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papayainsectorone · 13 days ago

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type 7 ✦ the enthusiast

moodboard ✦ the story ✦ overview

how wonderful to see a smile on your face it costs farewell tears for a welcome-home parade a secret handshake between me and my one life i’ll find the silver lining no matter what the price ♫

✦ after the last lap

✦ enneagram series

✦ summary

a story of daniel ricciardo as an enneagram seven, from restless escape and excess, through distraction and denial, to finally finding freedom in presence and grounded joy

✦ content

avoidance, restlessness, fear of stillness, alcohol use, overindulgence/binge behaviors, references to unhealthy coping, manic energy/mood swings, emotional avoidance through humor & distraction, teeeeny tiny non graphic smut

✦ 5,7 k words

He didn’t climb out of the cockpit right away. He just sat there, helmet off, eyes closed, like the car was the only thing holding him up. From where you stood beyond the barriers, you could see his hands locked tight around the wheel, knuckles white even though the race was long over. To the cameras, it probably looked like he was soaking it in. To you, it looked like he was scared to let go.

Later, he’d admit it, voice low and scratchy. “A lot of emotions. I am aware it could be it. Just exhausted after the race… just wanted to savour the moment.”

There was pride in it too. You heard it, because you knew how badly he needed something to hold onto. Even from eighteenth, he found it, the fastest lap of the day. To the fans, it was a sweet reminder of who he’d been all these years. To him, it was proof the spark was still there, even at the end.

The crowd voted him Driver of the Day. Max came over the radio, teasing him, thanking him for stealing a point from Lando. Daniel laughed, cracked a joke about Christmas presents, dimples flashing like muscle memory. Everyone else heard vintage Ricciardo.

You heard how late the laugh came. You heard the thin edge in his voice.

And then came the question. The one everyone’s been circling around, waiting for: what about next season?

He pauses. Too long. His eyes slide past the microphones, past the crowd, fixed on something you can’t see. “Ah… yeah, I dunno. I think I just need a bit of a break, y’know? Been a long… few years.”

It’s that pause before few years that guts you. Because you know exactly what’s packed into it. The lonely flights where his voice over the phone sounded more static than laughter. The empty hotel rooms where he’d Facetime you, grin stuck on like duct tape. The mornings when he dragged himself out of bed, out of his own doubt, and told himself it was still fun. He’s been making everything light for so long — even when it wasn’t. And you’ve watched the toll it’s taken.

When the interviews finally end, he does what he always does. Turns to the fans, grins wide, waves bigger. They roar for him, grateful for the sunshine he’s always been.

But you see it the second the cameras swing away — the way his shoulders sag, the way his face softens, the exhaustion spilling through before he hauls the smile back up again.

You’d known him too long not to see it. You knew the rhythm of his laugh, the difference between joy and performance. He thought he was hiding it well, but Daniel Ricciardo never could hide from you. Not when you’d memorized every version of his smile — the easy ones, the sharp ones, the ones that cost him to hold.

Later, in the hotel, he couldn’t stop moving. The room was still, but he filled it like a storm — suitcase unzipping and zipping again, footsteps scuffing across the carpet, the TV flashing nonsense as he flicked through channels too fast to catch.

“Room service?” he asked, tossing the menu onto the bed like it was burning his fingers. “Thinking… four burgers. Maybe five. One for each stage of grief, right?” He grinned, dimples deep, waiting for you to crack.

You didn’t. You just looked at him. The silence between you was louder than the TV. His grin slipped.

He tried again, phone already in his hand, thumb scrolling like a lifeline. “See?” He shoved it toward you. “People still love me. Driver of the Day, baby. Guess that counts for something.”

The laugh that followed was thin, stretched too tight — a thread about to snap.

You slid closer, took the phone gently from his hands and set it on the nightstand. Then you pressed your forehead to his, closing the gap he kept trying to widen with noise.

“It counts,” you said softly. “But it’s not everything.”

For a moment he stayed frozen, breathing too fast, chest tight against yours like he couldn’t decide whether to break or keep patching himself together. Then, slowly, he gave in, dropping his head into the crook of your neck.

Your arms went around him without thinking. You’d held him like this so many times before — after podiums, after parties, after nights when the champagne and adrenaline made him too loud to sit still. But this wasn’t that. He still smelled of sweat and track and exhaustion, but underneath was something rawer, sharper. Grief he wouldn’t let anyone else see.

“I love you, Daniel,” you whispered into his curls, your voice steadier than you felt.

There was a pause, then his voice came muffled against your skin. “I love you.” He shifted, pressing a kiss against your collarbone, almost tentative. “I don’t say it enough, huh?”

“You don’t have to,” you murmured, stroking his hair. “I see it anyway.”

He gave a little huff, half laugh, half sigh. “Lucky you’ve got the decoder ring for me, then.”

This time, when he tilted his head up to kiss you, there was a smile on his face that felt less like a mask and more like gratitude.

And then he kissed the side of your throat, soft and sudden, like he had to prove the words he couldn’t say out loud. You giggled, caught off guard by the ticklish scrape of his stubble. He pulled back just far enough to look at you, grinning.

This smile wasn’t the brittle one he’d been forcing all night. It wasn’t armor, wasn’t for the cameras. It was smaller. Real. Grateful.

“Better reaction than the burger joke,” he murmured, brushing his lips along your jaw before kissing your neck again.

You shook your head, laughing softly now, fingers threading into his curls. His grin widened, and for a moment the weight he’d been dragging around seemed to ease, just a little.

His kisses trailed up from your neck, light and testing, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to cross from comfort into something more. You giggled again, and he grinned wider, boyish warmth breaking through the cracks in him.

When his eyes finally met yours, they were clearer. No cameras. No bravado. Just Daniel — tired, raw, and letting you see all of it.

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes darker, softer, something breaking and remaking itself all at once. Then he kissed you, not cautious this time, not tentative, but hungry in a way that still felt reverent.

His hands slipped under your shirt, rough palms dragging over your waist as if he was memorizing you by touch alone. You gasped softly when his fingers spread wide across your back, pulling you closer, and he groaned into your mouth like the sound was pulled straight from him.

The kiss deepened, messy and breathless, all teeth and heat until he slowed again, pressing smaller kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, lingering like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to make you laugh or make you gasp. You did both, and the grin that curved against your skin was the most alive you’d seen him all night.

When he eased you back against the pillows, his weight settling carefully over you, you felt the tension vibrating through him. Not nerves, but urgency — the need to drown out the silence, the grief, in something real. His forehead pressed to yours as he moved against you, slow at first, then deeper, until his breath came rough and uneven.

“God, you feel—” he broke off, biting back a curse, kissing you again hard enough that words weren’t needed. His hands framed your face, his curls brushing against your cheek, his body shaking with every motion.

You held him close, legs wrapping around him, grounding him as he moved with you, each thrust a mix of desperation and devotion. He whispered your name like a prayer, broken up by kisses, by half-laughs that dissolved into shuddering breaths when you moaned beneath him.

“Don’t leave,” he gasped, the words tumbling out raw, almost pleading.

You kissed him back, firm and certain. “I’m not. I’m here. Always.”

That undid him. He buried his face against your neck, his rhythm faltering, his voice breaking on a groan as you pulled him through it. The release was messy, hot, overwhelming — not performance, not bravado, just the two of you unraveling together.

After, he stayed pressed to you, chest heaving, lips still brushing your skin like he couldn’t stop reminding himself you were real. His weight was heavy, grounding, his arm sliding instinctively over your stomach as though to stake his claim.

And when the quiet finally came back, he didn’t try to fill it. He just breathed with you, his body warm against yours, until the smallest sound slipped out — a laugh that cracked halfway into a sob.

The ranch should have been peaceful. Wide skies, crisp air, mornings that stretched without alarm clocks or packed suitcases. You’d told yourself it would be good for him, good for both of you — a soft landing after years of airports and noise. A place where he could finally breathe.

But the quiet only seemed to make the cracks louder.

Daniel filled every hour like he was racing something invisible. Fixing fence posts that weren’t broken, restacking tools he’d lined up perfectly the day before. He whistled while he worked, tuneless and too loud, like the sound itself might drown out whatever waited in the silence.

You leaned on the porch rail, arms tucked against the chill, watching the hammer swing with more force than the hinge deserved. The gate rattled with every blow.

“You know,” you called, “that thing was perfectly fine last week.”

He didn’t stop right away. One more hit, then he leaned back, wiping sweat from his brow with his forearm. When he finally looked over, the grin was already in place — sweat darkening his shirt, curls plastered to his forehead. “Yeah, but now it’s perfectly perfectly fine.” He gave you a wink. “Standards, babe. Can’t let the ranch go downhill.”

His laugh rang out across the yard, loud and easy. To anyone else, it would’ve sounded real. But you weren’t anyone else. You saw how his grip stayed tight around the handle, knuckles pale. You saw the way his gaze slipped back to the metal, refusing to meet yours.

“Maybe you could… not fix things for an afternoon?” you said carefully, tilting your head. “Just sit with me. Let the hinge live dangerously for once.”

That earned you another grin, brighter this time, but still too quick. “What, and give up my new career as handyman of the year? Not a chance.” He swung the hammer again, a little too hard, a little too sharp.

You smiled faintly, but your chest ached. You knew what he was doing — patching every crack except the one that mattered.

He twirled the hammer in his hand, spinning it like a toy. “Retired life, baby. This is what people do. Next step is golf.” His dimples flashed, quick and sharp, but the spark never reached his eyes.

You didn’t bother answering. Instead, you stepped off the porch and crossed the yard, dust crunching under your shoes until you were close enough to catch the sour tang of sweat and sawdust clinging to him. Close enough to notice the tiny tremor in his hand when he finally let the hammer fall to his side.

He tilted his head, grin softer now, uncertain. “What?”

You shook your head, brushing a damp curl off his forehead. “Nothing.”

But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. You could see it in the set of his jaw, in the way he needed motion like oxygen. He wasn’t fixing a gate. He was fixing the ache — patching every crack but the one inside. And he wanted you to believe the grin, the wink, the easy jokes.

That night at dinner, he placed a steaming plate in front of you with all the drama of a five-star waiter. “Chef Ricciardo,” he announced grandly. “Michelin’s gonna be calling me any day now.”

The pasta sagged in the middle, sauce pooling in the edges, but he kept the show going, voice bright, smile wide. He narrated every bite as if you were filming a cooking special. “Texture: divine. Flavor profile: groundbreaking. A revolution in carbohydrates.”

You laughed because he wanted you to, even though the food was mushy and the joke was thin. His eyes flicked up at the sound, searching your face, holding on for a heartbeat too long, like your laugh was proof he could still make something feel good.

You played along, smiling, nodding at his commentary until you finally reached across the table and laid your hand over his. The fork stilled mid-air. For a second, something slipped — the grin faltered, his eyes softened, and you caught a glimpse of the ache he kept patching with jokes.

You thought maybe he’d say it. Maybe the words would finally come. But then he blinked, swallowed, pulled the smile back into place, and asked lightly if you wanted dessert.

Nights were the hardest. He never seemed to settle, limbs tangling in the sheets, flipping from side to side as though still chasing corners of a racetrack. His voice filled the dark like a shield — rambling stories about the dogs, a podcast he half-listened to, the sudden thought of whether kangaroos could clear the barn roof if they really tried. His words tumbled fast and bright, and you laughed softly in the right places because that’s what he wanted. That’s what kept the shadows away.

But eventually the words ran out. Silence pressed heavy between you, unrelenting.

You turned to him, laying a palm against his chest. His heart hammered beneath your hand, frantic and uneven. “You don’t have to keep talking,” you whispered.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time, jaw clenched, like he was afraid of what would happen if he stopped. Then, at last, he rolled toward you, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you in close, like if he held tight enough he might stop unraveling.

His body was tense, humming with leftover energy he couldn’t burn off, but his breathing slowed against your shoulder, inch by inch.

You held him until it eased. Until the performance fell away. Until it was just him — raw, quiet, human. Out here, without cameras or noise, he couldn’t outrun the weight pressing in on him. But in your arms, at least, he didn’t have to carry it alone.

It wasn’t always like this. Sometimes he came in late from the barn, dust in his hair, sweat drying on his neck. You’d already be in bed, book half-forgotten in your hands, when he slid in beside you without a word. He pressed his face into your shoulder and stayed there, breathing unevenly, like he couldn’t decide whether he was holding back laughter or tears.

“You’re quiet tonight,” you whispered once, fingers threading through his curls, damp and messy from work.

“Mm. Don’t really trust myself if I start talking,” he muttered against your skin. Then, almost reflexively, he tilted his head back, half-grin tugging at his mouth, dimples flashing like armor. “Might say something soft and ruin my reputation.”

You couldn’t help but smile, even as your chest ached. “I think your reputation can handle it.”

His grin wavered, softened, and for a moment the weight in his eyes was unguarded. He kissed your collarbone then, light and fleeting, like gratitude disguised as affection.

And you knew — as much as he wanted to joke it all away, as much as he tried to outrun the silence — these were the cracks where the truth slipped through. Where he let you see him.

For a little while, it seemed like those nights steadied him. He woke earlier, sometimes made you coffee, even hummed under his breath while feeding the dogs. He kissed your temple on his way past, asked what you wanted for breakfast, filled the kitchen with noise that almost sounded like peace. You let yourself believe it meant something had shifted.

But the stillness never held for long.

Soon the mornings stretched later. He stayed under the covers with the phone glow painting his face, eyes shadowed as he scrolled. Sometimes he’d shove the screen toward you, laughter too sharp, almost pleading. “Look at this, babe, it’s hilarious. Come on, laugh with me.” You did, because he needed you to. But the grin on his face flickered, stretched too tight.

The pantry filled with snacks that went stale, cases of beer ordered and forgotten, bottles abandoned on porch steps or tucked under the couch. Nights blurred into static — movies started and dropped, channels flicked too fast to follow, words scattered in all directions like he was running from silence.

One evening, you came back from town and heard the music before you even reached the porch. It rattled the barn walls, too loud, too bright against the quiet of dusk. Inside, he stood swaying beside the tractor, shirt streaked with grease, a bottle dangling from his hand. Tools lay scattered across the floor like broken pieces of something he couldn’t name.

“Look at her!” he called out, his grin too wide, eyes too glassy. “She’s gonna run smoother than ever. All she needed was a little love.”

You leaned against the doorway, taking it all in — the chaos, the sway in his stance, the half-gutted machine. “Daniel,” you said softly, careful, “it didn’t need fixing.”

For a heartbeat, he froze. Then he threw his head back and laughed, big and booming, loud enough to scrape the air. “Everything needs fixing! That’s the fun of it.”

But later, when you reached for him, sliding your hand down his arm, his skin was clammy. He shifted without even seeming to notice, eyes slipping past you, unfocused. For the first time, he didn’t lean into your touch.

You stayed there anyway, close enough to smell the bitter edge of beer on his breath, close enough to see the exhaustion leaking through the grin. He thought he was convincing you, hiding inside the role he’d perfected for years. But you’d seen him at every angle — high on champagne, dimples deep, laughing until his voice cracked, and low in the aftermath of losses, cracking jokes before the ache could settle.

This was different. This wasn’t just a bad race. This was him unraveling.

And for the first time, the thought slipped sharp and unwelcome through your chest: what if even you weren’t enough to keep him together?

The days turned unpredictable, like living inside a coin toss. Some mornings he was all charm and mischief, pulling you into the kitchen to dance barefoot to some ridiculous pop song blaring from his phone. He’d spin you clumsily, laughing when you bumped into the counter, planting a kiss on your temple like nothing in the world was wrong.

But by afternoon, he’d be gone. You’d look up from whatever you were doing and realize the house was silent. Hours later, you’d spot him across the fields, a lone figure moving slow along the fenceline, or hunched by a post with tools he didn’t need. When you asked, he’d shrug. Walk got too long. Fence needed mending. Always excuses, always something to fix.

The nights got worse. He tossed between extremes: chattering endlessly, pacing the length of the room like a caged animal, or collapsing into heavy silence that seemed to fill the air. You’d lie beside him, listening to the staccato rhythm of his breathing, bracing yourself for whichever version of him you’d wake up to in the morning.

When you asked if he was okay, he never answered straight. Always the same routine — a joke, a grin, a little deflection. “Better than okay. Living the dream. Five-star retirement plan.” His smile cracked too easily, his jokes cut a little too sharp, sometimes turning cruel in ways he’d aim only at himself. You laughed along when he wanted you to, but each time it left your chest heavier.

The distance grew in ways you couldn’t ignore. His restlessness wasn’t just energy anymore. It was escape. And every time you reached for him, you felt him slipping further — not away from you, but away from himself.

The spiral came slowly at first, then all at once.

He started staying up later and later, disappearing into the barn with a beer in one hand and a project in the other — always some half-broken thing that didn’t need fixing. When you went to check on him, you’d find the lights blazing, music pounding, Daniel sprawled across the tractor seat or lying flat on the dusty floor, laughing at something only he understood. His eyes were too bright, the kind of brightness that made your stomach twist.

“Don’t worry, babe,” he shouted over the noise once, gesturing at a mess of tools and bolts. “I’m a genius. Tomorrow, this thing’ll be flying. We’ll race it down the road, leave everyone in the dust.” His grin was boyish, manic, so wide it looked like it hurt. And for a heartbeat, you almost believed him.

The next morning, you found him asleep in the straw, an empty bottle tipped beside his hand, grease smudged across his cheek like war paint. The so-called genius project hadn’t been touched.

You knelt beside him, brushing the curls from his damp forehead. For a second, watching him like that, he looked younger — softer, vulnerable in a way he never let anyone see. But the ache in your chest reminded you of the truth: he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a man unraveling in slow motion, and you were the only one here to watch the pieces scatter.

He binged everything — food, drink, noise. The house became a blur of excess, as if he was afraid of leaving any second empty. Entire seasons of shows devoured in one night, half the episodes forgotten as soon as the credits rolled. Pizzas ordered two at a time, boxes stacked haphazardly on the counter. His phone never stopped glowing, thumb flying as he cycled through videos, music, messages, back and forth until it all blurred together.

“Look, look, this one’s hilarious,” he’d insist, shoving the screen into your face. His laughter was too sharp, too loud, the kind that cracked on the edges. “I can’t stop.”

You laughed when he wanted you to, but the sound felt brittle in your own throat. Because you could see it — the jagged desperation under every grin.

And then the pendulum would swing. He’d vanish into silence, shut down completely, retreating to the far fields without answering your calls. You’d stand at the porch, scanning the horizon until you spotted him: a lone figure hunched against the fence line, hands shoved deep in his pockets like he could fold himself in half. Hours later, he’d return with a wink, a shrug, a quick joke about losing track of time. But his eyes never met yours, darting restless, as if the simple act of being seen was too much weight to carry.

One night, the sound of footsteps pulled you from sleep. You blinked into the dark to see him pacing the length of the bedroom, muttering under his breath.

“Daniel?” you whispered.

He turned, grinning, but it was a fragile, forced curve of his mouth. “Making plans,” he said brightly. “Big ones. Maybe I’ll open a bar. Or a restaurant. Or—hell—move to space, why not? We’ll have fun up there. I just can’t sit still, you know? Drives me mad.”

His voice cracked on the last word, and he turned away before you could answer.

You reached for him anyway, hand brushing his wrist, but he shook you off gently. Not unkindly, but already gone, already searching for the next distraction like your touch might pin him somewhere he couldn’t bear to be.

The house filled with his chaos. Empty bottles clinked underfoot, projects abandoned halfway, laughter that rang too loud at the wrong moments. And then the silences, long and heavy, when he wouldn’t let you in at all.

You held him when he let you, curled yourself around him when his body finally crashed into sleep, sweat dampening his shirt and his arm heavy across your chest. You watched him when he didn’t let you close, from doorways, from across the room, cataloguing every fidget, every restless movement.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, you started to wonder how much further he could run before there was nothing left to escape into. Because he wasn’t just outrunning the silence anymore. He was outrunning himself.

The breaking point came on a gray afternoon. The ranch was hushed, air heavy with the kind of silence that presses in from every side. Daniel had been gone most of the day, somewhere out by the far fence line, and when he finally came in, his shirt was streaked with dirt, his eyes glassy from sun and exhaustion.

Daniel was in the kitchen, rinsing his hands after feeding the horses. Water splashed over his wrists, trickling into the basin, the sound steady and ordinary. You leaned against the counter, trying for casual, though your pulse betrayed you, thudding so hard it filled your ears.

“Hey,” you said lightly, “I left my hat outside on the post. Can you grab it for me?”

He didn’t hesitate, just nodded, shaking the last drops of water from his fingers before pushing through the screen door. The familiar squeak trailed after him, and the kitchen fell silent in its wake.

You stayed where you were, palms flat on the counter to steady yourself. You pictured it so clearly — him spotting the picture, throwing his head back with that big unstoppable laugh, shouting your name, bursting back inside with all the brightness you’d missed. For a moment, the thought made you smile.

But the seconds stretched. And stretched.

The refrigerator hummed loud in the stillness, the tick of the clock unbearably sharp. Your smile faltered. A knot of unease coiled low in your chest.

You stepped toward the door, pushed it open slowly. The hinges groaned, the sound cutting through the heavy air.

He was there by the fence post, the hat dangling forgotten from one hand, the picture trembling in the other. His shoulders were rigid, his head bowed, as if the weight of what he was holding had pinned him in place.

“Dan?” you called softly, your throat tight. Without thinking, your hand drifted to your belly, protective, nervous.

He turned at the sound of your voice. His cheeks were wet, eyes red, the lines of his face etched deep with something you couldn’t quite name. He looked like a man who had been running for miles and had finally stopped, finally realized there was nowhere left to go.

His voice came quiet, almost reverent. “Is this… true?”

Your nod was small, hesitant, but he saw it.

And then his lips began to curve. Slowly, tentatively at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. But it grew, spreading until the dimples pressed into his cheeks, until his eyes crinkled at the corners. The kind of smile that didn’t just live on his mouth, but radiated outward, filling the space between you like sunlight after a storm.

It was the smile you hadn’t seen in weeks. The one that once felt unshakable, the one you thought you’d lost to exhaustion and grief. And now it was here again — not forced, not for the cameras, but real.

He didn’t run to you like you’d imagined. He walked, slow and steady, each step weighted with something new. When he reached you, he lifted a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your skin. The picture stayed clutched in his other hand, thumb moving back and forth across the grainy image as if it was the most fragile thing in the world.

“We’re… we’re having a baby,” he murmured, disbelief tangled with awe.

You nodded again, tears blurring your vision. “We are.”

His forehead dropped to yours, his breath warm and shaky against your lips. You felt him smile, felt the tremor in his body as he pulled you close — not frantic, not desperate, but steady. For the first time in so long, he wasn’t running, wasn’t searching for escape. He was here. With you. With this.

Later that night, the two of you lay tangled in the dark, the room still except for the low hum of the crickets outside the window. His hand rested protectively over your stomach, thumb brushing absent circles against your skin like he was already trying to soothe someone who wasn’t there yet.

He kept murmuring little plans into the quiet — almost childlike, almost shy. Colors for a nursery. Names he half-joked about, but you could tell he was testing the sound of them, rolling them over like secret treasures. Promises spilled out too, some silly, some solemn. “I’ll teach them to ride a bike. Or maybe a horse. We’ll make sure they never like pineapples on pizza. They’ll know what a proper shoey is, but they’ll never actually do one, don’t worry.”

His voice carried a brightness you hadn’t heard in months. Wide awake, alive, as if sleep might steal this fragile future from him if he dared to close his eyes.

You shifted slightly, your hand sliding over his where it lay across your belly. “Are you happy?” you asked softly.

He stilled for a moment. You felt the breath leave him, heavier than before, before he answered. “I’ve always been,” he whispered, voice rough but certain. “It was just… difficult.”

You turned in the dark until you could see him, his features faint in the dim light. His eyes were glassy but not with the old exhaustion. This was something different — something breaking open inside him.

“Difficult doesn’t mean unhappy,” he added quickly, as though he needed you to know the difference. “I had you. I have you. I have… everything. I just—” His voice cracked, and he laughed softly, shaking his head. “I just forgot how to hold it sometimes. Kept looking for the next thing instead of staying with what I already had.”

You pressed your forehead to his, heart heavy and light all at once. “Then maybe this is the thing that makes you stay.”

His hand pressed more firmly against your stomach, grounding himself there. He smiled in the dark, and you felt it rather than saw it. “Yeah,” he breathed. “This is the thing.”

The days after the reveal felt different, even in small ways. Daniel still woke with that familiar restless energy, but now it had direction. Instead of pacing the kitchen or drowning himself in noise, he moved with purpose.

Breakfast became a ritual again. He’d hum while scrambling eggs, sliding a plate in front of you with a shy grin like he’d invented the idea. “Got to keep you fed,” he’d joke, but there was a warmth in his eyes you hadn’t seen for months.

In the barn, his endless tinkering transformed. No more frantic, half-finished projects. He cleared a space on the workbench, pointing at it with a spark of mischief. “Future projects,” he said vaguely, but you caught the flicker of pride, the way his hand lingered on the empty spot like he could already see what would fill it.

Even the nights changed. He still tossed sometimes, but when you reached for him, he didn’t pull away. His arm found your waist easily, almost instinctively, his palm wide and steady against your stomach. And instead of deflecting with jokes, he whispered soft fragments of thought in the dark, questions, hopes, the outlines of a life he was already building in his head.

One afternoon, you found him sitting on the porch steps with the dogs, the picture balanced in his hands. He was turning it over and over, lost in thought, a small smile playing at his lips. He didn’t notice you at first, too wrapped up in the possibilities unfolding behind his eyes. When he did, he only patted the step beside him. No words, just space for you to share the quiet.

He still carried shadows — the grief didn’t vanish overnight. Some mornings, you caught him staring too long at the horizon, jaw tight. Some evenings, his laughter edged too close to brittle. But now there was something else, something that tethered him back when he drifted too far: the thought of you, of the future tucked safely between you.

The chaos was still there, but it no longer owned him.

When he walked in one evening with a tiny yellow onesie, the soft fabric embroidered with a kangaroo, he held it out like treasure. “Figured we’d need a few of these,” he said, casual on the surface, but his smile was easy, genuine.

You took it from his hands, smoothing the little stitches with your thumb. “You went shopping?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He grinned, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. “Don’t act surprised. I’m a planner now. Responsible adult. Next thing you know I’ll be making spreadsheets.”

You laughed, and his grin widened, the dimples cutting deep, but behind it was something softer — pride, anticipation. He crossed the room in two strides, tugging you into his chest. The onesie crumpled between you as his chin rested on your hair. “Can you picture it?” he murmured. “A little one running around here. Laughing like you. Driving me mad like me.”

You tilted your head to look up at him. His eyes were bright, steady, not glassy or evasive like before. He was fully present, not racing ahead, not drowning himself in distractions. Just here, with you, and the future in his hands.

Daniel had stopped trying to outrun the silence. He had learned to sit inside it, to let it hold him as surely as he held the people he loved.

The change had come slowly: a restless chase into a joyful stay, avoidance into acceptance, a thousand unfinished escapes into one steady home.

The Enthusiast hadn’t lost his spark. He’d learned how to keep it burning without running himself dry.

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

@keepyoureyesonmeboy @ravensofblack

✦ enneagram series

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