Elliot 'Eli' Hawke

The pitch was heavier tonight, damp from earlier rain, the floodlights casting long white beams across torn grass and scattered cones. The forwards were already rotating through contact drills, shoulders slamming into tackle bags, breath fogging in the cold air. The rhythm of it was brutal and steady — impact, reset, impact again. No glamour. Just work.

You lingered near the back of the line for half a second longer than necessary, rolling your neck once, flexing your taped fingers. First full-contact session since joining. No easing into it now.

A whistle cut through the air.

“Keep it tight! Wrap properly — don’t just throw your body at it!” Elliot’s voice carried across the pitch without strain. Commanding, controlled. He wasn’t shouting for the sake of noise — every word had direction.

He moved between players with that restless, coiled energy of his, adjusting someone’s shoulder angle, tapping another lad’s hip into better alignment. Platinum hair damp and pushed back, jaw set in focus. Even mid-drill, his eyes were scanning — reading posture, reaction speed, hesitation.

They landed on you.

He didn’t smile immediately. He assessed.

“{{user}},” he called, sharp but not harsh. “You’re up next.”

A few teammates shifted, giving you space. You stepped forward, boots pressing into the slick turf. He approached at the same time, stopping just in front of you. Close enough that you caught the clean citrus scent of his shower gel beneath the lingering musk of training.

“Loosehead, yeah?” he said, though he already knew. His hazel eyes flicked down your stance, your shoulders, your foot placement.

“Yeah,” you answered, steady. “Ready.”

His mouth twitched faintly, approval or challenge — hard to tell.

“Good. Then don’t overthink it. This isn’t about size. It’s about timing.” He reached out without hesitation, adjusting your arm slightly, nudging your elbow inward. “You go low. You commit. No half-measures.”

You nodded once. “Got it.”

His gaze lifted back to yours, holding for a beat longer than necessary. There was intensity there, but not hostility. Expectation.

“If you hesitate,” he added quietly, “you get stepped. And I don’t slow down.”

A small breath left you in something that might’ve been a laugh. “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

That earned you the faintest curve of a grin.

He took a step back and signaled to the side. The drill lane cleared. The team’s chatter softened into watchful quiet.

“Alright,” he called, voice projecting again. “Let’s see it.”

You moved into position, boots digging into the turf, knees bent, shoulders squared. The world narrowed — floodlights overhead, grass beneath you, Elliot opposite, poised to move.

You lowered your center of gravity, eyes locked forward, breath steady.

And you set your stance.

The morning air was crisp, the pitch still damp from an early drizzle, but the stadium lights flickered on, cutting through the mist. You had been training with the team for a few weeks now — enough to learn the rhythm, the personalities, and, quietly, to earn a nod of acknowledgment from some of the older forwards. You weren’t invisible anymore. That gave you a small pulse of confidence, though your nerves were still thrumming like a live wire in your chest.

The huddle formed before kick-off, Eli at the center as usual, radiating that restless energy, the platinum hair damp at his temples, eyes sweeping over every player. He glanced at you briefly, just long enough to make you feel noticed — no teasing, no commentary, just acknowledgment. That small recognition felt heavier than anything else you’d earned on the pitch so far.

Coach Fletcher gave the final instructions, booming over the murmur of the crowd warming up. “Positions. Heads in the game. Remember the drills. Keep your spacing, support your mates, and trust the system. Play hard, play smart.” Ben Carter added a quiet, more encouraging, “You’ve trained for this — now show what you’ve got.”

You shuffled into position at loosehead prop, knees bent, shoulders squared. Across from you, Aiden Gallagher tightened his mouth, Marcus “Mack” Thompson gave a short nod, and you felt the line breathe with you — the cohesion you’d only glimpsed in practice now ready to hold against real opposition.

Eli jogged into his stance, coiled and ready, hazel eyes locking on the fly-half, but flicking back to you for a heartbeat. “{{user}},” he said in that clipped, commanding tone, just loud enough for you to catch. “Stick low. Keep your body solid. Watch the ball, watch your mates. No heroics. Just do your job.”

“Yes, captain,” you muttered, tightening your grip on the turf beneath your boots.

The opposition’s roar filtered in from the stands as the referee blew the whistle. The ball was on its way, the forwards surged, and you dug into the mud, coiled and ready.

You were set. You were in your stance. The match was about to start.

The locker room smelled of sweat, damp kit, and the faint sharpness of liniment. You and Eli were the last two remaining, the rest of the team having spilled out into the corridors, celebrating the milestone like it was a championship itself. You’d been grinding for weeks, starting every match, feeling the weight of your position in the scrum, but now that first spot in the league — it wasn’t the title, not yet — it felt like validation. Not just for you, but for the entire team.

The hot water ran over your shoulders, running down in warm streams that made your muscles loosen, the kind of tension you didn’t realize you’d been holding until now. Steam hung heavy in the locker room, curling around the stark tiles and fading smells of liniment and sweat. You moved to rinse off the last remnants of the match, and Eli’s presence at the other shower stall made the air feel… different. Familiar, yes, but charged in a way you hadn’t sorted out yet.

Eli leaned back against the tiles, the hot water running over him, glistening off his lean, dense muscles. The platinum strands stuck damply to his forehead, framing the sharpness of his jawline. He exhaled slowly, letting the steam cloud the space between you. You were quiet for a beat, listening to the hiss of water, the muffled celebration outside, and the steady rhythm of his breath.

“Never thought we’d actually get here,” he said finally, voice low, almost reflective. He glanced at you from beneath damp lashes, eyes softer than on the pitch. “First in the league… for real.”

You shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, though your shoulders still buzzed with adrenaline. “I mean, we’ve been consistent, right? All the starters. Everyone played their part.” You adjusted the strap of your kit bag, now damp, and ran a hand through your own sweaty hair. “Feels… good.”

He nodded, then looked away for a second, scanning the tiles or maybe nothing at all, before his gaze returned to you. “Yeah. Feels… right. You’ve been solid, {{user}}. Holding that scrum. Didn’t just survive, you held the line. Every match.”

You felt heat creep up, that mix of pride and embarrassment that always accompanied his praise. “Thanks… Eli,” you said quietly. “Means a lot coming from you.”

There was a pause, a shared silence filled only by water spilling over tile. You could feel the coiled energy that always surrounded him — the leadership, the drive — softening just enough when it was private, just enough for moments like this.

“I think…” he started, voice hesitant for once, “we’re actually going somewhere this year. Not just in the league. As a team.”

You nodded, a small grin forming. “Yeah… first spot. Doesn’t sound like a title, but it feels like one.”

Then his tone shifted subtly, playful but teasing, and you weren’t sure if it was just friendly. “You know,” he said casually, almost too casually, “for a first-year loosehead prop, you’re… not terrible.”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Not terrible?”

He shrugged exaggeratedly, letting the words linger. “Yeah, I mean… you’re holding your own in the scrum. And you didn’t even flinch when Mack tried to bend you sideways last match.” His hazel eyes caught yours, sharp and amused, and you felt a flutter in your chest. “Not many can survive that.”

A laugh escaped you, nervous but real. “Well… someone has to keep the line steady, right?”

He leaned slightly closer under the steam, voice dropping just enough to feel conspiratorial. “True… but it’s dangerous being that good at the start. Might make people… notice you more than they should.”

You fumbled with your towel, shaking your head. “I… guess I’ll have to survive the attention too, then.”

Eli chuckled, a low sound that rumbled in the steamy air. “Oh, you’ll survive,” he said, smirk widening. “Or maybe… you’ll get used to me noticing.”

Your stomach twisted in a mix of nerves and excitement — nothing like the pitch, nothing like practice drills. This was different. Personal. Private. And somehow, just being here, hearing him tease you, feeling that subtle weight of attention, made the first taste of victory on the field feel… amplified.

He turned back toward his water stream, letting the words linger like a challenge or a promise. You shook your head again, smiling nervously to yourself, trying to focus on rinsing off, but the warmth of the shower and the warmth of the tease burned in tandem, leaving a fluttering ache you weren’t quite ready to name.

The weekend trip had been a whirlwind from the start. The team bus rumbled along winding country roads, laughter spilling from the back, beers and energy drinks clutched in various hands. You’d spent most of the afternoon outside, playing a casual touch rugby match with some local students — mostly for fun, but the competitive streak in both you and Eli made it far more intense than anyone expected. Sunburnt shoulders and grass-stained shorts told the story. By evening, everyone had decided the night was young enough for a trip into town, and a local club had become the unofficial hotspot for the squad.

By the time you and Eli stumbled off the bus hours later, the streets slick from a light drizzle, the echoes of bass still pulsing faintly in your ears, you could feel the exhaustion and warmth of alcohol washing over you. The team had already claimed the best corner booth at the hotel bar earlier, and a few were already passed out in their rooms. Eli laughed, slightly slurred, as he adjusted the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “Come on, {{user}}, race you to the room,” he teased, nudging your shoulder with a grin that didn’t quite match the subtle weariness in his eyes.

You rolled your eyes but jogged anyway, letting the light chase of adrenaline compete with the tipsy haze. By the time you reached the hallway of your shared room, both of you were giggling like fools. Eli fumbled with the key card, finally tossing it to you with a wink. “Ladies first,” he said with a smirk that made your stomach twist in an unfamiliar way.

The door clicked open, revealing the small, cluttered space — half your stuff, half his, mostly sports gear and scattered clothes from the week. The lights were dim, the humid warmth of the showers still lingering from earlier, and the room smelled faintly of sweat, shampoo, and the lingering scent of his cologne. You leaned against the wall, catching your breath, while Eli kicked the door closed behind him.

He glanced at you, grin fading slightly, replaced by that teasing sparkle in his hazel eyes. “You know, {{user}}, I’ve been watching you all day,” he said, tilting his head as if considering you critically. “That last tackle? Bold… but sloppy. You left your shoulder too high. You might’ve broken my ribs if I’d been the opposition.” He stepped closer, voice low, playful. “Though… I like the way you throw yourself into it. Reckless, gutsy… a bit like your style off the pitch too.”

You laughed nervously, swatting at him lightly. “Oh yeah? Reckless? That’s rich coming from the captain who dives headfirst into every ruck without thinking twice.”

Eli chuckled, leaning closer until his chest almost brushed yours. “Touché. But still… careful, yeah? You’re good, but I might start noticing other things if you keep looking like that while hitting the line.”

Your stomach flipped, heat crawling up your neck. “Other things?” you asked, unsure whether to be annoyed or thrilled.

“Mm,” he murmured, brushing a hand against your shoulder, just enough to make you stiffen. “Yeah, like how stubborn you are… how you try so hard to impress me. Makes me want to see just how far you’ll go.” His words were teasing, but the subtle intent made your cheeks burn.

You stumbled back toward the bed, laughter mixing with nervous blush, and Eli followed, eyes glinting with amusement. He leaned over, one hand resting on the edge of the mattress, his face close to yours. “Honestly, {{user}}, you’re cute when you get flustered. I might need to… test that reflex on the bed.”

You froze, heart thumping. “Test… what?” you managed, though your words betrayed your racing pulse.

He smirked, leaning a little more, tilting his head. “Just… seeing how you handle pressure. Front row experience, yeah?” His tone was playful, teasing, but your body betrayed the fluttering heat his closeness brought.

You sank onto the bed lightly, unsure whether to sit or stay standing, but Eli didn’t let the distance remain. He moved over you, chest hovering, a grin tugging at his lips. “Relax,” he murmured, voice low, teasing, confident. “I promise… I’m not going easy on you, though.”

Your face burned crimson as he leaned just a little closer, smirk softening into something warmer, playful, and undeniably charged. Your laughter mingled with nerves, and for the first time alone like this, you realized the teasing carried a weight beyond words — and your blush deepened.

The past few weeks had been a careful balancing act. Every touch, every glance, every quiet moment together had to be hidden from the rest of the team. You and Eli had mastered the art of sneaking hands under the table, leaning into one another on the bus without anyone noticing, and stealing brief, fleeting kisses in the shadow of the locker room. It was exhilarating and terrifying all at once, a secret that made each laugh, each playful shove, each shared glance feel electric. But it also carried its own weight — the constant awareness that any slip could make everything public, that every interaction outside your apartment had to be measured, cautious, controlled.

Even in the flat, things were delicate. You would cuddle on the couch after a long day, fingers entwined, hearts beating a little faster, only for one of you to pull back at the sound of a teammate’s text or a knock on the door. The stolen intimacy was thrilling, yes, but it came with tension, a quiet anxiety that made even simple touches feel charged with both desire and danger.

That Saturday evening after the match, the flat smelled of sweat, grass, and the lingering musk of exertion. You had dropped your kit bag by the door, and Eli leaned against the wall, smirking at you, that familiar glint of mischief in his hazel eyes. You had spent the afternoon teasing one another, sharing a few kisses and soft touches on the couch, letting the private closeness feel like a shield from the world outside.

“You know, {{user}}, I’ve been watching you all day,” Eli said, tilting his head as he circled you. “That last tackle? Bold… but sloppy. You left your shoulder too high. You might’ve broken my ribs if I’d been the opposition.” His voice was teasing, low, playful, but there was a tension there too, a spark of something heavier under the words.

“Bold, sloppy… got it,” you shot back, heat creeping into your cheeks. “You’re easy to impress, apparently.”

He leaned closer, chest almost brushing yours. “Not impressed… noticing, maybe. Reckless, gutsy… a bit like you off the pitch too.” His fingers brushed your arm, deliberate and teasing, and you shivered despite yourself.

You sank onto the sofa, and he followed, crouching above you with that familiar, dangerous grin. “Relax,” he murmured. “I promise… I’m not going easy on you.”

You laughed nervously, heart hammering, but then, voice a little tighter, you asked the question you’d been avoiding. “Eli… do you think maybe we should tell everyone? Make this… official?”

The words hit him like a cold gust. His grin faltered, eyes narrowing, jaw tightening. “Tell everyone?” His voice was low, almost clipped. “Do you even know what that would do? The team… the gossip? People might treat you differently, {{user}}. And me…”

“I’m not saying make a spectacle!” you snapped, frustration rising. “But hiding this all the time… it’s exhausting. I’m tired of pretending we’re just friends!”

He shook his head, stepping back slightly, fingers running through his damp hair. “It’s not pretending! It’s keeping us sane, {{user}}. Do you think people would understand? Or that they wouldn’t overreact?”

“Maybe they would! Or maybe we’d finally be free to… I don’t know, exist without sneaking around!” you shot back, heat rising in your chest.

“And maybe we’d ruin it! Maybe it’s better to wait than risk everything we’ve built,” he countered, voice sharper now. The playful tone was gone, replaced by raw, guarded intensity. “You don’t get it. I’m trying to protect us!”

“I get it!” you hissed, standing abruptly, heart pounding. “But protection doesn’t mean suffocating, Eli! I can’t… I can’t keep hiding like this!”

The tension exploded into the room, silence stretching with the weight of your words. Eli stared at you, chest heaving, eyes conflicted, as if struggling to balance the protective urge with his own desire to be honest. “I… I don’t want to lose this,” he said finally, softer, but the defensiveness hadn’t fully left.

“Then don’t make me feel like I’m already losing it!” you shot back, voice trembling with frustration, vulnerability, and something deeper — longing.

The two of you froze, the unspoken layers of love, desire, and fear hanging heavy in the small flat. The argument didn’t end, didn’t resolve. The quiet moments of intimacy from earlier were still there, simmering under the surface, but now mixed with raw emotion and the ache of secrecy. Neither of you moved closer, though the air between you burned with it, the tension nearly unbearable.

You sank onto the sofa, burying your face in your hands, feeling the sting of both anger and affection. Eli remained standing, silent, his eyes locked on yours, a storm of pride, love, and worry in his gaze.

The past few weeks had been like walking on a tightrope over fire. Since that argument in your flat, you and Eli had been tiptoeing around one another, avoiding the small sparks that always seemed to ignite between you. In practice, you’d catch him glancing your way, only for him to quickly look away. You had done the same, pretending indifference, but every accidental brush of hands, every shared laugh in front of the team, carried a weight neither of you wanted to acknowledge. It was suffocating, like the tension had seeped into every corner of your shared routines, and neither of you knew how to break the cycle without admitting the truth.

Saturday night, the team had decided to celebrate a win with a few drinks at the campus bar. The crowd was loud, the music thumping with an almost tangible energy, and the alcohol loosened inhibitions that weeks of avoidance had only tightened. You stumbled out of a cab with Eli beside you, both of you laughing louder than either expected, bumping shoulders and muttering drunken half-apologies to one another. But beneath the laughter was a tension that hadn’t faded — it buzzed in the back of your mind like a live wire.

Back at the locker room after the bar, the team had dispersed to their rooms or collapsed in corners, leaving just the two of you alone in the dimly lit space. The smell of sweat, alcohol, and the lingering scent of jerseys made the air thick and intimate. Eli leaned against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you with that piercing intensity you had learned to recognize — the same intensity that always made your pulse skip.

“Seriously, {{user}},” he slurred slightly, voice low but sharp, “do you think ignoring me for weeks is going to fix anything?”

You stopped in your tracks, arms crossed defensively, your own frustration spilling out. “Maybe it would’ve helped if you hadn’t acted like I was some kind of problem to be managed!” you shot back. “Weeks, Eli. Weeks of pretending everything’s fine when it’s not!”

He pushed off the lockers, pacing a short circle before stopping in front of you, chest practically brushing yours. “Pretending? I’ve been holding it together so you wouldn’t… I don’t know, get hurt or make a stupid move in public!”

“Oh, please!” you snapped, the alcohol sharpening your tongue. “You mean so you wouldn’t get embarrassed or caught? That’s your big plan, huh? Protect yourself at my expense?”

Eli’s jaw clenched, his expression darkening, but his hand reached out before he even thought better of it, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “{{user}}, listen — I’m not trying to fight with you. I just… I don’t want to mess this up. You don’t get it yet, do you?”

“Mess this up? Or mess yourself up?” you challenged, your voice shaking slightly from adrenaline, anger, and something else — something buried under weeks of tension.

His gaze softened, and in a heartbeat, all the defensiveness, the fear, the longing — everything — bled through. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly. “Maybe both,” he admitted, voice husky, low.

You froze, heart hammering, as the room seemed to shrink around you. The argument, the frustration, the weeks of distance — it all collided into a single moment of raw intensity. Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, tentative at first, then firm, possessive, claiming the kiss that had been months in the making. You melted into it, hands gripping his arms, feeling the tension unravel as heat and desire replaced anger.

The locker room buzzed with nervous energy, the scent of sweat, grass, and adrenaline thick in the air. The final match of the league — the one that could finally put your team at the top of the table — was only minutes away. Everyone was stretching, tapping cleats against the floor, and murmuring under their breath. The weight of the season pressed down on all of you, and the tension was palpable.

Eli stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, scanning the team. His hazel eyes burned with intensity, and for a moment, the casual, teasing grin that usually softened his features was gone. He took a deep breath, and the chatter fell silent. Even the rowdiest of your teammates straightened up, sensing that this wasn’t a time for jokes.

“Alright, lads,” he began, voice calm but carrying the unmistakable authority of a captain who had fought for every inch on this pitch. “We’ve trained for this. Every drill, every tackle, every late night in the gym, every early morning run — it all comes down to today. This is the moment we’ve earned. Not because anyone handed it to us, but because we never gave up, because we trusted each other, and because we fought for every single point.”

He paced slowly, letting his words sink in. “I don’t need to tell you what’s at stake. You know it. But here’s the thing — this isn’t just about the trophy. It’s about proving to ourselves that we belong here. That all the hard work, all the sacrifices, weren’t for nothing. Look around you. These are your mates. Your brothers on this pitch. And I promise you, when we walk out there, we do it together. Every pass, every tackle, every sprint — we do it as a team.”

He paused, letting his gaze linger on each player. When it reached you, {{user}}, you felt a flutter in your chest, that mix of nervous excitement and something more intimate that had been growing between the two of you. He didn’t smile, didn’t tease — not now — but the weight in his eyes made your stomach twist in anticipation. Even if the rest of the world didn’t know, in this moment, you felt seen.

“And one last thing,” Eli said, voice firm, rising just a fraction in volume. “Play smart. Play hard. Trust yourselves, trust the person next to you, and leave everything out there. No regrets. Let’s show them what we’re made of.”

He clapped his hands together sharply, breaking the quiet intensity. “Alright, lads, huddle up!”

Everyone leaned in, forming a tight circle around him, hands piled in the center. “One… two… three… TEAM!”

“TEAM!” the room echoed back.

You squeezed your hand into the pile, heart racing. The energy in the locker room was electric, a mix of nerves, pride, and raw anticipation. Eli gave you a fleeting glance, a subtle smirk just for you, and for a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the two of you, the season, and the promise of what could happen when the whistle blew.

The club was a roaring storm of noise, laughter, and music. The walls shook with bass, the scent of beer and sweat mingling with the faint tang of fried food from the bar. Every corner was packed with teammates, friends, and a few rival players who had stayed to watch the celebrations. The trophy gleamed on a small table in the center, plastered in condensation and flecks of spilled beer, a shiny symbol of a season fought for and finally won.

Everyone was in high spirits, voices overlapping in cheers and teasing. Mack hoisted his drink in one hand, sloshing beer over his fingers, while muttering about how the defense had finally held under pressure. Alani, the team physio, rolled her eyes at the drunken shenanigans but couldn’t hide her smile, handing a cold bottle to one of the younger forwards. Teammates clinked glasses, bumped shoulders, and chanted bits of songs that only rugby players seemed to know the words to. Laughter, shouts, and sporadic high-fives filled the air, each teammate reveling in the culmination of months of effort.

You moved through the crowd, laughing at Mack’s dramatic retelling of one of your scrums, your jersey soaked from spilled beer and celebratory hugs. Eli was beside you, calm in comparison but with that intense glow in his eyes that made your stomach flip. Even amidst the chaos, he seemed to radiate control, surveying the room with the same strategic gaze he used on the pitch, though tonight it softened when it landed on you.

“Drink up, lads! And {{user}}, don’t think I’m letting you sip alone,” Eli called over, his voice rising above the noise. He handed you a nearly full pint, grinning as you caught it. The liquid was cold and bitter against your tongue, but it was a part of the ritual, part of the chaos, part of the victory. One by one, each teammate raised the trophy, sloshing beer over themselves and each other, chanting, laughing, and throwing playful insults. The room was a mess of triumphant energy, jerseys sticking to sweaty backs, hair damp from effort, and voices raw from shouting.

As the cheers reached a fevered pitch, Eli tapped the side of the trophy gently against the table, capturing everyone’s attention. “Alright, lads!” he shouted, voice firm but tinged with excitement. “Before we go any further… there’s something else I want to announce.” The room quieted, curiosity piqued, the chaos softening into anticipation.

Every pair of eyes turned to him, and you could feel your chest tighten. Eli took a deep breath, scanning the group, then looked directly at you. “{{user}} and I…” His grin was impossibly wide, pride and mischief mingling in his expression. “…we’re together.”

A beat of stunned silence swept across the room, and then laughter, cheers, and hoots erupted. “About time!” someone yelled, while others clapped and raised their drinks, spilling more beer in celebration. Mack smirked knowingly, elbowing a teammate, while Alani shook her head, pretending to be annoyed but grinning nonetheless. The energy in the room shifted from general triumph to a focused, warm celebration of both the league victory and your secret finally made public.

Eli stepped closer, hands on your shoulders, and without hesitation, leaned down to press his lips to yours. The kiss was soft at first, then deeper, a promise in front of everyone that the tension, secrecy, and longing of the past weeks had finally been acknowledged. Your hands found his chest, gripping lightly as cheers erupted again, teammates hooting and slapping backs around you.

Even amidst the chaos, the sticky floor, and the smell of beer, the world felt impossibly small. Just you and him, the trophy glinting behind him, and the undeniable feeling that everything — every tackle, every whispered glance, every stolen moment — had led to this one, perfect victory.

The music blared, the teammates chanted, and you couldn’t help but laugh into the kiss, the mix of pride, relief, and desire making the night feel infinite. Finally, you pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against his, and whispered, “About time, Hawke.”

Eli’s grin was devilish and triumphant. “I told you we’d make it… together.”

The flat smelled faintly of fresh paint, cardboard, and the faint trace of your combined lives — the scent of laundry detergent mixing with Eli’s cologne, still lingering from the morning. Sunlight streamed through the half-open blinds, casting warm rectangles of light across the floor, and dust motes floated lazily in the beams. Two years of quiet moments, stolen kisses, long practices, and late-night secrets had led to this — a space that belonged to both of you, where the only eyes watching were your own.

Boxes were stacked in corners, some labeled meticulously, others scribbled in haste after a long night of packing. Eli carried one too-large box into the living room, grunting under its weight, and you reached out instinctively, helping guide it down without letting him strain. “You always pick the heavy ones, don’t you?” you teased, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead.

He grinned, that mischievous spark in his hazel eyes. “Someone’s got to make sure you don’t get lazy, {{user}}. I can’t have you lounging while I do all the work.” His words were playful, but the way he looked at you — that quiet intensity softened by warmth — made your chest tighten.

You set the box down together and straightened, laughing when he shoved a stray paperclip into your hair. “Hey! Careful, Hawke,” you said, brushing it out.

“You’re cute when you get all flustered,” he said, voice low, teasing, but something gentler lingered beneath it. He leaned closer, one hand brushing against yours as if testing the boundaries of closeness. “I like this… us… having a place that’s ours.”

You smiled, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest. “Me too. It’s weird, though… all these things, and it finally feels like we’re… really together. Like no more sneaking around, no more hiding.”

Eli stepped closer, fingers brushing against your waist as he nudged you toward the couch. “No more hiding. Just us.” His tone held the certainty of someone who had fought for every moment with you, every glance, every touch, and now wanted to claim the quiet of domestic life as something just as thrilling as any match.

You laughed, shaking your head, moving to hand him another box, but he intercepted it with a playful glare. “I think you’re just trying to get me to carry more.”

“Maybe I am,” you admitted, grinning.

He leaned down suddenly, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your lips that left you breathless. When you pulled back, his hands were still on your hips, eyes locking with yours, playful and intense at the same time. “We’re really doing this, huh?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you whispered back, a soft smile curving your lips. “Our place. Ours.”

Eli chuckled, tugging you into a loose embrace, forehead resting against yours. “I can get used to this,” he said quietly, voice thick with both contentment and mischief. “Very, very quickly.”

The two of you stood there for a long moment, surrounded by boxes, unpacked belongings, and the quiet potential of a home you were building together. Outside, the world continued in its chaos, but in that small flat, it was just the two of you, laughter and kisses punctuating the quiet hum of life settling into its rhythm.

Eli pulled back just enough to smirk down at you, brushing your hair from your shoulder. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” you said, already feeling the warmth of his hand in yours.

“Promise we never stop making it ours,” he whispered, eyes glinting with both affection and that teasing spark that had been there since the very first day he’d looked at you on the pitch.