#LIKE WHAT HAPPENEDDDDDDD | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

daechwitatamicrecs · 5 months ago

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qnouwefhqiufhuiqefheiuhfeiqufhqiufhu EXCUSE ME??????????????????????????????????????

"Despite everything her ex had pulled," - WHAT DID HE DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

hahahaha I MAYBE GOT A LITTLE TEARY WHEN HE GOT OUT OF THE CAR???????????? BUT WE'RE GONNA BLAME THAT ON MENSTRUATION

"I don't know, Kim. Why don't you go ask the idol you fucked?" - the GASP I JUST LET OUT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ok i had seen spoilers AGES ago so i knew there was a cheating storyline for them somewhere IS IT THIS? AOIUFHAWIUFHAUIFH WHAT HAPPENEDDDDDDD and why is she mad at ALL OF THEM over itttt ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

His tone when he interrupted Christian was… familiar - lmao yeah girl his tone said "dont talk to my woman that way" and i love him :')

“I think he was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my entire life," - girl you are soooooooooooooooo very correct actually

dilara: ah yes he feels guilty this is atonement and nothing else me: he still loves you, you moron

HE DROVE AN HOUR EACH WAY TO GET HER A FUCKING COFFEE ASOIUFHAIUFHAUIFHUIAHFUIWQHFFHUFH part of me wants to be like I WILL FORGIVE WHATEVER HE DOES but i also dont want to eat my words later if you manage to make me actually hate him aoiufhiquwhfwiuqfh

w8hfaiufhuqiwfhuh i shit you not, i went "OHHHHHHH. OH!!!!!!" in HORROR, FULLY OUT LOUD when he called her baby in the kitchen. oh my GOD.

GODDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDDD

this one is my new favorite okay bye!

Monza (Taehyung x OC)

Summary: You're in a pickle and, unfortunately, your ex-boyfriend is the only one around to help.

Pairing: Taehyung x OC

Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort

Word count: 8.6 K

Rating: 18+

Warnings: language, heartbreak, injury, anxiety

A/N: Set approximately two months after In Time. The sarcasm is off the charts in this one so proceed with caution. Credits to the loveliest beta readers @meirkive and @jeoniius: thank you so so much Mei and Tannie for the feedback and the reactions <3

Tagging: @bbl32, @quarter-life-crisis2, @dreaming-with-happiness, @kflixnet, @k-radio

Listen to: “100 words” by prateek kuhad

taehyung masterlist | main masterlist

There are bad people in this world. Terrible people, selfish people. There are people who head the most evil corporations in the world, taking money from hard workers and polluting the world; people who don’t believe in basic forms of human equality; and then the obviously terrible people - your serial killers and whatnot.

As she sneaks out of the idyllic bungalow in Monza at six am, Dilara reflects on this, and the fact that she was certainly one of these people in a past life. Maybe she killed someone. Maybe she started a war that killed many someones. She’d definitely done something, because as far as she’s concerned, it remains the only logical explanation for why she’s being forced to live, work and breathe in the same air space as her estranged ex-boyfriend.

It’s been less than two weeks since this ridiculous arrangement has been in motion. After the disastrous meeting in Yeongam, where she’d been ambushed with the news of this marketing plan, she’d gone to Seoul with her friends and proceeded to be the worst travel companion on earth. There had just been the race in Hungary after that before the month-long summer break had begun, and she’d scurried back to London to wrap herself in a blanket and wallow over her own bad luck.

For the first three weeks, she’d tried to block out any and every thought about the band and the impending arrangement, but the multiple discussions around logistics and travel made that impossible. She’d even tried her best to get out of it; she’d called Christian with a week to go, panicking at how close it was, nonchalantly mentioning if it wouldn’t be better that she could live close to the paddock, just to be safe.

“Don’t worry, you’ll be in the usual motorhome for most races,” he’d reassured her, as a dog barked in the background. “Take the win, Dilara. You get to live in the fanciest houses money can rent for the rest of the time.”

She didn’t know how to tell him that as the smallest driver on the grid, living in a luxury motorhome that’s bigger than many apartments was really not a problem for her. In fact, she’d be okay living in a secondhand car over sharing a fancy chalet with BTS, but the words died in her throat when he, once again, brought up just how important this was for Red Bull.

The first race after the summer break was in Belgium, last week. Spa-Francorchamps was a beautiful circuit, one of her favourites, set in the hills with the addictive air of excitement at the season resuming. However, she’d been able to enjoy none of that, having been asked to arrive on Wednesday for PR, four days before the actual race.

It had been hell. While Spa, as it turned out, was one of the locations where she’d thankfully been assigned a motorhome of her own near the circuit, it was still less than half a block away from the house BTS was staying at. She’d done everything in her power to ignore them entirely until she’d had no choice but to acknowledge them once the cameras had started rolling.

Max had been with her, fortunately, but it still didn’t dim the presence of all seven of them, particularly V, who seemed to be actively manoeuvring situations to try and talk to her. She couldn’t believe the audacity of him, which spurred her even more to try and avoid them at all costs, despite living in their backyard.

After Spa, Dilara had been asked to fly with them to Italy, for the next race in Monza. She’d ensured her cell phone, earphones and tablet were all fully charged, along with keeping two novels, her Kindle, and a bottle of sleeping pills to knock her out if none of the other tactics to ignore them worked.

A legendary race, Monza; she’d been hoping that this weekend, at least, BTS would not be the focus. Vicki, Red Bull’s press officer, had texted her the schedule on Wednesday; to her immense relief, there actually wasn’t any PR to do with BTS - or nothing that she had to do anyway. The group was still in Monza for press, but she was thankfully kept out of it.

However, this was also one of the locations where her motorhome would not be functional. Given how small the town is, even the hotels were not approved by Big Hit for their precious idols, and she’d found herself being graciously offered a bedroom in a fancy bungalow located fifteen minutes away from the track, with BTS and Max as her roommates.

It hadn’t occurred to her until then, amidst the haze of heartbreak and fury, that underneath everything, Dilara actually liked those guys. Despite everything her ex had pulled, the rest of them remained… nice, even if she was reminded every now and then that they were and always would be on his side. They weren’t forcing her to talk to them, but they weren’t ignoring her either. Of course, the scope for either was low, for she avoided staying inside as much as she could, returning only to sleep and use the gym.

The only time she’d attempted anything else had been yesterday afternoon, a bright Thursday, when her hunger had overtaken her humiliation, and she’d ventured into the kitchen to try and put together some semblance of a meal. So far, since Lexie hadn’t been able to join her due to a family emergency, Dilara had been surviving on microwavable salads and energy bars. Yesterday, though… she’d been starving and Monza had failed her when it came to food.

As it turned out, all it took to finally acknowledge one of the members outside of work was an attempt at cooking. One burnt egg and an overturned frying pan later, she’d found herself sitting at the kitchen island in silence while Seokjin made her a sandwich, tactfully leaving her to eat it alone.

He’d asked if she wanted to join them, though. She’d hesitated for a fraction of a second and glanced out of the window into the backyard, where the rest of them laughed and slurped ramen. The sight had made her feel incredibly lonely, and she’d simply swallowed and shook her head, quietly thanking him before retiring into her room.

However, even the first nice exchange she has with a band member can’t do much to improve her overall situation. She’s still avoiding them, her chest still hurts being in their presence, and the crushing humiliation still exists to the point where she can’t bring herself to look them in the eye.

On Friday morning, Dilara has had enough. Even yesterday at the paddock was painful at best; a few organisers from the Italian GP team actually came over to the garage to meet the band, gushing and going on about what an honour it was to have them on the paddock. The band responded graciously, thanking Red Bull for their hospitality and whatnot, while Dilara stood in the corner and tried not to throw up.

She leaves the house at six am. Since it’s free practice day, she figures she should ideally do nothing but some basic cardio to pump her up for the rest of the day. If there’s one thing the village of Monza has, it’s good weather; with nothing but her phone and earphones, she heads out for a run.

It’s a nice, empty path she runs along, and the quiet is refreshing because try as she might to avoid the band in the house, one thing she can’t get away from is their noise. They aren’t bad roommates per se, but as musicians, they have a tendency to keep playing music and singing… a lot. There have even been moments when she’s heard Jungkook or Jimin’s voices absently sing something and it’s taken her a few moments to remember that she’s supposed to hate it. When she’d heard V singing in the kitchen one time, though, she’d turned up the music in her own room until it had drowned out his horrendously hypnotic voice.

Now, as she’s running, she hears a beep amidst the playlist she has going on. She realises what it means belatedly; all of a sudden, the music stops and she groans, for she’s sure she’d charged her earphones last night. When she checks her phone, however, she realises that while she did charge her earphones, she forgot entirely about her phone.

It’s the icing on the cake. All of a sudden, she starts crying - no, sobbing. She flops down on an empty bench and covers her face with her hands, crying out every single emotion, the constant heaviness of being around the band all the time and generally just how unfair the world is for making her go through this. It’s a reasonably long self-pity session and she’s sure any remaining kohl from yesterday has now been successfully smudged, making her face an attractive and splotchy mess.

Dilara stands up, her legs slightly wobbly, and starts slowly jogging again. She passes a small self-serve gas station and ducks through a short stretch of brambles into a blind turn, just catching a horrified face and the sound of an engine revving before she feels the wind knocked out of her and loses her balance. She feels her head hit the ground and her phone tumble out of her hand onto the road and she winces, hoping the screen hasn’t shattered. It’s only when the engine stops and a male voice starts worriedly cursing in Italian that she realises she’s been hit.

She tries to stand and lets out a gasp; a stab of pain shoots through her left ankle. She swears, an unfamiliar sense of fear going through her, realising that if she’s injured, she can’t drive today. “No, no, no…” she mutters, biting her lip and trying not to cry. A hand is placed on her shoulder.

“Scusa, scusami tanto! Mi dispiace!”

Dilara looks up, brushing her bangs out of her eyes to see a Caucasian man - no, a boy, who literally can’t be older than fifteen, peering down at her. His blue eyes are wide and he looks afraid. He continues blubbering, his voice clearly still going through puberty, cheeks red with worry and shame.

The moment he sees her face, though, he suddenly frowns. “Komyshan?” he asks, sounding partly shocked and partly starstruck. “Sei Dilara Komyshan? Red Bull?” When she nods and raises a hand for him to help her up, he suddenly lets go and looks truly terrified, before picking up his Vespa and driving away.

“What the -” She can’t believe this. “Hey! Help me! Aiutami!” But the fucker doesn’t stop. She sees his stupid blue vehicle disappear behind a turn, guessing he’s a kid who took an adult’s bike out without permission. She doesn’t know if he thought she’d snitch on him to his mum or something; either way, she’s stranded in the middle of nowhere with an injured ankle.

She struggles and gets onto her knees before crawling up to her phone, ready to call for help, when she remembers it’s out of charge. Trying hard to ignore the rising panic, she crawls across the rest of the street and sits on the pavement next to the gas station, panting from the run, the shock and the pain. She doesn’t have any choice but to wait for someone. She looks around for a payphone when she realises she has no money, cursing the picturesque towns of Europe for being so sparsely populated.

Finally, some fifteen minutes later, a small car pulls into the gas station and starts filling it up. Dilara can’t walk so she waves, and a dark-haired woman in a beret notices her. When she starts walking up to her, she sighs in relief.

“Lei parla inglese? Do you speak English?” Dilara asks hopefully.

“Si, I do,” she nods, noticing her situation now. “Are you hurt?”

“Um, yes.” Dilara realises the woman doesn’t recognise her, and she can’t help but be glad. “Can I - can I please use your phone to call a friend? Mine’s dead.”

She nods and hands over her iPhone, the screen already on the keypad. As she heads away to bring her car out front and Dilara’s about to start typing, she realises she doesn’t know Max’s number. In any case, he hadn’t even slept at the house last night, staying instead at a friend’s. In fact, apart from her mother’s, there’s only one phone number in the whole world that she has memorised. Her heart thuds against her ribcage when she realises she still remembers it.

Thumb paused over the screen, Dilara takes a deep breath, concentrating on the pain in her ankle, making sure it’s bad enough that she really needs to resort to this. Finally, she types out the number and holds the phone to her ear, holding her breath and half-hoping he doesn’t pick up.

After three rings, he answers. “Yeoboseyo?” His voice sounds unsure, and she knows it’s because it’s a call from an unknown number. She lets out a shaky breath, her throat suddenly tight. “Hello?” he repeats, before something seems to click. “Lara?”

The moment he says the name, Dilara hangs up, suddenly certain that she would rather be found dead at this gas station than turn to him for help. She turns to the Italian woman who drives up to her in her car. “Grazie,” she tells her, handing her back the phone.

“Did you call your friend?” she asks, frowning and taking it back. “I can drop you?”

As much as Dilara would like to take her up on the offer, she knows she can’t take someone back to where BTS lives. She can’t stand them right now, but she knows she can’t do this. Besides, the last thing she needs is for their location to get leaked and for Big Hit to panic and ship them all off to some remote island somewhere.

“That’s okay,” says Dilara, smiling tightly. “My - my friend should be here soon,” she lies, trying not to panic at how she’s ever going to get back home. “Do you - do you think you could lend me a charger? I’ll send it back to your house.”

She shakes her head apologetically and Dilara’s heart sinks. “Don’t have one, sorry.” After offering one more time to drop her back, she drives away. Watching the black car disappear, Dilara swallows. She looks back at the gas station, hoping to see someone, anyone, maybe a payphone, maybe Max’s car magically passing by…

She starts to feel dizzy soon. She hasn’t had caffeine or anything to eat, and it just occurs to her once again that today is free practice day. She calculates that she probably has around four hours at best before she needs to be at the paddock and she suddenly begins to regret hanging up on V when she realises she could be stranded here for hours before anyone finds her.

She closes her eyes and lies back on the pavement, groaning when her head throbs slightly. She imagines someone finding her, and Italian headlines looking ridiculous when they report a Formula 1 driver found with a twisted ankle on some random street in Monza. She squeezes her eyes shut when the sun comes out from behind a cloud, just when she hears the unmistakable sound of a car.

Max max max super max max… The annoying fan chant plays in her head as she sits up, hardly daring to hope that it is indeed him, returning from whatever friend’s house he was staying at. When she sees an unfamiliar black car approaching, though, she frowns… until it gets closer and her heart stops when she sees who’s driving.

“Shit! Are you okay?” Dilara’s gorgeous ex-boyfriend, dressed in a grey hoodie with black joggers, and literally the last person she wants to see, hops out of the car and rushes to her side. She hates how her heart leaps in relief, partly because someone’s found her, partly because it’s not a random rapist or murderer… and partly because of the familiar scent of lotion.

“I’m -” She’s about to say fine, but it’s fairly clear she isn’t. “My ankle,” she says in a slightly strangled voice, adjusting her position so she’s sitting a little straighter.

His fingers ghost over her skin but he hesitates, clearly not wanting to put any pressure on the joint. “Are you hurt anywhere else?” He cranes his neck to peer up at her while she deliberately avoids his eyes and shakes her head. “Wait, is that -” His hand brushes her bangs back and she shivers; he doesn’t notice as he retrieves his hand with wide eyes. “Lara, you’re bleeding.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, pretending not to notice how his face falls, and reaching for the same spot on her forehead to feel the sticky blood that, until now, she thought was just sweat. “How did you find me?” she finally asks him when the silence becomes too much.

“I called the number back,” he mutters, going back to examining her ankle. His blond hair, messy and unbrushed, looking darker and longer than she remembers, falls gracefully down the sides of his face, hiding his expression from her. “A woman picked up and said some girl with long black hair injured herself at a gas station. Said she’d already called a friend,” he adds, now looking up at Dilara with narrowed eyes, and she can detect a hint of reproach in his tone.

She glares back defiantly, and for a moment she forgets the larger reason she’s not speaking to him.

“I need to get back to the house,” she states, refusing to ask for his help outright. “I have practice today…” She remembers, and she knows he can sense the worry in her voice. "Actually, I should go straight to the paddock - I need medical clearance. I don't have my stuff with me, though," she matters, mostly talking to herself at this point.

“Come on,” he says, sounding gentler. Without invitation, he reaches around her and helps her stand up, his right arm resting securely just above her waist and his left hand clutching hers, steady as a rock as he helps her limp back to the car. She tries to ignore how her heart speeds up at his touch. There’s nothing sexual about it, but the familiarity and security of it is so overwhelming that she finds herself leaning into him slightly, suddenly so relieved that he’s here - although she wouldn’t admit that to him in a million years.

When he opens the door and helps her in, her foot accidentally touches the doorframe and she gasps in pain, squeezing his hand automatically. “Fuck,” she mutters when she finally settles into the seat, already exhausted, and V helps her pick up her leg and move it inside.

“Is it fine?” he asks, looking up at her. His wide eyes make her heart stutter unexpectedly and she simply nods, looking away. He closes the door and climbs in from the other side, checking on her once more before starting the car and reversing. The stereo starts automatically and when Don't Know Why by Norah Jones starts playing from the middle of the second verse, she scoffs without meaning to. His hand appears from next to her and immediately turns off the music, and she can almost hear him rolling his eyes.

“What was your plan?”

Part of her can’t believe he has the nerve to make conversation. The other part is just afraid that if she engages, she'll start crying. But she can detect a mild annoyance in his voice, which immediately riles her up for if he didn’t want to come, there was nothing making him. “Excuse me?”

“Your plan,” he repeats. “You hung up on me and you’ve never fully charged your phone in all the time I’ve known you so I’m guessing it’s dead,” he adds, and her heart skips a sad beat at how casually he’s referencing the past. “So how were you planning to get back to the house?”

It’s a good question with an answer she thankfully did not need to think about since he arrived anyway, but she doesn’t want him to know that. “I was going to wait for someone else… and borrow a charger.”

“And this person was just going to wait for you while you charged your phone?”

“I was going to borrow it,” she explains snippily, not at all impressed at the accusatory tone in his voice. “And then probably… send it back.” When all he does is roll his eyes at what she imagines is her immense stupidity, she snaps. “You know, you didn’t have to come if you didn’t want to. If I remember correctly, I didn’t even ask.”

All that does is make him sigh and shake his head, his tousled blond hair making him look like a modern prince on vacation. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

It’s infuriating. “Excuse me? I travel by myself all year, you know? I would’ve figured it out.”

“That’s a lot of talk coming from someone who injured herself in two places on a jog.”

“You think I tripped over my own two feet and split my forehead open? I’m an athlete,” she reminds him hotly. “I know how to fucking run, thank you very much. Jesus." Dilara scoffs. "Some idiot knocks me down with his bike and of course you think it’s my fault. I should've just asked that lady to drop me at the paddock,” she mutters snidely, realising at only this moment what a missed opportunity it was.

He ignores this dig and turns to look at her in shock. “What idiot? What bike?” he asks immediately, the car swerving slightly.

“Eyes on the road, please,” she says through gritted teeth, reaching over and straightening the wheel, her fingers brushing his. “And hell if I know. Some stupid kid on a Vespa knocked me down, recognised me, and scarpered for the fucking hills before I knew it.”

When V speaks again, he sounds livid. “Wait, he saw that you were hurt and still left you there?”

“Yeah. Maybe you two could start a club or something."

He sighs. “Dilara, I’m so sorry about -”

“Okay, no, just… forget I said anything, okay?” she interrupts, already regretting her words. She deliberately continues looking out the window and winces as the car turns and her ankle touches the side of the door.

“No, but I have to say this. I never meant to -”

“No.” She says it forcefully this time. “I don’t want to talk to you, especially not about this, alright? And you’re not going to use this situation to keep me hostage and make me listen to you when you know I can’t go anywhere.”

He falls silent. Then -

“Everything that happened in March was not -”

“What the fuck, Kim? I just said I don’t want to talk about this!”

He goes abruptly silent again. She tries to savour it but it doesn’t last nearly as long as she’d like it to.

“Did you just call me -” He doesn’t finish his sentence and doesn’t look at her either. She looks at him, however, silently daring him to ask. He doesn’t; he just looks out the windshield, knuckles white on the steering wheel while she rolls her eyes and looks away. They drive in silence until they reach the paddock.

“Is anyone even here this early?” he asks, unbuckling his belt. “It looks empty.”

“Yeah, it’s barely eight,” she mutters, unbuckling hers as well and moving to open the door. “But the medics are always here and they’re the ones who decide whether or not I can race on Sunday.” She turns to look at him uncomfortably, not sure if she should be thanking him or asking him for more help. “Anyway, I’m gonna -” She pushes open the car door with one hand and gives him an awkward wave.

He raises an eyebrow, looking like an arrogant burnout in a high school chick flick. “You’re going to get up there yourself?”

That same challenging tone is what does it. “That’s right. Goodbye.” She hops out gracelessly, hanging onto the doorframe and balancing on one foot. From behind her, she hears his door open and close.

"Dilara, how are you going to walk all the way in there?" he asks again, his amused yet concerned tone grating.

"I don't know, Kim. Why don't you go ask the idol you fucked?"

Without sparing him another glance, mostly so she doesn’t have to see his expression, she manages to limp her way to a fire hydrant at the entrance of the medical enclosure, even the slightest contact sending a shooting pain up her ankle. The distance can’t have been more than ten feet but even that’s taken her an exhausting minute. The actual medical room is much further ahead inside, up a flight of stairs… she closes her eyes, terrified to even touch her foot to the ground.

Dilara needs his help. She hates everything about it, she absolutely loathes it, but she needs him. She hopes desperately that after everything he’s done to her, he won’t humiliate her further by making her beg for his help while she's hurt. Ten seconds later, she hears the car beep, followed by a quiet “jinjja”, followed by quick footsteps before the same steady arm appears around her waist again and another grips her left hand.

“Come on,” he says softly, and he takes her inside, patient with her snail’s pace. She bites her lip, feeling more and more certain that she won’t be able to race on Sunday. The pain, coupled with the fact that the medics and the team always err on the side of caution, makes it frighteningly obvious. Twenty-five points… her face screws up as she swallows a sudden sob. Everything she worked so hard for this season could come completely undone because of a stupid, stupid mistake.

“Where does it hurt?” He lowers his head to look at her, and while her immediate response is where do you think?, she just doesn't have the energy to fight with him anymore. “Are you worried about the race?” he asks after a moment, quieter.

She don’t know how he knows, but she's not nearly ready enough to open up to him about this. “Oh, shit,” she sighs defeatedly when they reach the foot of the stairs, trying somehow to gather enough courage to make it through what feels like her Everest.

“Dilara -”

“Let’s go,” she interrupts, her heart jolting at the sound of her name, how the L sound is rounded… She takes the first step but finds that she has no idea what to do next. Her eyes start filling up with tears, realising that this is so much worse than she'd initially thought. Before she can think of what to do next, however, she feels an arm go under her thighs and her feet are suddenly swept off the ground. Her arms automatically go around his neck before she realises what’s happened.

“What do you think you’re -”

“You wait any longer and you’ll just make your injury worse,” he murmurs, interrupting her. “Don’t worry, I won’t drop you. I’m…” He pauses before sighing quietly. “I can use both hands,” he says finally.

Dilara doesn’t say anything for a moment. “You being ambidextrous isn’t what I was thinking about,” she mutters, looking away but not arguing. His arms are strong and steady under her as strides up the stairs. She glances discreetly at his shoulders; they’re broader than she remembers. The thought makes her stomach flutter unexpectedly.

When the stairs finish, he gently lowers her, taking care to make sure she's steady before giving her his hand again so they can get to the medical room. The Italian doctor on call immediately recognises her and dives for her ankle, while an assistant puts her phone on charge so she can call Christian and inform him, should he have to start making decisions. The doctor asks her question upon question the entire time, though, until he finally deems it slightly sprained.

“Can I still drive on Sunday, though?” Dilara asks, hearing the hope in her own voice.

He gives her a rather pitying look but before she can question him further, he frowns. “How did this happen? Did you injure yourself while running?”

“Not -”

At that moment, Christian Horner enters without invitation and, with one look at her foot which is elevated on a cushion, he turns to look at the doctor, face white as a sheet.

“How bad is it? Can she still drive?”

“We’re waiting for the X-ray,” says the doctor, taking off his gloves, “but I was just asking her how it happened.” Both men turn to look at her expectantly.

“I was - I was running, and -”

“This was a gym injury?” Christian interrupts, and she can’t help but hear reproach and reprimand in his voice already.

“No, not - not exactly -”

“She got hit by a Vespa.” All of them turn; Dilara had almost forgotten he was here at all. Even Christian, startled, jumps to see him standing near the door. “Someone hit her and drove off. She cut her head, too,” he adds, and the doctor seems to suddenly notice her forehead, brushing back her bangs to examine the cut.

Christian frowns. “Did you bring her back?” When V nods, he immediately shakes his hand. “Can’t thank you enough. She’s so lucky you were there.”

Thankfully, V doesn’t respond to this apart from a nod. As Christian and the doctor start talking, she continues looking up at him while he looks at the ground, as though respectfully staying out of the way. His tone when he interrupted Christian was… familiar, but she can’t tell why. It sounded like he was annoyed and normally, she would’ve assumed it was due to the fact that he was forced to pick her up and drive her and help her walk, but his words seemed… almost defensive?

Suddenly, his eyes snap up to her. It startles her but she holds his gaze, not sure if she should be curious or thankful or what. Before it gets too intense, however, she hears Christian say her name.

“... want to press charges?”

Dilara doesn’t want to admit that she hasn't been paying attention. “I - against the Vespa person?” She shakes her head immediately. “Not really. I don’t even know the plate number or anything.”

“We can find that out,” says Christian. “But this was wrong. We can do it if you want.”

“It was a hit and run, dear,” says the doctor kindly. “You can get the person reported at the very least.”

“No, I - I mean, yes, I get it, but -” She swallows, feeling herself start to panic again, “I don’t care about that. I just want to know if I can drive tomorrow. Or even Sunday.”

Both men fall silent, Christian looking calculating. Then, he turns to V. “Thank you so much for your help today,” he says again. “I don’t know how we can thank you.”

“I’ve known Dilara for a while,” is all he says, face smooth and impassive, hands in the pockets of his joggers.

Christian nods. “However, we need to discuss some… internal matters, if you…” He trails off with a tilt of his head, indicating quite clearly what he means.

V gets it immediately. “Oh, of course,” he mutters, nodding. “I’ll…” He looks at her. “I’ll see you later.”

Dilara nods slowly, watching him leave out the door, suddenly registering the absence of the scent of lotion. Trying to ignore it, she turns back to Christian and the doctor, both of whom have already begun discussing what to do next.

“Okay, look, we need to wait for X-rays in any case to tell what can happen,” says the doctor after a while, applying a bandage to her forehead after having thoroughly cleaned it out, accompanied by a comment about her not being upfront about all her injuries. “And you, signora, need to rest.”

“I don’t -” But her words are ignored as she's helped onto a bed. The moment her bandaged foot touches the ground, she hisses, having forgotten how painful it is.

“Si, and morphine,” says the doctor in his stride, brandishing a syringe that he taps and places in the crook of her elbow. “Flex,” he commands, and she clenches her fist, sighing when the pain dulls slowly.

“Alright, I think he’s right, Dilara,” says Christian, sounding business-like and tapping away on his phone already. “Get some sleep and I’ll let you know about Sunday…” He trails off, giving me a sympathetic look before patting her shoulder and heading out. She wants to ask him one last time what he thinks, whether she can drive, whether her ex-boyfriend is still out there… but her eyelids feel heavy and before she knows it, she's asleep.

When Dilara wakes up, for a moment she can’t remember where she is. When her eyes fall on her bandaged foot and she reaches up to feel her forehead, she remembers the hit, the car, the sprain… She looks around for her phone, finding it on the bedside table and instantly checks the time. Her heart thuds. It’s almost noon… Two and a half hours to FP1.

She feels a hole opening in her stomach, a slow build-up of fear. She knew she wouldn’t be able to drive today no matter what, but the fact that no one woke her up means that there’s no news… which means she's probably not driving at all. She can’t see the doctor anywhere, but she can hear noise down in the paddock.

Dilara leans back against the pillow and notices something on the bedside table to her left, the one closer to the door. It’s a transparent Starbucks cup with something pink inside it. Without picking it up, she's pretty sure it’s the strawberry and banana muesli and yoghurt cup. Next to it is an iced black coffee, the condensation still sparkling on it in the sun through the window. She wonders if it’s Max or Daniel who’s sent it; it’s something she's had at the airport with both of them many times, but that would mean they know about her condition… and that they actually found a Starbucks in Monza.

The doctor’s assistant comes in then, a blond girl who’d helped Dilara charge her phone and dress her head wound. She notices her awake and her blue eyes widen.

“Hey, how do you feel?” she asks. Her accent is American and she looks vaguely familiar.

“Bit of a headache." Dilara answers hoarsely, before clearing her throat. “And famished,” she adds, hoping the girl will clue her in as to who sent the muesli, and if it’s actually for her.

She doesn’t disappoint. “Oh, well, your friend brought that for you a little while ago,” she says on cue, pointing to the cups. “Visiting hours don’t start till noon but he dropped that off, saying you hadn’t eaten anything all day.”

There’s something about the way she says it that makes Dilara doubt it’s Max Verstappen she’s talking about. “Um… which friend?” she asks casually, knowing that if it’s a driver, she would mention him by name.

She frowns, though. “Oh, um, he was wearing a grey hoodie… had blond hair. He looked, uh… he was...” She trails off and licks her lips, clearly trying to form a coherent sentence.

“Handsome?” Dilara guesses, waiting for her to confirm her suspicions.

The blond girl sighs, two pink spots appearing on her pale cheeks. “I think he was the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my entire life," she says, a slight longing in her voice. "I didn’t know a man could look like that.”

“Yep, that’s him,” she mutters, her heart jolting weakly. She picks up the coffee gingerly; it’s still cold. She finds herself strangely calm with the knowledge that he’s probably not far… just in case she needs a ride back. After a sip, she realises it’s an iced Americano and she scoffs quietly; how could she forget the number of times they'd met with her holding two empty Starbucks cups?

The doctor arrives then and when she asks him the only question on her mind, he shakes his head slowly. Dilara's heart sinks, even though she'd somewhat expected it. Both he and the assistant leave after that, leaving her alone on the bed. She places the coffee back on the table, the constant chant of twenty-five points twenty-five points going on and on in her mind.

The door opens a crack and for a moment she thinks it’s Christian, but the first sight of the dark blond hair wipes that image away. She looks at the clock on her phone to see it’s exactly noon.

“Hey.” His voice is deep and soft, almost a rasp. He enters cautiously, taking off his round black sunglasses. He’d worn the same ones in Suzuka… “How do you feel?”

Dilara shakes her head slightly, not trusting herself to speak.

“Are you hungry?”

She looks up to see him glance at the muesli and yoghurt. She's about to say no when her stomach rumbles. “I don’t feel like eating,” she mumbles, before she realises that it probably sounds like she's being petty. She picks up the coffee and takes another sip, feeling a little better as the cold liquid hits her throat. “Where did you find a Starbucks? I didn’t see any near the house…”

He shrugs nonchalantly, hands still in his pockets. “There’s one around here,” he says vaguely.

She nods. “Was it far?” she asks, only partly to distract herself.

He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck. “No, no. About fifteen minutes,” he answers after a moment.

She nods and take another sip, feeling a lump in her throat as she tries to think of something else to ask - but she doesn’t know how to talk to him anymore, and she doesn’t know if it’s harder to pretend she can make it through this weekend or to pretend it’s not affecting her that out of everyone that could be here right now, it’s Kim Taehyung.

As though reading her mind, he takes a small step forward. “What did the doctor say?” he asks softly, and she knows he isn’t referring to her injuries.

Dilara shrugs, feeling her lower lip tremble. “I can’t race this weekend,” she murmurs in a matter-of-fact tone, as though she’d been expecting it all along… which she had. She just hadn’t expected it to feel this horrible. All her hard work, getting over her initial slump, spending hours training and going over data, doing whatever PR they wanted… No one can say that missing this race is her fault, but when the season ends and she’s trailing behind Max in the points, they aren’t going to remember why. She’ll just be another Red Bull driver that lost to Max Verstappen, swiftly getting demoted to AlphaTauri while another one of their wonderkids gets a shot at the Red Bull seat.

Dilara doesn’t realise she’s crying until a tear rolls down her cheek. She wipes it away immediately, trying not to look at Taehyung but there’s no hiding it. He doesn’t say or do anything, not even when she sniffles and feels another tear fall, and she’s relieved for it. He doesn’t leave either, and she doesn’t ask him to.

The doctor comes in after about five minutes, once she’s done with her crying. He tells her kindly to go home and rest and to please call ��Mr Horner” the first chance she gets.

“And eat, per favore,” he says finally, gesturing to the muesli and yoghurt. “You need your energy.”

Dilara nods as he leaves, sighing and texting Christian the news. She doesn’t think she can talk to him right now; she’s too exhausted and she’s afraid she’ll start sobbing if she hears his voice, begging him to let her race somehow, even though she knows she won’t be able to.

She places her phone on the bed and looks up at Taehyung, still standing in the same place, hands in his pockets, as though waiting for a cue from her. “I should… I should call a car or something,” she says, her words still slurring slightly with the aftereffects of the morphine.

He frowns. “I can take you home. The car is right here.”

She sighs, expecting this response. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why he stayed here all this time if it wasn’t to wait for visiting hours, or to take her home after. What she can’t understand is why? Why is he doing all this for her? Rescuing her off the side of the road… that’s just human decency. He’s not a monster; it’s not unexpected that he’d save her from dehydration or assault. But the rest of it; the coffee, the comfort, the offer to take her back home… she doesn’t understand it.

Or maybe she does. His guilt is quite clear; like she said, he’s not a monster. He feels guilty for what he did and is possibly trying to make up for it. She doesn’t know how she feels about it. She should be glad he’s sorry, but somehow it doesn’t make what he did hurt any less. She also doesn’t know whether to feel like a charity case, like rich people who donate to NGOs when they’ve cheated on their spouse or their taxes.

She shakes her head. “That’s… that’s okay. You’ve done enough,” she says honestly, raising the coffee in her hand slightly.

“And I can take you back home. I live there, too,” he adds, which she’d sort of forgotten until now.

“There are photographers and stuff here,” she tries to reason. “If they see you with me…”

He shrugs. “So what? You have a bandaged foot. What are they going to say? V of BTS helps his injured…” He trails off, looking at her expectantly, like he always does when he’s searching for the word… except this time he isn’t searching for the word. He just doesn’t know which word to use.

“Colleague,” she says, softly but firmly, holding his gaze.

He nods, swallowing slightly. “Helps his injured colleague get a ride home,” he finishes. “It’s not a headline. And it’s not one I care about.”

Of course it isn’t. Dilara doesn’t say it out loud but apparently something in her expression says it for her, for he backtracks immediately.

“I just mean… I don’t care if they photograph us. They know we… know each other.” He sighs. “Dilara,” he says softly, and her heart jolts in her chest, “let me take you home.”

Finally, she nods, exhaling. “Alright, fine.” She swings her legs over the side of the bed and he immediately strides over, hands hovering, ready to catch her if she needs it. She manages to stand on her own and take a couple of stumbling steps before her hand reaches out to grab his arm.

“You should eat,” he reminds her, and she picks up the yoghurt while he does the same with the coffee, and with his other arm securely around her waist, they head downstairs.

“You want to wait here while I get the car?” he asks when they’re outside near the exit. This area is far less crowded, with only a few staff members walking around purposefully. Dilara nods and takes a seat on a narrow parapet, watching him walk away, begrudgingly admiring how incredible he looks even from the back even in nothing but a hoodie and joggers.

Shaking her head in mild disbelief, she opens the yoghurt. After the first bite which hits her like a cold, sweet, crunchy train, she begins to devour the contents of the cup. She doesn’t even notice Charlotte, McLaren’s press officer, come up to her, smiling in greeting and sympathy.

“Hey, you,” she says, stopping next to Dilara. “I heard. How do you feel?”

“Like an idiot,” she answers, rolling her eyes. “Have they already put out a post on social media?”

“Just a few minutes ago.” Charlotte tilts her head a bit. “But it’s just one race. Rest up and you know you’ll be back in no time for the next one.”

Dilara nods, the yoghurt suddenly becoming difficult to swallow. “Just want to get to bed, to be honest. And get something else to eat after this.”

She notices the cup and frowns. “Hang on, is that Starbucks?”

“Yeah, apparently there is one here somewhere.”

“No, I know, I searched for it last night on Maps. I was planning on getting a morning coffee from there but it’s like an hour away,” she laments, shaking her head, not noticing how Dilara freezes mid-bite. “Don’t think anyone’s got the time to go all the way there and back.”

Even after she leaves and Taehyung brings the car around, helping her climb into the passenger seat with a little more ease than before, Dilara can’t help but run Charlotte’s words through her mind again and again. Clutching the empty yoghurt cup in one hand, she looks out the window as he drives them back, trying once again to understand what the hell goes on in his mind.

She should be grateful, in a way, or maybe even flattered. But all it does is create a low, uncomfortable pressure in her stomach, the thought that he’s willing to inconvenience himself just because of what he did half a year ago. She feels like the source of her discomfort is hovering just within reach, but she can’t put her finger on it.

When they reach the house, he helps her inside with the same arm around her waist. Once they’re in the door and passing through the kitchen, she gently wriggles out of his arms, holding onto the kitchen island to signal that she’ll make it inside by herself.

“Will you be okay?” Taehyung asks. “I can get you something else if you want.”

Dilara shakes her head. “No, that’s alright. I just need to sleep.”

“I can cook you something. Ramen or…”

She turns to look at him, still standing where she’d left him, and raises her eyebrow. “You can cook?” she asks, deadpan, knowing the answer.

His mouth twitches. “I can try. I know how to make rice and everything,” he says, and she can hear a note of pride in his voice. It makes her heart do a backflip - in a good way, for the first time in a long time.

“Well, that’s - that’s great, but… I’m not hungry.”

“The doctor said you should eat, baby. If it’s not -”

“Don’t call me -”

“Yeah, I - I know,” he says immediately, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. Just… habit.”

Habit? Dilara didn’t know if she wanted to say anything to him about this display of generosity all day but that one comment - habit - pretending as though they haven’t been broken up for longer than they were together, gets her pulse racing.

“How far was the Starbucks?” she asks him after a moment, point-blank.

His face doesn’t move, but the fact that he doesn’t answer immediately makes it clear that he knows he’s caught out. “Does it matter?”

Goddamnit, Kim Taehyung. “It does to me. How far was it?”

He continues watching her, eyes unwavering, until he finally looks at the ground before looking back up. “About forty-five minutes,” he answers eventually, sounding a bit resigned.

“One way?”

“Sounds like you already know.” When she simply scoffs, he frowns. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem,” she begins with a massive effort, “is that I don’t need you going out of your way for me, okay? I don’t need -” She breaks off, realising she’s not making sense. “Look, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. So… thank you for today. Thank you for picking me up and getting me coffee and - and bringing me back here…”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly.

“Yes, I do,” she says forcefully, frustrated at how she’s unable to put this into words. “I would’ve thanked anybody else, because it’s just the right thing to do. But you’re not doing it because it’s the right thing, you’re doing it because -” She breaks off again because he’s basically confirmed it now.

He raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Because?”

“Because you feel guilty. Because you’re sorry.”

“Of course I’m sorry!” Taehyung exclaims immediately, eyes going wide. Dilara wonders briefly if there’s anyone else in the house hearing this. “Dilara, I am so, so, sorry for what I did -”

“But that’s my point!” she interrupts him, feeling a prickle at the back of her eyes. “You’re sorry. But I don’t care about that anymore. If you’re looking to assuage your guilt or you’re looking for absolution, go adopt a puppy or - or donate something to charity. Don’t make me your charity.”

He looks stung. “How can you say that? I’m not trying to -” He frowns, suddenly looking like a child. “What was the word?”

“Assuage,” she repeats in a low voice.

“I’m not trying to assuage my guilt,” he says, stuttering slightly around the new word. “You’re hurt and I wanted to help -”

“Do you think Max Verstappen would’ve driven an hour to get me coffee?” she interrupts him again. “Even Lexie probably wouldn’t have done that. If you think this is going to make us even, it’s -” She scoffs, shaking her head.

“I don’t think this is going to make us even,” he says scathingly, but his voice trembles. “I know it’ll take a lot more to do that, and I will do whatever it takes to do that, Dilara, because I’m so fucking sorry. I had no intention of -”

“Yeah, I don’t want to talk about this,” she says immediately, turning around as the familiar lump in her throat reappears.

“Cheating on you was the worst thing I -”

“Fucking hell, you think that was the worst part?” Before she knows it, her empty muesli cup hits the wall behind him, four feet to his right. He shuts his eyes immediately but doesn’t flinch, for he has to know that if she wanted it to hit him, it would have.

“Come on, you won’t even let me apologize?” He sounds more frustrated than anything. “We have to talk about this some time. We can’t just not -”

“Yes, we can.” Dilara glares up at him, forcing herself not to look away. “Or do you think you’re the only one who gets to decide when we stop talking?”

Taehyung’s eyes flicker with something, but he doesn’t say anything. He runs his hand over his jaw, looking more troubled than ever. It looks a bit much to be just for an apology, but she doesn’t care. He’s an actor; this is something he does, something he’s good at.

“I don’t owe you a thing, Kim,” she tells him finally, picking up the cup and limping towards her room, the pain in her ankle suddenly not so bad. She intends for it to sound firm, but her voice trembles as well and she has to look away just in case she starts crying. “Thanks for the coffee,” she mutters, before closing her bedroom door behind her.

Thank you for reading. Don't forget to drop a review :)

#author: magicshopaholic #group: bts #member: kth #genre: angst #type: series

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