pushes himself to standing. His hands move to undo his fly but he looks at her first, asking with his face, making sure it's what she wants.

She nods.

She pulls her arms from the robe and pushes back away from the edge of the bed. He crawls over her, taking a moment to kiss her deeply again before he settles his weight between her legs. She doesn't waste any time – she reaches down and guides him, her breath catching as he presses into her slowly.

It's different. It's different from the times he'd pressed her into her sofa, clinging to her like a buoy in choppy seas, or pinned her against her entryway wall, too desperate to make it anywhere else, or lifted her up onto the kitchen counter, tilting her head and sucking at her neck like his life depended on it. 

It's different because he's here for her. He's here to be what she needs this time, so she lets her arms fall around him and hold him. Because she wants to. She lets herself tug him down to rest his weight on her like a blanket. She presses her nose to the juncture of his neck and shoulder as he starts to thrust into her at a measured pace.

She lets herself inhale deeply, flooding her lungs with him – his sweat from the day in the sun and the lively celebration; his cologne, faded now, just a lingering warm, spiced smell beneath the grass from the match, mingling with the light scent of whiskey on his breath. She loves it, she loves him, and her fingers press more firmly into his back

He kisses her shoulder, his hand moving to curve over the back of her head, just below the tangled bun that was supposed to protect her from this.

She fills herself with him, surrounds herself with him, knowing if she could just be his she'd never need anything else.

His breath hitches when she hikes her legs high on his sides and he sinks a little deeper with each thrust, pulling a short, low moan from her. Her head falls to the bed and she turns it, catching his lips with her own. Her hands come to his face, elbows tucked between them, one sinking into his hair, the other cradling his jaw, and in this moment she doesn't care if he figures out all her secrets from how emphatically she kisses him, or how gently she holds him. 

His fingertips press in firm little circles against the back of her neck, his forearm tucked under her shoulder, his elbow holding him up just enough to kiss her. His tongue presses at hers and his hand paints a line up her side to hold her breast, his thumb teasing at her nipple before it sinks to her hip again.

His pace increases incrementally until he's plunging in and out of her, deep and strong, and they've both nearly given up on kissing, just panting against each other's lips.

She's not sure she's going to make it there before he does, not if the little moans escaping him are anything to go by, but she doesn't care. She'd rather watch him, soak up his reactions undistracted by her own for once, in fact–

She tightens around him and breathes her request against his open mouth. "Come for me?" 

His hips quicken as he chokes out a noise, his fingers digging into the nape of her neck beneath her. His head tilts down, his nose pressed into her cheek and she can feel the muscles in his neck tensing under her fingertips. His hips jerk into hers two, three more times, a tight "Rebecca," that she's never heard before falling from his lips. 

It's perfect, the way he says her name, and she greedily takes all the satisfaction she can from the fact that she made him feel so good. He stops, breath harsh and beautiful in her ear, and she lets her hands down over his shoulders once more, palms rubbing over his back as he comes down.

He gets maybe half a dozen restoring breaths in him before he starts. 

"Sorry," he breathes against her jaw. "I'm sorry, I’ll–" 

She feels his hand slip from beneath her, smoothing down her side, and she catches his arm before it can even start its mission.

She shakes her head and he sits up further to look at her, brushing her nose with his. "I asked you to."

His brows twitch as he looks at her. She knows he's confused and she knows that this, if anything, would be what gives her away – that she doesn't need the release, the orgasm, she doesn't care if she comes again right now. It wasn't what she was after with this. She needed to be seen and touched and felt and heard by someone that means something to her.

He doesn't realize he's already given her exactly what she wanted tonight.

"Okay," he murmurs, eyes trying to read her as he sits up a little further. She lets him go, her hands falling away from him reluctantly. He cradles her hip in his hand as he pulls out of her carefully, still leaning over her. 

She dreads him standing, dreads him dressing and leaving and wondering what just happened. It's on the tip of her tongue, right there ready to fall from her mouth, an offer – or maybe a plea – for him to stay.

He drops onto his back next to her, his head turned to look at her, and she mirrors him, rolling her head against the bed.

This is new, too. 

"You know I didn't come up here just to…" he says. His voice is soft and hushed, a new deference to the quiet falling around them.

She nods. She knows that.

He nods back. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I was," she says, her voice just as quiet. "Am. I am."

She's not certain he believes her, based on the troubled look that comes over his face, but she's not certain she believes her either. 

The backs of his fingers brush over hers in the space between them, in the centimeters between their hips. He watches her, two of his fingers slipping between hers. They curl around her knuckles and she feels it in her heart when he squeezes them.

It's so hard to know, to feel around the edges of their relationship, to see where the friendship ends and the sex starts, to know where anything falls, where her love fits in. She knows he cares about her though, and that means a great deal to her, even if it's not…not quite the way she longs for.

She squeezes back. 

When he finally stands and starts to dress, she sits up and pulls her robe out from under her, wrapping herself up once more.

She watches him pull his clothes back on, even though it hurts. Even though all she can think of is the opposite of this, him sliding in to bed next to her just as bare as she. 

She should get up and clean herself up and she really has no business wearing the robe they just had sex on, but she doesn't make it any further than turning right way round on the bed, laying down on her side and dropping her head onto a pillow.

He squats at the edge of the bed once he's dressed and ready to leave her.

"You text me if you wanna talk, okay?"

She sighs, nodding, unhappy with herself that he seems to have caught on very easily to the depth of her despair tonight. 

He looks uncertain, like he wants to do or say more, but holds back. She can't help but wonder what words are there on the back of his tongue. But he just lifts a hand to her cheek, brushing some loose hairs back to her ear, his eyes warm and soft as he looks her over.

"Have some sweet dreams," he murmurs.

She can only hope.

"Goodnight,” she whispers back. 

He rises and makes it to the door before his name forces its way through her lips, "Ted."

His footsteps stop but she doesn't turn, not wanting to watch him as she says, "Thank you. For coming up."

He quiet for a moment before a soft but genuine, "Of course, darlin'," floats to her ears.

She bites her lip, listening to him pull the door open, then shut behind him, and just like that she's alone again. 

She really, truly can't say if she feels better or worse.

She can say, for a fact, having recognized it only tonight, that every time they do this she falls a little deeper and it gets a little harder.

Once they're home, it's right back to their regularly scheduled programming – he doesn't look even half as at ease as he had that day, they don't address the sex, he doesn't push to know what she was upset about and she continues to try and carefully extract what has him so on edge from him.

The only notable difference is he doesn't knock on her door. For weeks.

He glances at her in the club. He watches her with troubled eyes from across the pub. He tries very hard to be himself when he brings her his biscuits but she knows, she knows, everything's just getting worse in his head.

When he sets a double stack of pink boxes on her desk, her concern reaches new heights.

"How 'bout a double dose today, boss? My hands were itchin' to bake yesterday and they were making a fresh batch before I knew it. So it's startin' to look like Cookie Monster moved in."

Which means he was anxious and needed a distraction. Which means maybe she's not on the table anymore as a viable solution to that problem. Which means she ruined the one thing, the only thing, she can really do to help him by being too…too needy.

If it didn't make her so angry with herself, she'd laugh.

She tries, God, does she try, but he's too evasive, too good at deflection and she comes away with nothing at each attempt to get him to talk.

It's 19 days after Liverpool before she gets a late evening knock on her door and she nearly drops her wine glass to the floor in the kitchen at the sound.

She takes a deep breath as she opens the front door.

He looks frazzled, cagey, hair askew like he's shoved his hand through it dozens of times already tonight. His eyes are bright as he takes her in and she doesn’t think she’s ever seen him look so pained to be on her doorstep.

“Ted?” She puts the whole question in his name, half-expecting him to be here for something else after the last couple weeks of seeing him so tense but not coming to her to relieve it.

He nods, brows drawn, hearing what she's asking.

She opens the door wider and as soon as she’s shut it, she’s tugging him into her and it takes no effort to pull him in with a hand on the back of his neck because he’s already moving, walking them back against the wall, closing his lips insistently over hers. 

It goes about how she’d expected the first time to go – his tongue sweeps into her mouth, his hands tug at her clothes the same way hers are tugging at his. She still has her cami on when she kicks away her shorts, his khakis don’t even make it past his knees before she’s hiking one leg on his hip and guiding him into her. 

He sighs as he bottoms out in her and she matches it with her own choked off groan. 

Fuck, she’s missed him like this – missed his lips, his cock, his breath in her ear, his hands on her hips, her waist, her back, her neck, missed her name falling with desperation from his lips, missed him needing her. 

Christ, that’s so fucked up. She shouldn’t want him to be in this state just so she can have him.

He hooks an arm under her raised knee and presses his palm flat against the wall, her leg draped over his forearm. He thrusts into her recklessly, face tucked into her straining neck, teeth scraping over her shoulder, and she feels him everywhere, all through her, burning through her veins.

Her hand squeezes where it's still pressed against the nape of his neck, her other hand scratching at his ass with her nails. His pace quickens and her hand slides up his back under his t-shirt, gripping at his shoulder as he seemingly tries to fuck her through the wall.

She's gasping, each thrust pushing her further up the wall, her toes just barely staying on the tile. There's a shake to the groan he lets out against her neck, his hand tightening hard on the flesh of her hip then finding her breast under her top, his thumbnail scratching over her nipple.

She whimpers at the contact, pleasure tightening and tightening inside her with every hard thrust until it finally breaks and she's crying his name into his hair. His hand drops to grip her hip again, squeezing as she clenches around him, and his hips stutter as he gasps her own name into her neck. It's a powerful rush of an orgasm, fast and harsh, flooding through them both before the tide ebbs back, leaving them pressed together, chests heaving.

His hand comes off the wall, cupping her hip for a moment before it lowers her leg gently, and that hip is really not going to feel good tomorrow. 

Her foot hits the ground and she lets out a breath as he pulls out of her. His hand lands on her hip with intentional softness, in sharp contrast to how he'd been gripping her. But he's still tucked against her and something is…something's not right. 

"Ted?"

She can feel him shake his head slightly, then lift it just enough to press his cheek to hers, his nose against the skin just before her ear. "Christ, Rebecca," his voice breaks on her name and it turns her heart to lead.

"I'm not– you deserve so much better than this," he says, voice pained like there's a sob just waiting at the back of his throat.

"Ted–"

"You do." He pulls back, shaking his head harder, the strain in his voice growing. She finally gets a look at his face and there's nothing there but shame as he looks between them and she recognizes it, had seen the seedlings of it that very first time, unable to name it. "I'm not– I keep–”

"Ted," she tries again, voice gentle, trying to combat the tension in his, tension she was supposed to banish for him. "It's alright."

"I'm sorry." His voice breaks again. "I'm sorry, I–"

She watches him bite down on his lip, holding everything back, whatever he's feeling. There's something creeping into his eyes, some kind of determination closing in on the shame. "I can't keep doing this to you," he breathes.

And then in seconds, before she can respond, before she can even think, he's pulled away from her completely and righted his clothes. He takes another step back, then finally meets her eye. 

He looks absolutely tormented, torn in half, unable to stand backing away from her and equally unable to stand being here with her. Like this.

She blinks and he's gone. 

She only just hears the dull thud of the door before the rushing in her ears takes over. Her breath shudders out of her, only half escaping before her lungs try to gasp more in.

She made it worse. She made it worse.

Her heart pounds in her chest, hard and fast, and she's sliding down the wall, her breathing losing any measured cadence, cold tile meeting her bottom with a gasp.

She made him panic more. She just put more stress on him. Because she got selfish, because she forgot what the point of this was, because she was too absorbed in what she wanted from him, lost in her stupid fucking daydream, and made him worry about her. 

She presses a hand to her mouth, tears flooding her eyes. This was it, this was all he would let her do for him and she's…she's fucked it all up.

She drops her head onto her knees, pulling them tight to her chest, chills racing through her limbs, up and down her spine.

The sobs hurt as they punch their way up from her abdomen, bruising her throat, and that, that, is what she deserves.

She spends an unknown amount of time on the floor before she pulls herself up, finds her shorts and takes the hottest, most skin-searing shower she's ever had in her life.

This must be it. That has to be the end of it. Why would he come back? She doesn't know that she could pretend he didn't run out on her in an even worse panic than he came in with.

It had to have been Liverpool. She pushed them too far, too close to the edge of something and freaked him out, or asked for too much or…

To hear him say that she deserves more…and then just leave…

He can't give her everything he claims she deserves. So apparently she gets nothing. 

The temptation to stay home, to hide forever from how completely she's ruined a great and fulfilling friendship is powerful. But she knows if she does that it'll be even harder, even more uncomfortable when she does finally have to face him.

She doesn't know what to say to him, so she armors up, turns to stone in her boss persona and decides nothing's going to touch her today.

Turns out she doesn't even need any of it.

She's tapping her rings against the desk, stomach turning and turning and turning rebelliously as she waits for him, when one of her coaching staff walks in. Not the one she's expecting, however.

Twenty minutes later she's pretty sure she's entered another realm.

"Gone?" 

There's steel forming under her skin as she stares at Beard.

"My manager left? Mid-season. Without a word."

He ran. He…he just fucking left? She messed up so bad he had to leave the country?

"He said there was an emergency when he talked to me."

Her brows come down until he adds, "Henry," and her stomach drops out.

"Is he alright?" she asks quietly. She isn't sure if his emergency is just a vague excuse or simply poorly timed but her gut is always going to go with Ted telling the truth. She doesn't think he'd use his son as an excuse but she's doing a lot of second-guessing herself over the last few days.

"As far as I know."

She relaxes only slightly. "So he's gone," she takes a deep breath. "For how long?"

Beard just looks at her.

"Beard," she says, voice steely. "How long will he be gone?"

"I don't know," he says carefully.

She clenches her teeth together, shoving everything, everything, into a tiny, painful box.

"Well, you and Roy are capable of handling things. And willing, I assume?" She waits for a nod before she continues, matter-of-fact and all business. "So we’ll have to make do. Let me know if you hear from him please.”

“Rebecca,” he says. There’s a caring in his voice that gives her pause. She looks up at him and she can see it in his face, that he knows. He knows something, more than he should.

Christ, he might even know he made a panicked pitstop to fuck her on her doorstep before he hopped on a flight home. 

It sends her fear to a new height, someone knowing, seeing the whole other aspect of investment she has in this development, and she gives him a look of warning, daring him to speak on it. 

He concedes, staying silent as he nods, confirms he'll talk to the team and keep her updated, and takes his leave.

She sits, unmoving at her desk for a long time. 

The only thing that escapes her little box of emotions at the moment is a seething anger and she welcomes it, feeling stupid for how much she'd worried about seeing him again when he isn't even fucking here.  

She lets that reign through her workday but once she's home she starts to break, trying to comprehend that he's gone, for an indeterminate amount of time, trying to decide what to believe. 

She can't believe he didn't say anything. She can't believe he didn't even pay her that respect as his boss. She's looked at her phone at least a dozen times over the course of the day, making sure she hadn't missed a message or a call. 

There's nothing, every single time.

At two days of a Ted-free club and radio silence she gives in, unable to handle how fried her nerves are, how jittery she is.

She cannot stop wondering what's going on – in his head, in Kansas, in her own heart. She misses him and she's pissed at him and she's worried about him.

So she texts him. Or starts to anyway. 

It takes her three days to actually form a message that feels suitably professional, but not uncaring, and one more to actually send it.

She needn't have bothered stressing herself. He doesn't answer. At some point over the course of the day the little Read appears with nothing else, no response. Not even a meaningless emoji.

She ignores the heartbreak that even their friendship and professional relationship might be irreparable and grabs the anger instead.

She wants to fucking fire him for spite and tell him to not bother coming back. He started this whole thing. He ran out on her, he's the one that took off and left her half naked in her entryway, left her club gafferless for an unknown length of time, and he can't even answer one fucking text.

She balls up his We're okay? and throws it forcefully into the trash. Again.  

She ignores her own culpability in the whole fucking situation, because the anger keeps her upright and the guilt and shame and hurt would only bring her to her knees.

He was right, she will say – she deserves a lot better than this. She deserves an answer, or a thanks for your concern, or a fucking brush-off for all she cares.

She deserves to be able to walk through the ground floor of her house without thinking of him making her come in every goddamn room. He's left but the ghost of him sure hasn't – no, it's incessantly reminding her of being pressed into every flat surface she walks past.

She does not linger in the entryway. She's started trudging right through and leaving her coat on an armchair or a kitchen stool, her heels kicked off wherever. Anywhere that isn't there, where everything got so messed up. 

She can't even escape it in her bedroom – that's where she remembers Liverpool. The only time they ever had a bed under them. The only time that felt like what it might actually be like to have him completely, physically and emotionally. The time she thinks about when she lays in bed at night and her heart breaks at him being so far from her, in every way.

At three weeks, Beard tells her Ted will be back before the end of the month and she bites back a snarky reply about being glad his phone is in fact working and thanks Beard for the update.

She resolves herself to the fact that she has to talk to him when he comes back. That this has to be fixed. She doesn't have a clue how to live with this Ted-shaped hole in her heart, and if she can bring him back to her, as a friend, as a colleague, whatever, it'll fill it just enough for her to get by.

Talk to him, she clarifies with herself. Not scream at him.

She isn’t expecting anyone, so the doorbell makes her nearly jump out of her skin. 

She’s expecting him least of all – it's only been a few days since Beard's update of a vague timeframe. So the twist in her chest when she sees him just about brings her to her knees.

He looks remorseful, worried, hopeful, all with the same look and she hates how happy she is to see him underneath her hurt.

“Hi,” he says with hesitation. 

She rolls her lips between her teeth, looking him over before she steps aside and opens the door without responding.

“Thank you,” he says gently, sounding relieved, like he expected a lot more resistance. He faces her in the entryway and she wishes they'd continued on to literally anywhere else in the house.

“Welcome back,” she says dryly.

He doesn’t answer, but his arm comes around his body, and she hadn’t even noticed he’d held it behind him until there’s a dozen very white, very lovely roses in front of her.

She bites her tongue, swallowing the spiteful laugh that bubbles up. If he thinks a bouquet is going to fix this…

She looks between him with his frightened eyes and the gorgeous flowers for a long moment, brows lifted, unimpressed. His brows draw further together the longer she looks at him. 

She takes a measured breath, dragging her understanding up reluctantly through everything floating at the surface, all the frustration and hurt and anger. She takes them from his hand and another bout of tension leaves him.

She can’t quite help herself, though. 

“One for each apology, I’m assuming.” She looks down, waving a finger over the blossoms. “Seems like about how many I’m owed.”

“About right,” he confirms quietly, nodding.

She feels her throat tense and turns away from him, moving into the kitchen. She hears him follow as she finds a vase and fills it at the sink.

“Rebecca,” he starts softly, but she cuts him off with a grunt, lifting a hand in his direction. 

She has to go first. She has to tell him, and tell him everything, because if he gets into all his reasons first she’ll just forgive him and shove it all aside again.

She sighs at herself. She deserves more than that.

Silence falls and stretches as she shuts the sink off, setting the vase aside. She unwraps the flowers from their plastic and lays them in the sink.

The words just come and she lets them flow as she lifts a rose, gives it a fresh cut with her kitchen scissors, and drops it in the vase.

“I am terribly in love with you, you know,” she says, fear rising powerfully with the words, stealing her breath for a moment, then ebbing with the release of them. “Have been for a long time now.”

She doesn’t turn, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t even allow herself to listen for a reaction. She focuses on her task, trimming the roses.

“When you came to me, there was very little debate in my head. You needed help, help that I could give, even if I was just the only option, maybe not your first choice. There wasn’t really any question. And as much as I’d love to say I was being selfless, I wanted you. I was…I was ready to take anything you were willing to give me.”

She lifts another flower, cuts the stem, drops it in. Then again. And again. 

“You said I deserved better than that,” she continues quietly, dropping the last rose in. She rearranges a few, mustering up the strength before she lifts it and spins around to set it on the island. She pushes it to the center, turning it just a little before she finally looks up at him. 

He looks shell-shocked and she isn’t sure how she feels about that. She hopes, God does she hope the truth isn't about to make everything a thousand times worse.

“I know that, Ted.” She gives him a sad smile. “I know what I deserve. But beggars can't be choosers, can they?”

He looks like she might be breaking his heart but she’s not quite done. Her eyes fall to the roses between them, then creep to watch his hands, folded on the counter in front of him. Relaxed, mostly. Not clenching, not twisting, not tapping. So his trip had helped curtail the anxiety that’d been overwhelming him. Good. 

“I’m sorry it stopped helping,” she says quietly. “I’m sorry that I made it worse, Ted, but just leaving like that–” She bites her cheek, pressure behind her eyes telling her tears are in her near future.

“It didn’t,” he says. She looks up to give him a disbelieving look, and his big brown eyes are wide, pleading. “You didn’t.”

She sees the tortured look he'd given her in her mind and tries to reconcile what he’s saying with that moment.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did, I–”

He shakes his head, brows drawn. She gets the sense he came here with words and explanations in hand and ready to go and now she’s really thrown him for a loop. 

She's thrown herself for a loop, leading with her biggest heartbreak in this series of fractures.

"Beard said there was an emergency," she says, forcing her voice even. "Is everyone alright?"

"Yes," he says. "Better at least. Henry got into a fight."

Her brows shoot up. She's never gotten the impression Henry ever gave them much trouble at all.

He looks down, tapping a few fingers against the marble. "He's been having a hard time for a few months. Talking back to his teachers, to Michelle, acting out a little bit. I…I wanted to go out the first few times something happened but she insisted, not wanting Henry to think he could get me out there by acting up."

He shakes his head, "It wasn't the right…I should've just gone anyway. Because I could only imagine it was me causing it, which it was, and there's only so much I can do from over here."

"That's what's had you so anxious," she says quietly, starting to understand. 

He nods, looking up at her, "Yeah."

"I'm going to guess from your demeanor that things are mostly sorted?"

He nods again, "We're making a few changes, schedule wise. Ones I'll have to talk to you about as…as my boss, but right now I'm…I'm more worried about…"

They have many, many things to talk about as his boss, but he trails off and she just lifts an eyebrow at him. 

"I'm sorry for…for how I left. I'm sorry I ever…"

That lashes at her heart unexpectedly. That he would regret it all, so fully and completely, from the very start. 

“It…it wasn’t what either of us actually needed, or wanted, and I…I did a deep disservice to us, to our relationship, using you like that.”

“You weren’t–”

He shakes his head, shame coloring his face, “I was. As much as I kept lying to myself that there wasn’t any harm in it, I came here on my terms and put you in a difficult position as a friend, and I took what I needed and left."

"That's not how I saw it at all," she tells him honestly. "That's not how it felt to me."

He looks slightly relieved to hear that.

"I just had no idea how to…” 

He looks away, his words trailing off, biting his lips.

“How to what?” she asks.

He turns back to her, eyes taking her in, fear and determination refracting through them. “You implied earlier that you were just…convenient.” 

The word burns her and she suppresses a wince, trying to straighten her spine, tamping the swirl of shame in her that she had settled for not being wanted, but being…there. 

“That’s not even remotely true,” he says quietly. He looks down at the roses between them, brushing the petals gently with a single fingertip. “If I had been standing in a stadium of people, surrounded by strangers, by everyone I’ve ever known, ready and willing, I would've gone to you.”

Her breath stops completely, her heart imprinting itself against the inside of her chest. He looks at her, heartbreak still lingering in his face but his eyes are shining gold as he takes her in.

“You were my only option,” he confirms slowly, “but only because I would’ve never gone to anyone else. Because I wanted – needed – you."

She has to look away from him, her eyes landing on the roses, then dropping all the way to her hands when even that is too much to absorb. Her vision blurs, overwhelmed by the fact that she could've had it so wrong. 

After a moment trying to get herself together, she feels his hand slide over her lower back, curling around her waist, pulling her side against his front. She can't help but turn and lay her head against his shoulder. His arms come around her and she circles his waist with her own.

Fuck, she's never been more desperate for a hug in her life.

"I love you," he murmurs into her hair, and she chokes on her breath, pressing her mouth against his shoulder. "And I'm so sorry, Rebecca, that I didn't tell you that six months ago, or a whole year or two ago, so that we could've avoided me breaking your heart a dozen times."

She sniffles against him, tightening her arms, squeezing him to her in case he's even thinking of pulling away.

"You love me," she repeats, needing to say it, to hear it, for it to settle into her.

He nods against her, hands rubbing soothing circles over her back. "'S why it wouldn't have ever been anyone else. Why I tried to stop after Liverpool and why I panicked when my resolve broke and I realized just how wrong I was doing by you." He sighs, wrapping her up in his arms. "I knew I could do better, that I needed to do better, but I had to…to start at the root."

She lets that all sink in.

"You still could've texted me back," she says, that little hurt lingering in her head.

"I know," he says. "I know, I'm sorry. I kept trying, I just didn't know how to say anything without saying everything and I wanted to do that in front of you."

"Don't do it again," she murmurs. "I thought I ruined everything."

"I won't," he hums. "Though I can't imagine how you came to the conclusion that any of this was your fault."

She straightens up to look at him, trying to figure out how to explain. "I thought Liverpool was…was too much for you–"

She trails off when she identifies a flash of guilt in his eyes.

"What?" 

"I…I'm terrified that I took advantage of you," he whispers. "In Liverpool."

She shakes her head, confused, "Why on earth would you think that? I started it."

"I know, but you…you were upset, and I knew that, but I, I just wanted to make you feel better and that was all I could…all that we…" 

"Ted," she soothes, lifting her hands up, taking his face between them. "You didn't take advantage of me, then or any other time."

That's one thing she's very certain of. Every choice she made was her own.

He exhales a little bit, taking her at her word.

"Liverpool…I was upset, yes, because I was hurting and feeling…inadequate and I just, I needed you and I needed to feel wanted and loved, even if it was just…pretend. You gave me exactly what I needed."

"It wasn't," he says, tipping his forehead against hers. "It wasn't pretend."

She's still trying to get that thought to penetrate and soak in.

"I thought I…that I pushed it too far and that was why you didn't come back. And then when you did, it wasn't…it didn't help you and I felt like I failed at the only thing you'd let me do for you."

"No," he whispers. "I was scared I was the reason you were hurtin', and I was trying to stop and get brave and do things right, but I…I found out about the fight and I started panicking over all the things I was fucking up and I ended up here because I, I just feel so safe with you and then it just, just twisted me up inside that I could be ruining this too."

"You didn't," she reassures him. "We didn't. We're okay."

She takes a deep breath and he joins her, inhaling deeply, letting it out slowly.

"We sure did make a big fucking mess of it though, I will say," she says.

He huffs a little laugh that makes her smile. "Yes. Yes we did." 

He lifts a hand, laying it against her jaw, thumb smoothing over her cheek softly. The contact settles something inside her, something in her heart that hasn't known peace for months.

She tilts her head and closes her lips over his gently, expecting…expecting something to be different.

It feels the same.

It feels like every other time she's kissed him and she's halfway to disappointed before she realizes it's because it's all always been there, from the very start. These feelings aren't new, for either of them, just finally…acknowledged. 

She tightens her arms around him as he kisses her back just as softly, hands resting comfortably on her waist.

He breaks away just enough to murmur, "I didn't come over here to…"

"I know," she says, smoothing a hand over the back of his head. "I don't particularly feel like having sex with you right now anyway."

"Well, considering I just spent 10 hours on a plane I'm gonna say that's probably a good call." He smiles at her, eyes soft and twinkling. 

"I…I'd really like it if you stayed though," she whispers, still trying to let it settle that that's something she can ask for.

He nods, murmuring, "I would love to. Might like to use your shower though."

"I think that can be arranged."

She leads him upstairs for the first time, hand in hand, through her bedroom, on to the bathroom. She doesn't leave him to it though – she pulls out a couple towels, sets them on the counter and turns to him with a little uncertainty.

"Can I join you?" 

She watches his face melt down as he nods. "Please."

She'd already dressed down for the evening, makeup, blouse and skirt long gone in favor of some comfy pj's. She moves to pull her shirt off but he catches her hands, stepping close to her.

"Can I?" His fingers toy with the hem of her shirt and she nods.

She raises her arms and he slides her shirt up and off, draping it on the counter next to her, leaving her bare.

His eyes take her in like he's never seen her like this before. He lays a palm flat on her ribcage, thumb stroking reverently over her skin. His fingers sink down then, sliding into her waistband, meeting her eye before he pushes them off her hips.

He kneels down and she lays a hand on his shoulder as he helps her step out of her pants, handing them to her to lay with her shirt. He looks up at her, pressing a little kiss to her hip before he stands.

He grasps her chin in his fingers as he leans in and kisses her sweetly for barely a second. 

"You're so beautiful, Rebecca. I ever tell you that?"

"I think so," she says.

"Hmm," he hums, seemingly dissatisfied with that answer. "Gotta work on that."

"I think we've both been leaving an awful lot unsaid," she murmurs, her hands finding the hem of his own shirt. She pushes it up and he lets her pull it off and it joins the pile.

"I have to agree with you there," he says. Her hands land flat on his shoulders, then glide down through the hair on his chest, following it down his belly. She's never touched him like this – just to touch, not to arouse – never gotten to just look at him like this.

She looks up as her fingers start on his fly, a fond smile growing slowly on her face as she gradually gets used to not hiding anymore. She pushes his trousers and his boxers together down off his hips, then does the same as he had for her – she kneels down as he steps out of them, then pulls off his socks one at a time, setting all of it aside.

She pauses for a split second before she stands again – she's never been down here, on her knees before him. It wasn't for lack of trying – each time she'd ever tried to get her mouth on him he'd stopped her, his focus intent on her pleasure, not his own.

She could, now, she thinks. He's certainly not without interest, just from undressing her, which – she won't lie – does feel good. But she just presses her lips to his belly, marking her place for later. She wants to shower with him, crawl into bed with him, sleep next to him.

It goes to the top of her priority list for tomorrow.

She lifts her hands and he takes them, pulling her to her feet. She slides her arms around his waist, pulling them together and soaking up sensations without the rush to go further.

“You're really sexy, Ted,” she says, just to finally say it.

He snorts a little, smiling, but with disbelief in his eyes.

"It's true," she reassures him, dropping a kiss on his lips, nails scratching a little at his flanks. 

"Thank you, darlin'," he says against her lips. She tilts her head, breaking away to press a kiss to his chin, his cheek, his neck, before she lands on his shoulder, hugging him to her.

She takes a moment there, just pressed against him, his hands resting on her back, warming the skin there in soothing circles.

It's perfect. He loves her and she feels it in his hands, thrumming under his skin, in the contented little sigh he lets out. She takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly before she pulls back.

"C'mon," she says, turning away to flip the shower on. "Let's get cleaned up."

They take their time in the shower, letting the hot water soothe sore muscles and frazzled nerves and high emotions. She wasn't planning on showering, so she isn't worried about washing, but he lathers up his hands with body wash before she can get her hands on him instead. He soaps her up, giving the task his full attention and serious dedication. 

She doesn't expect how sweet it feels to be under his care like this, how unabashedly loving every touch is. He guides under the water and she just watches him as he wipes away bubbles until she's rinsed clean. He looks up then with a happy little grin at his accomplishment and her heart feels full to bursting.

She returns the favor, enjoying the opportunity to just have her hands on him. Without any purpose. She makes little swirls in his chest hair, gliding her palms over his arms, his legs. She pampers him with her luxurious shampoo and a bit of a scalp massage before they trade off again and he gets his fingers in her hair.

He's hard by the time they're finally clean and rinsed and she feels a bit bad leaving him like that. 

He must see it in her face, because he just kisses her softly, reassuring, "Don't you worry 'bout him. He loses all sense around you. Especially with how he's missed you."

She smiles, "If you continue to talk about your cock like it's another person, we're gonna need to have a conversation."

"Noted." He nods once, grinning, and she chuckles, leaning to shut the water off. 

They dry off and she wraps herself up in her robe, then him in some towels.

"I'm afraid I was not anywhere near optimistic enough to bring a change of clothes," he says, giving her a soft smile.

"Would've been terribly presumptuous, no matter how right you would've been," she says, matching his smile as she turns to the counter, grabbing her face oil. "I think you're suitably dressed as you are but I'm sure I could hunt something down if you'd prefer?"

He shakes his head, leaning back against the counter next to her, "If you don't mind, I don't mind."

She almost laughs. She been dreaming of him crawling into her bed naked with her for months.

"You can go climb in if you like," she says, pressing the oil into her face. "I'll just be a minute."

"I'll wait," he murmurs, watching her intently as she grabs another tube. "Unless I'm weirdin' you out."

"You're fine," she says, peeking over at him. “Though I doubt this is especially entertaining.”

She finishes her routine under his eyes and it feels mildly strange to have someone here, watching her as she does it, but she likes it. It feels so intimate, the kind of intimacy her heart has been starving and aching for. 

They curl up together in bed, her front pressed to his side, legs tangled, his arms wrapped around her and his nose pressed into her damp hair. She sighs deeply, relaxing into him, into the bed.

"We never had sex here," she muses sleepily in the dark. "Isn't that weird?"

"We'll have to remedy that some time," he replies.

"Mmm," she says, wiggling against him. "Earliest convenience."

She feels him smile against the crown of her head, releasing a deep sigh that her hand on his chest rises and sinks with.

It's so comfortable. There's no reason it shouldn't be – they've had sex, been naked together dozens of times, already plenty familiar with each other – but it stands out to her here as they sink into the bed just how easy it is.

"Been longing for this part for a long time," he confesses into her hair, tightening his arms around her. 

She turns her face against his chest slightly, that single remark dissolving even more of the unreality of him loving her back. It all sinks in a little further.

"I know," she whispers back, then repeats it even softer. "I have too."

He squeezes her tighter, lifting his head in order to press a slow, deliberate kiss to her forehead, and she softens even further against him.

“Relax,” he insists. “Rest. Get some sleep.”

It's easier than she anticipates.

He's still deep in sleep when she wakes. And she knows this because she wakes to the sound of his deep, rushing breaths behind her, his arm heavy and relaxed over her waist. 

It's a feeling to be savored. So she does for long, long minutes, taking in each part of it. She's in no hurry to get up and get to work today, not when she gets to wake like this.

She rolls under his arm when she's ready, turning to face him. Unfortunately the motion has him retracting his arm in his sleep and it folds against his chest, hand curled beneath his chin. She smiles a little bit at the innocent picture he makes and ultimately decides to leave him be. He's probably exhausted from the flight yesterday and she can't bear to wake him when he's sleeping so peacefully.

She gazes at him, contemplating the fact that he's here and that he loves her, and has loved her all along. Maybe that's why she was so powerless to resist it. It was there the whole time.

She lets her thoughts idle around until she's awake enough to be restless and finally pulls herself carefully from the bed. She puts on her robe and then spends some time in the bathroom, going through her routine before she sets about cleaning up the mess that is her hair, combing it out and giving it some curl.

She's killing time honestly. And plenty of it. By the time she exhausts the potential of the bathroom and steps back out into the bedroom, she finds him awake. He's a bit of a sight sitting up against her headboard and tangled in her sheets, but she only gets a moment to memorize it before he's turning to give her a smile.

“Hey.”

“Well, thank God you're finally up,” she says dramatically, stepping to the bed where she climbs on. “My next stop was the kitchen and I'm feeling ambitious enough that that would only end in disaster.”

He chuckles, reaching for her as she walks on her knees until she straddles him, taking a seat on his sheet-clad legs. She takes his face in her hands and catches his lips for a long, soft kiss.

“You coulda woke me up,” he murmurs when she pulls away, her lips landing on his jaw.

“Like I was going to wake you knowing you crossed six time zones yesterday,” she mumbles, already distracted by the stubble under her lips and his hands squeezing at his waist.

She wants him. She's finally allowed to want him.

She pulls at the sheet covering him and smiles at what she finds.

“Oh, so you're up up,” she grins, stroking the hard length of him, pulling back just in time to see his cheeks pink a little bit.

“You can't leave me alone with my thoughts in your bed,” he says, eyes twinkling as he looks up at her. “Smells like you in here.”

“Oh, but I'm so glad,” she mutters, her lips resuming their trek to his neck. “Can cross two things off our list this morning.”

“Yeah?” he exhales.

“Yeah.” 

She sucks one more kiss beneath his ear, tasting his skin before she pulls away, tearing the sheet from him completely. She backs away further, carelessly tossing her hair to one side before sinking down and sliding her mouth over him. 

“Oh, my God,” spills from him abruptly as she wastes absolutely no time, feeling him harden even more against her tongue as she moves. 

She hums around him, hearing his breathing change, finally getting a taste of him and feeling her own body respond immediately. 

“Oh, Christ,” he breathes. “There was a reason I always stopped you here.”

She hums an inquiring noise, only half listening, her focus on his cock.

“Because I knew–” His breath catches as she curls her tongue against his head, pressing hard. “I knew I wouldn't make it any further beyond it.”

She pulls her mouth from him, sliding her lips down the side of him so she can speak, “And you think I'll care if you don't last? I know you'll take care of me, Ted.”

“I care,” he sighs, sliding his fingers gently into her hair. He doesn't grip or pull but she still lets out a moan, feeling herself throbbing and clenching with need. She sinks down again, losing her grip on her controlled exploration as his voice continues to drift in.

“‘Cause that wasn't what I came here for then and right now… I spent a month missing you so bad, without even letting myself talk to you…”

That sinks in slowly, and at the back of her mind where the arousal hasn't quite reached, she wonders idly if that was some kind of self imposed punishment for himself more than anything.

“Last thing I wanna do is blow my load in your mouth as soon as you touch me,” he says breathlessly, and the instant he says it, she wants it, wants to feel him lose control and come on her tongue.

But he's got more in mind and as much as she wants it, she wants him inside her even more. 

She's patient. In fact, it does something ridiculous in her heart and in her core that there's more to be had, and the certainty that they'll have it.

She sits up with effort, wiping at her mouth as she meets his eyes, hooded and dark and unashamedly wanting. There's another flood of moisture and she can feel herself dripping with it as she moves back into his lap at his insistent tugging.

“Fine. Next time,” she breathes, her own breath short with her arousal. She doesn't get any more words out as he's pulling her right back to his lips, kissing her deeply and thoroughly, and whatever else she had to say leaves her entirely. 

His hands are clumsy with passion as he tugs at the tie of her little robe and she helps him pull it off her shoulders. His hands land on her skin, sliding towards her chest, his eyes eating her up. 

“God, it's the same, every time,” he exhales, his lips falling to her collarbone as her arm curls around his shoulders. “You're so unbelievably beautiful–”

He cuts off a little abruptly because she's got him in her hand and is sliding down on him without hesitation, gasping as he fills her.

As different as Liverpool felt, this feels even more unique. Because they're here for each other, without pretenses and without any reasons at all, other than being close and being together. It's enough that they want it, not need it.

She doesn't waste time here either, pleasure already curling in her gut as she moves. His hands glide over her, his lips sucking kisses against her skin as she sinks her fingers into his hair. Her eyes close as her legs lift and drop her with control, every stroke equally forceful and lazy, waking up her entire body. 

“God, I love morning sex,” she breathes without thought. 

“Well, that's good to know,” he answers, just as breathless as her.

“Favorite way to start the day.”

“Why do I have a feeling it's also your favorite way to end the day?” he mumbles against her jaw. 

She smiles, then chuckles, because he's not wrong.

“Oh, you're gonna run me ragged,” he laments.

She giggles again, then pulls back enough to catch sight of the smile on his face as she steals another kiss from him. 

Nevermind this being different from the previous times they've had sex – this is different from any time she's had sex. 

Her breath catches as he starts to pull her hips into a faster rhythm, her hands gripping at his neck.

“Fuck,” she pants. “Ted.”

His name trips out of her mouth freely after how many times she's tried to swallow it down, afraid to get too heartfelt. She feels fearless now.

“I missed you, too,” she confesses right against his lips, feeling his own breath rush. “I missed you terribly, despite everything else.”

“Rebecca, honey,” he groans, and the pet name tastes so sweet on his lips. 

Her head tips back with her building pleasure and her body follows. Her hands release him to hold her up as she leans back where the angle is more stimulating and she can initiate the motion with her hips instead of her tired thighs. She lets out a sharp noise as his hands grip her tighter. 

“Oh, God, fuck,” she moans, feeling it start to break in waves, stealing her breath. She watches him under her lashes as his gaze swallows her whole, her nerves firing and muscles tensing as she trembles, sparks flaring from deep in her center.

“Christ,” he moans as her hips falter and slow, scooping against his gently as she catches her breath.

She feels him shift, his arms wrapping around her waist as he gets his knees under him. She collapses to the bedspread once he's over her, curling her legs against him as he thrusts into her slowly. 

“Oh, you feel so good.” His fingertips glide down her thigh, curling around her knee and pulling it away. “Finally in your bed, can make love to you properly…”

“What'd you have in mind, Coach?” she asks as he pins her knee down to the bed, opening her leg out.

“Oh, I dunno,” he mutters against her chest. “What positions you like, huh?”

“Hmm,” she hums with his next thrust, biting at her lip before they break into a grin. “We've already hit a few. You'll just have to try them all and see.”

He chuckles into her breast. “Don't you have to work today?”

“Yes, I do,” she says. “I have a meeting with my gaffer this morning that he won't miss, if he knows what's good for him.”

He lifts his head, giving her a solemn nod with a, “Yes, ma'am,” and dropping a soft kiss on her lips.

“Good boy,” she mutters, unsurprised but thrilled nonetheless when his cock twitches inside her, his hips pressing a little harder.

She opens her grinning mouth, but he speaks before she can.

“Ohh-kay, we don't need to talk about that,” he breathes, his hips picking up the pace, surging into her, his hand opening her leg out to mirror the other.

“You sure?” she gasps, almost chuckling, clenching tight around him at the way he’s situated her.

“Yeah,” he pants. He plants his fists and pushes up, sucking a sweet, messy kiss to her lips as his hips find a delicious, unrelenting rhythm.

“Something else for next time then.”

She is all business. He expected no less. And her more personal forgiveness is a comfort, at least, because he knows she understands what happened, but that doesn't make her any less scary like this.

It kinda turns him on a little bit, but he doubts she would like to hear that at the current moment.

He has biscuits, at least, and sets them as an offering on her desk. 

“Do you know what would happen to any other coach in this league if they just up and left for a month without any notice, without a word to the owner?”

“I don't imagine they would be a coach for very long after that.”

He doesn't even dare sit, taking his lashings on his feet.

“There was a point, Coach, where I genuinely considered calling you and telling you not to come back.”

He frowns at that, seeing the truth of it in her face. And knowing she would only be pushed so far if her hurt was deep enough, and equally personal as professional. 

“I'm glad you didn't,” he says softly, regret filling his chest. He's already seen the depth of her hurt and though they've sown the seeds to mend it, he doubts he'll ever stop being grateful for her equally deep forgiveness.

“I'm sorry, boss,” he adds. “You know I am. It wasn't the way to do that.”

She gives him one last hard stare, driving home how genuinely not acceptable his decision was before she accepts it. She gestures for him to sit with a hand before snatching up her biscuits. 

“You're lucky this team loves you so much, Coach Lasso.”

He starts to smile a little bit as he sits. “The team, huh?”

“Yes,” she says as she lifts a biscuit, her eyes glimmering a little bit, reuniting the woman he spent the morning with and his boss into one. “The team.”

“It's a good thing I love this team right back then,” he asserts with a nod, watching a smile tug at her lips.

She gestures again, attempting to wave them past it as her cheeks get just a little rosy. And it's absolutely gut-wrenching how sweet and almost innocent that teeny blush is, that she could be so bashful about their feelings after everything.

She loves him. No wonder he couldn't get enough. No wonder he became addicted to how she can soothe his damaged nerves and balance his frazzled mind and make him feel a kind of need and passion that, quite frankly, he's never felt in his life – it was all pure love and caring, coming straight from her heart.

He is full to the brim with relief and gratitude that somehow, some way, after months and months of feeling like he was absolutely fumbling it, he managed to not completely destroy this. That she withstood all his mess and will still take him, warts and all.

It's a goddamn miracle. One he won't be taking for granted any time soon.

“Ted?”

He blinks, realizing he missed something.

“Sorry, what?”

She looks amused, shaking her head a bit at him. 

“I said, 'Tell me about the changes we need to make to your schedule,'” she repeats.

He smiles, and then does. He spends an hour up there with her, where she helps him work out something even better and more sensible than what he had in mind.

And he leaves her office with plans not just for the rest of the year, but for dinner tonight, and absolutely certain that he's – unbelievably, impossibly – even more in love with her.