be-your-coffee-pot - Tumblr blog

be-your-coffee-pot · 27 days ago

Text

“No,” she stresses, “I actually would vehemently deny that I wanted to even look at you, but Mei and Adam always loved poking fun. Always said we needed to like – fuck out the tension or something.” She shook her head to herself, slicing back into her food – at least the embarrassment hadn’t ruined her appetite, “I’d always tell them you hated me too much to do anything like that.”

“But you wanted to?” He is still smiling.

“What I want is to smother you with a pillow.”

“That’s very kinky, babe, but we should probably lose our virginity before we explore that,” he is immediately assaulted by a pillow careening from her bed to his, slapping him in the head, “Hey –”

“You’re obnoxious,” she groans, “I can’t tell if you hating me was better than you not.”

Y/N and Harry don't hate each other at all, it's actually the opposite

part 1

part 2

part 3

22k+ words

iv.

Y/N is. . .not used to this Harry.

The Harry that Y/N met and had been privy to for the months that she’d been here was mean. With eyes that cut daggers through her for breathing and harsh, annoyed groans and sighs whenever she was what he deemed too close to him – he made her feel hated. It was never a secret that he disliked her; if anything, it was public knowledge that Harry didn’t care for his classmate. That he thought she was annoying and loud, and wasn’t as good of a dancer as people hyped her up to be. Hell, he’d never even said anything nice to her except by accident.

(It was within the first month of her being at the school; Y/N had hugged Niall because he gave her his extra bagel prior to them walking into the studio. When Niall made his way over to Harry, he leaned in and sniffed at him, “Are you wearing perfume? It smells good.” And when Niall takes a sniff of himself and lets Harry know that it was actually Y/N’s perfume he was smelling, his face soured and puckered before replying, “You know, the longer it stays in the air, it’s too fucking strong – kind of grating don’t you think? Shouldn’t you change?”)

And then after her incredibly embarrassing, drunken complaints about him being the absolute worst to her. . .he’d started to soften up a little. Baby steps, of course, because he was still rolling his eyes at her, and he’d still call her stupid, or dumb – but he was praising her too. He’d tell her she did well with a certain move, or compliment her posture, or – away from the dancing aspect of it – he’d even say he liked her shirt if it represented a band or a show that he recognized. The way that he danced with her was more gentle, and when she spoke to him it didn’t seem like he wanted to scream just to drown her voice out.

Then, within all of that, there were the odd moments of almost uncharacteristic kindness that he would give her. Letting her sleep in his bed when she had knocked out on his bean bag during an impromptu movie night she wasn’t technically invited to. Giving her his snack when she hadn’t eaten breakfast, taking care of her when she had a fever (even though she’d snapped at him before that), spending time with her before the show, letting her fall asleep in his bed again.

And, of course, there was the kiss. He didn’t scold her for stumbling during the show – the only person scolding her, was herself, but she’d always imagined that if she fucked something up Harry would be her worst critic. So imagine her surprise when instead of immediately telling her how stupid she was for not practicing that move enough times that there would be no reason to stress over it – he took her somewhere quiet. He promised her that it was in her head, that it wasn’t that big of a mistake, that nobody would notice unless they were waiting for it, that she had been doing so well. . .and then he kissed her. A careful, tender press, not enough to even smudge her makeup but still her heart was racing.

There was a significant shift in how Harry looked at her, from the beginning of this semester to the night of the show. A gaze heavy with disdain, irritation, and animosity is replaced by one of sentiment, warmth, and care; his features soften when he sees her rather than harden. Y/N felt comfort under his eyes rather than uneasy or agitated. Being around him wasn’t a problem, it was something she looked forward to, and that alone was something difficult to process.

The morning after the show, when Y/N wakes up, she’s in her hotel bed – or at least, she’s in the hotel bed that was supposed to be Christopher’s but since he never showed back up last night, she figured it was hers now. Sunlight funnels through the curtains, leaving the room bright and Y/N has to squint in order to see. She was confused because she knew she didn’t wake up on her own – her alarm hadn’t blared in her ear either, which could only mean that her bladder woke her up, or an outside source.

And the outside source, who was hovering over her bed, looked like he could have only woken up just a couple of moments prior to her. “Do you want breakfast?” He inquired, “I can order room service, but they switch to the brunch menu in like ten minutes and it looks like shit.”

Y/N’s nowhere near awake enough to be making decisions – she’s barely awake enough to open her mouth – so she pushes herself to a seat and pats around for her phone. It was tucked under the pillow beside her head. When she pressed the screen to wake it up the time read 10:02. Harry, at some point, had sat down on the bed beside her close to her feet, and with the position she was suddenly accosted by the memories of him having her split open, his tongue on her, his filthy mouth saying filthy words, and Oh my god!

“Helloooo?” He waved his hand in front of her face, “Do you need to go back to bed?”

“No, no,” yes, actually, she does, because her mind swarms with the images of him with swollen, red lips glistening with spit and with her – and not only that, she’s confronted with the bewildering feelings that flooded her at the same time, “I’m – I want –” she pressed her knuckles into her eyes, trying to rub the sleep from them, and make the world slightly less bleary, “I want what you want.”

He snorted, pushing the hair back from his face. It was now Y/N realized he was shirtless, and his pajama bottoms slung low on his hips – his muscles shifted beneath the skin, and his biceps looked extra. . .beefy today, almost as if to torture her. He’s wearing wire glasses that she’s never seen before, they rest on the bridge of his nose, and his chin is speckled with a beard trying to grow. His hair was mussed and soft and she wanted to run her fingers through it, then she remembered how it felt between her fingers last night, and she felt like her face was hotter than a skillet.

“I was looking around, and there’s a little spot we could walk to, as long as your legs aren’t hurting.” Then, as if she wouldn’t know what body part he was talking about, he laid his hands on her shin, “Hm? I wouldn’t be surprised if they were sore?”

Y/N cleared her throat, “I – a little, but. . .but nothing more than usual. Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He smiled, “Okay,” he told her, “But if you wanted to stay here and sleep a little more, I can always just go grab it.”

And he was nice to her last night – he was so fucking nice last night, but she had just figured that was because of the show. Everyone feels closer to each other on show nights, no matter the feelings they held for them prior, each person was tender with one another. There was solidarity between them and their desire to put on a good performance, so it was easy to forget if you disliked someone in the weeks leading up to it. Who cared about petty rivalries then?

So she’d imagined he was just running off the pleasant vibes from the show, running off a high, and the immense, bittersweet relief of not stressing or worrying over it anymore. They’d done what was needed, he could finally let the tension seep out of his muscles and enjoy the night, whether Y/N was there occupying the space beside him or not.

But if that were the case, and that was the reasoning behind his kindness last night, then why was Harry being nice to her this morning? Y/N didn’t know whether she should just ask zero questions and enjoy the continued tenderness, or should she be suspicious of it. Was she being lured into a false sense of security just for him to forget any of this the next time they stepped foot into the studio? Sure, he’d been nicer the last couple of weeks, but who’s to say that wasn’t just to remove excess strain from their performance? What if he still disliked her just as much but he was just better at hiding it?

Another memory flutters through her, sudden and surprising – how could she forget the most important part of last night? What he had said to her, that had opened up the floodgates to emotions Y/N did not even want to begin to sort through?

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, for everything.”

“. . .But I was awful – horrible to you, and you never deserved it. What I saw out there tonight – you’re beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful, and I was such an asshole. Just want to make it up to you.”

He’d apologized, he’d called her beautiful, and he’d finally been praising her for what she was doing. Technically, he had started praising her a couple of weeks before the show, but last night was the first time she’d really believed it. It felt earnest like he was desperate to convince her, and with all he had done last night with his words, and his mouth, it had worked.

So Y/N was at a loss, now. Why was he being so nice after the show? Did he really feel that bad for being mean to her before? Had seeing her dance and dancing with her really changed his mind so drastically that he would still be pleasant with her after the show finished? It was just hard to believe that.

“Why’re you still being sweet to me?” She narrowed her eyes at him, her hands settled in her lap still covered by the pillowy comforter. Harry, who had previously been looking at his phone, flickered his eyes up and tilted his head.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” she cleared her throat, shifting in her spot, “Isn’t it. . .like you don’t have to keep it up, is what I’m saying. The show is over and you apologized, so if you – you just don’t have to keep being sweet if you don’t want to.”

Harry looked confused — the kind of look you’d give someone if you’d already discussed something and they were acting like they’d never heard about it before. His brows dipped inward and he lowered his phone from his face, “I already told you, I deserve to grovel.”

“Wha–”

“I was a prick for nine months of knowing you when you didn’t deserve it. I want to make it up to you,” he explained, “I haven’t said what I have because of the show, or because I was faking any of it for the sake of the show. I don’t know if you remember but I begged to eat your pussy last night, so I would hardly say that’s pretending.” He sighed, shaking his head, “But I only have myself to blame that you would think I was being fake nice when I offered to go pick up breakfast. I just have a lot of work to do.”

Y/N’s mind is whirling, “You – you mean it? Because if you’re planning on fixing it then that would mean we’re spending time together still? Even without the showcase?”

“I mean I was planning on it, yes?” He leaned back some, “Unless you didn’t want to.”

“No, I do! I want to, I just. . .I guess I'm not used to this, that's all. I don’t know how to. . respond to this version of you.”

Harry huffed a laugh, rolling his eyes a little, “I’ll be sure to still act like an asshole so I don’t throw your system into shock, yeah? How does that sound?”

They did end up going to the cafe together, and they bumped into a few of their classmates who sang praises of their performance and the chemistry they had together. She and Harry occupied a little booth in the corner, and while Harry nursed a warm mocha latte between his palms, he inquired if she had any plans with Mei and Adam that day. Y/N nodded somewhat regretfully (why was she regretful? Because she realized that she’d actually just rather stay at the hotel and keep sleeping until her brain feels less fuzzy and her bones and muscles less weary? Or because she realized that she wanted to spend time with Harry too?) and told him about their plans to go shopping. He explained that he and Niall were visiting an art museum, because of an interactive exhibit they had for this month on desserts around the world.

At the mention of desserts, Harry’s face lights up like he’d only just remembered something, “Hey, who’s watching Custard while you’re gone?”

Honestly, Y/N wasn’t expecting Harry to take to Custard as well as he did. She didn’t even think he was the type to like animals, but when he’d taken care of her when she was sick he and the kitten must have bonded. Y/N vaguely remembered waking up after falling asleep in his bed the night before the show, to find Custard snuggled up against Harry’s back (and since Custard was so comfortable, so was Y/N, so she snuggled back into Harry’s side and let herself slide back into a dream). Maybe this was all a convoluted plan for him to get closer to the kitten – you have to be kind to the owner to get to the pet, that’s just a basic fact.

“Oh, just my friend Felix,” she told him, “He said he would pop in on her every day a couple of times a day to make sure she isn’t lonely and her food is still full.”

Harry hums, low and slow, “Who’s Felix?” He pressed.

Y/N peels apart her croissant, pressing it between her fingers, “Mm, I never brought him up? He works at the bakery a couple of blocks from us – you’ve been there, right? He’s so sweet,” she smiled at the thought of him, letting the piece of croissant hover over her mouth, “You’d know him if you saw him! He’s the one with the freckles.”

She was an avid bakery visitor and was frequent enough of a face that Felix started recognizing her and her orders relatively quickly. He’s very sweet, and runs this shop with his family; the flat that sits atop the bakery is where he lives, and there are always the prettiest flowers on the balcony. Felix has a cat too, named Lucy, and sometimes she and Custard have playdates but Lucy is a bit older and gets annoyed with Custard’s kittenish energy quickly. Still, it’s a nice time for her and Felix to drink coffee and gossip – he even comes to see the shows!

Y/N explained all of this to Harry, who hummed and nodded in a noncommittal way, and the lighthearted atmosphere shifted ever so slightly, so she figured she’d stop talking about him. Who wants to hear about how much fun you have with someone else? “So, yeah, Custard is doing okay. I miss her already though,” she sighed, “Nothing like waking up to her stomping all over my head.”

A small smile twitches over Harry’s mouth, “She does have an affinity for stomping on heads, doesn’t she?” And just like that, whatever shift had happened, reverted just as quickly. Y/N wondered if maybe Harry actually did know Felix and they didn’t take too well to each other; it wouldn’t surprise her, honestly. Because Felix was sweet and warm and kind, and Harry had a knack for coming off as impassive, distant, and cold when you first meet him (and several months after that too, in Y/N’s case). It would make sense that they didn’t mesh well with one another.

Still, if Harry was going to stay true to his word and hang around her, he might bump into Felix once or twice. She could only hope they could get past their first impressions of each other if that were the case.

. . .

“Turkish desserts date back thousands of years to the Byzantine Empire,” Niall read off the plaque in front of them, making a show of actually caring about the dessert facts when both he and Harry knew he was just after the free sample beside the display. Harry is unsure why Niall felt like it was necessary to show some interest when most people just came right up and plucked the baklava from the serving tray without a blink, but he doesn’t question it. Even if he did, it wasn’t like it would stop Niall from doing it.

The days following a showcase were always weird; having nothing to focus all his energy and effort on leaves Harry with a lot of time – too much time, really, until they start working on their winter showcase. But the winter showcase was the same every year, so save for the people who had to learn it for the first time, it was a pretty lax experience. This time around, it would definitely be relaxed for him and Y/N, because they would not be given the lead parts since they just had them. Despite the competitive and strict nature of their school, they were surprisingly fair when it really came down to it.

But they don’t really start working on it until their mid-semester break is over, so everyone has time to relax their overworked bodies and submit to self-care that may have been sacrificed before.

Harry wondered what Y/N would do with her time off and if she would be opposed to spending any of it with him. He has an overarching goal to make up for all his time being shitty to her, but he was realizing he might have his work cut out for him. Because even after he’d practically begged to eat her out, cleaned her up, and pressed a kiss to her temple as she was falling asleep (though she doesn’t seem to remember that part), Y/N was still confused this morning as to why he was being kind to her.

Really, Harry only had himself to blame. After being treated in such a shitty way by someone for so long, it was probably hard to accept that they were turning a new leaf. Harry’s old, negative feelings toward her had stripped away the same as the trees shedding their summer coat. New buds stem from the branches, but Y/N’s convinced the breeze might shake them off. He’ll have to try extra hard to prove to her otherwise.

And then there’s the. . feeling that took him by surprise, at the mention of her friend. The one who was checking on Custard while they were out of town – Felix who is so sweet and has freckles, and Harry knew exactly who she was talking about. He’s been to the same bakery, he’s met the same Felix, and she isn’t lying – he’s incredibly sweet and his freckles speckle his cheeks like a constellation, and now, suddenly, Harry bemoans that he’s not sweet with freckles.

It’s so challenging to face the consequences of his actions; Harry has never been more irritated with himself than he is right now.

“What was going on in the Byzantine Empire, you think?” Niall murmured around a mouthful.

. . .

Harry wondered if Y/N would have tried to figure out the sleeping situation, or if Christopher and Dasia would have fought again and she’d be requesting Y/N back in her room, but nothing like that happens. When Harry gets back to the hotel room, Y/N is already there, with one of those big fuzzy bow headbands tucked around her head and a face mask drying on her skin. She’s in her pajamas – or what passes for pajamas, so an oversized shirt and a pair of pajama pants that look soft. Y/N is sitting on top of the made bed, her laptop cracked open in the space in front of her, and scrolling. The air around the bathroom is still humid so he figures she only just recently left the shower.

At the sound of him entering the room, she perks up, her gaze pulled from the computer, “How were the sweets?” She inquired, tilting her head, “I was kind of so jealous about halfway through Adam trying on what looked like the same pair of jeans that I wasn’t stuffing my face with you and Ni, instead.”

He snorted, kicking his shoes off by toeing at the heel, “Very filling,” he gave a short nod, “I can feel plenty of cavities already forming.”

“Lucky,” she pouted at him, “I don’t think I took all the hot water so you can have a shower if you like.”

“Thank you,” Harry replied, shuffling toward his suitcase, throwing the top of it open, and scruffing through his clothes to find his pajamas. He tucks his body wash and shampoo up under his arm, his clothes folded in his hands with the conditioner bottled tucked between his fingers. At the time of him walking into the bathroom and turning on the water, it was an entirely innocent endeavor. He stripped down, dropped the clothes in a pile on the floor, and stepped under the hot spray, and it was still innocent then too.

Until he was thinking about Y/N. . until he started thinking about last night. When he thought about how she split her thighs for him, how she tasted, and the sounds that left her mouth when he licked her. Honestly, it feels like a hyperrealistic wet dream now that he thinks about it, and they were acting so normal around each other – or as normal as they could with their circumstances. And the thought of it makes his cock twitch, which he could ignore. . .but if he could get rid of the memory of her moaning for him, her asking so sweetly if he’d rub against her if he would fit inside of her.

He shudders at the thought. Maybe he soaps up his cock for a little too long, and he keeps going, getting harder and harder until he’s dripping. And then he has to take care of it, the tip ruddy and swollen, slick and soapy. He sucks in a deep breath, not taking time to tease and edge himself how he normally might like to. If he takes too long in the shower Y/N definitely knows what he’s doing and he doesn’t want her to think he’s a pervert, even when he was begging her last night to taste her.

So Harry fucks his hand nice and quick, biting down hard enough on his bottom lip to suppress any noises. When he cums, he has to clear his throat to cover up a moan, it shoots against the wall and dribbles over his knuckles. Harry breathes out, washes it off the wall, and cleans off his hands before he finishes his shower. He washes his hair, finishes cleaning off his body, and turns the water off. The hotel towels are never very nice, rough fibers that barely soak up the droplets of water on his damp skin, but he makes do and gets dressed. After he brushes his teeth (a little more intensely than he normally would after all the sweets he ate) and washes his face, he makes his way back out. Y/N sighed, “Thank god,” she murmured, “I needed to wash this off my face like forever ago.”

Harry snorted, “Sorry, babe. It was weirdly humid in the exhibit, I felt like I was sweating my ass off.”

Y/N doesn’t stay around for his reasoning and he’s thankful because he’s positive that she would have seen how bright his cheeks got at being halfway called out. Harry rumples his lips once he hears the sink turn on while she washes off the mask, and Harry crawls into bed. He snuggled up under his blanket, hooked his phone to the charger, and scrolled through Twitter. Once Y/N came back, she clicked the lights off and dove into her bed across from him, sighing contentedly once she was comfortable under her blankets.

Harry thinks it should be out of his system by now, honestly, because he came not even ten minutes ago but now something bubbles and itches beneath his skin. She’s just there, across from him, and Harry wondered if he could get something started like he did last night. But how does he go about it? He’s usually a bit more suave with conquests but Y/N isn’t a conquest. Hell, he isn’t even really sure what he wants from her! He wants to make up for what he’s said to her and how he’s treated her, he wants to at least be friends with her, at the very least just be friendly with her. But Harry just can’t shake this pressing need to touch her, to taste her, to make it better that way. He wants to soothe away any angst between them with the very same tongue that lashed so much hate toward her. Wants to make her forget any negative connotations she might have had with his mouth.

“Y/N?” He tries to keep his voice calm and measured – indifferent, even, so she doesn't feel pressured, and she hums to let him know that she is listening, “Do you want me to eat you out again?”

There was a pause, it felt like the room was holding its breath waiting for her response. He’s playing with his hands over the covers, avoiding looking at her, but when he hears the mattress creak and her head slide against the pillow to look at him, Harry turns to face her.

“Again?” Her brows are raised, and there’s this look on her face that suggests she’s genuinely surprised – he doesn’t blame her. If the roles were reversed he’d probably be pretty confused too, since there had been nothing leading up to this sudden desire to. All he’d done was see her in pajamas then take a shower. . .there was nothing flirty or suggestive. A couple of weeks ago he hated the thought of being around her, and now he was asking to taste her for the second time in just two nights.

He nods, his face feels hot and he wonders if his ears betray him, glowing red, “Yeah, again.”

“But why?” Her head tilts a little, “I mean, I guess what I’m wondering is what you get out of it? Even last night I was the one who wanted you to cum with me and you were fine with just. . .with just cumming in your pants.”

Harry feels embarrassed now, more so than before, and he wants to shrivel back beneath the covers, “I just like it and I want to,” he tells her truthfully, “If you don’t want it, that’s fine.”

“No, I – I want to,” she sits up in bed, turning toward him more, “I do. Just, nobody has ever wanted to get me off that badly.” She clears her throat a little, “You really want to? It isn’t because you’re feeling guilty? Because if it is you know you could just buy me brekkie every once in a while, you don’t have to force yourself to do anything.”

This would be easier to sort through if it was only because I was feeling guilty, is what Harry wants to say, but he doesn’t, “I’m definitely not forcing myself to do anything. I really want to,” is how he replies instead. Harry would grovel – he’d buy her breakfast and he’d be extra kind to her and he’d invite her over to take control of his projector for whatever Korean drama she wanted to put on – but he didn’t necessarily need to make it up in a sexual way. What, was he going to eat her out every night until he felt like he’d made it up to her? As delightful as being snug between her thighs sounded, he knew that wasn’t a feasible way to correct a friendship. This was a more. . .selfish desire of his.

Still, he pulls the blankets off of him in the bed, and takes the short two steps between their beds before he kneels up on hers again, “You’ve been with shite blokes if nobody has wanted to get you off.”

Y/N takes in a shaky breath, watching as he pulls up the blankets and reveals her body beneath it, still in her shirt but she’d shrugged the pajama bottoms off after climbing in, “I just sometimes wonder if your amygdala is confusing anger and arousal or something.” He presses the hem of her shirt up, uncovering ribbed, cotton panties that fit snugly around her hips, “Like your neurons are misfiring.”

“I don’t get it either,” he replied truthfully, lowering down between her spread thighs, “I reckon it’s needless to question though. Isn’t this a nice change compared to what our relationship was before?”

Harry does wonder why he was able to give up that remaining dislike for her so quickly; the way Niall puts it is that Harry isn’t as big of an asshole as he tries to make himself out to be, but he hardly thinks that’s the reason. And Harry had never considered himself one of those knob-headed pricks who disliked someone because they wanted to fuck them so badly either – no, he thinks his feelings were legitimate. He didn’t like Y/N at the start, and up until a month or two ago, he had only thought of her in a negative light.

But he had no true basis for these feelings – he thinks that’s the difference. The feelings were easily evaporated because he had no reason to dislike her, other than some twisted form of envy and annoyance that he handled like a child. Y/N had always played into it before – always ribbed him back, countered his verbal attacks and eye rolls, so he’d always thought they were in the same boat. When she called him out on it though – when he was able to look past his own shitty way of dealing with emotions, he’d realized how stupid they were.

He remembers the first time they did something like this, fueled by anger, the passion and distaste for one another mixing and merging into a confusing feeling. Harry remembers how well she took to him teasing and taunting her; how even though she was whining, she squeezed and pulsed around nothing. How wet she was, dripping and slicking up her thighs, tightening up around her fingers. Does she like it when he’s rougher with her or more tender? Does she want him to tease her or give her what she wants?

Harry doesn’t really waste much time getting into it. He presses kisses around the waistband of her panties, sucking and nipping at the skin but not hard enough to leave marks. Y/N readjusts her hips when Harry’s large palms encompass them, squeezing her when he plucks at the elastic with his teeth. Last night he was driven by guilt and the need to apologize – he didn’t feel that tonight. This was different, more carnal, and when he runs the flat of his tongue up her slit and she sighs out like it’s the best thing she’s ever felt – that’s what drives him now.

He finds his place and pace easily since it has been just under 24 hours since they were last in this position. Y/N tastes just as good as she did the night prior, while his tongue separates her folds around it, slick and warm. Her voice wavers when she moans, the hand beside her head curls up in the pillow she’s lying on and her thighs twitch like she wants to close them. There’s a familiarity there now that Harry can appreciate; he remembers what makes her hips spasm and her breathing stutter. How when he finally tightens his lips around her clit and sucks, she gasps and reaches down to thread her fingers through his hair.

Despite himself, he needs a breath at some point, so he pulls off with a deep breath but replaces his tongue with his fingers for the time being. Y/N watched him closely, just as he wanted her to last night, and her lips pouted out, “What?” He probed, “I need to breathe too.”

“You really won’t fuck me?” Y/N says, still pouting, “You won’t even try?”

Harry stares at her for a second, his fingers never stopping the swirl over her swollen button, “Don’t you want that to be special?” He inquired, “It’d be your first time, hm? You want that with a dick who routinely makes you angry?”

She frowns, “It being special isn’t important to me, I just want it to be good,” she reasoned with him, “And I feel like you would make it good, wouldn’t you? You know what you’re doing.”

He tries to ignore how his cock twitches, heat renewed and coiling in his lower belly as he slows his fingers down. He paints the pad of his forefinger up and down her slit, pausing at her hole, where she’s wet and a little drippy, “Hmmm,” he pretends to think about it – Harry would if she wanted to; he wasn’t one to ignore his more base desires if consent was given and both parties were willing – but he also hadn’t been lying back when he said he didn’t fuck virgins. Harry was big, and he wasn’t trying to stroke himself off when he said it – he was hard to take in, for men and women alike. If Harry was going to fuck her, he feels like they would need to build up to that – it would take time and effort, and he thinks it would give her a good amount of time to decide if this is something she really wants. Or if she was just running high off post-show endorphins and their newfound friendship.

“I do know what I’m doing,” he murmured, letting a single finger sink in down to the knuckle and Y/N sucks in a sharp breath, “And I know that your tiny little pussy couldn’t handle me straight off, hm? Remember how I said I’d need to train you to take me?” She nods, her heels digging into the mattress, “If that’s what you want, then we’ll start slow. I’ll fuck you open with one finger tonight and if you take them well, we’ll do two next time, hm? And work up all the way until I can just slide my cock right inside.”

Even with a single finger, her walls are tight around him, a snug fit that milks around it. He kisses her clit, gentle and slow, his mouth slightly parted and his tongue out. Harry doesn’t mind being noisy with it, slurping, curling his finger, and finding the spot his fingers had been acquainted with in the studio when he bent her over the barre. Harry is already throbbing in his briefs again, despite just having gotten off, but her taste, the sounds leaving her mouth, and how tight she feels around just a single finger.

It doesn’t take her long to get close, and when he really puts effort in fucking into her, Y/N’s hips twitch, “I’m going to –” she gasps out, “Harry, I’m going to cum”

He pulls his tongue away, “Should I let you?”

“Yes,” she frowns like she couldn’t believe he would even suggest a possibility where she didn’t cum, and there’s a flood of arousal that smacks into him — it makes him want to make her wait. Makes him want to edge her until she’s trembling and begging and thinks that he’s not going to let her cum at all.

But he isn’t that mean, is the thing, especially when he hears, “Yes, please.”

So Harry lets her. He sucks her clit back into his mouth and heavily pets the spongy bundle inside of her until she milks his fingers, her thighs fighting to close around his head, her back arching just slightly, a whimpered noise pulling from her throat. Harry watches her with a keen eye because she’s just so fucking cute he could barely stand it, and keeps up the movement of his lips and fingers until she’s pushing his head away, “No more, no more,” she shakes her head, and Harry titters, lulling his tongue over his mouth, “I – fuck,”

Harry pushes a kiss that is maybe a little too tender to her hip, pulling back just enough so that he can flop the blankets over her lower half, “You’re sensitive,” he noted, “That’s cute. You look pretty when you cum too.”

“Shut up,” she frowns, “Am I better at cumming or dancing? Be honest.”

“You’re best at being a dummy.”

Harry retrieves a warm cloth for her to wipe her up, though Y/N takes it from his hand to do it herself without hesitation. She shivers, still slightly out of breath, and Harry feels a sense of pride bubble beneath his skin and his cock twitch absently in his boxers, “Did you mean it?” She inquired as Harry crawled back into bed, willing his stiffy away – he didn’t need to cum twice in a night, he hardly believed he deserved it. If Y/N weren’t asking to see it then he’d just think of wet parsley or something until it finally settled out, “About training me for it? Or was that just dirty talk?”

He turns to face her again and the way they resumed their positions, it looks like neither of them had left bed.

“If it’s something that you’re interested in,” he explained, “I’d be willing.”

She made a noise in her throat, “Okay,” she murmured, “Yeah, I think that would be fine. I’ve waited so long to lose it, I think I made it up in my head that it needed to be special, but virginity is a social construct made to make women feel impure when they aren’t. Why contribute to that?” She sighs, “Plus, I feel like as soon as someone finds out, they’ll cheat me out of a good time and expect me to believe that I shouldn’t enjoy the first time – I’ve heard horror stories about that. As obnoxious as you are, you’ve always been. . .adept at getting me worked up. I think it would be good, and beneficial for both of us.”

“What a very pragmatic approach,” Harry can’t help how his tone is filled with taunting mirth, “Feels like I’m speaking to a politician.”

“You know what, never mind, I’ll find someone else.” She huffed.

. . .

The rest of the trip was pleasant. On their last day on the trip, he and Y/N order breakfast from room service and are pleasantly surprised with the quality of it. Really, Harry is the one who orders the brekkie, because Y/N sleeps in relatively late he finds out when she’s got nowhere to be. There were several times he thought she had woken up, but she merely stirred for a couple of seconds and her breathing evened out again, so Harry just quietly pads about the room. He tries to get his suitcase somewhat reorganized for when they leave tomorrow morning, so he doesn’t have to rush around and do it all tonight (which Y/N will undoubtedly have to do).

When Y/N still wasn’t awake around 9 AM, he ordered them food. He remembers a few of the things Y/N likes to eat for breakfast, one of which includes french toast and this hotel in particular had a strawberries and creme flavor. With her perpetual sweet tooth, he thought she might enjoy it, so he gets her that and a smoothie and himself avocado toast. Once it arrives around 40 minutes later, he finally relents and wakes her up himself, “Oi,” he pats her shoulder first, then rubs it just a little, “Wake up, I got us food.”

“Mm?” Her face is stuffed into her pillow and halfway covered by the downy feather blanket tucked around her body. Y/N’s hand emerges, she pats around blindly for a little while then makes a disgruntled sound in the back of her throat, “Custard?” It’s muffled and a little warbly but Harry does make out the kitten’s name. He holds back a giggle, his hand still on her shoulder as he pats her again.

“Try again.” This encourages Y/N to pop her face from the blankets, her brows furrowed.

“You’re not small and furry.” She whined, but Harry only rolled his eyes.

“It’s time to eat, Lazy,” he waddles back over to the trays of food, plucking hers up from where he’d balanced it on the edge of the TV stand and bringing it back over to her, “Then you can go back to bed if you want.”

“What time is it?”

“20 minutes till 10.”

Her eyes widen, as much as they can still sleep swollen and puffy, and she presses herself up from the mattress, “Oh my god, why’d you let me sleep so long?”

“You were clearly tired –”

“You still hate me, I knew it,” she knuckled her eyes, sighing dramatically, “Adam is going to beat my ass, he wanted to go for a walk before sunrise.”

Harry scrunched his nose, “Oof, well you missed that by a long shot didn’t you?” Y/N glares at him, frowning, and he holds out her tray again, “Eat and then plead for his forgiveness. You can’t grovel on an empty tummy.”

Eating breakfast is an unintentionally domestic affair, when they’re both in their respective beds forking food into their mouths. Y/N is still clearly trying to become one with the world again, but her blinks are still slow and syrupy as she tries to reacclimate to being awake. Harry doesn’t try to start a conversation, just scrolls through his phone, but the silence isn’t the same stiff, tense air that used to hang between them. It was surprisingly comfortable.

Y/N’s phone starts vibrating and she digs around in the blankets before she finally finds it, sliding it open and pushing it on speaker so she can keep eating, “Hi traitor,” Adam’s voice rings through the speaker, “I enjoyed a refreshing, pre-sunrise walk alone, the weather was beautiful.”

“Adam, I got an alert that said it was 4°C (40°F), so I know you were freezing your ass off.”

He scoffs on the other end, “Well, maybe I was, but that doesn’t excuse the fact you abandoned me,” he breathes out a sigh, “I know you and Harry have finally worked it out halfway, whether that was by fucking like you’ve wanted to or –”

Y/N fumbles to grab for her phone, taking him off speaker with wild eyes as she shoves it against her ear, “Shut up!” She all but squeaks and Harry can’t help the laugh that bubbles from his chest, “Listen, I messaged you that I was sorry! I was going to buy you something good to eat for being such a good sport about it and not blowing my phone up, but now I’m unsure.” She glanced over in Harry’s direction, and her face immediately sours when he sees the shit eating-grin on his face, “God, you’ve got a loud mouth sometimes, d’ya know that?”

Once she got off the phone with him, Harry just can’t help himself, “You’ve talked about wanting to fuck me?”

“But you wanted to?” He is still smiling.

“What I want is to smother you with a pillow.”

“You’re obnoxious,” she groans, “I can’t tell if you hating me was better than you not.”

The rest of the day goes by somewhat in a blur – Adam, despite his previous whinging, had invited Y/N to try this Mediterranean place for lunch and told her to invite Harry too. Besides a few comments here and there, everyone has seemed to accept this merge of each other into one another’s life seamlessly. it was welcomed, even, and Harry wondered just how much everyone had suffered in the face of his anger and envy.

Their dynamic is still. . .different; they haven’t had the chance to truly flesh it out, Harry feels. They are in that middle ground of rivals warily stepping into a friendship, so he isn’t sure what his place is, especially among her friends. Mei isn’t there, so it’s a little better and he doesn’t feel like a fourth wheel, which is a little worse than feeling like a third wheel (having three people who are willing to ignore you in favor of each other as opposed to two is just a little shittier) but he doesn’t even feel like that.

Y/N, despite all the things he had found wrong with her in the first couple of months of knowing her, had a lot of good attributes too. One of which, he finds, is never letting another person feel left out. If there’s an inside joke Adam or she brings up at lunch, she’ll turn to explain it to him thoroughly so he’s in on the giggle (even if it isn’t that funny, he appreciates the sentiment). They discuss things that Y/N knew Harry had some knowledge of, from pop culture to their show the other night, to Christopher and Dasia’s neverending toxic romance. There’s still banter (just because he’s being kinder now, doesn’t mean his tongue has softened) but now when they go back and forth with each other, Adam isn’t looking at them both with horror written in his gaze.

Adam does eventually get his walk with Y/N, though it isn’t during sunrise, they amble through a little cobblestone part of the town with small shops with a variety of different themes from European spices to Gothic, whimsical witch stores. Thankfully the sun was out, warming them in the chilly weather. Harry could appreciate how Y/N looks in a thick jumper, with sleeves that fall over the palms of her hands, and arms wrapped tight around her body when a particularly cold breeze whistles past them. Harry’s fingers twitch at his sides – he wants to brush the hair from her face when the wind blows it into her eye, but he refrains. It’s the same itch he got when she was sick with a fever, and she’d fallen asleep with it covering her cheeks and over her nose. Harry thinks he must have brushed the hair from her face for about five minutes, even when the hair was no longer covering her – then he was just caressing her hairline tenderly.

And he really couldn’t do that without a slew of questions being thrown at him, so he just looked straight ahead again and tried to tune into the conversation.

There is something Harry can do with his hands now though – something that they discussed last night. Something that he’s sure will quell this odd, newly developed urge to brush the hair from her face, loop his fingers around her wrist, or hold her how he was able to during the show. Going from having his hands all over her hips and waist and legs all day, nearly every day practicing for the show to never having his hands on her at all. . .was sudden and slightly disconcerting. That must be the reason he’s feeling this pressing itch to have his hands on her all of the time – why for two nights in a row, all he wanted was to be snuggled between her thighs with his mouth on her.

All of this was so confusing, and a little overwhelming, and Harry wondered if these wants and feelings had always lingered within him but he’d refused to let them surface.

That didn’t matter though. What mattered, was after they had returned from running around all day with Adam (and eventually Niall, who complained that he hadn’t been invited out for lunch but was placated by them trying an “authentic Irish restaurant” for dinner), Harry had inquired if she wanted him to make her cum again. Y/N’s eyes nearly popped out of her head from how wide they grew.

“Do you get off on getting other people off?” She asks him, bewildered, “This will be the third night in a row, you’re really spoiling me.”

Harry feels his face heat up but refuses to let her know how embarrassed he is for being so desperate for it, “Well, I’ll only have myself to blame when you start acting like a spoiled brat then, won’t I?”

“Are you going to – are we starting like, you stretching me out and everything?” Y/N is kicking off her shoes, rolling her socks off her feet as she plops down on the hotel bed. Harry lounges across from her, one of his legs kicked up on the mattress as he leans into his pillows.

“You want my cock so bad, you think we need to get started right away?”

“You know what, stuff it, I’m not letting you tonight.”

Harry would have taken the loss since he never really did know when to shut his mouth, but after Y/N gets out of the shower (she “allowed” Harry to go first this time, since she did the night prior), she’s dropping down on his mattress and looking expectantly. Harry could have teased her about it, made her work for it, made her ask him instead of looking at him and assuming he’d connect the dots himself – but he didn’t think he should test her patience any more than he already had. He patted her calf and motioned for her to sit up higher on the bed, leaning against his pillows, and while he didn’t make her request it verbally, he did playfully murmur, “I knew you’d change your mind.”

“I’ll change it back just as fast.”

Before she could do that, Harry slid his hand over her right thigh, his palm flattened against the inside and he squeezed gently and then moved to hook them in the waistband of her bottoms, “Mm, how many have I put in you, huh? Just one so far right?”

She shakes her head quickly, “No, I’ve had two before! The first time – when you. . .over the barre.”

“Oh, when I finger fucked you over the barre?” He wriggles the fabric down her thighs, over her knees, and down her legs. Harry shouldn’t be surprised by the lack of underwear, but for some reason he still is – she must have forgone them, knowing she was going to ask him to go through with it. Her pussy is still so pretty to him; a feast for his gaze, all swollen and wet, like she’d been working herself up in the shower. Harry’s mouth waters like he’s been Pavlov'd into the response every time he looks between her thighs. Distantly he heard her complain about him being vulgar but he can’t really focus on it.

Harry leans forward and spits over her slit, reveling in the sharp gasp she sucks into her chest. The saliva drips down over her clit, swollen and begging for attention, so Harry meets it with the pad of his thumb and rolls over it in tight circles. Her thighs twitch but he uses his free hand to keep her pressed open, shushing her when she makes a little noise in her throat, that sounds awfully close to a complaint, “No whining,” he chastises but there’s not much strength behind it, “You should take what you’re given gratefully. . .or are you still a rude little brat you don’t know how to do that?”

He’s testing the waters – his gaze flickers up to her, reading her expression. If she seemed even a little put off by it he would back down, be more tender with her, and more careful with his words. But Y/N, as he recalls, loved the teasing even when they didn’t really like each other. Harry remembered how she squeezed his fingers tightly any time he taunted her, threatened to leave her wet and needy.

And she seems to like it now when her perfect pussy clenches in front of him, beckoning his attention and expressing her wants, though her face is pouted, “Please?” She tried, instead of her usual tactic of telling him to shut the fuck up or reminding him that he’s mean. Harry doesn’t know if it was strategic or not, but it does yank at his heart slightly and presses him into action.

It’s like she sucks his finger in when he slides his index down knuckle deep inside of her. Y/N squeezes and pulses around him like it's the first time anything has been inside of her; her walls feel like they’re inspecting the intrusion, accommodating it, coaxing it deeper so it strokes against the bundle of nerves inside of her. The moan that leaves her is high and needy, her legs falling out wider for him while he watches the rim squeeze and tighten around the base. Harry has to check his own desperation – what he’d give to push the head of his cock inside of her – just the tip, letting her warm him.

But the tip would lead him to sink his hips in, down to his balls, to feel the sticky, wet cling of her juices against the tender skin. God, he’s so excited about it he could almost bust in his pants. It’s hard to be patient and when Harry’s horny, he’s horny right then, he wants to get it taken care of. Of course, he’ll put in as much effort as he can to make sure his partner is pleased as well, but his goal next to that is to cum. And right then, when he curls his finger up and presses right into the spot that has her sucking in a sharp breath and rocking her hips down, his bloated cock twitches again. A blurt of precum wets the fabric of his briefs – by the end of this, he’ll probably be just as wet, messy, and desperate as she is.

He would be patient though – he wasn’t going to rush this. Y/N deserves patience from him, after so long of her not even getting a fraction of his tolerance before, he wants to make this good for her. Though it isn’t something Y/N considers special, he knows a shoddy first time could ruin the outlook on sex entirely, and he refuses to give her a shitty first fuck.

This helps too, with working out all the unresolved tension that still lingers between them sometimes. It isn’t the hatred, anger, or envy. . .it was something else entirely. Something that Harry hadn’t really felt routinely until all of that was stripped away – what made him finger fuck her over the barre, what made Niall beg and plead for them to just fuck their emotions out and get it over with. Something that manifests in the air with them, when Harry’s drinking up her body with his gaze, wondering how he could lash her with such horrible words when she’s so cute like this.

Her hand is at her mouth, her knuckle nestled between her teeth but it does little to filter out the sounds she’s making so he doesn’t chastise her for it. The lips around them should be pretty and swollen from his kissing, he thinks, but maybe he’ll explore that later. Nip and bite and suckle until they’re slick with his spit and filled up with blood beneath the sensitive skin, making them brighter, and pinker.

Harry started to move his finger, rubbing loosely now over her clit and leaning forward. He wonders if it looks as desperate as it feels when he bends down to take her nipple into his mouth through the fabric of her shirt. The cloth immediately dampens from his saliva and Y/N’s moaning a sound so lewd and wanton he thinks he could have cum in his pants if he were pushing up against the mattress. Her nipples had already pebbled beneath her clothes so that’s how he could easily spot them, pulling it into his mouth and running his teeth over them, biting down. He could be a little rougher because there was a barrier between them, and finally, Y/N’s hands came to meet him at some capacity. The fingers of her left-hand thread through his hair, squeezing tight near the scalp, and her other hand meets his shoulder blade, her fingertips pinching down into the lean muscle.

He’s much closer to the source of her moaning and whimpering, so he even picks up on the little sounds that barely escape her throat. Harry balances himself on his knees, his legs are snuggled around her waist but her thighs lay over his so he can keep his finger inside of her. Her own knees are pulled closer to her chest, feet dangling in the air on either side of him – Harry isn’t even into feet, but he wants to bite at her ankles and make her squeal.

As he swaps from one nipple to the other, Harry cradles the other with his free hand, withdraws his finger, and slips a second inside. The fit is tight; Y/N’s moan and rut of her hips say she wants it but the way her cunt squeezes and pulses, he could tell it felt like too much, “Let me do the work,” he popped off of her chest to chastise her gently when she was trying to fuck herself down further, “Fuck, you gotta relax baby, or I’ll never be able to stretch you out.”

“It just feels so good,” she mewled, a pout deep in her mouth and her hands hovering just outside of it – Y/N looks positively fucked out from one-and-a-half fingers inside of her. Harry is enamored by the blown look of her pupils, the muss of her hair, and her lips looking a little too normal. And that was enough to drive him to kiss her.

At first, it’s just a peck, then he nudges his nose against hers, “I know baby,” he soothes, “Let me in, hm? It’ll feel even better.”

It takes some time, and the smooth glide of their mouths together, before Harry finally feels her walls give. He sinks his second finger inside and as her reward, immediately curls them both into the nerves. Y/N sighed into his mouth once he bottomed out, then keens at the steady press to her G-spot – he could tell she wanted to wrap both her legs around him but she could only hook around his left side, while the right was impeded by the arm doing all the work.

“Good girl,” he praised her and she all but melted through a whimper, while his fingers twisted and stretched around inside of her – she was so wet, his fingers squelched around as he moved inside, and he swears he could feel her getting wetter, drenching him, “Oh, you liked that didn’t you?” He murmured, and she nodded, but still had sense enough to look shy about it, “Hmm, poor Y/N, you just wanna be praised all day don’t you? While we’re all working hard practicing, are you trying so hard to get compliments so you can get this filthy pussy wet?”

Her eyes widen, and she shakes her head, opening her mouth to protest but when Harry’s thumb speeds up around her clit, a broken-off moan rattles through her, “Yeah, I bet,” he continued, while she bucks her hips down on him and he doesn’t stop her this time, “Probably leave fucking drenched ‘cos the instructors telling you how good you are, hm? And all our classmates? I can only imagine the state of your panties afterward.”

“I’m not –” she breathes out, “I’m not a pervert! I don’t – I know how to keep a hold of myself.”

“Who said anything about that, hm? You can’t help what you like to hear,” he raises back up and spits over her again, the sound of his fingers fucking into her is much much sloppier and he contemplates adding a third now that she’s finally eased up around him. When he lets his ring finger dance along the entrance, Y/N’s eyes widen, “You think you could fit another?”

“I think – I think so,” she nodded, “I’ll definitely cum if you do.”

Harry squeezes in a third, rocking his fingers back and forth as he wiggles it inside beside the other two. He flips up her pajama shirt and reveals her swollen nipples, still pert from the previous attention. Harry holds his other hand out to her mouth and instructs her to lick, so she does. She rolls her pink tongue over the pads, down the knuckle – Harry thinks if he sunk these fingers into her mouth she’d be perfectly content having both her holes filled. She’d look so cute, he thinks, and the thought of her being content and full and warm makes his heart flutter. It’s something he’d have to explore later.

He uses these wet fingers to pinch, pull, and play with her tits while he spreads out his three fingers the most he can. But she gobbles him up and sucks him in – the squeeze is tight but she wants it so badly, Harry thinks if he stopped moving his fingers she would do all the work trying to fuck herself down onto him (not without some complaining, but it sounds pretty while she moans).

Harry can tell – he can feel it before she cums. The pulsations around his fingers get more frequent and the leg hooked around his right hip tightens, and she’s simultaneously trying to roll her hips closer to him, then away, “Harry,” she breathes out, her hand grips his forearm, and he wondered if she could feel the muscles shift as he continues his ministrations, “Please, please, please.”

“See, if I knew you begged as pretty as this, maybe I would’ve gotten my head out of my ass sooner, hm?” He looks down where they meet, then back at Y/N, who watches him through lidded eyes threatening to close, “God, I want to fucking taste you again, my mouth is watering so badly.”

Apparently, this is all she needed to be sent over the edge. Her moans grow louder, she tries to muffle them against her palm but Harry pulls it away and replaces it with his mouth. They can’t be too loud – their walls are paper thin, and he isn’t necessarily interested in getting a noise complaint – so he swallows these pretty little noises, deep and warm in his belly. Her body draws up tight, quivering and shaking, and she’s useless trying to kiss right now, her lips slow, meeting him and then parting her lips to suck in air and mewl. Harry’s cock is leaking so much in his pants he’s sure there’s a huge spot on his briefs now – he’s drippy and wet, and the thought of his cock replacing his fingers is almost enough to make him nearly cum untouched.

She gets wetter around his fingers, she trembles around him as he presses kisses to her mouth, wanting to pepper them all over her face but refraining. Harry works her through it, as long as it seems, only slowing down when all the tension oozes from her muscles, her thighs twitch and the hand holding his wrist loosens. He thinks she could probably melt through the mattress if he let her.

Harry is glad to have gotten her off – he was going to run and take care of his own problem after he cleaned her up, but when he even made the effort to move, Y/N’s other leg finally looped around his waist and she held him in place. She whined again, this time more in protest than pleasure, “Don’t leave,” she frowned at him, “Want to see you do it.”

He blinked a couple of times, her words sinking in, and Harry decided it wasn’t worth it to waste time. He reaches into his pants and briefs and pulls out his cock. When he lets go of it for a second, it slaps up against his tummy, hard and dripping, the tip a swollen red from being neglected. Harry hisses when he gets a hand around his cock – the same one covered in his spit and her juices and pumps himself at a relatively quick pace to start. Y/N seems entranced, or she’s just still sleepy from her own orgasm, but she watches intently and keeps him locked between her legs tightly.

Harry came, sticky and wet, shot after shot that collided with her belly and drools over his knuckles. He groaned low in his throat, it rumbled through his chest, and when his eyes (that he’d not realized had closed) fluttered open, Y/N was still looking at him.

“You always cum so much,” she remarked, rolling the pads of her fingers through the puddles and stripes on her belly, “You must be really pent up.”

“Says the virgin.”

The foot that was nestled against his lower back, lifts up and kicks him. Harry grunts and falls forward a bit, “Jesus,” he sighed, “You’re so rough with me.”

By the time they are both cleaned up (Harry has to strip the loose sheet off his bed, which makes him smile but Y/N whines about being embarrassed), they’re in their respective beds. Harry had never realized how much of a cuddler post-sex he was until it didn’t necessarily feel like an option. He knew that he and Y/N had snuggled up close together before, but it was different to initiate it when they were both awake.

So instead, he just holds his pillow close to his body, spooning that rather than the warm body he has vague memories of cuddling close with the night before their show.

It isn’t as good.

. . .

Autumn mornings are always nice; the smell in the air is something Harry couldn’t quite compare to anything else other than fall. The air is crisp, biting at his cheeks and flushing them pink, whipping his hair around with each gust of wind that brings promises of chillier weather. Harry thinks jogging during this time of year is always quite calming, especially when he’s up just before the sun and the sky is a gentle hazy glow. He usually has his headphones in but if he doesn’t, then the only sounds are the tap of his feet against the pavement, his breathing, the birds that haven’t fled for the winter yet.

Harry feels content on mornings like these, and they are typically essential to decompressing before they start practicing for the winter showcase. He goes between jogging and walking for about three kilometers, in one large loop around the dorm, through a trail at a park nearby, and since he passes by the cafe near the dorm he usually stops in. However, today, instead of stopping by the cafe he realizes that he’s about to pass by the bakery Y/N briefly mentioned the other day.

And usually, Harry runs right past it. Doesn’t even think twice about what they might have in there actually, because he’s forced himself into the mindset that sweets should be reserved for special occasions. Treats are treats because they aren’t often – they’re something out of the ordinary that can bring someone joy. If you have them all the time, then they aren’t treats anymore, they’re just a precursor to a dentist seat and multiple fillings in different teeth. He’d done his fair share of dealing in refined sugars while they were out of town, so he’d been planning on doing some form of cleanse to reboot his body and hopefully reduce any bloat or general heaviness he might feel otherwise.

So why was he slowing to a stop in front of the bakery door? Harry really didn’t have a good answer, as he fits his hand around the knob and tugs it open, the bells hanging on the handle clinking together brightly. It’s still early enough that he’s certain only one person is there right now, working hard to get fresh pieces of bread, muffins, and croissants on the warming trays in the glass display cases. The smell alone is enough to make his mouth water; maybe he would get a little something. Technically, he hadn’t started his cleanse at full force yet – he could still afford to get something warm and apple-y. Maybe he would even try his hand at being nice and get Y//N something too, she would like that.

Because now that there isn’t a reason to see her every day, Harry is having trouble coming up with one without feeling like he’s trying too hard or being annoying. Harry isn’t trying to be a dick about it, it just takes a lot for him to come out and ask someone to spend time with him – even with Niall, who he’s known forever, Harry prefers that he make the first move in the request. He’s sure it says something about him and a fear of rejection or whatever, but he’s never taken the time to psychoanalyze himself over it, so he doesn’t. And nobody had really forced himself to either – Niall always makes the first suggestion, and eventually, others figured out that was how they could become friends with Harry. If they extended a hand, typically he would take it.

(Unless you were some random ballet prodigy who started on a whim and he didn’t know how to deal with the realization he wasn’t truly the best in the class anymore, then he’d bite the hand.)

Y/N isn’t doing that though – he thinks Y/N is waiting for him to come to her, and he doesn’t blame her. Why should she want to exert any effort in their friendship when the first time she tried, she’d been graced with months and months' worth of verbal attacks and passive-aggressive tendencies? Harry wouldn’t want to try again either, so he understood where she was coming from, probably more than she would realize. And since this is such a unique situation for them, and one Harry had never really experienced before, he figured that he could at least make an attempt. He would be nonchalant about it, to not make it weird – he’d scan the danishes, pick one that seemed suitable to her taste, then stop it by her dorm. Or. . .no, maybe he would just bring it to their studio today and she could eat it during their break. Would that be too much? He really isn’t in the mood for the rumors, so maybe he should get Niall something too.

“Good morning!” A voice, all too bright and chipper for Harry’s dilemma, rings through the small bakery. Harry is affronted with Felix, the one with the nice smile and the smattering of freckles over his cheeks – the guy who Y/N was apparently close enough with that he could go to her dorm without her being there. It was no secret that this guy was sweet, and at first, Harry was overwhelmingly suspicious about it. A sweet baker was a little too cliche and raised all sorts of red flags to him when he’d first come here with Niall. He was certain he was probably a stalker, or a killer of some sort until he was walking by an alleyway and saw him filling a small tin of food for a couple of stray cats that were meowing at his feet. And then again, when he watched him handing out extra food from the bakery to a homeless shelter a couple of blocks away.

Felix was genuinely kind, he could see why Y/N would trust him with Custard, and for some reason that makes a hot and itchy feeling fizzle beneath his skin. One that he’d felt when Y/N brought him up the first time, that is unearthing itself again long since Harry had snuffed out the flame a couple of hours afterward when he was wondering why he hadn’t been graced with freckles.

Charming Felix, with his charming voice, and his charming pink mouth and pretty smile – if Y/N had a crush on him, Harry would get it. Why did even give a fuck about that though? Y/N hadn’t even given any indication that she could have feelings for him like that, but. . .Harry could just see it! Why wouldn’t Y/N have soft, tender feelings for this guy? Why wouldn’t Y/N want him to take her virginity, why was she asking Harry?

“What can I get you today?” Felix seems undeterred by the furrow Harry knew was on his brows, wiping flour off his hands with an orange rag, “I just took some pumpkin bread out of the oven, if you’re interested.” His smile is bright and Harry is feeling very inadequate and lackluster in comparison – what a horrible idea to come in here! He isn’t used to feeling anything less than confident, normally, and when he does his knee-jerk reaction is to be an asshole.

But where did that get him before? Absolutely nowhere.

So he clears his throat, and tries to soothe the irritation from his brows, “Um, yeah, I’ll take that then,” he replied, “I’ll take the whole loaf.”

And maybe Harry has to jog the rest of the way home with a loaf of pumpkin bread and the companion frosting in his arms – maybe it is inconvenient, and he’s wondering how he’s supposed to present this to Y/N. He tries not to overthink it too much, but maybe he should have, because now he’s standing at Y/N’s door, half past six in the morning waiting for her to open the door. She should be awake because their studio time starts in just a little over an hour, but Harry started getting nervous, thinking maybe it would have been wise to message her beforehand. Even if it was a kind gesture, who wants to be pulled from sleep for pumpkin bread?

The door opens, just a crack at first until Y/N realizes who it is, and then her shoulders sink as she relaxes, “Oh thank god,” she brushed the hair from her face, “I thought you were a killer or something.”

“So you opened the door?” He pressed, but Y/N didn’t bother replying to him. Instead, she blinks, points at the loaf in his hand and her head tilted to the side just a little bit. Harry holds it out for her, “This is for you.”

Her brows raise, “For me?”

“Yes,” he agreed, “I was on a run and stopped by the bakery – he said that he made too much, so he gave it to me for free.” It was a lie, Harry actually spent close to fifteen on it but he wouldn’t tell her that. He doesn’t know why he felt like he needed to lie about it – honestly, he doesn’t know why he feels so giddy about seeing her either. If this was the trade-off from blindly hating her, then he wasn’t sure if he liked this much at all; his palms felt sweaty, and he felt slightly out of his body when a smile grew over her mouth.

“Thank you,” she held her hands out to receive it, “But aren’t you always the one talking about how refined sugar is the devil?”

Harry’s face almost immediately sours, and he reaffirmed his grip on the box, “You know what, maybe I’ll give it to Niall –”

“No!” She rushed, plucking it from his hands and shaking her head, “Nooo, come on, I was just teasing! Thank you, thank you,” she took it from his hands, “I’m – do you want to come in and we can eat some together? Custard says she misses you.”

Harry pauses – he should really go get ready for their class, but. . .well, he doesn’t think a couple of minutes would hurt, right

. . .

“Hmm, maybe I was right before,” Harry sighs, “We’re all working hard in class, and you’re just getting wet over being praised. It’s kind of filthy of you, isn’t it?”

Harry is quick to find that being friends with Y/N is kind of like a trade-off. Since he’d extended his hand first, Y/N was the second to do it, so after they had eaten pumpkin bread together she asked him if he’d be willing to go to a haunted house. At first, he thinks she’s going to use Adam and Mei as an excuse – she opens up the offer by saying they’re both pleased that she and Harry had sorted out their differences well enough to spend time together because they all wanted to hang out as a group. Mei, Niall, Adam, Harry, and Y/N as a unit rather than this disjointed, fragmented friendship because the two of them hated each other’s guts (and Harry feels a gnawing guilt again, that it was his fault they couldn’t all coexist happily together).

Harry probably would have left it there, if it was him – he wouldn’t have added the part where he admits that he wanted to hang out with her too, but Y/N doesn’t omit the fact.

“I think it’s nice that we can hang out now without wanting to kill each other,” she tells him, “Plus, I have more fun with you than I thought I’d be able to! You always came off as some stiff, prude-ish asshole, but you’re a way better time than that.”

The compliment is a little backhanded but Harry couldn’t blame her for it – he did come off as a stiff, prude-ish asshole, even to his closest friends, so he can only imagine how Y/N must have felt. Even so, the warmth that bubbles beneath his bones when she says she has fun with him, is something that Harry can’t be arsed to explore. Not right then, at least, when he was trying to keep his cheeks from turning pink.

She’d asked him at the beginning of practice, so by the end of it, she was suggesting that they walk back to their dorms together and discuss the details that she had already talked about with the others. Harry isn’t necessarily sure why they needed to do it on the way to their dorm when Niall could fill him in later, but he didn’t question it too much either – he and Y/N lived closest to each other anyway. It made sense for them to walk home together sometimes, and if Y/N was the one planning it, it’d be better to get information out of her rather than Niall, who was always just slightly wrong about most plans.

Y/N had done well in practice, for this to be her first time learning the material for this showcase, but Harry expected nothing less. Still, she’s practically run over with praise from their instructors, from their peers, and even from Harry – he doesn’t overdo it, just tells her that her relevés were well done, but Y/N still bristles from them. Honestly, Harry probably wouldn’t have even realized she was worked up if not for the way she grabs his wrist when he’s about to leave down the hallway to his room. Then she levels him with a look – one that’s asking a lot without her saying a lot, and if Harry were just a little bit nicer, then he would fill in the blanks for her.

But, at the end of the day, Harry is a newly refined asshole. Some prick-ish tendencies don’t evaporate overnight.

“Hm? What is it?”

Y/N noticeably swallows thickly, her hand falling from his wrist but she still stands close to him, “I was wondering if maybe we could. . .you know.”

“No, I don’t know.”

Her face scrunched at him, frustration evident, “Yes you do,” she grumbled at him, “We haven’t since we’ve gotten back. How are we supposed to train me to take it, if we take such long breaks?”

So that’s how they ended up here – Harry had pressed her inside his dorm and ushered her toward his bed. Y/N was wearing jeans today, much to his displeasure, because it takes a way longer time to wriggle her out of those than it would the sweatpants she usually has on, but he deals. It was easy to fall back into this, even with the small, unintentional break they had taken – he’d briefly worried that maybe this was something that would never get mentioned again and Harry would be stuck touching himself to the old memories of her moaning. He’s lucky if he gets through a full day without thinking about it and his cock threatening to twitch, but he didn’t want to be the one to bring it up. Harry wanted to go at her pace, for the most part – he didn’t want to come off as pushy or as a pervert.

But it seems like he hasn’t been the only one thinking about it. Harry splits Y/N’s thighs once her jeans are off and the damp spot over the fabric is enough to make his head spin. She doesn’t seem shy about it – not even when Harry drags the pads of his fingers over the wet cotton and tuts his tongue, We’re all working hard in class, and you’re just getting wet over being praised. It’s kind of filthy of you, isn’t it?

Y/N pouted at him, her lip wet and plump, and Harry wanted to dig his teeth into it and pull, “I can take four, this time,” she told him, “I tried by myself, but it doesn’t – my fingers aren’t as big. And it doesn’t feel as good.”

If any more blood flooded to Harry’s cock, he was sure he’d be dizzy from it. He takes a slow, deep breath, tucking his fingers into the band and pulling the underwear to the side. Just as pretty, swollen, and wet as she looked before, her pussy drools for him, and Harry couldn’t waste his time teasing her. Not when she had admitted to him she’d tried to make herself feel good on her own fingers, only to realize that Harry’s felt better. He imagined her writhing in bed, needy and unsatisfied, wanting him. Maybe she’d been too nervous to message and ask him to come over and help that night – so she just waited, however long it was that it took her to gather the courage to ask him. Had she even been able to cum that night? Or had she gotten frustrated and given up?

Harry doesn’t know at first, but from the sound and face that she makes when he sinks two fingers in, he could gather that the latter had been right. Y/N’s legs fell open and out to the side, making more room for him, “There we go,” he purred, his freehand pressed against the sensitive inside of her left thigh, “You need to let me know when this poor needy pussy wants attention, hm? How was I supposed to know you still wanted my help?”

“I thought you would just know,” she frowned at him, “Or – I thought at least you would ask me or something. Or schedule a day that we could – ah – that you would stretch me out.”

He hums, curling his fingers up and steadily petting at the soft spot of nerves inside of her, “And why do I have to do all the work, Sweetheart? Shouldn’t you meet me halfway? I am the one who suggested it last time – isn’t it a little selfish to expect me to come to you each time?”

Y/N looks like she wants to respond – there are probably plenty of things she could say or things that she could call him (a hypocrite, namely), but he leans forward and drools over her clit before she could get a word out. She swallows his fingers up when he slides a third one in, and while the fit is still tight he can feel her walls give way to him, stretching and accommodating them. Her hips are rocking down into his and she’s squeezing and milking around him, “Are you g’na cum already?” He cooed, though it came out more taunting, “But we haven’t even gotten to four fingers. This really is a greedy pussy.”

“Not greedy,” she whines, hiding her face in her palms – it’s cute, how worked up she gets. Were all virgins like this? Harry took his rule to heart, really, so he wondered if the intense flood of arousal and the amount she was leaking around his fingers was because of that. Or maybe this was just something specific to Y/N – either way, his cock feels so hard he could cut glass with it, as he slips in the fourth finger. This one is a bit harder than the third – it takes a little more time and he has to remind her to relax for him.

“Take a deep breath with me,” he instructs her, “Then sort of push like you’re trying to push me out, hm? I think that’ll open you up more for me.” It does – Harry’s able to squeeze his fourth finger inside of her, and he presses kisses down her thighs and all over her hips, singing praises to her that make her pulsate and clench around him, “Look at that,” he murmurs, “You’re doing so good, opening up for me,” Harry pauses over her clit, he debates it for all of a millisecond before he leans down and smears his mouth over it, pushing a sucking kiss to the throbbing button. She mewls when he pops off, fluttering his tongue over it, “You wanna cum?”

Y/N nodded, her hips rolling down on his fingers. They hadn’t necessarily discussed Harry controlling whether or not she came in any capacity, but even asking the question makes goosebumps dot down his spine. Like no matter what she said, he could tell her no if he wanted to. Could pull his fingers out and let her hump at the air, letting the orgasm dissolve and crumble right in front of her.

That’s something to explore for a different night, he thinks.

She muffles herself when she cums, and while he hates it, he doesn’t blame her – the walls are paper thin and a noise complaint wasn’t ideal. But even partially muted by her shirt, she sounds so pretty, and her thighs twitch and close around his hand, trapping it between them as he finished fucking her through it. Harry still feels a little dizzy from the speed at which all the blood rushed to his cock, but he ignores it – he’d probably fuck his palm raw to this later anyway. Right now, Y/N is looking just a little too cute to resist teasing, as he slides his fingers from her, watching her small hole gape around nothing.

Y/N is breathless, wiping the hair from her face, “Am I best at cumming or dancing? Make sure to answer honestly.”

“You’re best at getting on my nerves,” he pats her thighs, “Who would have thought you were such a lewd little thing? Demanding my fingers right after practice.”

Y/N closes her legs, but the movement is slow, like her bones are jelly, “Shut up,” she muttered, in the middle of catching her breath, “You’re so confusing. You practically were jumping my bones every night while we were away and then you just stopped as soon as we came back, I didn’t know if you still wanted to or not. I had to at least try.”

Harry ignores his intrusive thoughts telling him to push a kiss to her knee, “Sorry for making you wait,” he tells her, then looks down between her legs, “Sorry for making you wait too.”

“Ew, enough! Don’t talk to her like she’s real.”

Harry chuckles before standing up from the bed, pulling the blanket at the bottom of his mattress up over her bare legs so she wouldn’t feel so bare to the world, “What are you eating for dinner tonight?”

“I dunno, I haven’t thought that far into the night yet,” Y/N answered, accepting the blanket and pulling it over her hips, “Maybe a frozen meal or something?”

“Those are awful for you,” Harry immediately rejects the idea, “I’m making stuffed peppers, and the recipe always makes more than I can finish off. You’ll just take some with you, yeah?”

. . .

Harry’s idea of fun isn’t necessarily paying money to be scared out of his mind but he enjoys the haunted house more than he had originally imagined he would. It was a pretty big one, with different houses and themes, from killer clowns and hillbillies to asylums and creature feature monsters in big suits. The entire run time was about an hour and that wasn’t including wait times, so since most of it was outside, Harry had dressed himself in a thicker sweatshirt and jeans with no holes (a surprisingly hard feat for him). Even then, the wind still assaults his cheeks with each freezing gust.

Niall and Harry show up together in one car, while Mei, Adam, and Y/N show up in the other. Harry wondered how they would split up among each other so that one person wouldn’t end up walking alone, but for the most part, they seemed to move as just one, massive group together, with one person in the middle (usually Niall but sometimes Adam) and two people to the front and back of them. Harry got to walk with Y/N for most of the night, and for that, he was happy – mostly because she talked all big about how she wasn’t going to be scared, only for her to be screaming and yelping the loudest.

Just before the asylum attraction, in about a fifteen-minute wait to be let into the fake hospital, Y/N had pressed herself up to his body, shivering, and he doesn’t even think she realizes how close she is to him when she speaks, “It’s so fucking cold,” her teeth were nearly chattering.

Harry did a sweep over her outfit (or as much as he could in the low lighting – it was pretty dark apart from some pumpkin lanterns strung up above them), the thin jacket that she wore over even thinner long sleeves – maybe her saving grace could have been the knitted pants she had on, but even they looked like there wasn’t much material there – and he was kissing his teeth, “You should have worn warmer clothes,” he chided her, “You’ll be lucky if your muscles aren’t still stiff by practice on Monday.”

She frowns at him, but her innate desire for survival outweighs whatever pride might make her seek warmth elsewhere. Y/N stays close to him – maybe even pushes herself closer to him, so a sheet of paper could barely fit between them if they had tried. Eventually, Harry leans back into her, and for even a second he regrets not wearing a thick jacket so he could just unzip it and have her hug around his body. All he can offer is the holes of his sleeves, letting her slip her icy cold fingers in with his arms, and biting back a squawk when she touches his skin.

“Consider this a part of your groveling fee,” Y/N shuddered to him, and he thought if he had offered for her to duck up into his sweatshirt, she would have.

Harry has fun, screaming and jumping and “accidentally” knocking Y/N into the fake bodies hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes Y/N ends up near Mei or Adam for a little while in the dark but she eventually finds her way to him again. He kind of likes it when she hides her face into his chest too, like he is going to protect her from all the scary creatures in the dark, even though his eyes were also squeezed shut just as tightly.

By the time they finish, Harry is still chilled to the bone and his cheeks feel sore from how much he’s been grinning and laughing in spite of his fear. Y/N’s hair is a mess on her head from walking through curtains and slamming into the decorations and fixtures in each attraction, but she’s also smiling, giggling at the sounds she made that Adam does a suspiciously good job at mimicking.

Afterward, they decide they’ll go out for food. Almost everything is closed because it’s just about 11 PM (and Harry is regretting scheduling his morning beginners ballet class at 9 AM) so the choices are limited to a McDonald's and a 24-hour diner. Since Mei wanted a full breakfast platter this late at night, they chose the diner, but it was a cute spot nearby in a relatively safe part of town so nobody minded.

They had just ordered (Y/N was eyeballing Harry when she added a shake to her order and then seemed more than pleased when he didn’t launch into one of his sermons about artificial sweeteners) when someone called Y/N’s name from the door. She perks up from where she’s sitting to Harry’s right at the end of the table, head-turning and her face lighting up like she’d just seen a puppy, tail wagging and panting waiting for her.

It’s just Felix though – pretty, baker boy Felix that Harry has entirely too mixed feelings about. What he could be doing at a diner this late at night alone, Harry didn’t know, but what he did know is that Y/N had all but launched out of her seat to go greet him. He’s wearing a big cardigan that slouches over his frame and manages to make him look cuter than he already is, and Harry feels that same itch and pimple that is stuffed just beneath his epidermis. It feels like when someone mentions a product and then all of a sudden, every ad on his phone is about a cordless vacuum suitable for the toughest pet hair – Y/N mentions Felix once, and now it feels like he might as well be seeing this guy routinely.

The first time is definitely his fault since Harry stopped by the bakery himself, but Harry has seen him out and about too. At the store, at the cafe near their dorm, and once in the library when Harry was looking for a book (one strictly on classical conditioning for an assignment Harry could not be more unmotivated to complete) – there he is, being and looking sweet, and probably perfect for Y/N. He can’t help but wonder miserably if she’s ever seemed that excited when Harry has shown up somewhere unexpectedly for her – he thinks back to when he stopped by with the pumpkin bread and the first face he’d seen was distraught confusion.

Harry felt a pinch on his thigh, and his head turned to Niall, “Don’t be jealous,” he ordered him, and his voice was nowhere near quiet enough for Adam and Mei not to hear him, “I can see your brain working.”

Was Harry jealous? He guesses he was but he isn’t certain what for. Y/N has given no indication that she likes Felix, Harry had kind of just assumed that she did because how couldn’t she? And when he compares himself with the guy, Harry definitely knows he doesn’t even come close; the better pick would be the person who didn’t irrationally hate her for months because she was good at something naturally. The one who indulged her love for sweets rather than scolded her for eating unhealthy because it would leave her tired and affect her dancing.

“Guys, Felix is going to eat with us,” Y/N is tugging him by the wrist to their table, dropping him in the empty spot across from her and Harry, right beside Adam/

“Only if that’s okay,” he smiled politely, raising his hand, “Hello. I saw you all at your showcase the other week, and you were incredible,” he looked around the table, eyes landing on Harry, “You were really good! I’d always thought Y/N was the best dancer that I’d ever met, but I couldn’t take my eyes off either of you.”

Hell, whoever said flattery gets you nowhere is a filthy liar.

Nothing out of the ordinary happens and Harry doesn’t make an ass of himself, thankfully. He makes more of an effort to control his facial features since Niall has so easily been able to guess what is going on in his head, and nobody (Y/N and Felix) seems to notice anything. Which is good – Harry doesn’t even know how to put into words what he’s feeling, so if he was questioned, he’d surely fumble through a response and make a fool of himself. Felix melts into their conversation easily, as if he’d been with them the whole night, but he admits that he can’t handle anything scary so he wouldn’t have been a good fit for the adventure.

“Harry could have protected us both,” Y/N assured him, “He was very brave, even with the clowns.”

She nudged him with her shoulder, and Harry’s mind went fuzzy and warm. God, he’s really done for, isn’t he? To get giddy over a comment like that.

When they all part ways, Niall drops him and Y/N off at their dorms. Harry had expected the night to end there, really, because it was late and he really does have to work in the morning, but Y/N tells him that she has something to show him. Harry narrowed his eyes at her, “Something to show me? At 12 AM?” He inquired, “It better be Custard in a pumpkin outfit.”

Her face falls, as she punches in the key for her door, unlocking it with a schlick, “Well, now I wish it was.”

Custard, pumpkin outfit-less, does toddle her way over to Harry when he comes in and plops down on Y/N’s bed. He picks her up by the belly, her fur soft between his fingers as he cradles her to his chest and pets between her ears. She purrs like a motor, rubbing her head against his shirt intensely, nuzzling and snuggling closer to him, and Harry feels content almost immediately. What a sweet little kitty – a couple of months ago Harry would have wondered how something so adorable would want anything to do with a brat like Y/N. But now, when this little kitten presses up against him and nuzzles, it feels all too similar to how Y/N had been seeking his warmth just a couple of hours ago. It makes him feel tender all the same.

While Y/N disappears, her top half in her closet, Harry plays with Custard until she toddles off toward the bathroom. Y/N emerges from the closet with a box in her hand, rolling down onto her bum and spinning around to face him, balancing with only one hand, “Don’t make fun of me,” she says preemptively, and Harry lets out a heavy, slow sigh.

“You know that just makes me want to.”

She frowns at him, but sits up and walks on her knees toward him, holding it out, “I got this to practice since I’m so good at taking your fingers.”

That does make him blink his eyes open, mouth dropping open slightly while her words register to him, “Oh?” The box itself is inconspicuous; discreet in a way he figured Y/N would probably search for in a place where their boxes are delivered to a front desk. Harry unhooks the cardboard tab from the box, sliding it open to reveal a dildo. It’s an average size – smaller than him still, but bigger than his fingers, and a fleshy color with a pink head. The silicone is ridged with texture, fake veins running beneath it – Harry is impressed by the amount of detail that has gone into it. He’s got a few toys for himself, but he’s usually aiming for prostate massages more than fake pricks.

“Oh, wow,” he marveled at it, picking it up from where it sat nestled on purple crinkled paper shreddings, “You struck me more as a pretty, pink, sparkly kind of girl.”

Y/N is still frowning at him, and he thinks she’s about to criticize him for making the assumption but instead, she says despondently, “They were sold out of the pink and purple sparkly ones. It was either this or like, a camo one, and I just. . .I just don’t understand that.” She leans back so her bum is resting on her heels, “Shouldn’t it be pretty if it’s going inside of you?”

Harry holds it out to her, tilting it down, “What are you showing me this for, little thing?”

She readjusts her hips, “I just thought maybe you’d help me,” she tells him, “I’ll chicken out if I do it myself, I need someone who is gonna. . .who will push me, a little.”

Harry hums low in his throat, putting three of his fingers together and flattening them against the shaft – it’s softer and has more give than he’d imagined, “Looks like it’s three wide, isn’t it? But when I’m finger fucking you I don’t have them straight across,” he repositions them, showing overlapping his ring and index finger over the middle, “They usually curl in together like this unless I’m widening them out to stretch you. It’s thicker all around, clearly, and just a little longer. Have you ever been this full before?”

Y/N shook her head, and a shaky breath left her, “Ah, no,” she motioned to the toy, “I’ve had – like I’ve definitely had toys but they’re usually skinny little vibrators, so this will be the first.”

“Lucky me,” he sets it off to the side, “Well, get your kit off, yeah?”

Y/N shuts the door to the bathroom so that Custard doesn’t come wandering out and sully her innocent little eyes, and Harry gets to work. No matter how many times he does this with her, Harry is still pleasantly surprised by the state of her cunt when he sees her – she’s always pretty wet by the time he’s taking her clothes off. Almost like she’d been thinking about it, letting herself get worked up and excited, jumpy and shivery near him. The thought drives him crazy, even more so when he’s looking at her dripping and wet, enticing him, his fingers, and his neglected cock.

Harry does tease her a little this time, petting against her folds with one finger, and only sinking one all the way down to his knuckle. The little breath she sucks in is just barely heard over the rattle of her heater, and she watches him carefully, leaning up against her pillows. Harry feels around her soft, wet walls, the bumps and ridges that he’d get to feel on his prick one day. How still, even with just a single finger, she sucks and squeezes around it like she’s trying to milk him, beckoning for more.

“More,” she pouts at him, “I can take more.”

“Shh, I know you can,” he hushes her, “How long have you been like this, hm? Unless you get wet in a little under a couple of minutes like some smutty story?”

Y/N looks cute like this, all stretched out with her jacket slouched and rumpled around her body – the sleeves are long for her arms, covering her hands and the fabric falls and bunches when she lifts one to push the hair from her face. She ran her tongue over her dry mouth, not really seductively, just to wet her lips before she spoke, “Um, when we were running through the maze, I think.”

“Oh, you’re filthy –”

“It isn’t because we were getting chased!” She defended herself before he could finish, “I just – I don’t know if you realized it but you were holding onto me really tightly – first it was my arm, and then your hand was on my waist at some point and you kind of – the part where were we had to squeeze through the two inflatables? You pushed me through it and I liked it.”

Harry rewarded her with a second finger, “You like to be manhandled, hm?” He smiled to himself, “Duly noted. Still think you’re filthy getting wet in a haunted house of all places.” Turning his face into her knee, he nips at the skin playfully, “Absolutely naughty.”

“It’s your fault.” Her hand curls up in the pillows beside her head as she spreads her thighs further for him.

“Passing blame is unbecoming.”

He works up to three, fucks, and stretches her open on his fingers until she’s shivering and twitching and so close that her thighs start fighting to close around him. Harry slows down when he notices she’s getting close, and bites down on his bottom lip to stop himself from giggling when she starts begging him to speed up again, telling him how mean he is being. Y/N is a brat through and through, even like this, demanding and needy and frowning, pouting, and complaining.

But he knows that when she’s getting desperate, her begging gets incredibly sweet. And Harry is just too excited for that, to care too much about her grumbling now.

“No, no, no –” she chases after his fingers when he starts to pull them away, but Harry presses his palm against her hip to stop her, “I was going to cum, why did you stop?”

“It isn’t about you cumming,” he reminded her, “I thought this was about stretching this tight little pussy out? Are you just using me to make you cum?”

He holds out his clean hand for her to grab, and it takes her a second before it clicks in her head. Y/N let Harry pull her up and position her on her knees, then grabbed the fake cock by the base. “It’ll be easier if you ride it. That way you can control how much we fit inside of you, hm? Because this will be much different.”

Y/N nods. At first, her hands are gathering the hem of her jacket and shirt, holding it up above her stomach, but he pulls her hands so that they’re resting on his shoulders, “Okay,” she replied, “How should – should we get it wetter? The dildo?”

Harry holds it out to her, “Good idea, baby, why don’t you suck on it?”

She does – she flattens her tongue out, from the base to the tip and she drools and soaks it with her spit. It’s an obscene sight, Harry feels like he could cum in his pants from the sight of it but he refrains. Y/N doesn’t go low enough to gag on it, but she does get a majority of it slick enough that Harry feels like it will ease the glide of it inside of her. Had he been better prepared he might have gotten lube so it would be even smoother, but this was the best that they could do.

When he pulls it from her mouth, Y/N is frowning, “What’s wrong?” He queries.

“If I was gonna do that, I would have rather it been yours,” she complains, and Harry pinches her cheek.

“You’re so whiny,” he positioned the dildo on the ground, holding it steady, “I’ll help you sit down on it, okay?”

Harry guides her hips, watching closely as she slowly begins to sink down. The head buds at her hole and she swallows thickly, her gaze flickering back up to him, watching him closely, “It feels big,” she told him, “I – it’s kind of hard to believe that you’re bigger than this. I wonder how you’ll even fit.”

“We’ll make it fit,” he promises and urges her hips down further, “Come on, nice and slow.”

It does take a little work to get it all inside of her. She stops and starts, rocking her hips to try and get used to it, her face pinched up and showing a little discomfort until Harry presses his thumb into her clit and rubs in circles. Y/N squeezes his shoulders tightly, gasping and moaning, rutting further and further down until Harry has to move his hand out of the way so she can get the rest inside of her. Harry slides his fingers down to the balls, fitting it between his thumb and index to keep it still, but he feels her wet and messy resting against him.

Harry usually doesn’t kiss Y/N when they’re doing this, but he just can’t help himself this time. Her mouth is hung open and her lips are slicked with spit, a little swollen from how she’s been nipping and biting on them trying in vain to muffle her sounds. Her lips are slow as molasses, trying to keep up with him but she seems all too preoccupied by how full she feels. Y/N still ruts and rocks her hips – the tip is curved so he’s sure it’s nestled right up against the bundle of nerves she loves him pressing at – and her groans are muffled into his mouth, against his tongue as it slides along hers.

“Fuck,” she speaks in his mouth, “So full, m’so full.”

He purrs, his face still pressed close to hers, “I know you are,” he bites at her bottom lip, “It feels so good, doesn’t it Baby? Can you imagine how good it’s gonna feel when it’s me? When it’s warm,” his thumb quickens around it as she starts to actively ride the toy, picking up her hips and dropping them back down as much as she can in the position they’re in, using his shoulders as leverage, “When it’s throbbing inside of you? Pumping inside of you?”

Y/N leans closer to him, and kisses him sloppy, “Want it,” she tells him, “I want it, I want it. This feels good, please, please, please,”

Harry never knew that one day he would be jealous of a toy, yet here he is, thumbing at her clit, flicking it back and forth quickly, “Mm, but I’ll feel better,” he promises her, “I’ll feel way, way better, when you’re all dumb on my cock.”

That does make Y/N cum, her hips stilling, her legs trembling, and she groans, grappling for the fabric of his shirt and pinching and pulling. She simultaneously bucks toward his hand and pulls away, and she drenches the dildo so much that Harry only realizes when she pulls off of it that she squirted. Harry gapes at her, his mouth had fallen open as it settles in his head, his hand covered in her juices, the way she is still shaking and he was losing it, soaking his briefs, cumming untouched. She completely slouches into him, boneless and melted.

Y/N took a second to catch her breath, as Harry held her in his arms and rubbed up and down her back. This is new – usually, after the fact, they both get cleaned up but mostly separately. This feels very intimate, and as he feels every little shake and shiver, nuzzling close to him, once again he is reminded how similar Y/N is to a kitten.

It seems like hours might have gone by without them speaking, just soaking in each other’s presence. Harry is almost positive that she has fallen asleep in his arms, before she does talk, “I’m embarrassed,” she finally murmurs into his chest, “So I’m hiding in here right now.”

Harry chuckles, rubbing her back in slow, big circles, “Why would you be embarrassed?” He asked her, “That was beautiful.”

“I made a mess,” she huffed, “And I know when I stand up my legs are going to be shaking! Post-orgasmic clarity is horrific.”

“I came in my pants,” he told her, “Untouched, just from watching you, and you don’t see me whinging about being embarrassed. You look cute when you cum, don’t think about it too much.”

Y/N tilted her head up finally to look at him, and she still seems so fucked out, Harry feels his softening prick give a halfhearted twitch, “Am I best at dancing or cumming? Be honest.”

Harry snorted, patting her lower back.

“You’re best at being a brat.”

. . .

“Do you like me?”

The thing was, Harry wasn’t planning on having this conversation at all. Mostly because he hadn’t even really considered this for more than a couple of hours, because Niall had been the one to mention it to him in the first place. They had been at their ramen place, Harry was in the middle of slurping noodles into his mouth and wondering if it was too much to ask for an additional boiled egg when Niall asked him.

“So are you and Y/N dating?”

Harry paused, two noodles dangling from his pursed lips, his gaze flickering up to the brunette across from him, “Huh?” Niall doesn’t seem phased, just a little inquisitive, and he’s looking down at a picture on his phone. He sets it down and turns the screen to him, swiping his brightness up and swiping through. Y/N had posted on her Instagram, a photo dump of pictures from the last couple of weeks, and even Harry is surprised to see that he’s in a good number of them.

“Adam, Mei, and I were discussing it –”

“Discussing it?”

“--and you guys are just giving off the vibe that you’re dating. If you’re not then you at least like each other.”

Harry blinks at him.

“We do?”

“You’re hopeless,” Niall sighed, “Listen, you don’t have a lot of like – crushes, ballet has always been your life, and you fuck around and all that, but I think it’s rare that I’ve seen you actually have feelings for somebody,” he explained himself, “But you’re spending so much time together, I can hear you talking her ear off about shite and you are a man of few words typically. You tease her but it doesn’t have that biting edge like you might hate her, in the way that you tease everyone else,” he makes a show of counting on his fingers, “You’ve got this dumb, love drunk look on your face every time she’s even brought up, and when she walks into the room, your face lights up! I mean fuck, you took care of her when she had a fever, H – you don’t even take care of me when I have a fever and I’ve known you since we were kids! Like you clearly have feelings for her, and I think you probably have had some form of them this whole time, but your brain got it fucked up and you thought you hated her instead.”

Harry opens his mouth, then he closes it.

“Adam and Mei are saying the same; how Y/N talks about you all the time, and she’s bringing up funny things you’ve said. She’s taking pictures of things she sees when she’s out because she thinks you might like to see it later – she said you’re cooking dinner for her. At the haunted house, she was fixed around you the whole time when Adam clearly would have been the better choice, because he’s huge and wasn’t acting nearly half as scared as you were so none of the scare actors would have messed with her. Then you got jealous of that bakery guy, she noticed, and instead of fucking with you, she tried to make you feel better about it, like. . .you’re a little dense sometimes Harry, but I don’t think you’re stupid.”

Harry looks down at his noodles, floating around in the broth. He guesses he hasn’t really thought about it as of late. Anytime the thought threatened to enter his brain, he brushed it off for a later date so that a later him could deal with it and sort out his emotions and feelings. But Harry already isn’t really the most adept when it comes to his own emotions, so even if he did sit down with himself and think it out, he probably would have excused it for something else.

“Oh,” he finally replied, scratching the side of his head, “I guess I hadn’t considered that, really.”

Niall looked at him tiredly, “You’re so stupid,” he shook his head, “I love you, Man, but you’re so stupid.”

And Harry probably would have been content keeping the whole situation to himself. Until he could actually consider all of this, make it make sense in his head, and understand fully what his feelings toward her were. He knows he certainly doesn’t hate her anymore. He knows that he likes to spend time with her, and if they’re apart then he’s messaging her and asking what she’s doing. Harry knows that she makes him laugh, and she’s still an annoying brat but he feels more endeared than he does annoyed. Harry wouldn’t say he’s a selfish lover, but he’s never been one to just continuously make someone cum without getting anything out of it, but he doesn’t even care when he doesn’t cum, or has to touch himself after he gets her off. He finds himself thinking she’s beautiful more often than not – he’s never thought she was ugly, only that her attitude was poor, but it seems to overwhelm him lately.

. . .Harry likes her. He does.

Still, he wasn’t going to bring it up. He was supposed to see Y/N that night, so he would suck it up and pretend like hadn’t had any Niall-induced revelations lately, but, like most things lately, Y/N had managed to intervene in those plans.

“Do you like me?” She had asked it almost too casually, sitting on his bean bag, the drama they were watching forgotten on his projector when she’d turned to look at him and ask. Harry was lounging on his bed, propped up on his arm, and in the middle of teaching himself how to embroider (it wasn’t going well). This makes him pause though, the needle halfway through the cotton fabric, his gaze darting to her.

“Excuse me?”

Y/N plucks at her nails, her bottom lip sucked between her teeth, “It’s just. . .well, Adam and Mei were talking to me today –” So was this planned? There’s no way that Niall, Adam, and Mei all just happened to bring this up on the same day as a coincidence, “--and they just said something to me today that kind of made sense about us, I think. So I was wondering if you liked me?”

Harry sets the embroidery down, off to the side of his lap, “Did they bring up how we talk about each other all the time? How I cook you dinner, and you take pictures of things that I might like, and –”

Her eyes narrowed, “Okay, what the hell, did they talk about this without us?”

A snort leaves him, knuckling at his eyes and wiping over his mouth, “Oh, babe, yeah I think they were. Honestly, I would have – I kind of wanted to figure out how to tell you, or how to ask you out properly, but I didn’t realize it myself until today, you know? I knew that I felt. . .soft, toward you, far softer than I did before and softer than I feel toward anyone else.” He smiles softly, “But I guess you know now. I don’t need an answer or anything right now, or if your answer is no, then you can tell me but –”

“No, I like you too,” Y/N rushes to tell him, shaking her head, scrambling off of the bean bag to get closer, “I – okay, I’ll be honest, I definitely think I knew a couple of weeks ago but I thought maybe you would laugh in my face if I brought it up. So I just – well, I was going to ignore it.” She tosses her phone back onto the bean bag, crawling up onto the mattress with her, “But you do?”

“I do,” he rubs at the top of her head, brushing the hair from her face, “Yeah, I do. Honestly, how Niall was explaining it, I thought maybe I’d been kind of obvious about it.” He grimaces, “And maybe a little embarrassing, you know? You couldn’t tell?”

Y/N presses even closer, getting nearer, “No, you idiot,” she nudges her head against his shoulder, “You hated me so vehemently, I was still convinced this was just some ploy to get back in the universe’s good graces or something.”

“Aish,” he sighs, and he cradles the side of her face in his palm, running the pad of his thumb over the smooth skin of her cheek – this poor, sweet thing. Harry feels so shitty for everything, it almost feels like he doesn’t deserve to have this version of her. For everything he’d done, and everything he’d said, he didn’t earn the right to see her so tender and affectionate, looking at him with these eyes exuding warmth, “I’m so sorry, Puppy.”

Harry kisses her.

The kiss is different from their other kisses. Usually, it is messy, a little sloppy and desperate, in the heat of their neediness and pretty far into whatever they were doing that neither could necessarily revel in it. But this one is nice. . calm; he takes his time to work her mouth open, explore behind her lips, taste her tongue and the sweetness of the smoothie still clung to her. Y/N’s hands are on either side of his face, holding his cheeks at first, then sliding down to his neck, to his chest, curling up in the loose fabric there.

Harry pulls away, but dots kisses down her jaw, to her neck. He sucks the tender skin into his mouth, licking and biting over the pulse point. Her hips readjusted beneath him, pushing herself closer to him by pulling him down, and Harry had to steady himself by flattening his hand against the mattress beside her head. Y/N snakes her hands beneath his shirt, her fingers skimming and skating across the skin of his torso, thumbing over his nipple and making it pebble beneath her touch. He moans against her, “Ahh,” he breathes out, “What’re you doing?”

“Just feeling you,” she answered, then started pushing the shirt up, “Want to feel you everywhere.”

“Everywhere?” He repeated the hand that cradled her waist and squeezed when she nodded, “You want me to stretch that little pussy out, yeah? Show me how well you can fit me?”

Y/N rocks her hips up again, “Mhm,” she murmured, but a grin stretches over her mouth, teasing, “Try – try not to cum in your pants though, yeah?”

A laugh coughs out of him when he leans down and nips at her bottom lip, “Very funny.”

Undressing Y/N is always delightful, like opening up a little gift for himself. He’s seen all of her body at this point, but he still feels like he could drool as he pulls her shirt over her head, bunching the fabric up and tossing it off to the side before working on her pants. As he flicks the button open, he takes her nipple into his mouth, running his tongue over it, smushing kisses between the valley of her breasts to her other nipple and tugging that into his mouth too. Y/N is always so responsive to what he does to her, but she seems even more sensitive today – like if he even panted warm air on her it might feel good.

Goosebumps dot and pimples all over her body as he tugs her bottoms down her legs. Y/N opens her legs and Harry latches onto her, licking between her folds, a slow drag of his tongue back and forth from where she’s leaking to where all the blood had collected and left her clit engorged and seeking his attention. He buries his face into her, not caring if his nose rubs into her while he slides his tongue in and out of her dripping center. This Harry does allow himself to revert to his usual messiness, spreading her all over his mouth, and his cheeks. Y/N’s first orgasm always comes relatively quickly, so he isn’t surprised when her hands are buried in his curls, tugging and pulling, rutting against his tongue when he holds it out for her. Harry just lets her – usually, he holds her down but he doesn’t mind tonight, having her use him to get off. The wetter she is, the more relaxed she is, the easier it would be for him to fit inside of her.

When she cums, it’s with a full-body shudder, his heart thunders in his ears as he works her through it, finally pursing his lips back around her clit and sucking gently. He does it until Y/N is twitching away from him, pushing at his head, and Harry unlatches to busy himself kissing the inside of her thighs. “Always so pretty when you cum,” he wiggles his hand between his body and the mattress, his index and middle fingers sliding along the juncture of her thigh and labia, framing her, “You cum whenever you want, okay, baby?”

Harry blows cool air over her slit and watches as she pulses around nothing before he sinks two fingers into her. Y/N sucks them in easily, twitching, still sensitive from the first orgasm but not enough that she would be pulling away from him. Harry moves slowly and gently as he works her back up, stroking and rubbing against her walls, feeling the ridges, trying not to get too excited at the thought of how his cock would be snug between them in just a little bit. He spends more time stretching her this time around, pushing out his fingers to either wall, scissoring her open until he’s sliding three fingers in. Y/N doesn’t seem all too concerned that he’s being more clinical about stretching her rather than solely rubbing at her g-spot. She mewls and keens for him, her fingers stuffed in her mouth and she sucks on them idly.

Harry pulls her wrist from her mouth, replacing her fingers with his, and Y/N accommodates the change easily. She suckles at them, sighing contentedly through her nose and letting her eyes flutter shut. Harry continues to fuck her open, “You just like having something in your mouth, don’t you?” She nods, letting her tongue slide along the dips between his fingers, “Should keep it full more often then, shouldn’t I? Let you keep my cock warm.” When she squeezes around the fingers inside of her, he laughs a little bit, “Ahh, you like that, don’t you?”

Finally, Harry focuses on the spongy bundle of nerves, rubbing and pressing against it insistently until she’s coming apart again. Her eyes had opened again, watching him closely, but as soon as it hit her they fluttered to the back of her head and she was clamping down on his knuckles, with her walls and her teeth. Harry kisses her tummy this time, peppering them around her belly button, smiling against her skin when she giggles, squirming, murmuring that she’s ticklish.

“M’ready,” she tells him, knocking her heel against his bum, “I – seriously, if you make me cum again, I’ll pass out. I want to feel you, please?”

How could Harry say no to that? He pulls himself up and lets her help take his shirt off, prying it off his head and letting it puddle on the ground with hers. His pants come shortly after, and his briefs too, and his cock all but pops up, leveling and slapping against his lower abdomen. Harry has to squeeze around himself to relieve some of the pressure building there – he’s so hard, it’s going to take everything in him not to bust as soon as he even feels the warmth of her radiating onto him.

Y/N reaches down, fitting her fingers around his prick and squeezing with him. He sucks in a breath through his teeth, and they both watch as a blurt of precum drips from the tip, slowly stringing down to a spot on her thigh, “It’s so big,” she murmured, “I know that’s why we’re doing all of this in the first place, but I just – wow,” she’s breathless, “Want it to fit inside of me so bad.”

“It’s going to,” Harry covers her hand with his own, moving it up and down with each other, “Gonna fuck my shape into you, hm?”

Once Harry gets the condom on, takes the tube of lube, and squirts it all over his prick, he sits back, looking her up and down, “Do you want to sit on my cock? Or do you want me to push in?”

“Want you to do the work,” she breathes out, reaching down and grabbing the back of her thighs, holding herself open and spreading for him – the sight makes Harry lightheaded, “I’m too tired.”

Harry laughs, “Okay, princess,” he kisses her forehead, holding the base of his cock and sliding himself between her folds, getting wetter and wetter, smearing the lubricant and her juices around, “Just keep holding yourself open for me, don’t worry about a thing.”

Like everything tonight, he’s slow and measured. He nudges the tip on her hole, pressing forward, and Y/N is so pliant and relaxed from her earlier orgasms that her walls give way. The head goes in easier than he had imagined, and Y/N is breathing nice and even, rolling her ankles around slightly, her toes curling a little bit, and Harry has to grip hard on the blankets. Harry desperately wants to sink all the way in, down to his balls, but what would the point of any of the stretching have been if he did it like that? He wants her to feel good – doesn’t want it to hurt.

Things are going well until about a quarter of the way in, and then her hand rests on his belly, walls clamping down on him. Harry pauses, lowering so their chests press together, “Do you need a break?”

“Just a second,” Harry agrees and pushes a kiss to her lips – a couple, actually, and then he’s introducing his tongue again, slowly curling them together, slipping his hand between them so he could roll two fingers over her clit. He feels her relax again, and he rolls his hips just a little bit, sinking in more, and Y/N moans, “Keep going,” she murmured, “It’s good, keep going.”

They do this a couple of times, languidly, and carefully, and Y/N swallows him right up. By the time he’s made it all the way inside, nestled deep and close inside of her, Harry lets out his own quivering breath, “F-fuck,” he rubbed the tips of their noses together, “Good, so good, you’re so fucking good for me,” he praised her and Y/N responds, mewling, pulsing more around him, “Such a sweet little thing.”

Y/N rests her hand on her lower stomach, “Move a little,” she orders, and Harry listens, rocking his hips just slightly, and whatever Y/N feels makes her groan. She reaches for his hand that’s sitting on her waist, moving it where hers had been lying. Harry moves again when she nods, and when he does, he feels it – the head of his cock nudging against her from the inside. Harry throbs hard inside of her, dipping his head down to her throat, “I can feel you so deep inside of me.”

It’s so much – so tight. Y/N is surrounding him everywhere: his cock, his head, and her legs shift and move to lock around his hips again. Harry’s hand finds a place at the nape of her neck, cradling it in his palm, and with his other hand, he slides down behind her back. He presses her close to his body, speaking against her mouth, “Can I move, baby? Are you okay if I move?”

“Yes, yes, I want it.”

As soon as Harry starts rolling his hips, he knows that he isn’t going to last. It feels too good – she’s wet and slippery and still tight, clenching around him, and they keep kissing. He’s breathing her air, whispering praises, suckling and biting at her bottom lip, making it swollen. Her nails dig into the flesh of his shoulders, Y/N is whimpering, and when their heads are pressed together, she pulls the lobe of his ear between her teeth. She nibbles at it and runs her tongue over the skin beneath it.

Harry isn’t sure when Y/N started meeting his hips, but once she does, Harry knows he can go a little quicker. The slide in and out of her is much smoother than it started, and when he lifts her hips just slightly, she starts moaning so much louder, “Want you to cum,” he tells her, “Need you to cum, baby, wanna feel it around me, fuck – I’ve been thinking about this for so long.” His fingers sped up around the swollen bud between her lips, “Please, please, please.”

Her arms slide around him tighter, holding him, squeezing him. Once her walls clamp down on him, Harry’s done for – a heat coils deep in his belly, swirling, extending out through his vessels, zipping through him. Harry ruts into her, once, twice, three times hard and he’s digging his fingers into her body.

He fills the condom, his blood roars in his ears, brain fizzy and buzzing in his ears. Harry slouches into Y/N’s body and closes his eyes, trying to catch his breath.

Harry thinks he could fall asleep like this, as Y/N’s personal weighted blanket, and he thinks for a while Y/N is pretty content with it too. Eventually, she does start wiggling, patting him with the bottom of her foot to his calf, “Okay, enough,” she murmured, “You’re heavy and I’m sore.”

“Well, that won’t do.”

Harry cleans them both up, wiping between her thighs with a warm cloth as tentatively as he can, soft and careful. When he brushes over her center, she twitches and pulls away some from the sensitivity of it, “Sorry,” he murmured, “I know, I know, almost done.” He feels pleasantly buzzy and warm; his mind is flooded with a haze of emotions but all of them are good, sweet, and bright. Harry picks his softest, biggest shirt for her to pull over her head, and changes the sheets around her, peeling the top sheet that was still messy with lube, cum, and juices. Y/N lay on the top of his fitted sheet, but the thick comforter he’d pushed to the bottom of the mattress was still clean. He pulls it up, covering her legs before he crawls into bed beside her.

Y/N snuggles up to his side, molding into his body, and lifting her cheek to rest it on his bare chest. Harry wonders when the last time he felt this content was and honestly. . honestly, he doesn’t think he ever has. This feeling, the warmth that bubbles through him, how he melts into her body. It feels good. Harry can’t believe he’d denied himself the possibility of this for so long.

“Am I best at cumming or dancing? Be honest.” She murmurs, this little quiz she likes to do with him now, sliding her hand down his forearm and Harry warps their hands so he can slot their fingers together.

Harry nestles closer to her, hiding his face in her hair.

“You’re just the best. Do you like the sound of that?”

Y/N melts closer to him.

“Yes.”

1K notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 27 days ago

Text

your writing is just so immensely beautiful it never fails to bring tears to my eyes

Her head throbs; all of this is too much to think about, too much to consider, and too much to sort through in this unfamiliar bed. Y/N starts to crawl out of it, “I need to go,” she told them, “Thank you – thank you for everything, I’m sorry for ruining your night.”

“You didn’t ruin it,” Emi smiled gently, and with a delicate, manicured hand, she squeezed her bicep, “Are you calling for a ride? Please don’t wait outside, you can stay here until they come.”

Y/N nodded – staying in here, instead of loitering outside their flat building in an area she’s never been sounds much better – so she grabbed for her purse that she’d dropped at the side of their bed.

She didn’t give herself a chance to overthink it when she scrolled to Harry’s contact.

Y/N overthinks and yearns, but Harry just knows they're soulmates

(21K+ words)

part 1

part 2

iii.

Y/N’s body aches.

She knows this feeling all too well; despite being beneath layers and layers of blankets and bedding, with Ferret warm against the back of her neck, her window being closed tightly, and her space heater rattling in the corner of the room – she shivers. Her brain feels filled with tufts of cotton, and her mouth and throat are so dry that she wants to shove her head beneath the faucet and let it run between her lips. Her head hurts, her nose is stuffed, and racking her eyes open feels like a chore.

How she got sick, she wasn’t sure, because she’s barely been around anyone for the last couple of days. After the pool party, she more or less shut herself away in her flat, and when she went back to work, she kept quiet and did her business. Eloise offers her ear whenever she’s ready for it, Niall brings her snacks because, for him, the way to the heart is through a satiated stomach. The others at work see the heavy grey cloud looming over her so they don’t make an effort to speak much, though she does hear whispers, some people theorizing if she and Harry are fighting or not.

It had been a little over a week since she found out about Harry getting his mark and a little over a week since she’d last spoken to him. The whole thing was just so fucked, she wasn’t sure what they would even say to each other when they did speak again – if he even wanted to speak to her again. For all she knew, he could have found his soulmate by now and was living blissfully in the afterglow of their time together. Y/N was but a sad little memory in his now perfect, beautiful life, and she could just hope and pray that she didn’t have to see them in public together or something.

The thing is, Y/N is always happy for the people she’s helped when they find the person they want to be with. Not only was her job done, but she’d been a key part of bringing more love into the world, and she had always thought that was pretty nice. No matter how draining it was to take on relationship after relationship, to learn everything about a person for it to be yanked away, to know deep down that she was being used – she still felt accomplished. Still smiled to herself when they said they found their person and could rest easy that night knowing that she was useful. That someone so sad and downtrodden, when it came to love, would find a new light in their life, made just from them, from the moment they were even a concept thought up in the universe.

But with Harry. . .she didn’t know if it would feel like that. She is mad at him for keeping the mark a secret from her, don’t get her wrong, but even if he hadn’t – even if he called her that Tuesday morning and told her he woke up with it all pretty on his hip – she doesn’t know how she’d react. Happy for him? To a point. She wants nothing more than for Harry to be happy, but selfishly, she only wants Harry to be happy with her. The thought of him looking at someone else with those big, moony eyes he got when he was talking about the person he thinks his soulmate would be. . .she just couldn’t be settled with it.

There was a yearning in her chest that had never been there before, something much crueler than anything she’d felt in the past. The longing for a soulmate had been replaced by an ache for Harry. For him to be hers, wholly, and truly hers. With there to be no agreement, no special “power”, no fake dating; just for there to be matching soulmate marks and meet-cutes, and looking him in the eyes and just knowing, deep, deep down that he’s the one.

Because she did know that he was the one for her, but not by the star’s decision. In the stars, it’s someone completely different; someone who didn’t know that Harry was touchy yet. Someone who didn’t know his affinity for cats that look stinky despite having one that is pretty enough to place in competitions. Someone who didn’t know that the clean cotton scent soothes his mind, but a particular pomegranate scent reminded him of his hardest year in UNI so he couldn’t stand it. Someone who didn’t know that Harry’s art was beautiful yet, who didn’t know his brain was even more beautiful, who didn’t know that his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and his dimples dot his cheek like a moon crater, and he drools a little and snores when he sleeps but somehow still looks cute.

Someone who didn’t even love him yet, is meant for him.

And Y/N is left all alone.

Like always.

So who or what got her sick, she wasn’t sure. Maybe the stress of everything had weakened her immune system, at least enough that someone coughing into the air and her walking through it took her out. It doesn’t really matter though, does it? She’s sad, and she’s sick, and she thinks the universe actually has it out to get her. At first, she’d just been joking but this. . .this has just done her in. Maybe in a past life, she’d been a ruthless, cruel dick of a partner and this is her punishment for it; retribution for something she didn’t remember would feel better than this just being the lot she was given.

There was no way she could go to work like this. Even lifting the upper half of her body from the bed felt like a test of endurance, so she didn’t even want to consider the fortitude it would take to manage to get ready and then get to work. Y/N knew how to pick her battles, so she called her floor manager to let him know first, then called scheduling. She even offered to do her editing from home, if they would just email her the documents, but her manager (his name is Charles) tells her not to worry about it and focus on resting. She’s thankful because she didn’t want to do shit today, she’d just been offering to be nice.

After texting Eloise and Niall, Y/N forces herself to at least go wee in the bathroom. She’s a little dizzy when she stands but she makes it unscathed and even gathers enough energy to brush her teeth and splash some water on her face. That’s the extent of her abilities, however, because a headache tickles her sinuses she takes some medicine and rubs some cream on her chest to help suppress this awful cough that rattles through her chest.

Y/N is feeling a little miserable, and petulantly wishing that someone was there taking care of her. If she and Harry hadn’t fallen out as they did, he probably would have – as soon as she would have messaged him that she was sick, he might have stopped by. Cooed and petted her, calling her a poor baby while he stroked the hair from her face and let her rest in his lap. He’d probably make her soup, and tea, and wake her up to take medicine and a bath, then let her cuddle back into his body to go back to sleep.

She doesn’t get those things now, but she pretends, as horribly desperate and pathetic as it sounded. If Y/N closed her eyes, she could feel the warmth of his body beside her, and if she tried hard enough, she could imagine his voice. How he would click his tongue and pull the blankets over her body, “Now how did you catch a fever, silly?” He’d murmur, low and teasing, “You don’t need to catch an illness for me to take care of you, you know? You could just ask.”

It’s easy to pretend, until Ferret starts walking over her body, pressing a claw right into the soft spot beside her belly button as if to say, “Snap out of it idiot, this is pitiful.”

It’s storming outside, the rain battering against her window is loud and the thunder rumbles through the sky. If there was ever a day to stay inside, today would be it, so she guesses, at least she has that going for her. Feeling the medicine do its job, it’s easy to fade back into sleep, as she lets herself melt back into the mattress. She makes a mental note to take her temperature when she wakes up again if she can find her thermometer.

Y/N is in and out of it for a while, never sure for how long she’s sleeping at a time. All she knows for sure is that around noon, her phone buzzes beside her head and for some reason, it yanks her from a dream. She blinks several times, still feeling like garbage but slightly better garbage as she crawls her fingers over to her phone. There are a couple of messages, some from Niall, telling her to get better, her mum with a recipe for the soup she used to make when she was little with a fever, and then one from Eloise that sticks out.

Niall’s a dumbass btw

He told Harry you have a fever

He’s in a tizzy

Her brain is mush as she reads the message after that, sent only three minutes ago from Harry.

I know we aren’t talking right now

but I hate that you are alone and don’t feel good

So I ran to the store during my lunch break and got some things

For you

Cold medicine and stuff

I’m just letting you know so you don’t let it sit outside

Some of it's perishable!!

I’ll just drop it off I won’t bother you

Feel better

I’m always thinking about you

Miss you.

The weather is still treacherous outside, so the thought that Harry is just out in it right now drives her crazy. She huffs a breath, forcing herself out of the bed. Her limbs feel heavy as lead but she trudges through it, getting to the living room, and then to the door. The idiot! Why would he come all this way in such awful weather just to drop things off? She didn’t need him risking his safety on these flooded roads just because she was out of sorts, whether she was pissed at him or not.

Her original goal had been to call him and yell at him for being so stupid, but then she hears the rustling of bags outside of her door and she realizes that he’s already there.

Maybe it's the medicine, or maybe the fever is higher than she thought and making her make decisions that she would normally second guess a thousand times over. Whatever it is, she walks to the front door and yanks it open, huffing and puffing because the short trip had taken all of her stamina and snuffed it out like a flame between her fingers. Harry stands like a deer in headlights, staring at her all doe-eyed at first, before his brows furrowed and his face drops into a frown, “What are you doing out of bed?”

“It’s storming,” she said, matching his disapproving gaze, “Why are you out in such a bad storm?”

“I was just –”

“Being stupid,” her voice sounded like there was gravel in her throat, and Harry grimaced, then his frown deepened.

“It’s not being stupid if it might help you,” he countered, standing up from where he’d still been hovering, “I know you don’t want to see me, that’s why I warned you, so you wouldn’t open the door or something like you’re doing now.”

Y/N stared at him hard – since when did she say she didn’t want to see him? She wanted nothing more than to see him, she just knew that she shouldn’t. She couldn’t, right now, that she needed to take some time to process this so that when she did see him, she wouldn’t do something stupid, or say something stupid. It wasn’t a matter of her not wanting to – not at all.

“Get inside,” she pushed the door further open, ignoring how her heart squeezed when Ferret chirped brightly at the sight of Harry.

“But –”

“You aren’t going back in that,” she cut him off, “Get inside.”

Harry does well to listen. He leans down to gather all the bags he’d just set on the mat outside of her door, and warily steps through the threshold into her house. She hates it, not because she doesn’t want him in there, but because of how hesitant he seemed; not even three weeks ago he was barging in like he owned it. Now it feels like he’s a stranger entering through the door, unsure of where to take off his shoes, if he should take them off if he’s allowed to get comfortable here.

She rolled her eyes, “You know there are no outside shoes in here,” she grumbled, shifting her gaze from Ferret who was slithering between his ankles like he couldn’t have been happier to see him. It felt too much like she was keeping her child from his visiting rights with his father, “Take them off, the storm isn’t letting up any time soon.”

Y/N doesn’t know what to do with herself – it would be a little crazy to slink back into her room and shut the door after more or less demanding that he stay until the weather clears. But to sit with him seemed like a lot to work through with her brain feeling heavy and her sinuses full of tar. Still, she forces her feet to move her to the couch, where she drops herself down and yanks her blanket over her shivering body. Y/N closes her eyes, tilting her head back against the cushions; she feels weak, even from the little movement that she’s done.

“Oh,” his voice is quiet, and there’s the gentle rustling of his bags, “Have you taken your temperature yet?”

She shook her head, “Was going to, but fell back asleep.” Y/N coughed, an ugly sound barking from her throat and her eyes don’t have to be open to see Harry grimace at the sound.

“I’m –” he started, then paused, she could visualize his pinched expression as he sorted through what to say, “Listen, I won’t just stay here and watch you feel bad, yeah? If I stay, then I’m going to take care of you. You don’t have to talk to me, or look at me, or any of that but I can’t – I can’t just see you like this and do nothing.”

Y/N feels a frown form on her mouth for multiple reasons. One of which is she doesn’t like the tone of his voice – it isn’t rude, or snappy, but it. . .he sounds desperate and sad in a way he has never sounded with her before. He’s resolute in his statement, but the words leave him like his heart is in the middle of cracking and she doesn’t like that she’s the cause of it. The second reason is that it feels wrong for her to ignore him for a week and then accept his groceries and his care. It would feel like she was using him, even though she knew it wasn’t the case – she knew that Harry thrives off caring for people. That it would make him feel good, to take care of her, even if she was mad at him. But that’s the issue, isn’t it? Y/N’s mad at him. Why should she care what makes him feel good and what doesn’t? Plus, was it a threat? He won’t just stay with her and watch her feel bad, so the alternative if she doesn’t let him take care of her is going back out in that storm, isn’t it? And she just won’t allow that –

“Do whatever you want.” She settled for, which was as good a response as she could come up with, given the turmoil in her head.

Y/N hears Harry move into the kitchen, and distantly she can make out him opening cabinets and closing the refrigerator’s drawers. She falls quickly into that space that’s halfway between consciousness and dreaming, where her head starts to dip, too heavy for her shoulders but she jerks herself awake before she can get too loose. She isn’t sure how long Harry is in there, but it feels like hours have passed and no time at all, when his hand settles gently on her knee.

“Hey,” he murmured, “I made you some soup, yeah? When was the last time you took medicine? Think you may be due for some more.”

“This morning,” her throat is gravelly, full of rocks and pebbles as she swallows dryly, “It’s in the –”

“Bathroom cabinet, I know. I grabbed that and the thermometer,” he placed everything out on the table in front of her, and Y/N’s left to wonder how he’d carried so much in his hands, “Open your mouth for me, I’ll check your temp.”

This is wholly too domestic for their current situation but she feels so poorly, she really doesn’t care. Her jaw drops open for him and he dips the tip of the thermometer beneath her tongue, but not without pressing the cool, back of his hand to her forehead. Y/N leans into it without much thought, welcoming the soothing touch.

The thermometer beeps and Harry clicks his tongue, “You’ve got a fever, Sweetheart,” he presses the hair out of her face, strands that had fallen out from where she had it pulled back, “You were just g’na stay here, and suffer all alone? You can barely move.”

She frowned, “There’s not much else I can do,” she reminded him, “I don’t have someone to look over me. I only have myself.”

Harry shook his head, “You always have me,” he set the thermometer down on the table, then grabbed for the medicine, “Even. . .even if you hate me, you always have me.”

Y/N wondered if the heat in her chest was from Harry or her fever.

. . .

Once Y/N had taken the medicine, and gotten a little bit of soup (and water) in her, she felt a little better. She wasn’t sure what kind of soup it was, but it was light and tasted good, and she was sure it could give her body enough energy to fight whatever cold she picked up. In truth, she hadn’t been eating very well lately, and whenever she was eating it was of very little substance; sweetbreads, packs of chips, finger foods that didn’t take any thought or effort, or maybe whatever she could find at a convenience store. The closest she’d gotten to anything real was the little bowls of ramen that she could heat in the microwave, but she doubted the freeze-dried vegetables offered much substance.

Harry brought a pillow and blanket out from her hall closet, setting her up in the living room, “I’ll wash your sheets,” he told her, “Try to rest.”

She nodded, and with the telly turned on something (the volume set low) she drifted off into a dreamless, cold medicine-induced sleep. It’s heavy and hard, and every time she starts to wake up a little bit, a sleep demon of some kind takes her by the shoulders and plunges her deeper into it. She isn’t sure how long she’s asleep, she only knows that she rouses for a moment when Harry is tidying up in the living room, tip-toeing around.

A grunt leaves her to grab his attention, and he giggles a little when he looks at her, “Hi there,” he murmurs.

“Get over here.”

“Hm?” His head tilted slightly, and Y/N’s chest ached – she’d missed him so much.

Y/N frowned, because – well, she wasn’t positive if she was asleep, or if this was a dream, or if this whole day had been a dream and he wasn’t actually here with her. Still, she wanted something badly – something that she’d been pathetic in pretending was her reality just a couple of hours ago, and Harry would. He would do it because he’s sweet, and he’s gentle, and his hands have been twitching and itching to touch her. Even in the state she’s in, Y/N could tell, because he wears every thought, emotion, and desire on his sleeve.

“Let me lay my head on your lap.”

Harry doesn’t waste a second. He grabbed his phone out of his back pocket and set it on the arm of the sofa, waiting until Y/N moved her head up further so he could steal the pillows from beneath it. He finds his spot in the corner, where his bum always sat if they weren’t snuggled up in the center of the couch together, and Y/N drops her head onto his thigh. The medicine had been working long enough that she could breathe a little bit through her nose, the smell of him soothing the tension that had lingered between her bones since their fight. Lamely, earlier in the week she’d wondered if she should invest in the laundry detergent he uses for the comfort the scent alone brought her; she was trying to find alternatives to having him around all of the time when he inevitably found his person. As pitiful as it was, if she missed cuddling him all she would need to do was hug her pillows and the case would be a stand-in. It was just so mortifying she would have to keep that between her and the universe.

His hands aren’t as hesitant as they had been before when his fingers weave through the locks of hair on her head. Her face twisted up, “You don’t –” she started, then took a second to clear her throat, as crunchy as her voice sounded, “You don’t have to. My hair feels gross right now.” Today had been her wash day, so she knew it was not in its best state.

Harry doesn’t stop though, massaging his fingertips into her scalp, “I don’t mind,” he cooed, using his other hand to press the hair from her face, then thumbs over her eyebrows, smoothing them out, “It feels good to be petted on, when you feel poorly.”

Especially by you, “Especially by you.”

Oh wait, those words were supposed to fizzle out on her tongue, but they don’t – they escape, like a rabid badger trapped in a cage made of sticks and twigs. Harry only chuckled, using one hand to stroke through her hair and the other to caress light patterns on her face, “You with no filter is kind of nice,” he admitted, and Y/N huffed out a breath (a risky game through her nose, because she could have shot out snot with it, but thankfully that doesn’t happen).

“Don’t get used to it. These thoughts are under lock and key.”

Ferret jumps up, using her body like a balance beam on unsteady feet, before sinking in the space between Y/N’s shoulder and the couch, his warm little body close to Harry. He purrs like a motor, rumbling low as he burrows in.

“Don’t I know it,” Harry replied wistfully, “I never know what’s going on in that pretty head.” His fingers don’t stop, they’re gentle, tender, and insistent – just like him, “I. . .you don’t have to respond to this, but I just wanted to apologize again. I know words are just words, but I’m – I don’t know,” he traces the slope of her nose, “I just miss you.”

Y/N’s heart is sore from all the clenching and aching and yearning it’d been doing for the last week. She knew she wasn’t necessarily ready, to just open the door back up – to let him in, and push it all to the side, because the problem wasn’t just the secret. And the way that Harry is apologizing to her, she thinks he may realize it.

She was in love with him.

And he was destined to be with someone else – someone who wasn’t her.

It’s the worst pain, she thinks; worse than stubbing her pinky toe, or when Ferret scrambles out of her arms with his claws out, or slamming her elbow into the corner of a table at work. This is full-bodied, hollowed, and gnawing. Unlike a sharp pain, which she thinks would be preferable, to this chronic soreness that lingered through her muscles, her joints, and her thoughts.

Her fingers dug into the soft, linen fabric of his bottoms, and she tilted her cheek even further into the warmth of his broad thigh. It hurts already, and she doesn’t even think he’s found his soulmate yet. But it’s like sea salt in an open wound, the thought of it, she’d rather think of anything else.

Y/N doesn’t have to say the words I miss you too because she thinks it’s more than implied, the way she desperately clings to him.

Instead, she replied, “Tell me what you’re drawing for work.”

A soft, breathless laugh leaves his throat, “Ah, you would hate it,” he began, “It’s one of those romance novels where the bloke is clearly the douchiest prick in the world, so –”

Y/N listened to his voice, melted into his body, and let herself fall back asleep.

. . .

They don’t talk about it.

They should, definitely – Harry stayed overnight with her, ran her a bath, made her dinner, and then readied her bed for the night. He kept the window open, the cool night air filtering through the screen, turning her curtains to waves as they cleared out the fever in the room. Y/N is already feeling much better, with a constant rotation of medication and whatever healthy, superfoods Harry had been concocting in her kitchen, her fever has been brought down significantly. Her head feels full, but in the way that she’s cozy and calm, her mind melty and warm. He made a pallet on the floor beside the bed, and Ferret – the class one traitor – abandoned her to snuggle up in his throat.

“Dolly would never do this to me,” she accused, much to Harry’s delight, who giggled and snuggled down with the blankets pulled to his throat.

Y/N fell asleep easier than she had since all of this started, then woke up in the middle of the night for a brief moment. Her arm was hanging off the bed, and Harry’s fingers were interlaced with hers, propped up on his pillow. The smile that overwhelmed her mouth was too big, and she doesn’t think she’s smiled this way in a while, because her cheeks hurt with it.

The next time she wakes, the sky is bright and dazzling, the pallet on the floor is made up and there’s cold medicine sitting, waiting for her on the nightstand. There’s a Post-it beside it, the same one Harry always left her little notes with.

I had to go to work today :(((

Breakfast is in the kitchen! I hope you have a good day today, please don’t hesitate to call or text me. I’m always here if you need me.

There’s a hollow left in her heart again, especially when she realizes that Ferret has already been fed, probably with the sole intent that he would let her sleep instead of stomping all over her head, and the sense of longing is immense.

But she does nothing with it.

The thing is, she can’t do anything with it at all. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them, for Y/N to start seeing Harry again, or to let things go back to normal. If she was more selfish she would; if her greed for him and his time were greater than her morals, then she would in a heartbeat. But it was wrong to want someone else’s soulmate so vehemently and it would hurt triple the amount after the pain of leaving him and his friendship behind, then the subsequent relief of having him back in her life. The second time he would pull from her would be worse than the initial, only because she’d spend every day waiting, anticipating, and dreading the moment he showed up with someone at his side. All shy smiles, introducing Y/N to his person, his destined person, that wasn’t her.

Y/N couldn’t be a permanent figure in Harry’s life again until she sorted through all these fucked up feelings. Unless she was mentally prepared to see Harry with someone who wasn’t her, loving someone who wasn’t her, then it wouldn’t be fair to torture herself seeing it. And it wouldn’t be fair to Harry either, to reintroduce herself into his life only to yank herself back out of it as soon as his mark was matched. Not that he would care at that point – he’d probably be so overcome with joy and happiness over finding his person that he would have no time to think about where she was. Still, she holds onto the glimmer of hope that maybe she wouldn’t be forgotten, at least by him. That maybe it would be different than all of the other times.

She expresses this, in her own way, to Eloise. Try as she might not to sound overly pathetic, it is pretty difficult to avoid given the subject matter and her placement in the situation. Still, at least El pitied her enough not to bring up how depressing it all sounded, instead nodding almost overenthusiastically in agreement.

“It’s so important to take care of you first,” she told her, tucking her dessert fork underneath the slice of cake she’d been eating – they went to a new patisserie a short, eight-minute walk from their work building, and Y/N divulged everything. It’d been two days since he’d come to take care of her, so it was weighing pretty heavily in her mind – and by weighing heavily she meant it was all she could possibly think about. Eloise just seemed ecstatic that Y/N was finally talking about it, rather than internalizing every emotion that happened to flitter through her head. “Have you guys spoken since?”

She shook her head, “No, I was. . .trying to figure out how to say it without, you know. . .exposing all my inner turmoil. I don’t want him to feel worse than he already does.”

Eloise plucked at her bottom lip, worrying the flesh between her index finger and thumb, “Hm, maybe you can just keep it sort of simple? Don’t go into anything specifically, just say that you appreciate his help the other day, but you aren’t necessarily ready to see each other regularly yet.” She shrugged her shoulders, “For someone else that might not work, but he’s like an overeager puppy with you, I think he’ll accept any explanation you give him, even if it was ‘just because’.”

So Y/N took her advice, right there, hoping that maybe Harry would be busy with work so he wouldn’t see it immediately.

Thank you for taking care of me the other day.

I’m not ready to start seeing each other too much yet, so I hope you understand.

I just wanted to thank you.

Eloise didn’t notice it, but Y/N noted that in her time spent messaging Harry back and forth, she’d adopted his horrible habit of sending multiple messages when it could just be one large paragraph. She isn’t sure when she started doing it, but it makes something twinge in her brain.

Her phone buzzed before she could set it back down on the table, and Eloise's brows raised. She swiped the notification, leaning in so that Eloise could read her screen too.

You never have to thank me for anything.

I’m just happy to be able to help you, you know?

And don’t worry about that at all. Take your time, I understand.

I’ll always wait for you.

“Jesus Christ,” Eloise carded her fingers through her hair, “It’s like he was built in a lab.”

Y/N. . .didn’t know how to feel and she still doesn’t.. Her heart was too tender to consider feeling much of anything, and at the time, she could only nod her head and hope she didn’t spend the rest of the week thinking about it, which wasn’t too hard, all things considered. Usually, there’s something like a raffle to randomly disperse the harder, more wordy pieces to look through and edit but Y/N had volunteered herself to take them. If she was distracted then she wasn’t thinking about it, she’d just hope that the piece wasn’t a romance of some kind. Or if it was, then the situation was like – completely separate from what she was going through.

So why did she end up crying reading a vampiric romance? Well. . .it isn’t the first time someone has cried in the middle of editing, so nobody paid much attention to it, but it was pretty embarrassing. It’s like – she doesn’t know, the main character is in some angst-filled star-crossed lovers scenario, because vampires and humans can’t be together. This should be a tired trope, but it gets Y/N every time, and a particular line cranks at her chest in the worst way.

I’ve been waiting for you for 800 years. I can wait for a couple more.

And maybe she wouldn’t care about it had Harry not just promised to wait for her earlier this week, and then all of a sudden she’s comparing the two of them to a vampire and a princess betrothed to someone in a faraway land, and what the fuck is she even doing?

Y/N sees Niall’s blurred hand before his voice sounds above her, “Okay, so I know you like a vampire book, but usually you don’t cry to them,” he plopped down on the stool that she and Eloise took turns propping their legs up on, “Are you still on your Harry ban?”

Flustered, she wiped at her eyes with her knuckles, “That has nothing to do with it.”

“Yeah, sure,” he replied in a noncommittal tone, leaning on his elbow and twisting back and forth with his hips, “I think it’s time to throw you head first into the dating pool.”

“That sounds like an awful idea –”

“Only if you’re going into it expecting love,” he plucked the stuffed animal Harry had bought her to decorate her desk with – actually, there was a lot of stuff littered around her desk that was Harry-related, but she didn’t have the heart to get rid of them. She had to pinch her fingernail into the meat of her palm so she didn’t snatch it out of his hand and place it back where it should be. It wasn’t the most expensive thing, but it was a soft, cute little bunny that usually sat propped against a framed photo of Ferret. “You wouldn’t be going out to date or find love, you’d be going out to fuck.”

She squinted at him, “Excuse me?”

“It’ll make you feel better,” he smiled, “Anytime I’m sad, a one-night stand kind of just – y’know, gives me something else to think about. Maybe you’ll find a regular fuck buddy!”

Y/N huffed, “Ni, that sounds. . .” stupid, the worst, stressful because Y/N could not think about the last time she slept with someone and she thought she would probably agonize over the whole thing. But. . .maybe she could live outside of her head for a little while. If she went out with Niall, then she surely would find someone she could at least have fun with – people are drawn to Niall in a way similar to how they are drawn to Harry, only for much less. . .wholesome reasons. Niall kind of just walks around like someone who knows how to fuck, so when you’re out with him loads of people come in droves. If they aren’t trying to fuck Niall, then they set their sights on Eloise and Y/N, but typically they wave them off and just spend time with each other.

It would be nice, wouldn’t it? Maybe she could find someone cute – she wouldn’t mind who, a man or a woman, she thinks that anyone would be nice. If they took care of her, made her comfortable enough that she didn’t mind stripping down for them a couple of drinks in. At that moment, to be so hyper-fixated on the person above her and a little stressed about whether it was going to be good or not, that she wouldn’t be thinking about Harry at all. Hopefully.

“. . .like, not your worst idea.” She lulled her neck to one side, stretching out a crick in his neck, “When?”

Niall grinned, “Let’s go Friday, Babe.”

. . .

Honestly, the night had started okay.

Niall came around to get her at 8 PM, with Eloise sat pretty in the passenger side with sparkly eyeshadow. Eloise turned in her seat to face Y/N as she crawled into the back, “Alright, for the record, I don’t think this is a smart idea but I also get it a thousand percent, so I’ll bite my tongue.”

“You look hot, Babe,” Niall is also twisted around to see her, “We’ll find you someone at least half as cute.”

Y/N shivered in one of her skimpier dresses, that rucked up as soon as she sat down. The fabric twinkled and sparkled, and Eloise offered to add glitter on her cheeks that she brought in her purse. Niall begged to try the lip oil she had lustered over her mouth, and Y/N finally relented when they parked outside. Still, as Y/N tried to stroke it over his mouth, he kept talking, “S’all about you t’night,” he told her, but it came out a bit distorted, his lips in a dramatic pucker, “I won’t drink a lick, so I can make sure you aren’t going home with a douchebag or a killer or someone.”

“That’s very comforting, thanks Ni.”

They ease into the night. Truthfully, just as she’d told Harry on their first date, she hates bars, clubs, and the atmosphere of waiting at the bar trying desperately to catch the bartender’s gaze to order an overpriced cocktail. It rarely seemed worth it, it’s why she dipped out before she could get drunk enough for it to be worth it, but she’s trying to stick it out. Even if all she wanted was to sit inside her room, have Ferret stomp all over her thighs, and Dolly be a sweetheart snuggled into her hip. Sweet little Dolly, who she hopes isn’t as confused as Ferret.

Y/N gets a Tequila Sunrise and tucks the little straw into the corner of her mouth; they’ll sit and drink for a little while first, that’s how this usually goes until Y/N and Eloise are tipsy enough to want to dance. Being a lightweight means Y/N only needs to get halfway through a second drink before she’s ready to, but Eloise needs at least the full two, and Niall’s rearing to go at any moment. This is one of the more popular spots in town, so there were a lot of bodies, and their luck in finding a table did not go unrecognized by the three of them.

Still, spots in bars were not meant to be kept. Especially when a Black Eyed Peas song Y/N distinctly remembers creating choreography for when she was in primary school, starts to play. So she’s easily bewitched onto the dance floor by Fergie in an act of early 2000s nostalgia, as she laced her fingers with Niall who is somehow remembering every single word in perfect rhythm and timing.

Dancing is fun, and when she’s slurping down the rest of her drink, it’s easy not to let memories of her and Harry dancing at Finn’s boyfriend’s party suffocate her. She is by no means dancing in any sort of way that would lure anyone like a siren, but she’s having fun, and she’s laughing, and sometimes that’s enough – at least it is for the people she would want to approach her.

There’s a pretty woman, who departs from her friend group to start bumping her hips with Y/N and Y/N squeals out of excitement. Maybe she would take her home? Y/N wouldn’t mind – she’s pretty, and her hair looks really soft even in the matching, intricately braided buns on either side of her head. Her eyes are piercing, even in the low lighting of the club, big and brown. She wears something Y/N could only ever dream of having the confidence to pull off, but for that reason, she sees the soul mark that sparkles with her body glitter along her ribcage.

She must follow Y/N’s eyes, how they widen, and she slipped her fingers between Y/N’s, matching them up palm to palm – her hands were a little smaller and very soft, and just different enough from Harry’s that she didn’t get sad, “Have you ever had a threesome?”

Y/N blinked at her, shaking her head, her body still moving to the music but noticeably subdued so she could focus, “Oh, no I – never have,” she admitted, “It feels like it’d be kind of hectic.”

The woman laughs, and squeezes her hand, “It’s fun,” she replies, “My soulmate and I met each other pretty young, so we like to explore sometimes. If you’re interested,” she squeezes her hand again, “If not, that’s okay, we can just dance.”

Y/N’s eyes flit behind her, searching for who could be her soulmate and she spots a guy staring at them from a couple of meters away. Which, it could have just been some random creep leering at them, but she could feel in her gut that it wasn’t. There’s a certain way that soulmates regard their other half; it’s something tender, no matter the situation they’re in. A softened gaze, just like the ones described in books, their eyes full of fondness and respect in equal parts. That’s their person, they know it and the world knows it, whether the mark they wear on their body is visible or not.

“You both want to? With me?”

She smiled, nodding, “Yeah, you’re gorgeous,” Y/N’s face felt hot, and she giggled lamely, “We live close by. I want you to meet him first though, before we go, so you’re comfortable.”

Y/N lets herself be pulled away, and the guy she’s brought to is just as striking as the girl. She’s confused as to why either of them would have chosen her out of everyone, but maybe the dancing was more alluring than she’d first thought. Or maybe, Niall was right about body glitter attracting potential mates like pheromones in the wild, or whatever the hell he’d said that should be a drunk comment but somehow came from him completely sober.

Whatever the reasoning, they’re both nice, and hot, and when they press up against her on either side while they dance her mind is reeling. So Y/N hadn’t had much hope that she would be able to go home with one person, much less two, and even much less two people who were already soulmates. But things can happen like that sometimes – she tries to go with the flow.

Eloise gapes and Niall high-fives her, and they both remind her to send her location as soon as she makes it to their flat. One minute Niall is slipping a condom into her hand like a loving and overbearing guardian, and the next she’s sandwiched between the two taking her home. Kai and Emi were their names, she had finally learned, and they match together well; they play off one another with the practiced ease of two people who’ve been together most of their lives, but there’s no lingering spite or jealousy, or anything negative.

No, the experience is actually wholly positive. They compliment her, and their touches and caresses are flirty without being too forward, and Y/N feels relatively safe for only having just meant them. Emi keeps their fingers slotted together and squeezes her every so often like she’s checking in if Y/N doesn’t say anything for a little bit, but it only happens a couple of times. Kai, at most, had given Emi what Y/N presumed to be his jacket and Emi gave Y/N what must have been her jacket. The night wasn’t bitterly cold, but it was still chilly, and her dress just barely covered the top of her thighs so there was a lot of exposed skin.

The walk is only around 10 minutes. Y/N sends her location as they step into the elevator, and Emi nods her head, “Oh, good girl, I do that too,” she grinned, “Kai didn’t understand why women felt the need to do that, we had a pretty intense lesson on it.”

“She’s not kidding,” Kai agreed, “We talked about it for like 3 hours that night, I’m pretty sure. I’m glad we did though, shits horrible for women, isn’t it?”

Emi clicked her tongue, “It sure is,” she pressed herself closer to Y/N, pushing the hair the wind had swept into her face from it, “We can do this a couple of different ways, Sweetheart, I’m good with any of them, yeah? I don’t mind if it’s just you and me and Kai watches – he doesn’t mind that either. Or if you want him to play too, we can do that.”

“I’m – I’m good with whatever,” Y/N nodded, “I’ll just go with the flow, yeah? ‘Cos I’m not sure what I’d like or not in this situation.”

“That’s good by us,” Kai grinned, and Emi matched it, and it was cute. . .Y/N thinks they’re really cute.

So everything should be fine.

And it was! At the start, it totally was, because they kissed in front of her after leading her to their room, and then Emi detached from him to kiss Y/N and her tongue was soft and tasted like whatever fruity drink she’d had in her hand when they met. Her lips are soft, and her hands are gentle when they slide over her thighs, then she breaks away and Y/N’s head automatically turns in search of someone else, so Kai meets her mouth, and it’s a little different. His lips are soft too, and a little fuller, and his hand feels bigger when it cradles her jaw and the other one feels just as big as it strokes up her side.

It’s good, Y/N’s getting into it, arousal burns in her belly, and she isn’t thinking about anything at all except how they were going to go about fucking and if she would be able to taste both of them or not.

Then their heads knocked together while they were trying to change who was kissing her, Emi and Kai, a little thunk, followed by a gasp and a fit of giggles. They really are so cute together, both of their hands reach toward the other’s affected side, gentle in their cradling and petting, “Ah, sorry baby,” the way they look at each other, that softened you’re my person, my only person gaze that Y/N had been thinking about before, it set a bubble in her chest.

One big – too big, situated between the pleural space, pressing up against her lungs and making it difficult to breathe.

They were cute, really cute, and how nice it must feel to just know – to just have the person you love with you and to share sweet, intimate moments like these, even in front of a stranger. Just knowing that they’re yours and you’re theirs, and it’s happy and lovely.

And then all of a sudden images of Harry flash in her head like an obnoxiously bright marquee. Harry all teary-eyed and pouting after the sad ending of a movie, the fairy lights above their head twinkle in his irises when he begs her to cuddle him because he’s so upset. The way the world seemed soaked in glitter and ten times more vibrant when they had picnics together, with a sky blue enough and grass green enough to belong in a painting and the way the sun bathed him. A hazy glow of him sitting arm to arm with her, pressed too tight in her cubicle because his floor manager loves him enough just to let him go where he wants to work on his covers, and he’d choose right beside her. His arm knocked into her body, his whine when she’d shove him over, how he’d only let them work for an hour and a half at most before begging for a break, or a snack, or for her to come with him to the vending machine.

The way her heart always felt so big that it might be choking her, sitting in her throat, begging her to just confess her stupid fucking feelings like it might alleviate some of the pain sitting there, unmoving.

“Oh?” Emi’s voice slices through her head, yanking her back into the moment, “Oh, Darling, what’s wrong?”

Y/N is confused at first until she opens her mouth to question it and feels the tell-tale stiffness of her cheeks when her tears have dried. Her hand lifts to her face, fingers ghosting beneath her eyes and coming back wet, “Oh,” she repeated, blinking at them, “I didn’t. . .I didn’t realize.”

They had been working on undressing, but both seemed to realize that the moment was as good as gone. Y/N had unintentionally ruined it, now all bleary-eyed and feeling fucking mortified that she’d started crying during a hook-up. They aren’t mean about it at all, no, they back off but not so far that Y/N feels like a pariah. A careful hand strokes at her bicep, “I’m sorry,” she sniffled pitifully, blinking hard, forcing her tears to abate, “I – um – am kind of going through something right now.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Kai is the one to inquire, head tilted, and his dark hair is long enough to shift over his forehead but he pushes it out of the way.

Normally Y/N would shake her head, say nothing was wrong, that she was okay, she would be, or whatever, she was just two drinks in and emotional for some reason.

But it felt easy to just. . say it. To two strangers, sure, but somehow that made it better, made it easier, because there were zero pretenses to keep up. She omits nothing, from her weird, freaky power to help people get their soulmates, to Harry, to falling in love with him so incontestably, to him getting his mark, to him lying about it, to her finding out, to him taking care of her when she had a fever, to now. She says it all fast, and kind of all over the place; she doubts they were able to completely follow the story but they both nod along, gasp at some parts, and give appreciatively sad hums and murmurs at others. This must be fucking crazy to them, some random woman they had been keen on fucking divulging her whole, depressing romantic life on their bed. They were probably regretting inviting her over – she’d probably be someone they talked about later, with their friends, how this stupid, hopeless girl gave them blue balls or whatever.

They take care of her though. Kai gets her water and Emi stays with her, frowning sympathetically, “That sounds like a lot to go through,” she murmured, and Y/N wondered if she was a therapist of some sort, “I mean, I can’t even imagine, it sounds very painful. Does he know how you feel?”

Y/N shrugged, “I don’t know,” she answered, “I always thought I was being so obvious about it but my friends say I have a relatively good poker face, so he. . .he might not think it was real? When I’d flirt back and stuff.”

“Well, to me it sounds like he cares a lot about you,” she continued, “I know it seems like. . .unheard of, but I have friends who have ignored their soulmate bond to pursue other relationships. For some people the whole “destined” to be together thing isn’t for them, you know? Maybe that could be you two?”

She shook her head sadly, and Kai returned with the water at that point, handing it to her, “I couldn’t do that to him,” she replied, trying not to sound so despondent but there wasn’t much hope not to, “He loves the idea of soulmates so much if I. . .if I kept him from his person, it would feel selfish, you know? And then he’s like. . .walking around, missing a piece of himself, feeling too guilty to do anything about it because I’ll be a big baby.”

Kai rests his hand on her shoulder and squeezes familiarly, and wow – if they aren’t therapists, they should probably go into the field, “Don’t you think, maybe he should be able to make that decision for himself?”

Y/N worried her lip between her teeth. No, she’d never considered letting him decide for himself, because she knew he would follow his heart and not his brain. Harry is a lover, through and through, his heart yearns and yells and demands, and his brain, soft and sweet, lets it with little fuss. He wouldn’t consider how it would impact him in the long run, if he never found his soulmate, and never received that deep connection he’d been seeking for so long. And if he did find his soulmate while they were together? Well, it would hurt Y/N – it would be excruciating, of course, she doesn’t even want to think about it – but the turmoil Harry would go through. The heartache and guilt and panic. . .it isn’t worth it, right? To see him with his face all screwed up and tears caking his cheeks, and – she just doesn’t want to see him look like he did the night of the pool party. His face was wrought with guilt, his words heavy with his stress. The imagery of it makes her heart squeeze uncomfortably tight in her chest, and all she wants to do is sink her face into his neck and hold him.

But wasn’t she being a little selfish too? She was thinking everything she’s thinking about with both her and Harry in mind; keeping them separate would make it better in the long run, right? Though, now that she thinks about it, she’d only been considering her own feelings in the present moment. It hurts too much to see him, knowing what could happen in the future, so she avoids it. But for Harry, maybe it hurts too much not to see her. And then she really isn’t just doing it for them, how she’d told herself, right? She’s doing it for herself. . she’s avoiding him to ease her sadness over the situation.

Sitting here, on this couple’s bed, Y/N realized that she really hadn’t explained her reasoning to Harry at all. He probably just thinks she’s still pissed off about him not telling her about the mark, but she doesn’t even care about it anymore. She understood why he hid it, she couldn’t say that she wouldn’t be the same had the roles been reversed.

She didn’t give herself a chance to overthink it when she scrolled to Harry’s contact.

. . .

There are very few people who call Harry at 11 PM.

That’s mostly because everyone knows he goes to bed early. On an average day, he’s probably tucked away in bed by 9 PM and moments from sleep thirty minutes after, so people know to contact him with important things around 8-ish, or else he might not get back to them until morning. He rarely wakes up to his phone ringing too, unless it’s right by his ear, and even then he thinks Dolly goes out of her way to amble on over and lay on top of it to muffle the noise.

Lately, Harry hasn’t been able to sleep very well. He doesn’t fall asleep as quickly or as hard as he usually does; his legs feel restless and his skin is itchy, and the spot on his hip brings discomfort in a way that he wants to press his thumb hard on it – like a toothache. Where he used to be a heavy sleeper, even the lightest sounds and movements jolt him awake; Dolly moving from one position to the next, the air conditioner kicking on, his next-door neighbors coming home and shutting the door. Each sound drags him into consciousness, he’s roused for at least a couple of minutes before he can find sleep again.

As a result of this, his eyes have been puffy and swollen, and more often than not he had dark circles that persisted no matter the cream he swiped beneath them. His muscles ache from tossing and turning all night, his hair and skin have lost any sort of glow they might have possessed before, and his brain moves at a snail's pace all of the time. Niall pouted when he saw him the other day, flicking his shoulder, inquiring where all his luster went.

“You know where it went,” Harry whined quietly, and they left it at that.

He doesn’t blame her for the state he’s in. This is a problem of his creation, he knows that, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. How Harry had seen it at the time, is that if he kept it a secret, then he’d get to keep Y/N longer. Instead, his time with her was cut shorter than he thinks it would have been otherwise, and now he’s here, in this awful in-between.

Seeing her had made it no better; when she was ill, she’d opened the door to what he had thought was a crafty venture leaving groceries outside her door – he’d never expected her to scold him and then invite him in. She thought maybe she’d opened the door, seen the bags, tell him to fuck off and slam it in his face, but she hadn’t. No, Y/N was mad at him for driving in the weather and ordered him inside to wait the storm out. Then, in an even more surprising turn of events, she let him take care of her, even wanted to lay her head in his lap, and. . .after so long of not having anything – not even getting to look at her, really, this was more than he could have hoped for. He hated that she felt poorly, but he was on cloud nine; his heart was full and bursting with so much love it was jittering out through his vessels. He was almost shaky with it, the intensity of it – he’d missed her so much. To simply comb his fingers through her sweaty hair, and let her sleep in his lap was paradise to him, as sad as that was.

When he had to leave though, it felt like his heart was cracking all over again. When she messaged him to say she was grateful but not particularly ready for things to go back to normal, he understood, but it felt like someone put a pillow over his face. It felt suffocating, not to have her at his side – it was the worst kind of torment.

That’s why Harry feels it – he knows it, deep in his gut, that she’s his soulmate.

When his ex Josie had come to him, all bleary eyes and apologizing, Harry hadn’t wanted to hear it. He was hurting, his brain felt waterlogged by his tears and his capacity for understanding had been resolutely diminished. Just as it had been when his ex-boyfriend had tried reasoning with him after he met his soulmate, and his ex before that. . .and his ex before that. They all said the same thing, but Harry didn’t want to listen to how happy they were going to be without him.

“It’s not something you can ignore, H, you just you know. Deep down, in the pit of yourself, you know and it’s hard to stay away. To keep this going, when I know I’d just be stringing you along.”

And this, what he feels with Y/N, seems a whole lot like knowing.

He gets it now when they say that without your soulmate once you’ve met them, it feels like a gaping hole in your center. Harry is all too aware of the emptied, hollow feeling he walked around with ever since she’d stormed off at the party. And how that missing piece patched up at the sight of her, even if she was mad at him, scowling, her hair a mess on her head, her face puffy, and her nose clogged with snot. As soon as she’d opened the door, it brought a comfort he’d never known (or at least had never realized until then). Like peeling off cold, rainy clothes and sitting in front of a fire to warm up – something cozy and warm.

It would make sense that they were meant to be together, even if Y/N never does get her mark. Harry had never realized how similar their situations were until recently; both of them were dating people who found their soulmates, only while Harry had some time in between his, Y/N’s were rapid fire. And while Harry broke up with them, moped about it, and then carried on in his pursuit of love – Y/N had accidentally made a legacy of it, was used for it, was abandoned, was found again, was used again. It was hopeless, for both of them; and then they found each other. And Harry wanted to use her just how everyone else had – the thought of it now makes him shudder.

Harry wondered what the likeliness of meeting your soulmate before receiving your mark is, and the exact progression of events if this were to happen, but there was little to know information on it. Anything that was said about it, was offhanded, fighting comments on online forums that didn’t extend far past, My wife and I met before our marks and we’re just as happy as anyone else, so you can take your fucked comments and –

All he’d gathered for sure, was that it was rare. And what he knew was that Y/N was rare too, whatever unique power she had. It wouldn’t make sense that the way she found her soulmate was unique too.

So Harry thinks being away from her has been affecting his sleep, and if it wasn’t something odd connected to their bond together, then Harry would say it's the stress of being away from his soulmate. Either or, he isn’t sleeping as well, so he jolts awake at the first ring of his phone, despite the time. He doesn’t know if he’d been asleep for a while, or if he’d just fallen asleep, or if he’d even been asleep at all – but his ringtone sounds out through his otherwise quiet room and the way his limbs jerk makes Dolly irately leave the bed.

A sleepy pout forms on his lips as he bats around for his phone in his sheets, his eyes squinted as he looks at the caller ID.

His thumb swipes to answer before his brain can even truly comprehend that it’s Y/N.

“Lo’?” His voice is heavy with sleep, thick and groggy so he must have been at least a little bit unconscious – or maybe it’s just because he hadn’t used it in a while.

“Hiiii,” she answered shyly, and the slight inflection in her tone suggested right away that she’d been drinking; she didn’t sound trashed, by any means, but he could tell. Plus, she was calling him at 11 PM, and she hadn’t properly spoken to him since she had her fever. He hardly thought this would be the time she called him sober.

Harry cleared his throat and sat up in bed, “Are you okay?” He inquired immediately, and Y/N gave a soft (albeit sad) little laugh.

“Ah, yeah, just. . .” she trailed off, then sighed, “No, not really, but not like an “I’m in danger” kind of way. You were asleep weren’t you?”

He shook his head, though she couldn’t see him, “No, not really,” he mimicked her response, and was he really lying? He hadn’t been sleeping well at all. “Do you need me to come get you, Sweetheart? Are you stuck somewhere?”

“I – yes, I was wondering if you would get me? I went home with someone,” his blood runs cold, “Or, well, two someones,” his heart speeds up horrifically fast, “Um, and I just – they helped me realize some things. I want to see you if you’ll see me, but I understand if you don’t –”

“Send me your location,” he’s already kicking his feet over the side of the bed, snatching his jacket off the back of the chair, and throwing his arms inside of it, “I’ll be there in a little bit, I’m leaving now.”

When they get off the phone, something thick and sticky settles in his chest, dripping down to his stomach. Harry has felt jealous before but never to this degree; this soul-stopping caliber. It clogs his pores, forcing itself deeper inside his body to such a grand magnitude, that he has to grit his teeth and bear it. They weren’t together – they weren’t even speaking to each other, but it hurt all the same. Honestly, it hurt, even more, knowing he’d run her into their (plural!) arms.

The flat building she sends him is close enough – just a ten-minute drive, and he cuts it in half because this deep into the night there’s barely any traffic. She, Niall, and Eloise must have gone out – he’d seen Niall’s story this evening and had wondered at the time if she was with them. Maybe she had already left with whoever it was she was with now by the time they had taken those photos in the club bathroom and his brow twitched at the thought.

It didn’t matter though. What mattered was that Y/N had called him, she wanted to see him – he knew he wasn’t her only option for a ride. She had plenty of people she could call, or, worst came to worst, she could have ordered an Uber or a Lyft. But she didn’t, she called him, because she wanted to see him, and that made him happier than he thought words could allow him to describe. Pulling up in front of the building, he leaves his car idle as he waits for her to come out, the engine a gentle thrum that completely contrasts with the roaring of his heart.

From the time Harry messaged her to let her know he was there, it took about five minutes for her to appear at the door. He swallowed thickly – her dress was a little short, and kind of disheveled, along with her hair that looked mussed, like someone had run their fingers through it and she hastily patted it down afterward. Harry hates it – hates the thought of someone’s hands on her, of their lips on her skin, her mouth.

But Y/N isn’t shrouded in the afterglow of someone who just had a beautiful threesome. She looks sad – her mouth is pouted, and her brows are furrowed, and he’s worried that something happened. She’d said she wasn’t in danger though – so maybe she was just unhappy to see him. Maybe this was her coming to meet with him to tell him that she hated him and never wanted to see him again. He feels dizzy with the new onset of panic, but he puts on a brave face for her.

Y/N opens the door and climbs in, a smile on her mouth when she sees him, “Thank you,” she murmured, “I – you really didn’t have to come, I didn’t realize it was late.”

“S’alright,” he waited for her to buckle before putting the car in drive, “I was awake.”

Both of them know he’s lying through his teeth but neither mention it. Instead, Y/N sighed gently and settled into the seat that was already adjusted to her liking – nobody had ridden in the passenger side since she had last, and Harry had no reason to move it anyway. She turned to look at him, and she didn’t look like she’d drank too much; as light of a weight as she was, she probably was pretty toasted for a little while but hadn’t had another in long enough that it was simmering out.

“If it isn’t too much – could we go to your place? I wanna see Dolly.”

How could Harry ever say no to her?

The drive is quiet, besides the radio that Y/N clicks on. They pull in front of Harry’s flat, and they’re quiet on the way up as well. Harry doesn’t hear her voice again until he unlocks the door and Dolly is sitting beside it like an irate wife left alone in the middle of the night. At least she was irate until she saw who Harry brought, and she chirped before lunging into Y/N’s arms from the floor. This is something she’s only ever done with Harry, and only in particular circumstances, like if she was starving (hadn’t eaten in four hours) and Harry wasn’t working fast enough to feed her.

Y/N squeals but accommodates her readily, and Dolly is a motor of purrs, rubbing her cheeks against Y/N’s face and kneading over the part of Y/N’s chest that’s showing, “Aish, okay, okay!” Y/N giggled and it was so sweet to Harry’s ears, he could scream, “I missed you too, baby! I’m sorry for leaving – has he been starving you, why do you feel lighter?”

“Don’t let her fool you,” Harry clicked his tongue, dumping his keys into the bowl on the table beside the door and toeing his shoes off at the heel, “She’s actually been eating more since you saw her last.”

“That’s not what she’s telling me,” Y/N grinned, keeping Dolly tight in her arms before walking further into his flat.

Harry followed after her, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket – he was never uncomfortable around her, but he felt nervous about what she was about to say. For what she might do. What if she’d come just to take all of her things that had accumulated here during the last few months? Or what if she was stopping by to cuddle with Dolly one more time before telling Harry she was out of his life for good?

Sweat beads on the back of his neck and his heart thumps too hard against his sternum, enough to rattle his ribcage and threaten to crack it. His eyes threatened to water, but he blinked hard to avoid it, biting hard on the inside of his bottom lip. What was he going to do? Now was his chance to plead with her – to convince her to keep him – but all the words escaped his throat and snuffed out on his tongue. Wither like a petal under too much sun. His nails pinch into his palms as he wills something – anything out of his throat.

I love you – he wants to say, I love you, I love you, I love you. I love you so much that it hurts me to be away from you. That I want you with me all of the time, that everything I see and do reminds me of you somehow. That the thought of being without you makes me want to dig a hole in the ground and live there. That I feel my insides twist and coil and shiver and quake with so much want for you that I don’t know what to do with it. That, even if for some reason you weren’t my soulmate, I would rather leave them alone to find their own path, because I want to be selfish, and I want to be with you, and only you, because you’re my person – even if the stars don’t think so, I know it.

“I’m bad at this,” Y/N started before Harry could spill every single thought that has crossed his mind in the last couple of weeks, “Um, at like – being awkward with someone that I care about, I hate that. So I don’t want to be awkward.”

Harry nodded, “Of course, of course, I – I’ll never feel awkward with you,” he scratched his arm, lifting his sleeve with it, “But I am nervous, I’ll be honest.”

Y/N frowned, plopping down on the sofa with Dolly still in her arms, “Why?”

“Um, I guess –” he stepped closer to her, his veins feeling empty, absent of blood and thrumming with needles and pins, “I just. . .am worried that you’re coming to say goodbye to me?”

What Harry is waiting for, is for Y/N to regard him solemnly, to admit that this is exactly why she was coming over, and to give him the talk that she’d been preparing. Again, he feels tears crawl up his cheeks in preparation for it – he’d try to hold it together at least a little bit, but he wouldn’t be void of all emotion. He’s human, after all.

Instead, Y/N’s eyes go wide, “What? No! God, no!” She shook her head so fast he thought the earrings she was wearing might fly out, “Was I being too cryptic? I wasn’t trying to be, I – no, that’s not what this is at all,” her arms let go of Dolly as she motioned him over, though Dolly merely settled in the cradle of her lap. Harry felt relief flood through him like an ice-cold wave, and a tear that had been preparing itself still made the descent down his cheek. He walked to her briskly, looping around the coffee table and almost throwing himself down beside her. Y/N twisted her whole body to face him, holding her hands out for him to take, “I was actually coming over to apologize for keeping you waiting for so long!”

“You never have to apologize for anything,” he took her hands quickly, lacing their fingers together and he’d missed the feeling of her smooth palms so much, “Nothing, ever, I should be the one apologizing for everything.”

“That’s no – you’ve apologized, and I’ve finally accepted it, yeah? No more apologies out of you,” she rested their hands between them, and Dolly came over to rub her face and gums all over their knuckles, “So I’m not sure where to start, and I don’t want this to be long-winded, so I’ll paraphrase some of my revelations here, kind of.” She squeezed his hands again, tighter than before, “I know it’s not a huge surprise, probably, but I think I’ve had feelings for you for a while, which was shitty on my part, to let it happen. You needed my help to find your soulmate, and not only was it taking forever, but I was growing so fond and so attached to you that I knew it was going to hurt when you did find your person. I’ve known that for a while,” Harry swallowed hard, blinking at her – how long had she known she had feelings for him? Was it as long as he’d known about his for her?

He’d been set on letting her speak before intervening at all, but he couldn’t help it, “Developing feelings isn’t shitty, you’re – you’re human. To expect yourself to be in this situation time and time again and feel nothing is too much.” He held her tighter, “I – what does it say about me, that I was trying to court you the whole time, and didn’t make my intentions clear?”

Y/N scrunched her nose up, but her gaze was soft and fond in a way he only sees it get for him, and he melted, “Let me finish baby,” Then Harry melted some more because she called him baby. He nodded, closed his mouth, and let her continue.

“And, through some retrospection, I’ve realized that even if you had told me when you got your mark, the same day, the same hour, the very same second that you realized – my reaction probably would have been close to the same. Maybe a little less theatrical, but I would have withdrawn thinking that I was making things easier for us when really I was making it all worse. And, really, I was making things easier for me, not you. I wanted it to be as easy as possible when you left me for something better. I was protecting my heart and disregarding yours, and for that, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Harry is such a crybaby, when it comes to things like this, and when someone is mutually wearing their heart on their sleeve with him. His eyes bead up with tears, and he raises his hand to wipe them away but ends up taking her hand with him. Y/N smiled softly, unlaced their fingers, and wiped his cheeks with her knuckles, her caress tender, “You’re such a baby,” she murmured fondly, and Harry smiled, his cheeks feeling warm, “I do want to point out, even though I’m apologizing, I value open communication above all else, so don’t ever keep a big secret from me again, or I’ll do something drastic.”

He laughs, and sniffles, and there’s such a weight lifted off of him he can do nothing but melt into the sofa, “Okay,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut as she kept petting his face, “I won’t, I promise I won’t.”

“Have you found them?” Y/N inquired, “Your soulmate?”

It’s you, it’s always been you.

“Not. . .not officially, not. Nobody’s spotted me with the same mark or anything.”

Y/N regarded him thoughtfully, still petting at his face, now mindless in her movements like she didn’t even realize she was doing it, “Then, if you want. . .until you find them, I was wondering if we could date. Not pretend to date, of course – like, we’d properly date.”

Harry cups his hand over hers, pressing it closer to his face.

“I haven’t been pretending for a while.” He admitted.

. . .

Harry is still all jitters and static energy buzzing through his body while he waits in his room. Y/N wanted to take a shower, and wash herself of the alcohol sweat, the club atmosphere, and the body glitter that she’d had all over her. All of her extra stuff was still there, but she told him she was going to use his body wash anyway and Harry would never tell her no to anything. He made his bed from where it had been rumpled from him tossing and turning before this, then sat gingerly in the center, waiting for her.

He’d wondered if he was dreaming a couple of times; worried that he would be startled awake to his alarm and Y/N nowhere to be found, but he dug his nails into his thighs and the bite of pain grounded him. He was very much awake and after thirty minutes, Y/N re-emerged in his room, wearing his clothes, smelling like his soap, and he felt so relieved, he thought he could probably float away. She’d have to grab him by the ankle and yank him back down.

Y/N crawled into his bed, “Your toothpaste tastes better than mine,” she whined, and she didn’t plop down in the spot beside him as he expected. Instead, Y/N climbed into his lap, straddling his waist and looping her arms around his neck. She hugs him tighter, closer to her, tucking her face into his throat and rocking all of her weight down so that Harry falls backward into his bed. His hands set on her hips at first, and then his arms slide around her waist and he’s holding her tight.

“I missed you,” he could hear the pout in her voice, her arms pinned between the back of his neck and the bed and her face stuffed in the curve of his throat, “Too much, like – being without you was fucking awful.”

“I know,” he held her tighter, “I know, I missed you so much, it felt – it felt like it was hard to breathe.”

Y/N murmured her agreement, pulling away too soon.

“Can I see it?”

His brows pull inward, “What?”

“Your mark,” she looked down between them, “Can I see it again?”

Harry stares at her, searching her face for. . .something. He isn’t sure what he’s looking for, but whatever it is, it's difficult to find. Y/N looks relaxed – sobered and musing, reflective. It didn’t seem like something she was doing to torture herself, just something she was interested in, her fingers mindlessly thumbing at the fabric sitting over it. Harry doesn’t speak, but he moves his head just a little, the barest nod, and Y/N scoots down so she sits more on his thighs. He stayed still as she hovered over him – maybe he’d imagined this in a completely different scenario, where they were about to make each other feel good, rather than her regarding his soulmark.

But the universe has tossed them into something so confusing and so different, that it felt silly to question anything anymore. So he watched with bated breath as Y/N lifted the hem of his shirt, pushing the fabric midway up his torso, her eyes fixed on his lower right hip. Harry had looked at it every now and then, but he hadn’t stared at it how he’d imagined he would – hadn’t stroked his thumb over it and daydreamed about his person as he might have even just half a year ago. He kind of avoided looking at it all together, because in the lines all he could visualize was the hurt on Y/N’s face when she found out he hadn’t told her immediately.

The way Y/N looks at it though – she looks at it like it’s something beautiful. The way Harry thought he would look at it.

Her eyes are wide and soft, her fingers tentatively stroking over the skin, “I’ve never seen one up close,” she murmured, tracing over the lines, “I never really wanted to, I don’t think. I always told myself I wasn’t bitter about not having one, but I think refusing to look at someone’s soulmark for more than three seconds is a little bitter.”

One of Harry’s hands rests on her thigh, and the other uselessly holds his shirt up, though it would have stayed still no matter what. He’s worried about speaking like he’d break whatever this trance was that she was in. It felt. . .different, to have her not only looking but caressing the skin there. Like something was shifting, clicking into space, filling something empty.

He breathes in slowly, and gently, his chest and belly rising and falling with the movement but Y/N seemed unbothered by it. With her thumb, she presses down into the center of the circle and he nibbles at his bottom lip – it’s tender there. More sensitive than he’d care to admit, but Y/N could do anything to him. He’d let her do anything she wanted, even if it brought him pain.

“It’s pretty,” she murmured, like a secret just between the two of them, “Just like a birthmark, right, like – the skin doesn’t even welt or anything.”

“Yeah, it – it’s kind of cool,” Harry replied, lulling his tongue over his dry mouth.

Y/N’s eyes meet his and hers are shining but not with tears, or anything sad. Just something sweet, and warm. . .something nice.

“Really cool,” she agreed, then flattened out on top of him again, “Were you jealous when I said I was with someone else tonight?”

And Y/N said she wanted open communication, so – “Yes,” he replied, dipping his face back into her body, hiding himself, “I hated it so much.”

“I’m sorry,” her voice is muffled into his shoulder, “While I was waiting, I thought about how I would feel had the call been reversed, and I – would not have been able to handle it.”

His arms curled around her shoulders, pressing her closer, “S’fine,” he wanted to stay like this, wrapped up in her, consumed by her; he’d missed her so much, even if it was only a few weeks. It felt like an eternity, he would require at least 600 hours of cuddling to feel even partially satisfied with making up for the lost time, “I’m just so happy to have you here with me now, I don’t care.”

Y/N melted into his body, all boneless, and it pressed him further into the bed.

For the first time in a long time, Harry falls asleep hard.

It’s perfect.

. . .

Y/N has been happy lately.

Not that she was like – the most miserable person ever before, but this feeling was different. . .better. It feels like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, or like her body had converted all the bitterness and sadness and general upset over her situation into something light and fluffy. Like the marshmallow you scoop out of a jar, or what clouds should feel like. It’s nice. She isn’t sure if it was making up with Harry that did it, or finally appreciating the outcome of her ability – touching and caressing the mark that will forever stay on his skin – but it felt. . .like something had clicked. Something made sense, that night, and it alleviated a pain that Y/N had been lugging around with her for so long.

She isn’t sure what though.

But, at that moment, she thought maybe it was okay if she never had a soulmate. It wasn’t such a scary thought as it used to be – maybe Y/N was destined to fall in love with Harry, and even if she wasn’t his soulmate, maybe they were destined to be together for now. And that’s okay! Why not revel in this love before he meets his soulmate? Experience it and look back on it fondly, instead of feeling heartbroken and weak. Hell, maybe Harry’s soulmate will feel like Kai and Emi do – maybe they could be a polyamorous couple or something. Surely, whoever Harry’s soulmate is must be as amazing as he is, right? She could love them like she loves Harry, and honestly, she would make the effort no matter what, if it meant making Harry happy.

So it’s like a breath of fresh air. The rest of the weekend they spent a tangled mess of cuddled limbs in his bed, on the couch, on the floor, or in the kitchen – like noodles entangled in each other, fluid in their movements. They don’t leave the flat much at all really, except to go retrieve Ferret, who has a lot to say about her sudden sleepover without notifying him. Otherwise, they order in, they snuggle, they talk, and talk, and talk so much, you’d wonder how there was anything left to discuss.

It’s good – Y/N missed him so much, she can’t imagine being without him again.

Eloise and Niall both know, after a couple of frantic messages from them that she didn’t see until the following morning, she let them know that she was okay, that Harry picked her up, and that they’d talked things through.

Niall messages promptly (Eloise was sleeping off a hangover, so her reply came much later).

Omg yay!!

But if you EVER AGAIN IN YOUR LIFE disappear off the face of the earth after going home with two strangers i will SMOTHER YOU

“You know what, it shows he cares,” Harry had defended him, pulling her closer to his body by the shoulder, “If you did that to me, I’d have called in a SWAT team or summat.”

Monday morning they met for coffee, both pouty that they would have to spend a portion of their day apart. Harry reminded her he was still allotted a little under 600 hours of cuddle time that she had to make up, and she could deliver on them whenever she felt like it. Y/N suggested she start chipping away at the debt Tuesday night, when the cinema prices drop down, so they can finally watch the movie both of them had wanted to but it felt wrong seeing it without each other. The seats recline and warm, and the middle bar between them lifts so they wouldn’t miss even a second of pressing into the other’s body.

“It’s a date,” Y/N smiled, “A real one.”

“Baby, how many times will I have to say it? They’ve been real for me for like – the last month.”

She pinched his bum, laughing when he squawked, “Well, it would’ve been nice if I’d gotten the memo.”

Spring was in full swing, finally. The nights and early mornings weren’t as chilly as they once were, and the morning dew was starting to smell more and more like the world waking up after a long rest. The grass was lush and plants thrived in the hours and hours of sunlight, and wind chimes clinked together with each warm breeze. Renewed and refreshed, the sky was just as bright and blue as it was in childhood; the world was technicolored.

Harry cradled her heart in two careful hands like it was something precious. Something that needed to be tended to and cared for with the utmost precision, beating in his open palms, that he soon cups to protect from the outside world. He demonstrates it in the way he treats her softly, how he navigates through the world with her, the way he looks at her, the way he speaks to her, and the way he holds her.

It’s in the way he turned to her, facing each other on the picnic blanket, lounging in the sun. It’s in the way their fingers are laced together because they always are now, if Harry has anything to do with it, he holds onto her like she’ll float away if he doesn’t. It’s in the way he somehow presses closer to her, and she feels and smells him all around her.

It’s in the way he says, “I love you,” and it’s in the way Y/N’s heart feels swollen in her chest, “I love you so much it kind of feels like it’s hard to breathe, but it’s good. A good breathless, like after running a marathon or something.”

She understands all too well what he means.

Harry leaned over, his lips grazing against hers for a few seconds like he was giving her the chance to push him away. She hadn’t pushed him off for the first hundred kisses he’d dotted on her mouth and skin once they started seeing each other again, so she didn’t know why he would think this was any different. Maybe because of his confession? But it wasn’t something shocking to her. What they felt for one another, this happiness and glimmer that brews between them when they were together, that paints the world in glitter and makes her insides hum warm and fuzzy. . .it could only be love.

So she threads her fingers into the hair at his nape, draws him the rest of the way, and their mouths push together. It’s different this time – this kiss says so much without having to say anything at all.

I love you with all the air that I breathe.

I love you so much it hurts me.

I love you more than I could ever put into words.

I love you more than words could ever allow.

You’re my soulmate, even if it’s not written in the stars.

Harry’s lips are soft, and they taste like the strawberry lip mask that he swears by. The top half of his body is stretched across her, their chests pressing together, she thinks she can feel his heartbeat and wonders if it has started to sync up with her own. It’s a chaste kiss, nothing gaudy or provocative (they’re in public, after all), but it’s good – it’s so good. Something Y/N would replay in her head over and over again. Something she’d never get tired of.

When they part, Harry kisses the tips of their nose together in something so sentimental it’s almost disgusting.

“Ooh,” Harry pushed himself up a little higher, “You’ve got an eyelash baby!”

“I think I have a couple of them. Unless something changed last time I looked in the mirror –”

Harry huffed out through his nose, “Smartass,” the pad of his index finger swipes against her cheek, and Y/N goes cross-eyed trying to look at it, resting there, threatening to blow away with a shiest breeze, “Make a wish, yeah? And make it count!”

She can’t remember the last time she’d wished on an eyelash. To do it again feels innocent and new, so she closes her eyes tight, and she wishes for something good. She doesn’t necessarily know what that good thing is, she just knew that it was a good thing. Maybe she’d get a treat later today, maybe Harry would play with her hair, maybe she’d make him laugh one of those loud, obnoxious ones where his nose scrunches up and his eyes crinkle and he claps a hand over his mouth all embarrassed.

Whatever is, she doesn’t mind.

Y/N tugs him down, even though he drops and almost knocks the wind out of her.

“I love you too,” she tells him earnestly, nosing at his cheek how Dolly’s been doing with her lately, taking him in, “So much.”

Y/N thinks, that maybe the ‘something good’, is how wide his smile is after she says it.

. . .

“Oh my god.”

It was blistering hot out – a random spring day where the weather spiked to about 28°C (82°F) out of nowhere, subsequently on the day that Harry had planned for them to take a hike. One thing about Y/N is, for as adventurous as she likes to make herself out to be, she is not the nature kind of adventurer. She likes to try new places to eat, or weird places to shop, or maybe go to the town over and see what their drive-in theater is like. Not the, let’s climb up the side of a small mountain and hope we don’t cross the path of a cougar and feel sweat cake her skin.

But it was important to Harry because for some reason the man she loved could be that horrible nature type of adventurer. So she sucked it up, woke up at an ungodly hour to get ready, packed a bag for the day and kissed Ferrett all over his stinky little face, and told him his favorite person is a maniac. “A nature-loving maniac,” she muttered before her phone buzzed in her pocket, alerting her that said maniac had pulled up at a quarter till 5 AM.

The goal was to watch the sunrise; it wasn’t a horrible hike, just about 20 minutes up a mountain. The drive was the longest part, but she could sleep a little if she wanted to on the way back and get a good nap in, so that made it a little better. Plus, when she got in the car, Harry patted her head, missing her hair, and scratching his fingers at her scalp, “Hi, pretty baby,” he greeted, “Did you eat breakfast?”

“Mhm,” she murmured, eyes closed and she felt a whole lot like one of the cats when they’re petting between her ears, “I wanna eat again at the top.”

“I already have a lunch packed, Sweetheart,” he puckered his lips, smooching sounds at her, “Hungry thing, like a baby bird, starving without me.”

“Enough!”

It goes well! Y/N keeps her whining and complaining to a minimum, during the steep bits he gets behind her and presses his hands on her bum. It takes them only 20 minutes to get to the top, and the cliff top they’re on overlooks the city. She couldn’t tell you what buildings are, they’re pretty far away, but it is kind of gorgeous. The distance they are at mutes most of the noise, so it’s quiet, apart from morning birds chirping and a couple of insects buzzing. Harry doesn’t mention how he found this spot, but it doesn’t seem like his first time up here. He does seem excited to share this moment with her, absolutely buzzing and if he had a tail it would be wagging.

The start is fine, absolutely beautiful, and then the sun creeps up over the horizon and it’s gorgeous in a way Y/N hasn’t seen before – she’d never actually watched the sunrise, now that she thought about it. They eat their lunch (or was it brunch, technically?) and loiter for a little while, maybe too long, because by the time they’re leaving, there is little to no shade and the sun is baking through her clothes, and she’s regretting wearing more than a sliver of fabric over her crotch because she’s sweating. Still, Harry is silly and sweet and makes it bearable because he seems so happy, it just reverberates off of her.

She does fall asleep on the way home, she wakes up five minutes from her flat and she’s a little groggy and grouchy and in desperate fucking need of a shower. But she has Harry shower first, because. . .well, she doesn’t know, she’s feeling sweet and his showers are quick, and she won’t have to worry about taking up all the hot water before him. And, true to it, Harry does shower relatively fast, maybe within ten minutes he’s finished. Y/N gawks at his body when he comes out in just a towel, and presses her fingers into the tender spot where his soulmark lays across his hip.

“Ah!” He squawks but doesn’t tell her to stop, because she’s pretty sure he secretly likes it.

By the time she’d had her shower, she was more awake, though she knew herself and knew her body, and as soon as she sat beside Harry on the couch she’d melt into him and fall asleep. She walks into the living room where he’s already sitting, Ferret curling around his lap, while Y/N pulls her hair off her neck and into her bun. She’d forgotten a hair tie on their hike so the thought of her hair touching her nape for any amount of time for the rest of the day, just seemed awful.

First, Y/N sat down, relaxed into him, and settled, lulling into that pleasant calm that she knew would eventually send her to sleep (Harry accepted it happily, wrapping his arm around her and holding her close) – then she remembered that there was a merch drop for one of her favorite artists and jolted back awake, “Shit! Harry, the t-shirts!” She leaned forward to grab her phone off the table.

“Baby what t-shirt. . .” he trailed off, his voice leaving, and Y/N was too busy with her phone, hunched over it and trying to login to her account to notice, “Oh my god.”

Y/N’s brows furrowed, turned to face him, “Listen, don’t be jealous, yes I think they’re beautiful, but I just like the band.” When their gazes locked, his face was almost blank, like he was registering something for the first time, and it took her aback. She’d told him about the t-shirts the night before in a series of panicked messages because they always sell out fast, especially now that they come with a signed album. He sent multiple emojis and a message that said, “You got this baby!!!!!!!”

He’d playfully mentioned being jealous before because multiple of the band members were beautiful and he said she was going to run off with one of them if he ever took her to their show. Still, the face he’s making right now doesn’t seem the least bit playful. This isn’t even the face he makes when he’s jealous.

It’s blank, and then it isn’t – his lips twitch like he wants to say something, and his face goes pink, his ears are red, and when he blinks tears bead up in his eyes, “Harry?” She lowered her phone back to the table, turning her body now so she faced him more, “Hey, what’s wrong? What happened?”

“Your mark.” He says it almost as quietly as a whisper, breathless.

Y/N’s brows furrowed deeper, “My what?”

Harry’s hands are careful, approaching her like he would a wounded animal in the woods, tentative and a little hesitant. His fingers touch the back of her neck, where her skin is a little sore; she kept waking up on her belly with Ferret lying on her back, sometimes kneading at her nape, so she could only imagine how many little kitten claw abrasions she had littering the skin. She can’t really visualize them, so she just slathered Neosporin over it and hoped for the best. The pain was only intense once, a couple of weeks ago, but her shoulder had been sore too so she’s pretty sure she’d been sleeping in a weird position. Y/N had a nasty habit of doing that, her head, body, and arms all twisted in various directions.

Still, Harry wouldn’t act that way about cat scratches, would he? Unless they looked absolutely horrible.

Her hand lifts to meet him, where he strokes over the skin, “Oh, yeah I guess Ferret got me pretty good. Does it look bad?”

He blinks at her, “I knew it.”

“Harry, what? C’mon, you’re not making sense!”

His gaze finally meets hers again, tearing away from her neck, and a smile grows over his face, “It’s not a cat scratch, it’s your mark.” He finally answered, and the joy that outstretched his features was all-encompassing.

Y/N blinked at him.

“Oh.” She tilted her head, her hands hovering over the spot but Harry gripped her fingers and brought them down, running them over it, “That’s – it’s mine? I have one?”

Her voice doesn’t feel like her own. Her body doesn’t feel like her own.

Y/N had finally accepted that maybe not getting one was okay. She’d spent years of her life yearning for it, wanting it desperately, wondering why she didn’t have it – what she had done to deserve such a fate. And then she finally just lets it go, accepts that maybe it wasn’t her reality, and finally has made peace with it.

But Harry is saying she has one.

Whoa.

“Whoa,” her skin doesn’t feel any different – it’s just smooth, the back of her neck, the little bump of her spine, but Harry keeps guiding her to trace the skin like there’s something magical there. His eyes can barely look away from it, “Does it –” she’s nervous to ask, nervous to know, but she has to know, “Is it similar to yours?”

Harry shook his head, but before Y/N’s heart could drop to her stomach, he opened his mouth, “Not just similar,” he told her gently, “It’s an exact match.”

Y/N thinks this is what floating must feel like. This calm, easy feeling that washes over her; warm and bright, like resting on your back in water, hovering over the surface without the water sloshing in your ear. Just floating, a couple of meters above ground, over a field of flowers so happy from rain and sun. In a world that smells like something sweet and light, where the colors are vivid, where the birds sing, where she merely floats around, satiated, and satisfied.

All this drama. All this heartache and stress and worry that they put themselves through, and they’d been soulmates all along.

“Can you take a picture of it?”

Harry nodded, taking her phone off the table and using his hand to brush the baby hairs completely out of the way before she heard the shutter click a few times. When Harry flipped the camera around, she saw exactly what he’d said – it felt a little more real now that she was looking at it, just a few shades darker than her skin, a circle that turned into a swirl, dots that could be little stars, three lines that reminded her of Ferret’s whiskers. Y/N had spent so much time looking and pressing at Harry’s lately that she didn’t need to compare it, but she did anyway. She presses at his chest so his back meets the sofa, and pushes his shirt up above his belly button, pulling his briefs further down. Y/N held the phone screen beside him, her heart feeling heavy, too big for her chest, shifting her lungs and threatening to crack her ribs with the growth.

“I knew it,” Harry whispers again, “I knew it, baby, I knew it this whole time, it had to be you.”

Y/N thinks it's her who kisses him first. All but lunges at him, actually, like a new vampire at the first sight of blood, if she weren’t already leaning back then the force she’d exerted would have pushed him there. Their chests knock together and their mouths do what she can only describe as smush together, in something a little sloppy, a little desperate, and uncoordinated. It is nothing like the sweet, chaste little kiss they shared on the picnic blanket two weeks ago. This is something different, something primal and needy.

They part for a second, to suck in a tiny breath and then dip back in only this time Y/N’s licking into his mouth. She’s tasting his tongue, she’s feeling his scalp beneath her fingers as she runs them through his hair, she’s feeling his body radiate warmth, the softness of his skin.

She’s feeling her soulmate.

Her soulmate.

Their tongues curl around each other, Y/N tries to press impossibly closer to his body, her thighs trapping his hips in a hold she thinks would rival a wrestler. Harry’s hand doesn’t leave her nape, stroking over it, and with each caress, she can hear his voice repeating, “I knew it,” like a mantra. Pleased with himself for never doubting this, even when it took too long. Even when she thought one day he was going to leave her for bigger, better things, someone created just for him.

And she’d been that person all along.

She isn’t sure if her cheeks are sticky with her tears or with his, but it doesn’t matter. Their kiss starts to taste salty when the dewy drops slip down their nose and over the curve of their mouths. Y/N bites at his bottom lip then suck it back into her mouth, then presses her lips hot into his again. This feeling is overwhelming, but so good, so, so, so good. Her brain feels dizzy with it, her insides flutter, and she doesn’t know if she’s trembling or if every one of her cells is vibrating and cheering and telling her told you so! Because her body knew from the very moment they touched that he was her person.

“Sweetheart,” he finally panted, when they take a long break, though he does push kisses along her tear-speckled cheeks between breaths, “I’m – you might need to get off my lap, baby.”

Harry’s hard under her, she had felt that a little while ago and made no move to get off of him before. Honestly, it only encouraged her to keep kissing him, subtly rolling her hips into his body, making sure he only grew stiffer and stiffer beneath her. Y/N wanted him wholly. They hadn’t slept with each other yet, and she wasn’t sure why – it had never felt like the right time before, she guessed, but it certainly felt like the right time now. Y/N wanted to wrap around him, she wanted their bodies to merge, to sink into him, for him to melt into her.

“I want you,” she answered, then shifted in his lap, pressing tighter to the bulge for good measure, “I need you.”

That’s all she has to say.

Harry stands up with her, his arms supporting her bum as he guides them to her bedroom. Y/N would have been just fine on the couch, but Harry is a romantic after all; he would never let their first time be anywhere but a bed. He carefully lays her down on the mattress, then crawls over the top of her, his lips smearing over her mouth once again. It’s hot again – she’s warm all over, and everywhere his hands touch sends searing waves through the rest of her body. They don’t stay in one place for long like he’s mapping her out like he hasn’t spent so much time already stroking, massaging, squeezing, and tracing all over her hands, her arms, her legs.

Her skin pebbles with goosebumps when his hands fix around the bottom of her shirt, peeling it up, over her head and helping her wiggle out from the collar. Y/N hadn’t bothered with a bra after her shower, so her breasts were free just as soon as the fabric left them. He stares down at them, marveling, one of his hands on either side of her waist smooths up so the swell of her boobs rest in the curve of his index finger and thumb. Harry squeezes experimentally, his eyes on her face as he lulls his tongue over his lips, “Anything you don’t like, you tell me, okay?”

Normally when someone says that, the ensuing action is something that might be an acquired taste, but Y/N wondered how anyone could not want Harry’s mouth all over their body. He lowered himself, hand full of her breast, before he lulled his tongue over the nipple. Laved it over with his spit then blew cool air on it, watching as it hardened beneath the stream of his breath. He smiled, almost like he found it cute how responsive her body was to him before he closed the gap and pulled it between his lips.

Y/N gasps, her hips jerk and she drags her covered pussy over the stiffened bulge in his bottoms. Harry moans around but he doesn’t detach himself, busy rolling her nipple around his soft tongue in circles and then sucking it hard into his mouth. She’d be surprised if she didn’t have love bites around her nipples in a few hours, the way he bites down, just barely indenting his teeth before soothing it back over again.

When he removes himself from that nipple, he kisses all around her breast, sucking patches of skin into his mouth, just pecking over others, bridging the gap with wet presses and open-mouth kisses to her other nipple. Y/N makes a reedy sound in her throat, her legs wrapping around his hips loosely when she tries to rock her hips into him again. Harry uses the hand that was still thumbing and rubbing over the nipple he had been sucking on, to move to her hips. He pressed down, pulling away with a click of his tongue, “Be patient,” he chided gently, and she would be annoyed if she didn’t love the sound of his voice, “I want to take my time with you.”

“I’ve been patient,” she mewled, her chest heaving with an exasperated breath, “Take your time with me later, I want you now.”

Y/N didn’t care how desperate or pathetic she sounded. Harry didn’t seem to mind either, when he pushed his mouth back to hers, letting his tongue flutter between her lips but as soon as the tip of hers met the tip of his, he withdrew, teasingly, “Okay, you impatient thing,” he reached behind himself, grabbing the top of his shirt and pulling it over the top of his head, Y/N drinks in the sight of his body like she hadn’t seen it like twenty minutes ago after his shower. Like she hadn’t seen it hours ago when he got too hot on their way down the small mountain and pulled his workout top off. Then his fingers curl into the elastic of her bottoms, “I at least need to stretch you a little, hm? Will you allow that?”

She frowned at him but raised her hips for him, helping him work the shorts and panties off of her legs. Y/N is going to say that he just wants to be a pervert and stare at her since he’d seen how wet she could get the night that they sexted each other, but her words are stolen from her throat when he lets a glob of spit drool over the top of her. She twitches when it meets her pussy, sliding over the swell of her clit before Harry’s fingers delicately rub over her slit. Y/N feels herself throb, her walls contracting like they’re trying to beguile him inside.

Harry coos, “You’re so pretty for me,” he rubs his thumb over her clit, biting on his bottom lip while he smiled, rolling it in circles, and it’s already so swollen that it stiffly moves beneath the pad, “So beautiful. I can’t believe you’re all mine.”

A single finger dips inside, right down to the knuckle, he eases in and visibly has to steel himself as her walls suck him inside. Y/N can’t even pretend like her pussy is acting with a mind of its own, Y/N is just as greedy for him. Harry feels around for a little while, petting and stroking like he has to map the inside of her as well, and he moves around so much that he eventually pushes right against the bundle of nerves tucked away inside of her. The reaction is immediate and full-bodied, her thighs try to close around him, but with one hand he has his palm flat against the inside of her thigh, holding her open.

“I love you,” Harry murmured as he eased another finger inside of her, scooting down the bed. In his path, he kisses along her torso, over her ribcage, dotting pecks over her belly button and sucking quick little marks in the area around her hip bones. Down to his ending goal, so his face was sitting between her legs, and now he leaves wet presses to the tender flesh of her thighs, “I love you so much. Knew from so early on that it could only be you – that nobody else would fit me like you do.”

Y/N whines, overcome with love, her chest tender, “I love you too,” she whispered as Harry kissed down her thigh, until he was hovering over her cunt. His warm breath washes over Y/N’s weeping center, the way she drips around his fingers is probably a little wild. Y/N gets pretty wet under normal circumstances, sure, but now she’s in love, and happy, and it feels like all those feelings have culminated into an absolute wave between her thighs.

“I’ve been thinking about tasting you since I went on my trip,” he confessed, not pausing the movement of his fingers inside of her, though his voice does little to drown out the embarrassing squelch, “And as I recall you said you would let me taste you.”

There’s no more preamble than that. His tongue is soft and wet, lacing between her lips and petting over her swollen clit. Harry moans in tandem with her, as she spreads her legs further, her head tilting back, “God,” she whines, “You’re too – you’re too good at this, it’s not fair.” He laughed as he slid his tongue up and down her folds, spreading and stretching the two fingers inside of her, slowly working her up to take a third. Which wouldn’t be much on a smaller hand, but Harry’s hands are quite big, and even just two fingers kind of feel like the width of one of her smaller toys. Smaller but not small, so she’s already feeling quite full.

It’s a good feeling, to be full of him, to have him inside of her in any capacity. Now that she’s had a taste of it, she isn’t sure how she’s going to ever go without it. He might just have to carry her around sitting on his cock all day, drawing a book cover while she edited a chapter, stretched out and warm on his prick.

Harry pulls her clit into between his lips, sucking small, short little actions that threaten to make her eyes roll back. Arousal burns white hot in her belly, and she feels herself leak a little more, her juices dribbling down to her bum. Then the soft suckles get harder, and harder until she can see his lips pucker around it and his cheeks suck in, and he’s sliding a third finger in somehow, even though she thinks she’s clamping down on him. Y/N feels close, all love-struck and needy, she thinks he could probably make her cum by walking by her if she’s honest.

Her hand buries in his hair, pulling, “I’m g’na cum,” she warned him, the telltale signs of it burning up her spine, slithering out through the rest of her body, as the orgasm dances through every single nerve she has, “Ah, fuck, please don’t stop, please don’t stop.” Harry groans into her like he’s close too, and her thighs start to shake, the vibrations of his noises tripping her over the edge, as her hips buck and rock into his face without any say-so from her. Her body moves off impulse, pushing him further into her, and Harry accepts it graciously, working her through her orgasm, slathering his tongue back up and down her slit, around his fingers, fluttering the tip of it at her rapidly pulsing and twitching hole.

He stays there until she shoves him away, her palm pressed against his forehead, and Harry laughs. His lips are swollen and wet, a bright pink that rivals a lot of lip products on the market. He dots kisses on the tops of her thighs as she settles, jumping and jerking, her body sensitive to the touch all over.

“We can stop here,” he murmured, “I just wanted to make you feel good.”

Y/N mustered the best glare she could, with all of the muscles in her whole body, including her face, feeling liquified, “If you don’t get inside of me, I’ll scream.”

Harry laughs, something so sweet in such a filthy situation as he sits back up. He’d only put on briefs after his shower so there was only one last layer to shed, and Y/N’s eyes were glued to him as pulled them down his thighs, off his legs. His cock bobs, heavy and full, precum dribbling down the tip already and she wondered if maybe, they were just a leaky duo. When he finally sits, his dick settles right up against his belly, with a slight preference toward his right, directed toward his soulmark. He settled between her thighs, took hold of himself by the base, and squeezed for a second, sucking in a slow, deep breath before tapping the tip against her messy slit.

The sound of them colliding is soft and wet, a little ‘thwick, thwick, thwick,’ that makes Harry smile, “What a cute noise,” he started to rub himself against her, painting the head up and down, early pushing inside of her then taking it back and sliding back up her slit. Harry can only stand it about four times before he has to give in, tipping the head of his cock inside of her, and pushing his hips forward.

He collects her thighs, guiding them around his waist as Y/N keens at the stretch. Harry’s just as big as he looked in the picture, it had not been the magic of angles at all, so her toes curl as the burn gives way to pleasure the further he dips in. It’s too fucking good, how he fills her up, stuffs any gap inside of her. For the most part, he glides inside, aided by her previous orgasm loosening her up and making her even wetter, but toward the end he has to rock his hips a little, pushing past the last little bit.

Then his balls are snug against her bum, and he’s dropping down on top of her, their mouths meeting again. This kiss is a little sweeter, despite their position, it feels like a gentle reminder. He finds her hand, takes her wrist, and moves it above her head. He slips his fingers between the spaces of hers, holding her tight as he carefully starts to roll his hips. Just a little bit at a time, getting her used to the feeling, getting him used to it. She feels like puddy, moldable in his capable, tender hands.

“I love you,” he murmured, and he says it so often, every night before they go to bed, every morning when they wake up when he kisses her cheek before they go to their separate floors at work, but he says it now like he just likes the taste of it on his tongue. His lips skim across her cheek, stiffened and sticky from the dried tears from earlier, “My pretty baby, my soulmate,” his teeth drag against her ear, “You’re perfect. Feel so fucking good inside.”

Y/N’s body reacts accordingly, squeezing around him even tighter, and she’d never thought she was one for this mushy, lovey-dovey kind of dirty talk but it’s doing things to her that she’s never felt before. Harry fucks her slowly and tenderly to start, just gentle rolls of his hips, and when he’s done kissing her cheek and nipping at her ear, his forehead rests against hers. His eyes bore into her own, his mouth fell open, mirroring Y/N’s and they breathed each other's air and moaned into each other’s mouths. When he picks up the pace of it, Harry slides his forearm under the pit of her knee, keeping her spread open and wide for him.

“I love you,” Y/N finally reciprocates, because she can be honest and admit that she’s feeling a little cock dumb right now, her brain barely keeping up with anything other than, Harry, and big, big, big, and feels so good, love him, love him. So formulating words is a triumphant task, one she’s proud of herself for being able to accomplish.

“Can I see it, baby?” Harry asks her, pushing the hair from her face, “Do you mind if I flip you onto your tummy? Wanna see it again.”

Y/N mustered all her strength to help him as she nodded, agreeing – she wanted him to see it. She’d gotten to play and touch and press into his so much already, she thought it was only fair. So he slides out of her, helps her flip over, stuffs a pillow beneath her hips, pushes her legs out just a little, and then slips himself right back in like he was made to fit just there. The new angle knocks the breath out of her, along with the new, reinvigorated thrusts from Harry as he guides her head. Her cheek is pressed to a pillow, and Harry pushes her hair out of his way (it had somehow fallen from the bun at some point, Y/N isn’t sure when), and he thumbs over the spot again.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, and his thrusts pick up, faster than before, harder, and Y/N’s whole body feels it. Harry stretches across her back, his chest against sweaty skin as his lips push against the mark that matches his, suddenly on her skin, like it was always meant to be there, “God, fuck, you’re mine. I’m yours, and you’re mine, and this is. . .this is perfect, we’re perfect,” he fucks her harder, the hand that was squeezing her hip tight enough to leave bruises now slides between her body and the pillow, two fingers finding her clit.

Y/N cums again, even harder than the first time. Her mouth falls open to moan but it gets caught in her throat, as she shakes, and trembles through it, squeezing Harry and sucking him further and further inside. She can hear her blood roaring in her ears, her vision blurs and her muscles jerk and tighten, loosen then tighten up again as her orgasm trapezes through her. It had built up so fast and so suddenly that it completely blindsided her, and Harry for that matter, who finishes fucking her through it before he has to slip out, sliding himself in between her cheeks, her bum sandwiching him. Harry finishes shortly after her, “G’na cum, baby, g’na cum for you,” and, his cum hot and wet meets her lower back, all over her bum, and there’s so much of it she can feel it dripping down her thighs.

They’re wet and sticky again, the showers they had both taken were completely a moot point now but Y/N didn’t care. She sank into the bed beneath her, Harry’s body on top of her like a weighted blanket, and for the first time, she understood how those could be comforting rather than suffocating. She feels each heavy, deep breath that Harry takes, how his lungs expand, and the way his heart thuds. Her eyes are closed, and she thinks, if he let her, she’d fall asleep in seconds.

His cum cools between them, and the insides of her thighs are a sticky mess of her arousal, but the moment feels intimate and innocent in a way Y/N can’t describe. He stretched out on top of her, rousing enough to give giddy kisses to the back of her neck again, still in such awe and wonder by the affirmation of something he knew deep down. Y/N wished she had been as confident as him in the universe’s plan this entire time. Maybe she could have saved them some of the trouble that they went through.

But that doesn’t matter now.

Not when they have matching marks.

Not when this is perfect.

“Can’t believe you thought this beautiful mark was a cat scratch,” he murmured against her nape, “I can still taste the antibiotic ointment on it, Sweetheart, you should really investigate harder when you think something’s harmed you.”

Y/N wiggled beneath him, “I’m telling Ferret that you think his cat scratches aren’t beautiful,” she threatened, “I’ll tell him you called him stinky too.”

Harry gasped, “Don’t you dare,” he squeezed her sides, and she could hear the smile in his voice when she squealed and jumped, “I won’t have you letting Ferret believe that I abide by any of your usual Ferret slander.” He flipped her around, enough that he could see her face and they could look at each other, “I’m serious!” He exclaimed when she smiled.

“I am too, he’s a stinky little fiend. So stinky and so fiendish that I believed he was continuously scratching me in the same spot before I believed that I got a soulmate mark.” She sighed, shaking her head, “I reckon we need to go pick up Dolly, so she can teach him a thing or two about keeping his claws in his paws. . .and I miss her.” Y/N shrugged, “It feels weird not to have her with us on such a monumental day.”

A dimple pops onto his cheek.

“You’re right,” he grinned.

. . .

Later that night, Y/N and Harry are lying in her bed watching the telly. His hand presses against the nape of her neck, and her fingers trace over his lower right hip. Ferret is tucked against Harry’s side, Dolly is stretched out over Y/N’s thighs, and Harry and Y/N are so close together they might as well be one body.

“If I was stinky as Ferret, would you still love me?” She inquired idly, and Harry laughed quietly, his chest rumbling with it.

“Honestly, it might make me love you more.” He replied.

Y/N knows, for sure, this is where they’re both meant to be.

1K notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 29 days ago

Text

harry writes poetry, he writes music, he designs clothing, he likes photography, he goes thrifting, he loves walking, he goes to art museums, he's a book lover, he watches movies, he's sweet, he's polite, he buys flowers, he's a loverboy, he's-

(via:💖)

190 notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 29 days ago

Text

warming up

franco colapinto x teammate!reader

summary: franco is determined to make his teammate feel better with the perfect warm sweater.

word count: 1.5k

warnings: franco is slightly obsessed with reader, not much franco x reader action but still cute! two mentions of ‘yn’, shameless and jealous franco.

You had seriously underestimated how cold Vegas would actually be.

It seemed like everyone had warned you, ‘Bring sweaters, it will get cold’ they said, and yet you chose to ignore them. So your situation could’ve easily been avoided.

You gazed at Liam Lawson from the other side of the paddock, wishing nothing more that you were in his position, wrapped up in a blanket sitting right next to a heater.

You sighed, imagining what you would feel like if you were in his position, you were so focused that you didn't see or hear your teammate walk up behind you.

Franco looked at you with a smile, although he frowned when he realized you weren’t giving him his desired attention, he followed your gaze over to Liam, who was in the middle of an interview.

“What are we looking at?” he whispered in your ear, ignoring your slight jump.

“Jesus Franco,” you muttered, trying to calm yourself, “Liam looks real warm right now.”

Franco nodded, rolling his eyes slightly, “Yes. Because he had a blanket. Do you not see that?”

You gave him a look, “Of course, I see that. That is the whole point. I want to be warm.”

Franco gave you a look over, keeping his eyes on your bare arms, where he could see the cold making your hair stand up, he smiled, “Ah. Are you cold?”

“I can’t feel my fingers,” you mumbled, keeping your eyes forward, on Liam.

Franco frowned, holding back on asking why exactly you didn't bring a sweater, his stomach felt nauseous at the sight of you gazing at Liam with so much want.

Now, you weren’t exactly looking at Liam, more so his body temperature, but still, Franco would give anything to have you gaze at him.

He gasped, his face brightening, if he got you a sweater, there was no way you would be staring at Liam like that, you would be staring at him like that.

“I will be right back.” he spoke firmly, starting to back away, “Do not leave.” you watched him over your shoulder, giggling as he fumbled into a sprint.

“No, too ugly…” Franco mumbled to himself as he threw the sweater behind him, he pulled another from his small driver’s room closet, “No, too blue…” He threw this one behind him as well. Not noticing it landed on his trainer.

The man in question jumped in shock, pulling the Williams-style sweater off his head, “What the..” he mumbled, turning to Franco, who held up a knitted sweater, “Perfect..” he heard Franco whisper.

The trainer stared briefly, watching Franco go back scavenging through his closet. The trainer could only roll his eyes before slowly walking out of the room.

“I should get her two.” Franco whispered to himself, “In case she doesn’t like one of them..” he nodded to himself, continuing to throw sweaters he didnt deem fit behind him.

After ten minutes of back and forth, Franco existed his driver’s room content, he was going to be your night and shining armor, and then you’ll look at Franco with all the love in the world because he was the one to get you warm and cozy.

Just as he was going to make his way over to the media pen, where he had left you, he was pulled aside by your manager.

“(Y/N) was looking for you.” she informed him, Franco grumbled to himself, “I told her to stay in place, tonta.” (dummy)

“She got cold.” The woman defended you, “You left her out there…she waited for ten minutes.”

Franco held up the two sweaters in his arm with a frown, “I got her sweaters, so she would not be cold.”

Your manager eyes him with a smirk, “You spent ten minutes finding a sweater to give her?”

Franco shrugged, “I wanted to make sure they were warm.”

The woman tilted her head, “You know we have a merch store full of sweaters, right?”

Franco turned to her in disgust, “Mierda, those sweaters are like this,” he held his thumb and index together, “They are not warm. They need to be warm.” (shit)

“So you are giving her your sweaters?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think that will make her fall in love with you?”

Franco leaned back in offense, “I do not need to make her fall for me…” he paused, “She is already in love with me, she just does not know it yet.”

The woman nodded with pursed lips, “Yeah because that’s a totally sane thing to say.”

Franco simply rolled his eyes, having had this conversation one too many times. So what if his obsession with you was just slightly worrying? It was all going to work out in the end, he just knew it. “Do you know where she went?”

Your manager thought for a moment. “She mentioned being hungry, so she probably went up to eat.”

And with that, Franco went off with a sprint.

Out of breath, and slight sweating, Franco entered the Williams dining room, eyes sweeping over the place with quick eyes. Only to feel a rush of disappointment when he didn't spot you.

He let out a deep disappointed sigh as he took a seat at the bar. The bartender watched him as he wallowed in pity.

Franco continued to let out deep, soul-searching sighs, catching the attention of those around him, the bartender walked but to him with an awkward smile, sliding over a glass of water.

“Hey Franco,” she started, he glanced up at her with a small smile, “You okay?” she whispered, leaning in, there were all different kinds of people around them, investors, fans, journalists, and no doubt searching for a bit of drama to hold onto, the last thing she wanted was for this interaction to be first-page news tomorrow morning.

“No.” Franco was blunt, “Was (Y/N) here?”

The lady nodded, “Yeah she just left actually. She got her usual–”

“Hot chocolate, whipped cream, caramel drizzle.” the two coursed.

The bartender leaned back, impressed, “You really know her.”

Franco shrugged, “She’ll be my wife one day, I need to know what she likes.”

The lady laughed, “Oh yeah? Does she know that?”

Franco tilted his head, “No sé. I don't think it's a secret that I like her.” (I don't know.)

The woman agreed; this was not the first time she’d heard about Franco being in love with you. It seemed like every time he and she talked, he managed to somehow make the conversation about you.

Now, she didn't know if the feelings were one-sided, the way you looked at Franco certainly made her think they weren't.

She hummed, “Well she took her hot chocolate to go, so I don't know where she went.”

Franco nodded, slowly moving off the chair, his sweaters both tightly secure in his clutch, “Okay then. If she comes back, tell her I'm looking for her.”

Franco was late to the fan stage, he had been so busy looking for you that he had lost track of time, and now he was being yelled at by his manager through the phone, demanding to know where he was.

It took him two minutes to run from the garage to the fan stage, he was recorded who knows how many times, and he was no doubt trending right now.

He had thrown the two sweaters in the arms of his manager when he arrived, wasting no time climbing the small steps up to the stage.

What he saw made his stomach drop, there you were in all your glory, wearing no other than a…mclaren puffer jacket. And you were talking to no other than…Lando Norris.

God, the smile on your face made Franco want to claw his eyes out, Lando had never been that funny.

Franco ignored the fans yelling his name, instead he squeezed in between you and Lando, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Hello,” he mumbled, keeping his eyes on you.

Lando looked over at you with an amused smile before walking away, shaking his head slightly.

“Hi?” you questioned, glancing over to the fan’s direction weary, thankfully they seemed to be paying attention to Lando and Oscar, the latter seemingly saying something funny.

“I was looking for you.”

You winced, “Sorry but I got really cold, and then I got really hungry…”

Franco smiled softly, "It's okay…” he glanced down at your attire, “What are you wearing?”

You broke out into a smile, “Do you like it? Lando gave it to me, he said I looked cold.”

“I don't like it,” Franco stated simply, you leaned back, an offended look on your face. “Okay. Rude.”

“It’s really ugly, “ he continued, “You should change.”

You huffed, “I didn't bring any sweaters!”

Franco held up a finger before moving away. You rolled your eyes, moving back to the others on stage.

A couple minutes later you felt someone's presence behind you, you jumped slightly, feeling someone pulling on your jacket, looking back you saw Franco, a look on his face.

“Take this off,” he mumbled, you glanced to his shoulder, where two knitted sweaters lay. “Porfa?” he pleaded, seeing the hesitation on your face. (please)

Later that night, as the fan stage was wrapping up, Franco walked up to Lando, handing him the Mclaren jacket with a smile, “She didn't want it…” he muttered, “And she doesn't want you.” he added as an afterthought, shooting the Mclaren driver a smile before walking over to you.

1K notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 1 month ago

Text

no fuck you this was too fucking beautiful HOW DO I STOP CRYING

HOW

DO I STOP

Love Again

Charles Leclerc x widow!Reader

Summary: you never thought you would be able to let someone else into your heart after your husband passed away, but when a bucket list your husband left you to fulfill inadvertently leads you straight into Charles’ path, you learn exactly what it means to love again

Warnings: death of significant other

The funeral is everything you expected it to be and nothing like you imagined. The church is suffocatingly full, every pew occupied, and the walls themselves seem to press in on you.

You sit in the front row, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white against the black fabric of your dress. You haven’t said a word since you walked into the church, since you caught sight of the casket at the front, draped in a flag. You can’t speak because if you open your mouth, you’re certain you’ll break apart.

You focus on the details instead. The way the flowers — lilies, his favorite — are arranged with too much precision. The way the air smells faintly of old wood and incense. The way the murmur of the crowd sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Your head is spinning, but your body is still, a statue carved out of grief and shock.

You hear the scrape of a chair being moved and look up just in time to see the man taking the pulpit. You recognize him, vaguely, as someone from the organization — Doctors Without Borders. He was there when it happened. He was there with him.

He clears his throat, glances down at a piece of paper in his hand, then up at the crowd. “I’m not sure I have the right words for this,” he begins, his voice low and trembling just enough to be noticeable. “But I’ll try.”

You hate him a little for that — for having to try. You don’t want him to try. You want him to fail, to stumble over his words, to not be able to get them out. But he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and continues.

“James was ... the best of us. You all know that. He was selfless, tireless. He didn’t just want to save lives — he did it. Every day. In the most dangerous places, under the most terrifying conditions. He was a healer in the truest sense of the word.” The man’s voice catches for a second, but he pushes through it. “And he was my friend.”

You flinch at that, a sharp pain slicing through your chest.

“He saved us that day,” the man says. “He saved all of us.”

The church is so quiet now, you could hear a pin drop. You can’t take your eyes off the man at the pulpit. You want him to stop talking. You want him to stop telling you things you can’t bear to hear. But he doesn’t stop.

“We were in the middle of the compound when the shelling started. It came out of nowhere. One minute we were patching up a kid who’d been hit by shrapnel, and the next, the whole world was exploding around us. We were trapped. There was no way out.” The man’s voice lowers, almost like he’s talking to himself now. “But James ... James didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the blast, toward the fire. He pulled people out, dragged them to safety.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you swipe it away angrily.

“He was hit by the last shell,” the man continues, his voice trembling now. “He was trying to get one of the nurses out. She was trapped under some debris. He managed to free her, but then the shell hit, and ...” The man’s voice falters, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “He didn’t make it.”

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, a ripple of shock that moves through the room like a wave. You feel it crash over you, pulling you under. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but sit there and listen as the man finishes his eulogy.

“He died a hero,” the man says, his voice breaking. “He died saving lives, the way he always wanted to. And I ... I don’t know how to make sense of it. I don’t know how to make it okay.”

He steps back from the pulpit, his head bowed, and there’s a moment of silence so thick, it’s suffocating. You feel like you’re drowning, like the walls of the church are closing in on you. You need to get out, but you can’t move. You’re frozen in place, trapped in your grief.

Finally, you manage to take a breath, and it feels like your lungs are on fire. You get to your feet, unsteady, and start to make your way down the aisle. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the church on you, but you don’t care. You need to get out. You need air.

You push through the heavy wooden doors and stumble out into the daylight, gasping for breath like you’ve been underwater for hours. The sky is too blue, the sun too bright. Everything is too much.

You lean against the wall of the church, pressing your forehead to the cool stone, trying to steady yourself. But the tears come anyway, hard and fast, and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

You don’t know how long you stand there, sobbing into the wall, but eventually, you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is — your husband’s best friend.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, hesitant.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You just keep crying.

“I ... I’m so sorry,” he says. He steps closer, and you can feel the warmth of his presence beside you. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say,” you manage to choke out, your voice raw.

He’s silent for a moment, and then he takes a deep breath. “James ... he gave me something. To give to you. In case ... in case something happened.”

You turn to look at him, your vision blurred by tears. He’s holding an envelope, white and plain, with your name on it in James’ handwriting. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“He asked me to give it to you,” he says, holding the envelope out to you. “But only when you’re ready.”

You stare at the envelope like it’s a bomb about to go off. You don’t want to take it. You don’t want to know what’s inside. But you reach for it anyway, your hand shaking.

“Take your time,” he says softly. “There’s no rush.”

You nod, clutching the envelope to your chest like it’s a lifeline. You can’t bring yourself to open it, not yet. You don’t even know if you ever will.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He nods, his eyes full of sympathy and something else — something you can’t quite place. “I’m here if you need anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak. He lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something more, but then he just gives you a small, sad smile and walks away.

You watch him go, the envelope still clutched tightly in your hand, and you feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest. You know that whatever’s inside is going to change everything, and you’re not sure you’re ready for that.

But you don’t have a choice.

***

The envelope sits in the top drawer of your nightstand, hidden beneath an old notebook and a stack of receipts you keep meaning to throw away. It’s been there for over a year, untouched.

Some days, you forget about it entirely, letting the routine of work and lonely dinners numb the ache in your chest. But most days, it lingers in the back of your mind, a quiet hum of guilt and grief that you can’t quite shake.

You know you’re supposed to open it — James left it for you, after all. But every time you reach for the drawer, your hand hovers just above the handle, frozen. Because what if the letter makes it worse? What if the words on the paper bring everything crashing back down on you, when you’ve spent so long trying to build yourself back up?

So you leave it. Days turn into weeks, and then months, until a whole year has passed. Friends have stopped asking how you’re doing, their well-meaning calls and texts fading away into awkward silence. You don’t blame them. It’s not like you’ve been much of a person to be around.

But today, for some reason, you can’t ignore it any longer.

It’s raining outside, the kind of steady drizzle that makes the world feel smaller, quieter. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the drawer like it’s going to open itself. The house is still, too still, and the sound of the rain against the window only amplifies the silence.

Your hand trembles as you pull the drawer open. The envelope is right where you left it, the edges slightly yellowed now, but the ink still bold and clear: your name, in James’ handwriting. Seeing it sends a pang through your chest, like someone’s reached inside and squeezed your heart.

You sit there for a long time, just holding it. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just paper. But it feels heavier than anything you’ve ever held.

“Just open it,” you whisper to yourself, but the words feel hollow, like they belong to someone else.

Finally, with a shaky breath, you tear the seal.

Inside, there’s a folded letter. Beneath it, another piece of paper — something thicker. You hesitate, then unfold the letter first. The handwriting is familiar, the slant of the letters uniquely his. You read it slowly, your eyes scanning the words with a mix of dread and longing.

My love,

If you’re reading this, then I’m not there with you. And I’m so, so sorry for that.

I wish I could tell you how much I wanted to come home. How much I needed to come home to you. But I know that wherever I am now, I’m still with you in some way. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I think I’d lose my mind.

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you to be strong, to keep living your life. And you will. I know you will. But it’s okay to fall apart first. It’s okay to break, to cry, to scream at the universe for being so damn unfair. I would.

There are so many things I wish we could’ve done together, so many things we talked about but never got the chance to do. So I’m leaving you with something. A list. It’s not a list of things you have to do — it’s a list of things I wish we could’ve experienced together. But more than that, it’s a list of things I want you to experience. For both of us.

The first one’s a bit selfish. But the last one ... that one’s for you.

I love you more than words can ever say. And if there’s any way for me to still be with you, to still be a part of your life, then I hope this is it.

Yours always,

Jamie

By the time you finish reading, tears blur your vision, dripping silently onto the letter. You wipe at your face, but the tears just keep coming. His words cut through you, raw and tender, like a wound that’s never fully healed.

You sit there for what feels like hours, the rain outside matching the rhythm of your sobs. It’s only after you’ve cried yourself out that you remember the second piece of paper, still folded in the envelope.

With a shaky breath, you unfold it.

It’s a bucket list. Five items, written in James’ scrawled handwriting. Your heart clenches as you read them, one by one.

1. Go to an F1 race. You know how much I wanted to see one in person. Do this for me. I want you to feel the rush, the excitement. It’s something I never got to experience, and I want you to feel it for both of us.

2. Visit that little café in Paris we always talked about. The one by the Seine with the red awning. We were supposed to go there on our honeymoon, remember? Have a coffee, eat too many croissants. Just sit there and watch the world go by.

3. Take a road trip with no destination in mind. Just drive. Don’t plan anything. Turn down random roads, get lost, stay in tiny motels, and eat at diners where they don’t know your name. I always wanted to do that with you.

4. Dance in the rain. We talked about doing it, but we never did. Just let go and do it. Don’t care if people are watching. Don’t worry about looking silly. Just feel the rain and think of me.

5. Find love again. I know this one is hard, and I know you might not want to think about it right now. But promise me that one day, when you’re ready, you’ll open your heart again. It doesn’t have to be soon. It doesn’t have to be anyone like me. But don’t close yourself off to it. You deserve that kind of happiness.

You sit there, staring at the list, your chest tight and your hands trembling. It’s so ... James. The way he could be both lighthearted and deeply thoughtful, the way he always wanted you to live fully, even if he couldn’t anymore.

But how can you? How can you even think about doing these things without him?

You read the list again, and this time it feels different. Less like a burden, and more like a challenge. A promise, almost. To live. To try.

But the last item — that’s the one that breaks you. Find love again. The words echo in your mind, and you can barely breathe through the weight of them. It feels impossible, inconceivable. And yet, it’s the one thing James wanted most for you.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts. You quickly wipe your eyes, folding the letter and the list back into the envelope before shoving it into the drawer again. You stand up, trying to compose yourself.

When you open the door, you find his best friend, the one who gave you the letter in the first place, standing there. His expression softens the moment he sees your face.

“You finally opened it,” he says gently.

You nod, unable to speak for a moment.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “I’ve been wondering when you would.”

“I ... I couldn’t,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not until today.”

He sits down on the couch, and you join him, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable.

“What did he say?” He asks softly.

You hand him the list, unable to find the words yourself. He reads it, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reaches the last item.

“That’s James,” he says, shaking his head. “Always thinking about everyone else.”

You laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob. “How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to just ... live my life without him?”

“You’re not,” he says, his voice gentle. “You’re supposed to live your life with him. By doing these things, you’re keeping him with you.”

You stare at the list again, your heart aching. “But the last one ...”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then, quietly, he asks, “Do you think he’d want you to be alone forever?”

You shake your head, tears spilling over again. “No. But I don’t know how to ... move on.”

“You don’t have to move on,” he says. “You just have to keep moving. One step at a time.”

You nod, even though it feels impossible. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe this list isn’t just about James’ dreams. Maybe it’s about helping you find your way back to yourself.

“I guess I’d better start with number one,” you say, your voice shaky but determined.

He smiles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you can do this.

***

The roar of engines echoes through the air as you step out of the taxi, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The circuit sprawls out before you, a sea of red, blue, and green flags waving in the hands of thousands of fans, all buzzing with excitement. You clutch your ticket tightly, the edges crumpled from your nervous grip.

It took everything in you to get here. The flight, the hotel, the whole ordeal of buying a ticket from some sketchy reseller online — all of it felt like a test of your resolve.

But this is for James. You repeat that to yourself like a mantra. He would’ve loved this, you think, as you look up at the towering grandstands. The hum of the engines, the electricity in the air, the sheer intensity of it all — it’s exactly the kind of thing he would have dragged you to, his enthusiasm infectious.

But now, you’re here alone. And that thought twists in your chest, a painful reminder of why you’re doing this in the first place.

You make your way to the entrance, the ticket clenched in your hand. The queue moves quickly, fans eager to get to their seats, their conversations a mix of English, French, Italian, and other languages you can’t quite place.

You try to blend in, keep your head down, and avoid drawing attention to yourself. Just scan the ticket and get inside. That’s all you have to do.

When it’s finally your turn, you hand your ticket to the attendant, offering a small, nervous smile. He takes it without much thought, scanning the barcode with the device strapped to his wrist. But instead of the usual beep, there’s nothing — just a blank screen.

The attendant frowns, tries again. Still nothing.

“Uh, let me just check something,” he says, his tone suddenly cautious.

You feel a cold knot forming in your stomach. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t answer right away, fiddling with the scanner, trying different angles. The queue behind you is growing restless, and you can feel eyes on your back. Finally, he looks up at you, sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m really sorry,” he says quietly, “but this ticket isn’t valid.”

You blink, not understanding. “What do you mean? I bought it online ...”

“It’s a fake,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You must’ve been scammed. It happens sometimes with resellers.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You feel the color drain from your face, your mind reeling. Fake. Scammed. The ticket crumples in your hand as you step aside, trying to make sense of it. How could this happen? You did everything right — or at least, you thought you did.

“But ... I paid a lot for this,” you stammer, the reality of it sinking in. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m really sorry,” the attendant repeats, glancing over your shoulder at the impatient crowd behind you. “There’s nothing I can do. You’ll have to contact whoever you bought it from.”

You nod numbly, stepping away from the gate. The world around you seems to blur, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. You feel like you’re suffocating, your chest tight with a mixture of humiliation and despair. This was supposed to be the first thing you did for James, and you can’t even get that right.

You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away from the entrance, away from the people. Your legs carry you to the far side of the parking lot, where the crowds thin out and the noise dulls to a low hum. You lean against a concrete pillar, your breath coming in shaky gasps.

It’s too much. The weight of it all — the grief, the loneliness, the pressure you’ve put on yourself to make this trip meaningful — it’s crushing you. You slide down to sit on the curb, burying your face in your hands as tears spill over.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words meant for James, though you know he can’t hear you. “I’m so sorry ...”

You’re so caught up in your tears that you don’t notice the figure approaching until he’s right in front of you. When you finally look up, your vision is blurry from the tears, but you can make out the silhouette of a man standing there, watching you with concern etched on his face.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice is soft, with a lilting accent you can’t quite place, but it’s gentle enough to cut through the fog of your despair.

You quickly wipe at your eyes, trying to compose yourself, but it’s a losing battle. “I’m fine,” you manage to choke out, though it’s clear to both of you that you’re anything but.

He doesn’t move, just crouches down in front of you, his brow furrowed. “You don’t look fine. What happened?”

You shake your head, embarrassed by the whole situation. “It’s stupid ... I just — I bought a ticket, and it’s fake, and I ... I just don’t know what to do.”

The words tumble out between hiccups and sniffles, and you feel ridiculous for crying in front of a stranger. But he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his expression grows even more sympathetic.

“That’s not stupid at all,” he says gently. “You came all this way for the race, didn’t you?”

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying again. “Yeah. But now I can’t even get in. I feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he reassures you, his tone firm but kind. “People get scammed all the time. It’s not your fault.”

You look up at him then, really look at him. He’s young, probably around your age, with messy brown hair and striking green eyes that seem to radiate warmth. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans, nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd, but there’s something about him — maybe the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only person in the world that matters right now — that makes you feel a little less alone.

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not really a fan. It’s just ... something I had to do.”

He tilts his head, curiosity in his eyes. “For someone else?”

You nod again, fresh tears welling up. “My husband. He ... he passed away, and this was on a list of things he wanted me to do. I thought ... I thought I could at least get this right.”

The man’s expression softens even more, if that’s possible. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sits there with you, letting the weight of your words settle between you.

“I’m really sorry,” he says finally, and you can tell he means it. “That must be so hard.”

You shrug, wiping at your face again. “It is. But I wanted to do it anyway. For him.”

He nods, and then, after a brief pause, he says, “What if I told you I could help?”

You look at him, confusion and hope warring in your chest. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, and it’s a kind, genuine smile that makes you feel like maybe things aren’t as hopeless as they seem. “I might be able to get you into the race. If you’re okay with that.”

Your heart skips a beat, a flicker of hope sparking to life. “How? Are you some kind of VIP or something?”

He laughs, a soft, melodic sound that eases some of the tension in your chest. “Something like that. Just trust me, okay?”

You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe it’s because he’s the first person who’s really listened to you in a long time, or maybe it’s because you’re so desperate to make this work. Either way, you nod.

“Okay,” you say, your voice a little stronger now.

He pulls out his phone and dials a number, glancing back at you as he waits for the call to connect. “This might take a minute,” he says with a reassuring smile.

You watch him, your heart pounding as you wonder just who this man is and how he plans to help you. But as you sit there, your tears drying and the noise of the race humming in the background, you can’t help but feel a glimmer of something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

***

Charles doesn’t leave your side while he waits for the call to go through, his green eyes focused on you as if making sure you’re still okay. The sincerity in his gaze is almost unnerving, and for a brief moment, you forget about the pitiful mess you’ve become, losing yourself in the quiet strength he radiates.

Whoever he is, it’s clear he’s not just a fan — there’s something about him that feels different, like he’s used to handling situations like this with a calm confidence that most people can only fake.

He speaks briefly into the phone, in a language you don’t understand, and within minutes — faster than you would’ve thought possible — a Ferrari team member rushes toward you both, holding a shiny red VIP pass. The emblem glints in the sunlight, and as he hands it over to Charles, your brain starts to catch up. Your eyes flicker between the pass, the Ferrari logo, and Charles, who’s now holding the pass out to you with that same reassuring smile.

“Here,” he says gently, placing the pass into your trembling hand. “This will get you into the paddock, and pretty much anywhere else you want to go.”

You stare at the pass, then at him, the realization dawning on you slowly. Ferrari. VIP. Charles. It suddenly clicks into place, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment. He’s not just a concerned fan. He’s someone important.

You swallow hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Who ... who are you?”

He chuckles, but it’s soft, not mocking, more like he finds the situation endearing. “I’m Charles. Charles Leclerc. I drive for Ferrari.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, the words you want to say sticking in your throat. You’re mortified that you didn’t recognize him, that you didn’t put it together sooner. You’ve heard the name before, of course — who hasn’t? But you’ve never been into F1, and you hadn’t expected to meet someone famous today.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, looking down at your feet. “I didn’t realize ...”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Charles interrupts, waving off your apology. “You’ve had a rough day. The last thing you need to worry about is recognizing some racing driver.”

“But I should’ve known ...” you begin, but he cuts you off again, this time with a playful smile.

“Now, why would you know that? You already told me you’re not a fan,” he teases lightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And I’d much rather be remembered as the guy who helped you out than as that Ferrari driver you didn’t recognize.”

You can’t help but laugh, albeit weakly. His charm is disarming, and it’s hard to feel embarrassed when he’s making it so clear that he doesn’t care about your mistake.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it. “For all of this. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Charles shakes his head, his expression turning serious again. “You don’t need to repay me. Just enjoy the day. Experience everything to the fullest — in honor of your husband.”

You blink at him, the mention of James sending a fresh wave of emotion through you. But instead of the sharp pain you’ve grown accustomed to, it’s more of a gentle ache this time, softened by the kindness of the stranger-turned-friend standing before you.

“I know what it’s like to lose people you love,” Charles continues, his voice low and sincere. “And I know how important it is to keep their memory alive by doing things they would’ve loved. It’s not easy, but ... it’s worth it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. The depth of his words, the understanding in his eyes — it’s like he’s speaking directly to the part of you that’s been hurting the most. And suddenly, you feel a connection to him that goes beyond the superficial. He gets it. He understands.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “Really, thank you.”

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a long moment before he stands, offering you his hand. “Come on. Let me show you around.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip is warm and steady, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. You let him lead you through the bustling parking lot, your heart still pounding but now for a different reason.

There’s something surreal about walking next to Charles Leclerc, knowing he’s one of the biggest names in the sport and yet treating you like you’re the important one.

As you approach the entrance to the paddock, the atmosphere shifts. It’s a different world in here, a world of precision, speed, and power. Team members rush about, focused and intense, the hum of engines a constant background noise. But as you pass by, more than a few heads turn, eyes widening as they take in the sight of you walking with Charles. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“Here we are,” he says as you reach the Ferrari hospitality area, gesturing to the sleek red building with the prancing horse logo proudly displayed. “You’re my guest today, so feel free to make yourself at home. The team will take good care of you.”

You look up at the building, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say. This is ... it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much,” Charles insists, his tone gentle but firm. “It’s exactly what you deserve today. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stops you. He’s serious. He really wants this for you, and the sincerity in his voice makes it clear that this isn’t just about being nice. It’s about giving you something good in a time when good things have been hard to come by.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice soft. “I’ll try.”

Charles smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay. “That’s all I ask.”

He leads you inside, where the air is cool and the decor is modern and sleek, all polished surfaces and red accents. A few team members glance your way, but Charles waves them off, his focus entirely on you.

“I have to get prepped for the race,” he says, stopping just inside the entrance. “But I’ll come see you afterward, okay?”

You blink, taken aback by his offer. “You don’t have to do that,” you stutter. “You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

Charles just shakes his head, that same determined look in his eyes. “I want to. Besides, I’ll probably be in a better mood if I know you’re here cheering me on.”

The thought of actually cheering for him, of being invested in the race, is a foreign one. But the way he says it, so casual and confident, makes it seem almost natural.

“I don’t really know much about racing,” you admit, feeling a little silly.

He grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up quickly. And if you have any questions, there’ll be plenty of people around who can help. Just relax and enjoy it.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of your depth but also oddly comforted by his words. He makes it sound so simple, so easy, like all you have to do is show up and everything else will fall into place.

“Okay,” you agree. “I’ll try my best.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Charles says, his smile widening. “I’ll see you after the race.”

He gives you a small wave before turning and heading off, his stride confident and unhurried. You watch him go, still trying to process everything that’s happened in the last hour.

It’s almost too much to take in — the ticket fiasco, meeting Charles, the VIP pass, and now being his personal guest for the day. It feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life, one filled with glamor and excitement, so different from the quiet, grief-stricken world you’ve been living in.

But as you take a deep breath and look around at the world Charles has invited you into, you can’t help but feel a spark of something you haven’t felt in a long time — hope. Maybe, just maybe, today will be a good day.

***

You sit in the Ferrari hospitality suite, watching the festivities from a distance. The energy in the room is electric, everyone buzzing with excitement over Charles’ win.

His face is plastered on every screen, grinning as he holds up the trophy, spraying champagne with the other drivers on the podium. The cheers echo in your ears, but there’s a strange numbness in your chest, a disconnect between the celebration and what you’re feeling.

You’re happy for him, of course you are. But the fact that Charles just won a race feels surreal, like something out of a dream. And you’re not sure where you fit in the dream — or if you fit in at all.

The hospitality suite is more crowded now, filled with people congratulating one another, toasting with glasses of champagne and sparkling water. The clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter fill the air, making the room feel smaller, more enclosed.

You keep to the side, clutching your phone and fiddling with the VIP pass Charles gave you earlier. The weight of it around your neck is a constant reminder that this isn’t your world.

The minutes tick by, each one stretching longer than the last. You tell yourself it’s okay to leave, that Charles won’t mind if you slip out quietly. After all, he’s got plenty of people to celebrate with. People who belong here, who know him well, who are part of his world. You’re just a stranger he happened to help.

But something keeps you in your seat, a small flicker of hope that he might actually come back. It’s silly, really — he’s a race winner, he should be out there celebrating, soaking in the victory. Still, you find yourself glancing at the door every few minutes, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he’ll keep his promise.

Nearly an hour and a half after the race ends, just as you’re convincing yourself to leave, you spot him. Charles enters the suite, now changed into a Ferrari branded polo, hair damp from what you assume was a quick shower. He’s scanning the room, and when his eyes land on you, they light up in recognition.

Your breath catches in your throat as he makes his way over, weaving through the crowd with a purposeful stride. He looks different out of the car, more relaxed, though there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless when he finally reaches you. “Sorry it took me so long. There were media duties, and then a debrief with the team after the podium ceremony.”

You blink up at him, stunned that he actually came. “You — You came back.”

“Of course I did,” he replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I told you I would.”

You shake your head, still in disbelief. “But you should be out there celebrating. You just won a race, Charles. You didn’t have to come just to see me.”

Charles waves away your concerns, his smile widening. “I came because I wanted to. Celebrations can wait.”

There’s a sincerity in his tone that takes you off guard. He’s not just saying it to be polite or to make you feel better. He actually means it. You search his eyes for a sign that he’s just being nice, but all you find is that same genuine warmth that he’s shown you from the start.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” you murmur, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from anything.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Charles reassures you, his voice gentle. “I’m glad you stayed.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of place, but his words soothe some of your anxiety. “Congratulations, by the way. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “It was a good race.”

There’s a brief silence, the noise of the room fading into the background as you stand there, just the two of you. You’re not sure what to say next, the weight of the moment making it hard to think straight. But Charles doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, his presence calm and unhurried.

After a few moments, Charles clears his throat, his voice hesitant. “Are you staying nearby?”

The question catches you off guard, and you blink up at him, not quite sure where he’s going with this. “Um, yes, I’m staying at a hotel downtown.”

His eyes brighten at that, and he gives you a small, almost shy smile. “I’m staying in the same area. There’s a great restaurant nearby. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

You’re taken aback by the offer, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. Dinner? With Charles Leclerc? It feels like too much, like something you shouldn’t accept. You don’t want to intrude on his life any more than you already have.

“Charles, you don’t have to spend time with me,” you start, shaking your head. “You’ve already done so much-”

He interrupts you gently, his voice firm but kind. “I want to spend time with you.”

The way he says it, so straightforward and sincere, leaves no room for doubt. He’s not asking out of obligation or pity — he genuinely wants your company. And the thought of having dinner with him, of spending more time with someone who actually seems to care, is suddenly more appealing than anything else.

“Okay,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I’d like that.”

His smile widens, and you can see the relief in his eyes. “Great. Let’s get out of here, then.”

You follow him as he leads the way out of the suite, the noise of the celebrations fading behind you. The cool evening air greets you as you step outside, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets. Charles is quiet as he walks beside you, his presence comforting in its steadiness.

As you reach the paddock parking lot, you spot the familiar red of a Ferrari, and you can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s fitting, in a way, like everything about this day is part of some surreal, unexpected adventure.

Charles opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you’re settled before rounding the car to get in himself. The engine purrs to life with a smooth growl, and you feel a thrill of excitement as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

You glance over at him, taking in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the easy way he handles the car. It’s strange how comfortable you feel with him already, like you’ve known him for longer than just a few hours. Maybe it’s the way he’s treated you from the start — with kindness and understanding — or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself, with a quiet confidence that makes you feel safe.

As you drive through the city, the lights of downtown reflecting off the car’s polished surface, you can’t help but wonder what this evening will bring. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this way — hopeful, curious, maybe even a little excited. And as Charles navigates the streets with practiced ease, you start to think that maybe, just maybe, you’re finally ready to start living again.

***

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, it’s all exposed brick, warm lighting, and rustic charm. The kind of place that feels both intimate and alive with history, where every detail seems to whisper stories of countless other dinners, other nights, other lives.

You follow Charles to a corner table, noticing the way the candlelight flickers across his features, softening the angles of his face. There’s a natural ease about him, a kind of unspoken confidence that makes you feel a little more at home in this unfamiliar setting. He holds out a chair for you, and as you sit down, you can’t help but feel like you’ve stepped into a scene from someone else’s life.

“This place is incredible,” you say, glancing around at the cozy surroundings. “How did you find it?”

Charles smiles, settling into the chair across from you. “It’s one of my favorites. A friend introduced me to it a few years ago. I come here whenever I’m in town.”

You nod, taking in the atmosphere, the scent of fresh bread and herbs mingling with the low hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place that feels special, even if you didn’t know anything about it.

The waiter appears to take your order, and before you know it, the table is filled with plates of beautifully arranged dishes, each one more enticing than the last. Charles gestures for you to start, and you pick up your fork, feeling a little more at ease with each bite.

“This is amazing,” you say between mouthfuls, savoring the flavors. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like this.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Charles replies, watching you with a soft smile. “It’s one of the things I miss most when I’m traveling — good, simple food.”

There’s a comfortable silence as you both enjoy the meal, the clinking of silverware and the quiet murmur of the other diners providing a gentle backdrop. You’re grateful for the peace, for the way Charles doesn’t push you to talk, doesn’t ask any questions that feel too invasive.

But as the meal draws to a close, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Charles seems to be choosing his words carefully, his expression thoughtful as he looks across the table at you.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he begins, his tone gentle, “but ... would you like to talk about your husband?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you can answer it. It’s been so long since anyone asked, since anyone cared enough to ask, and you’re not sure if you’re ready to go back to that place, to open up the wound that’s still so raw.

But there’s something in Charles’ eyes, a quiet understanding, that makes you feel like it’s okay to share this part of yourself with him. Like maybe he can handle it, even if you’re not sure you can.

“He was on a mission in ... well, it doesn’t really matter where. There was an attack — one of those random, senseless things that happen in places like that. He was helping a patient when it happened. They said he died a hero, but ... it doesn’t feel like that to me. It just feels like he’s gone.”

The tears that you’ve been holding back all evening finally spill over, and you don’t even try to stop them. You’re tired of pretending to be strong, tired of keeping it all inside. And somehow, with Charles sitting there, listening so intently, it feels okay to let it out.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like.”

You wipe at your eyes, trying to pull yourself together. “It’s been over a year, but ... it still feels like it was yesterday, you know? Like I’m still waiting for him to walk through the door, to tell me it was all some terrible mistake.”

Charles reaches across the table, his hand covering yours in a gesture that’s as comforting as it is unexpected. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he says softly. “And you don’t have to rush through it either. Grief doesn’t have a timeline.”

His words are like a balm, soothing some of the raw ache that’s been sitting in your chest. You nod, unable to speak, afraid that if you do, the tears will start again and won’t stop.

There’s a brief silence, and then you continue, feeling the need to explain, to make him understand. “He left me a letter ... and a list. A bucket list, of things he wanted us to do together, but he didn’t get the chance. He asked me to do them for him, to ... to live the life he didn’t get to.”

Charles leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on yours. “What’s on the list?”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you reach into your purse, pulling out the folded piece of paper that’s become a permanent fixture in your life. You unfold it carefully, smoothing out the creases before passing it across the table to him.

He takes the list from you, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before he begins to read. You watch his face as he scans the items, his expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper, something almost reverent.

He’s quiet for a long time, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s judging you for carrying out such a personal task, for holding on to a life that’s no longer yours.

But when he looks up at you again, there’s no judgment in his eyes — only empathy, and maybe even a touch of admiration.

“Have you done any of these yet?” He asks, his voice soft.

You nod your head. “I’ve only just started. The first item was to go to an F1 race ... that’s why I’m here.”

Charles’ gaze softens even more, and he nods slowly, as if understanding the weight of what you’ve shared. “And Paris?” He asks, his tone careful.

You can’t help but laugh a little, despite the heaviness in your chest. “Paris ... I mean, who doesn’t want to go to Paris? But I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to tick that one off the list.”

Charles is quiet for a moment, then he hesitates, as if he’s debating something in his mind. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and tentative. “You know ... the summer break has officially started. I don’t have another race for a month, and I don’t have anything I have to do for over two weeks.”

You blink at him, not quite understanding where he’s going with this. “Okay ...”

“I’ve always loved Paris,” he says, his gaze steady on yours. “And ... I know we’ve only just met, but I would love to help you tick off the second item on your list.”

You stare at him, your mind reeling from what he’s suggesting. Go to Paris? With him? It’s crazy — it’s absolutely insane. You don’t know him, not really, and the idea of going on such a personal trip with someone you’ve just met feels like stepping into a world that doesn’t belong to you.

But there’s something in the way he’s looking at you, something in his voice, that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, it’s not as crazy as it seems. Maybe it’s exactly what you need.

“Are you serious?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles nods, his expression earnest. “Sometimes the best things in life are crazy and spontaneous. And ... I know it’s a lot to ask, but I really would love to help you with this. I want to be there for you.”

You feel a lump forming in your throat, a mix of emotions swirling inside you — fear, excitement, uncertainty, and something else you can’t quite name. It’s terrifying, the idea of letting someone new into your life, of opening yourself up to the possibility of connection, of loss.

But at the same time, it feels like a lifeline, like a chance to finally start living again.

“I ... I don’t know,” you stammer, unsure of how to respond. “It just seems so ...”

“Crazy?” Charles finishes for you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” you admit, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Crazy.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with those steady, kind eyes. “Maybe it is. But sometimes the craziest things turn out to be the most important.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you weigh the decision. It would be so easy to say no, to stay in your safe, controlled world where nothing ever changes. But where has that gotten you? Nowhere.

And then, almost without realizing it, you find yourself nodding, your voice small but determined. “Okay.”

Charles’ eyes light up with something close to relief, and he smiles at you — a genuine, warm smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this is the right choice.

“Okay?” He repeats, as if needing to hear it again.

“Okay,” you say again, a little more certain this time. “Let’s go to Paris.”

You both sit there for a moment, the reality of what you’ve just agreed to sinking in. It feels like the beginning of something — something that scares you as much as it excites you.

Charles reaches across the table, gently taking your hand in his. “Thank you,” he says, his voice sincere.

You look at him, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone in this.

***

You’re still reeling from the decision when the check arrives at the table. Charles grabs it before you can reach for your purse, waving away your protests with an easy smile.

“Trust me,” he says, his tone light but firm, “this one’s on me.”

You thank him, still half-convinced that this is all some surreal dream you’ll wake up from any minute. As you step outside, the cool evening air brushes against your skin, grounding you in the reality of what just happened.

You’re going to Paris. With Charles Leclerc. You glance at him, wondering how he can be so calm when your world has just been flipped upside down.

“Okay, so ... what’s the plan?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady as your mind races with all the logistics you need to sort out.

He turns to you with that relaxed smile, as if planning a spontaneous trip to Paris is the most natural thing in the world. “Plan? We drive back to the hotel, grab our things, and head to the airport.”

“The airport?” You blink at him, thrown by the suddenness of it all. “I haven’t even booked a flight yet. Or a hotel. Or anything.”

Charles chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. I’ve got it covered.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that you can’t possibly let him do this, but he cuts you off before you can say a word.

“Really,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s no trouble at all. I’m an F1 driver, remember? I’ve got more than enough resources, and I want to do this for you.”

You stare at him, at the easy confidence in his tone, at the sincerity in his eyes. You know he means it, but it still feels like too much. “Charles, I ... I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not.” He steps closer, his expression softening. “This is something I want to do. For you. For your husband. Please, let me help you.”

There’s a quiet intensity in his voice that makes it impossible to argue. You nod slowly, feeling a mix of gratitude and disbelief. “Okay ... thank you. I just — I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assures you. “Just pack your things and meet me back here in a few minutes. We’ll take care of the rest.”

And just like that, you find yourself heading back to your hotel, your heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. You pack quickly, throwing your essentials into your suitcase with trembling hands. The reality of what’s happening starts to sink in, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the sheer craziness of it all.

You pause, standing in the middle of the room with your half-packed suitcase, wondering if you’re really doing this. Paris. With a man you’ve just met. It’s all too surreal, too spontaneous, too-

There’s a knock on your door, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You open it to find Charles standing there, his expression calm and reassuring.

“Ready?” He asks, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

You take a deep breath, nodding. “Yeah ... I think so.”

“Good.” He smiles, and somehow, that simple gesture is enough to steady you. “Let’s go.”

You follow him downstairs, your heart racing as he drives you both back to his hotel. He parks the car, and you watch as he disappears inside, returning a few minutes later with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“That’s it?” You ask, surprised at how little he’s carrying.

He nods, tossing the bag into the back seat. “The team will pack up the rest of my stuff and have it sent home later.”

You don’t have time to process the implications of that before he’s back in the driver’s seat, navigating the streets with the kind of ease that comes from years of traveling. You try to keep up with the conversation, but your mind keeps drifting to what lies ahead, to the sheer audacity of what you’re about to do.

It’s only when you pull up to a private airstrip that the full reality of the situation hits you. You step out of the car, staring in awe at the sleek, chartered jet waiting on the tarmac. The sight of it leaves you breathless, the sheer scale of what Charles is doing for you almost too much to comprehend.

“Charles ...” you begin, your voice catching in your throat.

He turns to you, his expression soft. “Yes?”

“This is ... I mean, I don’t know what to say. This is more than I could have ever imagined. Are you sure-”

“I’m sure.” His tone leaves no room for doubt, and he reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Come on. We’ve got a flight to catch.”

He leads you up the steps, and before you know it, you’re inside the luxurious cabin, sinking into a plush leather seat. Everything about the jet screams opulence — the polished wood accents, the soft ambient lighting, the quiet hum of the engines in the background. It’s the kind of luxury you’ve only ever seen in movies, and you can’t quite believe that it’s real, that you’re really here.

Charles takes the seat across from you, his expression relaxed as he buckles his seatbelt. “Comfortable?”

You nod, still too stunned to form a coherent response. He smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, and you realize that this kind of thing must be second nature to him. For you, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For him, it’s just another day in the life of an F1 driver.

“Just sit back and relax,” he says, as if sensing your thoughts. “We’ll be in Paris before you know it.”

The flight itself is smooth and uneventful, the hours passing in a blur of disbelief and quiet conversation. Charles keeps things light, sharing stories from his racing career, and you find yourself relaxing more with each passing minute. It’s easy to forget about your worries when you’re with him, easy to get lost in the charm of his stories and the warmth of his smile.

Before you know it, the plane begins its descent, and the lights of Paris come into view below, twinkling like a sea of stars. The sight of the city leaves you breathless, the sheer beauty of it almost too much to take in. You press your face to the window, unable to tear your eyes away from the breathtaking panorama of the City of Light.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Charles’ voice is soft, and when you turn to look at him, there’s a wistfulness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.

“Yes,” you whisper, feeling a surge of emotion welling up inside you. “It’s ... it’s perfect.”

The plane touches down smoothly, and within minutes, you’re whisked away in a sleek black car, driving through the streets of Paris as the city comes alive around you. The streets are bustling with life, the cafes and bistros glowing with warm light, the air filled with the sound of laughter and music.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined and more, and you can’t believe you’re really here, experiencing it all with Charles by your side.

The car pulls up in front of an exclusive, centrally located hotel, and you step out onto the cobblestone street, your heart pounding in your chest. The hotel is grand, its facade illuminated by golden lights, and as you step inside, you’re greeted by a world of elegance and sophistication.

You barely have time to take it all in before you’re being led to a two-bedroom suite with the most stunning views of the Eiffel Tower you’ve ever seen. You stand by the window, staring out at the iconic landmark as it sparkles against the night sky, the reality of your situation hitting you all over again.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles steps up beside you, his gaze focused on the view outside. “Believe it,” he says softly, his tone filled with quiet conviction. “You’re here. We’re here. And tomorrow, we’ll start checking off that list.”

You turn to look at him, your eyes filled with gratitude and something else — something you’re not quite ready to name. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”

He smiles, a warm, genuine smile that lights up his face. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad I can be here for you.”

You feel a surge of emotion welling up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s a long, lingering embrace, filled with all the gratitude, all the emotion you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that makes you feel safe, comforted, understood.

When you finally pull back, there are tears in your eyes, but they’re tears of relief, of something like hope. “Good night, Charles,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

“Good night,” he replies, his voice just as soft. “Sleep well. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

You watch as he heads to his own room, and then you turn back to the window, staring out at the glittering Eiffel Tower. It feels like a dream, but for the first time in a long time, it’s a dream you’re ready to embrace.

***

The sun is already high in the sky when you finally open your eyes, the weight of the past few days still pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. The exhaustion is bone-deep, the kind that makes every movement feel like wading through thick syrup.

You stretch out in the luxurious hotel bed, the cool sheets tangling around your legs as you blink against the soft light filtering through the curtains. Paris. You’re in Paris. The thought slips through your mind, almost unreal, as if you might wake up any second to find yourself back in the monotony of the past year.

You sit up slowly, taking in the spacious room with its elegant furniture and the faint sounds of the city outside. It’s almost noon, you realize, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. Just as you’re about to contemplate the day ahead, there’s a gentle knock on the door connecting your room to Charles’. You almost forgot about him for a second — almost.

“Good morning,” you call out, your voice still thick with sleep.

The door opens, and Charles steps in, a smile lighting up his face as he sees you. “Good afternoon, you mean,” he teases lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “I was beginning to think you might sleep through the whole day.”

You rub your eyes, shaking your head as you try to fully wake up. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

He nods, his expression softening. “No rush. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

It’s that statement that hits you more than it should. All the time in the world. You used to believe that too. You push the thought away quickly, not wanting to drown in it.

“What’s the plan?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on the present, on this strange, wonderful day that’s somehow yours.

Charles grins, his eyes sparking with something mischievous. “How do you feel about lunch at a little café by the Seine?”

Your heart skips a beat. The café. The red awning. It’s what your husband wanted, what he wrote down on that list. You swallow, trying to keep your emotions in check. “That sounds perfect.”

Charles seems to sense the shift in your mood, his smile softening into something more understanding. He doesn’t push, just nods and steps back, giving you space to get ready. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

When he’s gone, you take a deep breath and head to the bathroom, the reality of where you are and what you’re doing starting to sink in. You can’t help but think of the letter, the list. Of the man who should be here with you instead of buried under the earth. You splash cold water on your face, trying to shake off the melancholy that clings to you like a second skin.

By the time you join Charles downstairs, you’ve managed to put on a smile, though it feels fragile, like it might shatter at any moment. He greets you with a warm, reassuring look, his eyes scanning your face as if to check that you’re really okay. You nod, and he leads you outside, where a car is waiting.

The ride to the café is quiet, filled with the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of the city. Charles doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, and you’re grateful for that. Instead, he lets you stare out the window, watching as the streets of Paris unfold before you like a storybook.

When the car finally pulls up in front of the café, your heart clenches. There it is, just like your husband described it: the small tables lined up outside, the red awning casting a warm glow over everything, the view of the Seine just beyond. It’s almost too much. You hesitate, feeling a lump in your throat, but Charles is already out of the car, holding the door open for you.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, his gaze steady on yours.

You nod, though you’re not sure if you believe it. “Yeah. Just ... it’s exactly like he said.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, just offers his arm in a gentle, old-fashioned gesture. You take it, letting him lead you to a table by the water. The waiter greets you with a smile, and Charles orders for both of you without hesitation — coffee and croissants, just like on the list.

The sun reflects off the Seine, making the water shimmer like it’s made of liquid gold. You sip your coffee slowly, savoring the rich taste, though your thoughts are a million miles away. You can almost see your husband sitting across from you, that goofy grin on his face as he tries to explain something in broken French to the waiter. You smile at the memory, even as it twists something painful deep inside you.

Charles doesn’t interrupt your thoughts, just lets you have this moment. You’re grateful for that. The croissants arrive, warm and flaky, and you find yourself laughing softly as you break off a piece, thinking of how your husband always complained that they never made them right back home. Here, though ... here they’re perfect.

“This was his favorite place,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “He talked about it all the time. Said it was the best spot in Paris, hands down.”

Charles listens, his eyes never leaving your face. “He had good taste.”

You smile, though it wobbles a bit. “He did.”

There’s a pause, a comfortable one, where you both just sit there, watching the world go by. It’s everything your husband wanted, everything he put on that list. And yet, it feels different — like you’re living a dream that isn’t entirely yours.

After a while, Charles speaks up, his tone gentle. “Have you thought about what you want to do next?”

You blink, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “Next?”

“With the list,” he clarifies, his eyes searching yours. “I mean, you don’t have to ... but if you want to keep going, I’d like to help.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Charles holds up a hand, cutting you off before you can start. “I know what you’re going to say,” he continues, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And I’m telling you right now, you’re not bothering me. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”

You look at him, really look at him, and see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. It’s overwhelming, this kindness he’s showing you, this willingness to be a part of something so deeply personal. You don’t know what to say, how to express the jumble of emotions swirling inside you.

“Charles, I-” You falter, trying to find the right words. “This isn’t your responsibility. You’ve already done so much ...”

He shakes his head, cutting you off again. “It’s not about responsibility. It’s about doing something that feels right. And this — being here with you, helping you through this — it feels right.”

The tears well up before you can stop them, spilling over as you look away, embarrassed by how easily they come. Charles doesn’t say anything, just reaches across the table to take your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice breaking on the words.

He squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to thank me.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want you to feel obligated ...”

“I don’t,” he assures you, his voice firm but kind. “I promise you, I don’t.”

You nod, blinking away the last of your tears. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He echoes, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You smile back, a real one this time. “Okay.”

There’s a quiet moment where everything feels ... settled, like a weight has been lifted from your chest. It’s not gone — not by a long shot — but it’s lighter, more manageable. You can breathe a little easier, see a little clearer.

Charles leans back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief. “So, what do you say we finish this coffee, eat a few more croissants than is probably advisable, and then figure out what our next adventure is?”

You laugh, a real laugh that surprises you with its brightness. “I think I’d like that.”

And so you do just that. You sit there with Charles, sipping coffee and eating too many croissants, watching the world go by as the sun moves slowly across the sky. It’s peaceful, almost idyllic, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of something that might be happiness.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, Charles brings up the rest of the list again, but this time, you don’t try to wave him off. Instead, you find yourself talking about it, really talking, and it feels good to share it with someone who actually seems to care.

You tell him about the road trip with no destination in mind, about the other things your husband wanted you to experience. It’s bittersweet, but there’s a warmth to it too, a sense of connection that you didn’t expect to find.

“We’ll enjoy a few more days in Paris,” Charles says, his voice steady and reassuring, “and then we’ll hit the road. No plans, no deadlines. Just ... see where it takes us.”

You look at him, feeling that same pull, that same inexplicable draw that’s been there since the moment you met him. It’s crazy, all of this — crazy and spontaneous and completely out of your comfort zone. But maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

“Let’s do it,” you say, your voice stronger than you expected. “Let’s do the road trip.”

Charles’ smile broadens. “Perfect. We’ll make it an adventure.”

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains of your hotel room, casting a golden glow that seems to soften the world around you. You stretch in bed, feeling a lightness in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. There’s a sense of anticipation humming through your veins as you get ready, knowing that today marks the beginning of a new adventure.

When you step into the lobby, Charles is already there, leaning casually against a pillar, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans. He grins when he sees you, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Ready to go?” He asks, his voice warm.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach.

Charles nods, gesturing for you to follow him. “Come on, then.”

You step outside, and your breath catches in your throat. Parked at the curb is a sleek black Ferrari, its curves gleaming under the morning light. You glance at Charles in surprise, your eyebrows shooting up.

“Where did you get this?” You ask, your voice tinged with disbelief.

He chuckles, shrugging nonchalantly. “Let’s just say I know a guy.”

You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “Of course you do.”

Charles opens the trunk, helping you load your bags inside. There’s a thrill in the air, a sense of freedom that you haven’t felt in ages. Once everything is packed, he opens the passenger door for you with a small bow, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Your chariot awaits,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but the gesture makes your heart warm. You slide into the car, sinking into the plush leather seat as Charles walks around to the driver’s side.

“Ready?” He asks, his hand resting on the gear shift.

You glance over at him, meeting his gaze. There’s something reassuring in his eyes, something that makes you feel like, for the first time in a long time, everything might just be okay.

“Ready,” you say, and with that, he starts the engine, the car roaring to life.

The two of you set off, the city of Paris fading in the rearview mirror as the open road stretches out before you. There’s no set destination, no strict itinerary — just miles of road and the promise of wherever the day might take you.

For the first hour, you drive in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the wind rushing past your ears. You watch as the landscape changes, the bustling city giving way to rolling fields and quaint villages. The farther you go, the more the tension in your chest eases.

Eventually, Charles turns to you with a grin. “Pick a direction. Left or right?”

You blink, looking at the fork in the road ahead. “You’re letting me decide?”

“Of course,” he replies. “This is your adventure, after all.”

You hesitate for a moment, then point to the right. “Right.”

Charles nods and turns the wheel, the Ferrari smoothly gliding down the chosen path. “Right it is.”

The day passes in a blur of laughter and easy conversation. You turn down random roads, sometimes doubling back when you realize you’re hopelessly lost, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no rush, no pressure to be anywhere but right here, right now.

You stop at a tiny roadside café for lunch, the kind of place where the menu is handwritten on a chalkboard, and the waitress knows the regulars by name. The food is simple but delicious, and you can’t help but savor every bite, feeling more alive than you have in months.

After lunch, you continue driving, the hours slipping away as you explore hidden corners of the French countryside. You pass through small towns where time seems to have stood still, with cobblestone streets and old stone houses that look like something out of a fairytale.

As evening approaches, you start to feel the weight of the day settling in your bones. You glance over at Charles, who looks just as content as you feel, his hand relaxed on the steering wheel.

“Should we start looking for a place to stay?” You ask, your voice soft.

He nods, glancing at a sign by the side of the road. “There’s a small inn a few miles ahead. We can try there.”

You hum in agreement, the idea of a cozy inn sounding perfect after a day on the road. The Ferrari winds its way through narrow streets until you arrive at the inn, a charming, ivy-covered building that looks like it’s been plucked straight out of a storybook.

Charles parks the car, and the two of you head inside. The lobby is quaint, with old wooden beams and a stone fireplace crackling in the corner. The innkeeper, a kindly older woman with a warm smile, greets you as you approach the front desk.

“Bonsoir,” she says in a lilting accent. “How can I help you?”

Charles steps forward, his voice polite as ever. “Bonsoir. We were hoping to get a room for the night.”

The innkeeper’s smile falters slightly, and she glances at the reservation book. “Ah, I’m afraid we are nearly full tonight. There is only one room left, and it has only one bed. I’m sorry.”

Your heart sinks, and you glance at Charles, unsure what to do. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but you also don’t relish the idea of finding another place so late in the evening.

Charles, however, seems unfazed. He turns to you with a reassuring smile. “It’s up to you. We can stay or keep looking.”

You bite your lip, weighing your options. The day has been long, and you’re both exhausted. Finally, you nod. “Let’s stay.”

The innkeeper hands Charles the key, and he leads you upstairs to the room. It’s cozy, with a low ceiling and a large, comfortable-looking bed dominating the space. There’s a small window overlooking the garden, where the last rays of sunlight are casting everything in a golden hue.

You drop your bags by the door, glancing at the bed. It’s big enough for two, but the thought of sharing it with Charles makes your heart flutter nervously.

Charles seems to pick up on your hesitation. “I can sleep on the floor,” he offers, his tone gentle. “It’s no trouble.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods, his expression softening. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

You both get ready for bed, the atmosphere between you growing more relaxed. When you finally climb under the covers, you can feel the warmth radiating from Charles’ side of the bed, a comforting presence in the quiet room.

For a while, you both lie there in silence, the only sound the faint rustling of the sheets as you try to find a comfortable position. Despite your earlier nerves, you find yourself inching closer to him, drawn by the sense of safety he brings.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the darkness.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice soft.

You close your eyes, letting out a slow breath. And then, almost without thinking, you shift closer, until your head is resting on his shoulder, your body curled against his side.

Charles tenses for a moment, and you almost pull away, but then his arm wraps around you, holding you gently. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you is enough. It’s not romantic or suggestive — just a simple, comforting embrace that makes you feel less alone.

You relax into his warmth, feeling a sense of peace wash over you that you haven’t felt in what feels like forever. The road trip, the bucket list, everything fades into the background as you allow yourself to just be in this moment.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of Charles’ arms, you can’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — you’re starting to heal.

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the small inn room. You stir slightly, the warmth of the shared bed coaxing you into a slow wakefulness. Charles is still beside you, his breath even, his face relaxed in sleep. It’s almost surreal how peaceful this moment feels, as if the world outside has paused just for the two of you.

You turn onto your side, propping yourself up on an elbow, and watch him for a moment. The lines of worry that usually crease his brow are gone, replaced by a serenity that makes him seem younger, almost boyish. You wonder how he manages to carry so much weight on his shoulders and still offer you comfort, still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The faint clatter of dishes from downstairs pulls you out of your thoughts. You slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. The cool wooden floor sends a shiver up your spine as you pad over to the small window. The view outside is a picturesque scene of rolling hills and a cobblestone street winding through the tiny village. It’s the kind of place that feels untouched by time, where life moves at a slower, more deliberate pace.

A soft knock on the door startles you. You glance back at Charles, who stirs but doesn’t wake. Quietly, you open the door to find the innkeeper, a woman in her late fifties with a kind face and a warm smile.

“Good morning,” she whispers. “Breakfast is ready whenever you and your friend are.”

You nod, offering her a smile in return. “Thank you. We’ll be down soon.”

She leaves you with a slight nod, and you close the door softly behind her. Turning back to the bed, you see Charles is awake now, blinking away sleep. He stretches lazily, his eyes finding yours, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you reply, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “The innkeeper says breakfast is ready.”

He nods, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I’ll be down in a minute. You go ahead.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you nod and head downstairs. The small dining area is cozy, with a fireplace crackling softly in one corner. The smell of freshly baked bread and brewed coffee fills the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation. You take a seat at one of the wooden tables, the innkeeper greeting you with a pot of coffee.

“Is it just the two of you?” She asks, pouring you a cup.

“Yes, just us,” you say, taking a grateful sip. The warmth of the coffee spreads through you, waking you up fully.

“Such a lovely young man,” she comments, a twinkle in her eye. “You’re lucky to have someone like him.”

You smile at that, unsure how to respond. Are you lucky? It feels strange to think of Charles in that way when the loss of your husband is still so fresh, still so raw. But you can’t deny that Charles has brought something into your life that you didn’t know you needed — comfort, companionship, and maybe even a little bit of hope.

Charles appears a few minutes later, his hair slightly tousled from sleep, but he looks more awake now. He greets the innkeeper with a polite nod before taking the seat across from you.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, reaching for a piece of the fresh bread.

“I did,” you admit. “And you?”

“Better than I have in a while,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his tone that makes you believe him.

The innkeeper returns with plates of food — scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and more of the bread you’ve already sampled. It’s simple, but it’s the kind of breakfast that warms you from the inside out, reminding you of the comforts of home.

As you both eat in companionable silence, Charles looks up at you, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Have you ever been to Monaco?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. “No, I haven’t. I’ve heard it’s beautiful, though.”

“It is,” he agrees, a smile playing on his lips. “Would you like to go?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Of course I would, but realistically, I know I probably never will. Life has a way of getting in the way of things like that.”

Charles’ smile widens, his eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s not true at all, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow, not sure where he’s going with this. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because my mother is expecting us for dinner tonight,” he says casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You stare at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. “Wait, what?”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You heard me. We’re going to Monaco. My mother has been asking about you, actually.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find the words. “Charles, I ... I don’t know what to say. That’s ... that’s incredibly sweet, but I don’t want to impose. And we haven’t exactly been planning on going to Monaco.”

“You’re not imposing,” Charles insists, reaching across the table to take your hand. “She’s already expecting us, and it would make her really happy to meet you.”

You look down at his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into your skin. There’s something about the way he says it, so earnest and sincere, that makes it hard to say no.

“Are you sure?” You ask, your voice soft.

“Absolutely,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “Let’s make the most of this adventure, okay?”

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay. Let’s go to Monaco.”

The drive to Monaco is nothing short of breathtaking. The Ferrari roars to life as Charles maneuvers it expertly along the winding coastal roads, the Mediterranean Sea sparkling to your right. The windows are down, and the wind whips through your hair, carrying with it the scent of saltwater and the promise of something new.

Charles hums along to the music playing softly through the speakers, glancing over at you every so often with a contented smile. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your heart flutter, and you find yourself smiling back, unable to resist the infectious energy that seems to surround him.

When you finally cross the border into Monaco, it feels like stepping into another world. The city is a blend of old-world charm and modern luxury, with grand buildings perched on cliffs overlooking the sea and sleek yachts bobbing in the harbor. The streets are bustling with life, but there’s an air of sophistication and elegance that sets it apart from anywhere else you’ve been.

Charles navigates the narrow streets with ease, eventually pulling up in front of an apartment building that exudes quiet elegance. He cuts the engine and turns to you with a smile. “We’re here.”

You take a deep breath, your nerves suddenly kicking in. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

Charles reaches over and takes your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You have nothing to be nervous about. She’s going to love you.”

You nod, trying to calm the butterflies in your stomach as you step out of the car. Charles comes around to your side, taking your hand once more as he leads you up the steps to the building. The door opens with a soft creak, and you find yourself in a beautifully decorated foyer, the scent of fresh flowers filling the air.

Charles leads you down a hallway, stopping in front of a door with a gold number plate. He looks at you, a reassuring smile on his face, before knocking softly.

The door opens almost immediately, and there stands a woman who can only be Pascale. She’s petite, with kind eyes and a warm smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. Her face lights up when she sees Charles, and she immediately pulls him into a hug.

“Charles, mon chéri,” she says, her voice filled with affection.

Charles hugs her back, and you can see the love between them in the way they hold each other, the way they speak without words. When they finally pull apart, Pascale turns her attention to you, her smile softening even more.

“And you must be Y/N,” she says, stepping forward to embrace you as well. Her hug is warm and comforting, the kind of hug that only a mother could give.

You hug her back, feeling a wave of emotion wash over you. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this kind of maternal warmth, and it brings tears to your eyes. But they’re good tears, the kind that remind you that maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to heal.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you,” Pascale says, pulling back to look at you. “Charles has told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you reply with a small smile, trying to compose yourself.

Pascale laughs softly, a musical sound that fills the hallway. “Only the best.”

Charles takes your hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Shall we?”

Pascale nods, stepping back to allow you both inside. As you step into the warm, inviting space, you can’t help but feel a sense of belonging. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

Pascale’s apartment is cozy, filled with warm lighting and the comforting smell of something delicious simmering in the kitchen. You’re still standing by the door when she pulls you into a tight hug, her embrace firm yet gentle, and in that moment, you feel a wave of unexpected comfort.

“Welcome, mon ange,” Pascale murmurs in your ear, her voice soft and motherly, the kind you haven't felt in so long. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

You blink back the tears that suddenly prick at your eyes. There’s a part of you that’s still surprised to be here, in Monaco, of all places, with Charles — let alone meeting his mother. “Thank you,” you manage to say, feeling a little overwhelmed by her warmth.

Charles gives you an encouraging smile as he slips out of his shoes, motioning for you to do the same. “Come on,” he says lightly, “I told Maman we’d help with dinner.”

You glance at Pascale, who’s already moving toward the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Nonsense,” Pascale calls over her shoulder. “You’re our guest, and in this house, guests are family.”

Charles nudges you playfully. “She means it. Better get in there before she tries to do everything herself.”

You follow them into the kitchen, trying to shake off the nerves that have settled in your stomach. The space is as welcoming as the rest of the apartment, filled with the sounds of something sizzling on the stove and the scent of fresh herbs. Pascale is already at work, her hands moving deftly as she chops vegetables with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

Charles rolls up his sleeves and grabs a cutting board, handing you one as well. “Here,” he says with a grin, “let’s show Maman what we’ve got.”

You��re not much of a cook, but there’s something about the way Charles and Pascale move around the kitchen that makes you feel at ease. Before long, the three of you are working together, chopping and stirring and laughing as Pascale regales you with stories from Charles’ childhood.

“He was always getting into trouble,” she says with a fond smile, passing you a bowl of something that smells divine. “Climbing trees, chasing after the neighborhood cats ...”

“Maman,” Charles groans, but he’s grinning, his eyes sparkling with that same mischievous glint you’ve seen more than once.

You chuckle, picturing a younger Charles, wild and full of energy. It’s easy to see where he gets his charm — Pascale is a force of nature, and the love she has for her son is palpable in every word, every look she sends his way.

As dinner comes together, you find yourself opening up to Pascale in a way you didn’t expect. She asks about your life, your past, and though it’s hard to talk about your husband, something about her gentle demeanor makes it easier.

“I’m sorry,” you say at one point, when the conversation dips into quieter territory. “I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

Pascale shakes her head, her eyes full of understanding. “You didn’t, dear. It’s important to talk about the people we’ve loved and lost. It keeps them with us.”

Her words resonate with you, and for a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth of the kitchen and the comfort of their presence wash over you.

“Your husband,” Pascale says after a beat, her voice soft. “He sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

“He was,” you whisper, your throat tightening with emotion. “He really was.”

Pascale reaches out, covering your hand with hers. “And you,” she says gently, “are an incredible woman.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod, swallowing back the tears that threaten to spill over. Charles catches your eye from across the kitchen, giving you a small, encouraging smile, and you feel a surge of gratitude for him — for bringing you here, for making you feel like you’re not alone.

Dinner is a simple affair, but it’s one of the best meals you’ve had in a long time. The conversation flows easily, and for a while, it feels like you’re part of something you’ve been missing for so long — a family.

At some point during the evening, you and Pascale find yourselves alone at the table. Charles has stepped out to take a call, leaving you with Pascale, who has been watching you with a thoughtful expression.

“You know,” she begins, her voice gentle, “when Charles told me about you, I could see how much he cares. He’s a good boy, my Charles, but he doesn’t let people in easily.”

You feel your cheeks warm under her scrutiny. “He’s been ... incredibly kind to me,” you say softly. “I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

Pascale nods, as if she already knows. “He’s been through a lot, just like you. Losing his father, and then Jules ... it changed him.”

There’s a sadness in her eyes, and you realize that, like you, she’s carrying her own grief. “I’m sorry,” you say, the words feeling inadequate. “I didn’t mean to bring up-”

“Don’t apologize,” Pascale interrupts, reaching across the table to take your hand. “It’s good to talk about these things, to remember. Charles ... he doesn’t talk about it much, but I know it’s there, always.”

You nod, understanding all too well. The weight of loss is something that never truly goes away; it just becomes a part of you.

“I see a lot of his father in him,” Pascale continues, her voice wistful. “That determination, that drive to be the best. But it’s more than that. He’s got a good heart, my Charles. He cares deeply, even if he doesn’t always show it.”

You smile, thinking of the way Charles has been with you — patient, understanding, always knowing just what to say to make you feel better. “He does,” you agree. “He’s ... he’s been more than I could have ever asked for.”

Pascale’s gaze softens, and for a moment, she just looks at you, as if she’s seeing something she’s been hoping to find. “I’m glad he has you,” she says finally. “I think you’re good for each other.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that, so you just nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions swirling inside you. It’s too soon to think about what all of this means, but there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder where this is going — what it could become.

Before you can dwell on it too much, Charles returns, his usual easygoing demeanor back in place. “Everything okay?” He asks, glancing between you and Pascale.

“Perfect,” Pascale replies with a smile, but there’s something in her eyes that makes you think she knows more than she’s letting on.

The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable blur, with more stories and laughter, and by the time you’re getting ready to leave, you feel like you’ve known Pascale for much longer than just a few hours.

As you’re putting on your coat, Pascale pulls Charles aside, and you see her lean in close, whispering something to him. He nods, his expression serious, and when he glances back at you, there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

“What did she say?” You ask when you’re finally alone with Charles, walking back to the car.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just that she likes you,” he says simply. “A lot.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but there’s also a flicker of something else — something that feels a lot like hope.

“She’s wonderful,” you say honestly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Charles stops walking, turning to face you. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly. “I’m just glad you came.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re an incredible person, you know that?”

You blink, taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. “I’m just trying to get by,” you admit quietly.

He nods, his hand lingering on your cheek for just a moment longer. “Aren’t we all?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just give him a small smile, hoping he understands.

You reach the car, and Charles opens the door for you, his hand resting lightly on your back as you slide inside. There’s something different in the air between you, something unspoken but undeniably there, and as you drive away from Pascale’s apartment, you can’t help but wonder what it all means.

What you do know, though, is that you’re not alone anymore — not really. Charles is here, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

The drive from Pascale’s apartment to Charles’ place is filled with comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional hum of the engine and the soft tunes playing on the car’s stereo. You find yourself stealing glances at Charles every now and then, noticing how relaxed he seems, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, the other is lightly to the rhythm of the music. His calmness was contagious, and you lean back in your seat, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

When the car finally pulls into an underground parking garage, Charles cuts the engine and turns to you with a soft smile. “Ready to meet Leo?” He asks, his tone almost teasing.

“Leo?” You echo, raising an eyebrow.

“My dog,” Charles clarifies, his smile growing. “He’s ... enthusiastic, to say the least.”

You laugh lightly. “I think I can handle enthusiastic.”

Charles leads you to the elevator, and a few moments later, you are stepping into a sleek, modern apartment. It is tastefully decorated, with large windows that offer a stunning view of the city. Before you could take in all the details, a high-pitched bark echoes through the space, and a small beige dachshund comes skidding around the corner, his tiny legs moving at lightning speed as he raced toward Charles.

“Leo!” Charles greets the dog with a wide grin, crouching down to scoop him up. The dachshund wiggles excitedly in his arms, his tail wagging furiously. “This is Y/N,” Charles introduces, turning Leo’s attention to you. “Be nice.”

You kneel down, and Leo wasted no time leaping from Charles’ arms to yours, showering your face with a flurry of enthusiastic licks. You can’t help but laugh as you try to fend off the affectionate assault, gently rubbing the little dog’s back.

“He’s adorable,” you say, looking up at Charles with a wide smile. But when your eyes meet his, you noticed the way he was watching you — softly, intently, as if seeing you in a new light. It was the kind of look you hadn’t seen since ... since James. The thought hits you with a sudden pang, but there is no sadness in it. Just a quiet, tender acknowledgment of the past and the present.

Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat as he straightens up. “I’m glad you like him,” he says, his voice a touch quieter now. “He’s been good company.”

You stand, Leo still wriggling happily in your arms. “I can see why.”

Charles smiles again, that same gentle warmth in his eyes. “Come on, let me show you to your room. I had one of the guest rooms made up for you.”

You follow him down a short hallway, the soft pads of Leo’s paws following close behind. Charles pushes open a door, revealing a cozy, well-appointed room with a large bed, a dresser, and a window that looks out over the city skyline. Your bags are neatly placed at the foot of the bed.

“I hope it’s comfortable enough,” Charles says, glancing around the room as if assessing it himself.

“It’s perfect,” you assure him, setting Leo down on the floor. The little dog immediately hops onto the bed, circling a few times before settling into a comfortable spot.

Charles chuckles. “Looks like you’ve already got company.”

You smile, sitting on the edge of the bed and giving Leo another affectionate pat. “He’s a good boy.”

There’s a pause, comfortable and full of unspoken things. Charles lingers by the door, as if he wants to say something but is weighing his words.

“If you need anything,” he finally says, “my room’s just down the hall. Don’t hesitate to knock.”

You nod, appreciating the offer more than you could put into words. “Thank you, Charles. For everything.”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, it seems like he might say something more. But instead, he simply nods, giving you a small, almost bashful smile before stepping back into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, his voice warm and sincere.

“Goodnight, Charles.”

As the door closes behind him, you’re left alone in the quiet room, Leo’s soft breathing the only sound. You sit there for a moment, letting everything that had happened over the past few days wash over you. The unexpected kindness of a stranger who is becoming so much more, the gentle way he helped you navigate the grief that still lingered like a shadow ... and the way he looked at you, as if he saw something in you that you’d almost forgotten was there.

With a deep breath, you lie back on the bed, Leo curling up beside you. The city lights twinkle through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. You stare up at the ceiling, feeling a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. Maybe, just maybe, you are beginning to heal.

And as you drift off to sleep, you find yourself thinking of the days to come, and the possibility of something new and beautiful growing from the ashes of what you’d lost.

***

The next morning, Charles is practically buzzing with excitement as he leads you out of his apartment and towards the harbor. His hand is warm and sure around yours, and you can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

The sky is a brilliant shade of blue, the kind of color that seems to only exist in this part of the world, with the sun glinting off the water and the scent of salt in the air. The harbor is alive with activity, the gentle hum of boats rocking in the marina, the occasional laughter of tourists, and the distant sounds of a city going about its day.

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” Charles says, his voice light and cheerful. “It’s a bit of a hidden gem. The tourists don’t usually find it, but the locals love it.”

You laugh softly, looking up at him as you walk side by side. “Sounds perfect. I’m always up for good food.”

Charles grins at that, his eyes twinkling with a boyish charm. “Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”

The walk is leisurely, and as you near the harbor, you notice how Charles slows his pace, as if wanting to savor every moment. The way he talks about Monaco, you can tell how much he loves it here, how much this place means to him. It’s like seeing the city through his eyes, and you find yourself appreciating the little details more — the old stone buildings, the narrow streets, the way the sunlight reflects off the water.

The brunch spot is tucked away, a small, unassuming place with a few tables outside, shaded by a striped awning. The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods wafts through the air, and you immediately feel at home. Charles greets the owner like an old friend, exchanging a few words in rapid French before leading you to a cozy table by the window.

You sit down, and Charles orders for the both of you — pastries, fresh fruit, eggs cooked just the way you like them, and, of course, coffee.

As you sip your coffee and nibble on a flaky croissant, you take in the surroundings. The café is quaint and charming, with wooden tables and mismatched chairs, the kind of place where you could easily spend hours just watching the world go by. It’s clear that Charles has a deep connection to this place, and you feel honored that he’s sharing it with you.

“This place,” you say, setting your coffee cup down, “it’s perfect.”

Charles smiles softly, his gaze lingering on your face. “I knew you’d like it.”

For a while, the two of you talk about everything and nothing — his childhood in Monaco, your favorite books, the little things that make life sweet. There’s a comfort in the conversation, a sense of ease that comes from being with someone who understands you, who doesn’t need you to be anything other than yourself.

After brunch, Charles suggests a walk along the harbor. The day is warm, the sun high in the sky, and as you walk, you can feel the tension of the past few days begin to melt away. The conversation flows easily, laughter coming more often than not, and you realize how much you’ve missed this — missed feeling alive, missed the simple pleasure of being in the moment.

But as the afternoon wears on, the sky begins to darken. You glance up, noticing the heavy clouds gathering overhead, and before you can say anything, the first raindrop falls.

Charles looks up at the sky, a grin spreading across his face. “Looks like we’re in for a bit of rain.”

You laugh, holding out your hand as the raindrops begin to fall faster, harder. “A bit? This looks like a full-on storm.”

The rain comes quickly, turning from a light drizzle to a steady downpour in a matter of moments. The tourists around you scatter, seeking shelter under awnings and in shops, but Charles doesn’t move. Instead, he looks at you, his expression playful, his eyes daring.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand again, this time with more urgency. “Let’s do something crazy.”

You’re about to ask what he means, but then you see the look in his eyes, and you know. You know exactly what he’s thinking.

Without another word, he pulls you into the open, right into the middle of the empty street. The rain is cold against your skin, soaking through your clothes in seconds, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything in this moment except the feeling of the rain on your face, the sound of Charles’ laughter, the way he spins you around like you’re in the middle of some grand ballroom instead of a rain-soaked street.

You let go. You let go of all the sadness, all the pain, all the fear. You let go and dance, not caring if you look silly, not caring if anyone is watching. It’s just you and Charles and the rain.

For the first time in a long time, you feel free.

And then, without even thinking, you lean in, and Charles is there, meeting you halfway. His lips are warm and soft against yours, a stark contrast to the cold rain, and you can feel the gentle pressure of his hands on your waist, holding you close, grounding you in this moment.

The kiss is slow, tender, as if Charles is trying to convey everything he’s feeling without saying a word. There’s a sense of rightness in it, like this is where you’re supposed to be, like this is what you’ve been missing.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, the rain still pouring down around you, but neither of you seems to care. You look up at Charles, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his face, and you can’t help but smile.

“I’ve never danced in the rain before,” you say, your voice barely audible over the sound of the downpour.

Charles grins, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Neither have I. But I’m glad my first time was with you.”

You laugh softly, leaning your forehead against his. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

He chuckles, his arms tightening around you. “Maybe a little. But sometimes the best things in life are a little crazy.”

You close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you, feeling the weight of the past few weeks slowly lifting off your shoulders. For the first time since you lost James, you feel like you’re truly living again. And it’s because of Charles.

The rain shows no signs of stopping, but you don’t care. You could stand here forever, in this moment, with Charles’s arms around you and the rain falling like a blessing from the sky.

But eventually, the cold starts to seep into your bones, and Charles pulls back, his hands still on your waist, his eyes searching yours.

“Let’s get out of the rain,” he says softly. “We don’t want to catch a cold.”

You nod, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace, and together you make your way back towards the apartment, the rain still falling around you, but your heart feeling lighter than it has in months.

As you walk, Charles slips his hand into yours again, and you glance over at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. You’re not sure what’s happening between you and Charles, but for the first time, you’re not afraid of it. You’re not afraid to see where this might go.

When you reach the apartment, you’re both soaked to the bone, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, but you’re laughing, unable to stop the joy bubbling up inside you.

Charles unlocks the door and ushers you inside, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I think we might need to dry off a bit.”

You laugh, nodding in agreement as you look around the familiar space. Leo is waiting by the door, his tail wagging furiously as he barks excitedly, clearly not pleased that you both got caught in the rain without him.

Charles crouches down, rubbing Leo behind the ears. “Hey, baby. We didn’t mean to leave you out of the fun.”

Leo licks Charles’s face enthusiastically before trotting over to you, looking up with big, expectant eyes. You can’t help but smile as you reach down to pet him, feeling a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the rain.

Charles stands, his eyes soft as he watches you with Leo. “Let’s get you some dry clothes,” he says gently, leading you down the hall.

You follow him, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. There’s something about being here, with Charles, that feels right. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And as Charles hands you a towel and one of his oversized shirts, you realize that maybe you’re finally ready to start letting go of the past and embracing whatever the future holds. With Charles by your side, it feels like anything is possible.

As you dry off and change into the warm, comfortable clothes Charles gave you, you can’t help but smile at the thought. Maybe this isn’t just about ticking off items on a bucket list. Maybe it’s about finding yourself again. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about finding something more.

***

You fall asleep that night, still feeling the warmth of Charles’ arms wrapped around you as he whispered a soft goodnight. His gentle kiss, tentative yet filled with an unspoken promise, lingers on your lips even as you drift into slumber.

But in your dreams, the world shifts.

You find yourself standing in a place both familiar and strange — a field of golden wheat, the sun setting in the distance, casting a warm, orange glow across the horizon. The sky is endless, blending into shades of pink and purple, as if the heavens themselves were painted with the softest brushstrokes.

And there he is. James.

He’s standing a few feet away, his back to you, hands in his pockets, the way he always used to stand when he was deep in thought. The wind rustles the wheat around him, and for a moment, you just watch him, your heart aching with the longing that never really goes away.

“James ...” Your voice is soft, trembling, almost afraid that speaking his name will shatter the dream.

He turns slowly, his familiar smile, that same one that used to make you feel like everything would be okay, spreads across his face. He’s exactly as you remember him — tousled brown hair, slightly crooked nose from that time he tried to impress you by skiing down a slope far too steep, and those eyes, those deep, warm eyes that always seemed to understand you better than you understood yourself.

“Hey, you,” he says, his voice carrying the same teasing lilt that always made you laugh, no matter how bad your day had been.

You move towards him, your feet sinking into the soft earth, but it feels as though the distance between you never changes. The closer you try to get, the farther he seems. “I miss you,” you say, and your voice cracks under the weight of the words. “I miss you so much, Jamie.”

“I know,” he says, and his voice is soft, understanding. “I miss you too, but I’m here now.”

You finally reach him, your fingers itching to touch him, to feel his warmth, but there’s a hesitance within you, a fear that touching him will break the fragile illusion. “I’m scared,” you confess, the tears that have been gathering in your eyes finally spilling over. “I’m scared of moving on, of letting go … of forgetting you.”

James takes a step closer, and suddenly, he’s right in front of you. You can feel his warmth now, the comforting presence that had always been your anchor. He lifts a hand, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, just like he used to.

“You won’t forget me,” he says gently, his voice a soothing balm to your wounded heart. “You carry me with you, always. I’m a part of you, just like you’re a part of me.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, memorizing the feel of him, the sound of his voice. “But it feels like I’m betraying you … with Charles.”

James chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through you, filling you with a warmth that you hadn’t felt in so long. “Charles Leclerc, huh?” He steps back slightly, enough to meet your gaze fully. “Never knew you had a thing for fast cars and dangerous men.”

You can’t help but smile through your tears. “He’s … different. He’s kind, and patient, and he makes me feel … alive again.”

“That’s good, Y/N,” James says, his tone earnest, as if he’s trying to make you understand something crucial. “That’s what I want for you. I don’t want you to be stuck in the past, living with a ghost. I want you to live, to be happy, to love again.”

“But you-”

“I’ll always be with you,” he interrupts gently. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here,” he says, pressing a hand over your heart. “But you need to let yourself be happy. You need to let yourself find love, even if it’s not with me.”

A sob escapes your lips, and you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle the sound, but James pulls you into his arms, holding you close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s okay to love someone else. I want you to. You deserve that.”

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the scent that’s so uniquely him — earthy and warm, like freshly cut grass on a summer’s day. “I don’t know if I can,” you whisper. “It feels like losing you all over again.”

“You’re not losing me,” he reassures, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re gaining something beautiful. And if you’re worried about my approval ...” He grins, that mischievous glint in his eye that you always loved. “I mean, he’s no Max Verstappen, but Charles Leclerc? I guess he’s almost good enough for you.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, even as tears continue to fall. It’s absurd, really, this moment, this conversation, but it’s exactly what you needed.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” you murmur, shaking your head with a small smile.

James shrugs, a carefree gesture that was so him. “What can I say? I always had a soft spot for Max. But Charles … he’s got potential. Just … give him a chance, okay? For me?”

You nod, even though the idea terrifies you. “I’ll try,” you whisper. “For you.”

James smiles, a sad, but proud smile, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, the same way he used to when he wanted to comfort you without words. “That’s all I ask. And Y/N ... don’t wait too long, okay? Life is too short for that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, even though your heart is heavy with the thought of truly moving on.

James takes a step back, his form beginning to fade into the golden light of the sunset. “I love you, Y/N. I always will. But it’s time for you to live again.”

“Goodbye, Jamie,” you say, your voice trembling as he becomes more and more ethereal, like a shadow dissolving in the light. “I love you.”

He smiles one last time, his figure almost completely faded now. “And I love you. Always.”

The dream fades, and you’re left standing in that field of golden wheat alone, the sun sinking below the horizon, casting the world into twilight. But there’s a peace in your heart that you haven’t felt in a long time, a quiet acceptance that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to start letting go.

When you wake, your cheeks are damp with tears, but there’s a soft smile on your lips. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying the dream in your mind, feeling the weight of James’ words settle in your heart.

You know what he said is true. You know it’s what he would want. And you know, deep down, that it’s time to start allowing yourself to heal, to open up, and to let someone else in.

And as you think of Charles, of his patience, his kindness, his quiet understanding, you can’t help but feel a tiny spark of hope flickering in your chest — a hope that maybe, just maybe, you can find love again.

***

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Charles’ dining room, casting a soft, golden hue over the room. You sit at the table, trying to focus on the breakfast in front of you — a selection of pastries, fresh fruit, and coffee that Charles had lovingly laid out. Yet, the thoughts swirling in your mind make it hard to concentrate. Charles sits across from you, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet yours, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

The memories of the past few days are almost surreal: the unexpected road trip, the rain-soaked dance that ended with your first kiss, and the way Charles held you afterward, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. It’s been a whirlwind, but a beautiful one. And yet, as you take a sip of coffee, reality nudges its way back into your thoughts.

“I ... I should probably head back home soon,” you say, your voice hesitant, as if saying the words might make them less real. “I need to get back to work.”

The air in the room shifts. Charles’ smile fades just a little, replaced by a look of understanding, tinged with something you can’t quite place. Sadness? Disappointment? He sets down his coffee cup, his fingers playing with the handle as if it could offer him some guidance on what to say next.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone gentle, though you can hear the effort it takes to keep it light. “You have responsibilities, a life back home ...”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches a moment into something heavier, more significant. The silence is thick, filled with the unspoken truth that neither of you wants to confront: this bubble of time you’ve been living in, where only the two of you exist, is about to burst.

“I like you,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. They hang in the air, raw and vulnerable.

Charles looks up, his eyes locking onto yours. “I like you too,” he says, his voice low, steady, and filled with something that makes your heart skip a beat.

You both sit there for a moment, staring at each other, the weight of your mutual confession settling between you like a third presence at the table. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“I want to see where this goes,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly as you try to gather your thoughts. “But I don’t know how ... I mean, you’re always traveling for the races, and I-”

“Come with me,” Charles interrupts, his voice firm, almost urgent. “To the next race. And the one after that. I don’t want this to be just a beautiful memory. I want you there with me, every step of the way.”

His words hit you like a wave, washing over the fears and doubts that had been quietly gnawing at the back of your mind. The idea of uprooting your life, of stepping into his world, is daunting — but the thought of not being with him is even more unbearable.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “Are you sure?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to get in the way, or make things complicated.”

Charles leans forward, his hand reaching out to cover yours. His touch is warm, grounding. “You wouldn’t be in the way. I want this. I want you. And if it gets complicated, then we’ll figure it out together.”

The sincerity in his eyes is almost overwhelming. You’ve spent so long guarding your heart, protecting yourself from the pain of losing someone again, that the idea of opening up to love, to Charles, feels both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Two and a half weeks,” he continues, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s when the next race is. Come with me. We’ll have more time to figure this out, whatever this is.”

You nod slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay,” you say, your voice firming up with the decision. “I’ll come with you.”

A bright, relieved smile breaks across Charles’ face, and in that moment, you know you’ve made the right choice. Whatever happens, you’ll face it together. The thought is both comforting and thrilling.

Charles stands up, pulling you gently to your feet. “I think we should seal this decision properly,” he says, his tone light, teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the mood from becoming too serious. “And how do you propose we do that?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he steps closer, his hands coming to rest on your hips as he leans in, capturing your lips with his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s different from the kiss you shared in the rain — this one is slower, more deliberate, filled with the promise of everything that could be. You melt into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders as you kiss him back, letting yourself get lost in the moment.

When you finally pull away, breathless and a little dizzy, Charles rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a contented smile on his lips. “I’m really glad you’re coming with me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of emotion.

“So am I,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and anticipation.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you stand there in Charles’ arms, the future doesn’t seem so scary anymore. In fact, it looks pretty damn wonderful.

***

18 Months Later

The cemetery is quiet, a solemn stillness that wraps around you and Charles as you walk down the winding path lined with weathered tombstones and ancient trees. The sky above is a muted gray, the kind that seems to reflect the heavy emotions you’ve been carrying with you.

Your hand is tightly clasped in Charles’, his grip firm and reassuring, but you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. He’s nervous, though he tries to hide it behind a small, gentle smile.

You haven’t been here since the funeral, since that awful day when you laid James to rest. The thought of returning to this place has always felt too overwhelming, like reopening a wound that never fully healed. But now, over a year and a half later, you’re here again, and this time, you’re not alone.

You lead Charles to the spot where James is buried. It’s a modest grave, marked by a simple headstone that bears his name, his dates, and a short inscription that never fails to bring tears to your eyes: Beloved husband, healer of hearts, taken too soon.

Charles lets go of your hand as you kneel in front of the grave, gently brushing away the few leaves that have settled on the stone. You trace James’ name with your fingers, the cold granite grounding you in a way that words never could. Charles stands a few steps behind you, giving you space, but his presence is a comforting anchor in this sea of grief.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, silent and lost in memories, before you finally speak. “Hi, James,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I-I brought someone with me. I think you’d like him.” You swallow the lump in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks. “His name is Charles. He’s ... he’s very special to me. You’d probably think he’s not good enough for me, but you were always a little biased.”

A small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you glance back at Charles, who’s watching you with a mixture of love and concern. “Would you ... would you mind giving us a moment?” Charles asks softly, stepping forward. “I — I’d like to talk to James, if that’s okay.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the request, but the earnestness in his eyes makes you nod. “Of course,” you murmur, rising to your feet. You lean in to kiss Charles on the cheek, squeezing his hand one last time before stepping away, giving him the privacy he’s asked for.

Charles waits until you’ve moved a respectful distance away, then turns his attention to the grave. He takes a deep breath, crouching down so he’s at eye level with the headstone. He feels awkward, talking to a man he’s never met, a man who was such a huge part of your life. But he knows this is important, that he needs to do this — for you, for James, and for himself.

“Hi, James,” Charles starts, his voice low and unsure. “I-I hope you don’t mind me talking to you like this. I’ve heard so much about you, and I know how much you mean to her.” He pauses, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving her the way you did, for making her so happy. She deserves that, you know? She deserves all the happiness in the world.”

Charles’ throat tightens, and he has to blink back the tears threatening to spill over. He hadn’t expected this to be so hard, hadn’t expected to feel this intense connection to a man he never knew. “I’m ... I’m going to propose to her,” he finally says, his voice shaking. “And I wanted to ask for your permission, if that’s okay. I know I can’t replace you, and I wouldn’t want to. You’ll always be a part of her, and I’ll never try to take that away.”

He swallows hard, his heart pounding in his chest. “But I love her, James. I love her so much, and I promise I’ll take care of her. I’ll do everything I can to make her happy, to make sure she feels loved every single day. I know she still loves you, and I’m okay with that. There’s more than enough room in her heart for both of us.”

Charles reaches out, placing a hand on the cool stone of the headstone, as if trying to make a connection with the man resting beneath it. “We’ve been talking about her moving to Monaco with me soon,” he continues, his voice steadying. “And I promise you, she’ll have free reign of my private jet to visit you whenever she wants. I’ll make sure she never feels like she has to choose between us.”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “I hope that’s okay with you, James. I hope ... I hope you’re at peace, wherever you are. And I hope you know that I’m going to love her with everything I have. I’ll do my best to make her as happy as you did. Thank you for that.”

Charles stays there for a moment longer, his hand still resting on the gravestone, before he finally stands. He wipes at his eyes, surprised to find them wet with tears, and glances over at you. You’re watching him, a mix of curiosity and love in your gaze, and he gives you a small, reassuring smile.

You walk back over to him, slipping your hand into his, and he squeezes it gently. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I ... I don’t know what you said, but thank you.”

Charles just nods, pulling you into a hug, holding you close as you both stand there in the quiet cemetery, the weight of your shared love and loss settling around you. It’s not an easy moment, but it’s one that feels right, like a necessary step forward in the journey you’ve been on together.

As you stand there in Charles’ arms, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. You know that James would have approved, that he would have wanted you to find happiness again, to find love again. And now, with Charles by your side, you finally feel like you can do that.

Eventually, you both turn to leave, hand in hand, walking back down the path toward the cemetery gates. As you reach the car, you glance back one last time at James’ grave, a soft smile on your lips. “Goodbye, Jamie,” you whisper. “Thank you for everything. I love you.”

Charles opens the car door for you, and as you slide into the passenger seat, you feel a sense of closure, of new beginnings. It’s not about moving on, you realize, but about moving forward — carrying the love you’ve known with you into whatever comes next.

And as Charles drives away from the cemetery, his hand resting on your thigh, you know that whatever comes next, you won’t be facing it alone.

***

The reception hall is filled with soft, warm light, the kind that makes everyone look beautiful and the world seem perfect for just a moment. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter create a background hum that feels almost comforting in its familiarity.

You stand at the edge of the room, looking out at the faces of friends and family, people who have watched you navigate the hardest years of your life and who are now here to celebrate this new chapter.

Charles is beside you, his hand resting gently on the small of your back, a touch so natural that it feels like it's always been there. When he smiles at you, there's a quiet understanding in his eyes, a love that has grown deep and steady, rooted in the soil of shared grief and the careful, tentative steps toward healing.

You know he can feel your nervousness — he’s always been able to read you so well — but there’s no rush, no pressure. Just his presence, anchoring you as you take a deep breath and step forward to the microphone.

The room gradually quiets as people realize you’re about to speak. The lump in your throat feels almost too big to swallow, and for a moment, you think you might not be able to get the words out. But then you feel Charles’ hand squeeze yours, a silent encouragement that you can do this, and suddenly, it’s easier to find your voice.

“Thank you,” you begin, and your voice wavers a little, but it’s steady enough. “Thank you all for being here today. I know that every bride says this, but it really does mean the world to us that you’re here to share this day with us.”

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with that same soft look he had when you first met Leo. His eyes are full of pride and love, and it gives you the strength to continue.

“Most of you know that today isn’t just about celebrating the love that Charles and I share, but it’s also about honoring the past that brought us here,” you say, and you can see some people nodding, their smiles tinged with understanding. “A few years ago, I lost my husband, James. He was an incredible man — kind, compassionate, and so full of life. And when he passed, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, let alone find love again.”

Your voice catches, and you have to pause to take another breath. The room is silent now, everyone hanging on your words.

“James left me a letter,” you say, and there’s a faint murmur as people who don’t know the story lean in, intrigued. “In that letter, he left me a bucket list of things he wanted me to experience, things he wished we could have done together but that he wanted me to do in his memory.”

You reach into your pocket and pull out the now well-worn piece of paper, carefully unfolding it as you speak. “The last item on that list was to find love again.”

A few people gasp quietly, and you can see some wiping their eyes, moved by the weight of those words. You feel your own tears threatening to fall, but you blink them back, determined to finish what you’ve started.

“For a long time, I didn’t think I could,” you admit, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think it was possible to let someone else into my heart after losing James. But then, I met Charles.”

You turn to look at him, and he smiles at you, a smile that is both gentle and reassuring. “Charles showed me that it’s okay to love again, that my heart is big enough to hold all the memories I have of James while still making room for new ones with him. He’s been patient, understanding, and so, so kind. And I know that James would have loved him just as much as I do.”

Charles’ eyes glisten with unshed tears, and when he squeezes your hand again, it’s not just to comfort you — it’s a shared moment of recognition, of understanding that this journey has been just as profound for him as it has been for you.

“I know that some people say you can only have one great love in a lifetime,” you continue, your voice growing steadier with each word. “But I think I’ve been incredibly lucky, because I’ve had two.”

The room is filled with the sound of sniffles and soft murmurs of agreement. You can see your family, who has been there through it all, nodding and smiling through their tears.

“So today, as we celebrate this new beginning, I want to take a moment to honor the man who brought us here. James, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you for loving me enough to let me go, for knowing that I needed to find happiness again. I know you’re here with us, in spirit, and I hope you’re proud.”

You pause, your heart heavy but full. “And to Charles, my Charlie … thank you for being brave enough to love me, even when it wasn’t easy. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to hold on to the past while embracing the future. I promise to love you with all of my heart, forever and always.”

The room is silent for a long moment after you finish speaking, and then the applause begins — soft at first, then growing louder as people rise to their feet, clapping not just for you and Charles, but for the love that has brought you both here, and for the man who made it all possible.

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to your temple as the applause swells around you. “I love you,” he whispers, and you can hear the emotion in his voice. “Thank you for sharing that with everyone. It was perfect.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back, your voice thick with tears. “And thank you, Charlie. For everything.”

The rest of the night is a blur of laughter, dancing, and celebration. But the memory of your speech, of standing up in front of everyone and sharing your heart so openly, will stay with you forever. And as you and Charles step onto the dance floor for your first dance as husband and wife, you feel a sense of peace, knowing that James is watching over you both, smiling as you take this next step forward together.

The music begins to play, a soft, romantic melody that wraps around you like a warm embrace. Charles pulls you closer, his arms around your waist as you sway together, and for the first time in a long time, you feel complete. It’s not that the pain of losing James has disappeared — it never will — but it has softened, and in its place, there is a new kind of love, one that is just as strong, just as true.

As you dance, you rest your head against Charles’ chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The guests fade into the background, and it’s just the two of you, moving together in perfect harmony. You know that this moment, this dance, is the beginning of a new chapter, one that you never imagined you would have, but one that you are so grateful for.

When the song ends, Charles lifts your chin with his finger, his eyes searching yours. “You okay?” He asks softly, his voice filled with concern.

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Instead, you press your lips to his in a tender kiss, one that says everything you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, and as you pull back, you see the tears in his eyes, a mirror of your own.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Charles smiles, his thumb brushing away the tear that slips down your cheek.

“No, thank you,” he says, his voice full of love and admiration. “For letting me be a part of this, for trusting me with your heart. I promise, I’ll take care of it.”

And as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you know that you’ve found what James wanted for you all along — someone who will love you just as deeply, just as fiercely, as he did. Someone who will walk with you through the good times and the bad, who will hold your hand and guide you through the darkest days, and who will celebrate the bright ones with joy and laughter.

You’ve found love again, just like James wanted, and it feels like coming home.

***

You park the car under the shade of a sprawling oak tree, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you step out, Charles following behind, holding Jacques in his arms.

The baby is cooing, tiny hands grabbing at Charles’ shirt as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. You pause for a moment, breathing in the cool air, trying to gather the courage to walk towards the familiar grave that you’ve avoided for so long.

Charles adjusts Jacques in his arms, the baby’s chubby legs kicking slightly as he looks around, taking in the new surroundings with wide eyes. You glance at Charles, and he gives you a small, encouraging nod. But this time, there’s no pressure. He’s letting you take the lead, letting you go at your own pace.

The last time you were here, you and Charles had just gotten engaged. The memory of Charles standing by James’ grave, asking for his blessing, is still vivid in your mind. And now, two years later, everything has changed. You’re married to Charles, and you have a beautiful baby boy. But standing here, in front of the man you once loved with all your heart, the weight of everything comes crashing down.

You take a deep breath and start walking towards the grave. The headstone is simple, elegant, just the way James would have wanted it. Fresh flowers have been placed there recently — probably by James’ parents, who visit regularly. A pang of guilt twists in your chest. You should have come sooner.

When you reach the grave, you kneel down, brushing your fingers lightly over the engraved letters of his name. The silence is thick, filled with everything you want to say but can’t find the words for. Charles stays a few steps back, giving you space, though you can feel his presence like a warm anchor, grounding you.

“Hi, Jamie,” you finally whisper, your voice trembling. “It’s ... it’s been a while, I know. I’m sorry for not visiting sooner.”

The words catch in your throat, and you have to pause, blinking back tears. You thought you were prepared for this, but being here, with so much time having passed, it’s harder than you imagined.

“I wanted to come sooner, but ... everything just got so overwhelming,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I’ve missed you so much. And I know you’re watching over us, but I needed to feel like I could do this ... like I could come back here and tell you everything.”

You glance back at Charles, who is now sitting on the grass with Jacques in his lap. The baby is looking up at the sky, oblivious to the somber mood, a tiny smile playing on his lips. When you turn back to the grave, the tears you've been holding back finally spill over.

“I want you to meet someone,” you say softly. You reach back, signaling Charles to bring Jacques over. Charles carefully lifts Jacques, walking over to you, and gently hands him to you. The baby gurgles, his small hand wrapping around your finger instinctively. You hold Jacques close, your tears falling onto his soft hair.

“This is Jacques,” you whisper, looking down at your son. “He’s named after you and Jules. Charles and I wanted to honor you both in some way.”

The name had been something you and Charles had discussed at length. When you found out you were pregnant, there was no hesitation in your minds who you wanted to name your son after. It felt like the right thing to do, like a way to keep a part of James alive in your new life.

“He’s ... he’s so beautiful, James,” you continue, your voice trembling with emotion. “I wish you were here to see him grow up. To be a part of his life. But I promise, I’ll tell him all about you. About how amazing you were, and how much you loved helping others. He’ll know his name carries a legacy.”

Jacques wiggles in your arms, and you press a soft kiss to his forehead. The tears continue to fall, but now they’re mixed with a sense of bittersweet acceptance. You look up at the sky, the clouds shifting lazily, and you wonder if James is watching, if he’s smiling down at you.

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with those soft eyes that seem to hold all the love in the world. He’s been so patient, so understanding, and in this moment, you realize how incredibly lucky you are to have found love again. It’s not something you ever thought would be possible, but here you are, standing between the past and the future, with a heart big enough to hold them both.

“Charles has been amazing,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’d like him, James. He’s so kind, and he understands ... he understands everything I’ve been through. He’s been so good to me, and to Jacques. I think you’d be happy to know that we found each other.”

Charles steps closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. The warmth of his body against yours is comforting, a reminder that you’re not alone in this. Jacques babbles, his tiny fingers reaching up to touch Charles’ face, and Charles chuckles softly, nuzzling his nose against Jacques' cheek.

You close your eyes, leaning back into Charles, letting yourself feel the full weight of the moment. The grief, the love, the hope — all of it swirling inside you like a storm that’s finally starting to calm.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I always will. But I’ve learned that it’s okay to move forward. To let myself be happy again. And I think ... I think you’d want that for me.”

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves in the trees, and for a brief moment, you swear you can feel James’ presence — like a gentle touch on your shoulder, a whisper in your ear, telling you that it’s okay. That he’s at peace, and he wants you to be too.

You turn slightly, pressing a kiss to Charles’ cheek, then look back at the grave, feeling a sense of closure that you didn’t think was possible.

“We’ll be back to visit,” you promise, your voice steadying. “I won’t wait so long next time. And Jacques will grow up knowing who you were, what you meant to us. He’ll know his name is special.”

Charles squeezes your hand, and you nod, letting him know you’re ready to go. You stand, brushing off your pants, and take one last look at James’ grave. The flowers sway gently in the breeze, and you feel a strange sense of peace settle over you. It’s not goodbye — it’s more of a “see you later.”

As you walk back to the car, Charles keeps his arm around your waist, holding you close. Jacques is still babbling happily, completely unaware of the emotional weight of the visit. But that’s okay — he’ll understand when he’s older. For now, you’re just grateful to have this moment, to feel like you’re honoring both the past and the future.

When you reach the car, you carefully buckle Jacques into his car seat, making sure he’s secure before you get in. Charles closes the door behind you, and as he starts the engine, you glance back at the grave, giving a small nod as if to say, “Thank you.”

As the car pulls away, you lean your head against the window, watching the trees blur past. Charles reaches over, taking your hand in his, and you smile softly, squeezing his hand in return.

It’s a long drive back home, but you don’t mind. You have everything you need right here with you. And as you close your eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you into a peaceful state, you realize that this is what James wanted for you — to find love again, to be happy, to live your life to the fullest.

And you will. For him, for Jacques, for Charles, and for yourself.

2K notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 1 month ago

Text

SIMPLY LOVELY 🧡🧡🧡🧡

121 notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 1 month ago

Text

cannot blame her i would fold SO QUICK

The fact that this is the girl in charge of giving Franco the media training. She already lost the battle.

3K notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 1 month ago

Text

i posted a new fic and it’s not showing up on the tags :(((( here it is if you want to check it out, if you like it i’d appreciate if you could give it a reblog <3

20 notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 1 month ago

Note

YALL LOOK AT BAE WORKING HARD OUT HERE

i need a lando x brazilian!reader for sao paulo gp!!

persistence - ln4

summary: lando has the biggest crush on a brazilian model and he won’t give up until she gives him a chance

folkie radio: HAPPY LANDO DAY !! for some reason, my lando fics are always my least fave but i needed to post something for his bdayyyy, i hope you like this

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

liked by landonorris, sabrinacarpenter and 748,296 others

yourinstagram i ❤️ LA

view all comments

username1 THE FACE CARDDD

username2 if i looked like that i wouldn’t let anyone give me crap

username3 IT GIRL

alexademie Loved seeing you 😍

username4 brazilian women >>>

iamrebeccad 😍

username5 WHAT IS LANDO NORRIS DOING IN THE LIKES 😭

username6 lando i see you what are you up to

carlossainz55 Hermosa !

↳ username1 sometimes i forget she’s actually friends with carlos

↳ username2 ouuu maybe this is why lando is in the likes

↳ yourinstagram miss you carlitosss

madisonbeer pelase come more often loml 💘

↳ yourinstagram you should comento brazil miss!

username7 LINDA

username8 can’t believe we’re from the same country but i don’t look like this

alexandrasaintmleux ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 you beautyyy

↳ username2 IT GIRLS FR

landonorris Pretty girl 😍

↳ username1 LANDO HELLO?

↳ username2 HES SO BOLD

↳ username3 yn not even replying 😭

liked by carlossainz55, alex_albon and 1,027,638 others

landonorris memories from my last time in brazil 📸

view all comments

username1 LANDOOOO

username2 HELLO SIR WTF

username3 what was the reason for this thirst trap NOT COMPLAINING THO 😭

charles_leclerc Who let the dogs out?

↳ username1 HELP MEEEEE

username4 lando norris what are you up to

username5 I WANT TO LICK HIM

mclaren Good start of the week 🙌

username6 confess lando who are you trying to charm

username7 HES SUCH A MAN

danielricciardo I’m looking respectfully

↳ username2 HE GETS IT

username8 lando posting a thirst trap from BRAZIL and not so randomly commenting on a brazilian model’s post LANDO I SEE WHAT YOU DO

carlossainz55 😂😂😂

username9 BE SERIOUS

f1gossip We’ll get to the bottom of this 👀

username10 i need to know how his brain works

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

texts between carlos and lando

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

yourinstagram has added to their stories

landonorris sent you a message request

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, lilyrosedepp and 798,499 others

yourinstagram somebody come get this man… i think he got lost in my dms

view all comments

username1 IT GIRL

username2 how bad i wish i was her

username3 the amount of random celebs that probably slide into her dms 😭

lizzobeeating those lyrics 🤌🤌

username4 SPILL DEETS

username5 expose them bestie expose them

sabrinacarpenter i’m still laughing

↳ brunamarquezine me too

↳ yourinstagram we all 🤫

username6 i need her bandana asap

username7 MESSY QUEEN

alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍 my style inspo !

↳ yourinstagram miss YOU are my style inspo we need to meet asap ❤️‍🔥

↳ username1 AHHH THIS CROSSOVER

carlossainz55 Forgive him… he’s just a boy

↳ iamrebeccad 😂😂

↳ username2 HUH WHATS THIS ABOUT???

↳ yourinstagram keep him humble carlitos

landonorris stunning 🤤

↳ username1 NOT THIS AGAIN

↳ username2 plot twist hes the man who got lost in her dms

liked by daniel3.jpg, carlossainz55 and 355,836 others

lando.‪jpg i’ll take that as a compliment

view all comments

username1 LANDOOOOO

username2 he remember the password for this account

username3 WHAT DOES HE MEAN 😭

charles_leclerc 😂😂😂😂

daniel3.jpg mate im sure that’s not how it works…

‬ ↳ lando.‪jpg did i ask?

↳ username1 HUH LET ME IN

username4 WHAT IS HE ON ABOUT

username5 who’s attention is he trying to get with this post

username6 lando has been moving weirdly lately

carlossainz55 EMBARRASING

↳ charles_leclerc Please make him understand

↳ georgerussell63 😂😂😂😂

↳ username2 WHAT IS THIS

↳ username3 I NEED TO BE PART OF THEIR INSIDE JOKES

↳ username4 I HATE THEM

↳ lando.jpg can’t hear the haters

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, landonorris and 609,638 others

yourinstagram monaco i am in you ✨

view all comments

username1 FACE CARDDDD

username2 the queen in monaco ? slay

username3 i know a certain mclaren driver will like to hear about this information

gigihadid 😍😍

madisonbeer MY GIRLFRIEND 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

username4 SCREAMING

username5 her genes are really blessed

↳ username1 ofc she’s a brazilian

brunamarquezine Linda 💘💘

username6 don’t let lando norris find out

username7 LANDO X YN?? is this what i’m getting from this comments ??

↳ username2 more like lando thirsts over her but she ignores him

carlossainz55 No way! We should meet up

↳ yourinstagram i was about to text youuu carlitos

↳ username2 LOVE THEM

jacobelordi 😍

↳ username1 dream couple fr

alexandrasaintmleux FINALLY 🙌🙌

↳ yourinstagram can’t wait to see youuuu gorgeous sass won’t know what hit them

↳ username3 OMFG IT GIRLS MEETING

landonorris 🤤🤤😍

↳ username1 DUDE GIVE IT UP

↳ username2 LANDO PLEASE

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

the grid but only the cool ones groupchat

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 8,649 others

f1gossip Lando was at Sass Cafe in Monaco tonight. Any theories of who the girl might be? 👀

view all comments

username1 MESSY LANDO

username2 he’s sooo 😭

username3 i need lando to look at me like that

username4 that happening to me could save me

username5 just fell to my knees

username6 isn’t that yn the brazilian model??

↳ username1 WAIT

↳ username2 you have a point

↳ username3 NO WAY 😩

↳ username4 wait a damn minute that’s her

↳ username5 WHY IS LANDO LOOKING AT HER LIKE THAY

username6 ooohhh i see 👀👀

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

yourinstagram has added to their stories

replies:

iamrebeccad I have major fomo right now 🥲

↳ yourinstagram YOU SHOULD’VE BEEN THERE

madisonbeer 😍😍😍

anokyai monaco loves you ✨✨

alexandrasaintmleux my new bff 💘💘

↳ yourinstagram i literally love you so much

landonorris miss you already 😍

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

the grid but only the cool ones groupchat

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by carlossainz55, landonorris and 612,976 others

yourinstagram first time watching race cars 🏎️ good luck tomorrow to my dear friend carlitosss

view all comments

username1 OMGGGGG

username2 SHE WAS AT QUALI ?? SLAY

username3 wag energy

arianagrande 😍😍😍

username4 lando norris was found yelling

username5 THE FACT THAT SHES LANDO’S CRUSH THO

scuderiaferarri ❤️

username6 LANDO X YN FINALLY???

username7 she fits right in she should date lando

username8 WE NEED THE QUEEN AT THE SÃO PAULO GP

username9 the only girl that matters

alexandrasaintmleux Linda 😍😍✨

↳ yourinstagram eu te amo !

brunamarquezine 💘😍🙌

username10 BET LANDO FREAKED OUT

username11 okay but carlos looks so good

carlossainz55 Te quiero!

↳ yourinstagram 🥰🥰

iamrebeccad ❤️❤️❤️

landonorris the most gorgeous girl in the paddock

↳ username1 THERE HE IS

↳ username2 the fact that she has never ever acknowledged any of his comments has me dying

↳ username3 he has BALLS

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

landonorris sent you a message request

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 11,390 others

f1gossip Landinho is in full summer break swing ! The driver was spotted in São Paulo tonight 👀

view all comments

username1 LANDINHOOO IS BACK

username2 UMMM AM I READING THIS RIGHT

username3 he did not....

username4 yn just give this boy a chance we all know you keep him hanging

username5 WE WON

username6 he speaks portuguese and all now

username7 this man istg

username8 suddenly brazil is his favorite country in the world

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

landonorris sent you a message request

yourinstagram started following landonorris

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by username1, username2 and 13,987 others

f1gossip Lando was spotted out and about in São Paulo tonight, but if you look closely, you might notice he's carrying a purse and a phone with a Rhode case. Was Landinho in a date with someone? 👀

view all comments

username1 LORD

username2 CUT THE CAMERAS

username3 lando dating a brazilian woman ?? UM YES

username4 IM SUDDENLY BLIND

username5 if it's not yn then we don't want it

username6 I NEED CONFIRMATION THAT HE WAS WITH YN

username7 oh to have lando norris carrying my purse and phone for me

username8 that's a MAN

username9 GOING INSANE

yourinstagram has added to their stories

replies:

madisonbeer girl you're so messy but ily

↳ yourinstagram nice case right? 😙

alexandrasaintmleux Are we finally twinning in the paddock?

↳ yourinstagram we'll seeeeeeee

carlossainz55 Excuse me?

↳ yourinstagram hi carlitos

↳ carlossainz55 You really gave that muppet a chance?

↳ yourinstagram what can i say, he's persistent

landonorris Linda 😍😍

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

liked by landonorris, bellahadid and 1,287,399 others

yourinstagram i heard something about race cars in são paulo?

view all comments

username1 STUNNING

username2 that's not face card that's face economy

alexandrasaintmleux 😍😍🙌

username3 LANDO THIS IS YOUR CHANCE

username4 future wag?

username5 COME ON LANDO SHOOT YOUR SHOT ONE LAST TIME

username6 if the rumors about her and lando are real....

madisonbeer my queen actually 💋

username7 THIS IS WAG MATERIAL

username8 how funny woud it be if she starts dating another driver when lando has been begging since forever

username9 LINDA

userame10 and when the queen graces interlagos with her presence

landonorris 😍😍😍

↳ username1 LANDOOOO

↳ username2 i respect him

↳ username3 you better win that mf race

liked by username1, username2 and 4,088 others

f1gossip Our eyes are not fooling us, Brazil's national treasure is at the Interlagos circuit paddock with Lando Norris right now

view all comments

username1 OMFGGGG

username2 yall don't know the lore

username3 he actually did it....

username4 LANDO NORRIS I NEVER DOUBTED YOU

username5 i used to pray for times like these

username6 HES SOOOOOOOO

username7 lando norris the man that you are

liked by landonorris, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,098,765 others

yourinstagram i told him we could hard launch only if he scored a podium in my country and he didn't so you'll never know who's this fine man 😙

view all comments

username1 STOOOOOPPP

username2 MESSY

username3 girl we know that's lando you fell for his charms

sabrinacarpenter 👀👀👀

username4 LANDO NORRIS YOU CHAMP

iamrebeccad 😂😂😂

username5 never doubting little lando norris again

brunamarquezine NO WAY

username6 im so lost whats going on

username7 from not getting a follow back to this LANDOOOO

carlossainz55 Ay dios mio 🤦‍♂️

↳ yourinstagram we love you carlitossss

↳ username1 i bet he refused to be lando's wingman so many times

bellahadid we have some catch up to do

username8 plot twist this is not lando

username9 THIS PICTURE IS SO HOT

username10 most iconic couple already

landonorris i wonder who that fine man could be

↳ username1 LANDO YOU DO THE HARD LAUNCH

↳ username2 i bet he's living

landonorris o mais linda 😍😍

↳ username3 LANDINHOOO

liked by yourinstagram, oscarpiastri and 1,898,375 others

landonorris lost the podium but won something else. obrigado 🇧🇷

view all comments

username1 OMFG

username2 THIS MAN ISTG

username3 lando norris you're one little menace

charles_leclerc FINALLY

↳ georgerussell63 After years of being rejected

↳ danielricciardo Look at our boy go 🙌

↳ username1 HEEEELPP THEY ALL KNEW

maxverstappen1 You owe me...

↳ username2 I NEED THE LOREEE

mclaren 🧡

username4 THIS IS TOO ICONIC

username5 okay she's gorgeous

username6 persistence is key i guess

username7 HEEELP HE JUST COULDN'T WAIT

username8 lando dating a brazilian is such a win

yourinstagram you're a cutieeee i guess

1K notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 1 month ago

Text

everyone say happy birthday lando norris right NOWWW

528 notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 2 months ago

Text

its concerning

my penchance for destroying my peace

as long as we're together (does it matter where we go?)

Summary: You don't want to be a burden to Bucky, knowing he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Pairing: Bucky x Female!OC

Genre: Angst

Length: 7.8k

Two years ago

“I don’t think I want to be with you anymore.”

Bucky had expected it. Weeks of you being distant, making secret phone calls, avoiding his touches like they physically hurt you. Countless times Bucky had asked, what's wrong?, only for you to shut him down and say that everything was fine. Bucky was sick of hearing that empty, meaningless mantra, but it didn’t mean that he reveled in your confession now.

Even though it didn't come as a surprise, it still felt like a punch to the gut. It physically winded him to hear those words leave your lips.

He wondered what he did wrong. He wondered where they went wrong. They were so in love, so wonderfully content in each other's company. You were his person. Steve had once told Bucky that he would find someone unexpectedly, when Bucky made an off-hand comment about how lucky he was to have met Peggy.

“You’ll find your Peggy.”

Things had been perfect. Or maybe Bucky had just been in denial, ignoring all the problems between you because he thought that his feelings for you triumphed over everything, no matter what hardships you may have been suffering from. How could he ever face the reality that you might actually leave in pursuit of something better?

Now, Bucky’s chest was tight with an indescribable feeling, both of you stood in your shared apartment. Your belongings stuffed into a black suitcase, Bucky’s heart in pieces on the hardwood floor.

He had expected it, but it didn't stop him from wanting to die.

"Why?" It was all he could ask. He wanted to know the reason, wanted to understand. Wanted to know if he could fix it. He was desperate to make you stay.

Bucky stared at your face. You looked so...indifferent. Unattached, in contrast to the woman he had met all those years ago. Where had the softness in your eyes gone? Why couldn’t you meet his pleading gaze, even now? At what point did your feelings for him start to fade, and was there anything he could have done to salvage it?

Your face was a blank slate, emotionless, and it made Bucky feel a truly troubling combination of sadness and anger. It was as if you had already said your goodbyes to their relationship, completely ready to move on whilst Bucky was still trying to process your words. You were ready to leave him behind to mourn.

“I don’t think we’re right for each other,” you had said quietly. “I don’t think we can give each other what we need.”

"Bullshit," Bucky said, his voice cracking. You grimaced ever so slightly at his tone, still unable to meet his eyes. "How can you say that?"

He took a step forward; you matched it with a retreating step, but with wide strides he seized your wrists. He silently willed you to say something which could somehow lessen the excruciating pain.

“Will you just look at me?”

He wanted so badly for you to meet his stare, to find some source of comfort within your eyes which usually held so much love for him.

Finally, you relented and lifted your head. They did not fill Bucky with any hope. You pressed your lips together firmly as he searched your face desperately for any sign of residual affection.

"We - we're in love. How can you say after all these years that we're not right for each other? For fuck's sake, will you just tell me what happened?"

"People change, Bucky," you said softly. The look on your face - was it sadness, or apathy? "We've become too distant."

"And whose fault is that?" Bucky released you then. He was so angry, wanting to elicit some sort of reaction from you, that he wanted to punch the wall beside them. It made him feel nauseous at how stoic you were now, like a piece of unyielding rock. He knew you hated it when he took his anger out physically. You had been the one to teach him how to manage his rage more constructively, to talk things out and use his words rather than his fists.

"Are you trying to say it's mine?" Your tone was sharp, finally demonstrating some emotion. "Are you saying that all those nights waiting for you to come back home, all those evenings alone whilst you stayed at the Tower, all those hours I spent staring at the four walls of this apartment were my fault?"

"You left me!" Bucky retorted, gritting his teeth. "You left me long before today! You think I haven't noticed? You can barely stand touching me. You're always on your phone, always texting, always out seeing your 'friends'," he said, making air quotes. "I asked Wanda, she said you haven't been meeting her or your other friends for weeks. Who's this 'friend’? Who the fuck is it that's so important that you can't spare any time for me, never mind your actual friends?"

A long, pregnant pause filled the air, an indecipherable mask on your face once more. Bucky’s eyes were wet, and if he hadn't been so angry, he would've seen the way your lower lip was trembling ever so slightly, the way it did whenever you were trying not to cry. It had been the biggest telltale sign for him over the years to know when you were upset and trying your best to hide it.

He was usually so good at reading you, but he was blinded with sadness.

"Fine," you said eventually, slicing the silence with a shaky exhale. "I'm seeing someone else."

You might as well have struck Bucky across the face.

Suspecting it and hearing the words fall from your lips were two different things. He physically reeled back in anguish as he stared at you. He took in the sight of his girlfriend in front of him, swallowing the lump that was forming in his throat. This was, without a doubt, the woman he had met five years ago. The woman he spent five years loving. The woman whom he recognized no longer.

"Why?" Bucky whispered, all the fight leaving his body. He physically seemed to sag, forehead creasing at all the other questions running through his mind, visions of you being touched and fucked by some faceless, nameless man.

You were almost pitiful in the way you looked at Bucky, and he hated it.

"I care for you, Bucky. But I’m not in love with you anymore. And I'm sorry I had to do this to you. Things just got out of control."

I’m not in love with you anymore.

You offered no further information, but he had stopped listening, anyway. The finality in your voice pierced him slowly, tortuously, through the heart. He barely moved when you took your suitcase and pulled it out behind you, out of their apartment. Out of his life.

The door slammed shut.

Present day

You are cordially invited to attend the wedding of Mercedes Knight & Samuel Wilson

Sam had become Bucky’s closest confidant in the past few years, and the latter had been a close witness as Sam met Mercedes ‘Misty’ Knight, a former NYPD officer who had somehow become roped into their crazy world. It was no surprise to Bucky when they announced their engagement just six months into dating.

Bucky found himself being pulled into their wedding planning discussions far too often. He tried to keep an amused smile at bay whilst listening into Misty and Sam’s wedding talk at the Tower. They were using one of the many conference rooms - a Knight-Wilson union was official business, Misty insisted.

"Are you bringing a date?" Misty asked suddenly in the middle of everything, the question directed at Bucky.

"Of course he's bringing a date," Sam smirked. "Heard things with Sharon are going well, right?"

Bucky smiled non-committedly, shrugging. "She's great." It didn’t go unnoticed by Sam that this didn’t quite answer his question.

"You two look good together," Misty offered. She glanced at her watch and widened her eyes theatrically, grabbing Sam’s hand. "Oh crap, we need to go meet with the wedding planner."

"But it feels like we just sat down," Sam complained.

"There's no rest for the bride and groom, Sam," Misty said, pulling her fiancé out of his seat as she waved goodbye at Bucky.

As soon as they departed, the smile on Bucky’s face dimmed. He was beyond happy for his two friends, he really was - but every couple he knew was a fresh reminder of his own failed love life.

Ever since you, he hadn't been in a long term relationship. Sharon is different, he told himself, and she was. They had been friends for a long time, and of course spent a lot of time together carrying out missions and the like. Over time, somehow, they had gotten closer, and one day Sharon had just asked him, “So when are you going to ask me out, Barnes?”

At that point, Bucky was still frequently thinking about you. Sharon had never met you before, but Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if she had heard stories about you from the others, since he had been notoriously affected by the breakup. Even though he was dealing with the aftershocks of the broken relationship, he was forcing himself to get past it.

They had been dating for two months now, and it only seemed right for Sharon to be his date at the wedding.

He had moved on. He was no longer the depressed, dark wreck he was when you left.

Sometimes it’s better to lie to yourself than to face the reality.

“You invited Bucky’s ex to the wedding?” Misty asked curiously.

“Uh, yeah. She’s not just his ex,” Sam explained gently. “She’s my friend too, and I haven’t seen her since she left town.”

"You told Bucky?"

"Nope," Sam snorted, shaking his head. "I can't. I don't think he'd turn up if I did. I want them both there on the day - I'm sure they can be civil for one night."

“I wonder how Bucky will react," his future wife pondered.

Sam shrugged. Not well, probably.

"What else can I do? I can’t not invite her, I really want her to be there. You never met her, so you don’t know, but she’s been through some shit.”

“I know, I know, you told me,” Misty said. “I just don’t want anyone to get hurt. Do you think she'll be okay seeing Bucky again? Especially if he'll be there with Sharon?"

"She said she can handle it. She would be happy to see that Bucky was happy. She was the one who practically begged me to encourage him to move on."

“Do you think he has?”

Sam paused, considering the question carefully.

“He has to.”

Several weeks later, Misty Knight and Sam Wilson were officially wed at the local registration office. The day was full of hugs, cacophonous laughter, friends and family, and Bucky watched with a wide beam on his face as he witnessed his friends glow. Those kinds of smiles were few and far between nowadays, but he was truly happy for once.

"They look so good together," Sharon murmured as hundreds of guests filled the hotel ballroom, the party commencing in full swing. The newlyweds were in the center of the room, Misty being twirled around wildly by a laughing Sam before his wife collapsed against his chest in fits of giggles, looking up into his eyes adoringly.

More and more people joined them on the dance floor after the conclusion of their official first dance.

"Barnes, would you like to dance?" Sharon asked suddenly with a smile, extending a hand.

Bucky chuckled, allowing her to take his hand and lead him out to the dance floor.

An hour passed, and Bucky had to truthfully say that he was enjoying himself, assisted by all the alcohol he had consumed. Sharon was draped all over him as they swayed to the music, and Bucky found himself appreciating the feel of her body against his all too much, the scent of her intoxicating. His hands felt the fabric of her silky, emerald green dress, buried his nose into Sharon's blonde hair, sighing softly as he tightened his grip on her waist.

Her perfume was strong and woodsy, like a forest. It irritated his nose ever so slightly. You had preferred a more subtle, floral perfume, one that smelt like sakura blossoms.

Sharon was more confident and seductive in the way she danced, whilst you used to always let yourself become putty in his arms, enjoying how he took the lead and managed to make you look like you knew how to dance despite your two left feet.

However, despite the differences, if Bucky closed his eyes and just tried a little harder, he think he could pretend that -

"Sorry to interrupt.”

Bucky pulled away from Sharon suddenly, and he turned to mock glare at Sam. "What do you want, Wilson?"

"Need to borrow you for a minute," Sam said, an undecipherable expression on his face. Bucky tried to see where Misty had disappeared off to, but saw no trace.

"Um, sure..." Bucky tried to read Sam’s face but gleaned nothing.

"I'll just go say hi to Natasha," Sharon said, giving Bucky’s forearm a squeeze before she disappeared.

Sam’s smile faded, and he caught Bucky’s arm in a vice grip. "I need to tell you something. Don't get mad, okay?"

"What?" Bucky scowled as Sam dragged him to the side of the room, weaving through the crowds of guests. "What good news starts with, ‘don’t get mad’? Are you gonna tell me you want to run out on Misty or something?" He joked.

Sam pulled him out through one of the open French doors which led to a pretty, outdoor stone balcony. He shut them behind him as Bucky continued to babble, a little tipsy from the champagne he'd had. "I gotta tell ya, if she asks me to kick your ass I will literally do so -”

"Bucky," Sam said, taking a deep breath. "She’s here." Meeting Bucky’s nonplussed eyes, your name rolled off Sam’s tongue in clarification.

He felt like the breath was sucked from his lungs as he stared back at Sam, who looked uncharacteristically anxious.

“What?" He asked hoarsely, instantly sobering up. “What do you mean?”

Chills were running through his body. The name he had avoided for years was suddenly causing him to feel breathless. How did you still have such an affect on him?

"She couldn't make it to the ceremony earlier today, but she just arrived."

"You - you invited her here? She’s here, now?"

"Yes," Sam replied, nodding. "I invited her.” He straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest almost defiantly.

Bucky was speechless for a moment, taking a step back and scoffing. He shook his head. “Do you remember what she did to me?”

“I'm sorry, Buck..."

Bucky suddenly laughed, startling Sam. His laugh was curt, humorless. "What are you sorry for? I'm over her, Sam. It was two years ago. I haven't seen her in two years. I don't care anymore," he said quickly. Too quickly.

"Listen -"

"Look, it's okay." Bucky raised his hands in small surrender. “You have the right to invite whoever you want. I’m not mad. But I just don’t want to be held accountable for whatever happens now.”

He turned and wrenched the French doors open with such force that the handle buckled slightly. The noise inside the ballroom spilled out to replace the painful silence on the balcony.

He disappeared inside before Sam could say anything else, and he tried to hide it, but Sam could clearly see that his hands were shaking as he marched inside.

For the next twenty minutes, Bucky found sanctuary in the restrooms. He stood inside the stall, trying to stop himself from mentally collapsing.

He didn’t know what was happening. He had never felt this overwhelming panic rush over him before, immobilizing him. Anger, sadness and yearning swirling inside a melting pot of emotions that was crippling him.

She was here. The woman he hadn't seen in two years, the woman who broke his heart, the woman who betrayed him, the woman who left him in tatters.

Your infidelity had had an unforeseen impact on him. When he first found out, he was devastated. Terrified of how you became someone he didn’t recognize - or had you always been someone capable of betraying him, just good at hiding it?

You had poisoned all the happy memories they had once shared. Bucky found himself recounting all the years you were together, micro-analyzing everything, wondering if there was a hidden lie behind it all.

That was one of the things which made him angriest. You turned all the beautiful years of your relationship into a lie. None of it was real, Bucky had told himself.

You crushed him.

Of his feelings, anger prevailed, slowly simmering to the surface, like a volcano about to erupt. How dare you walk back into his life like this? He would show you, Bucky thought with determination. He was over you. He had no reason to be angry, he thought bitterly, because you were nothing to him.

Just like Bucky was nothing to you.

When he emerged from the toilets, the first thing he did was find Sharon. She looked relieved to see him, although confusion was clear on her face as she eyed Bucky.

"Where have you been? Are you feeling okay?" She commented, brow furrowed with concern.

"I'm fine," Bucky assured her. "Have you seen Sam?"

Sharon pointed, puzzlement still painted across her face, and Bucky snapped round quickly.

And there you were.

It was as if you had never left. As if the past two years filled with Bucky trying to eradicate every memory and feeling he had for you had never happened, because as soon as Bucky’s eyes found you through the crowd, everything came collapsing back down on top of him like an avalanche. Suffocating.

You were still so beautiful, strikingly so. Like a burning beacon among the crowd, Bucky’s eyes found your face as easily as anything. For a second, he allowed himself to ignore anything except you, and how the sight of you still managed to take his breath away.

You looked thinner than he remembered, your face gaunt. Bucky frowned slightly at this acute observation and found himself wondering if you had been taking care of yourself.

"Barnes? You okay?"

Bucky registered Sharon shaking his arm, but his eyes remained fastened on yourself and Sam. Neither of you had spotted Bucky yet, who was rooted to the spot like a statue. Sam’s mouth was moving, words that Bucky couldn't hear escaping his mouth, but his expression was angry. Almost as if he was scolding you for something.

"I have to...I..." Bucky stumbled over his words, voice faint. He could feel those tendrils of anger slowly seizing him again, wisps at first, until they grew more and more potent by the second. He remembered every single thing he felt when you left him, and instead of trying to hold back the emotions, Bucky just saw red.

"Let me introduce you to someone," he said suddenly, his voice strained as he took Sharon's hand.

"You said you were better," Sam said, expression torn.

"I am," you lied, trying to put on a smile. Truth was, you were exhausted, just like how you always felt. The ballroom was so crowded and loud, and you just wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep, which you would the moment you finished congratulating Sam and Misty. And perhaps, even though you didn't want to admit it, you wanted to catch a glimpse of Bucky, too.

"Look at you, you're -"

“Sam, please don’t,” you interrupted gently. “Just drop it, please? It’s your big day, I don’t want you to worry about anything else.”

Sam opened his mouth to talk, but stopped suddenly, his eyes flitting to look behind you.

"Hey."

You froze. You knew that voice, of course. Heard it enough times, the deep, gravelly voice that had once whispered sweet pet names, proclamations of love, and plagued your dreams ever since you left him.

You had longed to hear his voice again, hear your name being spoken lovingly. His voice was your favorite sound in the world. Except tonight, hearing it for the first time in two years, you heard nothing but ice.

"Bucky?" You turned slowly, and your breath hitched. He was just the way you remembered him. Even more handsome, if possible. Clad in a sleek black tux, tall and dark and sexy, everything you had missed and dreamed of, and...

He was holding another woman’s hand.

"Bucky," Sam repeated, voice tense. Bucky could hear the underlying warning.

"It's been a while," he said stiffly, acting as neutral as he could. As if he hadn't spent months after their terrible break up being a shell of who he used to be, barely repaired even now. Bucky felt like any other venomous words from your mouth would shatter him again, but he had to take the chance. He had to talk to you, show you that he had moved on. He didn't care about you anymore, or how you so ruthlessly left him.

"Yes," you said weakly, smiling softly. God, he still thought that you looked beautiful, clad in a periwinkle blue dress, a thick coat draped around your shoulders. You were shivering, and Bucky resisted the urge to ask you what was wrong. Now that he was closer, he could see that didn’t look well at all. You had dark circles under your eyes and your collarbones were too prominent, your gaze devoid of any livelihood.

You glanced at Bucky’s fingers interlaced with a gorgeous blonde. You had seen her on the news before, you were pretty certain. Your smile forcibly stretched wider, blinking a few times, not knowing what to do with yourself.

"This is Sharon," Sam said, clearing his throat and exchanging introductions.

“It’s very nice to meet you,” Sharon said politely. She was gorgeous, you thought, watching as she sent Bucky a subtle, questioning glance.

Bucky was still staring at you, unmoving. You took the initiative first.

“Bucky, can we talk for a second?"

You could see the way he was trying to control himself by the way his lips stiffened, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He gave a curt nod. He didn’t want to cause a scene in front of Sharon and the other hundreds of wedding guests.

“Let’s leave these two to catch up,” Sam said lightly, trying to hide his discomfort as he led Sharon away.

"So now you want to talk?" Bucky asked as soon as they were out of earshot, his voice sharp. You cringed, almost folding into yourself at Bucky’s hard stare.

"Yes," was all you managed to whisper, eyes darting to the ground to avoid meeting his glare. “Let’s go somewhere quieter.”

You turned and walked towards the exit of the ballroom, turning back to look at Bucky. He followed after a second, his jaw set like stone as you led the way to the empty lobby outside, away from the noise.

"It's been a while, Buck.” You voice was sad as you turned to face him again.

"Yes," he said, fighting an internal battle. He was so torn. Seeing you again made him want to wrap you up in his arms like he would've done two years ago, when you were still together. And feeling like that made Bucky angry. What right did you have to make him feel this way? Who gave you the right to mess with Bucky’s heart again after so long?

"How have you been?" You asked eventually after a painfully awkward silence.

He scoffed at that. "How have I been?" He repeated incredulously. He doubted you really wanted to hear about all those nights he spent in his apartment, refusing to talk to his friends, being a complete social introvert (more than he usually was) because he felt like he just couldn't live anymore. Not without you.

"Great. Fantastic," he said without a shred of sincerity.

You stared at him for the longest time, your lips pressed into a thin line. You looked so regretful that it made Bucky feel uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," you said eventually, your voice wavering like you were struggling to breathe properly. "I'm so sorry for leaving you like that. We...we could have ended things better. You didn't deserve how I treated you."

You flinched when Bucky scoffed derisively. He dropped any remaining restraints he had previously put in place, letting all his feelings run free.

"Are you kidding me? Why? Why are you coming back here and apologizing after all this time?" He felt like he wanted to tear his hair out in frustration as he stared at you, making sure to keep his distance lest he found himself wanting to pull you closer. God, it was all so confusing. He despised you, and yet seeing you here in the flesh was everything he had ever wanted in the last few years.

He hated how you were making him feel.

"Look, it doesn't matter anymore. What's done is done," he spat through gritted teeth, all the while completely unaware of how your heart clenched painfully at Bucky’s scornful eyes. “Do you have any idea how unfair this is? You fucked up big time, disappeared off the face of the earth, then come back standing in front of me now asking how I am?”

“I know. You’re right, about everything. I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry.”

“No. You have no right to do this,” Bucky seethed. “You have no right to come back here and try to - what, settle your guilt? Make amends?”

You didn’t say anything, choosing to let him vent instead.

“I still remember the way you left. What you did. I will never forgive you for that. So don’t you dare stand in front of me today with all this bullshit and expect me to have something nice to say.”

"You really hate me, don't you?" You asked then, taking Bucky off guard. You lifted your head properly to stare at him, and the look in your eyes was unsettling.

"I hate you," Bucky confirmed unwaveringly, his voice hard. "I hate what you did to me and by extension, you."

You didn't respond. You bit your lower lip hard, trying desperately not to cry in front of him. Your heart hurt so much.

It was the worst feeling in the world, maybe, seeing the man you loved so dearly tell you that he hated you. It was excruciating, the clenching inside your chest as Bucky’s words rang in your head.

"I know my apologies will never be enough. I just wanted to see if you're happy now," you whispered.

"I'm happy," Bucky replied almost immediately. "I'm happy with Sharon. Does that bother you? Did you hope that I'd still be pining after you? I'm not that pathetic anymore." The barriers were broken, and the hurtful words were falling from Bucky’s mouth, two years worth of it.

“I never said you were pathetic,” you retorted, slightly indignant. “I’m glad that you’re happy.”

Bucky was breathing hard, unconvinced by your words.

“And how's the man you left me for?"

"He...it didn't work out," you shrugged, trying to keep your face as straight as possible.

"Good," Bucky said harshly. "Because you don't deserve happiness." If he wasn't so mad, he wouldn't say such irrational things. But he just wanted you to hurt. He wanted you to feel all the pain you caused.

Bucky pretended he didn't hear you gasp. He pretended that he didn't see your eyes gloss over at the sheer amount of hate in his voice.

"Okay," you said finally, your voice clearly shaking. "Okay," you repeated again, nodding your head. Bucky watched you take a step back, away from him.

“I -”

“I'm sorry, Bucky. Please take care," you interrupted, smiling sadly before you turned and walked away as quickly as possible.

That was not how you envisioned the reunion to go. All you wanted was to apologize, know that he was happy, so that you could go in peace.

But maybe that was the consequence of your decision. Maybe he was just always going to hate you for the rest of his life and remember you as someone awful.

You didn’t know that all Bucky wanted to do was run after you. Tell you to stop. He wanted to apologize and tell you how he didn’t mean a word of what he just said.

Rage and pride kept him shackled, and he watched your retreating back, feeling like a coward.

The last thing Bucky expected when he opened his apartment door a few days later was Sam’s dirty glare.

"You can be a mean son of a bitch, do you know that?”

"Hello to you too,” Bucky retorted.

“Why did you say all that stuff to her?” Sam asked, pushing his way past Bucky.

Bucky closed the door, knowing exactly who he was referring to.

"Why is this any of your business?"

"You acted like a dick!" Sam said furiously.

“Look, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done something like that on your special day. But-”

“I want you to feel sorry to her.”

"She left me,” Bucky exclaimed. "You were there, Sam, you saw how fucked up she made me. She cheated on me! You want me to apologize to her?” His face was incredulous.

“You’re so fucking frustrating.”

“Oh, excuse me for not being the bigger person,” Bucky sneered. “But you don’t know how she made me feel, Sam, so don’t you dare try to give me a fucking lecture now.”

Sam was quiet for the longest time, looking exasperated. He stared up at the ceiling, sighing.

“Bucky, look man. She never cheated on you,” Sam said finally, an apologetic look in his eyes.

The apartment became filled with nothing but the sounds of Bucky’s heavy breathing.

“What are you talking about?” He spat, realizing now that Sam knew something he didn’t.

Sam let out a resigned sigh, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I promised her I wouldn’t tell you. But fuck it, man, cause I think this is messed up. She’s sick, Bucky," he said solemnly. "Like, really sick."

Two years ago

"It's cancer, Sam."

You physically couldn't cry anymore. You had done enough of that the day the doctor had told you, your eyes puffy and swollen. Funnily enough, the first person you had sought out wasn’t your boyfriend, but rather his best friend.

Bucky wasn’t even in town that weekend, and you really didn’t want to tell him over the phone. In fact, you never wanted to tell him. How do you tell the man you love that you're dying?

"You can get treatment, right?" Sam asked.

"I don't know. It’s not looking good. They're doing some sort of new clinical trial in England, but even that’s a long shot. I - I’m going to try, though.”

Sam sat up straighter. “And Bucky?”

"You can't tell him," you said firmly. You had thought about it all night, and you knew you couldn't let him know. You didn't want to put him through something like this. "My father had cancer too, Sam," you said softly. "He died in so much pain, he had so much treatment but it didn't help. He was throwing up all the time, having fevers, his body was so weak, and by the end he wasn’t the same anymore. I don't want him to see me like that."

“But-”

“No buts,” you said. You had given it enough thought already. You knew that you would have to be very, very lucky to make it through this - the end was essentially inevitable. There was no way you would make Bucky bear witness to you succumbing to this illness the same way you had to watch your father.

It was the worst time of your life. You had told Bucky about it in the past, as he had never had a chance to meet your father since he passed away years before you met Bucky. Knowing what you did, you would never inflict that same experience on him.

"So what are you going to do?"

"I have to leave him.” You had been preparing yourself for what you needed to do all night. "If I go, there's a chance I might not come back, you understand that, right?"

"Don't say things like that," Sam said forcefully, clenching your hand. "Just stop. Bucky will support you all the way, you know that!"

"That’s exactly why I have to go by myself. I can't be selfish, Sam. I want him to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted. I can’t make him drop everything to make me his number one priority. Looking after me will take time and constant care. If I go to England, he will abandon everything and come. Manhattan is his home.”

Sam looked anguished and you knew that he was disagreeing with everything you had just said, but you plowed on.

"It’s not just a matter of time and effort. If he stays, he will watch me die, and I don’t want him to do that.” You began to cry, and Sam hugged you, wishing he could say something comforting.

“It’s okay," you said through the tears, even though every fiber in your body was telling you the opposite. You had been repeating these words to yourself all night, as if you would believe it if you said it enough times. "It’ll be okay."

Maybe you were being stupid, but you didn't care. You knew Bucky loved you with his body and soul, as did you. But you weren’t going to let him suffer over your illness. You wouldn't let the person you cared most about in the world see you slowly deteriorate.

You had been witness to how your father was clearly in a depressive state, and yet tried his hardest to pretend to be happy and fine around other people. You didn’t know if you had the strength or bravery to even pretend.

You began distancing yourself. Stopped trying to make conversation with Bucky, until the long, endless, random talks you used to share diminished into curt sentences. You stopped waiting for Bucky to come home, simply pretending that you didn't care. You became more secretive, furtively hiding your calls with your doctor and your mother.

There was no other man. You loved him and only him, and had been nothing but faithful. You didn't know what hurt more: having to lie to Bucky or the fact that he so easily believed you would betray him like that.

In the end, you had really regretted fabricating a story of infidelity. You should have just gone your separate ways without making him think that you had been unfaithful. But at that time, you wanted to find a quick solution that would make Bucky voluntarily detach himself from you. It seemed like a wise decision, but you really, really wish you hadn’t let him believe that you didn’t love him. It was truly the worst feeling in the world.

It was all over in a few weeks. You packed your things and left, trying not to cry with every heavy step you took towards the door of your apartment. You knew you were making the best decision for them both, surely.

Time would heal Bucky, and he would be happy again one day.

It just couldn’t be with you.

Present day

"She just didn’t want to feel like a burden to you, man," Sam said, shaking his head. "Why did you have to say all those things to her at the wedding?"

Bucky could register nothing else after Sam finished explaining everything. He was in disbelief, though he knew that there was no way Sam would fabricate a story like that.

Now, he could only think of the way he had shouted at you. The way he told you how much he hated you. The way you had left.

"Where is she?" Bucky whispered.

"She’s leaving today," Sam said tersely. "She’s going back to England. She was real sick for a long time, and she recovered a few months ago, but the cancer came back.”

He slipped a hotel business card into Bucky’s hand. “This is the address she’s staying at," Sam said.

He grasped it like a lifeline, eyes unable to see Sam standing in front of him. His vision was completely filled with images of you.

"Go," Sam said forcefully. "Go and find her.”

The tears wouldn't stop falling.

You didn't know words could hurt so much. Sure, you had expected Bucky to hate you, but you weren’t prepared for the way every single word seemed to embed themselves into your skin like splinters into your heart.

They were once so happy. They were so perfect.

You hated yourself. Hated yourself for getting ill, for ruining what you had. The logic was irrational, but the self-hatred had become second nature.

You had spent the last few days holed up in your hotel. You had planned to use the time to see a few friends before returning to England, but you no longer had the heart.

You left your room that morning only because Wanda was furious that she missed you at the wedding, and you agreed to have coffee with her. She almost cried at the sight of you, but you put on a brave face, refusing to talk about Bucky. You begged her if you could just talk about happy topics and she eventually obliged, smiling sadly when you hugged each other goodbye.

“I’ll see you again, dear,” Wanda had said, and you hoped to God she was right.

As soon as you got inside your hotel room, you felt a switch click internally.

Everything hurt. You were tired, unhappy and you really didn’t know if you would ever make it out of this emotional blackhole. You felt so weak, like you would keel over at any given moment.

Cancer really was a bitch.

You kicked off your shoes and entered the bathroom. You lay down in the bathtub, fully clothed, turning the cold water on until you were almost completely submerged, wanting to numb all the pain inside your body and mind.

You eyes were red and swollen, and you couldn't remember crying so much since that day the doctor diagnosed you. Why was life so unfair? You wanted your old life back again. The life where Bucky didn't detest you, the one where he was happily and wonderfully in love with you.

You lay back, letting the water cover you completely. You closed your eyes, your hair gently swirling around your face. You opened your mouth and screamed, bubbles erupting to the surface.

Eventually you emerged, gasping and coughing, your tears hot in contrast to your frozen face. Your body wracked with sobs, shaking uncontrollably.

You sank back down into the water, your mouth opening once more to scream in uncontrollable rage. It was cathartic, your fists clenched into balls as you willed the feelings inside you to just - disappear.

When you opened your eyes beneath the water, you nearly gasped at the sight of a blurry, warped figure above you. You didn't have time to do anything when arms were suddenly encasing themselves around you, lifting you to the surface.

You spluttered and coughed, your ears assaulted by the voice that once whispered sweet nothings in your ear.

"- the fuck are you doing? Are you okay?"

Bucky.

You blinked past the water in your eyes, bewildered at the sight of him, kneeling beside the bathtub with his hands gripping your shoulders. His bright blue eyes were scared, wide open with concern.

You were startled at his sudden appearance, unable to say anything as he scooped you out, lifting you with ease. You were clearly in shock and scared.

You collapsed against him as he sat down on the bathroom floor with you in his arms.

"What were you doing?” Bucky was appalled as he pulled you close to him, watching how you continued to weep, blinking blearily at him. Your body was ice cold, every inch of you soaked.

He whipped a towel down from the railing beside you, wrapping it around your body as you shivered uncontrollably.

"Bu - Bucky?" You asked, as if you couldn't fathom why he was here. You were almost convinced you were hallucinating.

"Fuck, we need to get you out of these clothes," Bucky said, gritting his teeth as he tried not to cry. He had so much to say to you. He wanted you to know how sorry he was, how he didn't mean anything he said, but now wasn’t the time. He had to be strong for you.

You felt like a baby as Bucky removed your soaking wet garments until you were naked, then immediately swaddled you with more towels. He picked you up completely off the floor and took you out of the bathroom.

He chose to place you down on the edge of the bed, positioning himself to kneel down in front of you.

"Bucky," you whispered, voice thick, trying to pull away from him. “I think you should just leave me alone."

He stiffened. It scared him to hear you talk like this, to see you look at Bucky with such defeat in your eyes.

“No,” he said resolutely. “I'm here now, okay? I'm here, I'm not leaving, and I need you to be with me. I need you here, talking to me.”

"I can't. I can't do this anymore. Just go, please."

Bucky looked at you then. Really looked at you. The woman he loved and misunderstood for so long was now a trembling wreck in front of him, skin paper thin and trembling like a leaf. You looked so vulnerable and sad, and it made his heart twist.

Bucky suddenly held you tight against his chest, tucking his nose against the crook of your neck, and you didn't resist.

"Do you have any idea how much I hate myself? I hate myself for letting you go through this alone. I hate myself for telling you all those lies that night. I love you, I love you, I love you," Bucky said, wishing that you would see it.

“Don’t.”

“I wish you had told me. I would have helped you. You should have told me. I can’t believe you -”

You realized now that Sam must've told him the truth, and you sighed softly.

"I'm not good for you, Bucky," you whispered. "I will only ever hurt you, put you through more pain."

"I know everything now," Bucky said firmly. "No matter what happens, I will gladly endure it as long as it means we're no longer apart."

“Don’t be so stupid,” you said, anger tearing through your voice, though the tears were still falling. “I’m broken, Buck. I can’t give you a future. Please just find someone else - stay with Sharon.”

“Sharon?” If you hadn’t mentioned her name, Bucky would never have even thought about her. “No - we’re not serious, doll. She was never going to be the one.”

“No,” you insisted. “If not her, then fine, find someone else. Just not me.”

“Why aren’t you listening?” Bucky asked furiously. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Please don’t do this. I need you." He was desperate to make you see, to make you understand. It was you or nothing. "You don’t know how awful the past few years have been. I don’t want to be apart from you, please.” He was prepared to grovel at your feet and beg.

He hated himself for how easily he gave up two years ago. This time, he was not letting you leave him.

His beautiful blue eyes pleaded with you, and you felt your barricades crumble. Your arms finally moved to wrap around him, and he felt a wave of relief as he encircled you in his arms. You had missed this, the feeling of Bucky holding you so tenderly.

You didn’t know if you were making the right choice, but you wanted to give in so badly and just let yourself be selfish and enjoy what time you could have together. And now that Bucky had you back by his side, he was definitely not going to let you go.

Even if they were in pieces, at least they were together. And Bucky was positive that they could put those pieces back into a whole, as long as you gave it a chance.

"You're so stupid," you said through your tears.

"I don't think so," Bucky said, managing the smallest smile. "Just stupidly in love with you."

You wanted to stay like this forever, entangled in each others arms. He pulled back slowly to study your face, and leaned in to press a gentle kiss against your lips. He kissed you again, deeper this time, breathing you in.

“You owe me two years of kisses,” he mumbled.

You laughed softly, but it soon died. First, you had a lot of talking to do. You used the following hour to tell him the details about your illness, why you had left, how sorry you were for treating Bucky the way you did when you broke up with him.

"You're so dumb," Bucky had said, sounding furious for a moment. "You had no right to decide something like that for me. You know I would support you.”

"I know, Buck," you had interrupted. "That's exactly why I had to leave. I didn't want you to see me die, okay?"

You had looked like you were about to cry again, so Bucky stopped scolding you immediately. He would never make you cry again, he swore.

"You're here now," he said, kissing your temple. "We're together now. Everything feels...right again."

You swallowed, biting your lip. "I told you, my cancer is back and -"

"You'll get better again," he said, refusing to look at you. You knew that tears were in his eyes. "You'll get better, okay?" His voice wavered slightly.

"It's worse this time, Bucky," you said. "Look at me. I'm practically withering away."

"You'll get better," he said, clenching his teeth.

You didn't say anything, just nestled against Bucky’s chest, relishing the way he wrapped his arms securely around your frame as if you would disappear at any moment.

Maybe he was right. Maybe by some miracle, with Bucky by your side, you would be able to give him all the time in the world.

"I'll try to stick around," you whispered.

1K notes · View notes

be-your-coffee-pot · 2 months ago

Text

who gave bro the right to tapdance on my heart like that huh?

Changing the Game

platonic!Fernando Alonso x mentee!Reader

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: motorsport can be cruel, especially for young women aspiring to make it to Formula 1, but when Fernando notices a driver who deserves more than the unjust cards fate handed her, he decides to do something about it … and your life will never be the same

The roar of engines fills the air, blending with the faint scent of gasoline that clings to the paddock like a memory. Fernando walks through the chaos of the Formula 3 circuit, hands in his pockets, sunglasses firmly in place.

His presence is a subtle disruption, not loud, but noticeable. Drivers and engineers glance his way, some nodding in respect, others too focused on their tasks to do more than acknowledge him with a brief flicker of recognition.

He’s been watching the race, the sun high overhead, a burning reminder that summer has a way of dragging things out. Yet, time has felt elastic today, stretched out by the tension of the track and the surprising twist that caught his attention.

A young driver — no, more than just young — barely seventeen, the only female on the grid, had sliced through the competition with precision and ferocity. Her car, marked by the number on the side, had danced on the edge of control, flirting with danger at every turn but never losing its rhythm. When the chequered flag waved, she’d crossed the line in a solid third, inches from second, and not far from the top spot.

He’d seen talent before, of course. It’s part of his world, spotting it, nurturing it, sometimes crushing it under the weight of competition. But something about you caught his eye. There’s a sharpness in your driving, a clarity of purpose that’s rare. He wonders where you’ve been hiding.

As the cars pull into the pit lane, the usual bustle takes over. Engineers swarm around their drivers, debriefs start, and helmets are tugged off with a mix of relief and frustration. Fernando watches from a distance, scanning the crowd until he finds you. You’re standing by your car, tugging at your gloves with a sharp motion, frustration etched in the tightness of your jaw. There’s a fleeting moment where you pull off your helmet, shaking out your hair, and Fernando notices the absence of something.

Sponsors.

Your race suit is practically bare. The car too, minimal branding, the kind that signals a driver struggling to make ends meet rather than one who’s just claimed a podium finish. He frowns, tilting his head slightly as he watches you. It doesn’t make sense. A driver that good should be swimming in offers, drowning in endorsements.

He catches the eye of a paddock official nearby, someone he’s vaguely familiar with — one of those types who always seem to know more than they let on. Fernando strides over, casual but direct. The official straightens up, clearly surprised to have Fernando Alonso approaching.

“Who’s the girl?” Fernando asks, nodding in your direction, though he doesn’t really need to. You’re the only one who fits the description.

The official glances your way, then back at Fernando. “Y/N Y/L/N. She’s been turning heads all season.”

“Not enough, apparently.” Fernando gestures vaguely at your race suit, his tone making it clear he’s talking about the lack of sponsorship. “What’s going on there?”

The official hesitates, glancing around as if to make sure no one’s listening. He lowers his voice slightly, a conspiratorial tone creeping in. “She’s good, real good. But, you know … she’s a girl.”

Fernando’s eyebrows shoot up, a sharp flash of irritation sparking in his eyes. “So?”

“So,” the official continues, shifting his weight uncomfortably, “sponsors and academies, they’re … cautious. Not sure if she’s got the staying power. And you know how it is, they’re more willing to take a risk on a kid who fits the mold.”

“The mold,” Fernando repeats, his voice flat, incredulous. He lets out a breath, shaking his head slightly. It’s 2019, and this is still happening. It shouldn’t surprise him, but somehow, it does.

His gaze returns to you, still standing by your car, now deep in conversation with your race engineer. There’s a fierceness in the way you talk, the way you move your hands as if trying to will the universe to bend to your will. Fernando recognizes that fire — it’s the same one he’s carried in himself for years.

But there’s more than just frustration in your eyes. There’s something else — determination, maybe, but tinged with something darker, something that’s been carved out of too many disappointments. He knows that look too. It’s the one you get when you’re tired of proving yourself over and over, and yet, you keep doing it because there’s no other choice.

Fernando’s decision is made in an instant. He doesn’t overthink it; he never has. That’s not his style. He approaches you with the same casual confidence that’s defined his career, weaving through the bustle of the paddock until he’s close enough to catch the tail end of your conversation.

“... could’ve pushed harder into turn four,” you’re saying to your engineer, frustration coloring your voice. “But the grip just wasn’t there.”

Your engineer nods, making a note on his tablet, but before he can respond, Fernando steps into the space between you.

“Grip’s one thing,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise around you, “but timing’s everything.”

You turn, eyes widening just a fraction as you realize who’s standing there. Fernando catches the flicker of surprise that you quickly mask with a polite, if guarded, smile.

“Fernando Alonso,” you say, your voice a careful mix of respect and curiosity.

“In the flesh,” he replies, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He glances at your car, then back at you. “Nice drive today.”

“Thanks.” The word comes out clipped, like you’re not entirely sure what to make of him yet. He can tell you’re used to being judged, sized up and dismissed by those who think they know better. But Fernando’s not here to judge.

“Third place,” he continues, as if he’s thinking out loud. “But you had the pace for second.”

Your eyebrows lift slightly, and for the first time, a hint of a real smile breaks through. “Yeah, I did. But things don’t always go as planned.”

“No,” he agrees, “they don’t. But you’ve got talent. Real talent.”

You study him for a moment, your expression shifting from guarded to something more open, more curious. “Thanks,” you say again, but this time it’s softer, more genuine.

There’s a pause, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you both stand there, sizing each other up. Fernando knows this is the moment where most people would make some kind of offer — advice, mentorship, maybe even a contract. But he’s never been one to do things by the book.

Instead, he tilts his head slightly, a playful glint in his eyes. “Do you like ice cream?”

You blink, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic. “What?”

“Ice cream,” he repeats, his tone light, almost teasing. “Do you like it?”

“Uh … yeah?” You sound more confused than anything, but there’s a hint of amusement creeping into your voice.

“Great,” Fernando says, as if that settles everything. He steps back, gesturing for you to follow him. “Let’s go get some. My treat.”

You stare at him for a moment, clearly trying to figure out if he’s serious. But when you see that he is, a slow smile spreads across your face, and you can’t help but laugh, shaking your head in disbelief.

“Okay,” you say, still laughing a little as you start to walk beside him. “Why not?”

And just like that, the tension that had been hanging over the paddock seems to dissipate, replaced by something lighter, something that feels almost like hope.

***

The ice cream shop is a short walk from the circuit, tucked into a corner of the small town that’s hosting the weekend’s race. It’s the kind of place Fernando imagines has been around for decades, unchanged except for maybe a new coat of paint every few years. The neon sign in the window buzzes faintly, its pink light reflecting off the glass as he pushes the door open, holding it for you as you follow him inside.

The cool air is a welcome relief from the heat outside, carrying with it the sweet, unmistakable scent of sugar and cream. The shop is quiet, just a couple of kids sitting by the window, licking at cones that seem far too big for them. Behind the counter, a bored-looking teenager perks up as the door chimes, her gaze sharpening as she recognizes Fernando.

“Can I help you?” She asks, her voice brightening as she tries to act casual, though it’s clear she’s a little starstruck.

Fernando nods toward you, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Ladies first.”

You hesitate for a moment, then step up to the counter, glancing at the array of ice cream flavors displayed behind the glass. The choices are written in chalk on a board above, but your eyes are immediately drawn to the rich, golden brown of the dulce de leche. You point to it, giving the girl behind the counter a quick smile.

“Two scoops of that, please,” you say, and then, after a beat, “with as many toppings as will fit.”

Fernando raises an eyebrow, amused as he watches you. The girl behind the counter doesn’t question it, scooping generous portions of the creamy ice cream into a cup before moving over to the toppings bar. You lean over the counter slightly, studying the options with a critical eye before making your selections — caramel drizzle, chocolate chips, a handful of crushed cookies, a sprinkle of nuts, and a final flourish of whipped cream on top.

When the girl hands you the cup, it’s practically overflowing, a masterpiece of indulgence that’s almost as impressive as your driving. You turn to Fernando, already reaching for your wallet.

“I can pay for mine,” you say quickly, but Fernando waves you off, already pulling out his own wallet.

“It’s on me,” he insists, his tone making it clear there’s no room for argument.

You open your mouth to protest, but the look he gives you stops you in your tracks. There’s something gentle in his eyes, an unexpected warmth that makes you pause. You let out a small sigh, putting your wallet away as you give in.

“Fine,” you mutter, though there’s no real annoyance in your voice. “But I’m getting you back for this.”

Fernando chuckles as he orders a simple vanilla cone for himself. “We’ll see about that.”

Once he’s paid, the two of you find a small table near the back of the shop, away from the kids and the counter. It’s quiet, almost private, with the hum of the freezers and the distant chatter of the other customers filling the silence. You sit across from him, carefully balancing your cup of ice cream as you take your first bite.

The first taste of dulce de leche is heavenly, the caramel sweetness melting on your tongue as the toppings add layers of texture and flavor. For a moment, it’s easy to forget about everything else — the race, the frustration, the uncertainty of it all. There’s just the ice cream, the coolness of it on your tongue, and the rare sensation of simply enjoying something without a care.

Fernando watches you with a faint smile, his own ice cream barely touched as he leans back in his chair. He doesn’t rush to fill the silence, letting you savor the moment before he finally speaks.

“So,” he says, breaking the quiet, “tell me about your situation.”

You glance up at him, the spoon pausing halfway to your mouth. There’s something in his tone, something gentle but probing, that tells you this isn’t just small talk. You lower the spoon, setting the cup down on the table as you consider how to respond.

“It’s … complicated,” you begin, though that word hardly covers it. You let out a small sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly as you lean back in your chair. “I mean, I’m doing everything I can on the track. My results speak for themselves, right? But it’s like … it’s like none of that matters.”

Fernando nods, encouraging you to continue. There’s no judgment in his eyes, just a quiet understanding, and that makes it easier to keep talking.

“Every race, I’m out there giving it everything I’ve got,” you say, your voice growing more animated as you go on. “I’m right up there with the best of them — sometimes even better. But then I look around, and I see these other drivers, guys who are barely scraping into the points, and they’ve got major sponsors backing them. They’re signed to F1 teams’ academies, they’ve got a clear path to the top. And me? I’ve got nothing. No sponsors, no academy, no security.”

You pick up your spoon again, stirring your ice cream absentmindedly as your frustration bubbles to the surface. “It’s not like I haven’t tried. My team’s tried too, but no one wants to take the risk on me. They all say the same thing — ‘You’re good, but we’re just not sure if you’re what we’re looking for.’ Which is just code for ‘You’re a girl, and we’re not willing to bet on you.’”

Fernando doesn’t interrupt, letting you vent. He’s heard stories like this before, but it never gets any easier to listen to. The sport has its issues, and while things have improved over the years, the barriers you’re facing are still all too real.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you shake your head. “It’s so frustrating, you know? I’m out there proving myself every single weekend, but it’s like I have to work twice as hard just to get noticed, and even then, it’s not enough. My parents — they believe in me, but they’re practically killing themselves to keep me racing. They had to take a second mortgage on the house just to get me into F3 this season. And every time I don’t get a sponsor, every time another academy passes on me, it’s like … it’s like I’m letting them down.”

Your voice cracks slightly at the end, and you quickly take another bite of ice cream, as if that can somehow keep your emotions in check. But Fernando sees the way your hand trembles just a little, the way your eyes have lost some of their fire, replaced by a weary resignation.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” you say softly, almost to yourself. “I know the sport is tough, but it feels like I’m fighting a battle that’s rigged from the start.”

Fernando takes a deep breath, choosing his words carefully. “It’s not fair,” he says, his voice steady, grounding. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be this hard. But sometimes, the fight isn’t just about winning on the track. It’s about changing the game entirely.”

You look at him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you try to gauge what he means by that. There’s something in his tone, something determined and unyielding, that makes you believe he understands more than he’s letting on.

“Changing the game?” You repeat, the words feeling heavy in your mouth.

Fernando nods, leaning forward slightly. “Yeah. Look, I’m not saying it’s going to be easy. But if anyone can do it, it’s you. You’ve got the talent, you’ve got the drive, and you’ve got something most people don’t — resilience. You’re still here, still fighting, even when the odds are against you. That says a lot.”

You bite your lip, absorbing his words. There’s a part of you that wants to believe him, that wants to hold on to that hope, but there’s also a part that’s tired — so tired of fighting an uphill battle, of always having to prove yourself over and over again.

“I just don’t know how much longer I can keep doing this,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “What if it’s not enough? What if I’m not enough?”

Fernando’s gaze softens, and for a moment, he sees a reflection of his younger self in you, back when he was first starting out, hungry and determined but unsure of how far he could really go. The difference is, he had the backing, the opportunities that you’ve been denied.

“You are enough,” he says, his tone firm, leaving no room for doubt. “The problem isn’t with you. It’s with the system, with the people who are too scared to see things differently. But that doesn’t mean you stop. You keep pushing, keep showing them what they’re missing. And if they can’t see it, then we’ll make them see it.”

You blink, surprised by the intensity in his voice. There’s a conviction there that’s hard to ignore, a belief in you that you’ve been struggling to find in yourself.

“We?” You ask, your voice tinged with cautious hope.

Fernando smiles, a small, determined curve of his lips. “We. You’re not alone in this. I’ve been where you are, in a different way, but I know what it’s like to have to fight for everything. And I know what it’s like to have someone in your corner who believes in you.”

You stare at him, processing his words, the implications of what he’s offering. There’s a warmth in your chest, a spark of something that feels dangerously close to hope.

“So what now?” You ask, your voice steadier.

Fernando leans back in his chair, his gaze never leaving yours as he takes a thoughtful bite of his ice cream. There's a moment of silence, the weight of everything unspoken hanging between you, before he finally speaks, his voice calm but resolute.

"Now?" He sets his cone down on the table, his expression sharpening with purpose. "I make some calls."

***

It’s been a few weeks since that day at the ice cream shop, and Fernando hasn’t been able to shake the conversation from his mind. He’s been in the sport long enough to know how things work, but hearing it from you, seeing how the system has worn you down despite your undeniable talent, it struck a nerve. It’s been a whirlwind of phone calls, favors cashed in, and quiet meetings behind closed doors. But now, standing at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, Fernando knows it’s all been worth it.

You come into view, wheeling your carry-on behind you, your eyes scanning the crowd until they land on him. A look of surprise crosses your face, quickly replaced by a hesitant smile as you make your way over.

“Hey,” you greet him, a mix of confusion and curiosity in your voice as you pull your suitcase to a stop beside him. “So … what’s this all about?”

Fernando just grins, taking the handle of your suitcase from you with a casualness that leaves no room for argument. “You’ll see,” he says, cryptic as ever. “Come on, the car’s this way.”

You follow him out to the parking garage, throwing him sideways glances, clearly trying to piece together what he’s up to. Fernando’s only response is an amused smile as he opens the door for you, waiting until you’re settled in the passenger seat before loading your luggage in the trunk.

As he pulls out of the airport and merges onto the highway, the silence between you is comfortable but charged with anticipation. You keep glancing over at him, your curiosity growing with every mile.

“You’re not going to tell me where we’re going, are you?” You finally ask, your tone hovering between teasing and exasperation.

Fernando chuckles, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You sigh, leaning back in your seat, but there’s a glimmer of excitement in your eyes that wasn’t there before. “I’m trusting you, you know,” you say, half-joking, half-serious.

“And you won’t regret it,” he promises, the confidence in his voice almost contagious.

The drive is longer than you expected, taking you out of London and into the countryside. The scenery shifts from the urban sprawl to green fields and quaint villages, the roads becoming narrower and winding as they head deeper into the heart of England. It’s not until Fernando takes a turn down a private road, leading to a sleek, modern complex surrounded by high fences, that you begin to piece it together.

“This can’t be …” you start, your voice trailing off as the full realization hits you. “Is this-”

“Mercedes HQ,” Fernando confirms with a grin as he pulls up to the security gate. He rolls down the window, exchanging a few words with the guard, who quickly waves them through.

You’re silent as he drives into the parking lot, your eyes wide as you take in the sight of the Mercedes-AMG F1 Factory. It’s one thing to see it on TV or in photos, but to be here, in person, is something else entirely. Fernando parks the car and turns to you, catching the look on your face.

“Nervous?” He asks, though he already knows the answer.

“A little,” you admit, swallowing hard as you unbuckle your seatbelt. “Okay, a lot.”

He chuckles, getting out of the car and coming around to your side to open the door for you. “Don’t be. You belong here.”

You hesitate, still processing everything, before nodding and stepping out of the car. Fernando grabs your suitcase from the trunk, but you barely notice, too busy taking in your surroundings as he leads you toward the entrance.

The interior of the building is just as impressive as the outside — modern, sleek, and buzzing with energy. Everywhere you look, there are people in team gear, some hurrying between offices, others deep in conversation. And then, as if the situation couldn’t get more surreal, Lewis Hamilton appears in the lobby, flanked by Toto Wolff.

Your breath catches in your throat, and you stop dead in your tracks. Fernando pauses beside you, a knowing smile on his face as he watches your reaction.

“Fernando,” Lewis greets, his smile widening when he sees you standing next to him. “And you must be the young driver I’ve been hearing so much about.”

You manage a nod, but words seem to have escaped you entirely. It’s not every day that you come face-to-face with a five-time world champion and the team principal of the most successful F1 team of the modern era.

Lewis chuckles at your speechlessness, his demeanor as relaxed and approachable as ever. “Don’t worry, we don’t bite,” he says, extending his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

You shake his hand, your own grip slightly shaky. “I … It’s an honor,” you stammer, your voice finally finding its way back to you.

Toto steps forward next, offering his hand as well. “Welcome to Brackley,” he says, his tone warm but with the same underlying intensity that’s made him such a formidable figure in the sport. “Fernando’s told us a lot about you.”

You glance over at Fernando, a mix of gratitude and disbelief in your eyes. This is so far beyond anything you could have imagined when you first got his call.

Lewis gestures for you to follow him down a hallway, with Toto and Fernando close behind. “When Fernando reached out to me,” Lewis begins, his tone casual but sincere, “and told me about your situation, I knew we had to do something. Talent like yours shouldn’t be held back by anything, least of all by something as ridiculous as a lack of sponsorship.”

You’re still reeling from the fact that Lewis Hamilton knows who you are, let alone that he’s gone out of his way to help you. “I … I don’t even know what to say,” you admit, your voice soft with emotion.

“Don’t worry about that just yet,” Toto says from behind you, his tone light. “Let’s get you settled in first.”

You follow them through the labyrinth of hallways, trying to absorb everything at once. Fernando stays close, a steady presence as you make your way deeper into the facility. There’s a sense of purpose in the air, a kind of quiet determination that’s palpable even as people move around with the calm efficiency of a well-oiled machine.

Eventually, Lewis stops outside a conference room, holding the door open for you to enter first. You step inside, the space cool and sleek, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of the meticulously kept grounds outside. A large table dominates the center of the room, and as you approach, you notice a folder sitting at one end, the Mercedes logo embossed on the cover.

You hover near the table, not daring to sit until someone tells you to. Fernando catches your hesitation, nudging you gently in the direction of a chair. “Go on,” he says softly. “This is for you.”

You sink into the chair, your heart pounding as you look at the folder in front of you. Lewis and Toto take seats across from you, with Fernando settling in beside you. The atmosphere in the room shifts slightly, becoming more formal but no less supportive.

Toto reaches for the folder, sliding it across the table to you. “This,” he begins, his voice calm and measured, “is an offer to join the Mercedes Junior Team.”

You blink, sure you must have misheard him. “The … Mercedes Junior Team?”

Lewis smiles, nodding. “We believe in your potential,” he says simply. “And we want to give you the opportunity to develop that potential to the fullest.”

Your hands tremble slightly as you reach for the folder, your mind racing. This is it. This is the chance you’ve been fighting for, the one you never thought would come, at least not like this. You open the folder, your eyes scanning the first few lines of the contract inside. It’s all real — your name, the terms, everything.

“We know it’s a big decision,” Toto continues, his gaze steady on you. “Take your time to go through everything, ask any questions you have. But know that we’re serious about this. We want you on our team.”

You’re overwhelmed, the weight of the moment pressing down on you, but it’s a good kind of pressure, the kind that comes from knowing you’re on the verge of something life-changing. You look up at Fernando, who’s been watching you quietly, and there’s a look of pride in his eyes that makes your chest tighten.

“I don’t … I don’t even know where to start,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

Lewis leans forward slightly, his expression gentle but serious. “Start by believing that you deserve this,” he says. “Because you do. And we’re here to help you every step of the way.”

There’s a long silence as you let his words sink in, your fingers tracing the edge of the folder. This is everything you’ve been working toward, everything you’ve sacrificed for, and now that it’s here in front of you, it feels almost too good to be true.

But as you look around the table — at Lewis, Toto, and Fernando — you realize that this isn’t just a dream. It’s real. They’re offering you a future, a chance to prove yourself at the highest level, and they believe in you enough to make it happen.

You take a deep breath, steadying yourself before meeting their gazes again. “I … I don’t know how to thank you,” you say, your voice thick with emotion.

“There’s no need for thanks,” Toto says with a small smile. “Just show us what you can do.”

Fernando places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, his voice low and encouraging. “You’ve already done the hard part. Now, it’s just time to make it official.”

You nod, the weight of the contract in your hands feeling lighter now. “I’m ready,” you say, your voice steadying with newfound resolve.

Lewis grins. “Welcome to the team.”

***

The months following your signing with Mercedes have been a whirlwind. Every day brings something new — testing, meetings, media obligations, training sessions — but through it all, Fernando remains a constant presence. He’s there for every debrief, every important conversation, and when he’s not by your side, he’s only a phone call away. The mentorship he offers is invaluable, not just because of his experience but because of his belief in you.

Today, though, feels different. The season is winding down, and you’ve been expecting a bit of a lull, maybe even some time to catch your breath. But when Fernando calls you to meet him at a quiet café on the outskirts of town, there’s a certain energy in his voice that you can’t quite place.

You arrive at the café to find Fernando already seated at a table near the window, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looks up as you approach, a small, almost secretive smile playing on his lips.

“Morning,” you greet him, sliding into the seat opposite. “You’re up to something, I can tell.”

Fernando chuckles, taking a sip of his coffee before setting the cup down. “Maybe I am,” he says, his tone teasing but warm. “How are you feeling about next season?”

The question catches you off guard. “Next season? I mean, I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. There’s still so much to do now.”

He nods, leaning back in his chair as he studies you, a hint of something more serious in his gaze. “Well, it’s time to start thinking about it,” he says, pulling an envelope from his jacket pocket and sliding it across the table to you.

You raise an eyebrow, your curiosity piqued as you reach for the envelope. “What’s this?”

“Open it,” Fernando encourages, his eyes never leaving yours.

You do as he says, your fingers careful as you tear open the envelope. Inside is a single sheet of paper, neatly folded. You unfold it slowly, your eyes scanning the top of the page.

Carlin Motorsport — Formula 2 Contract Offer.

Your breath catches, and you look up at Fernando, disbelief written all over your face. “Is this … real?”

“Very real,” he confirms, his smile widening. “They want you for next season. Full-time seat, competitive car, the whole package.”

You’re speechless for a moment, the weight of the offer sinking in. Carlin is one of the top teams in Formula 2, a proven stepping stone to Formula 1, and they want you. It’s everything you’ve been working toward, but the reality of it is almost overwhelming.

“This is …” you start, your voice trailing off as you try to find the right words. “I don’t even know what to say.”

He reaches across the table, placing his hand over yours, his expression softening. “You’ve earned this,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You’ve worked hard, proven yourself, and now it’s time to take the next step.”

You nod, still trying to wrap your head around it all. “But how? I mean, why would they choose me over anyone else? There are so many talented drivers out there …”

Fernando squeezes your hand, drawing your attention back to him. “Because you’re one of the best,” he says simply. “They see it, just like I do. And they know you’re going places.”

You take a deep breath, the reality of it finally starting to settle in. “Carlin … Formula 2 … It’s really happening.”

“It is,” Fernando confirms with a smile. “And you’re ready for it.”

There’s a long pause as you sit there, the contract still in your hands. Fernando watches you carefully, his gaze thoughtful. Then, as if sensing that there’s something more to discuss, he leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, his tone shifting to something more serious.

You look up, your heart skipping a beat at the sudden change in his demeanor. “What is it?”

He hesitates for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “I’m planning to return to Formula 1 in 2021.”

The news hits you like a bolt of lightning, your eyes widening in shock. “You’re … coming back? To F1?”

Fernando nods, his expression unreadable. “Yes. I’ve been in talks with a few teams, and it looks like everything is lining up for a comeback.”

You’re stunned, your mind racing to catch up with what he’s just said. Fernando Alonso, returning to Formula 1 … it’s huge, and the implications of it start to sink in. “That’s incredible,” you say, a mix of excitement and apprehension in your voice. “But what does that mean for … us? For everything we’ve been working on?”

He’s silent for a moment, his gaze intense as he considers your question. “It means that while I’ll still be around to support you, I won’t be able to be as hands-on as I’ve been. I won’t be able to be your full-time manager anymore.”

The words hit you hard, and you feel a pang of anxiety start to creep in. Fernando’s been your rock, the one who’s guided you through every step of this journey, and the thought of losing that constant presence is unsettling.

“But,” he continues, his tone reassuring, “I’m not leaving you in the lurch. I’ve already started talking to some people, and I’m going to make sure you get a manager who’s the best of the best. Someone who knows the sport inside and out, who can give you everything you need to succeed.”

You nod slowly, trying to process everything he’s telling you. It’s a lot to take in— the offer from Carlin, Fernando’s return to F1, the changes that will come with it — but there’s a part of you that understands. This is the nature of the sport, constantly evolving, constantly moving forward.

“I’m happy for you,” you finally say, your voice sincere. “Really, I am. You deserve to be back in F1, where you belong.”

Fernando smiles, a genuine warmth in his eyes. “Thank you. And you deserve to be in F2, racing at the front, showing everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s a pause, the weight of the moment settling over both of you. Then, Fernando’s smile turns a bit more mischievous as he leans back in his chair.

“But don’t think this means I’m going to go easy on you,” he says, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I’ll still be watching, making sure you’re giving it your all.”

You laugh, the tension breaking slightly at his words. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

He nods, satisfied, before finishing off his coffee. “Good. Because the hard work isn’t over yet. If anything, it’s just beginning.”

You take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination settling over you. Fernando’s right — this is just the beginning. The road ahead will be challenging, but you’re ready for it. And with his support, even if it’s from a distance, you know you can handle whatever comes your way.

“Thank you,” you say again, your voice full of gratitude. “For everything.”

Fernando just smiles, standing up from the table and offering you his hand. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve got a lot to prepare for.”

You take his hand, rising from your seat, and together you leave the café, the future stretching out before you, full of possibilities.

***

The hum of the F2 paddock is a mix of nerves and excitement, a constant undercurrent of energy that seems to electrify the air. It’s the first race of the season, and you can feel it. The mechanics are moving with purpose, checking and double-checking every detail of the car. Engineers are glued to their screens, analyzing data with furrowed brows. And you, in the midst of it all, are the picture of focus — calm on the outside but with a fire in your eyes that tells Fernando you’re ready for this.

He stands a few feet away, leaning casually against the garage wall, but his eyes are on you. Always on you. He’s seen you grow over these past months, watched as you’ve taken every challenge head-on, and now, as you prepare for your first F2 race, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride.

Yuki Tsunoda, your teammate, walks over, helmet in hand. He’s grinning, but there’s a trace of awe in his expression as he glances between you and Fernando. “I still can’t believe it,” Yuki says, shaking his head slightly. “Fernando Alonso, here in our garage, supporting you. It’s surreal.”

You chuckle, giving Yuki a playful nudge with your elbow. “Believe it. He’s stuck with me now.”

Fernando smirks, pushing off the wall and walking over to the two of you. “Yuki, how are you feeling about today?” He asks, his tone friendly but professional.

Yuki straightens up, clearly wanting to impress. “I’m ready. I’ve been looking forward to this all off-season. Just want to get out there and race.”

“Good,” Fernando nods, his eyes sharp as he assesses Yuki. “Remember, the first race sets the tone. Keep your head down, focus on your own performance, and the results will come.”

Yuki nods, absorbing the advice. “And you?” He asks, turning back to you. “First F2 race … How are you feeling?”

You shrug, but there’s a determined glint in your eyes. “Excited. Nervous. Ready. All of it.”

Fernando can’t help but smile at that. He’s seen that look in countless drivers — right before they go on to do something special. “You’ve got this,” he says, his voice low but full of conviction. “Just do what you do best.”

You give him a small, appreciative smile before turning back to the car, where the final preparations are being made. Fernando watches you for a moment longer, feeling the weight of the day. This is a big moment, not just for you, but for him too. He’s invested so much in you, not just as a driver but as a person, and now he’s about to see the fruits of that labor on one of the biggest stages.

Yuki eventually heads back to his side of the garage, leaving you and Fernando in a comfortable silence. He steps closer to you, lowering his voice so only you can hear. “Remember, it’s just another race. Don’t let the pressure get to you. You’ve done this a hundred times before.”

You nod, your expression set with determination. “I know. I just need to stay focused.”

“Exactly,” Fernando agrees, his hand resting briefly on your shoulder. “And remember, I’m here. You’re not doing this alone.”

There’s a brief moment of silence between you, the noise of the paddock fading slightly as you take in his words. It’s a reassurance, a reminder that no matter what happens out there, you have someone in your corner who believes in you completely.

The minutes tick by, and soon it’s time for the drivers to head to the grid. The mechanics push your car out of the garage, and you follow, helmet in hand, Fernando right by your side. As you walk, he gives you last-minute reminders, his tone calm but firm, designed to keep you centered.

“Trust your instincts,” he says. “You know the car, you know the track. Let the race come to you.”

You nod, absorbing every word as you approach your car on the grid. The other teams and drivers are milling about, final checks being made before the start. Fernando stands with you by the car, watching as you put on your helmet and climb into the cockpit. There’s a buzz of activity all around, but for a moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

He leans in close, his voice carrying over the sound of the grid. “Remember why you’re here. Show them what you’re made of.”

You glance up at him, your visor reflecting the intense determination in your eyes. “I will.”

And with that, the crew steps back, and it’s just you in the car, the engine roaring to life around you. Fernando takes a few steps back, watching as you complete the formation lap. His heart pounds in his chest, a mix of nerves and anticipation. He’s been in this position countless times, but it’s different when it’s someone you’ve invested so much in.

As the cars line up on the grid, the tension mounts. Fernando’s eyes never leave your car, his mind running through every possible scenario. He knows how unpredictable these races can be, how one small mistake can change everything. But he also knows that you’re ready. He’s seen it in your training, in your focus, in the way you’ve handled every challenge thrown at you.

The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The race is on, and Fernando’s eyes are locked on the screen, watching as you navigate the chaos of the first few corners. It’s a tight pack, cars jostling for position, but you hold your ground, staying calm and composed even as the pressure builds.

Fernando barely breathes as the laps tick by, his focus entirely on you. There are moments where his heart leaps into his throat — close calls, tight overtakes — but you handle them all with the skill and precision of a seasoned driver. You’re pushing, but not too hard, balancing aggression with caution in a way that impresses even him.

Midway through the race, you find yourself in a battle for position with one of the more experienced drivers. Fernando can see the tension in your driving, the way you’re pushing the car to its limits. But he also sees the intelligence in your approach, the way you’re sizing up your opponent, waiting for the right moment.

“Come on,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes glued to the screen as you make your move. It’s a daring pass, squeezing through a gap that’s barely there, but you make it stick. Fernando lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“You’re doing it,” he whispers to himself, pride swelling in his chest.

The race continues, the intensity never letting up. There are moments of sheer brilliance, and moments where Fernando’s nerves are stretched to their limits, but through it all, you remain unshaken. Every lap, every corner, you’re proving exactly why you belong here, why Carlin chose you, and why Fernando believes in you so much.

As the race nears its end, you find yourself in a strong position, battling for a spot on the podium. Fernando’s heart pounds in his chest, his hands clenched into fists as he watches the final laps unfold. It’s a nail-biter, the cars ahead of you just within reach, and he can see you pushing, giving it everything you’ve got.

“Come on, come on,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving the screen. “You’ve got this.”

The final lap is a blur of speed and adrenaline, but you’re right there, closing in on the car ahead. Fernando can feel the tension in the air, the entire Carlin garage on edge as they watch you make your move. It’s a daring overtake, one that requires absolute precision, but you nail it, sliding into third place just before the final corner.

Fernando’s heart leaps as you cross the finish line, securing a podium in your very first F2 race. The garage erupts in cheers, but he’s already moving, heading out to meet you as you bring the car back to the pits.

When you climb out of the car, the smile on your face is all he needs to see. You did it. You proved yourself, and in a big way. Fernando is the first to reach you, pulling you into a tight hug, his voice full of pride.

“You were incredible out there,” he says, his words muffled slightly by the cheers around you. “Absolutely incredible.”

You pull back, your eyes shining with excitement. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He shakes his head, his smile wide. “You did this. You took everything you’ve learned and you made it happen. This is just the beginning.”

Yuki comes over, grinning from ear to ear as he claps you on the back. “Third place in your first race? You’re making the rest of us look bad!”

You laugh, the tension of the race finally melting away as you share the moment with your teammate and mentor. But even as you celebrate, Fernando’s mind is already thinking ahead, planning for the future. This is just the first step, and he knows there are many more to come. But for now, he’s content to stand here with you, knowing that you’ve just taken a huge leap forward in your career.

As the celebrations continue around you, Fernando steps back, watching you with a mixture of pride and anticipation. He’s seen something special in you from the start, and today, you proved him right. But he knows this is just the beginning, and he can’t wait to see where this journey takes you

***

Fernando sits at the head of a sleek conference table in a high-rise office overlooking a bustling cityscape. The room is all glass and steel, exuding an air of professionalism and success. It’s the kind of setting where big decisions are made, the kind of setting where lives are changed. He glances at his watch — just a few minutes before you’re supposed to arrive.

To his left is a man in his late forties, dressed in a sharp suit that screams old money and prestige. This is Carlos Mendes, a veteran in the world of motorsport management. Carlos has a reputation for being ruthless when it comes to getting his clients the best deals.

He’s represented world champions, negotiated multimillion-dollar contracts, and navigated the treacherous waters of sponsorships with the skill of a seasoned general. Fernando had carefully chosen Carlos, knowing that you would need someone who could not only protect your interests but also push for the best opportunities.

On Fernando’s right is Sophie Duclair, a high-powered talent agent whose client list reads like a who’s who of global sports and entertainment icons. Sophie, with her sleek bob and impeccably tailored outfit, is known for her ability to secure top-tier endorsement deals that go beyond the traditional boundaries of sports.

Luxury brands, fashion houses, and even Hollywood producers trust her judgment implicitly. She’s the one who can take your rising star and catapult it into a whole different stratosphere.

The door to the conference room opens, and you walk in, dressed casually but with an unmistakable air of confidence. It’s clear you’ve grown more comfortable in these kinds of environments, but there’s still a trace of curiosity in your eyes as you take in the room and the people seated at the table.

“Good to see you,” Fernando says, rising to greet you with a warm smile. He motions to the empty chair next to him. “Take a seat. We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

You sit down, glancing at Carlos and Sophie with polite curiosity. Fernando leans back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. “Let me introduce you to Carlos Mendes,” he says, gesturing to the man on his left. “Carlos is one of the top managers in the business. He’s going to help guide your career from here on out, making sure you get the best opportunities on and off the track.”

Carlos nods, his expression serious but welcoming. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says in a deep, authoritative voice. “Fernando has told me a lot about you, and I’ve been following your progress. You’ve got a bright future ahead, and I’m here to make sure you reach your full potential.”

You smile, a mix of gratitude and anticipation in your eyes. “Thank you. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

Fernando continues, turning to Sophie. “And this is Sophie Duclair, one of the best talent agents in the industry. Sophie has a knack for securing deals that align perfectly with her clients’ personal brands. She’s here to help you navigate the world of endorsements and partnerships.”

Sophie smiles, her demeanor warm yet professional. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. “I’ve been keeping an eye on your rise in F2, and I have to say, the opportunities are endless. There are brands out there who are going to want to associate themselves with your story, your talent, and your image.”

You nod, clearly intrigued but still processing the magnitude of what’s happening. Fernando notices the slight furrow in your brow and steps in to guide the conversation.

“Here’s the thing,” Fernando begins, his tone serious but encouraging. “You’ve been fighting against the odds, and that’s what’s made your story so compelling. A lot of people might have seen your gender as an obstacle, but we’re turning it into an asset. You’ve already proven you belong in F2, and with the right guidance, we’re going to show the world that you’re not just a great driver — you’re a game-changer.”

Carlos leans forward slightly, his eyes focused on you. “Exactly. The motorsport world is evolving, and brands want to be associated with that evolution. They want to be seen as forward-thinking, inclusive, and ahead of the curve. You’re in a unique position to offer them that opportunity.”

Sophie picks up the thread seamlessly. “But it’s not just about slapping a logo on your car or your race suit. It’s about aligning with brands that resonate with who you are and where you want to go. That’s where I come in. I’ve been in talks with several companies that are very interested in working with you.”

You look at Fernando, and he gives you an encouraging nod, urging you to speak your mind. “It sounds … amazing,” you begin, your voice steady but thoughtful. “But I want to make sure that whatever deals we make, they’re the right ones. I don’t want to just be a face on an ad — I want to represent something real.”

Carlos smiles, clearly impressed by your maturity. “That’s the right approach. And that’s exactly why we’re here — to make sure that every move we make is strategic and meaningful. You’ve got the talent and the story, and now it’s about building the brand that reflects that.”

Sophie leans back in her chair, crossing her legs as she regards you with a calculating but friendly gaze. “We’ve already secured two deals that I think you’re going to be very happy with,” she says, a hint of excitement in her voice. “The first is with Cartier. They’re looking to expand their presence in the sports world, and they see you as the perfect ambassador for their brand — strong, elegant, and determined.”

Your eyes widen slightly, clearly surprised. “Cartier?” You echo, the name alone carrying a weight of prestige and luxury.

Sophie nods, smiling at your reaction. “That’s right. They want to work with you on a campaign that’s going to be centered around breaking barriers and redefining what it means to be successful. It’s not just about jewelry — it’s about the story you tell when you wear it.”

Fernando watches as you process this, seeing the mix of excitement and caution in your expression. He knows how big this is, and he also knows how important it is for you to feel comfortable with every step of this journey.

“And the second deal?” You ask, your voice steady but tinged with curiosity.

Sophie’s smile widens. “That would be with Chanel. They’re launching a new line of sportswear, and they want you to be the face of it. It’s a bold move for them, branching out into a market that’s traditionally been dominated by other brands. But they believe in you, and they believe that you can help them make a statement.”

You lean back in your chair, clearly taking a moment to absorb the magnitude of what’s being offered. Fernando can see the wheels turning in your mind, the careful consideration you’re giving to each opportunity.

“I … I didn’t expect anything like this,” you admit, looking around the table. “It’s incredible, but it’s also a lot to take in.”

Carlos nods, his expression understanding. “It is. But you’re not in this alone. We’re here to guide you, to make sure that every decision you make is the right one for you and your career.”

Fernando leans forward slightly, his voice low and reassuring. “You’ve worked hard to get here. You deserve these opportunities. But like Carlos said, we’re going to make sure that every step you take is the right one. We’re not rushing into anything. We’re building something that’s going to last.”

You look at him, and he can see the trust in your eyes. It’s a trust he’s earned over the months, through every piece of advice, every word of encouragement, every push to make you better. And now, as you sit here on the brink of something huge, he feels a deep sense of pride.

“These are just the first steps,” Sophie says, her tone confident and poised. “There’s so much more we can do. But it’s all going to be on your terms. You’re in control of your image, your brand. We’re just here to help you shape it.”

You take a deep breath, your gaze sweeping over the table, taking in the faces of the people who are now part of your team. “I want to do this right,” you say finally, your voice strong. “I want to be someone people can look up to, someone who represents more than just winning races.”

Fernando smiles, feeling a swell of pride at your words. “And that’s exactly what you’re going to do. We’re just getting started.”

The meeting continues, the conversation shifting to the details of the contracts, the timelines for the campaigns, and the strategies for maximizing your visibility. Throughout it all, Fernando watches you closely, noting the way you handle the discussions with a mix of humility and confidence. It’s clear you’re taking everything in, asking the right questions, making sure you understand every aspect of what’s being presented.

By the time the meeting wraps up, there’s a palpable sense of excitement in the room. The deals with Cartier and Chanel are just the beginning, and everyone knows it. There are more opportunities on the horizon, more doors that are about to open. But for now, it’s about taking the first steps, setting the foundation for what’s to come.

As you rise to leave, Fernando walks you to the door, Carlos and Sophie following close behind. “We’ll be in touch with the final details,” Sophie says, her tone professional but warm. “I’m excited to see where this journey takes us.”

Carlos nods in agreement. “You’ve got a bright future ahead. Let’s make the most of it.”

You thank them both, turning to Fernando with a smile that holds a mix of gratitude and determination. "I couldn’t have done this without you," you say softly.

Fernando shakes his head, his smile reflecting the pride he feels. "You’ve earned every bit of this. Now, let's show the world what you’re capable of."

***

The sun dips low over the suburban skyline, casting a warm golden hue over the backyard where laughter mingles with the clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversation. String lights hang from the trees, swaying gently in the evening breeze, and the faint scent of barbecue lingers in the air. You’re surrounded by familiar faces — family, childhood friends, and the newer ones you’ve made in F2. The mix of old and new feels right, like the pieces of your life are finally coming together.

Fernando stands near the edge of the crowd, leaning casually against a tree as he watches you. He’s been here for hours, blending in with the celebration, though he’s always slightly apart, his presence comforting but never overbearing. He’s wearing one of those half-smiles, the kind that makes it hard to tell if he’s deep in thought or just quietly enjoying the moment.

You catch his eye, and he raises his glass — a silent toast that you return with a small grin before getting pulled back into a conversation with one of your childhood friends. They’re reminiscing about old times, laughing about things that seem so far removed from the high-speed world you now inhabit. It’s nice, grounding even, to remember that you had a life before all of this — a simpler one where the biggest concern was which video game to play after school.

As the night wears on, the crowd begins to thin. Your parents are still mingling, clearly proud of the party they’ve thrown. Your mom’s voice carries across the yard as she gushes to someone about how happy she is that you’ve managed to pay off the second mortgage. It was a weight that they never let you see, but you knew it was there, and being able to lift it was one of the proudest moments you’ve had since stepping into a race car.

Fernando, ever observant, notices the moment your shoulders relax as you hear your mom’s words. He takes a small step forward, knowing that the night is winding down, and he’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Eventually, as the last of your friends hug you goodbye and head out, you find yourself standing near the fire pit, the glow from the dying embers illuminating your face. Fernando approaches, his hands casually tucked into his pockets.

“Enjoying your birthday?” He asks, his voice low and warm, like the crackling fire beside you.

You nod, a content smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “Yeah, it’s been really great. I didn’t expect so many people to show up.”

“People care about you,” Fernando says simply. “You’ve made quite an impact.”

You shrug, clearly a little shy about the praise. “I’m just glad to have a night to relax with everyone. It’s been a whirlwind.”

Fernando’s smile deepens. He knows how hard you’ve worked, how much you’ve sacrificed, and how rare these moments of peace are for you. “You deserve it. You’ve earned it.”

There’s a beat of silence, comfortable and familiar, before Fernando clears his throat. “I, uh, have something for you.”

You turn to look at him, your brow furrowing slightly. “Fernando, you didn’t have to get me anything. You’ve already done so much.”

“I know,” he says, his tone a little softer now, as if he’s stepping into more vulnerable territory. “But I wanted to.”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small box, wrapped in simple but elegant paper. You hesitate for a moment, then take it from his hands, the weight of it feeling heavier than it should.

Curiosity piques as you carefully unwrap the paper and open the box. Inside is a delicate necklace, the pendant a tiny, intricate race helmet studded with a single diamond where the visor would be. It’s not overly flashy, but it’s beautiful and unmistakably meaningful.

You stare at it, speechless, before looking up at Fernando, your eyes wide with surprise and something deeper — something like awe. “Fernando … this is …”

He cuts you off with a gentle shake of his head. “You don’t have to say anything. I just … wanted you to have something that reminds you of where you’re headed. You’ve got a bright future, and I wanted to give you something to keep close as you chase it.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, focusing on the necklace instead. You’re not sure what to say — how do you thank someone for something that goes beyond just a gift?

Fernando steps closer, his voice lowering as he continues, “I’ve come to see you as … well, like a daughter, I suppose. Watching you grow, seeing how far you’ve come, it’s been one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. I just wanted to show you how much you mean to me.”

Your heart swells with emotion, and before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him, pressing your face into his chest. The necklace is still clutched in your hand, but all you can focus on is the steady beat of Fernando’s heart against your ear.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice muffled but sincere. “For everything.”

Fernando’s arms come around you, holding you close in a way that’s both protective and comforting. “You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. That’s all the thanks I need.”

You stay like that for a moment longer, taking in the warmth and security of the embrace, before finally pulling back. You look up at Fernando, and there’s a connection between you now that goes beyond mentor and protégé — it’s something familial, something lasting.

He gestures to the necklace, a small smile playing on his lips. “Do you want some help putting that on?”

You nod, unable to find the words, and hand it to him. He carefully fastens it around your neck, his fingers steady and sure, and when he’s done, you reach up to touch the pendant, feeling its cool metal against your skin.

“Perfect,” Fernando says, stepping back to admire it. “Just like you.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You’re too kind.”

“No,” he replies, his voice firm but gentle. “Just honest.”

As the fire continues to crackle beside you, the night wrapping around you both like a blanket, you realize that this birthday, this moment, will be one you remember for the rest of your life. Not because of the party or the people, but because of the man standing beside you — the one who believed in you when no one else did, who gave you the push you needed to keep going.

And as you walk back towards the house, the pendant resting against your chest, you know that no matter what happens in the future, you’ll always have this — this connection, this bond, this family you’ve found in the most unexpected place.

***

The noise is deafening as you cross the finish line, but it’s the silence that follows in your mind that makes it real. The world blurs around you; the roar of the engine fades, the cheers from the grandstands become a distant echo. It’s just you and the knowledge that you’ve done it. The chequered flag waves in the distance, a confirmation that you’ve won the F2 championship.

In your rookie season.

The last lap plays on a loop in your mind: the battle with your teammate, the wheel-to-wheel tension that stretched until the final corner, the moment you finally saw a gap and took it. The entire year has been leading up to this, every race, every struggle, every doubt. And now, you’re here. A champion.

The car slows as you pull into the pit lane, your hands shaking on the steering wheel. The radio crackles with voices — your engineer shouting congratulations, the team cheering, but there’s only one voice you really want to hear.

“You did it,” Fernando comes through, calm but with a hint of emotion that he rarely shows. “I knew you could do it.”

A smile breaks across your face, one that you couldn’t suppress even if you tried. “We did it,” you correct him, because it’s true. You’ve always been a team, even when he wasn’t on the track with you.

As you roll into the Carlin garage, the world around you explodes into celebration. Mechanics, engineers, and team members swarm the car, cheering and clapping as they pull you out of the cockpit. You’re immediately wrapped in a dozen hugs, people shouting your name, lifting you off the ground in their excitement.

But even in the chaos, you’re searching for him. And when you finally spot Fernando standing just outside the crowd, his expression is one of pure pride. He doesn’t rush in to join the others, instead, he stays back, letting you have your moment. That’s Fernando, always understanding, always knowing exactly what you need.

You finally push through the throng of well-wishers and make your way over to him. For a moment, the two of you just look at each other, and in that look, there’s a thousand words unspoken.

“Not bad for a rookie,” he finally says, his smile widening.

You laugh, still breathless from the race. “Not bad at all.”

He pulls you into a hug, and this time, you don’t hold back. You cling to him, letting the emotion of the moment wash over you. “Thank you,” you whisper, and you know he understands. This victory is as much his as it is yours.

When you pull back, you see someone else approaching from the corner of your eye. It’s Toto Wolff, towering and imposing as always, but there’s a warmth in his expression that’s almost fatherly. Next to him, Williams Racing team principal Jost Capito, stands with a smile that’s equally as proud.

“Toto?” You ask, surprised. It’s not every day he shows up in the F2 paddock, let alone after a race.

He steps forward, offering his hand. “Congratulations,” he says, his voice steady. “That was an incredible race.”

You shake his hand, still trying to process the fact that he’s here. “Thank you,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jost steps forward, nodding in agreement. “You’ve had an outstanding season. You’ve shown everyone what you’re capable of.”

There’s something in their tone, something that makes your heart race with more than just post-race adrenaline. Fernando catches your eye, giving you a slight nod, as if to say, this is it.

Toto exchanges a look with Jost before continuing, “We’ve been following your progress closely, and we believe you’re ready for the next step.”

Your breath catches in your throat. The next step. It’s what every F2 driver dreams of, but it’s never guaranteed, not even with a championship under your belt. “The next step?” You echo, almost afraid to hope.

Jost steps in, his smile widening. “We want you to race for Williams in Formula 1 next season.”

For a moment, the world stops. You blink, trying to process the words, to make sure you heard him right. Formula 1. They want you to race in F1.

“Next season?” You manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Toto nods, his expression serious but encouraging. “Yes. We’ve been in discussions with Williams, and we believe you’re the perfect fit for their team. You’ve proven that you can handle the pressure, and now it’s time to see what you can do on the biggest stage.”

You feel like you’re floating, like this is a dream that you might wake up from at any moment. You turn to Fernando, searching his face for confirmation that this is real. He’s smiling, but there’s a look in his eyes that tells you he’s known about this for a while. He’s always known.

“You’ll be racing in F1,” Fernando says, his voice steady. “You deserve it.”

It’s then that the full weight of what’s happening hits you. F1. The pinnacle of motorsport. And not just racing in F1, but racing alongside the very best in the world. You’ll be on the grid with drivers you’ve looked up to your entire life. Drivers like Lewis Hamilton. And …

Your eyes widen as the realization dawns. Fernando is making his comeback next year. He’s going to be on that grid, too.

“I’ll be racing … with you,” you say, the words barely escaping your lips.

Fernando’s smile is knowing, almost amused. “Yes, you will.”

The thought is almost overwhelming. Not only will you be in F1, but you’ll be competing alongside Fernando, the man who has been your mentor, your guide, your biggest supporter. The man who helped you get to this very moment.

You shake your head, still trying to process it all. “I don’t know what to say.”

Toto places a hand on your shoulder, his grip reassuring. “You don’t need to say anything. Just be ready to show the world what you’re capable of. We’ll handle the rest.”

Jost nods in agreement. “We believe in you. You’ve already proven that you can handle anything that comes your way.”

You glance back at Fernando, and the pride in his eyes is unmistakable. This has been his goal all along — to get you to the top, to see you succeed where so many doubted you could. And now, here you are, about to step into the world of F1.

“I’ll be ready,” you say, your voice stronger now, filled with the determination that’s carried you this far.

Fernando nods, satisfied. “I know you will.”

As Toto and Jost step away to discuss the finer details with the Carlin team, you stand there with Fernando, the enormity of what just happened settling in.

“You knew this was coming, didn’t you?” You ask, giving him a sideways glance.

Fernando shrugs, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “I had a feeling. But it was always up to you to make it happen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”

He grins. “And you’re an F1 driver now. Better get used to it.”

The two of you stand there for a moment longer, taking in the victory, the announcement, the future that’s unfolding right before your eyes. It’s been a long road, full of challenges and doubts, but you’ve made it. And now, you’re about to step onto the biggest stage in motorsport, with Fernando right there alongside you.

As you look out at the garage, the Carlin team still buzzing with excitement, you can’t help but feel a deep sense of gratitude. For the team, for the journey, and most of all, for Fernando — the man who believed in you when no one else did, and who continues to believe in you now.

“Thank you, Fernando,” you say quietly, but with all the sincerity you can muster. “For everything.”

He simply nods, his expression softening. “You’ve earned it.”

And as you stand there, the future stretching out before you, one thing is certain: this is just the beginning.

***

The winter sun hangs low in the sky as you walk along the rocky path that leads to Fernando’s private track in northern Spain. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of pine trees and the distant murmur of the sea. It’s a world away from the chaos of the paddock, a place where the outside noise fades, leaving only the hum of your thoughts and the weight of what’s to come. The off-season is supposed to be a time to rest, to recharge, but this year, it’s different. There’s no time to lose — not with your first Formula 1 season looming on the horizon.

Fernando walks beside you, his stride as confident and unhurried as ever. His presence is steadying, a reminder that you’re not alone on this journey. He’s been here before, countless times, and now he’s passing on everything he knows to you. This winter isn’t just about physical training; it’s about mastering the mental side of the sport — the side that can make or break a career in F1.

He stops at the edge of the track, the silence between you stretching out as you both take in the view. The asphalt is cold and unyielding, winding through the landscape like a dark ribbon, a challenge waiting to be conquered.

“You know the driving part,” Fernando says, breaking the silence. His voice is calm, measured, but there’s an intensity to it that commands attention. “You’ve proven that you can handle the car, the speed, the competition. But F1 is more than just driving. It’s a mental game. It’s about being the predator, not the prey.”

You nod, knowing he’s right. The physical demands of F1 are immense, but the mental demands are even greater. The pressure, the mind games, the need to be perfect in a sport where perfection is almost impossible — it’s all part of what makes F1 the pinnacle of motorsport.

“Today, we start with the basics,” Fernando continues, his gaze fixed on the track. “How to be a track terror.”

A track terror. The words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. To be feared on the track, to have your competitors second-guessing themselves before they even line up on the grid — that’s what Fernando is talking about. It’s not just about being fast; it’s about being relentless, unyielding, the kind of driver who forces others into mistakes.

“You don’t have to be the fastest in every session,” Fernando explains, his voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You just have to make them think you are. Get in their heads. Make them question their own pace, their own decisions.”

He starts to walk along the edge of the track, and you follow, listening closely. “Every driver has a breaking point,” he says. “You need to learn how to find it. Sometimes it’s in their driving — how they react under pressure, how they handle wheel-to-wheel combat. Sometimes it’s off the track — in how they deal with the media, how they cope with setbacks. Your job is to figure out what that breaking point is and use it.”

You absorb his words, understanding that this is the difference between good drivers and great ones. It’s not just about talent; it’s about psychology, about knowing how to manipulate a situation to your advantage.

“And once you find that breaking point?” You ask, wanting to hear it from him.

Fernando stops and turns to face you, his eyes sharp, calculating. “You exploit it,” he says simply. “You push them until they crack. But you have to be smart about it. There’s a fine line between pushing them to the edge and pushing yourself over it.”

His words are blunt, but you know there’s truth in them. F1 isn’t just a sport, it’s a battle, a war of wills as much as it is a test of speed.

“Take the first corner,” Fernando says, pointing to the sharp turn at the end of the straight. “It’s where a lot of races are won or lost. You need to establish yourself early. Show them that you’re not afraid to fight for position, but also that you’re in control. That’s key — being aggressive, but controlled.”

You nod, envisioning the scenarios he’s describing. You’ve raced at high levels before, but F1 is different. The stakes are higher, the margins narrower. There’s no room for error, but there’s also no room for hesitation.

“How do you know when to cross the line?” You ask, thinking back to the times when Fernando has pushed the limits, often to the point where others questioned his tactics.

He gives a small smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You learn,” he says. “Sometimes by making mistakes. But the key is to learn from them quickly. You have to know when to back off and when to push harder. It’s about balance, about knowing your own limits as much as theirs.”

He pauses, his gaze locking with yours. “And sometimes, you have to cross the line. But when you do, you do it with intent, and you don’t get caught. You make sure it looks like a mistake, something that just happened in the heat of the moment. And you never apologize for it.”

There’s a chill in the air, but you barely notice it, your mind focused on every word. This is what you’ve needed, what you’ve been missing. The edge that will set you apart in a field of the best drivers in the world.

“What about mind games?” You ask, curious to know more about how to handle the psychological warfare that comes with F1.

Fernando chuckles, a sound that’s both amused and knowing. “Mind games are everything,” he says. “They start long before you even get in the car. It’s about how you carry yourself, how you interact with the other drivers, with the media. You have to control the narrative, make them think what you want them to think.”

He starts walking again, this time towards the small building at the edge of the track where the team usually sets up. “The media is a powerful tool,” he continues. “You can use them to your advantage, but you have to be careful. Give them just enough to create doubt in your competitors’ minds, but not enough to give anything away.”

You think back to the countless press conferences you’ve watched, where drivers like Fernando have used their words as weapons, creating stories that unsettle their rivals. It’s a game within a game, and you’re starting to see how deep it goes.

“Never let them see you sweat,” Fernando adds, his tone more serious now. “Even when things aren’t going your way, you have to project confidence. Make them think you have everything under control, even when you don’t. And when they stumble, when they show weakness, you pounce.”

The building looms ahead, the door slightly ajar. Fernando pushes it open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room with a table, a few chairs, and a whiteboard covered in notes and diagrams. It’s a war room, a place where strategies are formed, where victories are planned.

Fernando gestures for you to sit, and you do, feeling the weight of what’s to come. He takes a seat across from you, his expression now all business.

“Let’s talk about racecraft,” he says, leaning forward. “You need to understand that F1 isn’t just about speed. It’s about strategy, about thinking two, three steps ahead of everyone else. You need to know when to attack and when to hold back, when to take risks and when to play it safe.”

He starts sketching out scenarios on the whiteboard, explaining different race strategies, how to read your competitors, how to manage your tires, your fuel, your energy. It’s a crash course in F1 tactics, and you absorb every detail, knowing that this knowledge could be the difference between winning and losing.

“You’ll have a team behind you,” Fernando says, his eyes never leaving the board as he continues to write. “But you’re the one in the car. You’re the one who has to make the decisions in real-time. Trust your instincts, but also trust your preparation. The more you know, the better equipped you’ll be to handle whatever comes your way.”

He turns back to you, his expression serious. “And remember, F1 is a long game. It’s not just about one race, or even one season. It’s about building a career, about consistently performing at a high level. You have to pace yourself, know when to push and when to hold back. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

You nod, the enormity of what he’s saying sinking in. This isn’t just about your rookie season; it’s about laying the foundation for a long and successful career. And with Fernando guiding you, you know you’re in the best possible hands.

The session goes on, the hours slipping away as you discuss everything from race strategies to media tactics, from how to handle pressure to how to deal with setbacks. Fernando doesn’t sugarcoat anything; he tells you the harsh realities of the sport, the challenges you’ll face, the sacrifices you’ll have to make. But he also gives you the tools to overcome them, to not just survive in F1, but to thrive.

By the time the sun starts to set, casting long shadows across the track, you feel a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. It’s been an intense day, but you know it’s exactly what you needed. Fernando has pushed you, challenged you, but he’s also given you the confidence to believe that you belong in this world, that you can succeed.

As you walk back towards the main house, the sky now a deep orange, Fernando falls into step beside you. There’s a comfortable silence between you, the kind that comes from a shared understanding, a mutual respect that has grown over time.

After a while, Fernando breaks the silence with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know,” he begins, his tone light but with a glint of mischief in his eyes, “I’ve been called many things in my career. Champion, legend … war criminal.”

You look at him, caught between a laugh and a raised eyebrow. “War criminal?”

He chuckles, shrugging casually. “Not literally, of course. But some of my tactics, let’s say, weren’t always appreciated by everyone. I was willing to do whatever it took to win — sometimes crossing lines that others wouldn’t dare touch.”

You smile, catching on to his meaning. “And you think I’m ready to follow in your footsteps?”

Fernando’s smirk widens. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t. F1 isn’t a game for the faint-hearted. It’s for those who aren’t afraid to get their hands dirty when it counts. Just remember … there’s no shame in doing what it takes to survive. And thrive.”

His words hang in the cool evening air, and as you both continue walking, you feel a sense of resolve settle within you. Fernando must notice it too because he gives you a sideways glance, the glint still in his eyes. “Just don’t forget who taught you all this when they start throwing accusations your way.”

***

The Bahrain night sky looms overhead, blanketing the circuit in a velvety darkness punctuated by the glaring lights of the paddock. The roar of engines rumbles through the air as teams buzz with last-minute preparations. Mechanics scramble, engineers analyze data, and drivers slip into their zones. The first race of the season carries a unique kind of tension, a palpable energy that’s almost electric. But amidst all the chaos, Fernando moves with calm confidence as he weaves through the pit lane, eyes scanning for one person.

He finds you standing by the Williams garage, helmet in hand, gaze fixed on the distant horizon as if trying to absorb the magnitude of the moment. It’s your first F1 race, and the weight of it all is evident in the slight furrow of your brow, the focused set of your jaw.

Fernando walks up to you, placing a hand on your shoulder, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Hey,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a sharp blade. “Nervous?”

You turn to face him, a mix of emotions swirling in your eyes — excitement, determination, and yes, a hint of nerves. “A little,” you admit. “It’s different from F2. Bigger.”

Fernando nods, understanding all too well. “It is bigger. The stakes are higher, the pressure’s heavier. But you’ve got this.”

You nod, though your grip on the helmet tightens. “I know. I just need to keep my head in the right place.”

Fernando’s eyes narrow, the glint of the night’s floodlights reflecting in them as he leans in slightly, lowering his voice. “Remember what we talked about in Spain. You’re not here to play nice. You’re here to win. You’re here to make them regret ever doubting you.”

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips as his words sink in. This is the Fernando you’ve come to know so well — the ruthless competitor who sees racing as a battlefield, where only the most cunning and unrelenting survive. He’s drilled that mentality into you, reminding you time and time again that the track is no place for mercy.

“You’re not just a driver,” he continues, his tone growing more intense. “You’re a track terror. Make them fear you. Take every opportunity, even if it means forcing them into a mistake. Be aggressive. Be relentless. And if they try to intimidate you-”

“I intimidate them back,” you finish for him, the determination in your voice now matching his.

Fernando’s lips curl into a smirk, clearly pleased. “Exactly. Make them question if they even belong out there with you.”

As he speaks, Nicholas Latifi, your teammate, walks by on his way to his side of the garage. His steps falter when he overhears the tail end of Fernando’s words.

“… If you see an opening, take it. Don’t give them a second to breathe. Push them out of their comfort zone, and when they’re scrambling, that’s when you strike. Hard.”

Latifi’s eyes widen in alarm as he processes what Fernando is saying. He hesitates, clearly debating whether he should approach or back away slowly. Ultimately, he chooses the latter, retreating with a hurried, nervous glance over his shoulder.

You notice Latifi’s reaction and can’t help but laugh. “I think you might’ve scared him off.”

Fernando chuckles, a low, almost devious sound. “Good. Less competition for you.” Then, with a more serious edge, he adds, “He’s not your concern. You’re here for the big players. And don’t forget, every race is an opportunity to show them what you’re made of. Especially the ones who think you don’t deserve to be here.”

You nod, the nerves from earlier replaced by a rising sense of purpose. Fernando’s words have a way of lighting a fire inside you, a fire that burns hotter with every passing second. The crowd noise, the hum of engines, the flashing lights — all of it fades away until there’s only the track and the promise of what lies ahead.

Fernando steps back, giving you space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “Tonight, you’re going to prove that you’re not just another rookie. You’re a force to be reckoned with. And you’re going to do it with style.”

You smirk, the corners of your mouth curving upward as confidence surges through you. “With style?”

“Absolutely,” Fernando replies, his own smirk widening. “Remember, there’s a fine line between genius and insanity on the track. And you’re going to walk it like it’s a tightrope.”

You slip your helmet on, the visor clicking into place as Fernando’s words echo in your mind. The world outside may be chaotic, but inside your helmet, it’s a sanctuary — a place where you can focus, where every piece of advice, every lesson Fernando has drilled into you, comes together.

He watches you for a moment, pride evident in his eyes. He’s seen your growth, your transformation from a talented driver into something much more formidable. He knows you’re ready for this.

“Now go out there,” he says, voice clear and commanding, “and make them remember your name.”

With a final nod, you turn towards your car, the sleek Williams machine waiting for you. The pit crew is already in position, and the clock is ticking down. But before you step in, Fernando adds one last thing.

“Oh, and one more thing,” he says, catching your attention. You look back at him, and there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eye. “Terrorize everyone out there … except me.”

You laugh, the sound muffled by your helmet, but the sentiment is clear. “No promises.”

Fernando grins, crossing his arms as he watches you settle into the cockpit. The familiar sounds of the car coming to life fill the air, and the anticipation builds. The lights above the pit lane begin their countdown, and you take a deep breath, centering yourself for what’s to come.

As you drive out onto the track for the formation lap, Fernando steps back, his eyes following your car as it weaves between the other machines, each one a potential target, each one a stepping stone towards the top. He knows you’re ready, knows that tonight is just the beginning of what promises to be an incredible journey.

He’s proud of you, not just as a driver, but as the competitor you’ve become under his guidance. And as you line up on the grid, the lights glowing red above, Fernando’s final words echo in your mind.

Make them remember your name.

The lights go out, and the race begins.

***

The Bahrain circuit is still buzzing with energy even after the race has ended. The floodlights cast a bright, artificial glow over the paddock as drivers, engineers, and media personnel move about, some celebrating, others reflecting on the night’s events. The humid night air is thick with the scent of burning rubber and engine exhaust, a familiar and oddly comforting smell to those who live and breathe motorsport.

Fernando stands in the media pen, his eyes fixed on you as you field questions from a group of eager reporters. He’s barely listening to the reporter in front of him, who’s rattling off questions about his own race. He finished just outside the points, but it doesn’t bother him much. Tonight, his focus isn’t on his own performance but on yours.

You’re animated, your eyes bright, still riding the adrenaline high from the race. You finished ninth — an impressive debut for any rookie, especially in a Williams. Fernando watches as you handle the questions with ease, a slight smile playing on his lips. The way you stand, the way you speak, there’s a confidence there that wasn’t present when he first met you. He sees in you a reflection of his younger self, and it fills him with a quiet pride.

“Fernando,” the reporter in front of him says, trying to regain his attention. “Can you tell us about your strategy today?”

Fernando barely hears the question, his attention still on you. You’re laughing at something a reporter just asked, and he catches a glimpse of that mischievous glint in your eyes — the same one he’s seen countless times in his own reflection. He can tell you’re about to say something memorable, and he doesn’t want to miss it.

“Fernando?” the reporter prompts again, sounding slightly annoyed now.

“Hmm?” Fernando finally acknowledges the reporter, but his gaze doesn’t leave you. “What was that?”

“Your strategy today — what was the thinking behind it?”

“Strategy? Oh, yes, the strategy,” Fernando replies absentmindedly, waving his hand dismissively. “You know, just the usual. Push when you can, hold back when you must.” His answers are automatic, but his mind is elsewhere.

The reporter blinks, clearly unimpressed with the vague response, but before he can ask a follow-up question, Fernando’s attention is fully captured by what you’re saying.

A journalist standing in front of you, wearing a press lanyard and holding a recorder close to your face, asks, “Can you walk us through that incredible overtake on Sebastian Vettel? It looked like you had no fear going up against a four-time world champion.”

You smile, a knowing look in your eyes, and then you glance over at Fernando.

“I knew he would hit the brakes,” you say, loud enough for him to hear. You pause for dramatic effect, and then with a wink in Fernando’s direction, you continue, “Because he has a wife and three kids waiting for him at home.”

The words hang in the air for a moment before the reporters around you burst into laughter. The reference to Fernando’s famous quip about Michael Schumacher years ago is unmistakable, and it’s clear that the media eats it up. But more importantly, Fernando hears it, and his chest swells with pride.

The reporter in front of Fernando raises an eyebrow, curious now about what’s just been said. “Looks like she’s learned a thing or two from you,” he comments.

Fernando finally turns to the reporter, a wide grin spreading across his face. “Yes, she has. More than she knows.”

He watches as you continue the interview, your demeanor composed, yet playful. The way you handle the press is impressive — calm, confident, but with just the right amount of charm to keep them on your side. You’re not just a racer; you’re a showman, someone who understands that Formula 1 is as much about performance off the track as it is on it.

Fernando catches snippets of your conversation, listening as you describe the overtake in more detail. “Seb’s a great driver, no doubt about it. But in that moment, I knew I had him. I could see it in his body language. He was playing it safe, so I took my chance.”

“And what was going through your mind when you made the move?” Another journalist asks.

You pause for a moment, considering the question. Then, with a smirk, you say, “I was thinking, ‘What would Fernando do?’ And then I went for it.”

Fernando chuckles to himself, shaking his head slightly. He can’t help but feel a surge of pride. Not because you’ve imitated him, but because you’ve made the decision to be bold, to take risks, and to trust your instincts. That’s what separates the good drivers from the great ones — the willingness to seize the moment, to act decisively.

You finish up your interview, the reporters gradually dispersing to chase down other drivers. Fernando finally gives his full attention to the reporter in front of him, who’s still trying to get something meaningful out of him.

“Fernando, about your race …” the reporter begins again.

But Fernando is already moving, stepping around the man with a polite but firm nod. “Excuse me,” he says, cutting the interview short. There’s someone far more important he needs to talk to right now.

He strides over to you, your helmet now tucked under your arm as you chat casually with one of the team engineers. You spot him approaching and flash him a smile.

“Hey,” you say as he reaches you. “Did you hear what I said?”

“I did,” Fernando replies, unable to keep the pride out of his voice. “You’ve got quite the sense of humor.”

“Learned from the best,” you quip, giving him a playful nudge.

Fernando laughs, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually use that line, but I’m glad you did. The media loves a good story, and you just gave them one.”

You shrug, your smile widening. “Figured I’d give them something to talk about. Plus, it’s not every day you get to pass a guy like Seb.”

“And you did it with style,” Fernando adds, his voice filled with admiration. “You handled yourself perfectly out there, both on track and with the press. You’re making your mark.”

The engineer standing next to you clears his throat, clearly not wanting to interrupt but feeling the need to acknowledge Fernando’s presence. “Great job out there today,” he says, offering a handshake.

“Thanks,” Fernando replies, shaking the man’s hand. “But today’s all about her,” he adds, nodding in your direction.

The engineer nods in agreement before excusing himself, leaving you and Fernando alone in the now quieter part of the paddock. The sounds of celebration and interviews still echo in the background, but here, in this moment, it feels like it’s just the two of you.

“You know,” Fernando says after a beat, “I’ve never been prouder.”

You look at him, surprised by the raw emotion in his voice. “Really?”

“Really,” he confirms. “Seeing you out there today … it reminded me why I fell in love with racing in the first place. The passion, the drive, the thrill of the fight. You have all of that, and more.”

Your smile softens, touched by his words. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You did it because you’re a damn good driver,” Fernando corrects, though there’s a warmth in his tone. “But I’m glad I could be a part of your journey.”

You both stand there for a moment, the enormity of what you’ve achieved settling in. Ninth place in your first race is no small feat, especially in a car that everyone had written off as uncompetitive. But you’ve proven them wrong, and you’ve done it in a way that’s uniquely your own.

“Next time, though,” Fernando says, a teasing lilt in his voice, “let’s aim for top five.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “No pressure, right?”

“Never,” he replies with a grin. “Just a challenge.”

***

Fernando leans casually against the side of the Alpine motorhome, arms crossed, eyes scanning the paddock. The next season’s first race is in a few days, and the energy around the circuit is electric, buzzing with the anticipation of new beginnings. He’s just finished an interview, the usual media rounds, when he spots you approaching, your new Mercedes gear a stark contrast to the sea of blues and pinks around you.

“Ah, there you are,” Fernando greets with a grin as you draw closer. “I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

You tilt your head slightly, curious. “Who?”

Fernando pushes off the motorhome, beckoning you to follow as he leads you around to the back, where a young reserve driver is checking his phone, leaning casually against the wall. The kid looks up as you approach, his expression polite, maybe a touch reserved, but there’s an unmistakable spark of intelligence in his eyes.

“Oscar,” Fernando calls out, “this is her.”

Oscar Piastri straightens up, tucking his phone into his pocket. “Nice to meet you,” he says, extending a hand with a shy but confident smile. He’s calm, almost too calm for someone his age, but there’s a warmth there, something genuine. You can’t help but notice how composed he is, how his eyes seem to study you without making you feel scrutinized.

You shake his hand, offering a cool smile in return. “Likewise. I’ve heard good things.”

Oscar chuckles softly, scratching the back of his head. “Hopefully, I can live up to them.”

The three of you chat for a while, exchanging pleasantries about the upcoming season, racing, the usual stuff. Oscar is polite, measured in his responses, but there’s a softness to him that you hadn’t expected. It’s like he’s quietly confident, but without the brashness that usually comes with it. Fernando watches the interaction closely, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he notes the way your demeanor shifts ever so slightly around Oscar — more guarded, maybe, but intrigued.

Eventually, Oscar glances at his watch and excuses himself, mentioning something about a debrief he needs to attend. You nod, maintaining your composed exterior, and watch him walk back towards the Alpine motorhome before turning to Fernando.

“Polite cat vibes,” you murmur almost to yourself, a hint of amusement in your voice. Fernando raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

“What was that?” He asks, although there’s a knowing look in his eyes. He’s been around long enough to pick up on these things.

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s a lightness in your expression that wasn’t there before. “I said, polite cat vibes. You know, like when a cat is super well-behaved, but you just know there’s something more going on behind those eyes?”

Fernando laughs, a genuine, hearty sound that makes a few heads turn in your direction. “So, you think Oscar is a cat?”

“Well, not literally,” you reply, grinning. “It’s just … he’s got this thing, you know? Like he’s really nice, but you can tell he’s got claws if he needs them. And he’s so … calm. I just want to pinch his cheeks and cuddle him.”

Fernando’s laugh turns into a full-blown chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. “You’re smitten, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” you say, feigning nonchalance as you fold your arms across your chest. “But it’s just … he’s different. Not in a bad way, just-”

“Different,” Fernando finishes for you, nodding thoughtfully. “Yeah, I get it. But don’t let that cloud your judgment on track.”

You shoot him a look. “Please. I’m not a rookie, and besides, I’m at Mercedes now. I’ve got bigger things to focus on than cute cats.”

Fernando smiles, but there’s a serious undertone to his next words. “Just remember, this is Formula 1. There’s no room for distractions, no matter how polite or cute they might be.”

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words, but there’s still a twinkle in your eye as you glance back in the direction Oscar disappeared. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

“Good,” Fernando replies, clapping you on the back. “Because I’m not going to let you slack off, not even for a second.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you retort, smirking. There’s a comfortable silence that falls between the two of you, the kind that only comes from mutual respect and understanding.

But Fernando can’t resist one last jab. “Don’t go soft on him, okay? I’ve got my eye on you.”

You roll your eyes again but with a fond smile. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Of course,” Fernando grins. “It’s part of my charm.”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the busy paddock, and Fernando can’t help but feel a swell of pride. You’ve come so far, and he’s been there every step of the way, watching you grow not just as a driver but as a person. There’s a part of him that’s protective, sure, but there’s also a part that’s thrilled to see you standing on your own two feet, ready to take on whatever comes your wa— even if it’s an Australian polite cat.

“Let’s get out of here,” Fernando says finally, leading the way back to the Mercedes motorhome. “We’ve got a race to win this weekend, and I don’t want any distractions.”

You follow him, but there’s a spring in your step that wasn’t there before, and Fernando notices. He doesn’t say anything, though, just smiles to himself. You’re going to be just fine, he thinks, more than fine.

As you walk together, side by side, you can’t help but glance back once more, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Maybe, just maybe, this season is going to be full of surprises. And Fernando? Well, he’s ready for whatever comes next, as long as you are too.

***

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the vineyard where the ceremony is taking place. Rows of chairs are lined up neatly on the manicured lawn, all facing a simple yet elegant archway draped in white fabric and adorned with soft blush roses. The air is filled with the quiet murmur of guests settling in, the occasional laugh breaking through the serene atmosphere.

Fernando adjusts his tie, glancing around with a mixture of pride and disbelief. How did they get here? It seems like only yesterday he was meeting you for the first time, a determined young driver who refused to be underestimated. Now, here you are, standing at the altar, poised to marry the man you’ve chosen to spend your life with.

Fernando is seated in the front row, just to the left of the aisle, with Mark Webber by his side. The two exchange knowing smiles as the ceremony begins, each lost in their own thoughts. Mark has watched Oscar grow from a promising young talent into a man of integrity and strength, much like Fernando has done with you. There’s a quiet understanding between them, a mutual respect that goes beyond words.

As the officiant begins to speak, Fernando leans over slightly, catching Mark’s eye. “I guess this makes us in-laws,” he whispers, a hint of amusement in his voice.

Mark chuckles softly, nodding. “Seems like it. Didn’t see this coming back when we were racing, did we?”

“Not at all,” Fernando replies with a smile, glancing back at the altar where you and Oscar stand, hand-in-hand. “But I’m glad it did.”

The vows are simple, heartfelt, and deeply personal. Oscar goes first, his voice steady but filled with emotion.

“From the moment I met you,” Oscar begins, his eyes locked on yours, “I knew you were different. You challenged me, inspired me, and made me want to be a better person. In a world that often felt overwhelming, you were my calm, my constant. Today, I promise to stand by your side, through every victory and every defeat. I promise to support your dreams as if they were my own, to lift you up when you’re down, and to love you unconditionally, now and forever.”

There’s a brief pause, the weight of his words hanging in the air. You squeeze his hand, your heart swelling with the depth of his sincerity. When it’s your turn, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself.

“Oscar,” you begin, your voice clear and strong, “You were the unexpected surprise in my life, the calm in my storm. From the moment we met, I knew you were special. You’ve been my partner on and off the track, my biggest supporter, and my best friend. Today, I promise to cherish every moment we have together, to grow with you, and to always be there for you, no matter what. I promise to love you with all that I am, and all that I will ever be. You are my heart, my soul, and my everything.”

Fernando feels a lump in his throat as you finish. He’s never been one to get emotional, but today, sitting here, listening to you pour your heart out, he can’t help but feel a surge of pride and love. He remembers the teenage girl who had to fight for every opportunity, the young woman who never gave up, and now, the bride standing before him, ready to take on the next chapter of her life.

The officiant speaks again, guiding you and Oscar through the final steps of the ceremony. When it’s time for the rings, Mark reaches into his pocket, retrieving Oscar’s band with a small, proud smile. Fernando does the same for you, his hands steady as he hands over the ring you will soon place on Oscar’s finger.

“With this ring, I thee wed,” you both say, sliding the rings onto each other’s fingers. The moment is profound, sealing your commitment not just in words, but in action.

“You may kiss the bride,” the officiant finally announces, and there’s a collective sigh of happiness from the gathered crowd as Oscar leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s both tender and full of promise.

Applause erupts, and as you and Oscar turn to face your family and friends, hands still entwined, Fernando catches your eye. There’s something unspoken between you, a bond that goes beyond blood, beyond words. You smile at him, and he nods in return, his chest swelling with emotion.

The ceremony concludes, and guests begin to make their way to the reception area, where a beautifully decorated marquee awaits. The air is filled with laughter and the clinking of glasses as everyone mingles, basking in the joy of the occasion.

The second dance is a traditional one with your father. You sway gently in his arms as he whispers words of wisdom, of pride, and of love. The moment is touching, a reminder of the family that has always stood behind you, even when the road was hard.

When the song ends, you hug your father tightly, thanking him for everything. But as the music transitions into something new, you catch Fernando’s eye across the room. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then you make your way towards him, your heart pounding in your chest.

“Nando,” you say softly as you reach him, “would you join me for a dance?”

For a brief moment, Fernando is taken aback. He’s always seen you as a strong, independent force — someone who has always forged their own path. But in this moment, he realizes just how much you’ve come to mean to him, how deeply intertwined your lives have become.

“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

You nod, your eyes shining with emotion. “You’ve been like a father to me. I couldn’t imagine today without sharing this moment with you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he takes your hand. The two of you move to the center of the dance floor, the music soft and slow. As you begin to dance, there’s a sense of calm that settles over you both, a quiet understanding that needs no words.

“I’ve watched you grow,” Fernando says after a few moments, his voice low so only you can hear, “into one of the best drivers I’ve ever known, but more than that … into an incredible person. I’m so proud of you, more than I can ever say.”

Tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them back, smiling up at him. “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t be here without you.”

“You would’ve found your way,” he replies, his tone firm. “You always had it in you. I just gave you a little push.”

“A little?” You tease, and he laughs, the sound filled with warmth.

As the song comes to an end, Fernando pulls you into a tight hug, his hand resting protectively on the back of your head. “Remember, I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

“I know,” you whisper, your voice choked with emotion. “And I’ll always be here for you too.”

***

The antiseptic scent of the hospital hits Fernando the moment he steps into the delivery wing, mingling with the distant beeps of monitors and the hushed whispers of medical staff. It’s a familiar environment, yet so foreign to him. He’s used to the adrenaline rush of the pit lane, the roar of engines, the calculated chaos of racing — but this, this is something entirely different. He’s been in countless high-pressure situations, but none have ever felt like this.

As he makes his way down the hallway, his heart beats just a little faster than usual, his mind racing with thoughts of you, of Oscar, and of the tiny new life that’s just come into the world. When he reaches the door of your room, he hesitates for the briefest of moments, his hand hovering over the door handle.

It’s not that he’s nervous — Fernando Alonso doesn’t get nervous — but there’s something about this moment that feels monumental, like the start of a new chapter in a book he didn’t even realize he was writing.

He pushes the door open slowly, stepping into the room with a soft smile. The room is bathed in a warm, gentle light, far removed from the harsh brightness of the hallway. It’s quiet, peaceful, with only the faint hum of machinery and the soft breaths of the newborn breaking the silence.

You’re lying in the bed, looking tired but radiant, with a tiny bundle cradled in your arms. Oscar is beside you, his hand resting protectively on your shoulder, his eyes filled with awe and love. When you see Fernando, your face lights up, and despite the exhaustion etched into your features, there’s a warmth in your smile that makes his heart swell.

“Fernando,” you say softly, your voice hoarse but filled with joy. “Come meet him.”

He steps closer, his eyes drawn to the small figure in your arms. The baby is tiny, impossibly so, wrapped in a soft blue blanket, with a tuft of dark hair peeking out. Fernando’s breath catches in his throat as he looks down at the baby, his heart pounding in a way that’s both unfamiliar and entirely overwhelming.

“He’s perfect,” Fernando murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar grins, nodding in agreement. “We think so too.”

You shift slightly, holding the baby out toward Fernando. “Would you like to hold him?”

For a moment, Fernando hesitates. He’s held championship trophies, gripped the steering wheel at speeds that would make others blanch, but this? This is different. This is fragile, delicate, something that requires a gentleness he’s not sure he possesses. But when he sees the trust in your eyes, he nods, carefully taking the baby into his arms.

The weight is nothing — featherlight, almost — but it’s enough to make his hands tremble just the slightest bit. He cradles the baby close, his eyes wide as he studies the tiny features: the small nose, the delicate eyelids, the impossibly small fingers curled into little fists. The baby stirs slightly, his mouth opening in a silent yawn before settling back into a peaceful sleep.

“What’s his name?” Fernando asks, his voice thick with emotion.

You exchange a glance with Oscar before looking back at Fernando, your smile widening. “His name is Theodore,” you say softly, “Theodore Fernando Piastri.”

Fernando’s breath catches, his eyes snapping up to meet yours. For a moment, he’s speechless, his mind struggling to process what he’s just heard.

“Fernando?” He repeats, his voice barely audible.

You nod, your eyes shining with unshed tears. “We wanted to honor you. You’ve been like a father to me, and now … now you’re going to be a part of his life too. It just felt right.”

Fernando stares at you, his heart swelling with a mixture of pride, love, and something else — something deeper, something he’s never quite felt before. He looks down at Theodore, his namesake, and for the first time in a long while, he feels his eyes prick with tears.

“You … you didn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice choked with emotion.

“But we wanted to,” Oscar says, his voice firm but kind. “You’ve done so much for us, for Y/N. It’s our way of saying thank you.”

Fernando swallows hard, nodding as he blinks back the tears threatening to spill over. He’s always prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions in check, but this — this is something else entirely. This is a depth of feeling he wasn’t prepared for.

“Thank you,” he finally says, his voice thick. “It means … it means more to me than you can ever know.”

He looks back down at Theodore, his heart full to bursting. The baby stirs again, his tiny fingers twitching, and Fernando smiles, the tears finally spilling over as he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Grandpa Nando,” you say suddenly, your voice filled with affection. “That’s what we’re going to call you. How do you feel about that?”

Fernando lets out a laugh, the sound watery and full of joy. “I think I can get used to that,” he says, his voice trembling with emotion. “Grandpa Nando. I like it.”

You smile at him, your eyes soft with affection. “I’m glad. You’ve been a father figure to me, and now … now you get to be a grandfather to him.”

The room falls into a comfortable silence, the weight of the moment settling over all of you. Fernando can’t stop staring at Theodore, can’t stop marveling at the tiny life in his arms. He’s held many titles in his life — champion, driver, mentor — but this, this feels different. This feels like the most important role he’s ever played.

As he stands there, cradling the tiny life in his arms, he feels a sense of peace settle over him. This is where he’s meant to be, here with you, with Oscar, with Theodore. He’s not just a mentor anymore; he’s family. And that, more than anything, is the greatest victory he’s ever achieved.

Finally, after what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, Fernando carefully hands Theodore back to you, his heart heavy with emotion. You take your son into your arms, holding him close as you smile up at Fernando, your eyes filled with gratitude.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For everything. For being there for me, for guiding me, for … for being a part of our lives.”

Fernando shakes his head, a small, tearful smile on his lips. “No, thank you. You’ve given me more than I ever could have imagined. You — you and Oscar, and now Theodore — you’re my family. And there’s nothing more important to me than that.”

You reach out, taking his hand in yours, and for a moment, the two of you just stand there, connected by something deeper than words, deeper than racing, deeper than anything Fernando has ever known.

This is what it means to be family, he realizes. This is what it means to love, to care, to be there for each other, no matter what. And as he stands there, his heart full to bursting, he knows that this, more than any championship, more than any victory on the track, is what truly matters.

This is his greatest achievement.

2K notes · View notes