#Sunglasses on Golf Course

[itneverendshere]

we say we’re different but we got the same eyes - r.c

pairing: bitchy!pogue!reader x rafe

you needed to stop taking other people shift’s. 

it’s not like you wanted to, but at least they were paying you to do so, enough to let you actually chill this summer without stressing about rent or whatever else adulthood decided to throw at you.

all you had to do was show up and do the job. first at lila’s dinner, now at the bougie country club, as a cart girl.

you’d done this before, and sure, the old men were always a little too handsy with their beer guts hanging over their tacky polos, but at least they tipped well. you could tolerate them. smile, giggle at their half-assed jokes, and let them feel like they still had it. 

fine. pay me for my pain, grandpa. 

today however, instead of your usual sugar-daddy wannabes, you were babysitting frat boys. fresh out of their first year of college, probably still hungover from their last keg stand.

nineteen-year-old idiots in pastel shorts and backwards hats, making everything about themselves.

“bro, you remember that party at kappa? dude, swear i blacked out after like, five shots.”

wow, five whole shots? congrats, you absolute child. should i get you a sticker for that?

don’t even get started on their conversations about girls. one of them, chad or brad or whatever his stupid name was, just had to loudly detail how some poor innocent girl “totally wanted him last night but was playing hard to get.”

yeah, bro, she was probably just trying to get through the night without having to mace your entitled ass.

it was constant. the whole damn morning. all they talked about was frat parties, girls they didn’t deserve, and how they "couldn’t wait to get back to school."

you'd give anything to remind them how utterly irrelevant their frat status was in the real world, but you couldn’t. nope. you had to keep your game face on, pour their drinks, and pretend like they weren’t giving you a headache that rivaled your worst hangovers.

at least the elderly snobs tipped well. sure, they were pretentious and acted like you were beneath them, but they'd slip you a twenty or more with a smug little wink. that made it easier to tolerate their "i’ve been golfing here since before you were born" bullshit.

but these brats?

half the time they forgot to tip at all, and when they did remember, it was a crumpled five like they were doing you some grand favor. and of course, of course, they couldn’t just keep their obnoxious, beer-breath comments to themselves. no, they had to make it worse by hitting on you—hard. 

painfully hard. it was like watching a car crash in slow motion, except instead of pulling over to help, you were stuck right in the middle, praying someone would just tow your ass out.

“yo, what’s your name again?” one of them asks. bryce, probably. his face just screams bryce.

he's leaning against the cart like he thinks it's going to make him look cool, but really, he’s just sloshing his drink all over the place. classy.

“it’s on my name tag,” you deadpan, pointing to the little badge pinned to your polo. you're not about to give him any more than that.

but he's not letting it go. “oh yeah? cute name for a cute girl. you single or what?”

jesus christ. here we go.

you resist the urge to roll your eyes so hard they’d get stuck in the back of your head. 

“’m here to work,” you sigh, voice sweet enough to mask the absolute disdain you're feeling. you know what comes next.

they always think they can charm you if they just keep going, like you are some kind of challenge.

“c’mon, don’t be like that,” another one chimes in, this one wearing sunglasses even though it's barely 9 a.m.

who do you think you are, pitbull? 

he gives you this sleazy grin like he thinks he's smoother than he actually is. “we could take you out after your shift. grab a drink. bet you’re fun, huh?”

fun? FUN?! if by fun he means fantasizing about driving this cart straight into the water hazard just to escape this conversation, then sure, you're a real blast.

you look around the course, hoping maybe one of the older golfers needs a refill or something—anything to get you away from this nightmare. no luck. it's just you and these clowns.

“i don’t date customers,” you say, a line you’d perfected at this point.

you plaster on your fakest smile, the kind that said please tip me and then leave me the hell alone. but bryce wasn’t giving up.

“you’re really gonna turn us down? i mean, we’re the best thing on this course right now.”

best thing?

the only thing they're the best at seems to be embarrassing themselves. this is the type of guy who probably thinks buying a girl a drink meant she owns him something.

you can't even be mad; it's almost... sad. almost.

“maybe you should focus on your game,” you suggest, glancing at his scorecard. “you’re, what, ten over par already?”

that shuts him up real quick, his face going from cocky to confused like he didn't expect you to know how golf worked.

his friend with the sunglasses? he's still trying.

“we can show you a good time, y’know. we’ve got a house down on the beach. you like boats?”

ah, yes. the boat move. the go-to for guys who think a half-assed yacht and a cooler full of cheap beer is the height of luxury.

you’d seen it a million times in this godforsaken town.

you're not impressed.

you shoot them another smile, “i like tips.”

they all blink confusedly, clearly not used to a girl calling them out so directly. the frat boys mumble something between themselves, looking awkward for the first time all day.

finally, one of them fishes a crumpled twenty out of his pocket and tosses it your way. 

oh, wow, big spender. 

you scoop it up, shoving it into your pocket and giving them a little nod. “thanks, boys. good luck with your game.”

you thought the twenty bucks might’ve bought you a few minutes of peace, but no. they're back at it, swinging at golf balls like they aren't trying to flirt in between their awful shots.

you roll the cart over to the next part of the course, half-listening to their constant chatter.

something about “last semester” this, and “pledge party” that. god, they just never stop. it's like someone hit the repeat button on the world’s most annoying playlist.

one of them calls you over again, like he can't wait five minutes for his next drink. you start prepping them, half tuning them out, just trying to get through it, when suddenly, miraculously, they shut the hell up.

for a second, you think maybe the universe is finally doing you a favor. you don't even question it, just start pouring drinks faster.

a quiet frat boy is a gift. but then you hear it:

“dude!” one of them practically tackles the other, all wide-eyed and hyped up like a little kid who just saw his favorite cartoon character. “is that rafe fucking cameron?!”

oh, for fuck’s sake.

your stomach drops. of course it has to be him. because clearly, your morning isn't being shitty enough. you don't even look at first. 

one of the guys starts flipping out, hitting his buddy’s shoulder like it's the coolest thing to ever happen.

“bro, no way. no way. that’s rafe cameron? he used to be the president of our frat, man. two years ago! he’s a fucking legend!”

legend? you almost laugh.

the only legend rafe is to you it's a legendary asshole. a smug, infuriating, gorgeous asshole who you have been avoiding like the plague. the same one who has been blowing up your phone nonstop, trying to get back into your life.

the same one you swore down you’d never sleep with again after he pulled that stunt at the dinner—and then, of course, ended up in his bed two nights ago. you haven't spoken to him since. you’d been ignoring him again—well, trying to—but now here he is. in the flesh. and these idiots are drooling over him like he's some kind of frat god.

you turn your head, and he's striding across the green like he doesn't have a care in the world. of course he looks good. he always does.

wayfarer’s pushed up in his hair, that cocky-ass grin on his face, wearing a polo like he's the face of a country club catalog. you know he’d see you any second. hell, he probably already has. 

yeah, you’d been avoiding him, and yeah, maybe you’d blocked his number twice, but that didn’t stop him from calling with a different one. or from somehow finding you the other night at the party when you were weak enough to let him back in, only to get burned again.

“holy shit, he’s coming this way,” one of the frat boys mutters, shaking with excitement.

you don't move, don't acknowledge him. but you can feel his eyes on you. it's like a sixth sense at this point. you'd crave it so much before, when it was all a silly game in your head, see how much you could push until he cracked and gave into you. now it's a curse.

the boys are watching him approach like he's some kind of celebrity.

“should we say something to him?” one whispers. “i heard he’s like, killing it in the business world now. family’s loaded.”

yeah, you think bitterly. killing it. if you count being a trust fund brat as an accomplishment.

rafe's closer now, and you know this moment is inevitable. the frat boys are giddy, already nudging each other, probably ready to beg him for networking advice or whatever the hell frat bros did.

you keep your eyes down, focusing on pouring the drinks, acting like you don't even notice him. like he doesn't phase you in the slightest.

“hey,” a familiar voice drawls. you don't have to lift your head to know it's him. naturally, he stops right by you. because why wouldn’t he?

“rafe fucking cameron!” one of the guys yells, unable to keep it together anymore. “you’re like a legend, man. kappa forever!”

you never cringed so hard in your life.

rafe smirks, that signature look spreading across his face. “yeah, somethin' like that.”

you clench your jaw, forcing yourself to keep your face neutral. no way in hell are you about to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he still gets to you. 

everyone else around you are tripping over their words just to get his attention. it's embarrassing to watch. the kids acting like he's some kind of messiah, not just some white rich guy with a trust fund and a bad attitude half the time.

“man, the outer banks is fucking sick,” one of them says, bouncing on his feet like an overexcited puppy. “we’ve been hitting the beaches, bars, y’know, living it up. and bro, the girls here? smoking hot.”

here we go. 

you pretend to be very invested in the cooler, rearranging the ice just to keep your hands busy. they're about to start pointing at you any second now; you can sense it.

the way they keep looking over at you made it obvious they're gearing up for something.

and then, like clockwork, it happens.

“yeah, man,” one of them gestures way too enthusiastically in your direction. “that cart girl over there? we’ve been trying all morning.”

oh, fuck right off, you resist the urge to throw a bottle at him.

you’d rather die than hear what lame pickup line is coming next, but what you really don't want to hear is whatever rafe's about to say.

there was a pause, as if he's taking a second to let it sink in. and when he finally does speak, his voice is all smooth confidence, casual as anything.

“so,” he starts, still with smirk you hate and know so well, “you’ve met my girl?”

my girl? my fucking girl?

one of them, manages to stammer, “uh—wait, she’s… she’s your girl?”

you can feel the tension creeping up the back of your neck. this's exactly why you’ve been avoiding him.

no matter what happened between you, no matter how messy things got, he always acted like he owned you in private. never in front of his friends, like just because you ended up in his bed, you were his to claim whenever he felt like it.

still keeping your eyes glued to the drinks, you feel your blood boil. you aren't his fucking girl. you're barely on speaking terms, aside from that one weak moment.

he's only saying it to mess with you.

one of the frat boys lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “damn, man. didn’t know you were still pulling like that.” he shoots a glance at you again, not even bothering to hide the once-over.

rafe just chuckles, that low, infuriating laugh of his, like he knows exactly how to get under your skin. “what can i say?” he drawls, as if the whole thing is just a game to him. “guess i’ve still got it.”

you're this close—this close—to snapping. you can feel your fists clenching at your sides. you're not giving him the satisfaction of a reaction. not here. not in front of these frat boys who're still looking at you like some kind of trophy.

rafe’s voice is closer now. you don't have to look up to know he's standing right by the cart.

“you good over there?” he asks, that fake casual tone still lingering.

you don't answer. just kept doing your job, biting the inside of your cheek so hard it hurts. but he isn't going to let it go. he never did when he wanted to prove a point.

“hey, baby.” he greets you again, leaning in slightly. you can feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. “you gonna pretend you don’t know me now?”

you take a deep breath, finally turning to face him. he's standing way too close, sunglasses pushed up on his head, that stupid expression plastered across his face.

the frat boys are all watching, wide-eyed, like they just stumbled onto some kind of reality show drama.

“you’re funny, cameron.” the guys all exchange glances, clearly picking up on the tension but too dumb to understand it, “can you guys give us a minute?”

one of them pipes up with an awkward laugh, “wait, but we—”

you don't let him finish. “one. minute.” 

they finally catch on that it isn't a request and before they can awkwardly protest or ask why, rafe tilts his head towards them, craning his neck just enough to raise a single brow. the change in his posture is subtle but enough to have them clamming up instantly.

like magic, their frat-boy bravado melts right off. it's wild how fast a bunch of college boys can shrink under the gaze of someone like him.

the power trip they’ve been riding for the last hour stop.

“uh, yeah, you know what?” one of them coughs out, backing up so fast he almost trips over his golf bag. “we should, uh… we’ll hit the bathroom. real quick.”

“yeah, yeah, we’ll be right back,” another one adds, practically stumbling over himself to follow.

they scatter like scared puppies, tails tucked between their legs, and you can't help the small, satisfied smirk that twitches at the corner of your mouth.

finally, a moment of peace.

except, it's not peace. not with rafe standing there. 

as soon as the frat boys are out of earshot, you spin around, without thinking, you shove him in the chest with both hands, hard enough to catch him off guard. he stumbles back a step, his face twisting into a look of surprise.

"are you fucking crazy?" you snap, "do you not get the fucking hint, country club? i don’t want this. i don’t want you here, and i sure as hell don’t want your bullshit claims that ’m your girl in front of those idiots. leave. me. alone.”

he steadies himself, raising both hands as if trying to calm you down. “’m trying to be better, okay? ’m trying. i apologized the other night, didn’t i? ’m—”

“no, you didn’t!” you look at him like he's the dumbest man on earth, cutting him off, your hands balled into fists at your sides. “you didn’t apologize! you said i was overreacting, that i was being ‘dramatic.’ then, you fucked me and acted like that made it all better.”

his jaw tightens, and he takes a deep breath as he glances around the mostly empty golf course before his eyes move back to you, his voice low but firm. "that’s not how i meant it—"

“you always have an excuse,” you interrupt, stepping closer, not backing down. “every time, it’s the same thing. you think a half-assed apology or a night in bed makes up for the way you treat me in public? like ‘m just some thing you get to claim whenever you feel like it?"

he visibly recoils at the word you chose, like it hurts him, “i know,” he finally mutters “i know i was a dick at that dinner. but ’m trying, okay? i’ve been calling you, texting you—”

“i didn’t ask. am i that good in bed? go find someone else.”

rafe’s hand flies up to pinch the bridge of his nose, a frustrated sigh escaping him. he draggs his tongue against his cheek. his voice coming out clipped, “i don’t want someone else,” he grunts out, sounding more exasperated than ever. “jesus fucking christ.”

you let out a laugh, stepping back, eyes rolling.

“oh, right. that’s it? ’m really that good in bed, huh? that’s why you’re here?” you cross your arms, your tone biting, daring him to say otherwise. “that’s all this has ever been, right? physical. you don’t call unless you want something. so what now? why are you trying so hard? what the hell are you trying for?”

he doesn't respond right away, his fingers are digging into the bridge of his nose like he's trying to hold himself together. the silence continues, and you can see him wrestling with his words. he's never been the type to say what he was feeling.

everything is buried under layers of cocky bravado, that impenetrable wall he put up to keep everyone at arm’s length. including you.

finally, he dropps his hand and takes a step closer, his voice coming out rough like he's forcing the words out. “’m here because i don’t want someone else. i want you, alright? can you just get that through your fucking head?”

you scoff, “because i know you and won’t get attached?”

he snaps, raising his voice, “no! fuck, it’s not that simple.”

"not that simple?" your hands are shaking, and you accidentally knock over one of the bottles you’d been holding before, sending it tumbling to the ground. you don't bother picking it up.

“it’s pretty fucking simple. we’re just fucking. so, tell me, what exactly is complicated about that? you call, i come over, we have sex, and that’s it. so why the fuck do you start ignoring me in public like ’m some kind of fucking disease?”

rafe opens his mouth, but you don't spare him the chance to speak, you're on a roll, months of pent-up frustration. 

“i don’t give a fuck if you’re with someone else, rafe!” you can hear the bitterness dripping from every word. you're practically spitting them out, “what pisses me off is that you had the audacity—the fucking nerve—to ask me to stay that night. do you know how fucking stupid i felt? how the fuck do you think i felt when you acted like i didn’t exist the next day?”

you can feel your hands trembling again, the adrenaline making you shaky, cursing under your breath.

“for once, i was nice enough to care about you, to stay, and that’s the shit you pulled. treated me like a ghost. like i was nothing.”

he just stands there, staring at you, his jaw tight, but he doesn't say a word. his face is hard to read, but you don't care about his feelings. you're not done yet.

“i was fine with the sex. i was fine with leaving afterwards and then you had to go and fuck it all over.”

rafe’s blue eyes flash, and you can see the realization hit him, like he's connecting the dots too fast for your liking.

his brows furrow as he breathes out, “wait. you’re mad at me because i made you—” he hesitates, like the word is foreign in his mouth, “care for me?”

you let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “oh, for fuck's sake, country club. don't flatter yourself.”

“you always do that shit,” he points out, stepping closer “you never call me by my name when we’re having a serious conversation. it's almost like you’re running away.”

you arch an eyebrow, incredulous. “are you delusional? you’re the one acting like a child.”

“’m not being delusional. you only say my name in my room when it’s just the two of us.” he leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if he's trying to keep this moment between you, his blue eyes lock onto yours making your stomach twist. “’m clearly not the only one who’s pretending here; you’re just as bad.”

you feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you walk back, trying to create space, but he closes the distance with easy confidence.

“pretending? please. ‘m not the one playing house in my bedroom while acting like i don’t know you outside of it.”

rafe lets out a low, frustrated groan, running his hand through his hair like he's close to losing it. 

“god, you’re fucking infuriating,” he mutters, voice gruff, “you think i don’t fucking feel it too? you’re the only one pissed off, the only one confused?” his voice dipps lower in frustration. “i can’t stop thinking about you, no matter how hard i try. "

“oh, boo-fucking-hoo,” you mocked back, “must be so hard, huh? being obsessed with a girl you can’t even respect in public.”

his hand reaches out to grab your wrist. you gasp, not out of fear but because the heat of his touch awakes the resting butterflies in your stomach. you hate how much your skin reacts to him, how just the feel of his grip makes your brain go foggy and shut down.

“i do respect you,” he growls, as if you just insulted him, “i just—fuck.” his eyes dart between yours, as if searching for something. then, like clockwork, he points at your work uniform—the stupid polo and that absurdly short skirt that's practically a sin in itself.

“this,” he grits out, fingers gesturing to the tight polo that does absolutely nothing but make your boobs look way too inviting, “is not okay.”

you blink, pretending to be unaffected, but his words have a way of crawling under your skin.

“oh, right,” you nod sarcastically, even though your pulse has kicked up a notch. “blame my uniform, like that’s the reason you can’t keep your hands to yourself.”

rafe groans like you're causing him actual physical pain, his hands gripping the edge of the golf cart now, knuckles turning white.

“shit, yeah, i’ll blame the uniform,” he says, eyes blazing as he corners you. “that tiny-ass skirt, walking around in front of me all day, making me lose my goddamn mind.”

just like that, his hand slide right under your mini skirt, his fingers gripping a handful of your ass with a confidence that makes your breath hitch.

the sudden contact sends a rush of heat through you, and a soft gasp escapes your glossy lips.

that’s when he takes his chance.

with another low groan, rafe seizes the moment, pressing his body against yours, leaning down as he kisses you, his tongue sliding into your mouth, the kiss deepening in an instant.

it's not sweet—you can tell that now because you know that hidden part of him, you can tell the difference when it comes out. today he's desperate like he’s been waiting to it for days and can't take it anymore.

he's a starved man on a mission. it's a feverish mess of spit and teeth, his grip on you impossibly tight.

his hand still kneads your ass, blunt fingernails digging into your skin trying to keep you from bolting away. at the same time, his other hand slides up to your neck, firm but not enough to hurt, just enough to keep you locked in place—he's daring you to pull away, knowing full well you won't.

logic doesn't stand a chance against the way his lips move against yours, he's sucking all the fight from you.

his tongue slides against yours, and your stomach jumps at the sensation, making you gasp. you try to pull back for a second, needing air, needing space, but his grip on your neck tightens, holding you in place as his lips move against yours like he'll die if you stop.

and maybe he would. maybe he's just as messed up about all of this as you are.

rafe’s teeth scrape against your bottom lip, and right then and there, you know your panties are already ruined. you can't stop the small whimper that escapes your throat, and he moans at the sound, his hips pressing harder against yours, making you feel just how much he wants you.

“fuck,” he almost whines against your lips, like he's barely keeping himself from fucking you out there in the open, not giving a shit if anyone's watching. his hand on your neck glides around to the back of your head, tangling in your hair as he tuggs slightly, tilting your head back so he can kiss you even harder, his lips moving against yours in a way that makes it impossible to think straight. “you have no idea what you do to me.”

the truth is, you do. you know exactly what you do to him because he's doing the same thing to you.

but there's no way in hell you’ll admit that. not when he already has you completely under his spell, melting into his touch, drowning in the way he kisses you like he owns you.

you attempt to hold onto that edge of disdain you always throw his way when things get too personal. his breath is hot and ragged as he hovers.

his hand, still tangled in your hair, loosens slightly but stays there. it's so fucking unfair—the way he just sneaks under your skin, the way your body betrays you every time he gets close. you hate it.

especially with the way his fingers are already sliding up your bare thigh under that ridiculously skirt, as if he owns every single inch of you, like he has a goddamn right to touch you like that.

and instead of pushing him away like you should, you find yourself leaning into him. and fuck, the look in his eyes—all black, wild, like he it's his last shred of self-control—is enough to make your pulse skyrocket.

“asshole,” it comes out weak, pathetic and almost breathless, and you hate yourself for it.

“yeah,” he whispers back, lips brushing yours, his hand still in your hair, still holding you close. “but you like it.”

god, maybe you did.

the frat boys finally return, their laughter breaking the bubble that had you on a leash.

within seconds, you're pushing rafe’s hands away, stepping back as of them claps him on the back.

“we miss anything?”

“nah, just catchin’ up,” rafe said, brushing off the whole thing as if it's no big deal.

you, on the other hand, pick up one of the empty glasses, avoiding eye contact with any of them.

one of the guys chuckles. “man, you two… y’all good?”

no. not when there's the slightest of the slightest possibility that you're starting to feel something for him. not the stupid crush you had before, or the simple curiosity of figuring out how he was in bed. 

real, scary, big girl feelings. 

no way. not after everything. not after he pulled that same crap, acting like you didn’t know you in front of his friends, then turning around and getting all possessive when it suited him.

 “better than ever.”

eyes locked on rafe, you bite out the final blow.

“yeah, better than ever. just like every other fucking rich frat boy—using daddy’s money, pretending you’re a god. but deep down, you’re all the same. losers. why don’t you keep them company, huh? you’re all family after all.”

his blue eyes drop to the green field at the mention of his dad, but he keeps quiet despite realizing you’re doing this on purpose.

he’ll let you have this one because he knows it’s deserving. fuck he’d probably let you punch him in the face if you asked him to. 

you turn on your heel and walk away, leaving him behind, knowing you hit him exactly where it hurt.

[ssahotchnerr]

My friend told me this story about her going golfing with her fiancé and she was like omg he is so attractive the whole time so i assume that what reader feels like all the time being with Aaron lol

a little off course

OMG i'm continuing with the golfing concept because YES cw; fem!reader, established relationship, playfulness and suggestive content <3

"Next time you go golfing with Dave," As Aaron was lounging on the couch, your arms had wrapped around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. "Can I tag along? Please?"

A double take was necessary when you asked, the request far out of your character. You've never expressed interest in golf before, and he was exceedingly surprised. Maybe it was just another way for the two of you to spend time together. Maybe you thought it would be more exciting than it actually was. You were on some kind of agenda.

Regardless, the next free sunny Saturday, you were sat in the golf cart as he and Dave made their way through the course.

But, that's all you did. You had no clear intentions of playing; you plainly sat in observance, and Aaron felt your eyes following his every move. It was almost intimidating; he wanted to do well for you.

Little did he know that while he feared you were bored, you were thoroughly entertained; present for your own indulgences.

"Sweetheart." His eyes were squinting from the sun, Dave teeing off behind him. "Are you sure you want to be here?"

You offered him a smile, and he took a second to admire how cute you looked in your sun visor, casting a shadow across the bridge of your nose. "I'm absolutely sure."

"Since when are you into golf?"

"I'm very," You paused mid-sentence, watching him (or rather, his hands) as he fixed his glove, adjusting and retightening the hold it held. "Into golf."

Only, Aaron playing golf was what you were interested in.

He and Dave played a few weekends ago, and when Aaron returned home, you found yourself regretfully wishing you accompanied them. Just when you thought he couldn't possibly be more attractive; a new genre of Aaron was unlocked and never to be concealed again.

Crisp and clean in proper golf attire - fresh khakis, a polo shirt, a newly produced, light tan gracing his skin. And now being present, the way his broad back stretched and forearms flexed as he lined up for a shot, his chest heaving in a deep exhale after hitting. Could there be a better sight?

His eyebrows crinkled adorably. "But you're just staring at me?"

"Exactly."

"Oh, I see." Aaron's lips pulled into a combination of a smile and a smirk - he should've known. His hand was resting on the cart's overhead as he looked down at you. His voice remained low, to prevent Dave from overhearing. "You're just here to undress me with your eyes, aren't you?"

"Yes and no." You defended, failing miserably at keeping your caught smile at bay. "I'm here because I love you. The undressing is an added perk."

His furrowed brows relaxed in amusement. "Is it?"

"I'll jump at any opportunity to spend time with you. It's a beautiful day, you're within arm's reach." You reached out, giving his arm an affectionate squeeze. "And I get to swoon over you being sweaty and strong in the meantime. Besides, I'm also here to ward off any club members who think they may have a shot at you. You're on full display out here for anyone to see."

"Aren't you sweet." A breathless laugh escaped him - as if anyone had a chance when he had you. Aaron leaned down to kiss you gently, craning his neck slightly due to the obstruction of your hat. "Thank you, darling."

You grinned, crossing a leg over the other.

His stare hidden behind his sunglasses, Aaron's eyes involuntarily fell to your legs, seeing that your slightly-too-short skirt had slid up and exposed most of your thigh. Maybe you had a point.

"Do you want to give it a try?" He asked as Dave finished his shot, returning to the parked cart himself.

"Really?"

"Sure, I'll teach you." Aaron took your hand, helping you step off the golf cart before grabbing his driver from his bag.

He guided you to stand in front of him; his biceps were at your shoulders, his arms firmly around you and allowing little to no room for movement.

Caged in, you felt a flutter in more places than one, the weight of his chest against your back intimately familiar. Muscle memory.

A blush filled your cheeks. Not from the heat of the afternoon, but at the rate this innocent lesson (you were beginning to infer, this hadn't been innocent to begin with) had heightened. There was no way you'd successfully hit this ball now, even with Aaron's direction - being highly distracted.

"Hands here," he instructed with quiet command, moving your hands along the grip to the correct positioning. His lips were touching the shell of your ear. "Square your shoulders for me."

"Like this?" Only, you pushed your ass directly into his crotch. Aaron's hold on your wrists immediately tightened.

He barely managed a hum in confirmation, swallowing hard. "Just like that."

"Okay you two," Dave lectured from afar, a mix between amusement and slight disgust visible on his face. "Keep it PG on the green, please."

[joemama-2]

velvet lies

pairing: gojo x fem reader

synopsis: crippling debt and possible evictions have ruined you. working two jobs with no downtime, and a five-year-old son, you really don't know the meaning of taking a break. after continuous questions about his father, you have decided to finally let your son meet his dad. only thing is, he has no idea said son exists. and to top it off, you have not a single clue about what kinds of things will transpire from this sudden revelation. wc: 15.9k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, fluff, romance, alcohol, classism, mom! reader, lying, abuse, MAJOR angst, slow burn, exes to lovers, (mentions of) cheating, scandals, death, blood, drugs, drama, family drama, miscommunication, blackmail, unhealthy coping mechanisms , depression, manipulation

a/n: was gonna post another sneak peek, but thought the entire chapter would be better :) as always, pls let me know of any typos

series masterlist < previous chapter < next chapter < spotify playlist

It’s a nice, warm morning. The sun’s out, there’s birds chirping, and a small breeze that feels lovely against the skin. And the best part of it all is that Hana called in sick today. Her now boyfriend, Naoya, reassured her everything would be alright and that he had an entire day planned out for just them two. Being taken care of by another person was a new feeling to Hana, one she hadn’t experienced since her last boyfriend. 

She’s never been with a rich man before. And she’s especially never been to an upscale golf course, wearing a tight, sleeveless top with an even tighter little skirt. Naoya is in his stance a few feet in front of her, club in hand as he readies his shot. She can’t help but feel slightly out of place.  

The brightness of the day feels almost surreal to Hana, like she’s stumbled into someone else’s life. The manicured grass stretches endlessly before her, the trees swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly cut greens, mixed with faint hints of expensive cologne, clings to the air. She fiddles with the hem of her skirt, feeling self-conscious even though Naoya hadn’t once looked at her with anything less than approval since they arrived.

Naoya stands confidently, the sunlight catching the sleek fabric of his polo as he lines up his shot. His form is perfect, practiced—a natural at this, just like everything else in his life. He’s effortless in a way that makes Hana’s chest ache with something she can’t name. Admiration, maybe. Longing. Envy. She doesn’t know.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, trying not to stick out like a sore thumb. The outfit he bought her might make her look the part, but internally, she feels worlds apart from the other women here. Women with polished nails, designer sunglasses, and easy smiles born from years of moving through places like this without a second thought. Hana crosses her arms, squinting against the sun. She watches Naoya swing, sending the ball sailing with a crisp, clean sound that echoes across the open course. He turns back toward her with a wide, satisfied smile, the cockiness in his expression unmistakable.

“You’re up, babe,” he calls out, motioning her forward.

Babe.

The word feels strange, too, curling around her heart like a new pair of shoes she hasn’t broken in yet. It’s sweet, almost nauseatingly so, and it makes her feel dizzy, like maybe she could get used to this if she let herself.

Gathering her nerves, she steps forward, clumsily taking the club he offers her. Their fingers brush, and Naoya chuckles under his breath, stepping closer to adjust her grip. His hands are warm, firm, guiding her in a way that’s both helpful and possessive.

“Relax,” he murmurs near her ear. “You’re too stiff. Golf’s supposed to be fun.”

Easy for you to say. Everything about today, about him, about this life, feels so far out of reach for someone like her. But she forces a smile, tightens her fingers around the club, and lets him guide her swing. Even if she feels completely out of place, there’s a small, stubborn part of her that wants to fit. To belong.

Maybe, if she fakes it long enough, she eventually will.

“Ah, so close,” Naoya sighs, watching the tiny white ball miss its hole, veering way off to the right. “You would think you’d be a little better after watching me all this time.”

“I—sorry.” She scratches the back of her neck. 

“Don’t worry about it.” He waves her off, calling down the cart girl. Hana follows him as they approach the wide selection of cooled drinks, both alcoholic and non-alcoholic.

“Hi, Naoya. What can I get for ‘ya today?” The blonde woman manning the cart asks, a smile on her pink lips. She tilts her head, regarding him with familiarity. 

Naoya barely spares her a glance, his attention more focused on the line of bottles glistening under the sun. “The usual,” he says smoothly, reaching for his wallet without hesitation.

The cart girl giggles, a light, practiced sound that makes Hana’s stomach twist ever so slightly. She’s seen that look before, the way the girl leans just a little closer than necessary, the way her hand lingers when she passes Naoya the drink. It’s casual. Too casual.

Hana steps back instinctively, feeling like she’s intruding on something she wasn’t invited to witness. She folds her arms loosely across her chest, trying not to fidget, trying not to let the sudden sourness in her mouth show on her face.

“You’re looking good today,” the cart girl adds with a wink, handing Naoya a cold can.

He finally looks at her, flashing a charming smirk, the same one Hana had thought was just for her. “Yeah? Must be the company.” He says it without thinking, tossing a glance over his shoulder at Hana, almost like an afterthought.

The cart girl’s eyes follow his, her smile faltering for just a second when she realizes Hana’s standing there. Her gaze flicks back and forth between them, assessing, judging, maybe even pitying. Hana isn’t sure which would be worse.

Naoya tosses some cash onto the cart’s counter, far more than necessary for just a drink, and motions for Hana to follow him again. She does, but the small crack left behind by the encounter digs deep into her chest. As they climb back into his own golf cart, Naoya takes a swig of his drink, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Don’t mind her,” he says casually, like he can sense her unease. “She flirts with everyone who’s got money. It’s nothing personal.”

Hana forces a small laugh, nodding like she believes him.

But deep down, a quiet voice whispers:

It’s not nothing to you, though.

And that’s what matters.

Naoya revs the cart up again, speeding toward the next hole, completely unaware—or maybe just uncaring of the way Hana sits a little stiffer beside him now, the sun suddenly feeling a little too hot on her skin.

“So,” he speaks up, causing Hana’s head to turn toward him. “You and bestie still not speaking?”

The mention of you causes her to stiffen, a frown forming on her lips. She scoffs. “No. And I don’t plan on it.”

“Shame, thought you said you guys were good friends.”

“We were, until she started changing when that…that asshole came in her life.” 

Naoya hums, stopping the cart at the next destination. He doesn’t get out immediately, instead letting the engine idle while he leans back lazily against the seat, his hand casually resting on the steering wheel. His eyes, however, are sharp and calculating as he watches Hana’s face carefully.

 “Guess that’s what money and status do to people, huh?” he says, a little too lightheartedly. “Especially when it’s someone like Satoru Gojo.” He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, a slow, rhythmic beat. “Big name. Big wallet. Big ego.”

Hana huffs, crossing her arms and looking away toward the sprawling green of the course. “He ruined her,” she mutters bitterly. “She’s not the same person anymore. Everything’s about him now, about his life, his rules. Like she doesn’t even think for herself anymore.”

Naoya lets her words hang between them for a moment, pretending to be focused on something off in the distance. When he speaks again, his tone is almost lazy, casual almost. “You know…” he starts, drawing out the thought like it just occurred to him, “people like him… they don’t change for anyone. And they don’t really let anyone get close unless there’s something they can use.”

Hana furrows her brows, turning to look at him again.

Naoya catches her glance and shrugs innocently. “Just saying,” he continues. “Wouldn’t be surprised if she’s caught up in something way bigger than she realizes. Maybe even something that could end badly for her if she’s not careful.” He gives a small, knowing smirk, like he’s letting her in on some forbidden secret,  like he’s doing her a favor. “Guess it’s a good thing you’re not mixed up in all that,” he adds smoothly. “But…” He trails off, feigning hesitation before flashing her a boyish grin. “You probably know more about what’s going on with them than anyone else, huh? Even if you’re not talking to her anymore.”

Hana shifts uncomfortably. She does know a lot, or at least, she used to.

And despite the way things ended between you two, there’s a bitter part of her that still wants to talk about it. Wants to air out the injustice she feels. Wants someone—anyone—to understand how wrong it all was. Naoya picks up on her hesitation immediately and presses just a little further, voice dropping to something more coaxing.

“Come on, Hana. You can trust me. You know I’m on your side.” He leans in slightly, eyes locking with hers, that charming smile never once faltering. “I’m just curious,” he murmurs, “about how deep she is with the Gojo group. About what Satoru’s really after. That’s all.”

He says it so sweetly, like it’s harmless. Like it’s just friendly concern. But beneath it all, Hana can’t shake the feeling that there’s a lot more riding on her answer than he’s letting on.

“I…I don’t know.” She admits, shrugging lightly. “I mean, they have a kid. I don’t see why else they’d still need to be close. She used to tell me when I first met her that she’d never go back to her ex, but that was before I knew who he was.”

Naoya listens intently, his expression carefully neutral, but his mind is already calculating the information. He nods slowly, leaning back slightly as if he’s processing her words, but really, he’s already piecing everything together. “Hm.” He hums thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the cart. “I guess when you throw a kid into the mix, things change. But… I don’t know, Hana. That just sounds a little too clean, don’t you think?” He tilts his head slightly, feigning curiosity. “The way she acted before, all that ‘never going back’ talk… Do you really believe she’d just… forget about him, that easily? People like Satoru, they don’t let things go so easily. Not when they have so much to gain.”

He watches her closely, gauging her reaction to the way he phrases it.

“You sure she’s not just… saying that? Or maybe she’s in deeper than she lets on?”

Hana shifts slightly, clearly torn. She’s not sure if she should give him more, but something about the way Naoya talks makes her feel like he already knows more than she does, as if he’s playing her like a pawn and she’s too distracted by her anger to realize it. “I don’t know,” she says again, voice quieter this time, her uncertainty growing. “I mean, you’re right. I’m not sure. She told me everything was over, but she… she’s always been so secretive about him. Like there’s something she’s hiding. I don’t think it’s just the kid, you know? There’s more. But she wouldn’t talk about it.”

Naoya’s eyes glint with barely-contained satisfaction, his hand moving casually to pick up his drink from the cup holder. He takes a slow sip before speaking again, voice smooth and coaxing. “Right, that makes sense. There’s always something people like her hide. But…” He pauses, letting the words linger. “If you really want to help her—if you care about her at all—you should let me know what’s going on. People like Satoru don’t play fair, and your friend might be in way deeper than she thinks. I’m not trying to pressure you, but if you know anything that could help… It could keep her out of something she can’t get out of.”

The words are wrapped in a thin layer of concern, but the underlying message is clear: if she doesn’t give him more, he might just find another way to get it. Hana feels a slight shiver of unease crawling up her spine, but she doesn’t know why, not completely. Part of her still wants to trust Naoya, but the other part is beginning to feel like there’s something more to this conversation than meets the eye.

“So, what do you think?” Naoya presses, his smile gentle but determined. “Think you could tell me a little more? For her sake, of course.”

She racks her mind, biting at her lip in thought. Scratching her head. Pulled between two sides of wanting to keep her friend’s privacy, but also wanting to please the man who’s been giving her so much and more. Sure, he has his mistakes, but so does she. So does everyone. So do you. 

“I…I don’t know.” She mutters. 

Naoya’s smile falters, assessing her for a few silent seconds before humming and getting out of the cart. He stretches lazily, the sun casting a soft glow over his sharp features as he plants the club into the ground and leans on it. His stance is casual, almost careless, but Hana can feel the shift in his energy, a subtle coolness creeping into the air between them.

“That’s alright.” Naoya shrugs, tossing a look over his shoulder at her. “Take your time. Not like I’m in a rush.”

But his tone says otherwise, the underlying warning barely concealed. He straightens up, walking a few steps to the edge of the green, surveying the course as if the conversation hadn’t just taken a turn. Hana stays seated in the cart, her hands worrying the hem of her little skirt, heart thudding against her chest. She knows better. She knows she shouldn’t be entertaining this. She shouldn’t even be thinking about sharing anything about you. You were her friend first—her best friend.

But then she thinks about the nights Naoya spoils her with expensive dinners. About the shopping trips. The way he says she’s beautiful, special, that he sees something in her that no one else does.

Maybe it’s not so bad to share a little.

Maybe it’s just harmless.

And maybe… just maybe… you deserved a little karma anyway, after abandoning her.

She steps out of the cart, heels clicking lightly on the concrete path as she makes her way toward him. Naoya glances back, smiling a little, patient, expectant. “I…I really think it’s more of a custody thing. That’s just my speculation.”

Naoya lets out a small, amused hum, twirling the golf club between his fingers before planting it back down again, leaning into it with casual grace. “Custody, huh?” he echoes, glancing at her from the corner of his eye. “Interesting.”

His words are light, but Hana can feel the weight behind them. The air shifts again, the easygoing summer breeze suddenly feeling less refreshing and more suffocating.

She nods quickly, as if to justify herself. “Y-Yeah. I mean… it makes sense, doesn’t it? They had a kid young. There’s probably no formal agreement. She hid him for years. She would always vent to me about stuff like her rent, paying for food, and clothes for Koji. Stuff like that.”

Naoya nods thoughtfully, the club tapping lightly against the grass as he watches the horizon. But Hana knows he’s really paying close attention to her every word. “Hm. Sounds like she didn’t have much support,” he muses casually. “Even though she had family money. Or… used to, right?”

Hana shifts uncomfortably, casting her eyes down at her feet. She shouldn’t be saying anything. She knows it. And yet—

“She doesn’t really… talk to her family anymore,” she mutters. “Or, I guess, they don’t talk to her.”

Naoya finally turns fully toward her now, the sun catching in his sharp eyes. He smiles, soft and indulgent, but Hana can sense the calculation behind it. “She sounds like someone who’s good at burning bridges,” he says lightly, almost jokingly. “Even the ones she might need later.”

Hana shrinks a little under the remark, guilt coiling in her stomach. Still, she doesn’t correct him. Maybe because some bitter part of her agrees. Or because it feels easier than defending someone who left her behind.

“You said she hid the kid for years?” Naoya presses, like he’s just casually connecting dots. “Why do you think she finally told him?”

Hana hesitates, nervously twisting her fingers in the fabric of her skirt again. “I don’t know,” she says honestly. “She didn’t tell me how exactly he found out, either. But maybe she needed help? I mean… being a single mom is expensive. Maybe she got desperate. Or maybe he found out and forced her hand. I don’t know.”

Naoya’s smile widens a fraction, so small it’s almost imperceptible. “Right,” he says smoothly. “Makes sense. Desperation’ll make people do funny things.” He straightens, brushing invisible dust off his tailored pants, the polished image of someone who already has everything he wants, or knows exactly how to get it.

Hana looks at him, feeling small and a little stupid under the weight of what she’s just admitted, but Naoya only chuckles, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice soft. “You’re not betraying anyone. You’re just telling me what you already know.”

And Hana, desperately wanting to believe it, lets herself relax as Naoya pulls her closer, delivering a soft kiss to her cheek. “C’mon, let’s finish up here. We can get some lunch, hit up the mall, buy something pretty for you. You like that?”

And Hana nods, smiling shyly. “Yeah, I like that.”

“I don’t know if I trust your parents picking Koji up.” 

Satoru glances at you as he finds a parking spot, brows knitting before he reverses back. “Why not? You’ll be in the interview and I have to run some stuff back ahh the office. They said they’d do it.”

Nerves fill your stomach, anxious about the interview you have with Carlisle & Harlow. Wearing your most sophisticated, fitted black button-up with the same color slacks to go with it. 

You let out a slow breath, trying to calm yourself as you straighten the collar of your shirt. The sharp black fabric feels comforting against your skin, almost like armor, but it doesn’t ease the tightness in your chest. The weight of the interview looming over you is enough to make everything feel more intense. “I know you trust them, but I don’t think I’m ready to put Koji in their care. I don’t trust them, not after everything.” You glance out the window. “What if something happens and I’m not there? What if they treat him differently… like they treated me?” Your voice quivers slightly, betraying the vulnerability you’ve been trying to keep hidden.

He parks the car, turning to look at you. “Hey,” he gently speaks, gaining your attention. “I know it’s hard. You have every right not to trust them. Hell, sometimes I don’t. But I’ve talked with them, okay? And I promise you—I promise—that nothing bad will happen to Koji. I’ll protect him and you with all I can. And I’ll be damned if my parents have something to say about it.”

Your breath hitches slightly as you hold his gaze, his eyes a mixture of reassurance and determination. The sincerity in his voice tugs at your heart, but you can’t quite shake the gnawing feeling in your gut. “You say that now, but you’ve never been in my shoes,” you murmur, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “I didn’t have a choice. I didn’t get to choose how they treated me. And if they treat him the same way, I… I can’t handle that. Not again. Not with Koji.”

Satoru sighs, his fingers drumming softly on the steering wheel, his gaze flickering between you and the parking lot outside. “I get it. I do. But you can’t shield him from everything. You’re not alone in this anymore.” He leans in, placing a hand over yours. The warmth of his touch is grounding. “You’ve been carrying this weight by yourself for too long. Let me help you carry it.”

You swallow hard, the uncertainty and fear bubbling up inside you. “It's just…it’s hard. Letting go, trusting people—especially them—it’s not easy for me.”

He nods, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I get it. You’ve had a lot of time to build walls around yourself. But this… this is different. Koji deserves a chance at family, at love. And that means we need to trust, even if it’s hard. Not just for us, but for him.”

You look at him again, his expression serious yet tender, and for a moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter. He’s not asking you to forget what happened or pretend everything’s okay. He’s just asking you to trust him.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice barely audible as you finally allow yourself to soften just a little. “But if anything goes wrong, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

Satoru’s smile is small but full of warmth. “I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’ve got your back. Always.” He leans in, as if about to press a kiss to your forehead before you turn to the door. 

You awkwardly clear your throat, grab your purse, and ignore the urge to look back at his face. “Right. I—I’m going to go in now. Good luck at work. Your parents have my number, right? They’ll text us if anything happens?”

A hand scrubs over his neck, settling back in his seat. “Um…yeah, yeah. Of course.”

“Great. I’ll take the bus back.”

“Are you su—”

“Thank you for driving me, bye now.”

You close the door before hearing what he has to say next. Forcibly brushing off this weird limbo you two are in, and instead, focusing on the now. This interview. Yourself. Your future. That’s what matters most. It’s a tall building situated within the nicer, more metropolitan area of Tokyo. One you’re still finding yourself getting used to. You don’t miss your shitty neighborhood, you won’t. But there’s still a small voice inside your mind that tells you this kind of environment, just living a city life, is not for you. Maybe one day, you can own a piece of property out in butt-fuck nowhere. Some cows, maybe chickens, and at least one chestnut horse. Ah, the thought is a nice one. If all goes well with this gig, that future may actually be a possibility. 

Entering the lobby, important-looking people pass by. Some on the phone, discussing whatever deals are on the line, others rushing about, seemingly in a hurry to get from one place to the next. It’s a little chaotic, if you’re being honest. But why wouldn’t it be? Everyone’s dressed to impress, you can tell by the pristine, dark fabric of one guy’s suit. There’s a receptionist desk further down; that’s where you head. Straightening up and dusting off the imaginary particles on your shoulder, you make your way over. A subtle confidence is what you try to exude, smiling politely at the younger woman seated behind the desk. “Hi, excuse me?”

“One moment, please.” She holds a single finger up, talking on the phone while simultaneously clicking away at something on her monitor. 

You nod quickly, stepping back just a bit to give her space, hands smoothing down your slacks as you glance around the lobby again—more a reflex than anything else. The walls are glass and concrete, modern and intimidating, and the clean, minimalist aesthetic makes you feel a little out of place no matter how well you dressed today. Still, you keep your chin up.

The receptionist finishes her call a moment later, setting the phone down with a practiced smile. “Hi there, sorry about that. Do you have an appointment?”

“Yes,” you reply, clearing your throat gently. “I’m here for an interview with Ms. Carlisle at eight-thirty.”

“Oh, Ms. Carlisle hasn’t come into the office yet.” The receptionist replies, head tilting. “Are you sure your interview with her was today?”

Your expression dampens slightly, hands fiddling. “Oh, um…yes, I’m sure. She said today.”

“Hmm, well that’s interesting.” Once again, the receptionist clicks and scrolls away on her monitor for a few seconds. You almost begin to think it’s a sign from the universe that it was all too good to be true, that maybe Evelyn even forgot she scheduled a meeting with you today in the first place. You’re about to lose all hope, but the girl speaks up again. “Well, you’re more than welcome to wait for her in her office. She’s up on the last floor. Once you’re out of the elevators, take a right, then another right, then a left, keep walking down, and you’ll see it. It’s not hard to miss.”

You thank her with a polite nod, trying to ignore the tightening in your stomach as you step toward the elevators. Maybe it was just a simple scheduling mix-up, or maybe this is what it’s like working in a place where everyone’s too busy to worry about being on time. Either way, you’re here now—and you’ll wait if you have to. You're not about to let something like this shake you. The elevator dings open with a soft chime, sleek and metallic inside, and you press the button for the top floor, which is the twenty-first. As the doors close, you catch your reflection in the mirrored panel—sharp collar, clean lines, confident-enough face—and you give yourself the smallest of nods. You can do this. 

The ride up is smooth and quiet, faced with the beautiful skyline of a bright Tokyo morning. When the doors finally slide open, you’re met with the hushed luxury of the executive floor. It’s quieter up here—less of the bustling chaos from the lobby. The air feels cooler, more sterile, with plush carpeting and abstract art lining the walls. Probably the higher up you go, the more important the people are, and the more hushed it is. 

Following the receptionist’s directions, you navigate the hallway, counting your turns. Right. Another right. Then left. And just like she said, there it is—Carlisle etched on the frosted glass door in neat serif lettering. It’s large, imposing, and framed by dark wood with a gold handle that gleams faintly in the soft overhead lighting. You pause just before reaching for it, taking another deep breath to center yourself.

This interview could change everything. Not just your job. Not just your income. But your whole future.

You knock twice, then slowly push the door open.

No one is inside, as you expected, but it still felt respectful enough to knock. There’s a dark mahogany desk in the center, a reclining seat behind it, with two chairs on the opposite side. Two monitors with a landline and piles of paperwork stacked on top. To the right is a plush, black leather couch. The walls have some paintings, you could only assume cost way too much for such simplicity. Carefully, you walk inside, plopping down onto one of the two chairs. Hands folded in your lap as the silence envelopes you, head swivelling around as you continue to take in the atmosphere. It’s not too large of an office, but still bigger than your normal supervisor's one. You almost question how similar this one looks to someone like Satoru’s, someone who has a high ranking in such a noteworthy company. Not that you’ve ever seen his. 

Boredom begins to strike as you wait for her to arrive. You check your watch. 8:36. If there’s one thing you hate most in your life, it’s late people. Your finger taps against your knuckles, your foot against the floor as time ticks. When you glance at Evelyn’s desk again, you notice that she has a framed picture. It’s the only thing on her mess of a desk that seems like a personal artifact. You lean closer in your seat, head tilting to the side and just barely nudging the frame so you can have a better look.

One more month until we meet you, Baby Jeanie. 

Evelyn is wearing a white dress, with a very obvious bump beneath it. Beside her stands her late husband, Noah Harlow, his blonde hair reflecting the sunlight. Her head is leaning on his shoulder, and each of their hands is placed on top of the life they’ve created. Genuine smiles painted their faces. He’s wearing a clean, tan button-up, with light slacks to match. The day looks perfect, the picture beautifully representing what it must’ve felt like for the expecting couple. A small twist forms at your heart, lip curving down. 

“Three years today.”

You jolt with a gasp, quickly settling back in your seat, forcing your slouched position away. 

Evelyn’s voice is calm but laced with a grief you recognize immediately. Her heels click softly against the floor as she walks into the office, setting her bag down on the desk with practiced ease. She doesn’t look at the photo—she doesn’t have to. Her gaze is distant, almost unreadable, but you see the heaviness behind her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—” you start, flustered, guilt blooming in your chest as you sit up straighter, “I wasn’t trying to snoop, I just—”

She lifts a hand, gently waving it off. “It’s alright.” Her voice is quiet, steady. “I keep it there because I want people to see it. It reminds me why I do what I do.” A pause. “And who I’ve done it for.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. Your fingers nervously clutch the edge of your slacks.

Evelyn takes her seat behind the desk and leans back in her chair, studying you with sharp, blue, observant eyes that don’t quite match the soft sorrow of her earlier tone. She taps the edge of her keyboard before finally breaking the silence again. “You’re early. I like that.”

“I—I wasn’t sure about traffic,” you manage, forcing a small, professional smile. “Figured it’s better than being late.”

“Smart. And rare,” she replies, and though her tone is cool, there’s something vaguely warm beneath it. “Let’s not waste time, then.”

She flips open a leather-bound folder, scanning your resume briefly. You can feel the shift—how she seems to pull herself together quickly, brushing her personal grief behind some invisible barrier to focus on the task at hand. “You did bring your resume, correct?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” You nod, reaching down to pull a folder out of your purse. You open it and hand her a straight, white sheet of paper stapled together. “

She takes it, head tilting as she analyzes it quietly. She hums. “Quite a lengthy list of employment.”

“I’ve been working since I was barely a teenager,” you nod. 

Evelyn doesn’t look up at first, eyes scanning the page with the kind of thorough attention that makes your pulse tick faster in your throat. Her fingers rest at the corner of the paper, unmoving, like she’s weighing something much heavier than a resume. Finally, she speaks again.

“And not a single job lasted more than…ten months.” Her gaze lifts, sharp and assessing. “Why is that?”

You hesitate, the air suddenly feeling too thick in your lungs. There it is—that dreaded question. Not unexpected, but still difficult to explain in a way that doesn’t sound like you’re making excuses. You fold your hands in your lap, straighten your spine once more, and meet her eyes. “Most of them were out of necessity,” you say honestly. “Temporary work, short-term contracts, jobs I took to keep a roof over our heads. It wasn’t about building a career at the time. It was survival.”

There’s a pause. Evelyn leans back slightly, arms folding across her chest. She watches you in silence for a moment longer before her tone softens—just a fraction.

“And now?”

Your throat feels tight, but you manage to hold steady. “Now, I’m not just trying to survive anymore. I want something stable. I want something I can grow in, something that’s mine. For me. And for my son. I want us both to have security.”

Evelyn’s brow twitches faintly at the mention of your child, though she doesn’t comment on it. Instead, she sets your resume down and steeples her fingers. The grief you saw earlier remains behind her eyes, like a shadow, but something shifts. “You’re not the most qualified person on paper,” she says bluntly. “But I’ve made decisions from instinct before—and they’ve served me well.”

Another pause.

“Tell me why I should take that chance on you.”

You falter a bit, and a part of you almost blurts out, Well, you came up to me at my job, you sought me out, but you hold it back. “Well, I’m a very…hard worker. I’m passionate, and I’m very dependable. I believe that I have a lot of years' worth of experience, and  I can be a great addition to this company. I’ve never been a personal secretary before, but I’m diligent, I’m…great at conflict management. And I get my work done.”

“You and…many other people, Y/N.” She murmurs, leaning back in her seat, one leg crossing over the other. “Give me more. What makes you stand out?”

God, you hate questions like these. You rack your brain for a bit, coming up with the most generic answer. “I’m a very determined person. I’m adaptable.”

“And that makes you, what?”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat. Her tone isn’t cruel, but it is pointed, like she’s testing you, pushing to see if there’s anything beyond the surface. And maybe she has every right to. This is the kind of job people fight for, the kind you don’t just walk into from a string of restaurant gigs and hourly jobs. But you’ve fought too hard to shrink now. So, you breathe in, let your shoulders settle, and drop the polite, rehearsed version of yourself.

“It makes me someone who doesn’t give up when things get hard,” you say, voice calmer now, more grounded. “Someone who keeps showing up. Even when I’m scared. Even when I’ve got every reason to quit. I’ve worked through grief, through debt, through raising a child by myself. And I still found a way to keep going. I may not have a polished resume, and I might not look perfect on paper, but I learn fast, and I don’t need hand-holding. You won’t have to babysit me. I can take a hit and keep moving.”

Your voice quiets, but your gaze stays steady on hers.

“I know what it means to build from nothing. And I’m not afraid to start again, even here.”

The silence that follows is thicker this time, but not uncomfortable. Not exactly. Evelyn studies you with a different kind of stillness now. Not dismissive. Not uninterested. Just…watching. Measuring. Then, she speaks. “How old is your child?”

“He’s five now.”

“Going to school?”

“He is.”

Evelyn nods slowly, fingers steepled beneath her chin as she regards you with something unreadable—less like an employer sizing up a candidate, and more like a woman pulling apart a story that hits too close to home. “You’ll have to leave early sometimes. Sick days. School closures. Emergencies.” Her voice is even, neutral.

You nod. “I try to plan for those things ahead of time. But yes, sometimes they’re unavoidable.”

Another beat of silence. Then, she leans back slightly, eyes narrowing, but not unkindly, with intent. “Being a personal secretary isn’t just phones and calendars. It’s long hours. Emotional labor. You’ll be expected to run interference, manage people’s moods, anticipate needs before they’re spoken. My assistant before you quit because the pressure bled into her marriage.”

She lets that sink in. Not as a threat, but as a truth.

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m just telling you—you’ll be expected to carry a lot. Are you ready for that, Y/N? Not just for the job. But for what it takes from you?”

Your lips purse, fingers curling into your palms. Every question from her feels like a test. A reminder that this job, although presented to you, is not one for the weak. Well, luckily for you, you’re not married like the last girl. And, unluckily for Eveleyn, she may wish you were. 

You huff a small breath through your nostrils before speaking with conviction. “I’m ready. I’ve made the necessary steps to get to where I am for my son and for me. I can push and push, and I can take just as much. I…I have more to fight for now.”

Evelyn’s eyes flicker slightly, just a subtle change in the way she regards you, but it’s enough to let you know she heard you. She shifts in her seat, elbows resting on the arms of her chair, hands folding neatly in her lap. There’s a glimmer of something—approval or maybe just curiosity—as she leans forward just enough to study you. “I see,” she murmurs. Her voice is softer now, less challenging. “You’re driven. That’s clear.”

You meet her gaze, holding it steady, feeling the weight of her scrutiny but refusing to flinch. This interview, this moment, it feels like one more battle you’ve got to win, and you’re determined to prove that you're capable of fighting for what you want, even if it’s a battle she doesn't yet fully understand. She taps her pen lightly against her desk, contemplating. “Alright, Y/N. I’ll be honest. I’ve had my doubts about taking on someone with little experience in this specific role. But you’ve shown me something I wasn’t expecting. I’ll need to run this by my team, but you’ll hear back from me soon. If all goes well, I’ll put you through a trial month. That’s all I can promise for now.”

You nod, the tension in your shoulders loosening just slightly. The worst of it is over. Or so you hope. “Thank you,” you say, standing up with a calmness you didn’t feel five minutes ago. You offer her a polite smile. “I’ll look forward to hearing from you.”

Evelyn gives you a small nod, standing as well. “Good luck, Y/N. I think you’ll need it.”

As you leave the office, your heart is still racing, but now it’s not from nerves. It’s from knowing you’ve fought for this. And maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough. A smile makes its way onto your face. That wasn’t half bad and not nearly as long as you thought it would be. Of course, you would’ve loved to have been hired on the spot, but it makes sense that she needs to consult first. 

Still, it wasn’t rejection. 

You lightly chuckle, turning one of the first corners, when suddenly, you collide with someone. You gasp, stumbling back a little before catching your footing. “Oh, I—I’m so sorry. That was an accident.” 

Locking eyes with the person you’ve just come into contact with, you see it’s an older man. His grey hair is styled sleekly back, with hints of crows feet around the outer edges of his hazel eyes. He’s dressed like every other man here. Nice, fancy, pristine. He dusts off his right shoulder, straightening his blazer out. “Don’t worry, simple mistake.” His voice is clean and smooth, slightly rough at the edges, which makes it obvious he was or still is a smoker.

You quickly step back, feeling a slight wave of embarrassment. The man’s eyes soften as he gives a short hum. “It happens.” He gestures to the hallway behind him with a brief nod. You step aside, offering another apology. His eyes just very briefly scan you up and down, lingering on a couple of features of your face, specifically your nose and eyebrows, before transferring quickly to your ears. 

“Have a nice day,” you mutter awkwardly. 

“Mhm,” is all he says before walking past you. Once he’s gone, your body feels lighter, as if this stranger’s presence made you all wacky from the inside. You cast a small look around the corner, making it just in time to notice Evelyn’s door closing with a click.

You swallow, shaking off the lingering feeling that man left behind. His presence, the way his eyes skimmed over you, there was something strange about it, but you can’t put your finger on what. You chalk it up to nerves from the interview and move on. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again, right? Besides, it’s Evelyn’s opinion that matters now. You keep walking, feeling that mix of relief and uncertainty creeping back into your chest. It’s a good thing the interview went well, but the weight of waiting for a callback still lingers heavily. As you approach the elevator, you check your phone, noticing a message from Satoru.

Satoru: "How’d it go?"

You smile a little, despite everything. You type out a quick reply:

You: "Better than I expected. No decision yet, but I didn’t bomb it."

You hit send, stepping into the elevator, your mind still buzzing. A moment later, the door closes, and the hum of the elevator fills the silence. You rest against the metal wall, letting your thoughts wander back to the interview, to what could come next.

It could be the start of something bigger.

“My, this…neighborhood,” Akane comments, laced with disgust. Her face wrinkles slightly at the trash that leaks out of the garbage can, obviously not being taken care of, the sketchy-looking liquor stores that seem too close together, but must be an alcoholic’s dream. The car stops at the elementary school, she looks over at her husband. “Are you sure this is the boy’s school?”

“That’s what the damn GPS is telling me. That’s what Satoru said.” Yamato huffs, grabbing his phone, pointer finger jabbing at the bright screen, and pulling down the glasses onto the bridge of his nose. 

Akane sighs, straightening out her dress. 

“C’mon, Satoru said his class should have already been let out, let’s go find the room.” Yamato pushes his hair back, sighing as he gets out his Rolls-Royce Cullinan. Rounding the car to open the passenger door for his wife. They link hands and head toward the front doors of Koji’s school. 

“I hope we don’t get mugged,” Akane mutters under her breath. 

“Oh, quiet. We’re only here for the kid.” Yamato easily replies, eyes rolling. 

The inside of the school isn’t much better. The walls are faded, bulletin boards cluttered with crumpled flyers, hand-drawn posters, and outdated announcements. The linoleum under their feet squeaks with every step, and the fluorescent lights buzz faintly overhead. Akane grimaces as a child runs past them with a juice-stained shirt, followed by another with untied shoes and an uncovered sneeze.

“This place smells like glue and poverty,” she mutters, pulling her handbag closer to her side.

Yamato doesn’t respond this time. He’s focused on the numbers above each door, squinting until they finally stop in front of Room 2B. Children’s laughter and the low hum of a teacher’s voice filter through the door. Akane frowns, eyes narrowing at the chipped paint on the doorframe.

Yamato raises his hand to knock, hesitates for a moment, and then glances at his wife. “Just…behave, alright?”

“I always do,” Akane answers with a sugary edge, smoothing her hair back and lifting her chin as he knocks.

The noise inside dips for a second as a voice— the teacher’s—calls out, “Come in!”

And just like that, the Gojo parents step into a room that’s far too small, far too loud, and far too beneath them—only, they’re not here for any of that.

They’re here for Koji.

Yamato presents a small smile. “Hello, we’re here for our…” grandson? Should he say grandson? Technically, he is, but it doesn’t really feel that way. “Koji. We’re his grandparents.”

“Ah! Right!” The teacher, an older lady with brown hair and a stained apron, nods. “His mother said he would be getting picked up by you two.” She turns her head over her shoulder, and the other kids who haven’t been picked up by their parents yet either. “Koji! Your grandparents are here, come get your backpack and jacket.”

Koji looks up from the little table where he’s been coloring with a few other kids. Crayons clatter as he quickly slides out of his chair, eyes wide and uncertain as he stares at the unfamiliar older couple standing at the door. He doesn’t move right away. His teacher encourages him with a soft pat on the back. “It’s okay, sweetie, go on.”

He walks slowly, dragging his feet just a little as he clutches his drawing in one hand. When he reaches them, he stops just a few feet away, looking up. His face is unreadable—neither shy nor excited, just…quiet. Observing. His blue eyes flick from Yamato’s trimmed goatee to Akane’s sharp heels.

A slightly awkward affair as the three leave the room, his teacher ensuring to tell Yamato to tell Koji’s mother about his homework left in his backpack. He nods, hand hesitantly hovering above the boy’s small shoulder as they walk back down the hallway. Yamato and Akane share a knowing, quiet glance. 

Once they get outside, Akane clears her throat, looking down at Koji. “Koji, do you remember us?”

“Um…only a little bit,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck as he mentally recounts the day he first saw the two who call themselves his grandparents. Luckily, you and Satoru were with him that day, but now he’s all alone. 

They get to the car, with Yamato opening the backseat. Koji’s eyes widened slightly in awe at the sleek, black car presented in front of him. “Papa’s car is cool too…” he offhandedly comments. 

Akane arches a brow. “I’m sure it is,” she replies curtly, helping him into the car with a practiced grace that still feels stiff, unfamiliar. Koji slides into his booster seat, hands lightly grazing the armrest before clutching his backpack in his lap. Yamato shuts the door and exchanges another glance with his wife before circling back to the driver’s side. The moment he starts the engine, the car hums to life with silent power, and for a while, none of them speak.

Koji, ever perceptive, clutches his drawing a little tighter.

Akane breaks the silence first. “So… what were you drawing back there?”

Koji hesitates. “Me and Mama. At the park.”

“Hmm,” she hums, gaze forward. “No Papa?”

Koji’s lips press together. “He wasn’t there that day.”

Yamato’s knuckles tighten slightly on the wheel. Akane doesn’t respond, but the weight of her silence is as cutting as her tone. After a few more seconds, Yamato clears his throat, glancing at Koji through the rearview mirror. “We were thinking we could take you out for something to eat. Anywhere you like.”

Koji blinks. “Like… McDonald’s?”

Akane’s lips curl into something halfway between a smile and a wince. “If that’s what you want.”

“Can I get a toy?” Koji asks, almost hopefully now.

“Yes,” Yamato answers, firm but not unkind. “You can get whatever you want.”

There’s a beat of calm. Then, very softly, Koji says, “Mama doesn’t have a car like this.”

Yamato exhales quietly. “I know.”

Akane folds her hands in her lap, casting a sideways glance out the window. “That’s why we’re here.”

The ride to McDonald’s isn’t as painfully quiet. Yamato turns the radio on, volume in the middle. Koji swings his legs back and forth, looking out the tinted window as the streets blur past him. His head tilts when they pass the McDonald’s. “We missed McDonald’s,” he says, looking at the older couple with a confused gaze. 

Yamato meets his eyes through the rear-view mirror momentarily. “There’s another McDonald’s closer to our house.”

“Your house?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m going to your house?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why not my house?”

God, he forgot just how questioning children are. Akane answers this time. “Because your mother and father will meet us there later. Until then, you’ll stay at our house.”

Koji is silent for a minute, processing the information. He looks down at his drawing, hands smoothing out the paper. “Is your house big?” He questions. 

Akane gives a soft hum, like she’s debating how much to say. “Yes. It’s quite big. There’s a garden and a fountain in the front. We have a piano, too.”

“A piano?” Koji repeats, eyes lighting up just a bit as he looks up from his drawing. “Do you play it?”

“I used to,” she replies, her voice a little softer now. “Maybe I’ll show you.”

Yamato glances at her, surprised by the gentle tone, but doesn’t comment. He switches lanes with ease, and they pass through the quiet, wealthier side of the city. The roads get smoother. Cleaner. Koji notices the change, too.

“Are there kids in your neighborhood?”

“A few,” Yamato answers. “Most are older, though. Teenagers.”

“Oh.” Koji pauses again, then looks back out the window. “Mama says big houses get quiet.”

Akane’s lips press together tightly. “That’s true. But sometimes quiet can be peaceful.”

Koji doesn’t respond. He just tucks his drawing back into his backpack and rests his chin in his hand, blinking slowly at the soft-spoken world outside the window—one that doesn’t look like his. One that doesn’t feel like his. 

Yamato parks in the McDonald’s parking lot, unbuckling. Akane and Koji do the same, waiting for the man to open their doors. Koji hops out as Akane does. Koji, ever excited, begins to briskly walk to the front doors of his favorite place. Yamato and Akane’s eyes widen, quickly following. 

Akane’s hand awkwardly juts out, as if she’s about to grab his hand, before stopping. She instead clears her throat. “Walk slower, now.”

Koji slows down, glancing up at her with wide, innocent eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, scuffing his shoes against the concrete as he adjusts his pace. He waits beside her, though there’s a slight fidget in his steps. He’s not used to slowing down for anyone but his mom.

Inside, the McDonald’s smells like fries and melted cheese. A kid screams with glee somewhere near the play area, and Koji visibly relaxes at the familiar chaos. Yamato leads them to the counter, where a bored-looking teenager takes their order. Koji clutches the edge of the counter, peering up as he declares confidently, “I want a Happy Meal. With the dinosaur toy. And apple slices, not fries. And orange soda!”

Yamato raises a brow but doesn’t argue. “Happy Meal. Dinosaur toy. Apple slices. Orange soda,” he repeats to the cashier, who nods with a shrug.

Akane watches Koji from the side, eyes tracing how easily he fits here—how his energy might be too big for their cold, cavernous home. She adjusts the pearl bracelet on her wrist, a little unsettled. 

Once they get the food, they sit at a clean booth near the window. Yamato and Akane both sit across from Koji. Koji munches on his food contentedly, his legs swinging again. He pulls the toy from the box, a green triceratops, and sets it beside his apple slices. “He looks mad,” he says, turning it toward them.

Yamato checks his watch. “Maybe he doesn’t like apple slices.”

Koji giggles slightly at the dry humor of his grandfather. Yamato clears his throat, looking up and leaning back in the booth. The older couple watch in quietness as Koji happily devours his food, occasionally stopping to move his toy dinosaur and mimic a small roar. 

It’s strange for them. They’re grandparents, and yet they know close to nothing about this boy. All that they do is he’s a carbon copy of their son, but his mannerisms closely match yours. 

Akane finds herself watching Koji more than she eats. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, just like you do when you’re distracted. His laughter comes in bursts, quick and bright, like a firecracker going off in a still room. And when he talks about his toy, he looks up at them with expectant eyes, seeking some kind of shared interest neither of them really knows how to give yet.

Yamato studies him too, arms crossed now, food half-finished. The boy’s smart. He doesn’t fidget aimlessly; he thinks before he speaks. He absorbs everything. Just like Satoru did. Maybe more.

Koji finishes his apple slices, downs the rest of his orange soda, and then sits back and smiles at them. “Do you have toys at your house?”

“No,” Akane answers honestly. “But we can get some.”

“Cool,” he says, simple and trusting. “Papa gets me a lot of toys.”

Akane hums lowly. “Do you like your toys?”

“I do!” He chews on his last chicken nugget. 

“What’s your favorite toy?” She asks, arms on the table as she leans forward. 

Koji doesn’t answer right away. He swallows his food, then looks up at her with that same wide-eyed honesty he always has when asked something serious. His fingers toy with the edge of the Happy Meal box. “I like my robot dog,” he finally says. “Papa gave it to me when I was sick. He said it could bark and dance, but it only spins in circles now. I think I broke it.” He pauses, thoughtful. “But I still like it.”

Akane tilts her head slightly, a quiet softness tugging at her features. “Even though it doesn’t work right?”

Koji shrugs. “Yeah. Because Papa said it’s mine. So it’s special.”

She studies him—how simple his logic is. How unwavering his sense of loyalty already seems to be. Her fingers tighten ever so slightly around the edge of the table. “I see,” she murmurs. “That makes sense.”

Yamato glances at her, then down at his phone.

Koji sits up straighter. “Do you have toys from when you were little?”

Akane chuckles under her breath, caught off guard. “Not anymore. I didn’t keep many things.”

“Why not?”

She hesitates, then smiles faintly. “I guess I didn’t think I���d need them.”

Koji stares at her for a second, then looks at his dinosaur toy. “You can have this one if you want,” he offers, sliding it across the table toward her. “So you have a toy again.”

Akane freezes.

Even Yamato lifts his eyes from his phone, blinking in surprise.

“O-oh, well, um—” she clears her throat, hesitantly taking the toy in her hand. “Well…that’s very…nice. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Mama says sharing is caring.” He shrugs, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. 

Akane’s eyebrow lifts. Seems you’ve taught your boy some good manners. At least. 

She turns the toy over in her hands, the little green dinosaur staring back at her with its molded plastic scowl. Something in her expression softens further, an unspoken crack in her perfectly composed exterior. It’s clear she hasn’t been offered something so small yet so sincere in a very long time.

“Well,” she says carefully, “I’ll take very good care of him.”

Koji beams, nodding. “Good. He doesn’t like being alone.”

Akane offers a small, almost reluctant smile. “Neither do I.”

Yamato watches quietly, lips pressed together, a crease forming between his brows—not because of disapproval, but something closer to discomfort. Like watching something unfamiliar begin to unfold in front of him. Just then, Koji reaches for his drink, slurping the last of his orange soda loudly. He sighs, satisfied, then stretches his arms out wide. “When are Mama and Papa coming?”

Akane and Yamato share a quick look. She reaches for her clutch, already checking her phone. 

“They’ll meet us back at the house later,” Yamato says, standing up slowly. “Let’s get going before traffic gets bad.”

Koji jumps to his feet with a little bounce. “Okay!”

Akane hesitates just a moment longer, placing the dinosaur into her purse beside her wallet and keys, treating it more carefully than she expected she would.

The entire bus ride to your ex’s parents’ house was spent in utter anxiety. You fiddle with your hands, foot tapping, and looking out the window. You haven’t seen them since that one day a couple of months back. You wish things were just easy enough so that you could have at least a semblance of a relationship with them. Especially if this co-parenting works out, it’s going to be inevitable you’ll be seeing them. You sigh, head resting back against your seat, eyes closing. 

.

.

.

.

“Satoru not bringing you food anymore?”

You gasp and jolt, whirling around quickly. The kitchen light flips on, caught right in the act of stealing a couple of pastries from the pantry, as well as a carton of orange juice. 

Akane stands in a nightgown, arms crossed, with a strong expression. Her eyes move up and down your figure, scoffing audibly. Her chin tilts up, silently commanding you to explain yourself. 

You swallow the current food in your mouth, wiping it with your hand. “I…um…I—well, I can explain.”

“Explain?” She steps forward. “Explain why my son’s good-for-nothing girlfriend has not only been staying in our guesthouse, but stealing our food? Go on, then. Explain.”

Her belittling tone makes you want to curl up into a ball and disappear. God damn it, Satoru. Where the hell are you?! “I…um…there’s—there’s just some stuff going on at home. Satoru said I could stay here until things clear up.”

“And he didn’t even bother to tell me or his father.”

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to over—”

“Why are you here?”

“I—I needed a place to stay. I’m sorry. I won’t be here for long.”

Akane stares at you for a long, unbearable second. Her jaw clenches. You can tell she’s holding back something sharp. Maybe it’s restraint, or maybe it’s just another judgment she wants to hurl your way. “I should’ve known,” she says quietly. “Satoru always did have a soft spot for broken things.”

That one stings more than you’d like to admit. Your throat tightens. You look down, ashamed, both hands still wrapped around the cold carton of juice. “I’m not trying to cause trouble,” you whisper. “I just needed a couple weeks. That’s all.”

Akane stares you down in silence for what feels like a full minute. The ticking clock above the stove echoes between you, and your heart hammers louder with each passing second. Her eyes narrow, not with confusion, but calculation. “Let me guess,” she says finally, her voice quiet but sharp enough to cut glass. “You got into a fight with your mother again. Or maybe Satoru ran his mouth and scared you off?”

You shake your head quickly. “It’s not like that.”

“No? Then tell me. Because all I see is a girl too proud to ask for help and too stupid to leave when she should’ve.” Her arms drop, but her words are no less harsh. “You’ve been sneaking around this house like a rodent. Do you know how humiliating it is to find out from the housekeeper that someone’s been using the shower and leaving dishes in the sink?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You can feel your throat tighten.

Akane sighs—long, exhausted, and judgmental. “You girls think just because someone like Satoru gives you attention, you’ve made it. But you don’t know the first thing about surviving in this family.”

Your knuckles whiten around the orange juice. The ache in your chest is unbearable, but you force yourself to speak. “I didn’t ask to be here. Satoru said it wouldn’t be permanent. He’s helping me. And I’ve been trying to stay out of everyone’s way.”

“You failed.” Her reply is quick and cutting. “Do you know how hard his father and I work to keep his name clean? To keep distractions away while he was studying, preparing to inherit everything? And now look at him—sneaking you in like a dirty secret.”

The word “distraction” lingers in the air like poison. You blink rapidly, biting your tongue until you taste metal. “I’m not trying to ruin his life.”

Akane steps closer now. She isn’t yelling. She doesn’t need to. “Then leave before you do.”

Akane snatches the food and juice from your arms, giving you a brief jut of her chin. “Go back into the guesthouse. I’m not dealing with you anymore tonight.”

You blink, holding back tears. Wordlessly, you bite your lip, turn on your heel, and exit through the back door into the cool night air. Tears sting your eyes as you enter the guesthouse, closing the door with a shut before making your way to the bed. 

You sit on the edge of the bed for a long while, still in the dark, clutching the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to the ground. The burn in your throat won’t ease, no matter how hard you swallow. You press your palms to your eyes, trying not to let the sob crawl out of you.

She doesn’t know.

She doesn’t know.

You repeat this tiny mantra to yourself, willing your brain not to go into overdrive for what will be the millionth time this week. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Satoru promised. He said they wouldn’t even have to know you were here. Just a few weeks, just until you guys figured out what to do, until you started feeling better, until you could afford that studio apartment in Setagaya. But it’s already been four nights since you found out, and you’re still waking up at three in the morning, stomach twisted in knots, half from nausea and half from sorrow. 

And he still hasn’t answered your texts. 

.

.

.

.

You stir awake from your small nap as the bus gets to your stop, rubbing your eyes and getting off. His parents’ place shouldn’t be too far from here, if memory serves you right. You sigh and begin walking, just trying to think about being able to see your little boy in a little bit, not come face to face with them. 

You hug your coat tighter around you as you walk, the cool afternoon air nipping at your cheeks. The streets are too clean here. Too quiet. You hate how familiar it still feels, the ivy-lined walls, the sharp turns of the hedges, the cold elegance of it all. You used to think it was beautiful. Now it just feels heavy.

Your feet move on instinct, carrying you past the old stone wall you remember scraping your knees on one time, the bakery where Satoru used to buy you those strawberry mochi on Fridays. Everything is the same, but so different. 

You pause as you get to the intercom at the gate surrounding the Gojo Estate. Pressing the button. A small buzz sounds out, a man’s voice you recognize coming in. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Y/N.”

There’s a tiny silence before you hear another buzz, the wide gates slowly opening. Taking a deep breath, you start up the long driveway, hands shoved in the pockets of your coat. Eyes focused on the two white grand doors. Once you get there, the doors open, revealing Yamato. 

You purse your lips awkwardly. “Um…hi.”

He nods briefly before stepping aside. The moment you enter, a wave of nostalgia washes over your entire being. You force yourself not to book it out of there. 

“Satoru said he’d be here in twenty minutes,” Yamato utters.

You nod, looking around. “And Koji?”

“Come,” he motions with his hand, turning to walk down the hallway towards the large living space. You follow a few steps behind, passing by a few family memorabilia on the way. You stop when he does. You blink, head tilting slightly. 

In front of you, your son and Satoru’s mother with their backs turned to you. They sit on the seat of the piano.

The scene before you feels surreal, like stepping into a memory that doesn’t belong to you, yet it does. Koji, perched on the piano bench, his tiny fingers brushing over the ivory keys, a look of intense concentration on his face. And Akane, beside him, her back straight and her hands poised delicately over the keys as she guides him. The quiet, peaceful moment is almost too perfect.

“She’s been teaching him for the last hour, he’s very curious.” Yamato comments, arms crossing. He side-glances at you, noticing your quietness. 

“Oh, well…that’s good. He’s never seen one in person before,” you mumble, awkwardly shifting on your feet. You can faintly hear Akane mutter a direction to your son, followed by his nod. Your stomach turns, unsure of how to feel about all this. “He’s been behaving?” You decide to ask. 

Yamato nods, meeting your eyes. “Quite so.” He says nothing for a few more seconds before sighing and angling his body towards you. “Look, this is new for all of us. I didn’t expect him to be so open towards us.”

“Because I taught him to be kind to everyone,” you cooly reply, looking up at him. “No matter what.”

Yamato gets the silent message, jaw ticking just barely. “I know you may have resentment towards us, but we’re not your enemy,” he finishes, voice steady, but laced with something heavier.

You blink, swallowing thickly as your fingers curl inside your pockets. Enemy. You weren’t expecting that word, but maybe it fits more than you’d like to admit. Your silence stretches too long, and you know he’s waiting for you to snap, to throw all your pent-up frustration in his face.

But you don’t. Instead, you let out a small exhale, glancing back at Koji and Akane. “I don’t resent anyone,” you say, voice quiet. “I just don’t forget.”

Yamato says nothing, but the pause between you sharpens. Then he gives a small nod, almost as if conceding to something unspoken.

You walk past him.

As your feet carry you toward the piano room, Koji glances over his shoulder again. “Mama!” he beams, hopping off the bench and running into your arms. 

You catch him easily, hugging him tight, letting his little arms wrap around your neck like ivy. “Hey, baby,” you murmur into his hair, inhaling the warm scent of shampoo and sunshine. When you lift your gaze again, Akane is standing. Her expression is cool and composed as always, hands clasped neatly in front of her. She doesn’t say anything, but the look in her eyes says enough.

She sees you. 

“Thank you for teaching him,” you offer, voice strained but civil.

Akane tilts her head slightly. “He’s a fast learner,” she replies. “Takes after his father.”

You don’t comment on that, resisting the urge to say his mother, too. 

“Would you like to hear what he’s learned?” she adds, tone perfectly poised.

You blink in surprise. For a moment, you wonder if this is some sort of trap, but Koji pulls back, eyes shining with excitement. “Can I show her, Grandma?”

Akane gives a small nod. “Of course.”

He runs back to the piano. You follow more slowly, sitting beside him this time. Your eyes flicker to Akane. She doesn’t sit, but she watches, hands folded, body rigid in that ever-disapproving way. Or maybe that’s just what she’s forever used to. 

And still, as Koji presses the keys with tiny, proud fingers, all you can do is wonder:

Is this her trying?

Or is this just her performance?

You never know with these people. 

Koji plays a small, four-key symphony. You smile softly, watching his tiny fingers move around the white keys before looking up at you with an expectant smile. “Oh, you’re so good. That sounded so wonderful,” you kiss his cheek, wrapping an arm around his shoulder to bring him into your side.

He giggles, kissing your cheek back. “Grandma said I’m a puh—poo—umm…a pr—”

“Prodigy,” Akane finishes for him.

Koji nods quickly. “Yeah! That! A prodigy!”

You can’t help the way your lips twitch at the corners, though you keep your tone even. “Is that so?”

Akane finally moves, just enough to step closer. “I wouldn’t say it lightly,” she murmurs. “He has an ear for rhythm. Muscle memory. Coordination. His age group typically struggles with that.”

You glance at her sideways. “He’s always been observant. Picks up things quickly.”

Akane nods once. “Yes. He’s sharp.”

There’s something there—a flicker of approval, rare and unfamiliar. It lands oddly. Not unwelcome, but not quite comforting either. Still, it lingers longer than you expect. And for the first time since arriving, her words feel… not like a dismissal. Not like judgment. More like an assessment.

You exhale slowly. “Well… as long as he’s enjoying it.”

Koji beams between you both. “I wanna be really good. Like the people on Papa’s phone!”

You blink. “What people?”

“He showed me a video of a man playing piano with his eyes closed. Really fast!” Koji’s eyes go wide. “I wanna do that.”

“Sounds ambitious,” you murmur, brushing his hair back gently.

“It’s possible,” Akane says, arms crossing. “With discipline and the right environment.”

Your jaw tightens, but you keep your expression neutral. “He’s five.”

Akane’s gaze doesn’t waver. “So was Satoru when he started.”

The comparison between Koji and Satoru is one you expected, but that doesn’t make you any less frustrated. You look back at Koji, his joy too pure, too focused, to let the weight of that conversation reach him. He starts playing again, a slower, clumsier version of the earlier song, tongue poking out in concentration. “Well, he’s not Satoru. He’s Koji.”

“He can still learn how Satoru did.”

“Or he can learn what he wants, when he wants. And if I allow it,” you calmly reply, standing up from the bench and taking your son into your arms. He’s already growing big enough to the point where picking him up hurts your back even more. However, you still want to cherish whatever strands of dependency you can with your son, even if that means suffering a backache.

Akane’s lips press into a thin line, not quite disapproving—but not agreeing either. You can see the tension in her posture, in the way her hands shift slightly as if she wants to say more but is holding back. “He’s yours,” she finally says. “That much is clear.”

You hold Koji tighter. “He always has been.”

Yamato clears his throat, hoping to die down the growing tension as he stands beside his wife. “Why don’t you two wait for Satoru in the dining room?”

You don’t need to be told twice, turning on your heel and walking out of the room, practically feeling their eyes burn holes in the back of your head. Once you’re gone, Akane sighs heavily, foot tapping against the ground. “That girl hasn’t changed.”

“I’m not in the mood to break up a fight right now, Akane.”

“I’m not fighting,” she snaps, glaring up at Yamato. “I’m observing. Simply. It’s not my fault she dislikes us.”

“It doesn’t matter if she does or does not, I don’t care enough to worry about that. But at least try to act civil in the presence of a child, yes?” Yamato asks in exasperation, eyebrow lifting. 

She scoffs. “I am acting civil. Do you see me raising my voice and throwing a tantrum?”

“No, but it’s your tone.”

“And how is my tone?”

“Jesus Christ, just be nice for one goddamn minute. I’m too old for this crap,” Yamato huffs deeply, hand running through his hair. His lips are set into a creased frown, and he waves his hand up. “Just try to make her feel somewhat comfortable, okay. Got it?” 

Akane opens her mouth. “But she—”

“I said, got it?” He asks again, giving his wife a look she’s familiar with. One that says he won’t tolerate her disobedience any longer.

Akane’s jaw tightens at the silent command, but she doesn’t argue this time. She just presses her lips together, gaze flicking toward the doorway you disappeared through. “…Got it,” she says eventually, her voice clipped.

Yamato sighs through his nose, the tension leaving his shoulders just slightly. He doesn’t say anything else as he steps out, leaving his wife behind in the piano room. She lingers for a moment, her eyes drifting toward the bench where Koji had been sitting—small hands, wide eyes, laughter like Satoru’s when he was little. She swallows something bitter before turning on her heel and following after her husband.

In the dining room, you sit Koji down on the edge of one of the long chairs, pulling his little hoodie off his head and smoothing his hair. He swings his feet as he sits, talking excitedly about the keys, the sounds, how Akane let him press the pedal even though he “wasn’t supposed to.” You smile and nod in all the right places, but your mind is elsewhere, your eyes flicking to the large windows, the too-white walls, the marble floors. It’s like being dropped into someone else’s memory.

You hear their footsteps before you see them. Yamato enters first, his face unreadable as always, though there’s a tiredness behind his eyes. Akane follows after, her posture still regal, but her expression more composed. Less… cutting.

She doesn’t look at you as she sits on the opposite side of the table.

Yamato clears his throat and glances between you both. “Would either of you like tea while we wait?”

“I’m okay,” you mutter.

“Um…juice?” he asks Koji, his voice a tad bit gentler.

“Apple?” Koji grins.

Yamato nods. “Coming right up.”

As he heads to the side kitchen, silence settles between you and Akane again. You keep your attention on Koji, who starts humming some made-up song to himself. 

Then, after a beat, Akane speaks.

“I didn’t mean to undermine you,” she says, tone low and careful, like each word has been weighed a dozen times before being spoken. “I only meant to point out potential.”

You glance at her. Her gaze is steady.

“He’s your son,” she says. “But he’s Satoru’s, too. You can’t expect the world not to notice what’s in his blood.”

You lean forward, resting your arms on the table. “I don’t mind the world noticing. I mind when people try to turn him into someone he’s not.”

She sighs. “All I did was suggest he has greater potential.”

Akane’s words hang between you like an unresolved chord. The flicker in her eye, curiosity, perhaps hope, maybe even defensiveness—doesn’t go unnoticed. 

You tilt your head. “I’m not against potential. I’m against projection.”

Her lips twitch at the corner. “You think I’m trying to mold him or something?”

“I think you don’t realize how easy it is to mistake admiration for control,” you say calmly. “And I’m not going to let him grow up thinking love has conditions attached to it.”

Akane stiffens slightly at that, her hands tightening over her lap. “You assume the worst in us.”

“No,” you reply softly. “I remember the worst. That’s not the same.”

Another pause. This time, it’s her gaze that flickers away, settling on the far end of the table where Koji now softly drums his fingers, looking between you and her. She decides not to push it; the longer the discussion grows, the more curious he might become. She looks up as Yamato holds out a juice box for Koji to take. 

Just as he does so, Satoru walks into the room. His two top buttons unbuttoned, eyes glancing between his mother and you, silently trying to determine the comfort level of the current situation. “Hey,” he says, coming over to stand beside you. A quick look at your expression says everything. 

“Papa!”

“Hey, buddy.” Satoru smiles, welcoming Koji into his arms, adjusting the small boy against his chest. He gives him a small kiss on the top of his head. “How was school?”

“Okay, I’m gonna miss my friends.” He admits, looking down with a small frown. 

“Aw, buddy. I’m sure you are, but you’ll make even more friends at your new school.”

Koji childishly sighs, arms wrapping around his father’s neck and putting his face into the crook of it. 

Satoru pats his back lightly, now focusing on his mother and you. His first question is directed towards you. “Everything good?”

You nod, though it’s a small, half-hearted gesture. “Peachy,” you murmur, not quite sarcastic, but not fully honest either.

His hand remains on Koji’s back, rubbing in slow, thoughtful circles. He glances at Akane, who has returned to her perfect stillness, eyes calmly watching the exchange as if it’s all part of a silent evaluation.

“She was just making observations,” you say before he can ask. “About Koji’s potential. About blood. About you at five.”

Satoru raises a brow, slowly lowering Koji to the chair beside him. “Mom,” he says, voice calm but edged, “We talked about this.”

Akane doesn’t flinch. “And I was careful. I said nothing out of line.”

“You never do,” he replies smoothly. But the look he gives her carries more weight than his tone. It’s the look of a son who’s lived too long parsing praise from performance. Yamato goes to his seat beside Akane with a grunt, muttering something about needing a stronger drink. You focus on Koji again, standing up to wipe juice from the side of his mouth as he slurps through the straw.

Then, Satoru shifts slightly closer to you, brushing your arm. “We don’t have to stay long,” he says low, for your ears only. “We can head out now, yeah?”

You glance at Koji, who’s swinging his legs, and you nod.

But it’s Akane who speaks next.

“You’re always leaving,” she says, tone bitter.

Satoru exhales through his nose. “And you’re always making it easy to.”

“The cooks will be making some shrimp tacos,” she says, standing as well. Her arms cross, looking between the two of you. “Maybe the boy can—”

“Koji is fine,” you cut in, fixing her with a firm gaze. “He’s a picky eater.”

Her lips purse tightly, restrained disapproval lurking behind her eyes. As if she is holding back a sharper comment.  Her posture doesn’t waver, but the chill in the room thickens.

“He’ll learn to adjust,” she finally says, looking at you. “Children do. Especially in families like ours.” 

Families like ours.

The words cling, sticky, and unpleasant. Satoru’s jaw tightens. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch at his side, the smallest urge to step in, to shield, to lash back. But instead, he smiles, tight, impersonal. “Koji isn’t some soldier in training, Mom.”

Akane lifts her chin. “And he shouldn’t be raised like a normal civilian, either.”

Yamato scoffs again, leaning back in his chair. “Here we go.”

Satoru ignores his father, eyes still on his mother. “He’s five,” he says flatly. “He likes dinosaur nuggets and cartoons that scream too loudly. He doesn’t need to know what it means to be part of this family yet.”

“And he doesn’t need to,” you add on. 

She huffs dryly. “So you both plan on, what? Never allowing him to come over? To stay over?”

“Nobody is saying that, Mom.” Satoru exhales through his nostrils. “That is not at all what we said. Stop putting words in our mouths.”

“But that’s what I’m hearing.” Her voice rises, Koji just barely flinching in Satoru’s arms. You both notice, and your expression darkens. Satoru holds him closer, hand moving to his pearly white strands of hair to weave through in a calming manner. As if noticing the way she snapped, she blinks. For a moment, it looks like she might apologize. 

But neither of you cares enough to stay to hear it. 

“We’re leaving now.” You state, not leaving room for even more of whatever pathetic argument she might try to throw. Satoru and you turn, walking to the door. 

Yamato side glances at Akane. Her eyebrows are furrowed, biting hard on her lip. And if he didn’t know any better, he’d say she looks regretful. 

“Wait,” Koji says, looking over Satoru’s shoulder at the older couple. “Can I say bye to Grandma and Grandpa?” 

Satoru pauses at the door, one hand on the knob, the other under Koji’s legs as the boy leans back slightly in his arms. You glance at him, silent, weighing the moment. Akane straightens. Yamato says nothing.

“Of course you can,” Satoru says finally, setting Koji gently down. “Go ahead.”

Koji pads back into the room, small feet quiet against the polished floor. He stops in front of Akane first, looking up at her with hesitant eyes. She meets them, unsure for once. There’s a flicker of something unfamiliar—a tender softness she doesn’t wear often enough, one she hasn’t had to wear in years. 

“Bye, Grandma,” he says politely, giving a little wave.

Akane stares at him for a beat too long. Then slowly, she lowers herself to one knee, smoothing down her skirt. “Bye, Koji,” she replies, her voice quieter. “Thank you for coming.”

He smiles, just a little. She doesn’t hug him. But she brushes a piece of lint from his sleeve, like it’s the closest she knows how to get.

Next, he turns to Yamato. “Bye, Grandpa.”

Yamato grunts. “Be good, kid.”

Koji nods solemnly, then trots back to Satoru, who scoops him up with practiced ease. The tension hasn’t left the room, but the mood has shifted slightly, a tilt of something that might eventually become understanding. Or not. You don’t count on it.

Satoru looks over his shoulder. “We’ll be in touch.”

Akane nods once, lips pressed tight.

You don’t say anything else. The door closes behind you with a quiet click. As you walk down the hallway, Koji resting his head on Satoru’s shoulder, you murmur, “Thanks for not letting that go on any longer.”

He nods. “You looked like you were about two seconds away from throwing a glass at her.”

You snort, the sound small but real. “I still might.”

He holds open the front door. “Next time, we do neutral territory. Like a park. Or the moon.”

Koji yawns. “Only if there’s nuggets on the moon.”

You smile, despite it all. “We’ll make it happen.”

.

.

Akane sits back quietly in her seat, eyes laser-focused on the door you two just left. Her husband rubs his face. “I swear, if it’s not me one day, it’s you. And you said I’m driving him away.”

Akane doesn’t respond immediately. Her gaze is still fixed on the door, her fingers tense around the armrest of the chair as though she’s trying to steady herself. Her jaw clenches, her silence a loud statement in the room. Yamato shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he leans back in his chair. “I’m getting too old for this.” He exhales heavily, rubbing his face with both hands, a look of both frustration and resignation settling on him. “Every damn time, Akane. Every time.”

Finally, Akane shifts slightly, her posture still stiff, but her eyes now narrowing as she shifts her eyes to her husband. “I don’t need your lectures right now, Yamato.”

“I’m not lecturing you, Akane,” he says, his voice sharp but tired. “I’m trying to understand where the hell we went wrong with him.”

Akane’s lips twist, the muscle in her cheek twitching slightly. “Where we went wrong? What about you? You think I don’t see how you’ve handled him? I’m not the only one pushing him away. He’s a grown man now, and he’s made his choices. Don’t you dare act like it’s all on me.”

Yamato’s eyes flick to the door again, his expression exasperated. “I don’t particularly favor either her or the boy, yes. But at least I can fake it in front of them. You preach how I’m ruining this family and how I care more about our legacy, but you’re the reason our son left our house angry, again.”

Akane’s gaze hardens as her husband’s words sink in, but she doesn’t respond right away. The silence between them thickens, heavy with the weight of old arguments and unspoken truths. Her fingers twitch tighter. Her posture remains rigid, every muscle seemingly on alert, and for a moment, Yamato wonders if she’s just waiting for the right moment to tear into him.

But instead, she takes a slow, deliberate breath, her voice quiet but icy when she finally speaks. “You want to talk about our son’s choices? Fine. But I’m not the one who hid behind his work, his pride, and a hundred excuses to avoid facing the truth.”

Yamato glares at her, the sharp edge of his frustration showing. “And what truth is that? That you’re right? That everything I’ve done to protect this family, to secure our future, was a mistake?”

Akane’s lips curl into a tight, bitter smile. “No. The truth is that we’ve been playing this game for too long, Yamato. For decades. You think Satoru’s leaving this house—this family—is his fault? You’ve built this perfect little empire on the backs of people like him, forcing them to believe they owe you everything. You taught him to put legacy before everything else, before loyalty, before love, before family.”

Her words cut deep, and Yamato feels his chest tighten. He leans forward, staring at his wife for a long, painful moment. “And what? You think you’ve been a perfect mother? You think you’ve done everything right? You think Satoru’s supposed to just bend to your every whim because you said so?” He scoffs bitterly. “You’ve been so busy trying to mold him into something he could never be. You haven’t seen him, Akane. Not really. You’re just as shitty as I am.”

Akane’s eyes flash with something, either anger or regret, or maybe both, but she’s quick to mask it with a calm veneer. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen exactly who he is, and that’s what I’m trying to protect. This family doesn’t have the luxury of softness, Yamato. Not when it comes to survival.”

Yamato laughs, a hollow, humorless sound. “Survival? Is that what you think this is? You think we’re still fighting to survive?”

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their breathing filling the silence. It’s as if both are trying to hold on to the shards of a family that, in truth, has already splintered. Yamato’s gaze falls back on the door, his voice softer now, tinged with weariness. “I don’t know anymore, Akane. I don’t know what’s left of this family.” 

Akane’s expression softens, just slightly, but her voice remains firm. “Then maybe it’s time you figured it out.” She gets up and storms out the room. 

Yamato leans back in his chair, finally letting his eyes close for a moment, as though trying to block out the heavy weight of the conversation and everything that’s still left unsaid between them. 

God, can we just be a normal family for once?

.

.

.

.

“He barely even let me come over to his parents.” Himari scoffs, teeth gritting. She’s leaned over the middle console from the back, eyes narrowed into slits as she watches the car housing her used-to-be-boyfriend, his annoying wrench of an ex, and some useless kid drive off. 

Haruka sits beside her, wearing a white fur coat and dramatic, huge sunglasses that cover her eyes. She nudges beside Himari’s side, causing the other woman to grumble, in an attempt to get a look herself before the car makes a turn. Emi sits in the passenger seat, while Kenji is in the driver’s seat. The tint of their blacked-out vehicle keeping their presence obscured from outside view. 

Himari huffs again, tapping her fingers impatiently against the window. “I don’t get it. He just let her waltz in and take over, like it was nothing. Like I wasn’t even there.”

Haruka, ever the faux composed figure she is, brushes a strand of hair out of her face and sighs dramatically. “Men are always like that, darling. So quick to give away what doesn’t belong to them.”

Emi leans forward, her voice laced with mild amusement. “It’s not just about what belongs to him. It’s about what she thinks she deserves. And she clearly thinks she deserves him.”

“So, what now?” Himari crosses her arms, looking at her parents, then at Haruka. “I’m confused how this old hag will help.”

“Huh?! What did you—”

“She’s here to reclaim her daughter and drag her out the clutches of Satoru, Himari.” Emi sighs, looking over her shoulder at her daughter. “Just ignore her, she’s only an accessory.” 

“Excuse me!—”

“Approach her again,” Kenji finally speaks, effectively quieting down the car. He lights a cigar. “His father has been sending a representative to meet with me instead of himself. Seems cowards run in the family.”

“And then what? What if she doesn’t help?” Himari argues back. 

“I can help,” Haruka starts, lip curled into a scowl. “I’m not a useless brat like you. God, your generation knows nothing of respect.”

“I respect people who are on my same level. You? You’re like my pair of 2016 Versace pumps.” She flips her hair back. 

“Oh, you little—”

“I have reinforcements. When the time is right,” he lets out a puff of smoke. “They’ll start playing too.”

Himari groans loudly, running her hands through her hair. 

Haruka glares at Himari, her lips tightening into a practiced, poisonous smile. “I see Emi’s been raising her like a spoiled show dog. Pretty enough, but all bark, no bite.”

Emi chuckles softly, her tone dismissive. “And yet she’s the one he was with until your daughter came crawling out of the shadows, looking for scraps.”

“Crawling?” Haruka lets out a bitter laugh, the fur collar of her coat brushing her jaw as she turns to face Emi more fully. “Please. She doesn’t crawl—he has to have come looking. Don’t confuse desperation with effort. If anything, your Himari was the warm-up act.”

Himari scoffs, insulted, but Kenji speaks before she can bite back again. “Enough,” he says, cold and unamused. “This isn’t a fashion spat at a luncheon. This is about leverage. And right now, we don’t have it.”

The silence that follows is tense, thick. Himari bites the inside of her cheek, her nails tapping faster now.

“What do you want me to do then?” she asks, frustrated. “Just wait around while she plays happy family with him? With that child?”

Emi snorts. “If you had done your job properly the first time, we wouldn’t be here. But now…” she tilts her head, a calculating gleam lurking in her eyes, “we take advantage of what she loves.”

“And what’s that?” Himari asks, venom on her tongue.

Kenji answers instead, calm and deliberate. “Her son.”

That shuts everyone up.

The silence hangs for a second too long, and then Emi, always the tactful one, breaks it with a smooth, almost bored, “You don’t touch the boy. You use the boy. It’s simple, really.” Haruka’s lips twist into a knowing smile. “Now that’s strategy.”

“I’ll accept as low as 730,000 yen,” Mei-Mei cooly states, leaning back leisurely in her chair. Legs crossed with a coy smile. “Last time, you low-balled me a bit. And it ended up causing quite a stir. I’m sure this will be even double that, so the lowest is 730,000.”

Across from the table sits an older man. Tapping his cane against the ground, his wrinkled face set into a constant grim expression. His eyes so dark, they look like hollows in his face. Bushy white brow just barely lifting as he hears her offer. 

“Quite the offer for an audio tape,” Gakuganji expresses grimly. 

Mei Mei’s smile doesn’t falter. In fact, it grows just slightly, thin, polished, dangerous. “It’s not just an audio tape,” she purrs. “It’s leverage. Undeniable. Unedited. The kind of thing that makes people resign overnight, or mysteriously disappear.” She leans forward, fingers lacing together on the table, her voice lowering but still smooth as silk. “730,000 is the price of convenience. Of silence. And I’m being generous.”

Gakuganji’s tapping stops. His cane stills, and his knuckles tighten around the curved handle. “You’re young,” he says, voice dry as gravel. “Too bold for your own good.”

“And you’re old,” she replies sweetly. “Too used to being feared to realize when someone’s already won.”

A long beat passes before Gakuganji chuckles under his breath, no humor in the sound. “You’ll learn the consequences eventually.”

Mei Mei’s eyes narrow, her tone still velvet. “I already have. That’s why I charge before I hand things over. And besides, you’ll learn too, won’t you? Considering I’ve been doing your dirty work for you for a few months now.”

“My hands are not dirty, yours are.”

“And so are my ears.” She easily adds. “Unfortunately for you, I haven’t been able to ear-hustle on much. Other people with higher bids have my attention more than you and your mysterious vendetta against the Gojo Group.”

“It’s not mysterious.”

“Then why them?”

Gakuganji’s eyes glint, though his expression remains carved from stone. “Because they’ve forgotten what it means to answer to someone.”

Mei Mei hums, unimpressed, brushing invisible lint from her lap. “You mean you.”

“I mean structure,” he grits out. “Power has rules. Lineage has purpose. And Satoru Gojo—” he leans in, voice dropping to a growl, “—spits on both. Just like his father before him. Just like his mother did in silence.”

She tilts her head, amused now. “So this is about old grudges? Bloodlines and bruised egos?”

He says nothing. Mei Mei lets out a light, airy laugh, reclining again. “Fascinating. And here I thought it was about money. Or maybe land. You’re boring when it’s personal, Gakuganji.”

His knuckles twitch again around the cane. “When it’s personal, Mei Mei, it’s permanent.”

She smiles again, cold and brilliant. “Then you’ll have to pay extra for permanence. I’m not cheap, and I don’t do charity for bitter old men.”

“This is a necessary execution. They believe they are worth more than everyone else. Especially Yamato’s devil spawn. He disrupts balance itself. Privileged, spoiled rotten, wealthy, and unfortunately…very smooth talking. Everyone bends to his will just because of his name.” Gakuganji gruffs out.

She lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Necessary and personal usually go hand in hand, old man. I just like to know who’s paying for what. There’s always something more beneath the price tag.”

His lips curl in distaste. “And there’s always someone like you, digging for the bones after the war.”

She smiles again, dazzling and cold. “Better than dying in it. So.” She taps her manicured nail against the table. “730,000. Or I hand the audio to someone with less of a vendetta and more imagination.”

Gakuganji’s eye twitches.

“Fine,” he mutters.

Mei Mei holds out her hand. “Pleasure doing business with you. Again.”

a/n: i’ll be releasing the first chapter of the levi fic after this. everyone who has commented to be on the taglist, u have been noted lol (i swear im not ignoring). anyway, hope u guys enjoyedddd :)

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@dickktektive @miss-dior @miakxn @rjreins

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, so much fluff, strong language

Notes — This is a long one, so grab a snack and send me your thoughts afterwards! I'd love to chat about our favourite Norris'.

2023 (Qatar —Brazil)

Somewhere just outside Milan, on a golf course a little too sunny and a little too posh, Amelia was exactly where she didn’t want to be — but wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

She was reclined awkwardly in the shade of the golf cart, legs folded beneath her, sunglasses perched high on her nose, and an iced coffee sweating on the dashboard beside her. Her phone was in one hand, but she hadn’t looked at it in twenty minutes — not since Oscar had taken his second swing of the day and nearly decapitated a green shrub.

Lando stood at the tee in a white polo and beige shorts that she’d ironed for him that morning, right after threatening to dump them in the villa’s pool if he left them all crumpled on the floor again. He adjusted his grip with unnecessary flair, smirked at Oscar, then lined up for the next hole like it was Sunday at Augusta.

Amelia watched with a lazy smile.

“I am incredibly bored,” she called, not bothering to move. Her voice was flat, deadpan. The kind of tone that could mean anything — annoyed or fond or quietly amused.

Lando glanced back over his shoulder, grin sharp. “Just think about the nice tan you’ll get, baby! Lots of vitamin D!”

Damn him and his awareness of her vitamin D deficiency anxiety. Her specialist had said she was borderline again after Austria and ever since, Lando had taken every opportunity to drag her into the sun like she was a bloody houseplant. She didn’t mind. Not really. But she liked to pretend to mind, just to see the little grin he gave when he knew she was pretending—being playful.

Oscar, standing ten metres away and swearing under his breath about a divot, shook his head. “Amelia, you literally planned this.” He looked at Lando. “Like, she literally booked the tee time. And now she’s complaining?”

Lando’s grin widened. “Because she loves me.”

“I do,” Amelia sighed, leaning further back in the seat. “Unfortunately.”

She wasn’t entirely sure how she’d ended up here — but it was a victory celebration that she’d come up with after their double podium in Japan.

Lando loved golf with a level of passion Amelia could only describe as dangerous. Oscar was… trying his best. And Amelia?

Well, she liked watching.

Not the game, exactly. But them. Lando, focused and fluid and maybe a little smug. Oscar, messy and determined and weirdly graceful even in failure. The two of them chirping at each other between swings, betting stupid things on who could land closer to the pin — the loser having to make the others smoothies for the next three race weekends. (Amelia was very invested in who won that one; Oscar’s smoothies always tasted like grass—then again, Lando’s weren’t much better.)

And every so often, one of them would glance back at her. Just to check. Just to make sure she was still smiling, or sipping her drink, or willing to give them a thumbs-up from her perch in the cart. She didn’t have to say much — they always knew when she needed a break from noise or heat, or when to dial it back on the loud bickering if she was getting overwhelmed.

That was the nice thing about being known; and seen.

Oscar swung again. The ball shot off at a violently wrong angle, bounced twice on a paved path, and disappeared into a hedge.

There was silence.

Amelia winced. “You’re getting better!” She attempted.

“I hate this game,” Oscar muttered, trudging off after his ball.

“You said it would be fun,” Lando reminded him.

“I was lying.”

Amelia tucked her chin into her shoulder to stifle her laugh. Lando finished his own swing — smooth, effortless — and then jogged back toward the cart with that little bounce in his step he always got when he was pleased with himself.

“Did you see that?” He asked, bending slightly to meet her eyes.

She blinked up at him behind her sunglasses. “You’re very talented.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That was sarcasm.”

“No. I swear. I’m so incredibly impressed by your ability to hit a little white ball hundreds of meters away and then having to run to go and get it — its like you’re playing fetch with yourself. It’s endearing.”

Lando snorted. “You’re such a supportive golf wife.”

Amelia nodded solemnly, her lips twitching. “I know. You’d be so lost without me here to cheer you on.”

Oscar wandered back from the hedge, ball retrieved, some small twigs in his hair. “Are we getting food after this?”

Lando offered him a bottle of water from the cooler. “Depends. Are you going to finish a single hole under ten shots?”

Oscar drank half the bottle in one go, then gave a deeply unbothered shrug. “Probably not.”

Amelia leaned her head back against the seat and smiled, letting the sun brush her cheeks. This — the warmth, the jokes, the sheer absurdity of two F1 drivers whacking balls into oblivion on a golf course while she heckled from the sidelines — was exactly the kind of celebration she liked.

Not loud. Not flashy.

And as Lando walked to the next tee box, she slipped a hand into her pocket and curled her fingers around the worn, yellow golf ball she kept there.

The original.

It had been their first date, if you could even call it that, back when everything was still a terribly-kept secret. Before she’d joined Red Bull and Lando was a rookie, and no one knew how many nights he’d driven out to Oxford just to spend time with her.

He’d taken her to a golf course in Surrey. Not posh. Not fancy. Quiet enough to remain private. Lando had grinned the whole time, letting her sit in the cart, tossing her snacks like they were bribes. At some point, he’d handed her a yellow golf ball and said, “This one’s lucky. Keep it.”

She had.

She’d held it in her hand through simulator tests and race briefings and long-haul flights when the cabin lights were too bright. She kept it on her desk at the MTC now. Sometimes in her pocket.

Today, it was both comfort and talisman.

“Hey,” Lando said, reaching into the cart’s storage bin. “Got you something.”

She turned, and he tossed her another golf ball — same shade of yellow, brand new.

Her mouth twitched. “A replacement?”

“An expansion,” he said, crouching beside the cart. “New memory.”

Amelia reached into her pocket and held up the original.

The difference between them was obvious. One was scratched, smoothed from years of anxious handling. The other gleamed in the sun like a lemon drop.

“No replacement,” she murmured, brushing a thumb over the old one’s surface. “This one’s forever.”

Lando’s eyes softened. “You want to keep it?”

“Yeah. You gave it to me.”

Oscar walked past, grumbling something about sand traps, and muttered without looking, “God, you two are so married.”

“We really are,” Amelia agreed, gaze still on the yellow ball in her palm.

Lando leaned in, kissed the top of her head, then tucked the new ball into her drink holder beside the iced coffee. “For the new balcony. We’ll put it in a plant pot.”

Oscar lost another ball on the next hole. Lando birdied the ninth. Amelia stayed in the shade, sipping her coffee, and let her mind wander.

—

A long white table ran the length of the patio, dotted with bowls of olives and carafes of wine, sunflowers in thick glass jars, and one very lopsided chocolate cake that Lando’s mum had proudly made herself. There were candles too — thick ones, flickering despite the breeze — and the scent of grilled vegetables and lemon roasted chicken drifted on the late summer air.

It was Flo’s birthday. Lando’s little sister. The youngest and loudest of the Norris siblings. She’d chosen the playlist, and she’d chosen the theme — which, according to the group chat, was “dressy but casual.”

Lando had interpreted that as white linen and loafers. Amelia had chosen a soft navy dress and her noise-dampening earrings shaped like small silver stars.

Lando reached for her hand as she approached the table, tugging her into his side briefly.

“You okay?” He murmured.

She nodded. Hummed. “Just wanted to wash my hands.”

He smiled, brushing a kiss over her temple. “I’ll sit you close to the good bread.”

True to his word, they slid into seats near the far end of the table — close to the outdoor kitchen, shaded from the worst of the noise. Oscar had already arrived and was sitting cross-legged on a bench, sipping lemonade and chatting with Flo. Lando’s dad was carving meat, and his mum waved cheerfully the moment she spotted Amelia.

“Amelia, darling, come try this courgette thing — I don’t know what I did, but it’s actually edible!”

Lando nudged Amelia’s side with his elbow. “Just give me a look if you need a save.”

Amelia smiled tightly and stepped forward, spooning a small portion onto her plate. “I believe in your courgette abilities.”

“Thank you, sweetheart,” his mum said, then touched Amelia’s arm very gently — just fingertips. “You look lovely.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. She didn’t need to. That kind of touch, soft, expected and all very mum-like, was generally fine. She tucked her hair behind her ear and murmured a shy, “Thanks,” before slipping back to her seat and letting Lando press his knee against hers under the table.

She was still learning this, sometimes. New family dynamics. Casual affection. Birthday celebrations that she wasn’t explicitly in charge of. She supposed that she was part of the Norris family now — she even had their last name — but they were still exuberant in a way that sometimes made her chest tight.

And when she did get overwhelmed, too many voices, too much movement, Lando always knew. Always shifted closer. Gave her a little squeeze behind the knee. Changed the subject for her when someone asked a question she wasn’t quite ready to answer.

Now, he passed her a basket of warm bread and whispered, “There’s a little set-up in the kitchen if you need a break, baby.”

“Don’t need it yet,” she said, quietly grateful.

Dinner was lovely, in that charmingly chaotic way that big families managed. Conversations overlapped like sheet music. Lando’s dad was telling a story about Lando’s first karting accident and how he’d tried to bribe the mechanic with stickers to fix the engine faster.

Lando himself was perfectly at ease. His sunglasses were perched in his hair, his cheeks sun-warmed and dimpled from laughter. Every now and then, his hand found Amelia’s beneath the table and just rested there, thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

She didn’t mind the noise when it was like this; soft-edged and loving. Familiar.

Halfway through dessert, Flo leaned across the table and grinned at Amelia.

“So, how does it feel being the only person here who can boss both my brother around?”

Amelia blinked. “Technically, my dad can too.”

Lando snorted. “Zak just thinks he can.”

Amelia took a bite of cake to hide her smile.

Later, when the sun had dipped low and the candles burned brighter than the sky, the group moved to the lounge chairs near the pool. Some of the family peeled away — Lando’s auntie went to put her toddler down for a nap, his older brother disappeared into the house to take a call. But Lando stayed with her. Always with her.

Amelia ended up curled sideways in a chair, her head resting against Lando’s shoulder, his arm slung loosely around her waist. Oscar sat on the patio steps, legs stretched out, gently dunking his feet in the water.

Amelia thought it was nice that Lando’s mum had extended the invitation to Oscar. He spent too much time alone while he was in England.

There was a small yellow flower tucked behind Amelia’s ear — courtesy of Flo, who’d been decorating everyone like it was a midsummer festival. It smelled faintly like lemon balm.

Lando looked down at her and murmured, “You did well today.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t even do anything.”

“You did,” he said softly. “You did, baby.”

She stared at him.

He knew what it cost her, to hold space in her mind for noise and chaos and unstructured celebrations like birthdays and holidays. To make room for people, even people she liked (loved, even), when her energy ran on such strict reserves.

But she’d done it, because this was her family now, and she loved them. “Your mum always makes me feel comfortable,” she said. “And she gave me the recipe for the courgette thing.”

“She texted me earlier asking if you liked the cake. She was sat two chairs away.”

Amelia smiled. “It was very… chocolatey.”

Lando grinned. “That’s your polite way of saying dry?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

Beside them, Oscar stretched and yawned. “I give this night a 9 out of 10.”

Lando looked over. “Why not ten?”

“No fireworks,” Oscar said, dead serious.

Amelia frowned. “Don’t give Flo ideas. I hate fireworks.”

Oscar gave her a look. “How do you handle the Middle Eastern races then?”

She made a face. “Industrial grade ear defenders.”

As the laughter rose behind them, cousins chasing each other around the grassy area, Amelia let herself settle. The soft buzz of family. The gentle weight of her husband’s arm. The quiet, private pride that came from navigating something that once would’ve been a big no-no.

She reached into her pocket, thumb brushing absently over the ridged edge of her yellow golf ball. Still there. Still grounding.

Still hers.

—

The kitchen was quiet.

The last of the plates were stacked, the dessert forks rinsed and tucked into the drying rack. Somewhere out in the garden, Lando and Flo were arguing over which card game they were going to play.

Amelia stood barefoot on the cool tile, hair up now, sleeves rolled. She was drying glasses — not because anyone asked her to, but because she needed to be doing something with her hands. Her yellow golf ball sat tucked by the fruit bowl, close enough to reach. Just in case.

Across the counter, Lando’s mum moved with practiced ease. She wore a loose cardigan over her dress now, and her hair had been tucked into a clip, strands slipping free around her face. She handed Amelia another wine glass, careful not to clink them together too loudly.

“I’m so glad you came today, sweetheart,” she said fondly. “It’s always lovely to have you were — I told Lando to warn you that things can get loud on birthdays.”

“He did,” Amelia replied, not looking up from her towel work. “I brought my earplugs. But I’m used to it, now. Thing being a bit loud.”

Lando’s mum smiled. “Lando’s always been noisy. Even before he could walk.”

There was a companionable quiet then, filled only with the sounds of cloth against glass, the occasional scrape of a chair shifting outside.

After a while, Lando’s mum leaned her hip against the counter, holding the last dish towel in her hands. Her voice softened. “Have you had a nice evening?”

Amelia nodded once. “Yes.”

“Not too much stress?”

“No. It was fine.” Amelia told her.

Another pause. Then Cisca said, “I’ve really enjoyed having you around. Not just tonight — all of it. The last few years.”

Amelia tilted her head, not quite sure what to say to that. She didn’t do small talk, didn’t do the light layers of meaning most people danced through in social niceties. But she knew this wasn’t fluff. This was sincerity. So she answered plainly. “I like being part of the family.”

Lando’s mum’s eyes softened. “You are. Completely. I hope you know that.”

“I do,” Amelia said. “Mostly because everyone keeps feeding me. Which is a pretty strong cultural signal.”

That made Lando’s mum laugh — a soft, surprised sound that echoed off the tile. “You’re good for him, you know,” she said after a moment, folding the towel neatly. “You keep him grounded. Focused. I think he relaxes more around you than he ever has.”

Amelia blinked. “He says I make him brave.”

“Well.” Her mother-in-law smiled. “Then that goes both ways.”

They stood in that gentle stillness for a beat longer, until the quiet grew warm again, full of the kind of silence that didn’t need filling.

And then, casually, Lando’s mum glanced toward the garden and mused aloud, mostly to herself, “God, imagine little ones running around out there. I don’t know how they all used to fit on the swings as kids. One day I’ll need to put in a second set.”

It wasn’t a prompt. Not really. Not an intrusive question. Just a meandering thought.

But Amelia, as ever, didn’t do subtle. “Oh,” she said brightly, setting down the towel. “You want grandkids? That’s great. I want three babies.”

Lando’s mum froze.

Amelia carried on, gaze wandering as she thought out loud. “Probably two or three years apart. It gives me more recovery time and better age grouping. Closer than that and it can get overwhelming, but too far apart and they don’t grow up together.”

There was a long beat of stunned silence.

Amelia looked up, completely unbothered. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“I—” Lando’s mum blinked, gripping the edge of the counter like she might sway. “Are you… have you already started to plan this?”

“Well, yeah,” Amelia said simply, eyebrows lowering. “Me and Lando are married. We love each other. Babies come next.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry, honey. It’s just that you said that so—” She paused. “So casually.”

Amelia tilted her head again. “Should I not?”

“No, no! I just—” Her mother-in-law laughed, flushed and delighted and mildly overwhelmed. “That was just very matter of fact. I thought we were still at ‘maybe one day’, but you’re already planning!”

“Well, I have stage one endometriosis and some hormone instability, so I’ll probably need to plan anyway,” Amelia added, as if discussing what to get at the supermarket. “Might as well think about it now.”

Lando’s mum blinked again, then laughed — this time fuller, warmer.

“Okay,” she said. “Three grandbabies. Wow.”

“They’ll have your curls if I’m lucky,” Amelia said, very seriously. “I like your hair genetics.”

“I—thank you?”

“And your nurturing instincts,” Amelia added, as though building a character profile. “You’re very good at intuitive parenting. Lando always says you were the reason he felt safe growing up.”

At that, Lando’s mum had to sit down. She pulled out a chair and dropped into it, hand over her heart, laughter laced with sudden emotion.

“You’re going to kill me,” she muttered, smiling behind misty eyes. “You’re too much.”

Amelia tilted her head again. “I thought you liked me.”

“Oh, darling.” Lando’s mum reached over and squeezed her wrist. “I adore you.”

Amelia smiled then, soft and genuine. “Good. Because I think you’re going to be an excellent grandmother.”

“Well now you’ve really done it.” She sniffled.

They stayed like that for a while, one sitting, one standing.

Out in the garden, Lando’s voice floated through the open window, calling her name.

Amelia turned toward the sound, then glanced back. “I should go. He gets fussy when he’s ignored.”

“He gets that from me,” his mum said proudly.

Amelia paused just long enough to scoop up her yellow golf ball from the fruit bowl. Then she turned, light on her feet, and disappeared out into the garden — barefoot, sun-warmed and so loved.

And behind her, Lando’s mum sat back in her chair, hands pressed to her mouth, and whispered, just to herself, “Oh my God. Three.”

—

The link came through on the Thursday.

Amelia was halfway through a review of McLaren’s rear wing iterations for Quatar, coffee long gone cold beside her laptop, noise-cancelling headphones pushed down around her neck. The screen pinged — a message from Celeste, attached to a Rightmove URL.

iMessage — 17:09pm

Celeste

How cool is this? x

—

Amelia blinked, opened it, and paused.

It was the manor. Their manor.

The property where she and Lando had gotten married — tucked into the countryside, ivy-streaked and storybook quaint, with sweeping fields behind it and that crooked old sycamore where the marquee had stood. Where her dad had cried into the champagne tower, and Lando had held her hand all day long (other than when he was throwing himself around on the bouncy castle), and her dress had caught a tear in the gravel and she hadn’t even cared because her heart had been full to bursting.

It was for sale.

Amelia clicked through the gallery, something slow and tight pressing behind her ribs. The listing was full of charming estate-agent nonsense — “refined country character,” “versatile entertaining spaces,” “historic orchard with development potential.” But all she could see were memories. The long garden path where she and Lando had snuck off to breathe after the ceremony. The kitchen where she’d sat cross-legged on the floor in her wedding dress, eating crisps while the caterers cleared the dessert plates. The upstairs window where she’d caught him staring at her during golden hour, grinning like he’d won the lottery and couldn’t believe it. His camera has been in his hand — but she’d never seen those photos. He was keeping them for himself.

But the manor. It was right there. Available. Real.

Amelia stared at the asking price, did quick maths on the equity they had, the rental yields on their current apartment in Monaco, how much they were planning to invest into the two bedroom in Monaco, and what their joint savings could comfortably stretch to. The answer was: probably, if they were strategic. Not now-now. But soon. With a plan.

She opened a fresh Notes doc, typed.

‘Manor as UK based family house? Logistical breakdown’

She listed costs, zoning requirements, timelines for permits. She checked the regional council site for restrictions on redevelopment and found that yes — the orchard could potentially be converted into a private home with the right architectural submission. She bookmarked three firms. Two hours later she’d drawn up the outline of a house. Open-plan lower level. South-facing windows. Space for a workshop or sim room. A sensory room. And three children’s bedrooms.

She added a note.

‘Would need to bring in autism-specialist designer for stimulus-neutral planning.’

And then.

Bedrooms: 5. One guest. Three kids. One master.

Gap between each baby: 2.5 years (ideal).

She stopped typing, blinked at that for a second. Then nodded once, satisfied.

The door opened behind her — quiet but familiar. Lando padded into the room, hair damp from the shower. He glanced over her shoulder. “Architectural planning?” he asked, brow quirked. “That’s not your Quatar doc.”

Amelia turned the screen toward him. “Celeste sent me a property listing.”

He leaned closer. Then froze. “…Is that—?”

“Yup,” she said. “The manor.”

Lando stared. “Our manor?”

“They’re selling it.”

He stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, staring down at the screen like it might vanish. “That’s so weird. I haven’t thought about it in ages.”

“I have,” Amelia said. “Not constantly. Just sometimes. It was a good day.”

“The best,” he said, pressing a kiss to her hair.

She gestured at her notes. “I’ve been planning.”

Lando blinked. “Planning what?”

“Buying it. Not, like, the whole thing. Just the orchard part. If it goes through zoning, we could build a house. Make it something generational. Keep it in the family.”

His silence wasn’t disapproval; she could tell from the way his hands tightened, his breath caught. “A house,” he echoed.

“A big one,” she said. “Made for… us. Not for show. But for living in. Long-term. Home base. With a playground in the garden. And plenty of open space. And a pantry big enough for your ridiculous cereal collection.”

He laughed under his breath. “Do you… want that?”

She paused. “I didn’t know I did. Until I saw the listing.”

Lando slipped around her chair and crouched in front of her, eyes warm. “Are you sure? You’re not just being nostalgic?”

She met his gaze. “Lando — that place… it made sense. Felt like somewhere I belonged. We could make it ours.”

Lando looked at her. Then at the screen. Then back. “You’ve already done zoning research, haven’t you?”

“I found three architects,” she said. “And checked school catchments, just in case.”

Lando blinked, then grinned. “Of course you did.”

She hesitated, then added, quieter, “I’d want to be pregnant there. Eventually. Not soon, but… there.”

He didn’t tease. Didn’t joke. Just leaned up and kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her ring finger. “Okay. Then we’ll make it happen.”

And just like that, it was decided.

Amelia turned back to the screen, updated her note.

Step 1: Contact estate agent. Arrange viewing. Step 2: Call Dad. Warn him. Step 3: Pick floor tile suitable for future tiny baby feet.

Behind her, Lando pulled her onto his lap. She let him. The tab stayed open. So did the idea.

And somewhere deep in the marrow of her bones, Amelia felt it: rightness. Not the adrenaline spike of racing, not the sharp pride of strategy well executed — but the slower, steadier thing. The one that sounded like footsteps down a future hallway. Familiar laughter echoing through the orchard. A house. A home.

Theirs forever.

—

Qatar

The air was heavy with desert heat, painfully dry even in the mid-morning. Most people moved slowly here — in the heat, haste became impractical. But Amelia strode with her usual focus, clipboard tucked under one arm, iPad in her hand, and a thin layer of sweat collecting under her collarbones. She didn’t seem to notice. She was watching brake wear overlays and updating cooling parameters and trying not to think about how much she despised the dry, cloying heat.

She was halfway through checking a piece of data that’d come straight from the factory about the new airflow model when she felt someone fall into step beside her, shadow overlapping hers. She didn’t need to look.

“Morning, Lewis.”

“Morning, Amelia.”

She glanced at him. He was dressed well (always was), sipping a bottle of electrolyte water, sunglasses perched just so. There was something about the way Lewis moved — quiet, deliberate, like he had nowhere to be and yet was always where he needed to go.

“You’re braver than I am,” he said. “Out here without a parasol.”

“I hate carrying them,” she said with a sigh. “They pinch my hands.”

Lewis chuckled. “They do. I’m sure if you asked, McLaren would have someone walk around and hold it for you.”

Amelia blinked at him. “Would they?”

He gave her an amused look. “Of course they would.”

She nodded slowly. “I might ask next time.”

They walked a little further, the chaos of the paddock continuing to hum around them. Team radios crackled. Engines whined in the distance. Amelia’s eyes kept darting to the telemetry, to the graphs, to her overlays — but she was listening. She always listened.

“Hot day,” she said eventually.

“It’s Qatar,” he replied. “Always is.”

A beat passed. Then, “You’ll do well this weekend,” Lewis said. “Oscar’s looking sharp.”

“We’re not taking anything for granted.”

“You never do.”

They stopped outside the Mercedes garage. Amelia turned to him. “You’ve been consistent lately. Steady.”

His smile tugged up again, softer this time. “Just trying to keep these kids honest.”

She inclined her head. “You’re still the benchmark. Even if some of them won’t admit it.”

He tapped her tablet gently with one finger. “Keep an eye on your tire deltas. It’s gonna be a degradation race.”

“Already modelling it.”

He gave her a look. “Of course you are.”

And then he was gone, moving through the crowd like water, slipping between people without ever breaking stride.

Amelia stood there a moment longer, adjusting her headphones, refocusing — until someone whistled.

“Ah, Amelia. Don’t tell me you’re fraternising with the opposition.”

She turned around and beamed.

Fernando stood in the corridor between the Aston Martin trucks, arms crossed over his chest, half a smile on his face. He looked relaxed — but then again, he always did.

“I’ve missed you!” She exclaimed, walking to him and giving him a hug. “You had such a great first half of the season and I feel like I hardly saw you throughout any of it.”

Fernando sighed. “No stress. We have both been busy, no? I am just pleased to see you doing so well.” He said. “Despite the fact,” Fernando began, “That I still think it is a crime that Verstappen let you go so easily. You made his car sing.”

She didn’t respond.

“I mean it,” he continued. “Some engineers are smart. Others are intuitive. You are both, mi nina. That’s rare.”

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” she said simply.

“That may be,” he replied, “but if I were Lawrence, I’d be doing everything I could to steal you.”

As if summoned, a new voice entered the conversation. “I have been trying.”

Amelia turned.

Lawrence Stroll stood there, eye-waveringly expensive suit slightly wrinkled from travel, sunglasses pushed back into his greying hair, hands in his pockets. “I’ve been meaning to have a word with you, Amelia.”

She narrowed her eyes, only slightly. “This isn’t about Oscar, is it?”

“No,” Lawrence said, with a slight chuckle. “It’s about you.”

Fernando, sensing the shift in tone, raised a hand in farewell. “I’ll let you two talk.”

Lawrence ignored him. His gaze stayed on Amelia. “I’ve watched your work closely for many years now,” he said. “Your leadership. Your race management. The way the drivers respond to you. It’s not just talent — it’s control. Trust. Those things are hard to build.”

Amelia didn’t blink. “You’re not being very subtle.”

“I don’t have time to be,” Lawrence said. “I’m building something. Something long-term. And I want the best. You’re on that list.”

“I’m already taken,” she said bluntly.

“I know,” he said. “But contracts can end. Or change. As you know very well.”

There was a pause. A long one.

Lawrence tilted his head. “Just think about it. That’s all I ask.”

“I will.”

He nodded once, then disappeared down the paddock with the weight of ambition in his wake.

Amelia watched him go, arms crossed now, her mind shifting back into gear. Already, the data was pulling her back in. Already, she was recalculating.

But there was a spark of something new in her chest.

Just a reminder of how valuable she’d become.

And how many people had finally noticed.

—

Her walk through the paddock was steady, breath tight in her chest, like if she exhaled too sharply, the whole moment would dissolve. Oscar’s voice had still been in her ears when he crossed the line. Still calm. Still contained.

“You did it, ducky. Sprint winner. Incredible driving.”

And his response?

A simple, stunned, “Oh. Wow.”

Now the world was echoing that same disbelief back at them — media swarming, mechanics clapping, the orange corner of the grandstand nearly shaking itself apart. And there he was, standing under the canopy of the cool-down room tent, race suit half-peeled, hair wild and wet with sweat.

Amelia saw him before he saw her.

Oscar looked dazed, like the adrenaline hadn’t quite cleared, and the gravity hadn’t quite landed. Mark was stood next to him, one hand clapped firmly on his shoulder, saying something low and fast and proud in that unmistakable Aussie drawl.

It was the way Mark was looking at Oscar — like he’d always known this would happen, and yet it was still better than expected — that made Amelia’s throat catch.

Then Oscar’s eyes found hers.

He blinked. Straightened. And smiled — wide, slightly crooked, boyish in a way he rarely let slip.

“Ducky,” she said simply, coming to a stop in front of him.

He laughed at the nickname. “That’s me,” he said. “Your statistically improbable Sprint winner.”

“You were perfect,” she said, all dry precision. But her eyes, bright and damp and more open than usual, gave her away.

Oscar’s grin faltered into something smaller, realer. “I kept waiting for the tyres to drop off. But they didn’t. It just… held.”

“You managed them. Just like we practiced.”

“I couldn’t hear you properly on the cool-down lap.”

“I didn’t say much,” she admitted, voice softer now. “I was… I was a little busy staring at the sector deltas and stimming like a lunatic.”

Oscar stepped forward then, ignoring the chaos beyond the ropes. He pulled her into a tight hug — unexpected, grounding, a little sweaty. Amelia stiffened for half a second, then melted into it, her fingers fisting into the back of his Nomex suit.

“You did it,” she whispered. “Oscar, you actually did it.”

He didn’t say anything right away, just held her tighter. When he pulled back, his eyes were a little glassy. “Thanks for… I don’t know. For always being ten steps ahead. And for being so brutal in debriefs.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, and meant it.

Mark joined them then, grinning like the proudest man alive. “You’ve created a monster,” he said to Amelia, gesturing at Oscar with exaggerated disbelief. “I mean — who does that to Max Verstappen?”

Amelia gave Oscar a mock-critical look. “Apparently Oscar.”

Oscar flushed.

Mark stepped in and offered Amelia a quick hug of his own. She stiffened, jaw tight and uncomfortable, but let it happen. “He needed someone who’d challenge him. You’ve given him more than that.”

“I’ve given him too many Excel sheets and an unhealthy obsession with braking telemetry.”

Mark laughed. “And he’s bloody better for it.”

They turned to watch Oscar be ushered toward the podium staging area. Media was already beginning to descend like buzzards, but he turned back once, just once, to catch Amelia’s eye.

She lifted a hand. Just a little wave.

He beamed.

And she smiled too — that rare, bright thing she usually reserved very carefully. It stayed on her face even as the chaos pulled him away, even as the noise grew again.

Because this was just the start.

—

The floodlights above Lusail beamed down like a thousand moons, bleaching the tarmac into shining silver, catching every sparkle of champagne, every fist pump, every celebration grin.

They had done it again.

Second and third.

Oscar, steady and instinctive, had held off Mercedes. Lando, smart and ruthless and near-flawless, had chased Max all the way to the flag. Both cars on the podium; again. But it felt even more electric this time. Not because it was a surprise, but because it wasn’t.

They expected this now. And they’d earned it.

Amelia stood frozen on the edge of parc fermé, headset still hanging around her neck, fingers curled tight into the sleeves of her fireproof undershirt, like she was holding herself together physically.

She’d watched the data with locked knees and clenched teeth — the tire drop-off, the rising temps, the wild degradation that almost threw Oscar’s balance completely out of sync. She’d tracked Lando’s closing distance to Checo with obsessive exactness, whispering split times under her breath like a mantra.

And when they crossed the line, second and third, orange and papaya gleaming beneath the lights, she hadn’t cheered, but her hands had started to shake.

Not from fear. Not even from the intensity of the race.

From release.

From joy so big it didn’t know where to go. It had to come out somewhere.

Zak had clapped her on the back — a proud, grounding weight — but she hadn’t looked up. She couldn’t, not until she’d pressed the backs of her hands to her eyes and pressed hard until the burn became manageable.

“You alright?” Will asked quietly beside her.

“I need a second,” she said, voice hoarse. “Just— I’m good. Just wait—”

She exhaled hard through her nose. Pressure valve, she reminded herself. It’s just joy. It’s okay to feel it. Let it happen.

So she did.

Right there on the edge of victory lane, Amelia rocked forward slightly on her feet, fingertips tapping a sharp rhythm against the back of her neck. She bounced a little on her heels, grounding, focusing, reining in the swirl of movement and sound and heat. She let out a breath in four-second beats.

In. Two. Three. Four.

Out. Two. Three. Four.

And when she opened her eyes again, she saw them.

Lando was laughing on the cool-down room couch, hair soaked with champagne, hands gesturing animatedly as Oscar flopped down beside him, face flushed and alive with adrenaline.

Oscar turned his head toward the glass and saw her watching.

He pointed.

Amelia flinched.

Then he mouthed, slow and dramatic, “Golf?”

She choked on a laugh and covered her face again.

God.

Her boys.

—

The paddock was quieter now.

The air still shimmered faintly from the heat of the day, and the sharp edges of celebration had dulled into a hum — softer now, half-hearted claps and fading laughter in the distance. Most people were halfway to a plane, or dragging their feet back toward the garage with radio kits slung over their shoulders and eyelids sagging.

Amelia lingered just behind the McLaren garage, leaning against a cargo crate under the metallic halo of the floodlights. The desert breeze hadn’t made it this far — the air was thick, warm against her skin. Her braid was stuck slightly to the back of her neck, her headset long since abandoned, replaced by the hum of low, far-off chatter.

She was just about to leave — phone in her pocket, half-formed message to Lando abandoned — when she caught a familiar flash of navy and orange in her periphery.

Max.

He walked slowly, alone, like he wasn’t in a rush to do anything or be anywhere — like the weight of a whole championship had finally lifted off his shoulders, or maybe just settled into them more comfortably than ever. His fireproofs were still on, peeled to his waist, Red Bull cap in one hand and a half-drunk water bottle in the other. There was something tired about his expression, but not worn out — no, it was a softness. A quiet. The kind of emotional fatigue that only came with finishing something enormous.

Amelia stepped out from the shadow.

“Hey,” she called softly.

Max turned immediately. His eyes found hers with ease — and his whole face changed.

“Zusje,” he said, voice warming. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

She smiled as he closed the distance. Even though they hadn’t worked together since the end of 2022, the nickname had not changed. She was still the woman who used to throw a pen at him across the engineering office when he refused to hydrate. Still the one who used to walk him through telemetry until midnight, murmuring grip differentials and weight distribution while he paced behind her chair like a caged animal.

And she was still, always, proud.

“Congratulations,” she said sincerely. “Three consecutive championships. That’s… incredibly impressive.”

Max’s mouth pulled into a smile, but not a smirking one. There was no sharpness to it tonight, just something full of gravity and warmth. He nodded slowly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling yet.

“Thanks,” he said. “It’s weird, isn’t it? How fast everything goes?”

Amelia nodded. “Feels like you were just yelling about turn-in balance in the sim room.”

“You were the one who was yelling,” Max corrected, faintly amused.

“You weren’t listening,” she shot back, raising an eyebrow.

That pulled a small laugh out of him, tired, but real. Then he quieted again. His eyes found hers in that way that people do when they’re trying to say something more.

“I’ve been thinking about you all weekend,” he said, gently.

Amelia blinked. “Okay.”

“I’m serious,” Max said. “You built me this car. The RB19. I know it’s not the official story, but I can tell, Amelia. I can tell.”

She opened her mouth to wave it off, to deflect, like she always did when people tried to give her credit, but Max held up a hand to stop her.

“No,” he said, firmer now. “Listen to me. The RB19 wouldn’t exist without the 18. And the 18 wouldn’t have won anything if you hadn’t been there.”

The words landed like something heavy and warm in her chest.

Amelia looked at him, trying to push past the way her throat suddenly tightened. “You would’ve done it without me.”

“No,” Max said again, quieter this time. “I wouldn’t. Not like this. Not this fast.”

He took a step closer, and for a moment, Amelia thought he might just say goodbye and leave it at that. But then he opened his arms and pulled her into a hug — without hesitation, without warning.

It was a tight hug. Not the kind people give out of politeness, but the kind that says thank you and I missed you and I’m so glad you’re still here all at once.

Amelia froze for half a second, then melted into it. She tucked her face against his shoulder, arms around his middle, letting the weight of it press into her ribs like the safe kind of pressure she craved when the world was too loud.

“Thanks for not going to Ferrari,” he mumbled into her hair.

She snorted, eyes stinging. “They never offered me enough money.”

Max laughed, still hugging her. “Then they’re idiots.”

They stood like that for a few seconds longer before pulling apart. His eyes were glassy now, though he blinked it away quickly — ever the professional, ever the calm public face.

Amelia nudged him gently. “You want a cake?”

Max blinked. “What?”

“I’ll make you one. For winning. Three tiers. Orange frosting. Maybe a little fondant helmet on top.”

He grinned. “You still bake?”

“I live with Lando. I bake a lot.”

“God help him.”

“I know. Poor thing.” She said flatly.

He shook his head, but the joy on his face didn’t fade. He reached out and squeezed her arm once, then let his hand drop. “Proud of you,” he said softly. “Really. McLaren’s lucky to have you.”

Amelia looked away, slightly flustered, always awkward when praise was pointed at her directly. “Thanks.”

Max smiled again, then gave her a salute with the neck of his water bottle. “Don’t be a stranger. We’ll do dinner in Monaco soon, yes?”

“Only if we can order in and have a movie night.”

“Deal.”

And then he turned, walking slowly into the night — a champion with one more trophy to pack, one more piece of history behind him.

Amelia stood alone again, the air still hot and dry, her skin buzzing faintly with old memories and new ones colliding in the quiet. She pulled out her phone, thumbed open a note, and started typing orange food colouring, almond extract, fondant, because she didn’t joke about cake.

And because Max, her brother in every way that mattered, deserved to be celebrated.

—

The hotel room was dark when they entered — not pitch-black. Lando immediately cracked the sliding door to the balcony, ensuring it was cracked open just enough to let in the dry desert breeze. Warm. Quiet. Comforting.

Amelia dropped her bag by the dresser and toed off her shoes with a tired sort of precision. She was past adrenaline now, past even the soft ache of overstimulation. What was left was weight — the good kind, the kind that came from surviving something huge and being allowed, finally, to stop holding herself together.

Lando went back to lock the door behind them. He was still half-damp from the champagne showers, still glittering faintly in spots from podium confetti. His curls were crushed under the McLaren cap he hadn’t removed since the post-race interviews. But his eyes found her immediately, soft and alert, scanning like always — a systems check, not for damage, but for peace.

“You need quiet time?” He asked gently, already moving to mute the TV.

Amelia nodded. “Just for a bit.”

She went to the bathroom first, washed her face — the water too warm, but the sensation grounding. She peeled off the layers of her race-day skin like armour; the undershirt, the sweat-dampened team hoodie, the lanyard that had been irritating her collarbone since sunrise.

When she came out, Lando was in one of the hotel robes, hair towel-dried, stretched sideways across the bed with her comfort yellow golf ball balanced on his stomach like it was a precious artefact.

“You left this in your bag,” he said, offering it to her without moving.

She climbed onto the bed beside him, took the ball, and rolled it between her palms. “Thanks.”

“Still your favourite?”

“Always.”

He reached out and traced a slow line down her arm, from elbow to wrist, just enough pressure to say I’m here without demanding anything from her. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, “Another double podium. We’re making a habit of it.”

Her throat tightened. “I know. It’s amazing.”

“Yeah. All because of you.”

Amelia leaned into him, resting her forehead against his collarbone. The room was wrapped in that perfect post-race quiet — not silent, but peaceful. The kind of quiet that only came after noise. After glory.

After survival.

He kissed the top of her head. She hummed.

“Are we sleeping in tomorrow?” She murmured, not moving.

“I already told the team that we’ll unreachable until noon,” Lando said. “I told them that I take protecting my wife’s peace very seriously.”

“You are my peace.” She mumbled.

He smiled against her hair. “Damn right I am.”

They stayed like that for a while — no TV, no phone lights. Just the low hum of the AC, the rustle of sheets, the subtle, syncopated rhythm of two people perfectly in tune with each other. Amelia’s fingers tapped lightly on his ribs — 4-4-3-1. Her grounding pattern. Lando didn’t ask, didn’t flinch. Just let her do it.

Eventually, she pulled back and tilted her face toward his. “I want to talk about the race now.”

“Okay,” he said, instantly alert but calm. “Do you want analysis or emotions?”

Amelia smiled tiredly. “Both. But I’m gonna start with this — Oscar should not have gone medium-medium-soft, but I understand why you both pushed for it.”

“We had to risk it. Track position mattered too much.”

“I know. I’m not mad.”

“You were right about pit windows again.”

“And you were right to stay out on Lap 32. I was going to make Will force you to box, but you felt something I couldn’t see in the data.”

Lando grinned, proud. “Yeah, I did.”

Amelia pressed a hand flat against his chest, directly over his heart. “You were… amazing.”

“You said that already.”

“I’m saying it again.”

They reviewed the race for nearly an hour in soft voices and tangled limbs, swapping data with half-formed sentences and coded phrases only they understood; Brake fade was smoother this time, Oscar felt twitchy into Turn 11, You covered the undercut like a bastard, I wanted to cry but I didn’t.

And when the words ran out, Amelia simply curled herself into his side and let her brain slow down. The stimming eased. The tapping softened to nothing. She traced lazy shapes on his chest — circuits and corner maps and invisible telemetry lines — until her hand stilled altogether.

“You good?” He asked, barely audible.

She nodded. “I’m so good.”

“Want me to read you something?”

“Yeah. That New Yorker piece on wind tunnels.”

“You are such a romantic.” He teased.

“I’m your wife. Everything I do is romantic.” She returned.

He chuckled, reached for his phone, and pulled up the article she’d bookmarked a week ago. As he read aloud, his voice lilted steady and familiar, her own version of white noise.

And somewhere between "computational fluid dynamics" and "thermal efficiency profiles," Amelia fell asleep — yellow golf ball still in her hand, Lando’s arm around her, her heart beating steady and unburdened in her chest.

—

The trophies sparkled.

Four of them. Lined up on a low table in the MTC atrium, beneath the glow of glass ceilings and beside a freshly wheeled-in faux bowling lane, complete with inflatable pins and McLaren-orange carpeting.

Oscar had walked in, taken one look at the setup, and said, “No one’s ever going to take us seriously as a team ever again.”

“Speak for yourself,” Lando grinned, flipping a trophy in one hand like it was a cricket bat. “I am deadly serious.”

Amelia, leaning against the edge of a bench, arms crossed and sunglasses still on indoors, said flatly, “You’re wearing socks with little trophies on them.”

“They’re on theme!”

“They’re ridiculous.”

Will entered last, clapping his hands like a game show host. “Alright, legends. Social team wants chaos, let’s give ‘em chaos. Two teams. Four frames. Trophy bowling.”

“Are the trophies the pins or the balls?” Oscar asked, genuine concern in his voice.

Will blinked. “God, no. The trophies are prizes. You get to keep yours if you win.”

Lando squinted. “Don’t we already—”

“Shh.”

Amelia let out a long, dry sigh, then pushed off the bench and rolled her shoulders. “Fine. Oscar, you and me.”

Oscar’s eyes widened in glee. “You’re choosing me over Lando?”

“He eats cereal with a fork. It’s a strategic decision.”

“That was one time!”

The McLaren comms team were already filming — phones up, boom mic wobbling overhead, a graphic artist hovering with cue cards shaped like little helmets. The whole thing felt like an inside joke, but Amelia didn’t mind. There was a certain charm to letting the world see this side of them — messy, loud, unfiltered. Human.

—

Oscar stepped up first. He rolled with more enthusiasm than technique, hurling the plush bowling ball down the lane with the kind of commitment that made Amelia wince in anticipation. It clipped four pins and skidded off into the foam barrier.

“Respectable,” Amelia said, patting his shoulder.

“You mean mediocre.”

“Mm.” She shrugged.

Her husband was up next, stretching like he was about to serve at Wimbledon.

“You’re taking this too seriously,” she muttered.

He smiled back at her, all dimples and trouble. “That’s because you’re not taking it seriously enough.”

He bowled like he drove: smooth, fast, calculated. Seven pins. Not bad.

Will followed with a bizarre overarm motion that somehow knocked down two and a camera tripod.

“Bonus points?” He asked.

“No,” Amelia said.

Then it was her turn.

She approached the line, calm and blank-faced, and underhanded the ball with the mechanical precision of someone used to high-pressure motor coordination. Strike. Ten pins. Easy.

The whole room exploded. Lando pointed at her like a WWE opponent. “You’ve done this before!”

Amelia shrugged. “Bowling is one of the only things I enjoyed doing as a kid.”

Oscar fist-bumped her. “My engineer is the GOAT.”

“I hate that acronym so much,” she murmured.

—

Will tried to distract Oscar by humming the F1 theme tune while he bowled. It worked. Two pins. Oscar cursed creatively.

Lando and Amelia shared a brief, subtle eye-contact moment that the cameras missed — the kind that passed entire volumes between them.

He walked past her and whispered, “If I win, you have to wear my trophy socks to the track.”

She looked him dead in the eye. “If I win, you make dinner every night for a month.”

Lando paled. “Harsh.”

“High stakes.”

His bowl went wide. Five pins.

Will somehow managed a bank shot that knocked down six and hit the snack table. Everyone cheered anyway.

Amelia took her time. She lined up, read the angle, adjusted her wrist — and bowled another strike.

Lando threw his arms up. “That’s cheating! You’ve got bowling angles in your head!”

“I’m just better than you,” she said calmly, collecting a high-five from the intern on drinks duty.

—

Oscar, determined to contribute something of value, nailed an eight and did a little celebratory shuffle that Amelia politely ignored. Lando stared at him, muttering, “You’re lucky I like you.”

Will slipped and fell into the pins.

Amelia, in sunglasses and zero emotional affect, simply bowled her third consecutive strike.

The room lost it.

The social media manager screamed. Someone triggered a confetti popper. Lando clutched his heart like a wounded soldier.

“She’s unstoppable,” Oscar said reverently.

Lando slumped dramatically to the floor. “I married a bowling superstar.”

Amelia walked over, bent down, and plucked the little trophy from his hand. “You married a winner.”

He reached up, grabbed her wrist, and pulled her gently down until she was seated beside him on the floor. The foam pins lay scattered around them like trophies of a different kind.

“You tried your best,” she said, voice low enough for only him to hear.

“Doesn’t make me feel any better,” he replied. “I’m shit at bowling.”

Oscar appeared behind them, brandishing his own trophy like a microphone. “Any words for your fans, Amelia?”

She blinked. “Yes. I’m going to put this trophy on my desk and carve my name into it with a nail file.”

Lando covered his face with one hand. “No!”

The camera zoomed in just in time to catch Amelia flicking Lando’s ear in triumph.

—

United States

The chequered flag had waved, the dust of the Texas tarmac still settling when news of the post-race disqualifications broke.

Back in the garage, the McLaren team pulsed with cautious celebration — engineers exchanging tired smiles, mechanics packing up with a bit more spring in their step. Amelia remained still, standing beside Oscar’s car, headset clutched loosely in one hand, her eyes darting between lines of data on her tablet.

Oscar had retired early — front wing damage from a Lap 1 squeeze that spiralled into floor and sidepod issues. It had been a helpless sort of race. Amelia had stayed composed on the radio, her voice steady even as her brain burned through every what-if.

Now, the sting was still there, hot in her chest.

But when she returned to the hotel hours later, the suite was already humming with something warmer. Softer.

Lando was at the window when she entered, silhouetted by the glow of Austin’s city lights, phone still buzzing with congratulations. His race suit had been peeled away in favour of a soft hoodie and shorts, but his grin hadn’t dulled with time.

“Third place,” he announced, voice teasingly casual, like he hadn’t just scored his sixth podium of the year. He dropped his gear bag by the door.

Amelia closed the door behind her, sighed, and padded in quietly. “Congratulations,” she said, her voice warm despite the weight in her limbs. She set her tablet on the desk and kicked off her shoes. “Accidental success.”

Lando snorted and crossed the room in three quick steps, looping his arms around her from behind. “Hey,” he murmured. “I know today sucked. For you, I mean.”

Amelia exhaled. Not with dismissal, but with tired honesty. “Part of the job,” she murmured, leaning into his hold. It had become her go-to response.

“You’re brilliant, you know,” he said, lips brushing her temple.

She turned in his arms, finally meeting his gaze, soft and steady. “You’ve gotta say that. I’m your wife.”

Lando grinned. “Damn right you are.”

They kissed once, light and quiet, the kind of kiss that felt like breath, then she slid past him and collapsed onto the couch with a groan. “Now order me food.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

—

Mexico

The noise in Mexico was different — brighter, higher-pitched, almost celebratory even before the lights went out.

Lando had started 17th. A disaster in qualifying, a flurry of yellow flags, mistimed laps. But the race itself? It was his to reclaim. One by one, he picked them off — a clean, flawless charge through the midfield. Lap after lap of controlled aggression. A display of exactly who he’d become as a driver.

Fifth across the line. From seventeenth.

Amelia had barely unclipped her headset before someone was already patting her shoulder — an engineer, another team member, someone mumbling something about “hell of a recovery.” But she barely heard it. Her eyes had never left Oscar’s pit board. Her mind was still full of numbers, brake traces, engine modes. Oscar had made it home — 14th, battered floor, another deflated kind of race. But he’d finished. He’d toughed it out, listened to her voice through every adaptation.

That night, the hotel room was quiet, high above Mexico City.

Lando lay sprawled on the bed, race highlights playing dimly on his phone, the glow flickering over his face. Amelia crawled into the bed beside him, dragging the duvet up, curling against his side like she was trying to fit herself into the rhythm of his breathing.

“That was a good one,” she murmured, voice sleepy-soft, fingers resting over his stomach.

Lando tapped the screen, paused the replay. “Yeah?”

She hummed. “The start. The passes. The way you forced Russell wide in Turn One. Clinical.”

He kissed the top of her head, fingers slipping into the ends of her braid. “Did you just call my driving clinical? Who are you and what have you done with my wife?”

She laughed under her breath. “Shut up. Take the compliment.”

—

Brazil

Interlagos sang like it always did — fast, frayed around the edges, a racetrack built on guts and glory.

Lando’s pace had been stunning all weekend. P2 in the Sprint. Another P2 on Sunday, this time only behind Max. There was a moment — brief but real — when it looked like the win might be his. He’d stayed with Max, hunted him, pushed him. It had taken everything Red Bull had to stay ahead.

Amelia’s race had been less beautiful. Oscar had been clipped early. A spiralling nightmare of overheating tyres, turbulent aero, and a damaged rear. Amelia had stayed calm, her voice like metronome rhythm in his ear, guiding him through a salvage run. Still, the frustration clawed at her ribs.

But then there was the podium. Orange-clad team members cheering in the background. Lando grinning.

Later, back in the hotel, it was just the two of them — Amelia curled into his lap on the window seat, arms wrapped around his torso, city lights glittering through the glass behind them.

“Another podium,” she whispered, sipping her drink slowly.

Lando rested his chin on top of her head. “Feels good to be in it. To actually believe we’re not just relying on luck anymore.”

“You’re not,” she said firmly. “You’ll be winning soon.” She pressed her face into the side of his neck, then kissed the mole just beneath his ear — the one she loved most. “I promise, Lando. I promise.”

He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Just held her tighter. Then he exhaled into her hair and whispered, “Love you so much.”

Her fingers found his. Interlocked.

There was still so much season left. But in that quiet moment — high above São Paulo, with champagne still drying on his race boots and her voice steady in his chest — it felt like everything was going to be just fine.

NEXT CHAPTER

[sunsetmade]

The Greenery

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Summary: Your the new cart girl in the country club and a certain Kook takes an interest in you.

“—you’ll be out on the course, rolling by in the cart, asking if they want drinks or snacks—only after they’ve taken their swing, of course. Just looking after the golfers, making sure they’re good. Makes sense?” Her words tumbled out as easy as the wind off the dunes.

I just blinked at her, the early morning sun catching her sunglasses while my nerves twisted in my stomach. I gave a quick nod, even though my mind was still trying to catch up and understand all the instructions she just gave me.

“Alright, perfect! Your cart’s just over here—good luck out there!” she said with a kind of chipper energy that felt straight out of a preschool classroom. I stood frozen on the sun-warmed sidewalk, watching her disappear like sea foam back into the clubhouse.

Wait—which cart was mine?

Did she even say?

A wave of quiet panic rolled in as I scanned the line of identical golf carts, each one baking gently under the Carolina sun. I let out a slow sigh and headed toward them, hoping one would somehow just feel right.

I peeked into the first beige cart, trying to spot anything that screamed claimed—a water bottle, a towel, maybe a rogue granola bar. Nothing. Just a cup holder and the faint smell of sunscreen. I shrugged. Hopefully this wasn’t someone’s pride and joy. If it was, well… I’d apologize later.

I slid my light blue bag under the seat and took a short walk around the cart. The drinks and snacks had just been restocked—coolers full, chips lined up. Everything looked ready for the day. I made a quick mental note of what was where, then went back up front and sat down.

It was quiet, just the sound of the breeze and a few birds in the distance. I checked my watch—10:00. There had to be golfers out on the course already, maybe even finishing up their front nine.

Okay, first day. You’ve got this, I told myself as I started the cart. I eased forward, trying to follow the path that looked the most familiar. The woman who trained me yesterday had pointed out the best routes—ones that usually led to better tips. I kept that in mind and turned off onto the grass, hoping I was going the right way. Up ahead, I saw a few golfers. Time to start.

I cruised up slow, tires crunching over the sandy path near the green, squinting toward the three guys teeing off. I waited until they swung, clubs slicing the humid air, then eased the cart closer. “Hey, y’all want anything this morning?” I asked, chewing the inside of my cheek, trying to sound chill.

The first guy looked up, hand raised to block the Carolina sun. “Uh, yeah, I’ll take a beer. Kelce, you want one? Rafe?”

The other guy—Kelce, I guessed—shook his head, already gripping his driver like he had somewhere better to be.

But the third guy just looked at me—really looked at me—with this kind of quiet intensity that made my pulse hitch. “I’ll take one too,” he said, voice low but steady. I gave him a nod, trying not to stare, but it was hard not to. He was tall—like, seriously tall—and every inch of him looked like it had been carved by the sun. That golden tan that only comes from living outside, not just visiting. His hair was buzzed close, neat and clean, but something about him still felt wild, like he belonged out here, chasing waves or something worse.

I stepped out, tugging down the edge of my pink skirt— that suddenly felt too short—and walked around to the drink side of the cart. The cooler hissed as I opened it, grabbed two cold ones, and handed it over.

Just as I turned to leave, the guy stopped me. “Wait—don’t I need to pay?”

My heart skipped, cheeks flushing. I spun back around, flustered. “Right. Yeah. Sorry, it’s my first day.” I fumbled for the tablet, feeling like a total touron.

“You’re good,” he said with a smile that read annoyed, cracking the beer open and taking a swig. But the other guy—Rafe—just stood there with an amused smirk, like he was quietly entertained by the whole thing. It only made my cheeks flush deeper.

And of course I had to screw up right in front of someone like him—tall, stupidly handsome, and clearly amused by what was happening. My cheeks burned hotter, and I hated how obvious it probably was.

After he paid, I mumbled a have a good day pretending I wasn’t totally mortified, and climbed back into the cart. As I drove off, slow and steady, I muttered to myself under my breath.

Behind me, I heard Kelce laugh. “Topper, you could’ve gotten a free drink, man!”

Rafe rolled his eyes at his friends, barely paying attention now as the beige cart disappeared down the path. His thoughts were still stuck on the girl in it—flustered, short, a little too innocent for this place. Cute, in a way that caught him off guard.

His heart stuttered, just for a second, and he frowned. What the hell was that?

“Looks like Cameron’s got a crush,” Kelce laughed, nudging him with that stupid grin.

Rafe shot him a look sharp enough to kill, and Kelce immediately got quiet. “Shut up,” Rafe muttered, jaw tight.

I could still feel the heat in my cheeks as the cart bounced along the path, the salty wind tugging at my hair. I didn’t dare look back—I already embarrassed myself enough.

But my mind wandered anyway, replaying the way he had looked at me. Like he was trying to figure something out. Like he saw through me, even in those few seconds.

It made my stomach flutter, and I hated that.

Get a grip, I told myself. Guys like that don’t pay attention to girls like me. Not really.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

I exhaled sharply as the blast of cool air hit me walking into the country club—finally a break from the heat. The place was nicer than I expected, all polished wood floors and white linen vibes, like money had been casually spilled everywhere. The only people lounging around were the kind with trust funds and last names that carried weight. I was a Kook, yeah—but not this kind of Kook.

I drifted toward the bar, eyes landing on the small “employees only” sign near the back. Just as I stepped forward, a girl I’d talked to earlier—cheerful, way too energetic for the heat—popped out of nowhere.

“Hey girl! Can you please do me a massive favor?” she started, eyes wide with that desperate sparkle. “There’s this party, and I have to go, but I can’t just leave the bar, like, totally unmanned. So could you maybe…?”

She trailed off, hanging on the question like it was already answered.

I blinked. “Uh, I’m actually on my break, sorry—”

Before I could finish, her hand was already on my shoulder.

“Perfect! You're the best, thank you so much! I owe you!”

And with that, she vanished, leaving me standing there, stunned, with her note pad to take orders. My stomach dropped when I finally caught up to the situation. How the hell was I suppose to do this?

After totally humiliating myself on the course, I knew I had to redeem the day somehow. No way I was walking out of here with just a sunburn and a bruised ego. I let out a breath and tried to shake it off, thinking back to when I used to help my mom at her restaurant. Long nights, sticky menus, endless refills—but I knew how to survive. This couldn’t be that bad.

I squared my shoulders and headed for the deck, the salty breeze catching the edge of my shirt as I pushed through the doors.

Outside, the scene was peak Outer Banks chaos. Golfers fresh off the green looked sun-tired and salty—either from their scores or the humidity. Rich moms clinked glasses while one-upping each other over SAT scores and college tours. And then there were the ones my age—tanned, tipsy, and desperate to prove they belonged. Designer sunglasses, backwards hats, practiced laughs. The summer elite.

I took a breath, rolled my shoulders back, and walked up to the first table—a well-dressed older man and a woman I assumed was his wife. They looked like they’d stepped right out of a luxury yacht.

“Hi there, can I get you anything to drink?” I asked, putting on my best smile.

The woman glanced up, her pearl earrings catching the light as she gave me a perfect, practiced grin. “I’ll have a martini, please, dear,” she said, voice smooth like she’d never been told no in her life.

Her husband barely looked up from his phone. “Beer,” he grunted.

Classy.

I nodded, keeping the smile on my face as I turned and made my way back to the bar. I slid their order over to the real bartender—wherever they were—and leaned against the counter for a second, trying not to look as out of place as I felt.

One table down. A whole sea of golf bros and country club queens to go.

I took a deep breath and slid another order onto the counter, mentally checking off another task. But just as I was about to rush off, a voice stopped me in my tracks.

“Are you the bartender?”

I turned, heart skipping—and then stalling—when I saw him. The same guy from earlier. Handsome in that effortless, probably-drives-a-Jeep-and-surfs-before-brunch kind of way. Now standing way too close beside me.

The smirk that spread across his face made my stomach do something weird. “I thought you were a cart girl,” he said smoothly.

“I—I am,” I stammered, suddenly forgetting how to use words. “But I was asked to cover…”

Why was I nervous? No clue. Maybe it was the way he looked at me, like I was some sort of prey.

His brow quirked. “You must be new around here.”

I glanced up, straight into his blue eyes, and instantly regretted my next question. “How’d you know?”

Obvious. The golf course disaster practically screamed it.

But instead of calling me out, he let out a quiet chuckle. “Lucky guess,” he teased, flashing a smile that was entirely too easygoing.

I exhaled, thankful. At least he wasn’t reporting me to someone in khakis and a clipboard.

He stared down at me, and I found myself locked in, unable to look away from his eyes—blue and piercing like they saw right through the act I was barely holding together.

“What’s your name?” he asked, leaning casually against the bar like he had all the time in the world. All the time just to talk to me.

I hesitated, just for a second, before giving it to him. And I could’ve sworn—sworn—I heard him mutter “cute” under his breath, but it was so quick I couldn’t be sure if I imagined it.

“I’m Rafe,” he said simply.

I repeated the name in my head.

A small smile tugged at my lips before I could stop it. “Nice to meet you, Rafe,” I replied, somehow managing to sound calm despite the full-blown gymnastics routine happening in my stomach.

Rafe knew he was a goner the second she opened her mouth to talk to Topper on the course. There was something about the way she carried herself—like she didn’t know the effect she had, and that only made it worse. Or better. He hadn’t decided yet.

But after seeing her smile? Yeah, that sealed the deal.

The way she nervously fiddled with her fingers when she spoke to him—it wasn’t fake. She wasn’t putting on some country club act. Her eyes held this softness, this kind of innocence he wasn’t used to. It didn’t match the crowd around them, and that contrast made her even more interesting.

And the crazy part? He just wanted to keep talking to her. Hear her voice. Figure her out.

And this was after one day.

Rafe’s phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the moment and snapping his focus away from the girl standing in front of him. He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening as he pulled it out.

Dad.

Of course.

He glanced at the screen, then back at her—still standing there, still looking up at him with those wide eyes like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

For a second, he considered ignoring it. Just letting it ring out. But he knew better. His dad didn’t call without a reason, and ignoring him only made things worse.

“I gotta go,” he said, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow—on the cart this time?” he added, a teasing smile tugging at his lips.

I smiled without meaning to, nodding. “Yeah… I hope,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.

As soon as I heard myself, my cheeks burned. Seriously? I hope?

His smirk deepened, like he’d caught it—but thankfully, he didn’t say anything. He just gave me one last look, then turned and walked off, leaving me standing there replaying the whole conversation in my head.

And for a moment, I forgot I was supposed to be working.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

I pulled into my employee parking spot and let out a sigh, gripping the steering wheel for a second longer than necessary. Okay, I told myself. Let’s just stay as a cart girl today. No mistakes, no surprises.

My first day might’ve been a total disaster, but I couldn’t get Rafe out of my head. As much as I didn’t to admit it— mainly because I just met him, the thought of running into him again was the only thing that made coming back this morning feel… kind of exciting.

I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and made my way across the lot, the air already warm with that early summer heat. I climbed into my cart, settling in behind the wheel like I belonged there, like yesterday hadn’t been a disaster.

I glanced down at the pink and gold watch on my wrist, checked the time, and gave myself a small nod.

Time to start.

I cruised slowly around the course, starting to get the hang of the layout. Each turn felt a little more familiar, each group of golfers a little less intimidating. The Outer Banks air was crisp that morning, cooler than usual. The sky hung low and gray, the sun barely pushing through the clouds like it was trying to make up its mind.

I silently cursed my outfit choice—my skirt offered zero protection from the wind, and my thin tee wasn’t much better. Not exactly built for gloomy weather.

As I pulled around another bend, I spotted two golfers near their clubs. I eased the cart toward them, and my heart skipped the second I realized who it was—Rafe and his friend from the other day.

I bit back a smile and drove a little closer. “Would you guys like anything?” I asked, suddenly unsure of where to put my hands.

“A beer, a really cold—” Topper started, but Rafe cut him off, stepping forward with that same grin that had been stuck in my head since day one.

He leaned against the front of the cart, looking way too comfortable. “Where were you yesterday?”

I swallowed, trying not to overthink my every move as I stepped out to grab a beer from the cooler. “It wasn’t my day to work,” I said, forcing casual into my voice even though my pulse betrayed me.

He hummed, eyes drifting away for a second, a small frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “What days do you work?” he asked, trying to keep his tone casual, like it was just another question.

But it wasn’t.

Truth was, he'd spent more time scanning the course for her yesterday than actually playing the damn game. Every cart that passed, every flash of movement, he hoped it was her. And when it wasn’t—he noticed.

He glanced back at her, trying not to let it show. He just wanted to know when to look.

“U-uh, normally every day,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be. “They only gave me yesterday off because they found out I worked another shift.”

As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized I’d probably given way more detail than necessary. I bit the inside of my cheek, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was, how casual he looked leaning against the cart—while I stood there feeling like my heartbeat was on full display.

Rafe chewed the inside of his lip as he watched her pull out a beer for Topper. Her skirt shifted slightly when she reached into the cooler, riding up just enough to make his gaze flick there—then snap away just as fast.

He silently cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair like that would help shake it off.

When he glanced back, Topper was staring at him with that familiar irritated look. Rafe waved him off, not in the mood for whatever passive-aggressive comment was loading in his head. Topper huffed, turned, and grabbed his club, muttering something under his breath.

Rafe rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to her—because, yeah, she was the reason he was even out here this early.

“This is for your friend,” I said softly, offering the beer with a small smile.

Rafe took it from me, and his fingers brushed mine for just a second—but it was enough. Enough to send butterflies into full flight in my stomach.

“How much?” he asked, his eyes locked on mine with that same smirk from the other day, clearly still enjoying the memory.

I let out a quiet huff, trying my best not to blush as I looked up at him. He towered over me, jacket unzipped, shorts on despite the chill. Of course he wasn’t cold. Of course he looked good.

“Twelve dollars,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “And don’t worry—I’m not letting you get away without paying this time.”

A spark of amusement flickered in his eyes. A little feisty. He liked that.

Without missing a beat, he pulled out his wallet and handed me a fifty. “Keep the change.”

My eyes widened as I looked at the bill. “Rafe, I can’t take this—that’s way too much,” I said quickly, trying to give it back.

But he just shook his head, gently pushing my hand away. “No. I want you to take it,” he said, voice low. “You deserve it.”

The words hit harder than I expected, warming something in my chest. I hesitated, then slowly slid the bill into my pocket.

A breeze swept past, and I shivered, rubbing my hands along my arms. Rafe’s expression shifted—he noticed and he didn’t like it.

“I better go. I’ll see you tomorrow, Rafe,” I said, turning away to close the cooler and lock the protective door over it.

When I turned back around, he was still there. His expression was unreadable, but there was something lingering in it—something close to disappointment.

“I’ll be looking for you,” he finally said. The usual smirk was on his face, but his words carried a sincerity that made my knees feel just a little weaker.

I let out a quiet chuckle, feeling more confident than I expected. “Bye Rafe,” I said as I climbed into the cart.

Rafe stepped back as I pulled away, making sure he didn’t get clipped. I threw him a little wave over my shoulder, and he laughed, shaking his head before returning it.

The smile didn’t leave my face.

But as I drove off, shivering again from the cool breeze, something caught my eye in the passenger seat. I blinked, then felt my heart leap.

Rafe’s jacket.

He must’ve left it without realizing. I slowed down near the bathrooms, reaching over and picking it up. It was still warm, thick and worn in, and when I brought it closer, his scent filled the air around me—clean, woodsy, and something undeniably him.

I hesitated for half a second before slipping it on.

Instant comfort. Instant butterflies.

I could only hope he didn’t mind.

Topper let out an exaggerated sigh of relief as Rafe returned, beer in hand. “Finally, man. Thought you were never gonna stop flirting with her.”

Rafe rolled his eyes, choosing not to take the bait. Typical Topper.

As Topper took a long swig, his brow furrowed. “Hey… where’s your jacket?”

Rafe glanced down at his arms, like he was just now realizing it wasn’t there. But he knew. He’d known the second she pulled away in that cart.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand over his face in fake frustration. “Must’ve left it on her seat.”

He didn’t bother to hide the small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ

It had been a week and a few days since the jacket incident, and Rafe hadn’t stopped thinking about it—or her.

Every time he caught sight of that golf cart in the distance, he found himself straightening up, scanning for her face, hoping she’d glance his way. She’d been wearing the jacket the day after he left it—he’d spotted it from across the green. He didn’t say anything, just watched her tug it a little tighter when the wind kicked up.

He liked that she kept it. Liked that she didn’t give it back.

Of course, they’d talked nearly every day when she stopped by his hole on the course—but the jacket? Never mentioned. Not once.

She was half-terrified that if she brought it up, he’d ask for it back. And honestly, she wasn’t ready to give it up. What she didn’t know was that Rafe had no intention of asking. He liked seeing her wear it. Liked the idea that a part of him was keeping her warm out there.

I drove around the course feeling more at ease than I had on my first day. Country music played softly from the cart speakers, mixing with the wind that cut across my bare legs—I’d forgotten to dress for the weather again. Rafe’s jacket rested on my lap, a comfort. I tugged it a little tighter.

As I rounded a curve, my eyes scanned the fairway like they always did. And there—tall, lean, standing alone—it had to be him.

I’d never admit it to him, but every time I approached a group of golfers, I secretly hoped it would be Rafe.

I drove my cart up closer to the golfer and smiled when I could confirm it was him. “Hi, Rafe!” I called out cheerily, the words rolling off my tongue with way more ease than they had that first day. I’d definitely gotten more comfortable around him—too comfortable, maybe.

Rafe turned at the sound of my voice, that familiar grin already tugging at his lips. It was like he’d been waiting for me.

“Hey, pretty girl. Whatcha up to?” he asked, voice low and cool as ever.

The nickname hit me —warm and unexpected—and I felt the blush creep up my neck before I could stop it.

Rafe had gotten bolder with his flirting over the past few days—it wasn’t subtle anymore. His compliments, the way he looked at her, lingered just a little too long to be casual.

Still, she played it off. Told herself that was just how he was—charming, smooth, flirty with everyone. But deep down, she couldn’t help but hope... that maybe it wasn’t just his personality. Maybe it was just for her.

“Just driving around, listening to some music,” I said with a shrug, the faint twang of country still playing in the background. “You’re alone today?”

I tilted my head, genuinely surprised. It was rare to see him without the other two guys trailing behind.

Rafe nodded, walking up to the cart and resting his hands on the roof, leaning in slightly. The move brought him closer—close enough to steal my breath a little.

“Yeah,” he said, casually. “Decided to come alone today.”

His eyes flicked over the inside of the cart, lingering for a beat too long. Then they landed on his jacket still draped over my lap—and something shifted in his expression. A small, barely-there smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he seemed... almost proud.

“Want company?” he asked, voice a little lower now, a spark of confidence threading through his words.

I looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips tugging into a smile before I could stop myself.

“Would you really want to come along?” she asked, the doubt in her voice betraying the slight nervousness she felt. She couldn't help but wonder if he'd get bored—it seemed unlikely, but still, it felt too casual.

But Rafe was anything but bored when it came to her. He nodded slowly, a low hum escaping his chest. "Yeah," he said, his tone confident but soft. "I’d like that."

She let out a light laugh, the sound warm and easy. "I guess you could join me. If I get fired, it’s your fault."

Rafe smirked, stepping closer. Without warning, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, the gesture light but meaningful. “Don’t worry, pretty girl. They won’t fire you,” he reassured her, his voice low and steady.

And even if they tried, he thought—he wouldn’t let that happen. Not on his watch

Rafe stood there, waiting with that confident look on his face, as if he expected me to do something.

I raised an eyebrow, confused. “Are you going to get in?”

He stared at me for a beat, eyes narrowing slightly, before the smirk spread across his face, as if he were offended by the suggestion that he might not.

“Yes. Scoot over, I’m driving,” he said, his voice firm with an edge of playfulness.

Before I could even protest, he was already sliding into the cart, practically nudging me to the side. His leg brushed against mine, and I immediately felt the heat crawl up my skin. It was a simple touch, nothing overly intimate—but it felt like a spark.

The warmth between us was suddenly so palpable, I almost forgot how to breathe for a second.

I could feel the heat from his leg radiating against mine, and despite myself, I shifted slightly, trying to keep the space between us. But Rafe didn’t seem to mind. He leaned back in the seat, stretching his arms above his head, completely at ease as if he owned the place. His confidence was infectious, and I found myself getting more comfortable with every inch he moved closer.

“Comfortable?” he asked, glancing at me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

I smiled, trying to act like I wasn’t completely aware of every inch of him next to me. But deep down, I liked it—more than I cared to admit. “Yeah, totally,” I said, though the way my heart was racing told a different story.

Rafe’s smirk widened, sensing my nervousness—or maybe enjoying it. He nudged my leg with his casually, as if to remind me of how close we really were. “Good,” he said, his voice low, his eyes flicking down to my lap where his jacket still lay. “You know, I like seeing you in my jacket.”

I chuckled, my heart fluttering a little. “I guess it’s better than being cold,” I said, my voice betraying the flutter of warmth spreading through me.

“Mm-hmm,” Rafe hummed, his gaze lingering on me, that same playful smirk tugging at his lips. “That’s one way to put it.” He knew I was covering up the real reason.

Rafe started the cart, the engine humming softly as we cruised along the course. The country music played in the background, its soothing rhythm filling the space between us. The wind had calmed down a bit, and the cool air felt refreshing as we made our way down the winding path. It was peaceful—more so than I had expected—and I found myself relaxing in a way I hadn’t realized I needed.

After a couple of minutes of comfortable silence, Rafe’s eyes drifted toward me. His gaze wasn’t intrusive, but it was intense—calm yet purposeful, like he was taking in everything about me.

I glanced over at him, and for a split second, our eyes locked. I could feel the subtle tension between us, the way his presence seemed to fill every corner of the cart. His gaze softened, but the intensity remained, making my heart beat just a little faster.

“Y’know,” Rafe started, his voice casual but his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the steering wheel, “there’s this event coming up at the club. Some really formal, over-the-top thing my family always drags me to.” He glanced over at me, a flicker of something uncertain in his eyes. “I was wondering if… you’d want to go with me?”

His usual confidence was there, sure—but underneath, I could hear it. That slight edge of nervousness he was trying to hide.

I froze, eyes wide. Was this real? Was he seriously asking me to a fancy club event? As his date?

“L-like a date?” I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure he could hear it.

Rafe looked down at me, his playful smirk fading into something more serious. His gaze held mine, steady and unwavering. “Yeah,” he said, voice low and sure. “Like a date.”

For a second, I forgot how to breathe.

Then I quickly cleared my throat, trying to play it cool even though my face was probably on fire. “I—uh—I would love to. That sounds... fun,” I said, my voice steady enough, but the grin spreading across my face totally gave me away.

Rafe let out a soft laugh and shook his head like I was the funniest thing he’d seen all day. His hand moved without warning, resting gently on my thigh, his touch warm and grounding and gave it a squeeze.

“You don’t understand the effect you have on me,” he murmured, his tone more serious now, more honest than I’d ever heard it.

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. Not with the way my whole body was buzzing at the feeling of his hand, his words, him.

But inside, I was screaming.

His face was so close to mine—closer than it had ever been. I could feel his breath on my skin, warm and intoxicating. My gaze was locked on his eyes, but his flickered downward, landing on my lips. The world seemed to still around us.

He leaned in slowly, like he was giving me a chance to pull away. But I didn’t want to. I was frozen, heart racing, anticipation buzzing through every inch of me.

I’m about to kiss him, I thought giddily, my lips parting just slightly as my eyes fluttered shut. I felt his lips ghost over mine, a whisper of a touch that sent goosebumps up my arms.

And then—

Thunk!

“Watch out!” someone called from across the course.

Both our eyes snapped open just as something hit the roof of the cart with a loud clunk. Rafe let out a groan, dropping his forehead gently against mine in defeat.

His hand, still resting against my cheek, caressed it softly, his thumb brushing back and forth as if trying to soothe the moment we’d just lost.

I giggled, unable to help myself.

He pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, one brow raised as a smirk tugged at his lips. “Funny?”

I nodded, biting back another laugh. “Kinda.”

That teasing spark lit up in his eyes again. “I was so close,” he mumbled under his breath.

I smiled, leaning into his touch just a little more. “Yeah,” I whispered, “you were.”

But the moment wasn’t really gone. If anything, it left us wanting more.

“You drive me insane,” Rafe murmured, his voice low and laced with a kind of frustration that only made me smile wider.

“Good,” I teased, my eyes gleaming with mischief.

He chuckled, that deep, effortless sound that always made my stomach flip. Before I could say anything else, he dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to the side of my neck. Then another. And another. Each one slower, more deliberate than the last.

I giggled, warmth rushing up my face as I squirmed slightly in my seat. “Rafe!” I laughed, playfully pushing at his head. “You’re going to get me in trouble.”

He pulled back just enough to look at me, that smug grin on his face, eyes full of trouble. “Worth it.”

[minswriting]

BIKINIS AND MARTINIS - A.H x READER

About: Reader is chilling by the pool in a tiny bikini and when she goes inside, they bump into one another and they have sex.

Warnings: NSFW, MDNI, dad’s best friend hotch, dad bod hotch, fingering (f), unprotected sex, daddy kink, OOC hotch but that’s why fanfiction is great, slight size kink

Word Count: 2.9k

A/N: Hello! Border is made by @cafekitsune here on tumblr!! This one shot may suck a bit because I struggled writing it for some reason lol. If you don’t like it, don’t read it! Please comment and reblog to support your creators ❤️

Your father was a hard and diligent worker, working as a higher-up in the FBI. He was technically the boss of many people, and hardly ever had to work in the field. There were many perks to your father being in the FBI: you get to see your dad often and don’t have to worry about him not always being home. Or how you didn’t have to worry about your college tuition because he paid for all of it. But the best perk? Getting to see the man that your father hung out with quite often when the man wasn’t out on cases.

Aaron Hotchner, the Unit Chief of the Behavior Analysis Unit, was an intriguing man, to say the least. With his short black hair, piercing brown eyes, and stoic demeanor, he was the embodiment of attractiveness. Always dressed to the nines even when going out on a case. He and your father began a friendship a few years back. It started off as just a meeting, Hotchner congratulating your father on his promotion, which then led to the realization of how much they had in common. From golfing to cooking, and enjoying what they do for work, their friendship was pretty solid.

It was a bright and sunny day in the middle of July, perfect for a cookout near the pool. Your father had a rare day off, not having to deal with bureaucracy bullshit for once. He invited a few of his friends over for a barbecue and to spend time at the pool. And of course, you weren’t going to miss out on delicious food and a chance to see Aaron Hotchner in swim trunks.

Your relationship, if you could even really call it that, with Aaron Hotchner was a weird one. As soon as he walked into a room, you would notice him. His presence was radiating, one that exuded dominance and yet something soft at the same time. It was intoxicating, to say the least. And you were sure he noticed you as well. On the rare occasions when you joined your father at the golf course, Aaron’s eyes were always on you. Or the times when you’d visit your father at his office, Aaron would glance your way. The two of you have had your conversations, ones that tread the line between flirtatious and nothing more than a simple conversation. Everything between the two of you was subtle but it was there.

You lay on a pool chair, sunglasses on and eyes closed as you faced the sky, dressed in a gorgeous red and white cherry printed bikini, with a blueberry lemon martini in one hand. You sipped the drink leisurely as you listened to the conversations happening around you. Men with their wives, conversing with your dad while he barbecues on the grill. You didn’t pay much mind to it, off in your own world as you basked in the sun.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” came the familiar deep voice that you adored so much.

You turned your head, opening your eyes as you glanced at the man who sat on the pool chair next to you. Aaron Hotchner was indeed wearing a pair of swim trunks and nothing else. You probably could’ve died right then and there but luckily, you kept your cool.

“Trying to enjoy the heat before it all goes away in two months,” you replied, turning your head back to face the sky.

Aaron simply hummed in response, allowing silence to overcome the two of you for a few moments before speaking. “You look good, by the way,” He said, his tone holding a lightness to it that was only noticeable if you were attentive.

You felt your heart flutter, unable to help the small smile that graced your lips. “You don’t look too bad yourself, Hotchner,” You retorted before taking a sip of your martini.

It was true. Aaron looked amazing with his toned muscles in his arms and legs, his chest nice and toned as well, and his stomach, though a bit soft, still held the athletic build he maintains due to his work in the BAU. And god, you were ridiculously attracted to this man.

“Well, I certainly try not to look bad,” Aaron retorted before taking a sip of the cocktail he had. He wasn’t much of a cocktail sort of guy but your dad made a mean martini. Aaron couldn’t help but look at you. You looked radiating in that bikini. With your tits practically spilling out of the top and how your hips looked in the bottoms, it took everything in him to not get a boner right then and there. It was wrong of him to be so attracted to you. You were his boss’ daughter and twenty years younger than him. He was forty-four years old and you were twenty-four. And yet, here he was. The amount of times he had gotten off to the idea of fucking his boss’ daughter was more than he’d ever be willing to admit.

“I think you look handsome all of the time,” You said, turning your head to look at Aaron.

Whether it was from the heat or your words, you were unsure but you noticed the way Aaron’s cheeks redden just a bit and felt yourself smirking once more.

Aaron cleared his throat, looking away from you and at the pool. “Thank you,” He replied before standing up. “I-uh am going to go swim now,” and with that, he walked away from you and made his way to the pool.

You watched Aaron as he walked to the deep end. You certainly made him flustered but that didn’t matter when he was about to dive in. You watched carefully, seeing the way Aaron got into position. You bit your lip and clenched your thighs subtly, practically gawking at Aaron with the way he moved. And when he jumped in, swam underneath the water, and came back up, you almost audibly moaned with the way he looked. He was like your own porno, the man you will be fingering yourself to later. He swam for a little while before he got out and walked over to your father, grabbing the towel that was in one of the chairs next to him.

After another martini and sitting out in the sun for some time, you decided to finally get up. You stretched out your muscles, pushing your chest out slightly in a small show for Aaron, who you knew was already watching you. You glanced at him, seeing how his eyes were already on you. He was in the midst of a conversation with your father, likely something related to the Bureau. And yet, Aaron looked as though he could hardly care.

You gave him a small smirk before walking towards the house and making your way inside and to the bathroom. When you finished your business and washed your hands, you walked out of the bathroom and into the hallway, only to bump into something, or rather someone, hard, almost getting knocked over in the process. You felt a pair of hands land on your hips, holding you upright as you looked up to see Aaron.

At that moment, it was as though the world had stopped as you and Aaron met each other’s gaze, his hands firmly resting on your hips. And just like that, it was as though all the attraction you two had for one another increased tenfold. “You’re driving me crazy,” Aaron said hoarsely as he looked you up and down. “Especially with wearing that.”

You licked your lips, tilting your head ever-so-slightly. “Oh yeah?” You whispered back. “Crazy how?”

Aaron looked at you with a raised eyebrow as if it weren’t obvious how you were driving him crazy. He simply pressed himself against you, allowing you to feel just how hard he was in his swim trunks. You gasped, the soft noise escaping your lips before you could have a chance to stop it.

“All because of you,” He murmured, leaning in. His breath was fanning your face, tempting you to just move in that extra moment. “And that bathing suit of yours.”

“I bought it knowing you’d be seeing me in it,” You breathed out, glancing at Aaron’s lips.

“Naughty girl,” Aaron smirked, putting his fingers underneath your chin, bringing your faces closer together. Aaron’s lips lightly brushed against yours, giving you a moment to pull away, to stop this whole endeavor before you both were in too deep. You responded by kissing him firmly, showing you wanted him just as much as he wanted you.

The two of you moved in sync, kissing one another with a hunger that had been building between you both since the day you met him. You knew it should be wrong. Aaron was much older than you and was a good friend of your father's. You should stop this before anything else could happen. But in retrospect, Aaron was the first person you’d ever felt a strong pull towards. And you knew he would treat you so well.

Aaron’s hand moved from your hip to your naval, moving slowly to the waistline of your bikini bottoms. He pulled away from the kiss to look at you, an unspoken question of whether this was alright or not.

“Please,” You whispered, looking at Aaron with pleading eyes.

And that was all he needed before he dipped his head, kissing your jawline as his fingers trailed underneath the waistband of your bottoms. He ran a finger along your slit, feeling just how wet you were. “You’re soaked,” Aaron murmured against your skin.

“You have that effect on me,” You replied, trying to sound cool but ultimately failing when your voice hitched as Aaron brushed against your clit.

Aaron let out a low chuckle, nipping at your pulse point. “I can feel that,” He said, using his index finger to rub at your clit gently. You let out a soft noise as Aaron started to move his finger and suck on your pulse point. After a few moments, his finger dipped from your clit to your hole, teasing the entrance as he spread around your wetness. “Had I known you were this wet for me, perhaps I would’ve taken care of you sooner, sweetheart,” He breathed out, pulling away from your neck to look at you.

You shivered at the feeling of Aaron’s finger teasing your entrance, clenching around nothing in anticipation. “Well, what better way to live than in the present?” You said a bit shakily. Thank god everyone was outside. The idea that someone could walk into the hallway at any given moment frightened you and yet excited you at the same time.

Aaron hummed, nodding his head in agreement as he dipped his finger inside of you. Your breath hitched at the feeling, eyes fluttering shut. His finger was much bigger than yours and filled you much more than yours ever could. He moved his finger in and out of you slowly, rather teasingly as he got you worked up.

He eventually added a second finger, curling them up to hit your g-spot dead on. The action made you moan loudly and throw your head back against the wall with a small thud. “Oh my god,” you moaned.

Aaron’s free hand came up to your neck, gently wrapping his fingers around it as he guided your face to look at him. “Eyes on me, sweetheart,” he said, his tone soft and velvety and yet also commanding.

The action made your brain short-circuit. The truth of the matter is that you’ve never had anyone do something such as wrap their hand around your neck before. And you can’t say you hated it. The only word to escape your lips as you looked into Aaron’s dark eyes was “daddy.”

Aaron groaned at the word, immediately capturing your lips into a hungry kiss as he moved his fingers faster inside of you. He pulled away from the kiss, breathing heavily as he rested his forehead against yours. “Daddy, huh?” He breathed out. “How would your father feel knowing you called another man daddy?”

“Good thing I don’t call my father that,” You said, biting your lip as you relished in the feeling of Aaron fingering you.

All of a sudden, Aaron removed his fingers from your cunt, causing you to whine at the loss of contact. “Shh, baby,” Aaron said, kissing your lips. “Daddy’s going to fuck you now,” He said as he lowered his swim trunks just enough to let his cock breathe.

You looked down at Aaron’s cock, eyes widening as you saw how big he was. “Is it going to fit?” You asked, looking at Aaron with a faux innocence.

Aaron chuckled, nodding his head. “We’ll make it fit, sweetheart,” He replied, grabbing himself. “We have to be quick though, okay?”

You nodded your head, licking your lips in anticipation. “Yes, daddy.”

“Good girl,” He said before using his other hand to turn you around. You bend over slightly as you face the wall, giving Aaron better access. He grabbed your bikini bottoms, pulling them to the side before lining himself up at your cunt. He moved the tip of his cock up and down your folds, spreading your slick on his cock. He slowly eased himself inside of you, causing you to tense at the intrusion. “Relax, sweetheart.” He murmured, pressing a small kiss onto your shoulder blades.

The feeling of Aaron’s cock stretching you out was both painful and pleasurable. You’ve, of course, had sex before but you’ve never had sex with anyone as big as Aaron was and it was certainly new territory for you. He might ruin sex with anyone else for you forever. And part of you was okay knowing that information.

“Oh my god,” You moaned, putting your hand on the wall to ground yourself. When Aaron was fully inside of you, he paused for a few moments, giving you time to adjust to his size. “You’re so big, daddy,” You whined.

“I know, baby,” Aaron cooed, keeping himself still. “You can take it though, yeah?” He asked as he put his hands on your hips.

You nodded your head. “Yes, daddy,” you replied. After a few minutes, you had finally adjusted to Aaron’s size, relaxing a bit. “You can move.”

Aaron didn’t need to be told twice. He began moving his hips slowly, groaning at the feeling of how tight you were. “Fuck, baby,” he said. “Clenching around me so nicely.”

You let out a choked moan, your eyes fluttering shut as Aaron moved his hips. “F-feels so good, daddy,” you gasped, reaching your other hand around you to your hip and grabbing Aaron’s, bringing his hand to your chest. He instinctively began massaging your flesh through your bikini top.

“You’re so perfect,” He breathed out, leaning down to kiss the back of your neck. His hips began moving faster. “So beautiful.”

The feeling of his cock moving inside of you plus the praises leaving Aaron’s lips sent a shiver down your spine. “Daddy,” you whined, breathing heavily.

Aaron’s pace quickened, gaining a rhythm as he pounded into you. You are still entirely grateful that no one else was in the house and that everyone was outside as the sounds of skin slapping together filled the hallway upstairs, mixed with your moans as well.

“O-oh fuck,” you moaned as Aaron moved faster. His cock grazed your sweet spot repeatedly, making that familiar heat build up inside of you. “I-I’m so close, daddy.” You whimpered.

Aaron let out his own moan, holding you tighter. “Me too, princess,” he replied, his breathing shaky as he continued to pound into you.

It wasn’t long before you were clenching around Aaron’s cock with a loud moan of “daddy” as you came, legs shaking with the most mind-blowing orgasm you have had. Aaron followed, cumming with a groan as he filled you up with his load.

Just as you two finished, you heard the back door from downstairs opening, signaling that someone had entered the house. Aaron quickly pulled out, putting your bikini bottoms back in place as you both pulled away from one another. You fixed your bikini top, taking a second to gather yourself. Footsteps began to go up the stairs. With a small kiss to your forehead, Aaron made his way into the bathroom, closing the door behind him so as to not draw attention to either of you.

And just as he closed the door, your father appeared in the hallway. “Hey, cupcake,” your father greeted, giving you a smile. “Just wondering if you’ve seen Hotch? We’re moving the pool table from the game room outside so that we can play a game of pool by the pool.”

You shrugged your shoulders, pretending as though you didn’t just have Aaron’s cock buried inside your pussy. “Haven’t seen him,” you said to your father.

“Alrighty, well if you do, just tell him to come play pool,” Your father smiled before walking away. When he made his way back down the stairs, you let out a breath of relief.

You heard the sink in the bathroom turn on for a few seconds before turning off as Aaron opened the door. The two of you grinned at one another, feeling giddy about what had just happened.

Because you just fucked your dad’s best friend.

[crushpunky]

actress!reader visits drew on the obx set

masterlist | actress!reader masterlist

Y/n gripped onto the golf cart as they pulled onto the property they were shooting on that day: a beach filled with kooks and pogues, all lounging about on the sand and floating on their surfboards in the soft lull of the ocean. They came to a halt, a short while back from where the cameras and crew sat, before continuing on foot.

“Y/n!” Madelyn whispered loudly, waving at y/n excitedly as they approached the set. Y/n smiled, waving back at her before settling underneath one of the umbrellas situated in the sand.

“Alright, Rafe and Sofia, action!” One of the directors shouted. Y/n’s eyes finally locked on who she had been thinking about the entire ride to the beach; there, with a pair of dark sunglasses perched on his nose, sat Drew. The sun glistened off of his skin and fresh buzz cut in a way that made y/n’s cheeks flush in the hot, Carolina sun.

“You should talk to her, Rafe.” Fiona, or rather Sofia, said, squinting to look up towards Drew. Drew ran a hand over his buzzed hair, a gruff-Rafe Cameron expression on his face.

“If she talks to me.” Drew said gruffly, slinging an arm around Fiona’s shoulders. She sunk into his side, resting her cheek on Drew’s broad chest. The two of them looked over past the camera where the Twinkie sat for a moment before turning to walk back towards the Jeep parked behind them. As they walked together through the sand, they talked to each other quietly, Fiona laughing as Drew pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

Drew was an actor, and a professional one at that, but something about seeing him be with someone else like that made all rational thinking leave y/n’s mind. She trusted him, of course, and she trusted Fiona… so why was she feeling so weird?

“Cut! That’s… good! We’re good! Thanks everyone.” The director shouted, the slew of extras letting out a holler. Drew removed his arm from Fiona’s shoulders, the two of them taking a measured step away from each other before turning back towards the camera. Once Drew’s eyes locked with her own, a huge grin broke out on his face. Nearly stumbling in the sand, Drew took off at a sprint straight towards y/n. Once he met her, he caught her in a hug, lifting her off her feet as he kissed her slowly.

Chase let out a holler, finally breaking the moment between the two of them as Drew sat y/n back onto the ground. He looked down at her, sliding his sunglasses on top of his head to look at her more clearly. The sun was reflecting beautifully off her skin, making her almost glisten in the salty air.

“Jesus I missed you so fucking much.” Drew groaned, pressing yet another kiss to y/n’s lips, causing her to grin.

“I haven’t seen him smile that much all week.” JD commented, causing Drew to roll his eyes as his cheeks turned a light pink.

“Sorry that I love my girlfriend.” Drew said with a cheeky grin, pulling y/n into his side. Y/n giggled, her arm snaking around Drew’s midsection comfortably.

“He’s not allowed to have any fun without me. None of you are.” Y/n teased, pointing between the cast playfully.

“You must be y/n?” A voice said from behind y/n and Drew, the two of them turning to see Fiona. Her hair was blowing softly in the wind, framing her tanned skin and perfect, glittering smile.

“Uh, yeah.” Y/n swallowed, her eyes stuck on the positively radiant girl in front of her. It’s not like she was “sizing her up” or anything, of course she knew she wasn’t competition, but something about her made her head spin. Could she even blame Drew if he liked this girl? I mean she was beautiful, talented, and had such a glowing presence to her…

“It’s nice to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you.” Fiona grinned, glancing between y/n and Drew as she spoke. Drew nodded as y/n subconsciously pulled him closer to her.

“I’ve heard so much about you,” y/n said. “It’s a shame we didn’t cross paths when I was still hanging around this set.”

“Oh, you miss filming with these dumbasses?” Drew nudged y/n playfully, gesturing towards Chase and Rudy as they chased JD with a clump of some sort of sea moss.

“Maybe a little bit,” y/n looked up at Drew. “I definitely miss filming with you.”

“Well, Drew is a great friend and I’m so happy I got to meet the woman he talks about all the time.” Fiona said with one last smile and wave before heading off the beach. Y/n watched as she walked, stopping to any of the crew members or extras that looked her way, greeting each of them with the same bright smile and lively attitude.

“Hello?” Drew said, finally pulling y/n out of her own racing thoughts. She looked back towards him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Hmm?” She hummed, causing a smirk to dance across Drew’s lips.

“Ahh, I see what it is.” Drew nodded to himself as the two of them walked towards the water.

“What?” Y/n asked.

“Nothing, nothing.” Drew shrugged, looking out at the waves as he lowered his sunglasses back down.

“What?” Y/n asked again, hitting Drew lightly with her hip. Drew dramatically stumbled to the side with a faux gasp before straightening himself back with a wide smile.

“Somebody is jealous.” Drew said with a small raise of his eyebrows.

“What?!” Y/n nearly shouted. “I am not—”

“Hey, it’s fine. I get it, it’s not… easy to see.” Drew looked down at her.

“I…” Y/n’s response fell as she tilted her head back with a groan of realization. Shit. Maybe he was right, maybe she was jealous. Yes, every rational part of her brain told her it was fine, it was just his job (hell, she had to do it too), but still that little part ate away at her…

“Hey, look at me,” Drew said, his hand slipping off y/n’s shoulder to grab one of her hands. She looked at him, a feeling of embarrassment washing over her at the thoughts she had allowed to get to her.

“I promise you that you have absolutely nothing to worry about,” Drew said, pressing a kiss to y/n’s temple. “Fiona is great, but she’s no you, a’ight? Nobody ever could be. Nobody.”

A smile crept onto y/n’s cheeks before Drew pulled her into an intoxicating hug. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling the familiar shape of his body and inhaling the scent of his cologne.

“I love you…” Drew said as the two of them finally pulled away, his arms still holding her against his chest. Y/n grinned at him before moving to rest her cheek against his chest, the sound of his heart beating steadily in her ear reminding her of what was true. What was real: all the memories and happiness she shared with the man right in front of her. The man who she was hopelessly, head over heels in love with… just like he was with her.

“... even when you get jealous.” Drew added, pinching y/n’s side playfully, causing her to giggle.

“I love you.” Y/n said, the two of them taking in the soft lull of the ocean in eachothers arms, any thoughts of jealousy or anyone else long gone.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

tee time

words: 1.5k

warnings: really really overly fluffy, lots of golf talk that idk if its correct yall im not a golfer, rafe squeezes her butt but its not a sexual fic :), lots of kisses omfgggggg these bitches in LOVE (this is a really boring fic im sorry)

“does this look golf-y enough?” you ask rafe as you pout in the mirror, adjusting your skirt again, feeling like your tennis shoes are out of place when you'd usually be wearing heels or sandals.

“baby, we are just playing for fun. you look cute.” rafe says, glancing at his watch.

“should i do my hair differently? pigtails maybe?” you question, twisting your ponytail around your hand.

“baby…” rafe sighs.

“okay, okay.” you raise your hands up. “im done. sorry.” you giggle as you turn to him, pressing a kiss to his lips, having to bend down to where he's sat on the edge of the bed.

“it's okay, you're excited.” rafe says softly, reaching around you to grab the back of your thighs, fingers moving up to your skirt, squeezing your ass.

“i am excited.” you gleam at him. “me and bianca went to putt putt the other day to practice.”

“you're gonna do great, baby.” rafe gives your ass another squeeze before standing, taking your hand in his and leading you towards the door.

you've been wanting rafe to take you golfing ever since you started your relationship, but usually he'd already have plans with topper or his other country club friends, and you didn't want to intrude.

when rafe offered the other day to let you putt for him, you jumped at the chance.

“im not gonna like, ruin your average right?” you ask as rafe pulls into a parking spot.

“no, baby.” rafe laughs softly. “don't worry.”

“okay.” you smile as he gets out of the truck, rounding it to open the door for you. nobody would ever guess that rafe would be a sweet and caring boyfriend, but he looks at you like you put the stars in the sky, and treats you better than you could have ever imagined.

he takes your hand in his as he leads you towards the golf cart, frowning when he realizes you're squinting in the sunlight.

“stay here.” rafe says, allowing you to sit down on his family cart, his clubs already loaded onto the back.

“okay.” you watch as he goes to the truck, jogging to get back to you as he hands you a pair of sunglasses.

“whose are these?” you ask. they look like your style, but you're certain this isn't a pair you own.

“i saw them one day at the mall and thought you'd like them so i bought them.” rafe shrugs. “figured i could keep them in the truck in case you ever forgot yours.”

“raaaafe.” you coo out, pulling him in for a kiss, which he happily accepts.

“ill let you drive once we get further out on the course.” rafe says, sliding into the driver's seat and turning the cart on before wrapping his arm around your shoulder, willing to drive with just one hand even though it was harder, needing you close to him as you press your side against his.

rafe pulls up to the first tee, waiting for a moment to feel the wind on his face before he turns to look at you, noting the way your ponytail is being blown slightly eastward.

“give me a good luck kiss for this drive, baby.” rafe says.

you pucker your lips and press a smack against his lips before he grabs a club. 

you let out a cheer when rafe hits the ball, but honestly you lost sight of it in the air and even if you watched the whole way, you wouldn't have known if it was good or bad.

“yes.” rafe pumps his fist. “need you out here more often, my good luck charm.” rafe climbs back into the golf cart, taking off towards where his ball landed.

“gonna land this on the green for you, baby.” rafe says with a confident smile, and he does indeed get the ball pretty close to the hole. 

you're not sure if cheering is generally accepted on the golf course, but you can't help but hype your man up.

“alright.” rafe pulls the cart to a stop near the ball. “it's on you, princess.”

you step out of the cart, looking at your options before grabbing what you assume is the putter, only because it looks similar to clubs used for mini golf.

“if you don't make it the first time, that's okay.” rafe says, removing the flag from the hole. “i won't be mad.”

“mkay.” you look at the distance to the hole, no silly obstacles in the way like there was in your practice.

you give it the ball a tap, frowning with disappointment when it stops rolling only a foot away from the hole.

“that was actually so good!” rafe says, a smile on his face. “just a little more power and it would have been in for sure.”

you nod, taking a breath before lining up your next shot, letting out a scream and jump in the air as the ball falls into the hole.

“that's par, baby!” rafe wraps his arms around your waist, twirling you around.

“oh my god, we crushed that!” you cheer. 

rafe sets you down carefully, but not before pressing a kiss against your lips.

“wanna drive us to the next tee?” he asks, laughing when you enthusiastically nod. rafe drives you literally everywhere, so you haven't been behind the wheel of anything in months.

rafe retrieves the ball and places the flag back in the hole before getting into the passenger side, a smile on his face as you stick your tongue barely out between your lips in concentration. 

rafe loves the look on your face so much that he insists you drive for the rest of the holes. you're tired by the time you reach the last hole, but don't wanna disappoint rafe by not putting.

“you okay, princess?” rafe asks, running his hand over your ponytail, smoothing it down comfortingly.

“mhm.” you nod, but rafe can see that you're getting sleepy, no doubt ready to go home and take a nap.

“how about we do this putt together, yeah?” he asks.

“yes, please.” you pout out your lower lip, rafe leaning forward to capture it between his teeth, tugging it gently before releasing and kissing you.

rafe stands, moving slowly as you get yourself in position before coming behind you, wrapping his arms around your body to grip onto the stick over your hands. he controls the swing and you watch, your back pressed up against his chest, as it falls into the hole.

“perfect job, baby.” rafe says, snuggling into your shoulder, giving your neck a quick kiss before allowing you to go back to sitting on the cart. you slide over to the passenger seat as rafe returns.

he chuckles gently before driving you back towards the clubhouse, thumb gently stroking against your upper arm as you lean against him, tucked into his side.

“someone is sleepy.” rafe says.

you let out a yawn. “it's not my fault you like to golf early in the day. why can't tee time be after like noon or something?”

“i usually golf at this time because you're still asleep and i don't like to be away from you.” rafe says, parking the cart and leaving it to be put properly away by the workers, needing to get you back home and in bed.

the sun has been covered by clouds, so when you climb back into rafes truck, you take your sunglasses off and place them in the center console for next time you forget yours.

you struggle to keep your eyes open for the short drive back to tanneyhill, not wanting to fall asleep in the truck. you know rafe will drive around aimlessly to not disturb your nap, even if he's tired himself. one time he drove around for an entire night just because he said you looked so peaceful sleeping he couldn't bare to move you.

“home, darling.” rafe says, yours eyes fluttering open, not having gone fully asleep yet but the soothing driving by rafe and hum of the engine had your eyelids drooping.

rafe carries you inside and up the stairs, getting out a pair of pajamas for you to change into despite it being midday.

“how long do you expect me to nap for?” you giggle, changing quickly with the last bit of energy you have left.

you sit down on the bed, knowing you should take your ponytail out and brush through your hair, but your arms don't feel like lifting.

you don't even need to ask rafe before he's moving, carefully taking out your elastic before grabbing the brush off your vanity that he set up in his room not long after you started dating.

he brushes gently through your hair, getting out any tangles that accumulated throughout the golf trip.

you crawl up the bed as rafe changes into a pair of sweatpants, going without a shirt as he sees your eyes closing, struggling to stay awake until he's in next to you.

you snuggle instantly into his chest the second hes underneath the covers, sighing happily when you feel his warmth.

“goodnight, princess.” rafe kisses the top of your head. “i love you.”

with your last waking moment, you manage to mutter those three words back to him.

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @sourkittie @rafeyslove @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @vogueprincess @auryyz @raysmayhem-72 @thestarlithideout @marvelfanfics1recs @rafesgiirl @ditzyzombiesblog @chiaraanatra @tobiaslut @drewsephrry @1aarii1 @bejeweledreverie @winterrrnight

[erwinsvow]

oh girl jealous!reader in the kook trio is EVERYTHING i neeed more of her !! she wont be afraid to use jj as her weapon lol and when rafe confronts her shes just nonchalant too like “what do u mean? dont u have a girlfriend to worry about?”

RRRAAAAHHHH I LIVE FOR PETTY READER 🦅🦅

"why the fuck were you talkin' to that fuckin' pogue?" rafe asks, and you push your sunglasses up.

he's still in his golf clothes, clearly having stormed down from the course to find you by the outdoor tables, reading your book after having just sent jj another text.

if rafe wanted to play this game, you knew how to hit him where it hurt. you resist the urge to roll your eyes, setting down your book flat on the table next to your drink, the reason you'd even come out here.

"language, rafe. there's a toddler right over there."

"i don't fuckin' care. why the fuck were-"

"i talking to that pogue? yeah, i heard you the first time." you pick up your lemonade, taking another sip. "it's not really your business."

you look up at your best friend, as angry as you've ever seen him. you hold back a smirk since your plan worked.

"i got fuckin' top tellin' me he saw you at the beach with maybank? are you fuckin' joking?"

"top has a big mouth. he should have kept it shut."

telling topper you were sensing a spark between you and jj had been the smartest thing you'd done this entire time you'd been pursuing rafe. you knew he'd go run and tell rafe the second he saw you and the blond pogue boy walking around town together.

"kid, i swear to fuckin' god, if you go near that pogue again-"

"why do you care? don't you have your own girlfriend to worry about?" rafe looks a little dumbfounded—mission accomplished. "that's what i thought. so you worry about her, and i'll worry about jayj, okay? nice talking, rafe. see you on the course."

you take your book and walk away, leaving rafe standing behind you. your phone buzzes with a text from jj.

jayj: u free tonight?

you text back yes before you can think twice about it.

[seulgisqt]

𝐏𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 — alexia putellas

alexia putellas x golfer!fem!reader

(a/n: had this in the drafts for months whilst uni was taking me out, inspired by literally watching one tournament and I thought of football?? well yes!)

word count: 1559

genre: fluff

summary: their meet-cute begins with a missed golf rule and ends with exchanged numbers and quiet smiles

Alexia wasn’t entirely sure why she said yes.

Well, she knew why. It was for charity. Something about raising awareness for girls’ sports and increasing visibility for women athletes. She was all for it. But as she stood on the edge of the green in all-black casuals, looking vaguely lost with a cold water bottle clutched between both hands, she couldn’t help but think: This isn’t my turf.

She didn’t even like golf.

The silence was unnerving. No roaring crowds. No studs on the grass. Just polite claps, murmurs, and the distant mechanical hum of cameras and golf carts.

Here, your concentration was unwavering.

The sun blazed high in the azure sky above the Marbella golf course, its golden rays bathing the immaculately trimmed fairways in a warm, inviting glow. Despite the heat radiating from the ground, you felt a cool, calmness enveloping you. Your gaze was locked on the bright white dimpled ball nestled in the emerald grass, and your feet planted firmly on the lush turf, a sense of stability grounding you. With each measured breath, you felt the rhythm of the game pulsing through you.

Then came the moment: you executed a flawless swing. The club connected with the ball with a resounding crack, a sound that echoed in the stillness of the course. The ball rocketed off the tee, soaring high into the sky before gliding straight down the fairway, drawing appreciative applause from the onlookers who had gathered to witness your skill.

It was your third tournament win this season. You were on top of your game, and nothing distracted you—not the pressure, not the cameras, not even the occasional celebrity faces appearing along the ropes to watch. 

But today…there was a distraction. Or rather, someone unexpected.

You spotted her near the 12th green. She was impossible to miss, not because she was a household name—though she certainly was—but rather because of the air of uncertainty about her. Clad in a stylish outfit that seemed almost too casual for the prestigious surroundings, she wore oversized sunglasses that suggested she preferred to blend into the crowd. Yet, no amount of disguise could mask her presence. 

It was the way she carried herself that caught your attention. She appeared somewhat lost, her posture a bit too rigid, like a traveller navigating an unfamiliar landscape, searching for a place to belong. 

Alexia Putellas. 

The captain of FC Barcelona Femení. A revered icon of the national team. She was nothing short of football royalty, yet here she was, mingling among the spectators as just another guest of one of the tournament’s sponsors.

As you glanced in her direction, your eyes met for a fleeting moment—a mere accident—and in that instant, she quickly diverted her gaze, a hint of embarrassment flickering across her face, as if she had been caught in a private moment she wasn't meant to share.

That small interaction brought a smile to your lips.

After the exhilarating round of play, with the excitement of interviews and the celebratory flash of trophy photos still fresh in your mind, you strolled back towards the players’ lounge. The atmosphere was alive with chatter and laughter, yet you weren’t expecting to cross paths with her again. As you rounded the corner near the refreshments table—the scent of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air—there she was. 

She stood there, seemingly lost in her own world, a tiny paper cup of steaming espresso cradled delicately in her hands. The rich aroma of the coffee curled around her, but her focus was solely on the glowing screen of her phone, her brow slightly furrowed as if seeking an escape route from the thrumming energy of the crowd. The soft glow illuminated her features, highlighting her intensity and the cascade of hair that framed her face. In that charged moment, the bustling lounge faded away, leaving just the two of you in a bubble of possibility, igniting a surge of anticipation within you.

“You look like someone who just googled ‘golf rules for beginners,’” you remarked, noticing her slightly bewildered expression as she studied the course.

Alexia was taken aback for a moment but then a slow smile crept across her face, illuminating her features. “Guilty as charged. I didn’t realise it would be this tranquil out here.”

“There’s not much in the way of crowd noise where we play,” you replied, leaning casually against the edge of a wooden table, which looked like it had seen many rounds of golf discussions. “We’re more about suffering in silence.”

She chuckled softly, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “You were amazing, by the way. That last putt you made, was absolutely ice cold.”

You smiled, a little proud of the compliment. “Thanks. You’re not too shabby either, judging from what I’ve seen on the field.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow and smirked playfully. “So, you’ve been watching me play, huh?”

“More than once,” you admitted with a wink. “I’m a fan of Barça.”

As the realisation hit her, a faint blush crept onto her cheeks, contrasting beautifully with her sun-kissed skin. “Oh, I’m sorry! I should’ve introduced myself properly. I’m Alexia.”

“I know, I’m—” you replied, a smile growing on your lips.

“I know who you are. It’s just…” Her grin turned a touch sheepish, and she bit her lip in a lighthearted way. “I might’ve caught a few highlights last night, trying to wrap my head around what I was getting into today.”

Her admission caught you off guard, prompting a genuine laugh. “And? Did that help at all?”

“Not really. I still can’t wrap my head around why there are five distinct types of clubs,” she said, a hint of confusion in her voice.

“Well, I could certainly break it down for you,” you replied, a playful glint in your eye. “But I can't promise that my explanation will be the most thrilling of narratives.”

“Lay it on me,” she challenged, her curiosity piqued.

You found yourself comfortably settled on a rustic wooden bench, positioned on the sun-drenched patio just outside the lounge. The gentle warmth of the breeze playfully caressed your hair, momentarily distracting you as you endeavoured to articulate the nuances of golf's various clubs—hybrids, irons, woods, wedges, and putters—with the precision of an athlete and just the right sprinkling of metaphors to elicit laughter from her. She leaned in, her eyes sparkling with curiosity, hanging on your every word. Occasionally, she would interject with thought-provoking questions that compelled you to reconsider the familiar concepts you had long taken for granted.

It was oddly refreshing.

Eventually, your conversation meandered, slipping away from golf and into everything else. Favourite training meals. Worst weather you’ve ever played in. Alexia’s obsession with peanut butter and oat bowls. Your childhood fear of putting in front of strangers. Her tendency to watch motivational videos at 3am before matches. Your inability to sleep before big tournaments.

Then, in a moment of playful teasing, she nudged you gently with her shoulder and asked, “Does this happen every time you win? You charm footballers with golf analogies?”

You raised an inquisitive eyebrow, a grin creeping onto your face. “Only the ones who seem ready to bolt after we reach the fifth hole.” 

“Well, lucky for me, I hung around,” she smiled, brimming with warmth. Before you realised it, the words tumbled out unguarded: “Me too.”

There was a quiet beat between you then. Comfortable. Curious.

Alexia tilted her head. “Hey, can I ask something kind of weird?”

“Sure.”

“What do golfers do when they’re not competing? I mean, are you always training?”

You thought about it. “Not always. Sometimes we try not to be golfers at all. Go for walks. Cook. Watch sports we don’t understand.”

“Football?” she teased.

“Exactly.”

Her grin widened, revealing a hint of excitement. “Well, if you ever want an insider's tour of Camp Nou, count me in. I promise to provide excellent commentary.” 

“Is that so?” you asked, feigning seriousness.

“Oh yes,” the Spaniard asserted with a mock gravitas. “You’ll get the full experience—very professional. Expect plenty of jokes and absolutely zero accuracy in what I say!”

“I’d like that,” you replied, a chuckle escaping your lips.

“Good,” she said, her voice dropping to a soft, inviting tone that wrapped around you like a warm embrace. “Because I’d love to see you again. Away from the golf course. Somewhere with a bit more energy, maybe.”

You feigned deep contemplation, smiling mischievously. “Hmm, but what if my only skill is being effortlessly cool and graceful out on the green?”

“Oh, you can manage to be awkward too,” she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I promise, I’ll still like you all the same.”

The following morning brought a delightful surprise—a text from her featuring a whimsical picture of a shiny golf ball perched inside a steaming cup of coffee, with the caption: I think I’ve finally figured out what a hole-in-one means.

A broad smile spread across your face as you gazed at the screen, your fingers quickly flying over the keyboard to reply: Keep that up, and I might just consider letting you caddy for me on my next game.

And in that lighthearted exchange, something quietly significant flickered to life between you—perhaps it was unexpected, but it felt precisely right, as if it had fallen into place just when it was meant to.

[ibuprofein]

rich country club!connie x spoiled!reader

tags: golf level pettiness, designer sunglasses & lemon drops, reader is a trust fund baby, husband-era Connie.

↳ 𝑰𝑰

You’re lounging in the plush cream leather seat of Connie’s custom gold-trimmed golf cart, one long leg stretched out and the other crossed delicately over your thigh. Your lemon drop martini sweats slightly in the afternoon sun, condensation slicking the glass as you swirl it lazily. The slice of sugared lemon clinks against the rim as you take a sip, the tart sweetness tickling your tongue.

Out on the green, Connie’s in rare form—fitted navy polo hugging his chest, designer belt cinched perfectly, those tailored golf pants doing things that should be illegal in this kind of daylight. His swing is clean, practiced, effortless. He grins as the ball sails across the fairway, his boys hyping him up like it’s the Masters.

“Atta boy, Connie!” Jean calls, raising a beer can from the next hole over. “Flex on us again why don’t you.”

Connie just winks, tongue in his cheek, before turning slightly to glance back at you. He adjusts his cap—custom embroidered with his initials, of course—and gives you a smirk that says ‘I see you, baby’.

You blow him a kiss behind the rim of your martini glass, your diamond tennis bracelet catching the sun just right. You know the cart girls saw it—hell, that was the point. They’ve been circling like golf-course vultures all afternoon, all batting lashes and bending over a little too far to hand Jean or Reiner a Gatorade.

But not Connie.

No, your man hasn’t looked at a single one of them. Not when he’s got you in the passenger seat with your glossy lips, your fresh set, and your platinum card he pays off every month just because he can.

“Is that the same girl from last weekend?” you whisper to Sasha, who’s parked beside you in Reiner’s cart. “The one with the fake baby voice?”

Sasha leans closer, snorting into her mimosa. “That’s her. ‘Y’all want ice-cold bevvies?’” she mocks in a sickly-sweet drawl. “Like girl, no one’s buying it.”

You both laugh loud enough for her to hear, not that you care. You sip your drink prettily, adjusting your oversized Dior sunglasses as you lean back and let the sunlight soak into your skin.

Connie walks past with his club over his shoulder, his eyes dipping to the hem of your little white skirt.

“Keep lookin’ at me like that,” you purr just loud enough for him to hear, “and we’re not making it to dinner.”

He grins like a devil, mouth curling wickedly. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

Behind you, the cart girl fumbles a bottle of water.

You take another sip of your martini. Life is good.

[drewskitten]

⋆｡˚୨ golf day ୧˚｡⋆.

The thing about golfing with Drew is - well he’s hot, he knows it, and he absolutely uses it against you.

You’re not even halfway through the first hole, and he’s already tossing smirks your way like he’s teeing them up. “You know,” he says, gripping the club with those stupidly large hands of his, “there’s something kinda sexy about a girl in a golf skirt.”

You arch a brow, sunglasses perched halfway down your nose. “You say that like you’re not trying to distract me so I shank my shot.”

He laughs, stepping back so you can line up your swing. “Distract you? Never. I’m just appreciating the view.”

“Of the green?”

“Of you, baby.”

You roll your eyes but you can’t hide the grin. The man has a way of charming you even when you’re trying to focus on not slicing the ball into a sand trap.

Golf wasn’t your thing. Not really. But dating Drew means saying yes to new things - golf included. Especially when he shows up in a fitted ralph lauren polo, aviators, and that backwards cap that shouldn’t be legal on a man that fine.

“You know, this was supposed to be a relaxing day,” you say, planting your feet and exhaling slowly.

“Then why’d you bring me?”

You swing. The ball connects clean - low and fast. It hits the fairway with a satisfying thud and rolls like it knows exactly what it’s doing.

Drew whistles. “Damn. Okay, Tigerette.”

You glance over your shoulder. “Still think I’m a distraction?”

“I think you’re insane.”

He steps up for his shot. You cross your arms, watching the muscles shift in his back as he lines it up. His swing is clean, practiced, way too pretty for someone who claims he ‘only plays on weekends.’ The ball soars.

You whistle. “Okay, showoff.”

He winks. “Let me teach you something.”

“Oh, this should be good.”

Drew drops his club and comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, palms firm but slow. “Grip’s all wrong,” he murmurs in your ear, low and lazy.

“I just hit a perfect shot.”

“Yeah, but imagine what you could do if I had my hands all over you the whole time.”

Your breath catches. You shift slightly, but he just tightens his hold. “You always this helpful?”

“Only when there’s potential for reward.”

You turn in his arms, facing him. “What kind of reward are we talking?”

He leans in, brushing his lips just shy of yours. “You. Backseat. Clubhouse parking lot.”

You grin. “So not subtle.”

“Not trying to be.”

　𓃹

By hole six, you’ve stopped pretending this is about golf as you lean against the cart, sipping your water, watching Drew stretch like he’s auditioning for a calendar.

“You do know I’m not actually here for the golf, right?” you ask.

“Oh, I know,” he says, barely glancing back. “You’re here for the fantasy.”

“What fantasy?”

“Hot guy. Empty golf course. Lots of grass to roll around on. Very high school musical.”

You snort. “Oh, so humble, Mr. Starkey.”

He tosses you a wink. “Come on. Next hole. You can ride with me.”

He drives like a menace - one hand on the wheel, the other on your thigh, thumb brushing back and forth, making plans.

“Hands on the wheel, Starkey.”

“Hands on you, more like.”

The cart skids slightly, causing you to yelp, to which he grins brightly.

You reach over and kill the ignition. “Pull over.”

He does.

“You got something to say?” he asks, leaning back, one brow lifted.

You climb into his lap the same way you’ve done a hundred times. “Not say. Show.”

And then you kiss him - deep, messy, unforgiving. making him groan into your mouth, hands gripping your hips as you roll them just enough to tease.

���You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

“You started it.”

He nips your bottom lip. “Wanna finish it?”

Your hips roll again..he groans. “Backseat. Now.”

　𓃹

The back of the cart isn’t made for this kind of activity, but you two make it work. His polo’s half off within seconds, while yours is bunched around your ribs.

“You always wear this little skirt to play dirty?” he breathes into your neck.

“Only for you.”

Clothes are scattered over the grass. Fingers sliding up and down and all over. Moans echoing across the open field.

“Fuck,” he groans as you sink down on him, your hands braced on his chest.

“You feel so good,” you pant, rolling your hips, chasing that high.

“Ride me, baby. Just like that, my pretty girl.” He purrs out, arms tight around you, head tucked into your shoulder.

　𓃹

After the fourth or fifth climax, you both lie there, breathing hard and naked, and the sun begins to set. “So,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face, “best golf date ever?”

You smile. “Might be better than sex on a yacht.”

He grins. “Might?”

You kiss him again. “Let’s do hole seven. See if you can top it.”

He laughs. “Challenge accepted.”

[meadowfics]

yield signs

jeon-jae-jun x f!mother!reader

the second part to my mini-series linked here

warnings: angst

it’s been a month since seo-yeon’s fifteenth birthday, and the black car still sits in your driveway like a scar that won’t fade.

you’ve let her drive it, against every instinct screaming in your gut, because her joy was too bright to snuff out. however every time you see it, your blood spikes, a reminder of jae-jun’s audacity, his kiss, his threat of being a family.

you’ve spent the last month on edge, waiting for his next move, but he’s been quiet...too quiet, like a predator biding its time.

you should’ve known better than to think he’d back off.

meanwhile, seo-yeon is out with her friends, oblivious to the storm brewing.

it’s a crisp saturday, the kind of day where the air smells of cut grass and ambition.

she’s at a golf course with ji-ah, emma, and soobin, a treat courtesy of ji-ah’s father, who’s got a membership at CC Golf Resorts.

the name alone would’ve stopped your heart if you’d known, but seo-yeon doesn’t think twice about it or even think to tell you.

to her, it’s just a fancy place to mess around with her friends, swinging clubs they barely know how to hold, laughing too loud, and sneaking sips of overpriced iced tea from the clubhouse.

the golf course sprawls under the late morning sun, its fairways a vivid green, dotted with players in crisp polos and visors.

seo-yeon, in her blue tennis skirt and a loose matching colored t-shirt, feels out of place but doesn’t care.

she’s with her girls, and that’s enough.

ji-ah’s showing off, trying to hit a ball and missing spectacularly, while emma films it, cackling.

soo-bin’s sprawled on the grass, scrolling her phone, shouting commentary.

“ji-ah, you’re gonna take out a fucking squirrel with that swing!”

seo-yeon grins, her club resting on her shoulder.

“you’re all talk, ji-ah. let me show you how it’s done.”

she steps up, squinting at the ball, mimicking the pros she’s seen on tv. the fifteen year old's swing’s clumsy, but the ball sails a decent distance, and her friends cheer like she’s won a tournament. s

he’s laughing, carefree, her ponytail bouncing as she spins to high-five emma.

that’s when jae-jun sees her.

he’s across the fairway, inspecting the grounds with a manager, his sunglasses glinting as he scans the course.

he’s in his element here, the king of CC Golf Resorts, every inch the polished mogul.

however, his eyes lock on his daughter, and his world narrows.

she’s unmistakable....your features softened in her face, but with his jawline, his intensity in her laugh. he’d know her anywhere, even without hye-jeong’s whispers or the photos he’s paid to see.

this is his daughter, his blood.

he watches her for a moment, his expression unreadable, then murmurs something to the manager and strides toward her group.

the girls don’t notice him at first, too caught up in their game. he approaches with that easy confidence, his tailored jacket open, his smile disarming.

“having fun, ladies?” he calls, his voice smooth, carrying just enough charm to make them turn.

ji-ah straightens, brushing her hair back, already half-charmed at the owner of the golf course speaking to them.

“uh, yeah! this place is amazing.”

“glad you think so,” jae-jun says, his eyes sliding to seo-yeon.

“i’m jeon jae-jun, the owner. saw you all out here and thought i’d make sure you’re taken care of. drinks, snacks, whatever you need—it’s on the house.”

the girls gasp, exchanging looks. emma’s eyes widen.

“seriously? like, everything?”

“everything,” jae-jun says, his smile widening, but his gaze stays on seo-yeon.

she’s quieter than the others, her smile hesitant, like she senses something off but can’t place it.

“consider it a perk of playing at my course.”

“that’s so cool!” soo-bin says, already dreaming of milkshakes.

“thank you, mister… uh, jeon?”

“just jae-jun,” he says, waving a hand.

“enjoy yourselves. i’ll make sure the staff knows.”

the girls thank him profusely, chattering as he walks away, but seo-yeon’s smile fades.

there’s something about him...his voice, maybe, or the way he looked at her, like he knew her.

she shakes it off, focusing on her friends, but the unease lingers.

they spend the day golfing or trying to while laughing through missed shots and sneaking into the clubhouse for free smoothies, courtesy of jae-jun’s promise.

it feels like a dream, like they’ve stumbled into some rich person’s fantasy.

at the end of the day, when they head to the counter to settle up for their rentals and snacks, the cashier waves them off.

“no charge for you,” she says, nodding toward seo-yeon.

“mr. jeon took care of it.”

ji-ah frowns, confused.

“wait, all of us?”

the cashier hesitates, checking her screen.

“no, just… seo-yeon, right? your bill’s covered.”

the girls freeze, turning to seo-yeon, whose mouth opens, then closes.

“me? why just me?”

the cashier shrugs, uncomfortable.

“he didn’t say. just said to cover seo-yeon’s expenses.”

min-ji nudges her, grinning.

“what, you got a sugar daddy we don’t know about?”

seo-yeon forces a laugh, but her stomach twists. she’s thinking about the car, the mysterious birthday gift, the way you’ve been on edge for weeks.

“that’s… weird,” she mutters, “i’m gonna ask him.”

before her friends can stop her, she’s striding toward jae-jun, who’s lingering near the clubhouse entrance, talking to a staff member.

he sees her coming and dismisses the employee, his smile returning as she approaches.

“seo-yeon,” he says, like he’s been waiting for this.

“enjoying the course?”

“yeah, it’s great,” she says, her tone guarded.

“but why’d you pay for me? just me, not my friends?”

jae-jun's smile doesn’t waver, but his eyes sharpen, like he’s been waiting for this opening.

he steps closer, lowering his voice so her friends, lingering a few feet away, can’t hear.

“because,” he says, soft but deliberate,

“isn’t that what dads are for?”

the world stops. seo-yeon’s breath catches, her eyes widening as she stares at him.

“what?” she whispers, her voice barely audible as her hands subconsciously clench into fists, “what did you say?”

jae-jun tilts his head, his expression a mix of smugness and something softer, almost wistful.

“you heard me. seo-yeon, i’m your father and why would I make my daughter pay for anything?”

seo-yeon's mind reels, the words crashing into everything she’s ever known. the girl's father...a vague shadow, a story of absence, someone who left, someone who didn’t want her.

dead, maybe, or gone, far away.

not here, not this man in his fancy jacket, standing in front of her with a smile that feels like a trap.

“you’re… lying,” she says, her voice shaking.

“my dad’s… he’s not here. he’s never been here.”

“ask your mom,” jae-jun says, his tone gentle but laced with venom.

“she’s been keeping me from you. but i’m here now, seo-yeon. i’ve always been closer than you think and your mom never liked that.”

seo-yeon's heart pounds, her thoughts a chaotic swirl.

“the car,” she says suddenly, the pieces clicking.

“that was you? the birthday gift?”

he nods, his smile widening.

“liked it, didn’t you? i saw you driving it here. looks good on you, you looked like a jeon.”

she shakes her head, stepping back.

“mom lets me drive it, but… she hates it. she’s been weird about it, like she’s scared. why didn’t she tell me? why didn’t she say it was you?”

jae-jun’s expression darkens, a flicker of anger breaking through.

“because y/n likes to pretend i don’t exist,” he says, his voice low, bitter.

“she’s kept you from me for fifteen years, seo-yeon. think about that. she didn’t want you to know your own father.”

seo-yeon’s chest tightens, tears pricking her eyes.

“that’s not true,” she says, but her voice wavers.

“she wouldn’t… she wouldn’t do that.”

“wouldn’t she?” jae-jun says, stepping closer, his voice almost tender now.

“i’ve been watching you, seo-yeon. you’re smart, strong, just like me. i want to know you. i want to be there for you. all you have to do is let me.”

she’s frozen, her friends’ voices fading into the background, the golf course blurring around her. she wants to run, to scream, to call you, but her feet won’t move.

“i… i have to go,” she says finally, turning away, her heart pounding so hard she can barely breathe.

“think about it,” jae-jun calls after her, his voice carrying a promise she doesn’t want to hear.

“i’m not going anywhere if you need a father.”

she doesn’t look back, grabbing her friends and hurrying to ji-ah’s dad’s car instead of her own, her mind a storm of betrayal and confusion.

the drive home is a blur, her friends’ chatter barely registering.

all she can think about is you, her mom, the one constant in her life, and the secret you’ve kept.

why didn’t you tell her? why did you let her believe her father was gone?

when she gets home, the house is quiet, the kitchen still smelling faintly of last night’s dinner.

she drops her bag on the floor and sinks onto the couch, her knees pulled to her chest, her mind replaying jae-jun’s words over and over.

your father. she’s kept you from me.

she’s angry, heartbroken, her trust in you fracturing with every second she waits.

you get home late, the dental office keeping you longer than usual.

your keys jangle as you step through the door, your coat still on, your mind on the paperwork you left behind.

“seo-yeon?” you call, kicking off your shoes.

“i’m home.”

she doesn’t answer, but you hear her shift in the living room.

you walk in, expecting her usual smile, her chatter about her day, but instead, you find her curled on the couch, her face hard, her eyes red. your heart drops, a cold weight settling in your chest.

“sweetie, what’s wrong?”

you ask, dropping your bag and moving toward her.

she looks up, and the anger in her eyes stops you cold.

“why didn’t you tell me?” she says, her voice low, trembling with hurt.

“about my dad. about jae-jun.”

your blood turns to ice, your knees nearly buckling.

“what?” you whisper, though you already know.

he’s done it.

he’s gotten to her.

“he was at the golf course today,” she says, her voice rising, tears spilling over.

“CC Golf Resorts. he’s the owner, mom! he said he’s my dad, that he got me the car, that you’ve been hiding him from me for fifteen fucking years! is it true?”

you sink onto the couch across from her, your hands shaking as you try to find words. your daughter has never sworn, at last in front of you.

she is pissed.

“seo-yeon,” you start, your voice hoarse, “it’s not… it’s not that simple.”

“not that simple?” she snaps, standing now, her fists clenched.

“he said he’s my father! he said you kept him away, that you didn’t want me to know him! why, mom? why would you lie to me?”

“i didn’t lie,” you say, but it sounds weak, even to you.

“i… i protected you. he’s not a good man, seo-yeon. he’s dangerous. he hurt me, back then, when i was your age. i couldn’t let him near you.”

“hurt you?” she says, her voice breaking.

“what does that even mean? you never told me anything! you let me think he was dead or gone, and now he’s here, and he’s… he’s nice, mom! he paid for my stuff, he wants to know me! why didn’t you give him a chance?”

you stand, desperation clawing at you.

“because he doesn’t deserve one!” you shout, louder than you mean to.

“jae-jun isn’t nice or a fatherly figure by any means, seo-yeon. he’s manipulative, he’s cruel. he’s using you to get to me, to control us. that car? it’s not a gift, it’s a chain. he’s trying to buy you, don’t you see that?”

she shakes her head, tears streaming down her face.

“you don’t get to decide that for me! i’m not a kid anymore, mom! i deserve to know who my dad is, to hear his side. you kept this from me, and now i don’t even know who to trust!”

seo-yeon's words cut deeper than anything jae-jun could ever do.

you reach for her, but she steps back, her eyes burning with betrayal.

“seo-yeon, please,” you say, your voice cracking.

“i was trying to keep you safe. i thought… i thought i could keep him away forever.”

“well, you didn’t,” she says, her voice cold now, like a door slamming shut.

“he’s here, and he’s not going away and i’m not sure i want him to.”

she turns, grabbing her phone and storming toward her room upstairs, leaving you standing in the living room, your heart shattered.

the weight of her words, her anger, presses down on you, but worse is the knowledge that jae-jun’s won this round.

he’s in her head now, his poison seeping into the life you’ve fought to protect.

truth is a weapon, and he’s just drawn blood.

the next morning the café hums with soft chatter and the clink of cups, but you’re adrift, staring at the iced coffee in front of you.

condensation beads on the glass, dripping onto the wooden table, pooling in a small, neglected ring. your fingers trace the edge of the coaster, but your mind is elsewhere, replaying last night’s fight with seo-yeon.

your daughter's anger, her tears, her accusation.

you lied to her, kept her father from her. she’s at school now, probably still fuming, and you can’t blame her. she’s fifteen, old enough to feel betrayed, old enough to demand answers you’ve buried under years of shame.

how could you tell her the truth? that jae-jun, her father, was a monster who manipulated you in high school, who used you for sex until you were left with a pregnancy you couldn’t escape.

the shame is yours to carry, not hers.

you’d rather she hate you than know the ugliness of how she came to be.

you’re so lost in thought you barely notice the figure approaching your table.

a shadow falls over you, and you look up, blinking.

a woman stands there, her features soft but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk.

her long black coat brushes her calves, her raven hair cut just above her shoulders, framing a face that stirs a distant memory.

you manage a soft “hi,” your voice hoarse from disuse, and add, “do you need something?”

“y/n,” she says, her voice low, steady, like she’s been holding your name for years.

you freeze, your heart stuttering. the café noise fades as your mind scrambles to place her. those eyes, that quiet intensity... it hits you like a wave.

“dong-eun?” you whisper, disbelief cracking your voice. moon dong-eun, the girl from high school, the one who endured worse from jae-jun than you, who vanished after graduation like a ghost.

“oh my god, i’m sorry, please—” you gesture to the seat across from you, your hands trembling, “sit, please.”

she nods, sliding into the chair with a grace that feels deliberate, like every move is part of a larger plan.

you study her, noting the changes time has carved into her face.

she’s still beautiful, but there’s a hardness now, a resolve that wasn’t there before.

dong-eun's dark eyes hold yours, and you feel exposed, like she sees every scar jae-jun left on you, every secret you’ve kept from seo-yeon.

“it’s been a long time,” you say, trying to fill the silence, your fingers fidgeting with the straw in your coffee.

“i… i didn’t know you were still in seoul.”

“i’ve been around,” dong-eun says, her voice measured.

“keeping tabs on certain people.”

your stomach twists. you know who she means before she says their names.

“jae-jun,” you murmur, the name bitter on your tongue, “and… yeon-jin?”

dong-eun's lips press into a thin line, a flicker of something...anger, maybe, or pain...crossing her face.

“yes. them, and others. they haven’t changed, y/n. they’re still destroying lives and moving along happily.”

you swallow, the weight of her words settling over you.

“i know,” you say softly.

“jae-jun… he’s back in mine. he found out about seo-yeon, my-- our daughter. he’s trying to—” you break off, your voice cracking.

“he’s trying to take her from me, to play father after all these years. i don’t know how to stop him.”

dong-eun leans forward, her eyes narrowing.

“that’s why i’m here,” she says.

“i need you, y/n. i’ve been planning something for a long time, a way to make them pay for everything they’ve done. jae-jun, yeon-jin, all of them....you can help me.”

your breath catches, a mix of fear and curiosity stirring in your chest.

“help you? how? i’m just… i’m a dentist, dong-eun. i’m not… i’m not like you who can pull strings”

she doesn’t flinch, her gaze unwavering.

“you’re stronger than you think. you survived jae-jun. you raised seo-yeon alone. that’s not nothing. and you have something i need—access to him, a reason for him to trust you, or at least let his guard down.”

you shake your head, your mind reeling.

“trust me? he doesn’t trust me. he’s threatening to take me to court, to get custody of seo-yeon. he’s… he’s dangerous, dong-eun. you know that.”

“i do,” she says, her voice softening, but only slightly.

“but he’s also careless. arrogant. he thinks he’s untouchable, and that’s his weakness. i’ve been watching him, y/n. i know things you don’t. things that can hurt him.”

you lean back, your hands gripping the edge of the table.

“like what?”

she pauses, as if weighing how much to reveal, then leans closer, her voice dropping to a whisper.

“your daughter seo-yeon has a half-sister. yeon-jin’s daughter, ya-sol. everyone thinks she’s her husband’s, but she’s jae-jun’s. he just found out about it this morning, so expect him to be distracted for a little while.”

the words hit like a punch, stealing your breath. you stare at her, your mind scrambling to process.

“ya-sol? the little girl I see with do-yeong? she’s… she’s jae-jun’s?” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

“how… how do you know?”

“i’ve made it my business to know,” dong-eun says, her tone clipped.

“yeon-jin’s been lying to everyone, including jae-jun. he did not know that ya-sol’s was his until now. i have proof that can unravel their lives. if we play this right, and you help me, we can use it to destroy them both.”

your head spins, the café tilting around you. seo-yeon has a sister. a four-year-old sister, tied to jae-jun, to yeon-jin, the woman who laughed while you suffered in high school, who stood by as jae-jun manipulated you.

the thought of your daughter connected to that world, to their cruelty, makes your stomach churn.

“why tell me this?” you ask, your voice shaking, “why now?”

“because you’re in this whether you want to be or not,” dong-eun says, her eyes piercing.

“jae-jun’s already in seo-yeon’s life. he won’t stop until he gets what he wants...control, power, maybe even you. if you help me, i can make sure he never bothers seo-yeon again. i can make sure they all pay.”

you swallow, your throat dry.

“what do you need me to do?”

she studies you, as if testing your resolve.

“for now, get close to him. let him think he’s winning. he’s already trying to pull you back in, isn’t he? that kiss in the store....he still wants you, or at least the idea of you. use that. keep him distracted, keep him talking. i’ll handle the rest.”

your skin crawls at the memory of his lips on yours, the way you faltered, the shame of it. “

"i can’t… i can’t play that game with him,” you say, your voice breaking.

“he’s too good at it. he’ll see through me.”

“he won’t,” dong-eun says, her voice firm.

“because you’re not the girl he used to control. you’re a mother, y/n. you’re fighting for seo-yeon. that’s stronger than anything he can throw at you.”

you look down at your coffee, the ice melted now, the glass slick with water.

dong-eun's words stir something in you...anger, yes, but also a flicker of resolve.

you’ve spent fifteen years protecting seo-yeon, building a life out of the wreckage jae-jun left. you’ve faced him once, screamed at him in his store, and walked away.

maybe you can do this.

maybe you can be part of dong-eun’s plan, not for revenge, but for freedom.

“what’s the endgame?” you ask, meeting her gaze.

“what happens when you take them down?”

dong-eun’s expression doesn’t change, but there’s a glint in her eyes, a promise of something final.

“they lose everything they've ever dreamed of,” she says, “their money, their power, their lies. jae-jun will never touch seo-yeon again. yeon-jin will never hurt anyone again. however, i need you to trust me, y/n. can you do that?”

you hesitate, your mind flashing to seo-yeon, her anger last night, her confusion. you think of jae-jun’s smirk, his hands on your coat, his claim to your daughter.

you think of yeon-jin, her laughter echoing from high school, and ya-sol, a child caught in their web just like seo-yeon.

you don’t know if you can trust dong-eun, not fully, but you know you can’t keep running from jae-jun alone.

“i’ll try,” you say finally, your voice steady despite the fear clawing at you.

“for seo-yeon.”

dong-eun nods, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips.

“that’s enough for now,” she says, standing, her coat swishing as she prepares to leave.

“i’ll be in touch. don’t confront him yet. let him think he’s in control.”

you watch her go, her figure blending into the café’s crowd, and the weight of her words settles over you.

seo-yeon has a sister.

jae-jun has another daughter, another life you didn’t know about.

dong-eun, the quiet girl from high school, is now a force, a planner, pulling you into a game you never wanted to play.

as you sit there, your coffee forgotten, you realize this conversation has changed everything.

the third part

[moonlit-imagines]

Headcanons for dating Johnny Lawrence

Johnny Lawrence x reader

warnings: towards the end theres degenerate!johnny mentions (the WORST most funny way to put it but him being an alcoholic and such) (that is NOT funny dont be an alcoholic)

a/n: i been looking at young william zabka edits for an hour brain go brrr. also yes i already have hcs for this so these are NOT part 2 they are a different au after the all valley 🙏. this has been the MOST INSPIRING fic i have written in months im literally in love with him

prompt:

after the all-valley and cobra kai, johnny felt like he’d lost everything

then he found you

you had just barely known each other, growing up in the same vicinity but never really saying a word to each other

until one day at encino oaks, johnny spotted you sunbathing on an unusually warm day and took a chance

“y/n, right?” -johnny, sitting on the pool chair next to you

“that’s right” -you, tilting your sunglasses down

“i’m johnny. we, uh, we go to west valley together”

“yeah, i’ve heard of you” -you

his stomach sank (he’s got a bad track record)

“yeah, that’s unfortunate.” -johnny, getting up to leave and pausing “would you be interested in jumping in the pool with me?”

you stared at him for a few seconds (cuz you could tell he wasn’t too confident) and got up, actually jumping in the pool in a full cannonball

his spirits were lifted and he jumped in right after you

“that was awesome!” -johnny

you two swam around splashing and annoying the older club members, but it was no matter

you ended up sitting on the pool ledge talking and getting to know each other

“oh, no, i don’t really keep up with local karate tournaments. i hadn’t heard” -you

“that’s perfect for me, then” -johnny

you gave him your number and said you’d see him at school monday

and that you did

“is that him? he’s cute! maybe he’ll start driving you to school. or you could get your license” -your mom, dropping you off

“mom!” -you “he does seem pretty sweet. i think he found me at the perfect time, too. got knocked down a peg or two from some karate tournament”

he brought you a little box of chocolates to give to you before class THAT VERY MONDAY (he was moving fast)

he was also very desperate for a prom date for senior prom but that was beside the point

you played a little hard to get

but johnny finally found a reason to fight again and he wanted to fight for you

“could i take you on a date this weekend? do you prefer something fancy like a nice restaurant or casual like golf n stuff or romantic like the beach?” -johnny

“why dont you just plan it and i’ll be ready. just tell me what i should wear” -you, kissing him on the cheek

he always felt so cool and confident but you had him flustered and about to buckle at the knees

he decided to keep it casual for now because you seemed so “go with the flow” and there were so many things to do, so many distractions to keep him from doing something stupid

and of course he picked you up because you still didn’t have your license yes

“come on, i’ll teach you how to drive” -johnny

“noooo thank you, i am not driving your car” -you

you drove it one block and he understood why you didn’t have your license

johnny paid for all your tokens and you guys had a blast competing in games and ended up with a pretty decent pile of tickets

“ooh, competitive!” -you

“i have no idea what you’re talking about” -johnny

daniel was actually at golf n stuff that night with ali but johnny didn’t even care he was so infatuated with you

he bought you some nachos for a snack, which he snuck a few bites in shamelessly

you still haven’t kissed at this point but he was waiting for the perfect moment

you made sure to touch his arms and keep close and flirt, sending all the right signals

he seemed like such a go-getter, you were getting impatient

and finally, he took you to the ferris wheel and made it all cliche and special wrapping his arm around your shoulders and waiting until you two were at the top of the wheel to place a hand on your cheek and kiss you gently

(gentle went away fast you had been waiting for this for a whole WEEK and thats a lifetime for a teenager)

he was giddy for the rest of the night and all he’d gotten was a quick makeout session

he ended up pooling all your tickets together for a stuffed animal of your choice

it couldn’t have been a better first date honestly

and soon enough he was driving you to school, walking you to class, bringing you little gifts, getting you into trouble, listening to music with you, sneaking out with you, just doing everything with and for you

and the promposal was very cute classic (a sign and some flowers, he wasn’t all too creative)

and when prom came around, you two stood out! you both looked stunning and styling, everyoneeee was jealous

“johnny looks happy” -daniel

“poor y/n’s just gonna get their heart broken” -ali

prom court?? no actually lol but keep dreaming

“you’re the prom [king/queen] in my heart” -johnny

“if you hand me a plastic crown im gonna hit you” -you

johnny took it out anyway and you both started cackling bc it was so silly

he just wanted you to feel special (you had no part in prom court at all actually there was no disappointment he was just being a punk)

“sooo, prom night..?” -johnny

“what about it” -you

“oh, nothing…”

“just drive, punk. my parents aren’t home”

a miracle he didn’t get a speeding ticket

soon enough you two had graduated and gone off to college together

although johnny had a hard time focusing on what really mattered

you two definitely partied together and he was always so protective and caring, making sure no one made a pass at you or made you uncomfortable (and if they did he’d try to fight them and you’d drag him away)

some of those nights were memorable, but he started slipping and you kept trying to keep him on the right path

he had a few wakeup calls

and proposed to you

and you accepted

and for a while, he did things right for you

but in the end, he just couldn’t grow up and you broke it off

all the fighting and drinking and partying and bailing him out of jail finally became too much and you returned the ring

“i wish it were different johnny. i really do. i thought you were the one. but i cant be with you if you’re not gonna grow up. i love you, and im sorry, but im done” -you

he was a WRECK after that he spiraled completely and cried for you for months

and he tried to get you back. he tried to straighten up and fly right but he always fell back into the same problems, and his friends were just as dumb as he was

you’d get a drunken call now and then of johnny rambling how sorry he was and how he still loves you and he wanted to change and begging you to take him back

you went on one last date with him and saw a very grim future

and realized you didn’t want to stick around to fix him

“do you still have the stuffed animal from our first date?” -johnny

“i do” -you

“promise me you’ll keep it forever” -johnny

“i promise”

his parents were so incredibly disappointed in him and that he “lost a good one”

and he never stopped beating himself up over it.

taglist: @ravenmoore14 // @an4aaa // @summersimmerus // @sapphireplums // @ravenhood2792 // @elemental-of-magic // @mauve-galaxy-427 //

[rafecameronssl4t]

Ok ok ok how about thorton!Reader and Rafe but the reader is equally as bad as Rafe and Topper? I’m thinking the golf scene in season one where they jump Pope but the reader happens to be there too and Pope hopes that she’ll help him… but she doesn’t 🫣

Stay off Figure Eight || Rafe Cameron x Thornton!reader

A/n: the title of this acc hurts me. I can’t think of one (give me ideas pls) 😭😭 I usually write Thornton!reader as being a sweetheart and friends with Pope (much to Rafe's dismay) but this was fun!!!! send thru any requests you have :)

Warnings: both reader and rafe r crazy, mention of blood, violence, swearing. if you were uncomfortable watching this scene in the series, do not read as I go into detail about it

Word count: 1,608

MASTERLIST (rafe x thornton!reader au masterlist)

divider by @h-aewo

"Man, that party was insane!" your brother exclaims, his laugh carrying through the air. Rafe flashes a grin, his arm tightening around your shoulder as the three of you stroll across the grass, searching for a clear spot on the course.

"I mean, my first thought when I did that line was, 'Bro, do we have enough?'" Topper rambles on, clearly thrilled with his first encounter with cocaine. You roll your eyes, growing weary of hearing the same story on repeat.

"It was crazy!" Topper shakes his head in disbelief, as if trying to wrap his mind around the experience. But you’re beyond over it. "It was just a line of coke, Jesus fucking Christ," you mutter under your breath, sliding your sunglasses off and perching them atop your head.

"I know, right?" Rafe adds, chuckling lightly before he steps away from you, lining up his shot. "That was good shit," he remark as he prepares to drive the ball. You casually pop another piece of gum into your mouth, standing beside Topper, who is still basking in his night.

"Hey, you uh… you didn’t tell Sarah, did you?" Topper’s voice drops to a nervous whisper, worry creeping into his tone, his earlier bravado faltering. The mention of Sarah always makes him nervous.

"Are you kidding me, man? The way she runs her mouth? Hell no," Rafe’s response is quick, dismissive, and you can almost hear the relief in Topper’s sigh as he nods. Rafe swings his club, and the sound of the ball slicing through the air is sharp and satisfying.

You let out a low whistle as you all watch it soar, landing close to a group of middle-aged men playing a few holes ahead. "Hey, come on now!" one of them shouts, annoyed by the interruption. You and Topper exchange a glance, both struggling to contain your laughter.

A snort escapes your brother's lips, while you bite down on your gum to suppress a giggle. "Shut up!" Rafe yells back, dismissing them without a second thought, "Geezers!" "They shouldn’t be taking so long anyway," Rafe mutters, shaking his head as he returns to your side, draping his arm over your shoulder again as you chuckle softly. But then, Rafe suddenly tenses, his gaze locked onto something in the distance.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he mutters, his grip tightening on you. "What is it?" you ask, feigning innocence as you follow his line of sight, already sensing the tension brewing. "What?" Topper asks, confused, before he too follows your stares. Rafe’s eyes narrow, a dark intensity brewing within them as he stares at Pope, who remains blissfully unaware of your presence.

Topper glances at you both, sensing the tension that’s quickly building. "I don’t think he’s a member, do you?" you say aloud. "It’s fine, just... just let him go, all right? Let’s go get your ball," Topper suggests, trying to diffuse the situation before it escalates. His voice is calm, but there’s an underlying edge of anxiety.

You scoff, amused by Topper’s attempt at playing peacemaker. "Softening up to the Pogues, are we, Top?" you tease, your tone dripping with mockery. Topper rolls his eyes but doesn’t rise to the bait. "They put a gun to your head, bro," Rafe interjects, his voice hardening as he turns his attention back to Topper.

Your brother remains calm, determined not to escalate things. "That’s fine. It’s fine. Let’s go," he insists, though his voice wavers slightly. You can’t resist needling him further. "Do you still have cocaine in your system right now, or are you being serious? JJ could have easily pulled the trigger on you," you point out, your brow furrowing in disbelief.

Topper avoids your gaze, his lips pressed into a thin line. Rafe’s patience snaps. "Fuck him," he says, his tone final as he spins on his heel and starts marching toward Pope, dragging you along with him. "Hey, Rafe. Rafe! Let’s get your ball, man!" Topper protests, his hand raking through his hair in frustration. "C'mon, Y/n!"

Rafe’s grip tightens around you, his voice low and determined. "I’m gonna show this idiot exactly whose side of the island he’s on," he murmurs against your hair, a proud smirk tugging at his lips. You chuckle, caught up in his confidence as you follow him down the slight hill toward Pope’s path.

"Hey, what’s up, man!" Rafe greets Pope with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, his approach casual but laced with menace. Pope’s face tightens with a mix of fear and anger as he realises he’s outnumbered. "Hey, how much for one of those beers?" Rafe asks, peering into the bags and blocking Pope’s way. You glance over your shoulder, seeing Topper finally catching up.

"They’re not for sale," Pope replies, his voice steady but his eyes darting nervously between Rafe and Topper. You can see the calculation in his mind, weighing his options in the 2 v 1 situation.

"Oh, wait, wait, wait. You can just give us one, then, right?" Rafe suggests, his tone still deceptively friendly as Topper steps up beside him. You stay a few feet back, understanding that this confrontation is theirs to handle.

"Or you can order one, like everybody else," Pope counters, trying to keep his cool. You fight to keep a straight face, impressed by his nerve. Pope attempts to step around Rafe, but Rafe blocks him again, his patience wearing thin.

"Listen. Wait, wait, wait. You’re not listening to me," Rafe says, his voice hardening. "Um… you’ve got so many, bro, and we’ve got nothing." He glances at Topper and then at you, seeking validation. You shrug in mock agreement, playing along with Rafe’s antics.

"Nothin’, man," Topper chimes in, backing Rafe up. Pope holds firm, though. "They’re not even mine. They’re already paid for," he tries to explain, but Rafe isn’t interested in reason.

"Already paid for? What the hell? You probably stole 'em right?" Rafe mutters, grabbing his club and using it to tear open one of Pope’s bags, spilling its contents across the ground. Pope’s eyes widen in disbelief. "What the hell? You owe me for that!" he protests, his voice rising in anger.

Rafe’s chuckle is dark and humorless. "Look, man, I don’t owe you shit, Pogue," he says, stepping closer to Pope, using his height and presence to intimidate. Pope snaps, shoving Rafe back, his anger finally boiling over.

"Buy your own shit!" Pope yells, his face inches from Rafe’s. "Hey, hey, come on, man!" Topper steps in, grabbing Pope by the shoulders, trying to deescalate. "We just want one of these beers! C’mon, just give us one of these—" Topper’s voice is strained as he fights with Pope over the carton.

"You guys are freaking crazy!" Pope shouts, his grip tightening on the beers. The struggle intensifies until Topper, in a burst of frustration, throws Pope to the ground. Pope’s body rolls, stopping just inches from your feet.

"Shit!" Topper curses, surprised by his own actions. You glance down at Pope, who’s groaning in pain at your feet. "Shit, my bad, man," Topper says, though there’s a hint of amusement in his tone. Pope groans before pushing himself up, and before you can react, he launches himself at Rafe, who’s ready for him. Rafe’s club swings down, hitting Pope hard and repeatedly until he falls back to the ground.

"Hey! Rafe, Rafe! Come on, man!" your brother shouts, his voice panicked. "Stay down, bitch!" Rafe yells, his anger boiling over. Topper looks at you, desperation in his eyes, but you remain still, blowing a bubble with your gum, unfazed. "Hey, let’s go! Let’s go, man!" Topper insists, trying to pull Rafe back. Rafe ignores him, his rage blinding him as he lifts the club higher, slamming it down near Pope’s head.

Pope groans, blood trickling from his mouth as he lies on the ground. Rafe crouches down, grabbing Pope’s face, forcing him to look at him. "We don’t want you here. Got that?" Rafe’s voice is low and menacing as he pats Pope’s cheek. "Stay off Figure Eight, Pogue," he warns before straightening up and walking away.

"Top, let’s go!" Rafe calls out, not bothering to check if your brother is following. Topper hesitates, his face a mix of shock and disbelief. You don’t move until Rafe is nearly at your side, and then, to everyone’s surprise, you walk past him, heading toward Pope. Rafe stops, watching you with confusion, and Topper’s brows knit together as they both try to figure out what you’re doing.

"I swear to God, Y/n, if Mom finds out that you’re involved—" Topper begins, but you cut him off sharply. "Oh, shut up!" you snap, crouching down to reach for your favorite beer bottle that had fallen from Pope’s bag. "What the fuck is she doing?" you hear Topper mutter, his disbelief clear as he watches you.

Pope watches you silently, his face bruised and bloody. "This could have been so much easier for you if you had just given them the beer," you sigh, noticing the bottle opener clipped to his belt loop. Pope’s eyes flare with anger, but he’s too hurt to do anything. "Fuck. You," he seethes as you pop the bottle open with a practiced flick.

"Cheers!" you smile, taking a sip before standing up and walking back to Rafe and Topper. They’re both stunned, not sure whether to laugh or be shocked by your coldness. "What? It’s my favourite," you pout playfully. Rafe chuckles, clearly impressed as he pulls you back to his side, while Topper scoffs loudly, shaking his head in disbelief.

[bradshawssugarbaby]

Hurricane - Bradley Bradshaw x Reader

summary: Bradley's regretted breaking off his relationship with you for months, but when he sees you walking into the country club after his round of golf, he knows he has to fix things.

a/n: I haven't written much angst before but I'm really trying to branch out a little bit. Inspired by Hurricane by Luke Combs, and also this weird recurring dream I keep having.

pairing: Bradley Bradshaw x reader

warnings/content: buckle up bc there's a lot? angst (happy ending), parental death, depression, hurt, cancer, goose's accident + carole's reaction, carole literally never getting over losing goose, bradley being a commitmentphobe, pregnancy (i think that's it?), also entirely unrealistic bc you know what? I can't keep roo sad for long.

word count: 3.6k

taglist: @avengersfan25, @nouis-bum, @floydsmuse, @mamachasesmayhem, @jessicab1991, @atarmychick007, @b-bradshaw, @djs8891

Then you rolled in with your hair in the wind Baby, without warning I was doin' alright but just your sight Had my heart stormin'

Bradley narrowed his eyes beneath his sunglasses, the glare of the hot mid-morning sun harsh on his chocolate brown eyes. He grabbed his nine-iron from his golf bag, taking a practice swing before teeing up for his next shot. Bob, Jake, Reuben and Javy stood to the side behind him, watching as he lined up to take his shot. He hadn’t golfed in years, in fact, he’d only ever golfed a handful of times in his life, all of them back when he lived in Virginia. His uncle had taught him when he was 15, a welcome distraction when his mom became sick, and he’d gone out a few times when he was in college after a roommate of his on the school’s golf team had invited him out. He held his breath as he heard the club make contact with the small, white orb, watching as it soared through the air, disappearing somewhere onto the course. Jake let out an impressive whistle as he looked on, placing his hands on his hips as he shook his head in disbelief.

“You’ve never golfed before, Bradshaw? You sure?” He drawled, raising one of his manicured (though he’d deny it if asked) blonde eyebrows suspiciously.

“I told you, a handful of times. Not never.”

“You did say less than five,” Bob shrugged as he cleaned his glasses before replacing them on his nose. “Less than five suggests you haven’t really hit a course.”

“Not to mention you said in years. That was the swing of a man who’s at least hit a driving range a few times,” Reuben pointed out to the course in the general direction of where Bradley’s ball had landed as Javy, Bob and Jake nodded in agreement. 

“I wish Nat had tagged along, she wouldn’t ride my ass this hard,” Bradley huffed, shaking his head. 

“Nat doesn’t golf. You know that. She acted disgusted that I even asked,” Jake shrugged.

“Maybe it was how you asked,” Bob suggested as he disguised his jab at Jake as a helpful criticism.

 “Just take your turn, Robert,” Jake hissed, rolling his eyes dramatically as Bob smirked.

Bradley normally would have joined in with a quip of his own directed at Jake, but his heart just wasn’t in it. His heart wasn’t even in the game. The only reason why he’d agreed to go golfing with the guys for their usual monthly game was because you left him. He needed to get over you and move on - it’d been six months and with no deployments coming up, he had nothing to focus 100% of his attention onto. Reuben had noticed it first - Bradley was withdrawn on nights out, his usually chatterbox self now quiet, calm and keeping to himself, barely breaking eye contact with his beer bottle. Then came Natasha’s barrage of questions - he knew she meant well, but God, it was hard to listen to. 

He didn’t want to admit it to himself, but he knew why you left. And it was entirely his fault. You’d gotten upset because he’d stopped spending as much time with you, kept getting cold feet about committing to your relationship. He’d never tell you why he couldn’t commit - it was too hard for him to explain to anyone, really. In fact, he was fairly confident that Reuben was the only other person aware of it. 

Bradley wanted to be the partner you needed - he really did. He wanted to be the doting, affectionate boyfriend who’d whisk you off somewhere beautiful, propose to you, start a family with 2.2 kids and a dog, cart the kids around to sports practices on weekends - the American dream. He knew you deserved that much. And yet, no matter how badly he wanted to give that to you - he couldn’t. He’d told you he didn’t want it - he didn’t want to get married, he didn’t want to have kids, he never wanted it. He watched you fall apart the minute the words left his mouth, and it killed him inside. He wanted to hold you close and tell you he was making a mistake, tell you it wasn’t true and he didn’t mean it, but he couldn’t. 

He couldn’t, because he was terrified. 

Growing up without his dad was one of the hardest things he could have experienced, he was sure of it. He was too young to truly remember how his mom reacted when she learned her husband had been killed in a training exercise, but he remembered her crying a lot, feeling paralyzed by loss and guilt, angry with the world for taking the man she loved away from her. He remembered as he grew up, she never remarried, never went on a date, never even as much as looked at another man. His dad was her everything, and losing him crushed her. 

When she got sick, Bradley was a teenager - old enough to understand what it meant for her, what her odds of recovery were, and old enough to be realistic about the future. When they found out she wasn’t going to get better, he’d half expected her to react the way she did when his dad died, but instead, she seemed almost at peace with the idea. She’d spent 14 years of her life missing his dad, and she knew that, even though she was horrified by the thought of leaving Bradley on his own, she wouldn’t have to spend another minute missing her husband.

Bradley decided then that he’d never want to put someone through that. He’d never be able to hurt someone he loved like this - leave them widowed before they turned 30, alone with a toddler at home to raise on the opposite side of the country from their family and friends, with nothing but a military pension and an apology over his death. 

It was at 16 years old that Bradley decided, if he wanted to become a pilot, he was going to have to spend life alone, and for the most part, he was ok with that. 

That was, until he met you.

He tried to deny his feelings, pretending you were just a casual fling, some fun sex here and there between deployments and missions and nothing more. That was, until three months in, he accidentally told you he loved you. It wasn’t a lie, he did love you, but it caught him off guard when he said it - he didn’t mean to blow his cover and let his guard down like that. And when you said it back? He knew it was game over. 

He tried his hardest to push his fears aside, he tried SO hard. He was getting older and beginning to realize he didn’t want to spend the rest of his life alone, especially as he neared the mandatory 20 years of service cutoff for aviators. He’d grown almost fond of the idea of settling down with you, seeing you with a ring on your finger, picturing you with a baby in you, his baby. He wanted it. He wanted all of it. But, the fears and anxiety he had reared its ugly head, and he couldn’t bring himself to get past it. 

It was on their last mission, when he had to eject and landed in the middle of a snowy mountain, unsure if he’d make it back home to you. His mind raced with thoughts of how you’d react if he didn’t make it home - how you’d crumple to the floor when you saw the two uniformed officers on your doorstep, the blood-curdling scream you’d let out in pain when you heard them say it, tears staining your pretty little face as you were handed that folded American flag - he couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand the idea of putting you through everything his mom had gone through. Not when you were so young and had everything ahead of you. When you could find a man who wasn’t putting his life in danger nearly every damn day, risking himself and risking a chance he might not come home to you. 

This golf trip was meant to take his mind off you. Reuben had mentioned it in passing to Jake and Bob, who exchanged worried looks with one another. Javy had overheard Nat’s line of questioning when he and Mickey returned to the table with a fresh round of beers, both of them offering Bradley silent looks of sympathy as they nodded in agreement to Nat’s advice. Bradley was struggling, in over his head with emotions and regret and sadness, but he knew he’d fucked it all up. And he knew that even if he tried, you wouldn’t want him back, and who could blame you? 

Bob had suggested he reach out to you and apologize, and for a while, Bradley considered it. He strongly considered calling you, going to your house, begging for forgiveness and begging you to take him back, but after how you reacted when he broke things off with you, he wouldn’t even take him back. He’d been a dick in every sense of the word, and now, he had to try and move on, adjusting to life without you in it. 

The next nine holes passed by with little conversation from Bradley and worried glances exchanged between his friends. He wasn’t in the mood for talking, he’d explain, shrugging the concern off before focusing back on the game. Bradley was thankful for his friends’ efforts, but it was beginning to feel like nothing would help him move on. 

He slumped down into a chair at a table in the country club after their round of golf, sipping back the beer Jake bought him. He caught himself downing the liquid quicker than he should have, but at this point, being drunk would at least provide him with that much needed numbness he craved. He could hear Bob bickering with Jake over golf scores and who truly won, prompting an eye roll from Javy as he pulled the crumpled scoresheets from his pocket and placed them on the table. Reuben noticed the glazed over look in Bradley’s eye and clapped a sympathetic hand down on his shoulder. 

Bradley was about to thank Reuben for being there for him when he saw your face. You were walking into the country club with a couple of your friends, laughing and smiling as you spoke. 

God, he loved that smile. 

He gulped back the rest of his drink before placing the glass back down on the table, the sound of Bradley slamming the glass down a little harder than he intended prompting Jake to spin his head around as he saw you.

“Oh..shit,” he murmured as Bob and Javy both turned to look discreetly towards you.

Bradley’s eyes widened as you walked past the bar, revealing a very unexpected new figure. He blinked his eyes a few times to ensure they weren’t playing tricks on him - positive that this had to be some kind of optical illusion or something. It was impossible. You couldn’t be.

“Pregnant.” Jake whispered as he leaned into the table, “She’s pregnant,”

“Did you know, Bradley?” Bob inquired as he pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose.

“N-no.” Bradley choked out, feeling the walls closing in around him as the room started to spin.

Without hesitation, Bradley rose from his seat and made his way over to you, despite the protests from Bob and Reuben, the two voices of reason to Javy and Jake’s voices of impulse. Bradley approached you cautiously, clearing his throat for a moment to garner your attention. You spun your head around, your cheeks rosy and your skin glowing with that pregnancy glow everyone always talked about. Bradley had never really believed in that kind of stuff, but you were proving him wrong. 

“Bradley?” you asked, your face paleing to a shade of ghostly white. 

“Can…can we talk, please? I need to talk to you,” Bradley rambled with desperation written on his face.

You huffed a sigh, nodding your head slowly as you excused yourself from your friends, who were now whispering and exchanging uncomfortable glances with one another. Bradley followed closely behind you as you stepped out into the fresh air, finding a discreet corner of the parking lot to discuss everything from the last six months. 

“I…Is it mine?” Bradley whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer as his eyes wandered to the bump that was evident under your sundress.

You sighed again, following Bradley’s gaze down to your abdomen, a protective hand resting on your bump as you nodded slowly, humming in confirmation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He frowned, shaking his head quickly, “I-I, I would have helped you.”

“Bradley,” you said, narrowing your eyes and shaking your head quickly, “You told me you didn’t want this. You dumped me and told me you never wanted to settle down or have a family, you didn’t want to be with me anymore, and being in a long-term relationship wasn’t what you ever wanted. You told me you didn’t love me. So please, tell me why I should have told you?”

“Because,” he said softly, his heart aching as he heard your side of things, “I didn’t mean any of that. I was wrong.”

“Oh, you were wrong? Tell me, were you always wrong, or are you only wrong now that you’ve seen me six months later, heavily pregnant?” 

Bradley was speechless. He gazed down at his feet, kicking at the pavement in his golf cleats. He sighed as he thought for a moment, taking a second of quiet reflection to compose his thoughts before speaking. He wanted to get this right. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up again.

“I was always wrong. I was wrong when I said it, and I knew I was wrong,” he shook his head vigorously before looking up to meet your gaze, “Did I ever tell you about my mom?”

“You told me she died when you were a teenager, and you didn’t really mention anything else about her. Or anyone in your family, for that matter.”

“Right,” he nodded his head slowly, taking a deep breath before beginning to explain. “My dad died when I was 2. He was an RIO, a Radar Intercept Officer. You know Maverick, right?”

“Mhmm,” you nodded slowly, a look of annoyance flashing across your face as you listened to Bradley, you were used to his excuses, and you were really hoping this wasn’t another one. 

“So, Maverick was my dad’s pilot. Best friends. Did everything together. He was flying when my dad died, their plane lost control, had to eject, my dad hit the canopy. Died instantly.” Bradley paused, taking another deep breath as he felt himself getting choked up, “My mom, she, uh, she was really young. My dad was 25, my mom was 23. He was her high school sweetheart. She was devastated. I was too young to remember a lot, but I remember her hurting, and being sad all the time, unable to function some days because she just missed him so much,” he explained as tears began to roll down his cheeks.

“Bradley, I’m sorry,” you sighed, shaking your head as you sympathetically rubbed his bicep to comfort him.

“I just…when she died, she was…peaceful, I guess, because she knew she wouldn’t have to miss him anymore. She wouldn’t be lonely. She never remarried or dated after him, she couldn’t bring herself to. She’s buried with her wedding ring still on her finger. I couldn’t bring myself to take it off her,” he took another deep breath, exhaling sharply before looking up at you. 

“I couldn’t do that to you,” he finally said, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over again, “I couldn’t leave you like my mom. Heartbroken and alone your whole life. She never moved on, and I didn’t want that for you if we got married. God, I would have given anything to marry you. I would have taken you to the courthouse and married you on the spot if you would have agreed to it. But, I couldn’t risk breaking your heart. Not like that.”

“Bradley, you’ve always come home in one piece,” you said softly, fingers still stroking his upper arm soothingly.

“But I almost didn’t. I had to eject and all I could think about was you getting that knock at the door and going through what she went through, and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t do that to you, or…or to a baby.”

You shook your head, processing everything that Bradley had just said as he poured his heart out to you. He’d never opened up like this to you before, but you could tell each and every word was genuine. As much as you hated him for leaving you, you couldn’t deny that you still loved him with all of your heart. 

You missed him. 

You missed waking up to him after the two of you had fallen asleep watching a movie together. You missed the way he yelled at the tv when watching baseball, how passionate he got over football games, how he’d pick the olives out of his nachos like a toddler and put them on your plate. You missed how he couldn’t eat apples unless they were baked in a pie, how he’d scarf down an entire red velvet cake if you didn’t gently stop him, then regret it hours later. You missed the way his big brown eyes would stare at you, a look of pure adoration on his face like a lovesick puppy whenever you spoke to someone else, as if he was hanging on every single word that fell from your lips.

You burst into tears, throwing your arms tightly around Bradley as you shook your head. “God, you’re an idiot, you know that?” you murmured, laughing softly as you hugged him.

“I know, I’m the biggest idiot. I still would marry you if you let me. I wanted to have kids with you, I want to be around for this one,” he nodded, gesturing his hands at your bump. 

“Really?”

“Cross my heart,” Bradley said with an expression of complete seriousness on his face, “I wanna know everything about them. Everything. I wanna know what you’re having, what name you’ve picked out, what your cravings are, how you’ve been feeling, when they move, what does it feel like? I want to know how far along you are, and how they’re doing, if they have my nose or your nose, or if they’re gonna be tall like I am, I want to know what helps you sleep at night when you’re pregnant, and what their favourite song is. I want all of it, honey.”

“Ok, ok, slow down, breathe, Bradley,” you chuckled, shaking your head. “Take a walk with me?”

As you and Bradley walked around the pedestrian pathway on the golf course, smiling as you spoke fondly about the baby, answering all of Bradley’s questions. 

“Well, baby’s a girl, I don’t have a name in mind for her yet, I’ve been craving oranges and Sprite, anything sweet and citrusy. I’ve been ok, better now the morning sickness finally dissipated. It feels like bubbles or something when she kicks, it’s like a fluttering, almost? I’m 28 weeks along, so I have about three months left. She looked like she has your nose on the ultrasound, there’s a 50/50 chance on her height, I sleep pretty much sitting upright because I get bad heartburn otherwise, and I play her music all the time. She likes Elvis and The Beach Boys, just like her dad.” 

Bradley’s smile spread wide across his face, a small laugh of disbelief escaping his mouth as he nodded along with your words.

“That’s great. A girl? Really? You’re gonna have a daughter running around,” he said softly, almost as if he was daydreaming about what the little girl would look like.

“We are going to have a daughter.”

“You’re gonna let me be there? After everything?”

“Bradley, as much as I hated you for what you did and how you ended things - I never truly hated you. I loved you, more than anything. I still do.”

He held you tightly, burying his face into your hair as he kissed the top of your head, murmuring softly against your hair. 

“God, I love you so much, honey. I promise, I’m never going to do something stupid like that again.”

“I know you won’t,” you laughed, shaking your head as he looked down at you, “I know you’d never leave Carly and I again.”

Bradley froze in place for a moment as he stared at you, his voice barely above a whisper as he spoke. 

“What did you call her?”

“Carly. I thought, I don’t know, after you told me about your mom just now, I thought maybe you’d like to name the baby after her? Carole’s nice too, I just figured Carly gives her a name that’s her own too, they share the same root.”

“Carly,” he nodded slowly as he repeated it, “I love it.”

Bradley took your hand in his, his large fingers enveloping your hand as he held it tightly, as if he was terrified of letting go. He made that mistake once before, he wasn’t about to do it again.