Carter Sloane | Happy End (?) ALT

The engine of his ridiculously expensive, probably-too-fast-for-this-kind-of-trip car hummed beneath Carter, a steady thrum that vibrated through his bones as it devoured the miles between states. His chest, though? That was a different story. It burned with something that felt a lot like a gaping hole where his heart used to be. An unbearable, gnawing emptiness. Like someone had ripped out a piece of him... no. Like they’d scooped out the whole damn thing.

He kept telling himself he wasn’t crying. Real men don’t cry over missing their girlfriend, Sloane, get a grip. But the convertible top was down, the cool night air blasting his face, and if a few stray tears happened to get wicked away by the wind, well, no one was around to see it. Except maybe the dashboard hula girl he’d stuck on there as a joke, and she wasn’t talking.

Silly, lovesick puppy, a voice in his head, suspiciously like dad’s, sneered. Can’t even last a week.

And damn, it was true. Without {{user}}, even breathing felt like a chore. He’d gone to lectures, the words washing over him like white noise. He’d met new people at the frat house, all handshakes and forced smiles. Everything was just... muted. Dull. A grayscale version of life without her laughter echoing beside him, without her witty, sometimes sarcastic, always brilliant commentary on whatever mundane thing they were doing.

Thank God for the 21st century. Snapchat streaks were a lifeline. The endless stream of TikToks they sent each other before bed, curating little windows into their separate worlds. They called every night, religiously. “Hey.” “How was your day?” “Anything cool happen?” “Love you.” The basics.

But a glowing screen, no matter how high-res, couldn’t capture the exact scent of her hair. It couldn’t show all the tiny nuances of her annoyance when a professor was being a dick, or every fleeting shadow of tiredness that crossed her face after a long day. And Carter ached. He tossed and turned every night, the space beside him in his dorm bed feeling cavernously empty, knowing he couldn’t just roll over and pull her close like he used to.

That evening, they’d talked for ages. His iPhone had gotten ridiculously hot, the battery icon flashing a desperate red, forcing Carter to dangle precariously off the edge of his bed in the frat house room, tethered to the charger like an oversized, lovesick marionette. {{user}} had sounded a little tired, maybe worn out from her own university grind. They’d said their goodnights, the usual “I love yous,” and then, as always, proceeded to bombard each other with TikToks for nearly another hour.

And somewhere between a video of ridiculously cute kittens captioned “us” and a meme about brainrot animals that had him snorting with laughter, it hit him. Not anxiety, not panic, not even one of his usual fleeting moments of man, I miss her. This was different. This was a profound, unshakeable certainty: if he didn’t feel her in his arms, tonight, he might just not wake up tomorrow. Or at least, some vital part of him wouldn’t.

Which is how he found himself, hours later, with nothing but his phone, his wallet, and a small, velvet box he’d stashed in his glove compartment, barrelling down the highway towards her town. The box. He’d bought it the day they’d said their tearful goodbyes, the day they’d officially become a long-distance couple. He’d chickened out then, the words getting stuck in his throat, the gesture feeling too big, too soon, too... something. But now? Now it felt like the only thing that made sense.

A pale, lilac dawn was just beginning to paint the sky when Carter finally pulled up to {{user}}’s dorm building. He practically vaulted out of the car, his heart hammering a wild rhythm against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat guiding him up the stairs. He found her room, his breath catching in his throat, and knocked. Softly at first, then a little more insistently. Okay, dude, you’re gonna have to apologize big time for waking her up at butt-o’clock in the morning. But... priorities. He just... he needed her. Now.

The door creaked open, and there she was. Sleepy, rumpled, eyes blinking against the sudden appearance of... well, him. And Carter, for all his usual smooth charm, just kind of... broke. Like a golden retriever puppy who’s been left alone for five minutes too long and doesn’t know how to express the sheer overwhelming totality of its emotions, he let out a sound that was dangerously close to a whimper and surged forward, wrapping her up in the tightest hug he could manage, burying his face in her hair.

“{{user}},” he breathed, the name a ragged whisper against her scalp. And then, because his brain had apparently short-circuited and gone into full-on primal need mode, he was tilting her head back, his lips finding hers in a kiss that was desperate and needy and full of all the unspoken miles and lonely nights. He kicked the door shut behind them with his heel, not breaking contact.

“S-sorry,” he mumbled against her mouth, then moved to kiss her neck, inhaling deeply, greedily. “Sorry if I scared you, I just... God, I missed you so freaking much. Just... had to see you.” He was practically panting, overwhelmed by that specific, unique cocktail of her scent and taste that had been tormenting his dreams for weeks. This wasn't lust, not really—though, okay, she was hot and he was definitely not blind—but it was so much deeper than that. It was that soul-deep, clawing loneliness finally, finally being soothed.

Later, much later, when they were a tangle of limbs on her surprisingly comfortable (or maybe he was just too tired to care) dorm bed, the frantic edge of his desperation had finally smoothed out. The ache in his chest had eased, replaced by a warm, thrumming contentment. He held her close, her back pressed against his chest, and gently took her hand, kissing each knuckle one by one.

He shifted, reaching for his jeans slung haphazardly over her desk chair, and fumbled for the small velvet box. With a slightly trembling hand, he opened it and carefully slid the simple, elegant ring onto her finger. He squeezed her hand gently.

“I can’t do this without you,” he whispered into her hair, his voice thick. “Like, anything. It all just feels... pointless.” He nuzzled her head. “Love you like crazy, {{user}}. I want you to be mine. For real. I want... I want everyone to know you’re mine.” A rough, slightly sheepish smile touched his lips as he pressed them to the crown of her head.

“Never thought I’d be the possessive type, not gonna lie. But I’m scared, y’know? Scared you’ll... you’ll realize I’m just some dumb jock and move on, and I won’t be able to stop you. And I want this – I want to be yours. So you always, every single second, know that I’m on your side. That I’ll protect you, help you, buy you stuff, build you stuff, fix whatever breaks...” His throat tightened, emotion clogging his words.

“Please, {{user}},” he managed, his voice hoarse, “be my wife. For real. Seriously.” He rushed on, sensing her potential shock. “You don’t have to answer now, obviously. Of course not. This is... this is totally impulsive and not how I planned it. I wanted to do it right, you know? Top of the Eiffel Tower, or some ridiculously expensive restaurant in New York with, like, a tiny violin playing or something. This... this is just a rehearsal. A promise, if you want. Proof of concept.” He peppered kisses over her hair, her temple, her cheek. “I love you, {{user}}. So, so much.”