Chapter Text
“Somewhere you have to be?”
Taylor looks up from her phone at her publicist, who has a questioning eyebrow raised on the screen in front of her. They’ve been going over the plan for the announcement of 1989 (Taylor’s Version). But now, as the rest of the team logs off, she realizes she’s been caught zoning out.
“No, nowhere today. You know I’m just laying low.”
“Ah. You were just checking your phone so much, I thought we were keeping you,” Tree says with a smirk. But underneath it, Taylor sees a hint of concern. “Everything okay?”
“I’m fine, Tree,” she replies with a smile. “Really.”
Tree sighs but looks relieved. “Yeah, you seem to be,” she agrees. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your hair. Let you have your free afternoon.”
Taylor rolls her eyes, “My one free afternoon between shows.”
The redhead laughs as she logs off, and Taylor glances from her computer to the sunny patio off her dining room. She forces herself not to pick up her phone immediately, instead walking across the room to grab her water bottle. She has to step over Benji, who’s sunning himself in a beam of light from the French doors as she steps outside.
She settles into the low couch outside, finally allowing herself to tap the phone, illuminating the message she’d received in the last few minutes of the meeting:
Favorite after-school cartoon? Don’t break my heart and say My Little Pony or something.
She huffs out a laugh and taps out a reply:
Nah, I am a Wild Thornberrys girl. What about you?
Taste! Rugrats all day.
She giggles and feels a warmth in her chest that has followed her the past couple of weeks, weeks filled with silly texts and funny TikToks sent back and forth. Not to mention the hours of phone conversations tucked in between setlists and football drills.
She probably could make the case that she’s talked to Travis more in the past two weeks than she has some of her friends in the past year. That first day, it had been like calling up a long-lost friend and picking up where they left off. She’d been startled when the text from yet another mutual friend encouraging her to reach out to him came in and lit up the time, making her realize they’d been talking for hours.
It hasn’t stopped since. She finds herself telling him things she hasn’t voiced to people she’s known for years—fears about the fame that surrounds her, the hard parts of the last year. And he’s the same, opening up about the looming end of his football career and the quiet envy he has for his brother and friends with families. All shared without expectations or agendas. Just two people getting to know each other—and realizing they should have known each other a long time ago.
And then, of course, they’ll spiral off into the most ridiculous debates on old movies or food or the importance of the top sheet.
But more and more, she finds herself cataloging small moments—not in her Notes app or her journal, but in her head.
The way his voice drops when he’s talking about something serious.
The way he texts back immediately, even when she knows he’s busy.
The way she’s stopped overthinking what she sends him.
These aren’t just signs of a crush. And trust her, she has a big crush on him. They’re signs of a friend. A real one. He’s becoming one of her favorite friends.
How’s the day off?
She smiles and turns the camera towards herself. Snapping a silly selfie complete with duck face and a peace sign.
Sunny! I might just take a nap out here. Or go in and watch hours of Love is Blind.
A photo comes back. He’s got a mock grumpy expression stretched across his handsome face.
Reality TV? Tay, no.
You’ve never seen Love is Blind? Travis. You are missing out!
Never in a fucking million years. I had my fill of Reality TV.
Never say never. I can wear you down, Kelce. 😊
Shit…probably
The warmth returns, along with a flush to her cheeks. She looks again at his selfie. She can see the laughter in his eyes, that ridiculous mustache. The sweat ringing his collar and the swipe of dirt on his cheek tells her that he’s still at practice, or just left. And yet, he’s choosing to spend the little time he has between a long day of training camp activities…texting her.
Yes, he’s one of her favorite friends. But there is something else. Something she isn’t quite ready to name—but definitely ready to investigate.
So, when is your next day off?
The next time she sees him, it’s not over the phone—it’s him, standing in the doorway of her apartment, holding a bag from the bakery she’d mentioned once in passing.
“I was told that flowers are great, but and I quote, ‘have you ever had the donuts the size of your head at Martins?’” he says.
She laughs and lets him in.
In the weeks that follow, their conversations only deepen, leading to more visits to New York and the start of something beyond friendship. What began as a surprise connection has settled into something steadier. Familiar.
It’s that same connection that makes it feel totally normal to be standing barefoot in his kitchen, teasing him about vegetables.
“How can you eat that?”
Taylor looks up from where she is stirring the sauce that goes with the chicken. Travis has a comically disgusted look on his face, aimed directly at the green beans waiting to go into the oven.
“Vegetables?” she asks, amused. If she’s about to find out she’s dating a vegetable hater…
He tips his head and gives her a look like she’s ridiculous—that’s a relief. “Not all vegetables. Those.”
“What’s wrong with them? Why do you look like they killed your uncle or something?” she teases.
“They get all mushy and fucking gross,” he replies, scrunching up his nose.
She shakes her head, “What? No, they do not.”
“Yeah, my mom tried to force me to eat them when I was a kid,” he says with a shrug, like the memory still haunts him.
She pauses, “Ohhh, wait,” Her eyes narrow. “Did you have canned green beans?”
“What?”
“Were they in a can before you cooked them?” she questions.
“Tay, there was no way my mom was letting Jason or me anywhere near the kitchen when she was cooking.”
“Okay, so yeah,” she says, triumphant. “Green beans from the can are mushy. But fresh green beans? They are crunchy and delicious. And I’m going to put olive oil and parm on them. You’ll see.”
He looks skeptical.
She laughs and does exactly that, tossing them with parmesan and putting them in the oven. She sets a timer, then turns back to him.
He looks sheepish. “I…I kind of have a texture issue with food.”
She thinks back to the few times he’s been in New York. She’d never noticed him not eating, but then again, he’d always ordered for himself. And she’d cooked, but only breakfast and some cookies.
“Everyone says I’m too picky, but I don’t know. It grosses me out.”
“Hey,” she says, reaching for him. “I don’t care. You like what you like.”
His shoulders sag in relief. Oh, so this was more than just people pointing it out. She recognizes his relief. She knows that feeling—the one where your shoulders creep up to your ears from being nitpicked over things that feel small to others but matter to you.
She tries to be nonchalant about what she says next, so he feels less self-conscious. “Maybe just tell me what you don’t like. Or when I cook, I can tell you what I’m thinking and we can decide together.”
“Okay.”
“But one thing,” she continues. “Maybe, sometimes—if I think I can work around the textures—will you give something a try? Just a try.”
He looks skeptical again but nods. “I can do that.”
“Yay! But I promise—if you hate it, you hate it.”
“Deal.”
They work around each other in the kitchen, waiting for dinner to finish. He pours more wine, and she wipes the counters. It feels normal. Everyday. Like they’ve done this a thousand times, not like it’s her first time in this kitchen. In his house.
As she plates their dinner, and he returns from setting the table with silverware and bread, she turns to him with one single green bean right out of the oven.
He gives it a suspicious look. But he’s good for his word. For her, he’ll give it a try. He plucks it from her hand, pops it in his mouth, and chews.
His eyes widen in surprise, “It’s crunchy,” he says around a mouthful of green bean.
“I told you!” she replies, clapping her hands.
He holds out his hand as he chews. Palm facing her. At first, she’s confused, then realizes what he’s hoping for. She gives him a high five and then raises her hands over her head like she’s just won some big thing.
“Huh,” he says, as he grabs a plate. “I like green beans.”
He sets the plate down on the table, then gives her a playful nudge with his shoulder as he sits. “Thanks, Tay.”
She picks up her fork, but sets it back down and shrugs. “Not a big deal. Just trying to expand your horizons…you know, in vegetables and in Reality TV.”
He laughs, the sound filling the kitchen like it belongs there. And for a moment, it’s not just about the food or the jokes or the shared dinner. It’s about how easy it all feels—this whole thing. This connection between them.
“Fine,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “But I’m drawing the line at Brussels sprouts.”
“Fine,” she parrots, grinning. “As long as you never try to get me to eat mayonnaise.”
He stares at her, mock-serious. “Oh my god, you are fucking perfect.”
They both burst into laughter. She’s never felt this comfortable with someone so quickly, not like this. And maybe that’s what she’s realizing. Right here, right now.
For the first time in a long while, she feels like she’s in the right place.