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It’s his darned coat’s fault — really.
One minute he’s heading down the stairs of his flat two at a time, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket, phone pressed firmly between his cheek and shoulder —
“You’re late,” Beard chides him, a tinge of irritation painting his voice.
“C’mon Beardo, I practically live right next door,” Ted frowns, tugging fretfully at the lower stop on his coat, hastily yanking apart the teeth and trying again.
“Besides,” he continues, shifting his shoulder to bring his mouth closer to the receiver. “Last I recall you and I were supposed to meet for lunch before you and Jane–”
— the next he’s ass over tea kettle, his tailbone cracking painfully against the last step.
The groan that leaves his lips is involuntary, a sound pulled from deep within his core as he turns reflexively to his side, hissing when his back screams in protest. He attempts to sit up gingerly, using the wall as support to haul himself upward.
He supposes this must be some sort of instantaneous penance for bein’ a smart alec.
Somehow he’s kept a firm hold on his phone, and even from a distance, Beard’s panicked tone is coherent through the speaker.
“I’m fine,” he grunts, bringing it back up towards his ear. “I’ll see you in a sec.”
Despite his ramrod-straight back and restless fidgeting, dinner passes somewhat uneventfully — save for the back spasm that catches him completely off guard, forcing his knee to reflexively jerk upwards into the solidness of the table. It’s a near miss, but Beard’s quick reflexes save his pint from teetering off the edge, certain doom waiting for it on the ground below.
“Jesus, Ted,” he starts, wedging his glass next to the salt and pepper shakers in the middle of the table. “You sure you’re alright?”
He flaps a hand dismissively, attempting to fend off Beard’s concerns when another wave of pain seizes his lower back, causing him to collapse forward onto the table. He takes a grounding breath, his head braced against his forearm as he attempts to ride out the spasm, his other fist pounding into his thigh.
Of course that’s when their food arrives.
“What’s wrong with ‘im?” Mae asks, her tone indicative of her wariness.
“God only knows,” is Beard’s thoughtful reply, and Ted can’t help but lift his gaze for just a moment, eyes narrowed in what he hopes is a reproachful glare.
“‘M fine,” he mumbles, shuffling to the side slightly so she has someplace to set his plate.
“Ah yes,” she quips, sliding his food in front of him. “You’re just the picture of health.”
He beams up at her. “I knew you’d agree.”
At Beard’s pointed scoff Ted turns — with just his neck, thank you — squinting up at his exasperated expression, brows reared up in disbelief.
He has to fight the urge to stick out his tongue.
Eventually he’s able to peel himself off the hardwood and make his way back to his flat, a heavy hand trailing across the wall to guide him. He takes two paracetamol with a handful of crackers — because acid reflux is very real and very unkind to him as he steadily approaches fifty — and calls it a night.
Pulling on his sweats is a task in and of itself, and he all but collapses into his bed with them slung low on his hips, too weary of his aggravated back muscles to bother pulling them up any further. He’ll probably have some sort of mark there tomorrow morning he supposes — maybe a bruise that’ll peek out over the top of his khakis. That’ll be the end of it.
He hasn’t been this wrong since he thought Oscar Wilde was still kickin’.
When he wakes he immediately wishes that he hadn’t. A debilitating stiffness has seeped into his body, leaving an awful twinge in his back that seems to travel down and through his hips.
“What–” he cuts himself off with a pained grunt when he tries to sit up, his muscles denying his request. He attempts to roll to his side in an effort to pull himself up that way, but he finds — quite literally — that he cannot move.
“Aw, heck,” he gasps, dragging a weary hand over his face as he contemplates his next course of action.
Ted attempts to roll himself over to the side of his bed again, this time a bit more successfully. Not quite knowing where to go from there, he kinda just slithers his way out from under the sheets, the cool wooden floor knocking jarringly into his knees when he lands on the floor in a heap with a startled oof.
“Shoot,” he breathes, flicking the stray corner of his comforter off his head. “Yeah, I can do this.”
Using the side of his mattress as leverage he puts all his effort into hauling himself upright in one go — it works, but quickly finds that being vertical isn’t really agreeing with him all too much. Bracing against the wall, it’s evident that for today upright constitutes a forty-five degree angle.
Somehow he gets himself out the door only ten minutes behind schedule and he’s proud of that — almost as proud as his new-found dexterity in his feet, his toes helping prize his khakis off his bedroom floor.
Honestly, if it weren’t for the pink box in his hand he might’ve not bothered goin’ into work at all.
By the time he arrives, shirt clinging to his back and his puffer jacket trailing across the ground where he’s got it in an iron-clad grip, Nelson Road is a welcome sight — save for the new adversary that stands between him and his goal.
“You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me,” he mutters, eyes trailing the set of stairs leading up to Rebecca’s office. Turns out goin’ up is a lot harder than tumblin’ down.
Ted grits his teeth but bears it, using the handrail to help haul his sorry tush up to the landing. By the time he’s made it to her office he’s just happy to be upright; for a minute there he was considerin’ crawling up those last few steps.
Rebecca looks up at the sound of his knock, the sound hollow in his ears over all his huffing and puffing. Her brow quirks over her reading glasses before she takes them off, mouth opening as she takes in his frame.
“What’s happened to you?” she asks, standing to meet him as he shuffles in, dropping his backpack on the floor and setting her biscuits on her desk with a dull thud.
“I fell down the stairs,” he deadpans, and when all the color drains from her face he realizes he probably should’ve taken a milder approach.
“You what?”
“‘S just my back,” he backpedals, settling into his usual chair, except usually he doesn't have to brace his palms against her desk while lowering himself down, the speed of the maneuver just plain pathetic.
“Y’know what? ‘Fall’ was overzealous… it was just a bit of a tumble, really.”
She looks at him warily. “Somehow I feel like you’re leaving out a few details.”
“I’m not, I promise.”
“So you’ve just had a fall down the stairs?” she asks incredulously.
“How autumnal of me.”
“Now I’m convinced you’ve hit your head.”
“My mama used to say the same thing — the doctors assured her this is just my personality.”
“Ted–”
“Rebecca,” he interrupts, holding up his hands placatingly. “Look — I’m fine, I promise. I was on the phone, fiddlin’ with my jacket and I just tripped. My back’s just a little stiff, s’all. If I’m bein’ honest with ya my pride probably took the biggest hit.”
She eyes him, unconvinced. “I might believe you if you could sit up a bit straighter.”
Reflexively he straightens his spine and immediately grunts, his muscles protesting at his sudden movement. Bracing himself against her desk he sucks in air harshly through his teeth in an attempt to breathe through the pain.
“Okay, okay — no need to gloat,” he concedes.
“But I haven’t said anything,” she replies sweetly.
Her hand on his shoulder eases him forward, something soft and solid settling on the chair behind him. He settles into it, letting out a contented sigh as he looks up towards her soft gaze, the corners of her mouth turning up in quiet amusement.
“Better?” she asks.
He nods. “Yeah, maybe a bit.”
A whistle wafting in through her slightly ajar window pulls both of their attention; a quick glance at his watch tells him he should’ve been downstairs about ten minutes ago.
“Well,” he starts, tapping his fingers against her desk. “I guess that’s my cue.” Easing himself forward to go, he pauses, sheepishly considering his next words. In the end his comfort wins out over his embarrassment.
“Hey, uh — you got a heating pad I could borrow or somethin’?”
Rebecca looks back at him, aghast. “You’re in England, Ted. I think it’s about time you learn of the healing prowess of the hot water bottle.”
It’s how he finds himself down on the pitch, gingerly lugging Rebecca’s cure for all ailments between his bicep and his torso. Adjusting his visor he silently slots up between his assistant coaches, their eyes focused on the boys out on the field. At his arrival, Beard turns.
“Morning, Quasimodo,” he beams, clapping a hand against his shoulder.
“Not another word,” Ted gripes back.
By how well his morning’s been goin’, he should’ve known that coaching was going to be a complete and utter disaster.
Or — as Roy so eloquently put it — a fucking shitshow.
“Alright, boys — that’s great!” he pants, flapping a hand in their general direction. “Listen, Roy’s gonna run you through the rest of today’s drills.” He offers a vague thumbs up before hobbling over towards the water station, bracing himself against the plastic table.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” comes Will’s weary voice, and he can’t help but choke out a dismissive reply.
“Oh, never better,” he offers, eyes firmly fixed upon the grass as he slowly sways from side to side, attempting to relieve some of the tension that’s wrapped itself around his lower back.
He hadn’t noticed Beard trotting after him, his sudden appearance a welcome relief when he appears with his hot water bottle. He carefully holds it against his lower back, gently swaying with him.
“Just breathe through the pain,” he coaches.
“Oi! You two!” They both jump at Roy’s rapid approach, his voice booming even at a distance.
“Lamaze class is fucking over. You’re distracting the team — spare everyone the moaning and groaning and sit the fuck down.”
“Now Roy–”
“Don’t make me call Rebecca down here,” he threatens, and boy, her ears must’ve been burnin’ because that’s when her voice wafts down towards them, her voice projected from her window.
“Ted!”
“Oh, you’re done for,” Beard murmurs out the side of his mouth and at this point Ted can’t help but agree.
He swallows thickly before replying, turning slowly to face her. “Uh, yeah?”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Stretchin’?” he sheepishly calls back, and he crosses his fingers that she doesn’t pick up on how high his tone lifted on the end.
She doesn't shout it, but from the expression on her face and the way her lips are moving he can practically hear her muttering ‘oh, for the love of God’ all the way down on the pitch.
It’s then that she disappears from the window, some sort of fluttering settling deep in the depths of his belly as he awaits her arrival, a tad nervous about what's in store.
“Busted,” Beard sing-songs, and Ted can’t help the partial thwack he’s able to land on his thigh before he hops out of the way, a toothy grin plastered across his face.
“What’s all this about, then?”
“Geez, boss — you must’ve been scootin’ in those heels because that–”
“Ted,” she interrupts, and he knows by her tone to not even bother with his schmoozing.
“My back’s a little stiff, s’all,” he mumbles, and by the way she crosses her arms and quirks her eyebrow he supposes that much was clearly evident without his admission.
“Can you stand up straight?”
“Sure I can.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Roy?”
“He’s stuck at a right fucking angle.”
Rebecca sighs, shaking her head, and he’d be lying if he wasn’t mesmerized by the way her hair flutters a bit with the action. “Right then, that settles it — I’m taking you home. Collect your things.”
He sputters, befuddled. “We can’t just leave.”
“Training’s just wrapping up for the afternoon,” she counters. “I’ve got nothing urgent in my diary that can’t be pushed to tomorrow.”
He looks up at her curiously. “Are you suggesting we play hooky, boss?”
“Come now, Coach Lasso,” she replies, offering her hand for him to take. “It’s not hooky if I’m in charge.”
There’s a beat silence before Beard’s practically hauling him upright by the back of his jacket, brushing his hands over his shoulders to smooth out non-existent creases, seemingly dusting off his lapels.
“Don’t fuck this up,” he hisses in his ear, and Ted only has a brief moment to offer his friend a perturbed glance before he’s letting out an indignant squawk, fighting to keep his footing as he shoves him forward on the muddy pitch.
Rebecca accepts him with open arms.
“Christ,” she starts, looping her arm in him and leading him towards the parking lot. “You’re practically parallel with the ground.”
He grimaces, not bothering to disagree with her. “Man, I’d kill for a bath right about now.”
“You haven’t got a full bath, Ted.”
He quirks a curious brow. “How do you know that?”
“I pay for your flat.”
He can’t help but laugh at that, the sound pulled from deep within his belly. “That you do, boss.”
“Right, we’ll just have to pop to mine, then,” she replies, and he immediately chokes on air, caught off guard at the very notion of being in her home, let alone taking a bath. Naked.
“Yours?” he croaks.
“Well, yes.” She shakes her head, offering him a wry smile. “You didn’t think that I lived at the club, did you?” She opens the door to her Range Rover for him, ushering him inside. “In you go.”
Rebecca’s house, as it turns out, is as big as he’d expected — the only caveat, however, is that she lives startlingly closer to his flat than he’d realized.
She’s just across the Green for cryin’ out loud. Heck, he jogs by her place most mornings. Sometimes he even stops and stretches by that tree over there–
The one directly in front of her house.
She probably thinks he’s a stalker.
“I didn’t know you lived here,” he starts, trying to sound casual.
“Oh yes,” she replies, putting the car in park. “I’ve lived here for years. I quite like the fact that my bedroom overlooks the Green.”
He lets himself ponder that little tidbit for just a moment, the implications roving around in his head incessantly. There’s a high probability that she’s gotten up at the crack of dawn, morning light and a gentle mist settling low across the grass. She’s probably got her dressing gown on, and knowin’ her she’s definitely got a cup of tea in her hand. And, well, if anything she’s just told him is something to go off of, it’s all too easy to picture her lookin’ out her window each morning, leaning gently against the window jamb and–
Watching him vigorously stretch his glutes in front of her goddamn house.
The thought causes a subtle flush to creep up his neck and seep into his cheeks; suddenly he has to start pulling at the collar of his shirt, a half-hearted attempt to get some air.
“Are you alright?” she asks, concern seeping into the edges of her voice.
“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, flapping a dismissive hand. “Just thinkin’ about the view you might get from up there.”
She has to assist in his controlled fall from the passenger seat, a little shake and shimmy is his only option to vacate the car in one piece. Her hands are warm where they grab onto his, offering a bit of leverage to help him make his final descent, feet connecting firmly with the pavement.
He’s able to make it up the couple’a steps leading up to her stoop without much of a hassle, pausing for just a moment when her hand rests gently on the small of his back, guiding him forward. Ted’s grateful that she can’t see the look on his face.
He lets out a low whistle when they finally make it into her foyer, the door clicking shut behind them.
“This sure is a nice place you’ve got here, boss.”
She smiles, the lift starting in the corner of her mouth as she places her purse down on the table in the entryway. “Follow me.”
He’s able to make it up the stairs without too much hassle, using the banister to haul himself upward. She leads him through a beautiful set of double doors, and he realizes quite belatedly that she’s leading him into her en suite — that he’s stood in her bedroom.
He takes in the book she’s left on her nightstand, a pen placed between its pages to mark her place, her reading glasses sat just beside it. There’s a cup of tea sat unfinished on top of her dresser, next to her perfume bottle with the lid still off — and with the way the light in her walk-in closet was left on it’s all too easy for him to imagine that she was runnin’ late for work this morning.
It’s all maddingly intimate.
He’s just following her through the door to the bathroom when it hits him, the spasm in his muscles so intense he nearly loses his footing, stumbling over his own two feet and connecting with the door jamb with a sharp whine. Rebecca’s on him in an instant, her hands hovering over his chest like she’s not quite sure what to do.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, panicked, and it’s all he can do to hold onto the door frame for dear life.
“Back spasm,” he grunts, thumping his forehead against his hand.
His eyes fly open at the feeling on her fingers probing his offending muscles, inadvertently straightening his spine as she lays her palm flat against his skin, the tension unrelenting under her touch.
“Fuck,” she mutters, and he shivers at the way her fingers dip lower, skirting the hem of his khakis. “Would a massage help? I’d be happy to give you one.”
And Lord help him he’s pretty sure he short-circuits, his brain ceasing to function at the notion.
He opens his mouth to dissuade her, to assure her that won’t be necessary, thank you, but all that tumbles out is some sort of undignified, high-pitched mess of sound.
Is he dreaming? He’s pretty sure he’s dreaming.
She ushers him into her en suite before he can form a coherent sentence, urging him to sit on the toilet lid as she tests the water temperature with the back of her hand. Satisfied, she plugs the drain and starts mixing some concoction of bath salts and bubbles, a sweet scent wafting up with the steam that’s begun filling the air.
“This should help your muscles,” she relays, adding another scoop of the salts. “It always works wonders for me after a long day at work.”
All he can do is nod dumbly as she strikes a match and lights the candle he hadn’t noticed resting on the countertop, basking the room in a warm glow. “It’s not a proper bath without it.”
She leaves him to undress, tossing a call me if you need anything over her shoulder before she’s gone, closing the door behind her.
She’d offered him a rolled-up towel in parting; he holds firmly to it now, his grip clenching and unclenching against the soft material as he tries to work through the events of the last few minutes, taking in the scene before him now.
He sure as hell didn’t expect his day to be goin’ like this.
He’s able to pull his shirt off with ease, his pants taking a little more patience — but with a little shimmy and a shake he’s able to get them down around his ankles, kicking them off from where he’s sat on the edge of the tub.
Ted lets out a groan the moment he settles into the water, the bubbles tickling the sides of his face where they rest against the surface. Taking a deep breath he lets the steam fill his lungs, holding it for a moment before he releases, letting himself settle further into the water.
He takes in his surroundings, the room cozy and silent, save for the stray drop falling from the faucet. Craning his neck he catches sight of her hair products and bath wash just to his left. He knows he shouldn’t, but curiosity wins out in the end, and he’s pressing down the pump on her shampoo bottle before he can stop himself.
He lets his eyes fall closed as he lathers it in his hands before running it through his hair, a small smile gracing his face at the familiarity of the scent. Sighing he tilts his head backwards, rinsing her shampoo from his roots and letting the water lap over his ears.
Gently he sinks further down, his nose skirting the surface as he thinks about her hand on his waist, the lingering, searching touch she’d seemed reluctant to pull away.
Huh.
—
Was it odd to invite her gaffer over for a bath?
Rebecca vigorously swirls her spoon in her steaming cup of tea, watching the liquid spin precariously close to listing up and over the edge of her mug. She sighs discontentedly, dangling the spoon between her fingers as she chews on her lip, the bite firm enough to almost draw blood.
She’d practically caressed his lower back — she’d offered to give him a bloody massage.
Christ, what had gotten into her?
Grasping her mug between both hands she lets the heat transfer into her palm, her nails drumming gently against the surface.
“You’ve bloody done it now,” she murmurs under her breath, her shoulders sagging where she rests against the counter. Taking a testing sip of her tea she hisses when the liquid scalds the tip of her tongue, pulling a weary hand across her brow.
The autumn afternoon sun had long dropped towards the horizon, blanketing her kitchen in a warm glow. The hour or so that had passed worried her slightly — it had certainly been long enough for the water she’d run to grow cold, and with no sound of the bath faucet running or word from Ted, she was certain he must’ve fallen asleep.
The last thing he needs is a stiff neck on top of a strained back.
She climbs the stairs on the tips of her socked toes in an effort to tread lightly, specifically stepping over the bothersome seventh step that always seems to creak.
The door to her bedroom is still cracked shut, a sliver of light peeking out from under the door; pushing it open, the last glimpse of golden light trickles in from her window, orange leaves rustling across the Green in the distance.
Just beyond the threshold of the bathroom she can make out the garbled sound of the bathtub drain, the water sputtering out of the tub before the door is suddenly pulled open. Ted emerges, a towel slug low on his hips and Jesus Christ, her brain blanks out for a second because that’s a lot of skin.
She swallows inadvertently, watching a water droplet trail over his chest and towards his navel, dropping lower — and lower — before disappearing under his towel.
Ted clearing his throat pulls her harshly from her stupor and fucking hell, she’s got her lip caught between her goddamnd teeth. A flush immediately begins burning hot and heavy high on her cheeks.
It takes her a moment to realize he’s speaking.
“What?” she asks, and her voice sounds dumb to even her own ears.
Ted looks at her curiously, mouth opening before snapping shut. He clears his throat before he speaks again, hand tightening where it’s fisted in his towel.
“Are you sure you’re up for this? ‘Cause I can–”
“No, no,” she interrupts him, gesturing vaguely towards her bed. “Lie down.”
He does as he’s told, shuffling over to the mattress and gingerly lowering himself onto his stomach on top of her duvet; she tries not to watch the way the lines of his arms flex as he crosses them, gently resting his cheek against his bicep.
There’s a beat of silence — neither of them moving — and it takes her a moment to realize she’s just standing there, wringing her hands as she watches him breathe, his shoulders lifting with each inhale.
Right then.
She flicks on her bedside lamp for good measure, retrieving the muscle balm she likes to keep in her bedside drawer. The smell of menthol intensifies as she emulsifies it between her palms, the heat of her hands helping to thin out the substance. Glancing towards the bed, she directs her breath out of the side of her mouth, carefully flicking a bit of hair away from her eye. It’s then that she realizes she’s not entirely sure how to approach him.
She settles for cautiously approaching him from the side, her fingers gently probing over his lower back; his muscles certainly aren’t as stiff as before, but they still feel uncomfortably tight as she continues her ministrations, hands delicately searching across his skin.
Rebecca doesn’t miss the way he’s gone completely still, seemingly holding his breath in anticipation.
She pauses. “Is this alright?”
He has to swallow before responding, his feet shuffling towards the end of the bed. “Yeah, s’alright. Are you still sure that–”
“Absolutely,” she responds, fingers pressing down more firmly against him.
His response is immediate, his face tucking against his forearm as she starts deliberately working his muscles into submission, their tension pushing back firmly into her palm. The grunt he lets out is telling, and she reduces the pressure just a touch.
“Too much?”
“Nope,” he gasps, fists gripping firmly to the sheets. “S’good.”
It’s the go-ahead she needs.
He grunts as she works her hands over the dip of his back, running heavy-handed lines of pressure up towards his shoulder blades. Everything in the back is connected she reminds herself, working her thumbs into a particularly stubborn knot next to his spine.
The groan he lets out comes from deep within his gut causing a flush of heat to run through her body, the hair on the back of her arms immediately standing on end.
His calves flex when she digs deeper, his legs shuffling when he can’t keep them still any longer. He runs a bracing hand through his hair, head lifting briefly and exposing the long column of his neck; her mouth can’t help but fall open at the sight of his muscles straining — of him fully writhing under her hands.
Was this — was this doing something for her?
“Ted?” she questions, her hands pausing.
“Oh God — s’alright,” he pants. “Keep goin’.”
She doesn’t need to be told twice, something fluttering in her stomach at the firmness of him under her touch.
By the time she’s finished the sun has long set, completing its lazy dip down behind the trees; she’s glad she’d taken a moment to turn on her lamp, the light casting long shadows across the room, casting Ted’s profile in a warm glow. His eyes are closed, face relaxed — she can tell from his light snores that he’s dozing, completely strung out and cobbled back together again.
She runs her fingers across her thumb, internally warring with herself before want wins out, her hand coming to lightly brush his stubborn tendril away from his eyes. Her touch lingers for a moment too long, fingertips dusting gently across his temple — that’s how he wakes, eyes half-lidded and looking up at her through the heavy weight of his eyelashes.
“Thank you, Rebecca,” he mumbles, and something shifts inside her at the way he says her name, his voice thick with sleep.
Slowly he rolls over to his back, leveraging himself upward on his elbows, and she can’t help but watch, eyes fixated across the broadness of his chest. It’s all too easy to imagine herself climbing onto his lap, bracing her hands on his chest as she–
“Boss?” From the tone of his voice it’s apparent this hasn’t been the first time Ted’s called her name.
She hums, shaking her head to rapidly clear herself from her reverie. “Yes?”
“I was just wonderin’ if you had any sweats I could borrow?”
Except she can’t seem to find the words, her eyes tracking the movement of his hand as he pulls his towel tighter against his hips. It’s when he clears his throat that her wide eyes snap back up towards his face, a flush burning hot across her cheeks.
Ted looks at her pointedly as silence stretches on between them, brows pulling together as he waits for her reply.
“Are you feelin’ okay?” That seems to break her out of her stupor.
“Me?” she asks incredulously. “I’m great. I’m more than great, I’m… yeah.” She nods in finality, like somehow that would make her awful butchering of the English language any more eloquent.
His concerned look shifts into one of open curiosity, head tilting to the side as he seemingly considers something. Rebecca can’t quite stop staring at the tongue that darts out to wet his lips.
“That’s good,” he starts slowly, moving to stand up — to be closer to her.
In a flash of panic she pushes him backward, the back of his knees hitting the end of her bed with a quiet oof as she scurries off to seek refuge in her walk-in closet. She almost immediately runs directly into her dresser, the corner jutting painfully into her hip bone; she can’t hold back the yelp that’s pulled from her lips, unbidden.
“Rebecca?” Ted’s worried tone wafts towards her.
“Fine, I’m fine — everything’s fine!”
Get a grip, Welton.
She throws open the top drawer, digging through the contents in search of something for him to wear — still her mind races, completely transfixed by the man not five meters from her.
Pressing the back of her hand to her forehead she takes a steeling breath, attempting to ground herself and not focus on the fact that Ted Lasso’s in her bedroom — that he’s sat on her bed...
Half-naked.
Oh, she’s utterly and royally fucked.
“Christ on a cross,” she mutters.
“Gesundheit.”
Ted’s sudden appearance behind her makes her jump, hand flying to her chest as she spins to face him, all color draining from her cheeks. She very pointedly addresses his face — just his face.
“I’ve got your sweats.”
He hums, sweeping his damp bangs away from his eyes. “Ya sure about that, boss? Cause it kinda looks like you’re holdin’ a thong.”
Stricken, she glances down at her hands to find that she is, indeed, holding out a lacy black thong in offering to her head coach.
Her employee.
HR was going to have a fucking field day with this.
She squeaks, tossing the offending garment to the floor before pushing past him, squeezing between him and the door. Taking the stairs two at a time she seeks refuge in the kitchen, hoping to put as much distance between her and Ted as physically possible.
Bypassing the kettle she heads straight for her wine cooler, fighting past the urge to pull the cork out of the bottle she’d started last night with her teeth.
What the absolute fuck was wrong with her?
It’s only then that she realizes she practically upended him in an effort to get out of his orbit. Head in her hands, she fights the urge to find the nearest body of water and walk into it. Instead, she hastily rips the cork from the bottle, tossing it aside and overzealously pouring the rest of its contents into her glass.
She swallows down half of it in one go, the crimson liquid burning and instantly warming her belly. The tension headache she could feel brewing settles in with full force, and she attempts to beat it back with a hand rubbing furiously at her temple.
Ted’s descent is evident by the way the stairs creak down the hall, his impending appearance causing her heart to thunder almost painfully against her ribs. Bracing her elbows against the counter, she buries her head in her hands, almost willing herself to disappear; she’s not sure she can handle the imminent fallout.
“Boss?” he calls, and she can’t help the reflexive groan that leaves her lips at the title.
His hand on her shoulder startles her, his crossing of the kitchen silent as her mind screams at her, intent on making sure she knows how bad she’s mucked this up. That’s the realization that really sinks her.
“Ted, I’m so sorry,” she starts, something heavy settling between her ribs. Her teeth sink into the delicate flesh of her lip as she fights past the mortification settling deep inside her bones.
“Rebecca, look at me, please.”
She shakes her head immediately, refusing to budge — but when he asks again, something in his tone remarkably gentle and sincere, she can’t help but oblige. He smiles the moment her eyes meet his.
“No harm, no foul…” he assures her. “I mean it, boss. You and me? We’re right as rain.”
“But–”
“No buts.” He shakes his head definitively. “Are you uncomfortable with anything that’s happened tonight — other than you accidentally handin’ me your delicates?” he adds the moment her mouth snaps open, poised to speak.
When she slowly shakes her head he smiles, the lift pulling up the corner of his mouth. “Alright, good — me either.”
Sighing she nods, taking a grounding sip of her wine before gesturing vaguely towards the bottle. “Care to join me?”
“Y’know, I could go for a glass.”
Her pour is neat, and she deftly twists the bottle in her grasp as she cuts off the stream, prohibiting any liquid that might drip down the side. He accepts with a care-free grin and his thanks, seemingly unaffected by the events of the evening thus far. Still, she can’t help but feel the tormented anxiety that has her in its grasp.
“Ted, really — I’m so sorry.”
He waves her off. “Hey now, none of that.”
“I could’ve at least bought you dinner before I sexually harassed you.”
“You still could,” he replies so immediately that it catches her off guard, his tone hopeful.
“Really?” she breathes.
“Yeah,” he replies, mouth pulling up into a lopsided grin. “But I’m partial to goin’ Dutch, if ya–”
“Absolutely not,” she finishes decisively. “Dinner’s on me — I insist.”
They settle on ordering in from one of his favorite curry spots from down the road — a place she’s never heard of but he insists has the best samosas on this side of the Thames.
“Ollie and his dad are a real hoot,” he tells her, slowly trailing his finger along the rim of his glass. “I’ll have to introduce you to them sometime.”
By the time their food arrives they’ve polished off a bottle of red, Ted’s socked feet scuffling across the hardwood as he trots off to answer the door, an I got it tossed over his shoulder. After a few pleasantries are exchanged, he returns holding up an overstuffed paper bag, a triumphant grin on his face. He whistles lowly.
“Oh boy — you don’t know it yet, boss, but your life is about to change.”
He sets each of the dishes out in a line for her as she uncorks their next bottle, pulling down plates from the cabinet she points him to.
“Now this one here is my favorite,” he starts, pointing to a deliciously aromatic curry with his spoon. “It’s chicken korma — really goes nicely with the naan. But if you’re feelin’ like you wanna try somethin’ different, you’ve gotta try the biryani.” He opens up the ridiculously large plastic container containing rice, topped with fresh herbs.
“It’s got all sorts’a spices, some nuts and dried fruits. Between you and me I wasn’t too sure about all’a that the first time I tried it,” he relays, poking around the contents. “But when you put some of the yogurt on top it really gives it a nice kick.”
He frowns, brows pulling together as his gaze lifts to address her. “You’re not allergic to nuts, right?”
She smiles at the earnestness in his voice, shaking her head. He nods, satisfied.
“Good. Alrighty then — dish up.”
Something in her stomach flutters when he hands her a plate, gesturing for her to select what she’d like to eat; despite his suggestions, he wants to see her pick and choose what she’d like.
It’s a simple act, something so small and remarkably Ted, but still — it’s monumental for her.
Before sitting down at her usual place at the table she makes a quick stop in her sitting room, pulling one of her favorite cushions off the couch; it’s perfect she thinks — not too soft and just firm enough to offer some lumbar support. She finds Ted taking a seat at the setting next to hers, lowering himself down onto the wooden chair with a muffled grunt.
“Care for a pillow?” she asks, immediately laughing at his vigorous nod.
He goes to take if from her grasp, his words of thanks on the tip of his tongue, when she bats his hand away; instead she places her hand on his shoulder blade, holding her breath as she helps him ease forward, the only sound in the kitchen the subtle creaking of his chair. She deftly tucks the cushion behind him, her touch lingering for a moment before she guides him backwards, helping him ease himself back onto the white fabric.
His contented sigh pulls a smile from her lips. “Better?”
“Oh yeah,” he replies, shimmying his thighs just a touch. “Thank you, boss. I really appreciate you doin’ all this for me.”
She waves him off. “It’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me.”
Dinner passes shrouded in the comfortable familiarity of small talk; they’ve shared meals together before, whether it be at the Crown & Anchor or tucked away on the couch in her office. Really, it feels no different than biscuits with the boss, the conversation flowing and easy.
It’s all too easy for them to polish off another bottle, his hand bumping clumsily against hers when they both reach for it at the same time.
“May I?” he asks, and when she nods he pours the remnants of the contents into each of their glasses, smiling slightly when the bottle hits the table with a hollow thunk.
“Now where were you, boss? I wanna hear more about this trip of yours.”
When she resumes her anecdote he settles in for her story, his foot accidently knocking into hers when he gently swings it under the table. His hair falls into his eyes when he nods, hanging off her every word — and she has to fight the urge to run her hands through his goddamned hair.
They trade stories for God knows how long, her cheeks burning from the smile she’s held for the entirety of their conversation. It’s when Ted looks up at her through his lashes, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his lips that her heart stalls in her chest, entrapped by the openness of his gaze. When she yawns he sits back, head tilting to the side.
“Well, I should probably get goin’,” he starts, and she can’t help the wave of disappointment that rushes over her.
“Oh, of course,” she nods, sitting up a bit straighter. “I suppose it is getting late — we both have to be in tomorrow.”
Ted shakes his head, eyes downcast to the napkin he’s fiddling with in his hands as he smiles to himself. “That’s not why I’ve gotta go — I would stay here talkin’ with you all night if I could.”
Ignoring the way her breath catches in her throat at the admission she leans forward and rests her hand over his, stalling the way his fingers have started to worry around each other, wringing in his lap.
“Why do you have to leave, Ted?” she questions.
“I, uh — I’ve gotta make you another batch of biscuits for tomorrow,” he admits quietly, looking her directly in the eye. “This morning’s box was the last of the week.”
She doesn’t miss the way his cheeks subtly flush with pink — from embarrassment or the wine, she can’t be certain. Something warm floods her chest as he continues to meet her gaze, his eyes earnest and his expression utterly raw.
For the first time in a long time, she can sense a tangible shift in the air, his thumb coming up to sweep over the back of her hand in a way that gives her pause — gives everything new meaning. Now, as the path forward divulges before her, she realizes the profound significance steeped into this moment — that the choice she makes will echo through the entirety of the rest of her days.
The world around them seemingly holds its breath as she carefully contemplates her response, her grip on his hand tightening as she steps off the precipice of choice.
“Would you please stay?”
Ted’s eyes immediately light up at the prospect, his shoulders rolling back as he sits up straighter. “Yeah?” he breathes, the sound hopeful.
She nods, a smile pulling up the corners of her mouth.
“Well how ‘bout that.” He returns her grin before his brows pull together thoughtfully. “You got any butter?”
It’s how they end up in the kitchen, an apron she’s never worn tied loosely around Ted’s waist, her thighs resting on the cool granite of her countertop as she sits, struggling to uncork the bottle of merlot she’s fished out of her cellar. Her tongue pokes at the corner of her mouth as she fights with the corkscrew, whining when it gets jammed again.
“May I?” Ted offers, and she reluctantly hands over the bottle.
“You know I’m normally quite adept at opening a bottle of wine,” she grumbles, smiling to herself when his clumsy hands fumble for a moment before retrieving the cork with a triumphant whoop.
“I never doubted you, darlin’,” he replies, moving to fill up their glasses — her stilted pull of air stalls in her chest at the endearment, something warm encapsulating her form.
She doesn’t miss the way that he freezes for a brief moment when the implication of what he’s just said must finally click — the steady stream of his pour reducing before surging forward, the liquid splashing precariously close to the edge. He clinks the edge of his cup against hers before taking a hearty pull, wide eyes looking anywhere but her.
He clears his throat before speaking, his voice tight. “How ‘bout we get this show on the road?”
“Teach me?” she asks hopefully, slowly sliding herself off the counter and standing directly in front of him. She’s not often shorter than him — from this angle she has to look up slightly to catch the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips — the not-so-subtle way he glances at hers.
“Sure,” he breathes, nodding his head. “Yeah, I’d love to.”
Whilst Ted busies himself readying the ingredients, Rebecca positions herself in front of the stand mixer. He passes her the dry ingredients first, instructing her to turn it on low to get everything well-mixed. When she starts adding in the soft butter he’s cubed for her she can’t help but notice the way he’s moving around her, leaning over her shoulder to turn up the speed a bit.
It’s the hand that grazes over the skin of her back that catches her off guard — high enough to be considered chaste but heavy enough to be intentional — grounding even.
Interesting.
She relaxes into him, letting her back become flush with his chest and she can’t help but feel a rush of contentment at the solidness of his torso pressed against her. It’s then his arm snakes around her waist, tugging gently on the hem of her shirt before resting on her hip.
“‘S this okay?” he murmurs in her ear and she shivers, nodding.
Only then does his hand trail upward, fingers skirting delicately over her abdomen before spaying against her stomach, his palm firmly holding her body to his.
Her hands shake as she presses the biscuit dough into the pan, following his instructions to the letter. She freezes the moment his hand drapes over her own, his mustache ticking the back of her neck as he speaks, the rumble of his voice echoing throughout her body.
“You doin’ alright, darlin’?”
Her mouth falls open at the sound of his voice, the timbre an octave lower than usual, his accent far more pronounced.
Good Lord.
“Rebecca?” he asks when she doesn’t answer, the weight of him immediately disappearing from behind her as he purposefully creates space between them.
The loss is overwhelming.
She spins rapidly, taking a step forward to close the gap as her fingers find the front of his t-shirt, hands balling into fists as she pulls him against her. Whether she’s been emboldened by the wine or caught in a moment of complete and utter insanity, she can’t be certain; but for the first time in a good while she lets her heart speak before her mind has the chance to catch up.
“What is this, Ted?” she questions, her tone desperate. “What are we?”
“Whatever you wanna be,” he replies instantly, his breaths coming harder as his eyes search her face. “Whatever you want, I’m all in.”
There’s one beat of silence between them — her heart thundering in her chest two-fold — before she’s moving, her hand on his neck pulling him down towards her.
His lips crash into hers with such intensity that she gasps, the sound quickly morphing into a moan as his fingers tangle in her coiffed hair, tugging harshly at the roots. She returns the favor, scratching her nails up his scalp, rough enough to pull a whine from the back of his throat, his mouth falling open.
She takes it for what it is, a welcome invitation that she eagerly accepts, but not before nipping playfully at his lower lip, her tongue immediately soothing the mark before sliding hungrily against his.
He takes the opportunity to press his body more firmly to hers, crowding her against the countertop in a way that’s so surprising it makes her head spin.
It’s messy, desperate even — and easily the best goddamn first kiss she’s ever had.
He pulls away briefly, his mouth mere inches from hers as they both catch their breath, the sound of their panting harsh in the expanse of her kitchen. She sees his smirk a second before his lips are fucking everywhere, open-mouthed and searching, exploring every bit of her that he’s able to reach.
Her knees go weak the second he finds the junction between her neck and jaw, his teeth grazing the delicate skin; she can’t help the way that she grips more firmly to him, tipping her head to the side to grant him more access.
“Oh, you like that, do ya?” he breathes, the sound deep and rumbling before pressing his lips tenderly just behind her ear. It’s when he starts moving downward that she shudders in anticipation, her chest heaving as he sucks roughly at the point just above her collarbone.
“Don’t you dare leave a mark,” she pants and he smiles, his mustache tickling the skin against the column of her neck.
It’s when he hisses, his body going taunt that the tension that’s been building immediately dissipates, replaced by something else entirely.
“Ted?” she asks, her voice tinged with alarm as his forehead finds her shoulder, his hand gripping tightly to hers as he appears to ride out some wave of pain.
“Spasm,” he grunts and she hisses in sympathy, placing a grounding hand at the back of his neck.
It takes a moment for him to seemingly gather the courage to right himself, the movement slow and hesitant in a way that’s telling of his discomfort — reminds her of the reason she’d brought him home with her in the first place.
He lets out a deep breath as he braces his arms on the granite countertop behind her, his eyes finally lifting to meet her gaze.
She can’t help but fixate on how swollen his lips are, taking a sharp intake of breath at the sight of her lipstick peppered across his face, smeared around his mouth. It’s his hair that makes her sputter, the brown strands stuck out at odd angles from the way she’d gripped it, pulling him in.
He looks utterly wrecked.
If she’s being honest with herself she knows she’s probably not much better.
Her laugh starts deep in her belly and he’s not long behind her, his face twisting in complete awe as he shakes his head, a grin pulling up the corners of his lips. She can’t help the hand that comes up to loosely cover her mouth, her finger tracing the dip of her lower lip as she imagines his all over her not just a moment before.
“My God,” she breathes.
His grin only grows as he gingerly pulls her hand away from her face, threading his fingers through hers.
“Well how ‘bout that,” he murmurs, brushing the stray hair that’s fallen from her twist away from her eyes before tenderly pressing a kiss to her lips.