#We Need To Talk About Maggie
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Greetings! Iâm a big fan of your metas, and as thereâs been something niggling at me, I thought I would ask your opinion. Maybe youâve mentioned this (or someone else has and Iâve just missed it because admittedly my feed is pretty dedicated to to our ineffable duo) but⌠something is off about Maggie to me, and has been since my first watch through. First off, her misspelling of âurgencyâ in her note. Then the discussion she and Nina have in the coffee shop and how she says âI wasnât that kind of teenagerâ, that sheâd never wanted to drink, and of course the âno judgementâ line attached to this. And there may be more inbetween, but the other one that comes to mind is a big one, and itâs after the ball when the demons are at the door and sheâs asking Aziraphale whatâs going on. He tries to miracle away her concerns (twice) and it doesnât seem to work on her, and she asks him if heâs trying to hypnotize her (but the miracle sound is THERE, heâs not doing it wrong, itâs just not working on her)⌠So why?? Her misspelling would lead one to wonder if she is actually a demon (are some escaping and hiding on earth? Why is hell so understaffed?) But she seems for all intents and purposes such a GOOD, sweet person and very not like any of the other demons we see (except Crowley), and wouldnât he be able to sense her besides? Or is she perhaps an Angel, though wouldnât Aziraphale then be able to sense that about her? Or maybe sheâs God? Sheâs gotta be something and itâs driving me nuts lol
Interested to hear your thoughts if you have any on this. There are definitely some things we are missing in this season (I am currently subscribed to the tactical-turtleneck theory of Crowley Is Up To Something We Havenât Seen Yet). Maybe itâs just another red herring, and sheâs actually just a really good, kind human to show as a foil against prickly, jaded Nina, but itâs definitely doing itâs job of distracting me!
hi @therachan!!!⨠thank you for the kind words, i appreciate it!đ and please always feel free to ask my opinion, I'll always do my best to give a coherent one!!!
oooooookay so i kinda look at maggie-theory from two angles, because i think both have equal weight but from different perspectives:
maggie may well just be human! she's a mirror of both of them (i kinda see her as mirroring aziraphale in personality, crowley in action/sentiment - and nina vice versa), so thematically her moments that we've picked up as being peculiar or a bit uncanny-valley may well just be her emulating aziraphale, who this season is particularly shown in a little more of a borderline-eldritch light. it may just be this, full-stop, and i could get on board with that, 100%.
however, i love speculating on things and questioning Everything in this story so, alternatively, let's hypothesise that maggie is in-fact not human.
i think it's fair to say that early-doors, theories around maggie primarily centred around the 'urgency' misspelling. this could be a red herring in the respect of 'hey, she just spelt something wrong, there's no issue in that!'. or it could be, given the emphasis placed on it, and the whole less-than-stellar spelling most demons seem to display, that maggie is a demon. both these explanations are very occam's razor, but i feel like sometimes GO either narratively had a very, very simple explanation that ultimately means nothing (and yet everything) in the grand scheme of things (ie maggie is just human - somewhat pratchett-esque), or there is another more subtle/'clever' explanation that only makes sense in retrospect - the 'aha!' explanation.
so this is where i think maggie might be, or have been, an angel. i did a speculative post where i listed a couple of examples that immediately sprang to mind, so i won't go over them again, but there are definitely more times where she's a bit... not quite right? like i said - uncanny-valley. the thing that's kinda supported that maybe she's an angel is this ask of neil's, where he doesn't answer the question on a replacement angel for aziraphale (on one hand, he might have just not answered the question bc the other bit 'took over', so to speak, and the non-answer is completely innocuous... but equally might have purposefully not answered it as to not bring attention to it re: spoilers. who knows!)
in terms of her motives? idk. the above speculation kinda goes on the view that she might have gotten Got by metatron, same as muriel, made an escape from heaven itself like gabriel, but ultimately had her memory wiped. alternatively, though (and im just spitballing here):
initially sent down to earth by heaven to replace aziraphale, and is the new 'guardian of earth' - i think this is unlikely, there is too much humanness to her that her being knowingly an angel would feel a bit... jumping-the-shark, even if the concept is true on a very loose basis
sent to earth by metatron as a spy/to fuck shit up, but ultimately falls for nina (who, btw, im inclined to believe is actually human, but even then i feel like might have a little something something going on) - this is more likely to me, but i think still isn't quite on the money? she doesn't come across at all as having nefarious intent, not to me anyway
going on the possibility that saraqael is a Goodie, metatron might have sent maggie down to spy/separate the Boys, but saraqael did a little jiggery-pokery whilst she was en-route, and wiped her memory to prevent anything bad happening - this is one of my more favourite possibilities, it ties in quite a few plot points/devices that have cropped up in s2
maggie was an angel that Crossed The Line in heaven, threatened with demotion etc, but essentially legged it like gabriel did and 'fell', but to earth. came to earth, no memories, but ultimately a completely innocent party - the other of my favourite possibilities tbh, but then again, a fair number of loopholes in how this would have gone unnoticed etc... but poetically, the fact that a fair number of angels have been Asking Questions, behind the scenes? could be cool
she fell but fell to human, end of - a bit far-fetched, i think.
there are a couple of things off the top of my head that are issues with any number of these possibilities; namely, aziraphale. he knew her great-grandmother, her shop was a piece of his originally, and he would have been able to sense her. i have a further couple of thoughts on this that aren't particularly coherent, but stick with me:
Something About Bees - he sees her as a human, she has a similar personality to him, and is fairly harmless by all accounts. he wouldn't necessarily see her as a threat. he would automatically trust her (compared to the other angels, which he senses immediately - and, btw, seems shocked that she can't), and wouldnt think to look further into anything
Power - she seems taken in by aziraphale's weird god-complex display at the ball in ep5 - somewhat aware that something's weird, but needed nina to fully wake her up. it stands to reason that if her backstory is a fiction, that aziraphale would be taken in by her magic-weaving in kind. so, how true is the 'memory' of her grandmother etc?
im sure there are other things to note on in the We Need To Talk About Maggie theory, but those are my initial, convoluted thoughts at the moment!â¨đ
#We Need To Talk About Maggie#dont think she's god tho#good omens#ask#we need to talk about maggie theory#s3 narrative spec#memory wipe theory#metatron spec#saraqael spec
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would love to hear your thoughts on the ao3 hit counter as someone who has to use a custom skin to block those numbers out...
honestly donât blame you! my thoughts on the ao3 hits counter are that i understand why it has one, because counting page views and hits is so standard on websites, but the point of sharing fanfiction (and the point of archiving fanfiction) isnât collecting those stats, especially publicly. of course the archive of our own and the organization for transformative works should keep hits stats on ao3 as a whole! but publicly attaching them to individual fics i think has negatively affected how fanwork creators feel about the responses their works get. obviously weâre all greedy for comments but seeing the hits number grow so much bigger than the comments (and kudos) number is much more pointed! of course people used to do analytics on their own websites and livejournals in the pre-ao3 era but it wasnât out there every time you looked at a fic, and it wasnât something people could publicly use to judge your fic by.
which is to say: i think judging fics by things like kudos-to-hits ratio is crappy! thereâs a lot of reasons a fic might rack up a lot of hits, including being a long story that people spend several days or weeks reading. thereâs also of course ao3âs own glitchiness that causes pages to reload, and i donât know how quickly the same user can count as two views but it��s definitely not you click on that fic once and thatâs the one view you get counted as! so a fic thatâs reread frequently may also rack up a lot of hits compared to views too, and then thereâs fics where people tend to leave kudos at a lower rate, especially when the fic is archive-locked so you canât leave anonymous kudos â iâve noticed this especially with kinky fic and more sensitive topics and quote-unquote problematic fics.
overall iâd really like to at least have the option to turn off publicly visible hits on fics, and iâd really love to see hits become something thatâs only visible to the creator through the stats page.
#also while weâre at it we need to talk about how weird it is that private bookmarks only show up on the stats page#and arenât counted in sorting by bookmarks#ask maggie
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Anna baby, you'll never believe this one (but honestly? You might lol). Did you know Eddie was more misogynistic to Shannon in one episode than Tommy ever was to Hen???
Hi my love â¤ď¸
Their takes on Eddie are atrocious so I fully believe this is something they are saying. I'd ask for the reasoning but I know it's not based on anything real lol
#dear GOD#can we just accept that Eddie and Tommy aren't interchangeable?#please?#leave out of if#go play with your guy stop talking about ours#maggie đ#anti tommy kinard#i really need a tag for asks#this is......
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I have a problem with the end of season 2 of GO (appart from the obvious, I mean)
I don't know if other people had notice that or if I read to much into it, but...
There are not on the right side.
The first moment I notice is the gif on the above. Aziraphale just promised a book to convince a neighbor to come to the ball. And Crowley is shocked.
And several times after that, Crowley is on the right and Aziraphale on the left.
We are so use to see them with Aziraphale on the right and Crowley on the left that I can't think it's not on purpose.
Each time they're reverse, it's when Crowley doubt and question Aziraphale.
The only other time we saw them reverse in season 1 was at the Globe. When we heard them talk about the Arrangement and where Crowley do something for Aziraphale.
(and when they switched, but the reason is obvious)
I don't know if there's more to it, but I wanted to share it because it's turning me mad.
(âŹď¸ actual footage of me explaining to my friends there's something hidden behind the Ineffable Husband's position)
#good omens#goodomens#ineffable spouses#good omens 2#ineffable husbands#ineffable idiots#i'm becoming crazy#oh wait I was already#next time we need to talk about Nina and Maggi#shitty theory
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almost done with revisiting supernova... just gotta get my hold on the audiobook back
#and then im gonna start over AGAIN#but THIS TIME i'll be taking ALL THE NOTES#mostly scenes i liked and want to revisit probably for fanart purposes#and keeping an eye out for key scenes that i can revisit later so i can keep my characterization on point for some characters#mainly [everyone that isn't maggie]#KJLDJKLFSD#ok fr mainly adrian and max#and the anarchists#maybe team sketch?#kinda that order of importance#i've refreshed on max's characterization and I still feel like im missing something abt him in my hcs of trinket duo#i worry im babying him or taking away parts of him#making him more shy than he actually is#thats why im vry much hoping to see more ppl talk about their hcs and interpretations of other characters like meeee#i need to find ppl obsessed with the others like i am with maggie#and we need to lock ourselfs in a dungeon until we concoct the perfect hcs everever#renegades trilogy#renegades fandom#renegades marissa meyer#archenemies marissa meyer#supernova marissa meyer#marissa meyer
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& btw Iâve lost about a week of my life to thinking about this egg. Hi
#NOT tagging as art#me#blood#(fake heâs fine)#(âconsidered drawing egg yolk all over the floor but decided against it)#watched the epilogue last Sunday and then Friday we had a blackout and Iâve literally been talking about Maggie almost constantly since#might throw up some conspiracy theory boards to summarize idk#kirby#magolor#(removing from main tags cause Iâm a bit anxious it might be misconstrued as hate!)#(for the actual original context: I said this when talking about how all of my recent discussion has been completely overtaken by Kirby#lore and a friend replied to it with âKit standing over a mangled corpseâ and I was like yeah thatâs funny. I should draw that#Two weeks ago I was like âyeah Magolor is the type of character I would really like but in practice Iâm not like super into him!â#hard cut to a week later. My dmâs with my fiancĂŠ: destroyed. My channel in my friendsâ server: annihilated. Mental illness +30% this quarter#I was listening to Oh No! by Marina and the Diamonds and had the though âoh hey this would make a good Magolor song!â#The babygirlification process has started and I fear it may be irreversible.#like Iâm enjoying myself but also I pulled three all-nighters in four days and I really need to speed up my wedding prep agh)
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istg i donât cry when couples finally have their first kiss/gets together in a series but by GOD did they change the chemistry in my brain this was insANE-
(more thoughts on reblog)
#shipping things#hacy#macy vaughn#harry greenwood#charmed 2018#charmed reboot#madeleine mantock#rupert evans#maybe cause it's 12:20 am and i spoiled myself about them so i'm in my feels about them cause ik what'll go down BUT#mads and rupert were AMAZING#i felt it through the screen of my laptop in the dark of my room on a midnight mood of a thursday#i need you guys to know that i only have two main reasons why i watched this series (1) to hear out my friend cause she made a#hunter x maggie fic and (2) madeleine mantock played my fav character in the tomorrow people - astrid - so i got a major hit of nostalgia#i was gonna watch the tomorrow people instead but ik what's gonna happen and watched it so#i thought to myself: why not? it's new and my friend has a rarepair i wanna support her#i was almost finished with s1 and decided to let my friend know i'm watching it and guess fucking WHAT?? SHE NEVER WATCHED A SINGLE EPISODE#AND NOW I'M ATTACHED BUT I CAN'T TALK TO HER ABOUT MACY AND HARRY TO A FULL EXTENT CAUSE SHE ONLY CHECKED THE WIKI AND WAS BORED AND#WAS THERE FOR MAGGIE'S CHARACTER BECAUSE OF DESCENDANTS#this is worse than when i introduced VLD to my other friend and we both shipped klance but i didn't finish the show but SHE DID#this is my karma#after like 3 years this is my karma ahjdfhadfa#oh god it hurts#summer.txt
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@safestkittykatintown continued from here:
"Well, I," Magnolia began breathlessly. "I'm very pleased that you like it. After all, I did purchase it just for you." Katherine's light touch sent her heart racing. Her chest rose and fell quickly, her breasts verging on spilling over the top of her corset with each breath. Her cheeks flushed a shade darker as she gathered the nerve to ask a bold question.
"Shall I stand still for you, then, so you can enjoy yourself fully? . . . Am I compelled, Miss Katherine?" Katherine couldn't actually compel her--they assumed it was because her gifts made her near enough to a witch to prevent such a thing--but it was a game they liked to play. Katherine 'compelled her' to do or not to certain things, and Magnolia did exactly as she was told. And if she didn't. . . Every game had its penalties, though Magnolia never minded this game's.
#{đť} maggie crane ; threads#safestkittykatintown#{đť} maggie crane ; v. i'll love you for a thousand years#//because we talked about this and i need it XD
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Princess Protection Program
Logan Sargeant x Princess of England!Reader
Summary: when your safety is compromised due to escalating threats, the decision is made to send you overseas for your own protection, with one caveat: no one can know about your true identity (aka the fix-it fic we desperately need right now)
The sun streams through the ornate windows of Buckingham Palace as you pace anxiously in your private chambers. Your fingers fidget with the hem of your designer blouse, a habit youâve developed when stress creeps in. The weight of the situation hangs heavy in the air, thicker than the plush carpet beneath your feet.
A sharp knock at the door makes you jump. âCome in,â you call, trying to keep your voice steady.
Your father, King Edward, enters with a grim expression etched on his face. Behind him, your mother, Queen Charlotte, follows closely, her usual poise wavering slightly.
âDarling,â your mother begins, her voice soft but strained. âWe need to talk.â
You sink into a nearby armchair, bracing yourself. âIs this about the threats?â
Your father nods, his jaw tightening. âIâm afraid so. The situation has ... escalated.â
âHow bad is it?â You ask, dreading the answer.
The King exchanges a look with your mother before responding. âBad enough that we can no longer ignore it. The security team believes your life is in genuine danger.â
Your heart races, but you force yourself to remain composed. âWhat does that mean for me?â
Your mother moves closer, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. âWe think itâs best if you leave London for a while, sweetheart. Just until we can neutralize the threat.â
You stand abruptly, shaking your head. âLeave? But I canât! I have responsibilities here, engagements planned for the entire summer!â
âYour safety is our top priority,â your father interjects firmly. âEverything else can wait.â
âWhere would I even go?â You ask, exasperation creeping into your voice.
Your mother hesitates before answering. âWeâve been discussing options with the security team. We think itâs best if you go somewhere ... unexpected.â
You raise an eyebrow, curiosity momentarily overriding your anxiety. âUnexpected how?â
âFlorida.â
You blink, certain youâve misheard. âIâm sorry, did you say Florida?â
Your mother nods, a small smile tugging at her lips despite the gravity of the situation. âYour Aunt Maggie and Uncle George have that lovely beach house in Fort Lauderdale, remember? We visited when you were younger.â
âBut ... Florida?â You repeat, still struggling to process the idea. âItâs so ... American.â
Your father chuckles softly. âExactly. No one would think to look for you there. Itâs the perfect cover.â
You begin pacing again, your mind racing. âFor how long?â
âWeâre not sure yet,â your mother admits. âBut we promise to bring you home as soon as itâs safe.â
You pause, turning to face your parents. The concern in their eyes is palpable, and it hits you just how serious this situation must be for them to suggest such a drastic measure.
âCanât I just stay here? Increase security or something?â you plead, making one last attempt.
Your father shakes his head firmly. âThe palace is too exposed. There are too many variables, too many potential weak points. We need you somewhere more ... inconspicuous.â
You sigh heavily, knowing deep down that theyâre right. âWhen do I leave?â
âTonight,â your mother says softly. âWeâve already begun making arrangements.â
Your eyes widen. âTonight? But I havenât packed, I havenât said goodbye to anyone-â
âI know itâs sudden,â your father interrupts gently, âbut the quicker we move, the safer youâll be.â
You nod slowly, reality sinking in. âI understand.â
Your mother pulls you into a tight embrace. âOh, darling. I know this is difficult, but please try to think of it as an adventure. A chance to experience a different kind of life for a while.â
You lean into her hug, drawing comfort from her familiar perfume. âIâll try, Mum.â
As she pulls away, your father clears his throat. âThereâs one more thing. While youâre there, youâll need to ... blend in.â
You furrow your brow. âWhat do you mean?â
âWe think itâs best if you adopt a different identity,â he explains. âJust temporarily, of course. To throw off anyone who might be looking for you.â
âA different identity?â You repeat, the concept both thrilling and terrifying. âLike ... a commoner?â
Your mother nods encouragingly. âExactly. Youâll be staying with Maggie and George, of course, but to the rest of the world, youâll just be their niece visiting for the summer.â
You take a deep breath, trying to wrap your head around it all. âI suppose I could use a break from royal duties,â you admit with a small smile.
Your fatherâs face softens with relief. âThatâs my girl. Always looking on the bright side.â
A knock at the door interrupts the moment. âYour Majesties,â a voice calls from outside. âThe security team is ready for the briefing.â
Your father sighs. âWeâd better go. Darling, start packing what you can. Someone will be up shortly to help you with the rest.â
As your parents move towards the door, you call out, âWait!â
They turn back, concern etched on their faces.
âI just ... I love you both,â you say, your voice thick with emotion. âAnd I know youâre just trying to protect me.â
Your motherâs eyes glisten with unshed tears as she rushes back to embrace you once more. âWe love you too, sweetheart. More than anything in this world.â
Your father joins the hug, his strong arms encircling both of you. For a moment, youâre not a princess facing a crisis, but simply a daughter cherishing her parentsâ love.
As they reluctantly pull away, your father says, âRemember, this is only temporary. Before you know it, youâll be back home, safe and sound.â
You nod, forcing a brave smile. âI know. Iâll make the best of it, I promise.â
With one last loving look, your parents exit the room, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts and a suitcase to pack.
You move to your closet, running your hands along the rows of designer gowns and tailored suits. How do normal people dress in Florida? You wonder, realizing just how much youâll need to adapt.
As you begin selecting clothes, a bittersweet excitement begins to bubble up alongside your anxiety. Itâs terrifying, leaving everything you know behind, but thereâs a tiny part of you that canât help but wonder what adventures await in this unexpected journey.
Youâre lost in thought when another knock sounds at the door. âCome in,â you call, expecting to see one of the staff sent to help you pack.
Instead, your best friend and lady-in-waiting, Olivia, bursts into the room. âIs it true?â She demands without preamble. âAre they really shipping you off to America?â
You sigh, nodding reluctantly. âFlorida, to be exact.â
Oliviaâs eyes widen. âFlorida? Land of alligators and questionable fashion choices? Oh, darling, no.â
Despite everything, you canât help but laugh. âItâs not that bad. I hope.â
Olivia moves to your side, helping you fold a blouse. âHow long will you be gone?â
âI donât know,â you admit. âUntil they catch whoeverâs behind the threats, I suppose.â
Oliviaâs face softens with concern. âAre you scared?â
You pause, considering the question. âA little,â you confess. âBut also ... I donât know. Maybe a tiny bit excited? Is that weird?â
Olivia shakes her head, a small smile playing on her lips. âNot at all. Itâs like your own personal Princess Protection Program, but with better weather and beach access.â
You snort, grateful for her ability to find humor even in the darkest situations. âIâm going to miss you so much, Liv.â
âOh, please,â she scoffs, though her eyes are suspiciously shiny. âYouâll be having so much fun living your secret Florida life, youâll forget all about little old me.â
âNever,â you promise, pulling her into a fierce hug.
As you embrace, Olivia whispers, âJust promise me one thing?â
âAnything,â you reply without hesitation.
âIf you meet some devastatingly handsome American and fall madly in love, you have to tell me every single detail.â
You pull back, laughing. âLiv, Iâm going there to hide, not find romance!â
Olivia winks mischievously. âThe best love stories always happen when you least expect them, darling. Trust me on this.â
As you continue packing, chatting and joking with Olivia, the weight on your shoulders begins to lift slightly. Yes, youâre leaving behind everything you know. Yes, thereâs danger lurking in the shadows. But with the love of your family and friends behind you, you feel a flicker of hope.
Whatever awaits you in Fort Lauderdale, youâll face it head-on. After all, youâre not just any ordinary girl â youâre a princess. And princesses, as youâve always been taught, are made of stronger stuff.
As the sun begins to set, casting long shadows across your room, you zip up the last of your suitcases. Olivia helps you change into a simple outfit â jeans and a t-shirt, clothes that wonât draw attention during your journey.
A soft knock at the door signals the arrival of your security detail. âYour Highness,â a voice calls. âItâs time.â
You take a deep breath, looking around your room one last time. âWell,â you say to Olivia, your voice barely above a whisper, âI guess this is it.â
Olivia pulls you into one last fierce hug. âGo show those Floridians what British royalty is made of,â she says, her voice thick with emotion. âAnd donât you dare come back with an American accent.â
You laugh, wiping away a stray tear. âIâll do my best. Take care of everything while Iâm gone, okay?â
âOf course,â Olivia promises. âNow go, before I change my mind and hide you in my closet instead.â
With one last smile, you open the door. Your security team waits outside, their faces a mask of professional calm. As you follow them through the winding corridors of the palace, each step feels both like an ending and a beginning.
At the private exit, your parents wait. Your mother pulls you into a tight embrace, whispering words of love and encouragement. Your father, ever the king, maintains his composure, but you can see the emotion swimming in his eyes as he kisses your forehead.
âRemember,â he says softly, âno matter where you are, you carry the strength of your ancestors with you. You are a princess of the realm, even if youâre pretending not to be for a while.â
You nod, standing a little straighter. âI wonât let you down.â
âYou never could,â your mother assures you.
With one last look at your family, at the only home youâve ever known, you step into the waiting car. As it pulls away from the palace, you donât look back. Instead, you fix your gaze forward, towards the unknown adventure that awaits.
Florida, you think with a mix of trepidation and excitement, I hope youâre ready for me.
***
The Florida sun beats down mercilessly as you step out of the air-conditioned car, squinting against the bright light. The humid air immediately wraps around you like a warm, damp blanket, a stark contrast to Londonâs typically cool climate.
âWelcome to Fort Lauderdale, sweetheart!â Your Aunt Maggieâs voice rings out, full of warmth and excitement.
You turn to see her hurrying down the driveway of an impressive Mediterranean-style villa, arms outstretched. Behind her, your Uncle George follows at a more leisurely pace, a wide grin on his face.
âAunt Maggie, Uncle George,â you greet them, trying to infuse your voice with enthusiasm despite your jet lag and lingering anxiety. âThank you so much for having me.â
Aunt Maggie pulls you into a tight hug, her floral perfume momentarily overwhelming your senses. âOh, darling, weâre thrilled to have you. Arenât we, George?â
Uncle George nods, giving you a gentle pat on the shoulder. âAbsolutely. Our home is your home, princess. Er, I mean-â
âJust Y/N,â you remind him quietly, glancing around to ensure no one overheard. âRemember, Iâm just your normal, everyday niece visiting for the summer.â
âRight, right,â Uncle George says, lowering his voice. âSorry about that. Old habits, you know.â
Aunt Maggie loops her arm through yours, leading you towards the house. âDonât you worry, dear. Weâve briefed all the neighbors. As far as they know, youâre our lovely niece from England, taking some time to experience life across the pond.â
You nod, grateful for their thoughtfulness. As you enter the house, the cool air conditioning washes over you, providing instant relief from the oppressive heat outside.
âNow,â Aunt Maggie continues, âI know this must all be very overwhelming for you. Why donât you freshen up, and then weâll give you the grand tour?â
âThat sounds lovely,â you agree, realizing just how grimy you feel after the long journey.
Uncle George appears with your suitcases. âIâll show you to your room. Itâs got a great view of the pool.â
As you follow him up the stairs, you canât help but marvel at the casual opulence of the house. Itâs certainly luxurious, but in a relaxed, lived-in way that feels worlds apart from the formal grandeur of the palace.
Your room, as promised, is beautiful. Large windows overlook a sparkling pool surrounded by swaying palm trees. For a moment, you feel like youâve stepped into a holiday brochure.
âIâll let you get settled,â Uncle George says, setting down your bags. âTake your time, weâre on Florida time now. No rush.â
As the door closes behind him, you sink onto the plush bed, finally allowing yourself a moment to process everything. Youâre here, in Florida, thousands of miles from home and everything familiar. The reality of your situation hits you anew, and you feel a lump forming in your throat.
A soft knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. âY/N, dear?â Aunt Maggie calls. âIâve brought you some iced tea. May I come in?â
âOf course,â you reply, quickly composing yourself.
Aunt Maggie enters, carrying a tall glass of tea so cold that condensation is already forming on the outside. She hands it to you with a warm smile. âI thought you might need this. The Florida heat can be quite a shock to the system.â
You take a sip, the sweet, refreshing liquid instantly soothing your parched throat. âThank you, Aunt Maggie. This is delicious.â
She sits beside you on the bed, her face softening with concern. âHow are you really doing, sweetheart? I can only imagine how difficult this must be for you.â
For a moment, you consider maintaining your composed facade. But something about Aunt Maggieâs gentle demeanor breaks through your defenses. âIâm ... scared,â you admit quietly. âAnd I miss home already. But Iâm trying to be brave.â
Aunt Maggie wraps an arm around your shoulders. âOh, my dear. Itâs okay to be scared. What youâre going through, itâs not easy. But you are brave, just by being here.â
You lean into her embrace, allowing yourself this moment of vulnerability. âI just feel so ... out of place. I donât know how to be a normal person.â
Aunt Maggie chuckles softly. âWell, Iâve got news for you. None of us really know how to be normal. Weâre all just figuring it out as we go along.â
Her words bring a small smile to your face. âI suppose youâre right.â
âTell you what,â she says, giving your shoulders a squeeze. âWhy donât you get changed into something cool and comfortable, and then weâll show you around the neighborhood? It might help you feel more settled.â
You nod, feeling a flicker of curiosity despite your apprehension. âIâd like that.â
After Aunt Maggie leaves, you dig through your suitcase, realizing with a start that you have no idea what constitutes âcool and comfortableâ in Florida. You eventually settle on a light sundress and sandals, hoping itâs appropriate.
Downstairs, Aunt Maggie and Uncle George are waiting. âOh, donât you look lovely,â Aunt Maggie coos. âVery Floridian chic.â
Uncle George grabs a set of keys from a hook by the door. âShall we take the golf cart? Itâs the preferred mode of transportation around here.â
You blink in surprise. âWeâre allowed to drive golf carts on the streets?â
âWelcome to Florida, kiddo,â Uncle George laughs. âDifferent rules apply here.â
The next hour is a whirlwind tour of the neighborhood. You zip along palm-lined streets in the golf cart, waving at neighbors who call out cheerful greetings. Aunt Maggie provides a running commentary.
âThatâs the Johnsonsâ place â lovely people, but their dog is a menace to squirrels everywhere. Oh, and over there is the community pool, although everyone just uses their own pools, really. And thatâs where we have our neighborhood barbecues ...â
As if on cue, a man watering his impeccably manicured lawn calls out, âHey, Maggie! George! Donât forget the barbecue tonight!â
Aunt Maggie turns to you with a bright smile. âOh, thatâs perfect timing! What do you say, Y/N? Feel up to a little neighborhood gathering?â
You hesitate, anxiety bubbling up at the thought of meeting so many new people. But you remind yourself that this is part of your cover, part of being normal. âSure,â you say, trying to sound enthusiastic. âWhy not?â
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of unpacking and preparation. Before you know it, youâre walking down the street with your aunt and uncle, a dish of something called âambrosia saladâ in your hands.
The barbecue is in full swing when you arrive. The air is filled with the smell of grilling meat and the sound of laughter and cheerful conversation. Children splash in a nearby pool while adults mingle, cold drinks in hand.
âGeorge! Maggie!â A jovial man with a impressive mustache approaches, clapping Uncle George on the back. âGlad you could make it. And this must be your niece!â
You smile politely, remembering your cover story. âYes, hello. Iâm Y/N. Itâs lovely to meet you.â
âWelcome to the neighborhood, Y/N,â the man says warmly. âIâm Bill, by the way. Now, let me introduce you to some folks. Canât have you standing around like a wallflower, can we?â
Before you can protest, Bill is leading you through the crowd, making introductions left and right. You smile and nod, trying desperately to remember names and keep your story straight.
âAnd this here is Logan,â Bill says, stopping in front of a young man about your age. âLoganâs our local celebrity, drives race cars for a living.â
You look up, meeting a pair of startlingly green eyes. The young man â Logan â smiles, and you feel your heart skip a beat.
âHi there,â Logan says, his voice a pleasant drawl. âLogan Sargeant. Nice to meet you, Y/N.â
âHello,â you manage, suddenly very aware of your accent. âYouâre a race car driver?â
Logan nods, a hint of pride in his smile. âFormula 1, yeah. I drive for Williams Racing.â
Your eyes widen in recognition. Youâve attended a few F1 events in your official capacity, though youâve never paid much attention to the drivers themselves. âThatâs impressive,â you say genuinely.
âAh, itâs just a job,â Logan says with a self-deprecating shrug, though his eyes sparkle with obvious passion. âWhat brings you to our little slice of paradise?â
You launch into your prepared story about traveling abroad, surprised at how easily the words flow. Logan listens attentively, asking questions that show genuine interest.
Just as youâre starting to relax into the conversation, Aunt Maggie appears at your elbow. âY/N, dear, come meet the Hendersons. Theyâve got a daughter about your age.â
You turn back to Logan with an apologetic smile. âIt was nice meeting you, Logan.â
âLikewise,â he replies, that charming grin still in place. âHope to see you around, Y/N.â
As Aunt Maggie leads you away, you canât help but glance back over your shoulder. Logan is still watching you, and when your eyes meet, he gives a little wave.
For the rest of the evening, you find yourself scanning the crowd, hoping for another glimpse of those green eyes. But between meeting what feels like the entire neighborhood and helping Aunt Maggie with hostess duties, you donât get another chance to talk to Logan.
As the sun begins to set, casting a golden glow over the gathering, you feel a mix of emotions washing over you. Thereâs still a lingering sadness, a homesickness that sits heavy in your chest. But thereâs also a tiny spark of excitement, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, this unexpected adventure might not be so bad after all.
Uncle George finds you as the party begins to wind down. âHow you holding up, kiddo?â He asks gently.
You consider the question for a moment. âIâm okay,â you say, surprising yourself with how true it feels. âItâs all very different, but ... I think I might be able to get used to it.â
Uncle George smiles, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze. âThatâs my girl. Now, what do you say we head home? I donât know about you, but all this socializing has worn me out.â
You nod gratefully, suddenly aware of how tired you are. As you walk home with your aunt and uncle, the warm night air filled with the sound of cicadas, you feel a sense of calm settling over you.
This isnât home, not really. But maybe, for now, it can be enough. And as you climb into bed that night, your mind drifts to a pair of green eyes and a charming smile, wondering what other surprises Florida might have in store for you.
***
The Florida sun has barely crested the horizon when you step out of your aunt and uncleâs house, running shoes laced tight. Youâve taken to early morning jogs as a way to clear your head and adjust to the new time zone. The neighborhood is quiet, save for the occasional chirp of exotic birds and the distant hum of sprinklers.
As you round the corner, lost in thought, you nearly collide with another runner coming from the opposite direction.
âWhoa there!â A familiar voice calls out, hands reaching out to steady you.
You look up, startled, into the green eyes of Logan Sargeant. Heâs dressed in running gear, a light sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.
âOh! Logan, Iâm so sorry,â you stammer, feeling heat rise to your cheeks that has nothing to do with the morning warmth.
Logan grins, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment before dropping away. âNo harm done. I didnât know you were a runner.â
You shrug, suddenly self-conscious. âIâm not really. Just trying to ... acclimate, I suppose.â
âTo the heat or to Florida in general?â Logan asks, falling into step beside you as you both slow to a walk.
âBoth, I think,â you admit with a small laugh. âItâs quite different from home.â
Logan nods understandingly. âI bet. Iâve been to England quite a bit since Williams is based there. Beautiful country, but yeah, not exactly known for its tropical climate.â
Youâre about to respond when your stomach lets out an embarrassingly loud growl. Loganâs eyebrows shoot up in amusement.
âSounds like someone worked up an appetite,â he chuckles. âHave you tried the coffee shop down on Atlantic Boulevard yet? They make a mean breakfast burrito.â
You shake your head, realizing you havenât ventured much beyond the immediate neighborhood.
Loganâs face lights up. âWell, we canât have that. What do you say we grab some breakfast? My treat, to make up for almost running you over.â
You hesitate for a moment, your ingrained caution warring with the genuine warmth in Loganâs smile. âI wouldnât want to impose ...â
âNot at all,â Logan insists. âBesides, I could use a coffee after this run. What do you say?â
Against your better judgment, you find yourself nodding. âAlright, that sounds lovely. Thank you.â
The walk to the coffee shop is filled with easy conversation. Logan asks about your impressions of Florida so far, and you find yourself relaxing as you share some of your culture shock moments.
âWait, youâve never had a key lime pie before?â Logan asks incredulously as you approach the quaint storefront of the coffee shop.
You shake your head, laughing. âI had never even heard of it! Aunt Maggie was scandalized.â
Logan holds the door open for you, the aroma of fresh coffee and baked goods washing over you as you enter. âWell, weâll have to remedy that. They make a pretty decent one here, actually.â
As you settle into a cozy booth by the window, you canât help but marvel at how ... normal this feels. Sitting in a cafe with a handsome boy, discussing pastries and local cuisine. Itâs a far cry from formal state dinners and carefully orchestrated public appearances.
âSo,â Logan says after youâve placed your orders, âwhat brings you to Fort Lauderdale? Your aunt mentioned something about you taking some time off?â
You nod, reciting the cover story youâve practiced. âYes, I wanted to experience life outside of England for a bit before graduate school. My aunt and uncle were kind enough to let me stay with them.â
Logan leans forward, genuinely interested. âThatâs cool. Any specific plans while youâre here?â
You shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. âNot really. Just ... experiencing life, I suppose. What about you? Shouldnât you be off racing cars somewhere exotic?â
Logan grins, a spark of excitement lighting up his eyes. âUsually, yeah. But itâs the summer shutdown right now. All the teams take a break for a few weeks. I always try to come home when I can.â
âThat must be nice,â you say softly, a pang of homesickness hitting you unexpectedly.
Loganâs expression softens. âYou miss home?â
You nod, not trusting yourself to speak for a moment. Logan reaches across the table, giving your hand a gentle squeeze.
âHey, itâs okay. Homesickness is rough. But you know what helps?â
You look up, meeting his eyes. âWhatâs that?â
âMaking some good memories in your new place,â Logan says with a warm smile. âAnd I happen to be an expert in South Florida fun.â
You canât help but smile back. âIs that so?â
Logan nods solemnly. âOh yeah. In fact, Iâd be happy to be your official tour guide. If youâre interested, that is.â
Before you can respond, your food arrives. The conversation flows easily as you eat, Logan regaling you with tales of his racing adventures and you sharing carefully edited stories of life in England.
As you finish your meal, Logan glances at his watch. âI hate to eat and run, but Iâve got a training session in an hour. But hey, if youâre free later, maybe we could meet up at the beach? I could show you some of the best spots.â
You hesitate, knowing you should probably decline. But the thought of spending more time with Logan, of experiencing a slice of normal life, is too tempting to resist.
âThat sounds wonderful,â you find yourself saying. âWhat time were you thinking?â
Loganâs face lights up. âHow about three? I can meet you at the public access point near your aunt and uncleâs place.â
You nod, already looking forward to it. âThree it is.â
As you part ways outside the cafe, Logan gives you another heart-melting smile. âSee you later, Y/N. And welcome to Fort Lauderdale.â
The rest of the morning passes in a blur. You help Aunt Maggie with some gardening, your mind constantly drifting to thoughts of green eyes and easy smiles. By the time 3 oâclock rolls around, youâre a bundle of nervous energy.
You spot Logan waiting by the beach access, a backpack slung over one shoulder. He waves as you approach, that now-familiar grin spreading across his face.
âReady for Beach Life 101?â He asks as you fall into step beside him.
You nod, breathing in the salty air. âLead the way, Professor Sargeant.â
Logan laughs, the sound warm and genuine. âOh, I like that. Maybe Iâve found my post-racing career.â
As you walk along the shoreline, Logan points out various landmarks and shares local trivia. You find yourself captivated, not just by the information, but by the passion with which he speaks about his hometown.
âAnd over there,â Logan says, pointing to a stretch of beach dotted with volleyball nets, âis where I learned that I am absolutely terrible at beach volleyball.â
You giggle, the sound surprising even yourself. âOh? Do tell.â
Logan dramatically recounts a particularly disastrous game from his teenage days, complete with exaggerated gestures. Youâre laughing so hard you barely notice when you stumble over a piece of driftwood.
Loganâs arm shoots out, steadying you. âWhoa there. You okay?â
You nod, suddenly very aware of how close youâre standing. âYes, thank you. Iâm not usually this clumsy.â
âMust be my sparkling wit distracting you,â Logan teases, his hand lingering on your arm for a moment before dropping away.
As the afternoon wears on, you find yourself relaxing more and more in Loganâs company. Heâs easy to talk to, genuinely interested in your thoughts and experiences. For a few blissful hours, you almost forget about the circumstances that brought you here.
As the sun begins to dip towards the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and pinks, Logan leads you to a quiet spot away from the main beach.
âThis,â he says with a flourish, âis the best place to watch the sunset in all of Fort Lauderdale.â
You settle onto the sand, marveling at the view. âItâs beautiful,â you breathe.
Logan sits beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his sun-kissed skin. âYeah, it really is.â
For a moment, you sit in comfortable silence, watching as the sun slowly sinks into the ocean. Then Logan turns to you, his expression suddenly serious.
âCan I ask you something?â
You nod, a flicker of nervousness igniting in your chest. âOf course.â
âWhy do I get the feeling thereâs more to your story than youâre letting on?â
Your heart races, panic threatening to overwhelm you. âWhat do you mean?â
Logan shrugs, his eyes searching your face. âI donât know. Thereâs just something about you. The way you carry yourself, the things you say ... or donât say. Itâs like youâre holding part of yourself back.â
You look away, focusing on the horizon. âIâm just ... adjusting. To being here, I mean.â
Logan nods slowly. âI get that. And hey, if there are things you donât want to share, thatâs cool. I just want you to know that you can trust me. If you want to, that is.â
You turn back to him, struck by the sincerity in his eyes. For a wild moment, you consider telling him everything â who you really are, why youâre here. But the weight of your familyâs expectations, the very real danger that drove you here, holds you back.
Instead, you offer him a small smile. âThank you, Logan. That means a lot.â
He returns your smile, reaching out to squeeze your hand gently. âAnytime. Whatever brought you here, Iâm glad it did. Itâs been really nice getting to know you.â
As the last rays of sunlight disappear beneath the waves, you find yourself wishing you could freeze this moment. Here, with the sound of the ocean in your ears and Loganâs hand warm in yours, you feel more like yourself than you have in years.
But as the sky darkens and the first stars begin to appear, reality starts to creep back in. You know you canât stay in this bubble forever.
âWe should probably head back,â you say reluctantly, breaking the comfortable silence that has settled between you.
Logan nods, standing and offering you a hand up. âYeah, I guess so. But this doesnât have to be a one-time thing. Maybe we could do this again sometime?â
You smile, surprising yourself with how much you want that. âIâd like that very much.â
As you walk back along the beach, Loganâs hand brushes against yours. After a momentâs hesitation, you let your fingers intertwine with his. Itâs a small gesture, but it feels monumental.
At the edge of your aunt and uncleâs property, you pause. âThank you for today, Logan. It was ... wonderful.â
Loganâs smile is soft in the dim light. âIâm glad. And if you ever need a break from acclimating, you know where to find me.â
Before you can overthink it, you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. âGoodnight, Logan.â
As you hurry inside, your heart pounding, you catch a glimpse of Logan touching his cheek, a dazed smile on his face.
In your room, you sink onto the bed, a whirlwind of emotions swirling through you. You know youâre treading dangerous waters. Logan is everything you shouldnât want â a distraction, a complication, a risk to your cover.
But as you drift off to sleep, your dreams are filled with green eyes and the sound of waves crashing on the shore. And for the first time since arriving in Florida, you find yourself looking forward to what tomorrow might bring.
***
The gentle lapping of waves against the hull of the boat fills the comfortable silence between you and Logan. Youâre sprawled on the deck, basking in the warm afternoon sun, while Logan sits nearby, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your arm.
âPenny for your thoughts?â Loganâs voice breaks through your reverie.
You turn your head to look at him, a soft smile playing on your lips. âJust thinking about how surreal this all feels. A few weeks ago, I never could have imagined ... this.â
Loganâs eyebrows quirk up in amusement. âWhat, lying on a boat in the middle of the Atlantic? Or spending time with an incredibly charming race car driver?â
You laugh, playfully swatting his arm. âBoth, I suppose. Though Iâm not sure about the âincredibly charmingâ part.â
âOuch,â Logan clutches his chest in mock hurt. âYou wound me.â
Sitting up, you lean against the boatâs railing, taking in the endless expanse of blue around you. âItâs just ... Iâve never felt this free before. This ... unburdened.â
Loganâs expression softens as he moves to sit beside you. âWhat do you mean?â
You bite your lip, choosing your words carefully. âBack home, thereâs always ... expectations. Responsibilities. Here, with you, I feel like I can just be myself.â
Logan nods thoughtfully. âI get that. Itâs kind of like how I feel when Iâm racing. When Iâm in the car, nothing else matters. Itâs just me, the track, and the speed.â
âThat sounds exhilarating,â you say, genuinely curious. âIs that why you love it so much?â
Loganâs eyes light up with passion. âPartly, yeah. But itâs more than that. Itâs the challenge, you know? Pushing yourself to the absolute limit, always striving to be better, faster.â
You listen intently as Logan delves into the intricacies of Formula 1 racing, marveling at the depth of his knowledge and the intensity of his enthusiasm.
âSorry,â he says suddenly, looking a bit sheepish. âI tend to ramble when it comes to racing. Iâm probably boring you.â
You shake your head emphatically. âNot at all! I love hearing you talk about it. Your passion is ... inspiring.â
Loganâs smile is warm as he takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. âThanks. You know, itâs nice to be able to talk about this stuff with someone who actually listens. Most people just hear âFormula 1 driverâ and make assumptions.â
âWhat kind of assumptions?â you ask, curious.
Logan shrugs. âOh, you know. That Iâm some adrenaline junkie who doesnât take anything seriously. Or that Iâm living some glamorous, carefree life.â
You squeeze his hand gently. âBut itâs not like that at all, is it?â
âNot even close,â Logan admits. âDonât get me wrong, I love what I do. But the pressure ... it can be overwhelming sometimes.â
âHow so?â You prompt, recognizing the weight in his voice.
Logan leans back, his gaze distant. âItâs not just about driving fast, you know? Thereâs the physical training, the technical knowledge, the media obligations. And then thereâs the constant pressure to perform. Everyone always questioning whether you deserve your seat.â
You nod, understanding all too well the burden of constant scrutiny. âThat sounds incredibly stressful.â
âIt can be,â Logan agrees. âBut then I remember how lucky I am to be living my dream, and it puts things in perspective.â
You smile, admiring his positive outlook. âThatâs a wonderful way of looking at it.â
Logan turns to you, his green eyes intense. âWhat about you? Whatâs your dream?â
The question catches you off guard. For so long, your life has been dictated by duty and expectation. The concept of a personal dream feels almost foreign.
âI ... Iâm not sure,â you admit quietly. âIâve never really thought about it in those terms.â
Loganâs brow furrows in concern. âReally? There must be something youâre passionate about, something youâd love to do if you could do anything in the world.â
You ponder the question, thinking back to the interests and passions youâve had to set aside for your royal duties. âIâve always loved art,â you say finally. âPainting, specifically. But itâs always been more of a hobby than a serious pursuit.â
Loganâs face lights up. âThatâs awesome! Have you painted anything since youâve been here?â
You shake your head, a twinge of regret in your chest. âNo, I ... I didnât bring any supplies with me.â
âWell, weâll have to fix that,â Logan says decisively. âIâm sure thereâs an art supply store in town. We could go tomorrow if you want?â
The thought of picking up a paintbrush again sends a thrill of excitement through you. âReally? You wouldnât mind?â
Logan laughs, the sound warm and genuine. âMind? Y/N, Iâd love to see this side of you. Maybe you could even paint me sometime,â he adds with a wink.
You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks. âIâm not sure youâd want that. Iâm terribly out of practice.â
âIâm sure youâre amazing,â Logan says with such conviction that you canât help but believe him a little.
A comfortable silence falls between you, broken only by the sound of the waves and the occasional cry of a seagull. You find yourself studying Loganâs profile, admiring the way the sunlight catches in his hair and highlights the strong line of his jaw.
As if sensing your gaze, Logan turns to you, a soft smile playing on his lips. âWhat?â
âNothing,â you say, returning his smile. âIâm just ... happy.â
Loganâs expression becomes tender as he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. âYeah? Me too.â
The moment stretches between you, charged with unspoken emotion. Logan leans in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away if you want to. But you donât want to. Instead, you meet him halfway, your lips brushing together in a soft, sweet kiss.
When you part, Logan rests his forehead against yours. âIâve been wanting to do that for a while now,â he admits.
You laugh softly, your heart feeling lighter than it has in years. âMe too.â
The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of conversation, laughter, and stolen kisses. As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in brilliant hues of orange and pink, Logan steers the boat back towards the docks.
âSo,â he says as you dock, âwhat do you say we go on a proper date tomorrow? Dinner, maybe? After our art supply shopping trip, of course.â
You nod, unable to keep the smile off your face. âThat sounds wonderful.â
As Logan walks you back to your aunt and uncleâs house, his hand warm in yours, you canât help but marvel at how much your life has changed in just a few short weeks. The weight of your royal responsibilities, the constant fear from the threats that drove you here â it all feels distant, like a half-remembered dream.
At your doorstep, Logan pulls you close, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. âGoodnight, Y/N. Sweet dreams.â
âGoodnight, Logan,â you reply, reluctant to let go of his hand.
Inside, you lean against the closed door, your heart racing with a mixture of excitement and an emotion youâre not quite ready to name. For the first time in your life, youâre experiencing something thatâs wholly yours â not dictated by duty or protocol, but born from genuine connection and shared moments.
The next few weeks pass in a whirlwind of stolen moments and shared adventures. True to his word, Logan takes you to the art supply store, insisting on buying you the best paints and brushes despite your protests.
You find yourself rediscovering your passion for art, spending hours capturing the vibrant colors and energy of Fort Lauderdale on canvas. Logan is always eager to see your latest creations, his genuine enthusiasm bolstering your confidence.
One evening, as you sit on the beach watching the sunset, Logan turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eye. âWhat do you say we go for a swim?â
You laugh, gesturing at your sundress. âNow? Weâre not exactly dressed for it.â
Logan shrugs, his grin widening. âSo? Live a little, Y/N. When was the last time you went swimming in your clothes?â
You think back, realizing with a start that youâve never done anything so spontaneous. âI ... never, actually.â
âWell then,â Logan says, standing and offering you his hand, âthereâs no time like the present.â
Before you can overthink it, you take his hand, allowing him to pull you to your feet. Together, you run towards the water, laughing as the cool waves crash around your ankles.
Logan pulls you deeper, until youâre both waist-deep in the ocean. The water is refreshing against your sun-warmed skin, and you canât help but giggle at the absurdity of it all.
âSee?â Logan says, pulling you close. âIsnât this fun?â
You nod, wrapping your arms around his neck. âItâs perfect.â
As you float together in the gentle waves, the last rays of sunlight painting the sky in brilliant hues, youâre struck by a sudden, overwhelming realization. Youâre falling in love with Logan Sargeant.
The thought should terrify you. After all, you know this canât last forever. Your real life, your responsibilities, theyâre all waiting for you back in England. But in this moment, with Loganâs arms around you and the vast ocean stretching out before you, you canât bring yourself to care about the future.
âWhat are you thinking about?â Logan asks softly, his fingers tracing patterns on your back.
You look up at him, taking in the warmth in his green eyes, the gentle curve of his smile. âJust ... how happy I am right now. How I wish this moment could last forever.â
Loganâs expression softens as he leans in to kiss you. Itâs a kiss full of unspoken emotion, of shared dreams and secret hopes. When you part, Logan rests his forehead against yours.
âMe too, Y/N,â he whispers. âMe too.â
As you float in the warm Florida waters, the stars beginning to twinkle overhead, you allow yourself to fully embrace the moment. You know that reality will intrude eventually, that the carefree days of this Florida summer canât last forever. But for now, in Loganâs arms, you feel truly, completely free.
And for the first time in your life, you dare to dream of a future shaped by your own desires rather than the expectations of others. Itâs a dangerous thought, a seed of hope that you know might lead to heartbreak. But as Logan pulls you in for another kiss, you canât bring yourself to regret it.
For now, youâre just a girl falling in love under the Florida stars. And for now, thatâs enough.
***
The sun is setting over Fort Lauderdale as you and Logan stroll hand in hand along Las Olas Boulevard. The street is alive with the buzz of restaurants and boutiques, but youâre barely aware of your surroundings, lost in thought about the conversation you know you need to have.
Loganâs voice breaks through your reverie. âEarth to Y/N,â he says, gently nudging your shoulder. âYou okay? Youâve been pretty quiet tonight.â
You force a smile, trying to quell the anxiety bubbling in your chest. âIâm fine. Just ... thinking.â
Loganâs brow furrows with concern. âAnything you want to talk about?â
You take a deep breath, steeling yourself. âActually, yes. Logan, thereâs something I need to tell you-â
But before you can continue, a flash goes off nearby, startling you both. You turn to see a man with a camera, his lens pointed directly at you.
âPrincess Y/N?â The photographer calls out, his voice a mix of disbelief and excitement. âIs that you?â
Your blood runs cold as more flashes go off. Suddenly, it seems like cameras are appearing from every direction, voices calling out your name and title.
Loganâs hand tightens around yours. âPrincess?â He repeats, confusion evident in his voice. âY/N, whatâs going on?â
You feel panic rising in your throat. This isnât how you wanted him to find out. âLogan, I can explain-â
But Loganâs already pulling you away from the growing crowd, his jaw set in a hard line. He leads you down a side street, away from the main thoroughfare, until you reach a quiet park.
As soon as youâre alone, Logan drops your hand, turning to face you with a mixture of hurt and bewilderment in his eyes. âPrincess Y/N? Thatâs who you are?â
You nod, your heart racing. âYes. Logan, Iâm so sorry. I was going to tell you-â
âWhen?â Logan interrupts, his voice sharp. âWhen were you planning on telling me that everything about you has been a lie?â
âNot everything,â you protest, reaching for his hand, but he pulls away. âMy feelings for you are real, Logan. Thatâs not a lie.â
Logan runs a hand through his hair, pacing back and forth. âI donât understand. Why didnât you tell me? Did you think this was funny? Playing at being a normal girl, slumming it with the commoner?â
His words sting, and you feel tears pricking at your eyes. âNo! Of course not. It wasnât like that at all.â
âThen what was it like?â Logan demands. âBecause from where Iâm standing, it looks like youâve been playing me for a fool this entire time.â
You take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. âI came here because my life was in danger. There were threats, serious ones. My family thought it would be safer if I disappeared for a while, if I lived like a normal person.â
Loganâs expression softens slightly, but the hurt is still evident in his eyes. âOkay, I can understand that. But why didnât you trust me enough to tell me the truth?â
âI wanted to,â you say softly. âSo many times. But I was scared. Scared of how youâd react, scared of ruining what we had.â
âWhat we had,â Logan repeats, his voice bitter. âAnd what exactly was that, Y/N? Or should I call you âYour Highnessâ now?â
You flinch at his tone. âLogan, please. What we have is real. My feelings for you are real.â
âAre they?â Logan challenges. âBecause the Y/N I thought I knew wouldnât have lied to me for weeks. The Y/N I was falling in love with wouldnât have let me make a fool of myself, talking about my problems like they were anything compared to being actual royalty.â
His words hit you like a physical blow. âFalling in love with?â You repeat, your voice barely above a whisper.
Loganâs expression crumples for a moment before he schools it back into anger. âYeah, well. I guess that just shows how stupid Iâve been.â
âYouâre not stupid,â you insist, taking a step towards him. âLogan, I love you too. Thatâs why I was so scared to tell you the truth. I didnât want to lose you.â
Logan laughs humorlessly. âWell, great job there. Because finding out like this? With paparazzi swarming us? Thatâs so much better.â
You feel tears starting to fall, but you make no move to wipe them away. âIâm sorry. Iâm so, so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.â
âWhat did you think was going to happen?â Logan asks, his voice softer now but still laced with hurt. âDid you think we could just keep playing pretend forever? That your real life wouldnât come crashing back in eventually?â
You shake your head, feeling the weight of your reality pressing down on you. âNo, I ... I donât know what I thought. I just knew that when I was with you, I felt free. I felt like myself for the first time in my life.â
Loganâs expression wavers between anger and sympathy. âAnd who is that, Y/N? Because Iâm not sure I know anymore.â
âIâm still me,â you insist. âThe girl who loves art and quiet moments on the beach. The girl who laughs at your terrible jokes and feels safest when sheâs in your arms. Thatâs all real, Logan. The only thing thatâs different is my title.â
Logan scoffs. âOnly your title? Y/N, youâre a princess. Do you have any idea what this means? The media frenzy, the scrutiny, the expectations ... itâs not just your title thatâs different. Itâs your entire world.â
You feel a flicker of frustration ignite in your chest. âYou think I donât know that? You think I havenât lived with that pressure every day of my life? Thatâs why being here, being with you, has meant so much to me. For once, I got to just be myself.â
âBut it wasnât really yourself, was it?â Logan counters. âIt was a version of you. A version without the weight of a crown.â
His words hit too close to home, and you feel your own anger rising. âAnd what about you? You talk about pressure and expectations like I couldnât possibly understand. But I do understand, Logan. More than you know.â
Logan shakes his head, his voice rising. âItâs not the same thing, Y/N! I chose this life. I worked for it. You ... you were born into it. And you lied about it. To me, to everyone here.â
âI didnât have a choice!â You shout, surprising yourself with the intensity of your emotion. âDo you think I wanted to lie? Do you think I enjoyed keeping this secret? I was trying to stay alive, Logan. I was trying to protect myself and the people I care about. Including you!â
Logan takes a step back, his eyes wide. For a moment, silence hangs heavy between you.
âProtect me?â He finally says, his voice low. âHow does lying to me protect me?â
You take a shaky breath, trying to calm yourself. âThe less you knew, the safer you were. And ... the more I fell for you, the more I wanted to keep you separate from that part of my life. To keep this â us â untainted by all of that.â
Loganâs expression softens slightly, but the hurt is still evident in his eyes. âY/N ... I get that you were in a difficult position. I do. But relationships are built on trust. How can I trust you now?â
His words cut deep, and you feel fresh tears welling up. âI donât know,â you admit quietly. âBut I want to try. Logan, please. What we have ... itâs worth fighting for, isnât it?â
Logan runs a hand over his face, looking suddenly tired. âI donât know, Y/N. This is ... itâs a lot to process. I need time to think.â
You nod, your heart sinking. âI understand. I just ... I hope you can forgive me. Eventually.â
Logan looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. âI hope so too. But right now I think we both need some space.â
As he turns to walk away, you feel a piece of your heart go with him. âLogan,â you call out, your voice breaking.
He pauses but doesnât turn back. âYeah?â
âI really do love you,â you say softly. âThat was never a lie.â
Loganâs shoulders slump slightly. âI know,â he says, so quietly you almost donât hear it. And then heâs gone, disappearing into the growing darkness of the park.
You stand there for a long moment, tears streaming down your face, feeling more alone than you ever have before. The sound of distant camera shutters reminds you that your private world has well and truly shattered.
With a heavy heart, you pull out your phone to call your aunt and uncle. Itâs time to face the music, to deal with the fallout of your exposed identity. But as you dial, all you can think about is the look of betrayal in Loganâs eyes, wondering if youâve lost him for good.
As you wait for your aunt to pick up, you gaze out at the Florida skyline, the twinkling lights now seeming cold and distant. For a fleeting moment, you allow yourself to imagine a different life â one where youâre just Y/N, an ordinary girl in love with a boy who races cars. But reality crashes back in as your auntâs worried voice comes through the phone.
âItâs time to come home,â she says, and you know she doesnât just mean back to the house.
Your summer of freedom, of love and normalcy, is coming to an end. As you give your aunt your location for pickup, you canât help but wonder ⌠was it worth it? The joy, the love, the heartbreak â would you do it all again, knowing how it would end?
As you spot your uncleâs car approaching, you realize with a start that yes, you would. Because for a brief, shining moment, you knew what it was like to be truly, completely yourself. And no crown, no duty, no threat could ever take that away from you.
***
The Florida sun beats down mercilessly as you sit on the porch swing of your aunt and uncleâs house, listlessly flipping through a magazine. Itâs been a week since the paparazzi incident, a week since your world turned upside down. The threats back home have been neutralized, your security team assures you, but it feels like a hollow victory.
Your auntâs voice drifts from inside the house. âY/N, darling, are you sure you donât want to come to the beach with us?â
âIâm sure, Aunt Maggie,â you call back, forcing a cheerfulness you donât feel into your voice. âYou and Uncle George go ahead. Iâm fine here.â
As the sound of their car fades away, you let out a heavy sigh. Fine is the last thing you are. With only a week left before your scheduled return to England, you feel like youâre in limbo, caught between two worlds and belonging to neither.
The sudden roar of an engine pulls you from your melancholy thoughts. A sleek sports car you recognize all too well pulls up in front of the house. Your heart leaps into your throat as Logan steps out, looking as devastatingly handsome as ever in jeans and a simple t-shirt.
For a moment, you both freeze, eyes locked on each other. Then Logan takes a hesitant step forward. âHi,â he says, his voice carrying a mix of nervousness and determination.
âHi,â you reply, barely above a whisper. âWhat are you doing here?â
Logan runs a hand through his hair, a gesture youâve come to recognize as a sign of his anxiety. âI ... I needed to see you. To talk to you. Can we ...â He gestures vaguely towards the porch.
You nod, moving over on the swing to make room for him. Logan sits, careful to leave space between you, and for a moment, neither of you speaks.
Finally, Logan breaks the silence. âI owe you an apology,â he says, his voice low and sincere. âThe way I reacted when I found out ... it wasnât fair to you.â
You shake your head, feeling a lump form in your throat. âNo, Logan. Iâm the one who should be apologizing. I lied to you, kept this huge part of my life secret. You had every right to be angry.â
Logan turns to face you, his green eyes intense. âMaybe. But Iâve had time to think. To really process everything. And I realized something important.â
âWhatâs that?â You ask, hardly daring to breathe.
âThat it doesnât matter,â Logan says simply. âPrincess, commoner, whatever â it doesnât change how I feel about you. Because the girl I fell in love with? Sheâs real. Royal title or not.â
You feel tears welling up in your eyes. âLogan ...â
He reaches out, taking your hand in his. âLet me finish, please. I talked to my family, tried to sort out my feelings. And I kept coming back to one thing â how I feel when Iâm with you. How you make me laugh, how you challenge me, how you see me for who I am, not just what I do.â
âI feel the same way,â you whisper, squeezing his hand. âBeing with you ... itâs the freest Iâve ever felt.â
Loganâs thumb traces circles on your palm, sending shivers up your arm. âI know we have a lot to figure out. The distance, the media attention, our careers ... it wonât be easy. But Y/N, I think what we have is worth fighting for. If youâll have me, that is.â
You canât hold back your tears any longer. They fall freely as you launch yourself into Loganâs arms, burying your face in his neck. âOf course Iâll have you, you idiot,â you mumble against his skin.
Loganâs arms tighten around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. âThank God,â he murmurs. âBecause I donât think I could bear losing you again.â
You pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. âIâm so sorry. For lying, for putting you in this position. I never meant to hurt you.â
Logan cups your face gently, wiping away your tears with his thumbs. âI know, sweetheart. And Iâm sorry too, for not giving you a chance to explain. For letting my hurt and pride get in the way of what really matters.â
âAnd whatâs that?â You ask, though you think you already know the answer.
âUs,â Logan says simply. âYou and me. Everything else ... weâll figure it out together.â
You lean in, pressing your forehead against his. âTogether,â you repeat, loving the sound of it. âI like that.â
Loganâs lips curve into a smile. âMe too. Now, can I please kiss you? Because Iâve been dying to do that since the moment I saw you on this porch.â
You laugh, a sound of pure joy and relief. âI thought youâd never ask.â
As Loganâs lips meet yours, you feel like youâre coming home. The kiss is tender and passionate all at once, an apology and a promise wrapped into one. When you finally part, youâre both breathless.
âSo,â Logan says, his arms still wrapped around you. âWhat now, Princess? Because I have to say, Iâm a little out of my depth here. Is there some royal protocol for dating I should know about?â
You canât help but giggle at the mix of humor and genuine concern in his voice. âWell, traditionally, youâd have to ask my father for permission to court me. Preferably while wearing a powdered wig and breeches.â
Loganâs eyes widen in mock horror. âPlease tell me youâre joking.â
You pat his cheek affectionately. âAbout the wig and breeches, yes. About talking to my father ... that might actually have to happen at some point.â
Logan gulps audibly. âRight. Talking to the King of England. No pressure or anything.â
You snuggle closer to him on the swing. âHeâll love you. How could he not?â
âI hope youâre right,â Logan says, pressing a kiss to your temple. âBecause Iâm not giving you up without a fight, royal decree or not.â
You sit in comfortable silence for a moment, enjoying the simple pleasure of being in each otherâs arms again. But reality begins to creep in, and you feel Logan tense slightly.
âY/N,â he says softly. âWhat about ... I mean, youâre leaving in a week, right?â
You nod, feeling a pang in your chest. âYes. The jet is being sent to pick me up next Saturday.â
Logan takes a deep breath. âAnd then what? I mean, for us?â
You sit up, turning to face him fully. âI donât know,â you admit. âI want to make this work, Logan. More than anything. But I wonât lie to you â it wonât be easy.â
Logan nods, his expression serious. âI know. The distance, our schedules ... not to mention the media circus thatâs bound to happen when word gets out.â
âAre you sure you want to deal with all that?â You ask, voicing the fear thatâs been nagging at you. âItâs not too late to back out, to go back to your normal life.â
Loganâs hand comes up to cup your cheek. âY/N, look at me.â When you meet his gaze, he continues, âMy life stopped being normal the moment I met you. And I wouldnât have it any other way. Whatever challenges we face, weâll face them together. Okay?â
You lean into his touch, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. âOkay,â you agree softly.
âBesides,â Logan adds with a mischievous grin, âdating a princess might actually be good for my image. Think of all the sponsorship deals I could get.â
You gasp in mock outrage, swatting his arm. âLogan Sargeant! Is that all I am to you? A ticket to better endorsements?â
Logan laughs, pulling you back into his arms. âBusted. It was all an elaborate scheme to get my face on a tea towel.â
You canât help but join in his laughter, marveling at how easily he can lift your spirits. As your giggles subside, a thought occurs to you.
âYou know,â you say slowly, âthere might be a way to make the distance a little more manageable, at least for a while.â
Logan raises an eyebrow. âIâm all ears, Princess.â
You take a deep breath, hoping youâre not overstepping. âWell, the F1 season isnât over yet, right? There are still races in Europe ...â
Loganâs eyes light up as he catches on. âRaces where a certain princess might be able to make an appearance?â
You nod, feeling a flutter of excitement. âIt would be a good opportunity to show support for British motorsport. Purely diplomatic reasons, of course.â
Loganâs grin widens. âOf course. Very diplomatic. Iâm sure the press wonât read anything into the Princess of Wales suddenly becoming a racing enthusiast.â
You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. âLet them talk. As long as I get to see you, I donât care what they say.â
Loganâs expression softens. âYou really mean that, donât you? Youâre willing to face all the scrutiny, the gossip, just to be with me?â
You nod, your voice firm. âYouâre worth it. Weâre worth it.â
Logan pulls you close, burying his face in your hair. âI love you,â he murmurs. âGod, I love you so much.â
âI love you too,â you reply, your voice thick with emotion. âMore than I ever thought possible.â
As you sit there on the porch swing, wrapped in each otherâs arms, you know that the road ahead wonât be easy. There will be challenges, obstacles, moments of doubt. But looking into Loganâs eyes, seeing the love and determination there, you know you can face anything as long as youâre together.
The sound of a car approaching breaks the moment. You recognize your aunt and uncleâs vehicle coming up the driveway.
Logan tenses slightly. âShould I ... do you want me to leave?â
You shake your head firmly. âNo. Stay. Itâs time they met the real you, not just the boy next door.â
As your aunt and uncle pull up, looking surprised to see Logan there, you stand up, hand-in-hand with the man you love. Youâre ready to face whatever comes next, be it nosy relatives, prying media, or the complexities of a long-distance relationship between a princess and an F1 driver.
Because now you know â home isnât a place. Itâs not a palace in England or a beach house in Florida. Home is wherever you and Logan are together. And thatâs a feeling worth fighting for.
***
The Florida sun is just beginning to peek over the horizon as Loganâs car pulls up to the private airstrip. The sleek private jet waiting on the tarmac is a reminder of the reality youâre about to step back into. Logan cuts the engine, but neither of you move to get out, both reluctant to face the inevitable goodbye.
âSo,â Logan says, his voice barely above a whisper, âI guess this is it, huh?â
You turn to him, taking in every detail of his face as if trying to memorize it. âNot it,â you insist. âJust ... see you later.â
Logan manages a small smile, reaching out to take your hand. âRight. See you later. In England. Where youâll be a princess again.â
You squeeze his hand. âIâll always be me, Logan. Title or no title.â
âI know,â he says softly. âItâs just ... itâs going to be different, isnât it? Youâll have responsibilities, obligations. And Iâll be ...â
âThe man I love,â you interrupt firmly. âNo matter what.â
Loganâs eyes soften at your words. âI love you too. Iâm going to miss you so much.â
You lean across the center console, pressing your forehead against his. âIâm going to miss you too. But weâve got a plan, remember?â
Logan nods, his breath warm against your skin. âRight. The plan. Want to run through it one more time? You know, just to make sure weâve got it down.â
You canât help but smile at his attempt to prolong the moment. âOkay, letâs see. Youâve got ten more races this season, right?â
âYep,â Logan confirms. âZandvoort, Monza, Baku, Singapore, COTA, Mexico, Brazil, Vegas, Qatar, and Abu Dhabi.â
âAnd I,â you say, sitting back slightly to meet his gaze, âwill be making surprise appearances to as many as I can. To support British motorsport, of course.â
Logan grins. âOf course. Very diplomatic of you.â
âThen,â you continue, âonce the seasonâs over, youâll be spending more time at the Williams headquarters in Grove.â
âWhich, coincidentally, is just a short drive from London,â Logan adds with a wink.
You nod, feeling a flutter of excitement despite the impending separation. âAnd Iâll make sure to have plenty of reasons to visit Grove. Lots of ... local businesses to support.â
Logan laughs, the sound warming your heart. âIâm sure the people of Grove will greatly appreciate the royal attention.â
âThen thereâs Christmas,â you say softly. âI talked to my parents, and ... they want to meet you. Properly.â
Loganâs eyes widen slightly. âChristmas with the royal family. No pressure or anything.â
You cup his cheek gently. âTheyâll love you, Logan. How could they not?â
He leans into your touch. âI hope youâre right. Because I plan on sticking around for a long time, Princess.â
âGood,â you say firmly. âBecause Iâm not letting you go that easily.â
Loganâs smile fades slightly as his gaze drifts to the waiting plane. âWe should probably ...â
You nod, feeling a lump form in your throat. âYeah. We should.â
With a deep breath, you both step out of the car. Logan moves to the trunk to retrieve your luggage while you take a moment to compose yourself. As he joins you, bags in hand, youâre struck by how domestic this feels â and how much you wish this was just a normal trip, not a return to a life an ocean away.
âYour chariot awaits, Your Highness,â Logan says with an exaggerated bow, trying to lighten the mood.
You roll your eyes fondly, but play along. âWhy thank you, kind sir. Your service to the Crown is most appreciated.â
As you walk towards the plane, Loganâs free hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers. âYou know,â he says casually, âIâve been thinking about taking some flying lessons. Might come in handy for, oh, I donât know ... surprise visits to England?â
You laugh, squeezing his hand. âLogan Sargeant, are you planning on becoming my personal pilot?â
He grins, that mischievous sparkle you love so much dancing in his eyes. âWell, I figure if I can handle an F1 car at 200 miles per hour, a plane canât be that much harder, right?â
âIâm not sure thatâs how it works,â you say, unable to keep the amusement out of your voice.
âDetails, details,â Logan waves his free hand dismissively. âThe point is, Iâm going to find ways to see you. Even if I have to learn to fly, sail, or ... I donât know, teleport.â
You stop walking, tugging on his hand to make him face you. âYou know you donât have to do all that, right? I mean, I love that you want to, but I donât want you to feel like you have to change your whole life for me.â
Logan sets down your bags, taking both your hands in his. âY/N, listen to me. You are worth changing my whole life for. But thatâs not what this is about. Itâs about finding ways to make our lives fit together. Because thatâs what I want â a life with you in it.â
You feel tears pricking at your eyes. âI want that too. So much.â
Logan reaches up to brush away a tear thatâs escaped. âThen weâll make it work. Whatever it takes.â
You nod, leaning into his touch. âWhatever it takes,â you repeat softly.
The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks the moment. You turn to see the pilot standing a respectful distance away.
âIâm sorry to interrupt, Your Highness,â he says, âbut we need to begin boarding if weâre to make our departure time.â
You nod, straightening your shoulders. âOf course. Thank you, Captain. Iâll be right there.â
As the pilot retreats, you turn back to Logan. âI guess this is really goodbye.â
Logan pulls you close, wrapping his arms tightly around you. âNot goodbye. Never goodbye. Just ... until next time.â
You bury your face in his neck, breathing in his familiar scent. âNext time,â you murmur. âThe Netherlands, right?â
âThe Netherlands,â Logan confirms, his voice thick with emotion. âIâll be the one in the Williams car, trying not to crash while looking for you in the stands.â
You canât help but laugh, even as tears threaten to fall again. âPlease donât crash. I quite like you in one piece.â
Logan pulls back slightly, cupping your face in his hands. âNo promises. Youâre pretty distracting, Princess.â
Before you can retort, he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss that takes your breath away. Itâs tender and passionate, a promise and a farewell all at once. When you finally part, youâre both breathless.
âI love you,â you whisper, your foreheads still pressed together.
âI love you too,â Logan replies. âNow go, before I decide to jump in the cockpit of that plane and fly us both to some remote island where we can just be us.â
You laugh, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace. âDonât tempt me. That sounds pretty perfect right now.â
Logan picks up your bags again, walking with you the last few steps to the planeâs stairs. âYour royal carriage, mâlady,â he says with another exaggerated bow.
You shake your head fondly. âYouâre ridiculous.â
âYou love it,â he counters with a grin.
âI do,â you admit softly. âI really do.â
With one last lingering look, you start up the stairs. At the top, you turn back. Logan is still there, watching you with a mix of love and longing that makes your heart ache.
âHey, Logan?â You call down.
âYeah?â
You smile, feeling a sudden surge of certainty despite the impending separation. âWeâre going to be okay, arenât we?â
Loganâs answering smile is like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. âYeah, Princess. Weâre going to be more than okay. Weâre going to be amazing.â
With those words echoing in your heart, you finally step into the plane. As you settle into your seat, you watch through the window as Logan returns to his car. He stands there, hand raised in farewell, until the plane begins to taxi.
As the ground falls away beneath you, you close your eyes, already counting the days until the Dutch Grand Prix. The path ahead wonât be easy â you know there will be challenges, misunderstandings, moments of doubt. But you also know that what you and Logan have is worth fighting for.
Youâre leaving behind the carefree summer days of Florida, returning to the responsibilities and expectations of your royal life. But youâre taking with you something precious â the knowledge that you are loved for who you are, not what you are. And that, you realize, is the greatest gift of all.
As the plane soars over the Atlantic, you allow yourself to dream of the future â of stolen moments at race tracks, of quiet evenings in London, of a love that bridges oceans and transcends titles. It wonât be easy, but then again, the best things in life rarely are.
Youâre a princess and heâs a race car driver. On paper, it shouldnât work. But as you drift off to sleep, Loganâs last words replay in your mind.
âWeâre going to be amazing.â
And you believe him. Because with Logan by your side, how could you be anything else?
***
The Texas sun beats down mercilessly on the Circuit of the Americas as Logan adjusts his fireproofs, preparing for another round of interviews. Itâs his home race and the pressure is palpable. Heâs been struggling all season, the weight of expectations and the constant comparisons to his teammate wearing him down.
As he walks towards the waiting journalists, Logan canât help but feel a pang of disappointment. You had told him you couldnât make it to this race, citing royal obligations back in England. He understands, of course, but the thought of racing on home soil without you in the stands feels hollow somehow.
âLogan! Over here!â A reporter waves him over, microphone at the ready. âHow are you feeling about todayâs race?â
Logan pastes on his media-ready smile, falling into the familiar rhythm of pre-race interviews. âIâm feeling good, you know? Itâs always special racing at home, and the energy here at COTA is incredible.â
âThereâs been a lot of talk about your future with Williams,â another journalist chimes in. âAny comments on the rumors that your seat might be in jeopardy for next season?â
Loganâs smile falters slightly, but he recovers quickly. âIâm focused on doing my best in every race, including todayâs. The future will take care of itself.â
As he continues answering questions, Loganâs gaze drifts over the bustling pit lane. Mechanics scurry about, making last-minute adjustments to the cars. Team personnel hurry back and forth, clipboards and tablets in hand. Itâs a familiar scene, one heâs witnessed countless times before.
But then, something catches his eye. A flash of familiar hair, a silhouette heâd recognize anywhere. Logan blinks, sure he must be seeing things. But no â there you are, walking down the pit lane as if you belong there (which, he supposes, you do in a way).
âLogan?â The interviewerâs voice seems distant. âLogan, can you tell us about your strategy for todayâs-â
But Logan isnât listening anymore. His jaw goes slack, eyes wide with disbelief as he watches you approach. Youâre dressed casually in a flowing maxi dress, your hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. To Logan, youâve never looked more beautiful.
âI ... uh ...â Logan stammers, completely losing his train of thought. The interviewer follows his gaze, her own eyes widening as she recognizes you.
A hush falls over the pit lane as heads turn to watch your progress. You seem oblivious to the attention, your eyes locked on Logan. A brilliant smile lights up your face as you break into a run.
Logan barely has time to brace himself before youâre launching yourself into his arms. He catches you instinctively, spinning you around as laughter bubbles up from his chest.
âSurprise!â You exclaim, pulling back just enough to see his face. âDid you really think Iâd miss your home race?â
Logan shakes his head in amazement, still not quite believing youâre here. âBut you said ... how did you ...â
You grin mischievously. âI may have told a tiny white lie. Royal prerogative and all that.â
Logan laughs, setting you down but keeping his arms wrapped firmly around your waist. âYouâre incredible, you know that?â
âSo Iâve been told,â you reply with a wink.
Itâs only then that Logan becomes aware of your surroundings again. The entire pit lane has gone silent, all eyes on the two of you. Cameras flash incessantly, capturing what must be the most undignified public display the Princess of England has ever made.
Logan feels a moment of panic. âY/N,â he whispers, âeveryoneâs watching.â
You shrug, seemingly unconcerned. âLet them watch. Iâm just a girl supporting her boyfriend at his home race.â
The casual use of the word âboyfriendâ sends a thrill through Logan. Despite the months youâve been together, sometimes he still canât quite believe this is real.
A throat clearing nearby breaks the moment. Logan turns to see James Vowles approaching with a bemused expression.
âYour Highness,â James says with a slight bow. âThis is ... an unexpected honor.â
You turn to face him, your arm still wrapped around Loganâs waist. âMr. Vowles,â you greet him with a smile that doesnât quite reach your eyes. âI hope you donât mind me dropping in unannounced. I was just so eager to see how our British team is faring.â
James nods, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. âOf course, weâre always delighted to host you. Perhaps youâd like a tour of the garage?â
âThat would be lovely,â you reply, your voice sweet but with an undercurrent of steel that makes Loganâs eyebrows raise. âIâm particularly interested in discussing team strategy. And driver management.â
Logan feels you tense slightly beside him, and he suddenly realizes what youâre doing. His heart swells with a mixture of love and awe.
James seems to pick up on the shift in atmosphere as well. âI see,â he says carefully. âWell, Iâm sure we can arrange a meeting after the race-â
âOh, I think now would be perfect,â you interrupt, your smile never wavering. âAfter all, Iâm quite invested in the success of this team. Particularly when it comes to nurturing young talent.â
Logan watches in fascination as James visibly squirms under your gaze. Heâs never seen his usually unflappable team principal so wrong-footed.
âOf course, Your Highness,â James finally manages. âShall we step into the hospitality area for some privacy?â
You nod graciously, but before following James, you turn back to Logan. âFor luck,â you murmur, pulling him down for a quick kiss that leaves him breathless and the watching crowd buzzing with excitement.
As you walk away with James, Logan overhears snippets of your conversation.
âI do hope, Mr. Vowles,â youâre saying, your voice light but with a clear edge, âthat Williams is committed to giving all its drivers equal opportunities to succeed. It would be such a shame if rumors of ... unequal treatment were to reach certain ears.â
Logan watches in awe as James nods frantically, clearly understanding the implied threat behind your words.
âAnd these whispers about potentially dropping Logan,â you continue, your smile never faltering. âIâm sure theyâre just baseless rumors. After all, it would be terribly short-sighted to let go of such promising talent, donât you think?â
As your voice fades into the distance, Logan stands rooted to the spot, a goofy grin spreading across his face. Heâs vaguely aware of the chaos around him â journalists clamoring for comments, team members and rivals alike shooting him curious glances â but all he can think about is you.
You, who flew across an ocean to surprise him. You, who jumped into his arms without a care for protocol or propriety. You, whoâs currently backing his team principal into a corner with a smile and a veiled royal threat.
In that moment, Logan Sargeant knows without a doubt that he has never been more in love.
A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his reverie. He turns to see Alex grinning at him.
âMate,â Alex says, shaking his head in disbelief, âwhen you said you were dating a princess, I thought you were having us on. But that? That was ...â
âYeah,â Logan agrees, still a bit dazed. âSheâs something else.â
Alex laughs. âUnderstatement of the century. You better hold onto that one, Sargeant. And maybe put in a good word for the rest of us with her royal highness? I wouldnât mind having that kind of backing in contract negotiations.â
Logan chuckles, finally snapping out of his stupor. âSorry, Albon. This princess is spoken for.â
As Alex walks away, still shaking his head and laughing, Logan takes a deep breath. The pre-race nerves that had been plaguing him all morning have vanished, replaced by a surge of confidence and determination.
He may not know what the future holds â for his career or for his relationship with you â but in this moment, he feels invincible. Because no matter what challenges lie ahead, he knows he has you in his corner.
With renewed purpose, Logan heads towards the garage. He has a race to prepare for, after all. And now, more than ever, heâs determined to prove himself worthy of the faith youâve placed in him.
As he reaches the garage entrance, he catches sight of you emerging from the hospitality area, James trailing behind you looking slightly shell-shocked. You spot Logan and wink, giving him a thumbs up.
Logan grins, blowing you a kiss before disappearing into the garage. He has a feeling this is going to be his best race yet. And win or lose, he knows heâll have you waiting for him at the finish line.
And really, what more could a guy ask for?
#f1 imagine#f1#f1 fic#f1 fanfic#f1 fanfiction#f1 x reader#f1 x you#logan sargeant#ls2#logan sargeant imagine#logan sargeant x reader#logan sargeant x you#logan sargeant fic#logan sargeant fluff#logan sargeant fanfiction#logan sargeant blurb#f1 fluff#f1 blurb#f1 one shot#f1 x y/n#f1 drabble#f1 fandom#f1blr#f1 x female reader#logan sargeant x y/n#williams racing#williams#logan sargeant one shot#logan sargeant drabble
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A muted shade of green ⧠Spencer Reid
genre: fluff, light angst
word count: 6339
pairing: reader x spencer reid
description: Dr. Spencer Reid is simply adorable. And you actually think he might be perfect. Until, that is, he isn't.
a muted shade of green masterlist // next chapter
His apartment is a muted shade of green and you always wonder why is it that he painted it so dark. The book covered walls never fail to impress you, making you smile into the ether that was this place with its shelves and shelves of worldly stories. His taste, you think, is more towards the classics and refined tales that carry significance and importance in the world of literature. Dostoyevski, Austen, Orwell, Doyle. Though here and there, in some corners of the living room or thrown haphazardly in the kitchen counter, you see peeks of contemporary names, the ones youâre sure you sold him a long, long time ago. Murakami, Zadie Smith, George.Â
You met Spencer when you first moved into D.C., about a year or so ago, and sometimes, you really think that it was just yesterday when you first saw him with his purple scarf walking inside your store.
âExcuse me.âÂ
You have too many books in your arms to even see who is talking to you, but you apologise nonetheless; itâs the least you can do for your first customer. âIâll be with you in a moment, apologies for the mess, we literally just opened.â In your defence, you had been so busy unpacking all the new orders and organising things into shelves that you absolutely forgot to put the plaque with your opening hours by the door. You can hear his shoes clicking and clacking around the place, and a wave of anxiety washes through you. If he leaves with a bookâ luckily twoâ you will have made your first sell and that just might remind you that of the reason why you decided to do this in the first place.
Carefully putting the pile of Maggie Nelsonâs on the counter, you finally turn to face him, tired smile from ear to ear when you see him holding two books already. âYou found something you like?â You gently ask, voice calm and fingers fidgeting while you wait for an answer. âMany things, actually. Iâm quite glad to see a wide variety of books here, itâs been hard finding something new to read lately.âÂ
His voice is pointed and it echoes in the empty store. The clock on the walls says itâs 7:58AM and you suck in a breath; itâs definitely too early for someone to be looking for books, but maybe he wants entertainment for his commute, maybe he needs a distraction for the way, or maybe he is odd like that.Â
It must be cold outside. The man is wearing a purple scarf inside what looks like a wool coat, and somehow, he fits in there, in your store. He looks like the kind of person who would be buying books as early as 8 in the morning and youâre not sure if that is adorable or unhinged.Â
âJust these, thank you,â The loud thump of the pile of books he deposits by the cashier makes you gasp. âYou have a great selection here, I was lucky you open early!â The twinkle in his eyes is what keeps you from telling him that that, in fact, was a big mistake. In the middle of rushing to get the keys from the landlord in time, get the deliveries, get everything sorted and organised, you had completely forgotten to put out the hours for the shop.Â
âI am glad you found us here! Do you live nearby?â At this point, youâre just trying to make conversation as you bagged his items, smiling at the titles and happy to see your favourite book in the midst. âI live just across the street, actually,â He said, giving you his card. âYouâll see me a lot, Iâm afraid.â
âAnd what should I call my most loyal customer, then?â One look down at his card and you would know, but you wanted him to tell you himself.Â
âSpencer Reid.â
There is not really a sound reason as to why you walk so freely into his apartment. The first time he asked you to do this, he was going on a case and needed someone to water his plants. As it turn out, your store is quite literally across the street from his building and you donât really mind the mindless task, so you tell him to not worry, youâll take care of it. It had been a few months since you two met, five or so, and despite taking you some time to truly understand, you got used to the fact that Spencer created a routine for both of you, knocking on your shopâs door every Monday at precisely 8 in the morning. With time, you stopped questioning him even when you had many, many questionsâ was he even reading all these books? If yes, how?! Every visit, he left with three books or more, and unless he pulled all nighters every night, those were simply sitting on his desk.Â
Instead, you start putting a few titles aside whenever you spot them. You start it with âA Gentleman From Peruâ by AndrĂŠ Aciman, short and sweet. Next week it was âA Little Paris Bookshopâ by Nina George. Then âCultishâ by Amanda Montell. And just like this, you two form your own little book club, his visits extending beyond their usual thirty minutes into the better part of the hour to talk about the plot, the characters, the arcs. You know there is quite a lot you donât know about Spencer, of course there is, but you learn more and more with every little debate you two have. You learn about his morals through the character he likes, and his dreams through the plots he enjoy. You learn about his photographic memory that allows him to quote his favourite sections to you, and you learn that he is a very logical man through his hatred for the inaccuracy of investigative books. You learn and you learn and you learn and you find out that you like learning about Spencer. More than you like learning about anyone else, that is, and now, every time he walks in, you canât help but get excited, smiling as you only imagine what you would learn that day.Â
Sometimes, you did notice the absence of your favourite customer. He would disappear for weeks on end and then act like nothing happened, and you get it; he doesnât owe you anything, youâre just the lady that sells him books, but you feel like there is something that is starting to bloom when, every time he comes back, he brings you a book. âI thought youâd like it,â Is all he says before leaving with his bag of new reads. For a moment, itâs like an exchange, but Spencer never demands anything of you; never asks for anything more than new books and recommendations.Â
Itâs quite rewarding finding the books you sold him scattered through the apartment. There are a couple in the kitchen, open split on the counter and you smile fondly at the clumsy way he marks his books. There is no folded page, no book marker, no random picture; just his book, cover facing up, open and splitting the spine in half enough to crease. You shake your head, smiling like heâs done this just to rile you up.
âOh my god, donât!â
You donât mean to shout but itâs too late. His eyes widen in shock and he immediately freezes, mouth stuck in a little âoâ shape that makes you blush. âWhat did I do?âÂ
The wince in your expression is as visible as the light of day when you speak. Your hands hover in the air, unsure of what to do now, but still trying to do something. âThe book, Spencer,â The words come out like a whine, and if you start stomping your feet you might as well look like a child. âThe spine. The book. Theâ oh my god, the noise!â
The way he laughs at you is contagious, and you start laughing with him, face hidden behind your hands in embarrassment. Owning a bookshop doesnât come for free. Your particularities when it comes to your literary treasures are enough to scare any sane person away. âYou know, there are worse sounds than a bookâs spine breaking,â He mused, closing the book before walking to your counter. His nimble fingers drum a soft rhythm as he waits for you to go around and charge him for the book. Itâs a symphony, almost; so loud in your quiet store that, for a second, your heart is tuning in, thumping as his fingers do, beating to the song he creates.Â
âYou donât have to buy it,â Itâs a little ridiculous how airy your voice sounds then. Arenât you a little too old to have a crush? âItâs okay ifââ But he doesnât even let you finish, rattling off some facts about the writer. Most of the time, actually, he is rattling off some fact about something, and some you know, some you donât, but you never interrupt him. You like hearing him talk.Â
You miss hearing him talk. Whenever Spencer leaves, you miss him. You miss the knock on your shopâs door at 8AM. You miss the shy little chuckles. You miss the purpleâ the constant, always there purple. A wave of sadness hits you then, looking around the apartment with a longing expression.Â
The first time he calls you over, itâs not really an invitation. A week before it happens, he doesnât show up for your Tuesday unboxing and you have to carry all the new orders inside by yourself. It takes double the time and despite the effort it takes you, itâs the absence of his coy chuckles and snarky commentary that leaves you breathless. When you open the boxes, checking inventory to make sure there had been no issues with your order, you find the book Spencer asked you to get him. Itâs one of those special books, so old and unique that you could only get your hands on it because you had contacts in the space. âHuh,â You frown at thatâ it isnât like Spencer to forget something. Hell, it isnât like Spencer to forget anything. Before you can cower away from doing it, you send him a text. You have his number saved in the system, and this feels wrong, it really does. Using his personal information that he gave to you as a client felt wrong. But for a second, it makes you stop biting your nails in anxiety.Â
Your book is here.Â
Itâs Y/N, by the way.Â
He doesnât answer right away and you wallow in your regret for as long as you can. Your shoulders hunch forward as you line up the new arrivals in the shelves. Your frown sits on your forehead all day while you help other passing customers. Your hands brush against the book, all ready and wrapped up and sitting on top of the counter. You hate waiting; you hate waiting for someone or for something to happen as if youâre praying for a miracle. Literature has taught you many lessons in life. It has shown you countless of love stories that couldâve been resolved with a simple conversation. It has told you about people that waited and waited and waited until time passed them away. It has taught you that waiting is simply delaying the inevitable.Â
But what literature has not taught you is that, sometimes, waiting truly is all you can do.Â
That day, you donât get a message back.Â
You get a call instead.Â
âY/N?â The familiar voice on the other side speaks before you can and your shoulders tense up. Something is wrong. He sounds hoarser than usual, airier, too.Â
âSpencer,â You say back, clearing your throat of any remnants or indicators of how nervous you are. âSpencer, are you okay? You sound rough.â
Even his laugh sounds weak and a zap of worry rushes through you. âIâm fine,â He mumbles, and you know heâs saying it out of politeness. âI just got sick. I think I have a cold, itâs nothing much, really.â
The relief that washed over you in crashing waves is almost embarrassing. Even though he is not there to witness it, your face still flushes in a dramatic red. âOh. I see. Sorry, I didnât mean to bother youââ
âItâs not a bother,â The way his voice interrupts you, so strong and concise, makes you chuckle. âYouâre not a bother. I uh, Iâm glad to hear my book arrived.â
For a moment, you both stay quiet. You, on your end of the line, are nodding like he can see you. Except he canât. Except he is waiting, probably, for you to say something. Do something. âI can bring it to you. If you want.â
This time, there is no pause. âYes. I mean, yes, please. Iâ I donât have anything new to read andââ Spencer pauses to cough and you start moving immediately. There is no one in the store and you quickly change the sign to âclosedâ, grabbing his book and your bag before locking the door behind you. There is a pharmacy at the end of the block and you keep your cellphone balanced between your shoulder and ear while your hands make sure you have your wallet with you. âSorry.â
âNo problem at all,â You cross the street in such a hurry that you donât notice the traffic, getting a symphony of horns calling you out as you run to the other side of the street. âShitâŚâ
âAre you okay?â
âIâm fine,â You tease, laughing a little and entering the pharmacy with purpose. âSo just a cold, right?â
âY/N, where are you?â
âOut,â There is no need to be vague, but you donât want to give him a chance to protest. âI should be at yours in fifteen minutes with the book.â
âJust the book?â He asks in such a suspicious tone that you canât hold back a laugher.Â
âWhat else?â Thank god for automatic cashiers speeding up this entire process. You are in an out in less than five minutes and before he can even answer, you are almost at his door. Admittedly, you are speed walking, almost running, in a futile attempt to get there sooner. âWhich apartment do I buzz?â
âApartment 23.â And that is the end of the call.Â
By the time you make it to his floor, panting just as you hike the last step upwards, he is already waiting for you, and you canât say youâre terribly bothered to have a man like Spencer Reid waiting for you by the door. âSpencer,â You still admonish, a small smile playing on your lips. âYou shouldnât be out and about like this.âÂ
âThen who would let you in?â The mischief in his expression, much like that of a child making an innocent joke, makes you giggle, nodding in agreement. âDo you want to come inside? I promise everything is clean, Iâm not a slob or anything.â
âYeah, let me come in so I can give you your stuff.âÂ
âI knew it wasnât just the book,â The coughing fit that followed has you rushing your hands, pulling things out of your bag in a desperate attempt to get him the medicine you bought. This had always been your curse, the flustering anxiety of wanting to help but being unable to take your time. Shaky hands push the book towards him, with the medication and some old receipts stuck to it.Â
âOh shit, sorry!â You squeak, grabbing the receipts and shoving it back in your bag. One of these days, youâd have to close the store early to clean this thing. âBut uh, yeah, I got you some cold medicine and your book. Iâm sure you know this with your big brain and all, but you need to take this before bed, cause it makes you drowsy, and this other one in the morning since it has caffeine! And you should be good in no time⌠hopefully!â
In life, a pause is not always a bad thing. Itâs a time to think. A time to appreciate, to enjoy. Itâs a time to be. A pause, however, from the man whose brain worked a thousand miles an hour, doesnât feel like something to be thankful for. âIs⌠Do you not like that brand? I didnât want to get the generic thing, I donât know why, Iââ
âThank you.â
At first, you barely hear it. For someone whose voice is so rough and hoarse, youâre surprised he can still sound so smooth and airy. Your reaction is obvious; he can see the blush in your cheeks and the way you bite back a smile. âY/N, thank you, I really appreciate it,â He says it again and now you think he just wants to get a rise of you. âYou didnât have to.â
âI know,â You shrug, faking humbleness while you keen at his praise. âI wanted to.â
âI know.âÂ
There is a dance that happens after that, one that you find yourself enjoying quite a bit. Spencer is more present than ever, and youâre getting used to having him around. Itâs like you two broke the glass wall the kept you at a safe distance, and now is when you two discover each other a bit better. Like how you find out that, when Spencerâs hand lays on the cashier counter, just an inch or less away from yours, you feel the heath that it emanates. Like how your fingers curl and your palms itch at the sight of his shaggy curls falling on top of his beautiful eyes. Like how his laughter is deep when itâs true and dry when itâs forced. Like how he can read 20,000 words per minute, but he chooses to read 183 instead just so he can read you passages out loud.
You are not sure what he has learned about you, or if he even cares to learn something about you, but the thought still makes you smile. âWhatâs gotten you so smiley so early in the morning?âÂ
Ah, yes; another thing youâve learned about Spencer Reidâ he is as quiet as mouse when he wants, and as loud as an elephant when he doesnât. âMy god!â You jump, hand immediately going to your heart to try and keep it from beating our of your chest from the shock. âSpence! You scared me!â
âIâm so sorry,â He laughs, raising his hands in the air, shaking the two cups of coffee he is holding. âI come in peace.â
âAnd with bribery, I like your style.âÂ
His style doesnât change, still havenât. For ages, you think he buys you coffee at the nearby cafe. You donât really know the name of the place, some cliche Cafe something something, but the one time youâve been in there the coffee was terrible and the music too loud. Itâs hard picturing your shy, smiley book-lover in there, trying to order something without raising his voice. Itâs only when you see the go-to paper cups on his counter, on the fourth or fifth time you come around, that you realise Spencer has never gone to that cafe to begin with.Â
The cups are still there. You make a point in spotting them every time you come overâ next to the microwave, close to the paper towels. The reminder that this man has, in fact, been making you coffee most mornings validates the fluttery feeling you have whenever you think of it. It makes it somewhat logical. âI must be spending too much time with him,â You mumble to yourself, pushing your sleeves up and getting to work. You are there for a reason, and if those wilting plants die on you, you fear that you might just never be invited back. âWhy does he even have plants?âÂ
You donât know much about Spencerâs job. He hasnât told you anything about it except that he travels a lot for it, but you can imagine it is something of importanceâ a man like Spencer was someone of importance, after all. In your mind, you can imagine him walking into an office down by the Financial District, working with big corporations as an advisor. Yes, you can absolutely see him as some sort of advisor or consultant, but something about him working in finances doesnât sit right with youâ he is yet to talk to you about crypto investments and how to better implement a payment system into the store. Shaking your head, you switch it up. Financial services, arenât quite right, but maybe an editor, working in a publishing house. With the way he devours books and how well-rounded his personal library was, you could see him as a Publishing Director instead, reading manuscript after manuscript.Â
The thought of him reading brings a smile to your face. In his living room, there is an armchair that sits next to the large window on the west wall of his apartmentâ he says he likes how the sunset hits and makes the pages look warm and golden, turning words into a burning fire of knowledgeâ and you can practically see him there, blanket over his legs, books and books pilled next to it. Itâs your own little secret, how every time you come over, you grab a book, any book, and you sit there for thirty minutes, forty, fifty, an hour; until the sun has completely set and you have to get up to turn the lights on.Â
Today, when you sit down, when you bring your knees up, when you drape the blanket over you, something feels incredibly right and incredibly wrong. On the pile of books next to you, right at the top, lays a copy of Gulliverâs Travels. If you remember correctly, which you usually do, last time you sat down at that spot you managed to read up to chapter five before the sun was gone. When you grab the book and you see the bookmark you gave Spencer the second time he visited the store, and you frownâ usually, heâd pick up from where you left off. âHow long has it been since you last came home, Spencer?â You muttered out loud, grabbing the book regardless. Because even when it breaks your heart to know something has been keeping him away from his precious nook, it fuels your heart to know he leaves your book where you can easily pick it up. To know he doesnât mind you sitting on his armchair, to know he doesnât mind you reading his books, to know he doesnât mind you settling, somehow, in his house.Â
A knock on his door, however, breaks you away from your precious moment of rest and relaxation. For a moment, you canât move, frozen in place light a kid that has been caught doing something wrong. Itâs only when they knock again that you move, shuffling to the door to look through the peephole. âWho is it?â You ask, voice weak and shaky.Â
âI have a delivery for Spencer Reid.â
How silly you feel in that moment, hand over your heart as you take a deep breath in relief. Unlocking the door, you smile to the USPS guy. âSorry, he isnât home right now. I can take it for him.â All you have to do is sign it and close the door, but once you put the package on the counter and your eyes catch sight of a note scribbled on top of the box, all those butterflies inside of you slow down. And find perch. And for a second, make you miss them just like you miss him.Â
The first time you think Spencer might have a girlfriend is when he comes into the store with a certain look in his face. He is practically glowing and his eyes donât leave his phone for a second. âWhat has you smiling like that?â You two are close enough to ask these kind of things now, making jokes about each other as if you have been friends for ages. âOr uh, who?â Even though you started the conversation, you want to end it now. There is a sour aftertaste in your mouth when you suggest another person to be cause of his happiness, and you know, right there and then, that that is just your jealousy speaking. At this point, youâve been harbouring a crush on Spencer for the almost two months and thereâs only so much a girl can take before exploding.Â
âOh, itâs just a friend.â Somehow, this answer doesnât settle you as much as you hoped it would.Â
The second time is when he brings a woman around. She is blonde, and loud, and colourful, and you eye her carefully. They are matching costumes, and for a second, without even saying, you already feel left out. Itâs stupid, being this green over someone so pink. If Spencer was purple, and if you are green, than that woman was pinkâ she is happy and light and exciting. Next to her, you⌠well, you are as muted as his green walls. âY/N!â He calls for you with such a big smile and you just donât have it in you to pretend to be busy anymore.Â
âHey Spencer,â It comes out quiet and a bit distant, but he doesnât seem to notice, not with the way he is going back and forth on the ball of his heels. âAnd hello, maâam. Welcome, Iâm Y/N Y/L/N, the owner. Please let me know if you need any help.â
That day, you two barely talk, but thatâs okay, because Penelope, as she introduced herself to you after you help her find a specific book on coding, speaks for both of you. She says that itâs lovely to finally meet you, and mentions how much she has heard about you, and you think this is a very cruel thing to do to your poor, squeezing heart. But you push through. You pretend youâre tired, you apologise for the distance, and you lie about a cough. Itâs better if they stay away, you say, but Spencer doesnât buy it. Instead, he buys Penelope her book and leaves with promises of coming back the next day with your usual coffee.Â
After that, you donât see Spencer for two weeks.
Itâs a bittersweet feeling when you get the text that he is back. After almost a week and a half without seeing him, you miss Spencer. He created a space for himself in your life and in your store, and when he is gone, itâs just not the same. But just like how he did, you created a space for yourself in his apartment. Suddenly, the muted green walls arenât claustrophobic or smothering, but comforting. They are safe. Familiar. They are Spencer. And just like you said, you miss Spencer.
âY/N!âÂ
You should be happier to hear his voice, but itâs not the same. The fluttering in your stomach is still there, like a slow buzz trying to come alive, but itâs not the same. Not when the note on the box, flashing like neon signs behind your close lids, has been tormenting you and your poor heart ever since you made the mistake of opening the door. âY/N? Are you here? The door says openâŚâ At one point or another, you have to come out of hiding and face him. Delaying the moment, though, is the best defence plan youâre able to come up withâ if you look into Spencerâs eyes, if you see that pretty smile he has every time he comes back from a work trip⌠youâre fucked.Â
âY/N, I need you to tell me if youâre here!â Itâs not the same.Â
His voice. Itâs not the same.
Usually mellow and undulating, Spencer sounds stiff, like heâs holding something back. Something new. Something⌠heavy. There is an edge to him right now, so sharp and cutting that it has you stepping out from behind the Science shelf in pure curiosity. And just like people say, curiosity killed the cat. In this case, however, it almost kills you.Â
When you turn the corner to find him by the door, the first thing you see is a man. He is tall and handsome and oddly serious. The way his brows are pulled together make you falter, steps slowing down and mouth opening to ask if he needs help.
Thatâs when you see it.Â
More like you catch a quick glimpse of it, the shinning spark of metal to your side, and you do a double take. You have to do a double take. Itâs like your brain doesnât believe what youâre seeing, and you move your head so fast you feel your neck tensing up in that way that makes your eyes water. âWHAT THE FUâ OH MY GOD!â There is no way to throw yourself against a wall graciously, arms over your head and fear written all over face. You land in an awkward angle and your shoulder takes the brunt of the shock, making you gasp in pain while your legs give our under you.Â
Of all the ways youâve imagined Spencer, him holding a gun up to your head was never one of them. âY/N!â
âOh my god!â You think you might pass outâ youâre breathing too fast and your chest is squeezing, squeezing, squeezing to the point of physical pain. There is a ringing in your ears, muffling the entire conversation between Spencer and the other man and even though you try, you canât look up; youâre frozen in a state of distress. For the first time since you met him, youâre scared of Spencer Reid. âIâ Iâ Oh my god, I c-canâtâ I canât b-breathe, I canâtââ
âY/N, look at me! Look at me, youâre okay, Iâm so sorry, Iâm sorry,â The moment his hand touches your shoulder, youâre shrinking away.Â
âWho are you?!â You manage to gasp enough air into your lungs to scream at him. One shake hand moves to the back of your neck, pressing down on the sore nape as you finally move to look at him, crying and all. âSpencer, who are you? Who is he? What is happening? Why do you have a gun in my bookshop, whyââ
âMaâam, I need you to take deep breaths,â The other man quickly holsters his gun and you actually think you might be going insane when flashes you a badge. âIâm SSA Derek Morgan, I work with Spencer. We are with the FBI.â
Federal Bureau of Investigation. Spencer is a fed. And he never told you.Â
âThe FBIâŚ?â You whisper, eyes going wide and breath hiccuped in your throat. âS-Spencer, you work for the FBI?â Nothing about this makes sense to you. The gun, forgotten in his left hand and now pointing down and away from you, is all you can look at. The gun that looked heavy and cold. The gun that those hands holdâ the same hands youâve wished and, admittedly, dreamed of holding yours instead. The gun, the gun, the gun.
The gun. Youâve never seen a gun before, not this close. In museums, of course, and in movies and shows, but never in real life. You donât have interest in it either, having voted, without fail, for anti-gun laws and representatives. Anything and everything about this, about seeing him with that deadly weapon, feels wrong, and you really think you might be sick soon.
âKid, put it away, youâre freaking her out.âÂ
Then is when you catch sight of the Spencer you know. Itâs the clumsy actions, looking almost freaked out himselfâ his hands fumble with the holster and it takes him a couple of tries to fit the gun properly. Thatâs when you know for sureâ you are going to be sick. âTrash,â You mumble, trying to get up but falling again and again. âTrash, pass me theââ But there is no time and you throw up right there and then, between the cashier and the nonfiction section.Â
âWhat just happened?âÂ
âMorgan, get her some waterâ there, over the counter,â The rapid successions of words make you feel a bit better, a cadence of tone and rhythm that has your hands finally stabilising. âY/N, youâre in shock. Adrenaline kicked in and left, and you pressured crashed, which is what made you nauseous. You need water, and to come sit by the counter.â
Itâs funny, how in any other circumstance, youâd be ashamed and embarrassed to have gotten ill in front of him. As far as you know, Spencer is a germaphobe and this surely counts as germs. But as he grabs your hands, gentler than youâve ever seen him grab any book in your store, and brings you to your chair behind the counter, you wonder if he forgot or simply doesnât care. Both options donât make sense. âSpence, what is going on?â Your voice comes out winey and rough, and there is no way to hold back the pained wince when you feel the sting spreading through your throat. Sip by sip, you try your best to drink the water and soothe yourself, but nothing seems to help.Â
Nothing until you hear him next to you, small and quiet and, dare you say, meek. âIâm sorry.â
As much as youâd like to tell him he has nothing to be sorry for, he does. âI seeâŚâ
âIt was just⌠it was new, having someone not know Iâm FBI,â His thumbs play with each other and youâve known him long enough to recognise that Spencer is nervous. âAnd we started getting closer and I just didnât find an opportunity to tell you.â
âThere were plenty,â You clarify, feeling a bit of a bitch for the bite in your voice making him gulp. âBut itâs okay. Iâm not⌠Iâm not anything of yours, I guess, so itâs okay. You donât owe me anything.â
âDonât say that. Youâre my friend.â That hurt.
âDo you point a gun at all your friends or am I just special, Spence?â It is supposed to be a joke, but the memory makes your bottom lip start wobbling again and you feel stupid. You feel so, so incredibly stupid right now that you canât even begin to explain why. âSorry, Iâm justâ Iâm not okay.â
âI know, and weâre sorry,â There is such raw honesty in his words and he manages to make you smile a little. Your hand is still shaking, but you stretch it out towards him regardless. Itâs a conscious decision to hold onto his wrist, covered by his jacket, than to reach out for his palm, and from the way he looks at you, you know he recognises the effort. âBut you need to come with us.â
âWhy?â You cry out, a single tear coming out of the corner of your eye. At this point, the shock is going away and youâre more overwhelmed than anything else. Youâre scared and confused and overwhelmed and itâs his pulse, beating again and again, that brings you back to Earth. âWhy do I need to go with you? What is going on?â
âY/N, when you were housesitting for me, you received a package, right?â
In the midst of everything, the memory of that day, that box, that note, all fade. Frowning, you shrugged. âThe delivery man knocked and said he had a package for you⌠Iâm sorry, I didnât mean to intrude, Iââ
âNo, no, no, you didnât, you didnât. Please.â
âMaâam, when you signed for the package, did you use your name?â The man, Morgan, ask, and all you do is nod. Of course you signed with your name. âKid, we need to take her to the office now.â
âI am not going anywhere until you tell me whatâs going on!â
Finally, some energy in you. Some strength. Your voice echoes in the empty shop, and the chair tips back when you stand up on stiff legs. Looking at Spencer is hard, when you feel the burning of your rage inside, but you still do; you still meet those pretty brown eyes, you still stare him down until you practically force the answers off of him. âThe package⌠did you see who it was from?âÂ
âSpencer, are you insinuating youâve pointed a gun at me because I read a message your girlfriend wrote on the package she sent you?! Because I didnât mean toâ I didnât! It just⌠It was there, right at the top and Iââ
âShe is not my girlfriend,â He immediately cut you off, hands waving in front of him in a visual demonstration of desperate denial. âNot at all! I donât have a girlfriend! I wasââ
âWe can deal with this later,â Morgan is quick to interrupt, sighing as he looked at you. âY/N, we re really sorry to disrupt you like this, but this is for your own protection. Please lock the store and letâs go.â
It takes time for you to gather everything you need. You are not a disorganised person by any means, but suddenly, you canât remember where you put what. Your bag is thrown under the cashier, and your keys are, for some reason, in the Fiction shelf. Your glasses are in your head the entire time, and Morgan has to point that out to you. The more you look, the more flustered you get, yet somehow, you make it to the car. Morgan is driving and Spencer is on the passenger seat, and the way they keep talking to each other using words that make no sense to you make you want to scream. âSpencer.â
The heaviness of his name, said with such emotion,, lingered in the air. His eyes meet yours through the rearview mirror, and he nods. âYeah?"
âSpencer,â You whisper again, eyes wide in shock as reality starts to dawn. âSpencer, if sheâs not your girlfriend, then who the fuck is Cat Adams?â
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AAAAAhhhhh I'm trying something new >.< I've been a massive criminal minds fan for a long, long time and Dr. Spencer Reid has my heart <3
Please let me know what you think, this is my first Spencer fic and I'd love if it got to turn into a series!
#spencer reid#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid imagine#spencer reid fluff#spencer reid fanfic#spencer reid x y/n#spencer reid x fem!reader#spencer reid series#spencer reid scenario#spencer reid x oc#nerdy spencer reid#spencer reid angst#spencer reid smut#spencer reid fanfiction#spencer reid criminal minds#doctor spencer reid#dr spencer reid#spencer reid cm#spencer reid comfort#spencer reid core#criminal minds x reader#criminal minds fanfiction#criminal minds fic#criminal minds
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@theeminentlyimpractical raised obviously a really, really good point in her post; the fact that the bentley becomes valid property of an angel makes it so shax cannot enter without his permission (and crowley accepts it etc). so it would indicate that it's his invitation that unlocks it, so to speak.
so what does this say about the bookshop in ep6? how is it that maggie, by all accounts is a human, is able to give permission for them to enter? how is her permission able to supercede aziraphale's clear "you are not welcome here." is it because her shop still sits in the boundary line? is it that anyone can give that power if they are under its protection? why is human 'power' recognised by demons? ...or is it?
i know there have been theories floating around to varying degrees that maggie might be a demon, or might be 'the only one awake'... that she misspelt 'urgency' within the first ten minutes, has had a record shop carved out of aziraphale's bookshop at the time of her great-grandmother, and seems utterly unphased by the magic spell (?) during the ball...
i put to you, members of the jury (and i can't believe im typing out this potential nonsense) that she may be fallen, but fallen to human. given the emphasis on memory, that she has lost any recollection of being an angel, but still retains some of her power. is able to resist the bookshop miracle, but is overcome with her love for nina that:
she's shown as being a music lover, kind and selfless, and brave... familiar qualities. she wears gold angel-wing earrings (struggling to get a good enough shot of them, but strike me as being similar to aziraphale's ring). she dresses in vaguely lighter clothing with darker elements (cardigan etc.) up until the ball. she describes her teenage years as being rather tame, and doesn't partake in alcohol (which, let's be clear, is a perfectly valid thing on its own, but just pointing it out!)...
aziraphale is obviously very comfortable with her - probably because she reflects crowley, but also thinking about his comment about the "beehive". she had brothers, and has "spent her whole life being scared"âŚ
and ultimately, isn't this kind of resolution the sort that as it stands, we're predicting aziraphale and crowley's story to come to, even if they choose not to? i realise a lot of her characteristics are shown as being a reflection of aziraphale but truly she mirrors crowley's character arc... but maybe it's something more than that?
#good omens#utter bullshit once again BUT the bit about permission into the shop is bothering me#we need to talk about maggie theory#sanctuary/bentley theory
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thinking about Good Omens 2. and stories, and the shape of them, and Terry Pratchett and his themes. and something clicked.
Aziraphale is cackling.
it's not just the ball. he spends the entire season trying to force the story into a shape it's not, and everyone suffers for it.
i've seen some less than charitable takes on Crowley's actions and they all ignore how much Crowley did try to talk to Aziraphale, did try to ask Aziraphale questions, did try to help, only to be ignored or brushed off. because his questions, his offers, they didnât fit with the story Aziraphale was telling himself.
quiet, gentle, and romantic. it was, if you're our favorite Angel - right up until the end, at least. because he decided that's the story he was in. from the very beginning, he's off in la-la land, living out this romcom with a cute little mystery wrapped up in it, completely ignoring what's actually going on around him. i'll set Nina and Maggie up! (completely ignoring that Nina tells him she has a partner, and at that point, he has no reason to think she's anything less than happy.) i'll take ~our~ car to go do investigate this silly little mystery (he's not taking it even a little bit seriously!) while you stay here and run the bookshop and it will be so quaint and domestic! soon we'll dance and confess our feelings that we obviously share because we're already so clearly a couple we just need to finally say it!
Crowley knows the entire time that they're in a horror story but Aziraphale ignores every attempt he makes to point that out because it doesn't fit the story he decided he's in the middle of.
he brushes off Crowley's concerns and questions - his QUESTIONS! - like they're nothing. he doesn't want to see it, so he doesn't. and Crowley should have told him more?
why would he?
when you are CLEARLY in distress and it's being BLATANTLY AND WILLFULLY IGNORED, what the fuck are you supposed to do? "Crowley didn't comminicate" well okay if I were having a panic attack about something and my husband completely ignored it, chattering on about our dinner plans or whatever, that wouldnât exactly make me want to open up about what was wrong! that would send the very fucking clear signal that he didn't want to know!
words aren't the only way we communicate and Crowley's body language, the entire season, is that of someone who is living in a horror story, knows he's living in a horror story, and is fucking terrified. if Aziraphale were paying any attention to Crowley instead of focusing all his energy trying to set things up just so for the big climax of his love story, he would know something major was wrong.
why would Crowley have told him how cruel Gabriel was about the execution when Aziraphale's already so thoroughly convinced that heaven is pure and good and has shown over and over through the millennia that he's not really open to considering that it can be cruel!
just look at them at the dance. Crowley freaking out because there's a horde of demons out there and Aziraphale giggling as they go to dance. that's the whole season!
you know who Crowley reminds me of this season?
he's watching helplessly and with increasing levels of distress as Aziraphale shoves every plot point into the romcom hole even though it's obviously not remotely romcom shaped! and i'm sick of people saying he was abusive because he raises his voice about it a few times!
#good omens#good omens season 2#crowley#aziraphale#neil gaiman#terry pratchett#square hole#sing-you-fools#1k#5k#neil approved
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oh BY the WAY
This scene proves, doesnât it, that living in the car is Crowleyâs choice. When Aziraphale comes back from Scotland, Crowley shoves the box at him before he gets to the threshold. He gives Aziraphale no option to even say, âwonât it be easier to leave the plants hereâ let alone to propose anything else. Was Crowley, by any chance, actively avoiding a conversation about him living in his car this whole time?
Crowley is absolutely not okay, we know, we know. He is frustrated, he is struggling; he is asking what the point of it all is. Yes, he is fiercely protective of his independence when he says âmy carâ, âthe precious, peaceful, fragile existence I have carved out for myselfââand the same time, he is still not willing to talk. He probably does not even see a way to have important conversations safely; the fear of rejection might still be too much. His instinct remains to run away from trouble. With something as terrifying as vulnerability and openness, he needs Nina and Maggie to tip the scales.
He has the swagger. He acts like he knows whatâs happening, like he has things figured out.
I think weâre just starting to see how much that has not been true.
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thereâs just smth about daryl seeing you injured maybe a broken leg or even an amputated one from a bite and limping, someone holding you up as you walk. heâd almost run over to you and pick you up.
a dumb idea â daryl dixon đŠ°
in which you were injured on a run, and daryl can't bare to see you that way without helping.
Rick had chosen you for a run, not alone, but for you to go. He'd seen you were quick, efficient with your melee weapons, and were probably one of the best choices. You were joining Rick and Glenn, Daryl having to sit this one out by Rick's orders. He hadn't cleared the prison in full yet, so he wanted Daryl back here to keep watch. Daryl and you weren't exclusively a thing, neither of you had spoken about it at all, but everyone else could see it was waiting to happen. You were currently just really good friends hiding your feelings for each other, or at least thinking you were hiding your feelings for each other. You were sat in the backseat of the car, happily talking to Glenn as the car rolled towards the gates. You glanced out the window to see Daryl, sulking at the gate yet picking his arm up to wave at you. You returned the gesture, a sweet smile on your face that Daryl had become addicted to. One of the many addicting things about you.
Your positive-for-the-end-of-the-world attitude had come to an end when you'd ran into a building to find some cover, the darkness of the building rendering you blind as your leg had been impaled by a broken bit of a glass shelf. You let out a cry, falling to your feet as Rick and Glenn rushed over to assist you. "You good?" "What happened?" Rick had turned a flashlight to your leg, seeing your jeans ripped and stuck to your leg with the amount of blood. You almost passed out at the look of it, the glass had lodged itself in there pretty snug. "We need to get her back, now," Rick demanded, wrapping an arm around your back and coordinating with Glenn to get you safely to the car. Rick had taken his shirt off and tied it around your leg above the wound, before beginning the drive back to the prison. Glenn had trained his eyes on you and your leg for most of the drive, making sure you were still alive and not dying back there. The drive felt like hours, you felt like closing your eyes but Glenn was adamant on talking to you. Telling you about Maggie, telling you about how sweet Daryl seems to be around you, and you knew it was a distraction tactic, to keep you awake and not looking at your completely blood soaked shin.
You heard the rattle of the gates as they'd slid open for the car, and you felt a short burst of relief to be back. "Dar..." You managed to speak, wincing as Rick had reached for your hand to pull you out. "Daryl." Rick and Glenn had their arms under yours, carrying most of your weight for you. Until Daryl had heard the commotion and come out to see what the fuck people were shouting for.
Daryl saw you. Your leg, completely red from the knee down, being assisted into the prison. He wanted to help, he wanted to ease your pain even just a little. Dropping his crossbow to the ground, he'd paced over to you, relieving Glenn and Rick of their duties. "It's okay, I got ya," he cooed, "I got 'er," he'd lifted you, arms clinging to you as he led you to the cell block. "It's okay, sweetheart." Your blood loss wasn't fatal, thankfully, but Herschel was about to have you on the mend in no time.
You'd been allowed to rest, peeling your eyes open after having slept a while. The first thing you were aware of was the pain in your leg, which was thankfully still there. It was still light outside, so it must not have been long at all. A bottle of water and some pain meds were sat at your bedside, and you'd desperately taken them in order to ease your pain. "There's my girl." You heard, and Daryl had entered your cell and sat at your side. "How's the leg?" You chuckled. "It's seen better days." You could've sworn you'd spotted a smile on his face for a moment. "Were you scared? Did you think I was gonna die?" You teased, poking his arm and smiling innocently up at him. "No," he answered, "you're a fighter. I know that." There was something he was keeping to himself, you could see it in his brain. Almost as if he wasn't allowing himself to say it. It had been a tough process even getting to a friendly level with him, he had always kept his feelings to himself. But you liked to believe you were making progress with him, you wanted to. "What's on your mind?" You asked sweetly, your voice like honey, and he was addicted. God, he was addicted. He wanted nothing more than to have you night and day, for breakfast, lunch and dinner. But he didn't know the first thing about flirting, or even dating. "Nothin," he grumbled, and you sighed dramatically. "Come on, Daryl," you exclaimed, "talk to me. I need some sort of stimulation for my brain." Your voice was light, but you meant it. He paused, almost debating whether or not to say it. "I just care about ya, is all. When I saw ya bein carried in, my mind just stopped and all I wanted to do was make sure you were okay. Told Rick it was a dumb idea." You smiled, poking his arm again. "You care about me, that's sweet. I care about you, too." He grabbed your hand as it made contact with his arm, and just held it between his own. This was his way of expression, to show you how he felt without ruining it with his words. The pair of you just sat in silence, hands interlaced, a stupid grin on both your faces as you stared at each other. Adrenaline was pumping through your veins, a wave of confidence taking over you as you leaned up and pressed a small kiss to his cheek. Once Daryl had registered what you'd done, he'd turned his head, closing the small gap between you both for a delicate kiss. He was so gentle, his hands still holding yours firmly, and you wanted to do this forever. "I hope that speaks better than I do." He admitted, and you just laughed, resting your head on your shoulder. "Now get some rest, I don't want to see ya on your feet for the rest of the day."
#daryl dixion imagine#daryl dixon#daryl dixon incorrect quotes#daryl dixon x reader#daryl fanfiction#daryl imagines#daryl x female reader#daryl x reader#daryl x y/n#daryl x you#daryl dixon fanfiction#twd daryl#the walking dead daryl dixon#the walking dead daryl#twd daryl dixon#daryl dixon smut#daryl dixon fanfic#daryl dixon imagine#daryl dixon twd
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The thing about romance is, it makes a good story.
As soon as Neil described season 2 as "quiet, gentle, romantic" I figured we'd be in for it, because as he's the first to point out, writers are liars. And the best way to deceive is with truth.
Season 2 is romantic. The trappings of romance are everywhere. Crowley tries to set up Nina and Maggie by trapping them under an awning during a rainstorm, a classic cinematic bonding technique. Aziraphale's chosen method comes from his beloved books: the ball, the dancing, appearing as a pair in public, hands held as you twirl gracefully with your heart thrilled and racing. If they can set up a sensational kiss that will unlock the happy ever after. They've lived on earth, they've studied the tropes, they know how romance works.
The problem is a story is only a story.
Nina and Maggie had the classic romantic setup completely by accident before Aziraphale and Crowley ever began trying to interfere with them. They get locked in Nina's coffeeshop. They can't escape or communicate with anyone else, they end up talking by candlelight because there's no electricity, Nina offers wine. Maggie mentions how she'd hoped for a chance to talk to Nina, and now here they are. It's every bit as much a standard as what Aziraphale and Crowley attempt to arrange. Blanket scenarios galore exist because of that starting point. We love that story. And there's nothing wrong with that.
But it's still only a story, it's not enough. Because once that moment of connection is over, however lovely it was, all the rest of the world comes flooding back in in the form of dozens of angry text messages. Nina's messy entrapping relationship hasn't magically gone away just because she and Maggie shared a romantic encounter.
And it's so tempting think oh well, that's easy. We'll just give them more romantic encounters and eventually those will overwhelm the rest of the baggage. Must do, because it'll make them fall in love, and once they realize they're in love that trumps all other considerations, right? So it'll be fine. Love Conquers All.
Neil also mentioned Pride and Prejudice.
Darcy knows he's in love early on and makes a disasterous proposal that shows that he has no understanding of Elizabeth's perspective, possibly hasn't even thought about it. They've been meeting in forest lanes for walks, conversing, had tete-a-tetes in the sitting room, danced at a ball. And while his turn of phrase isn't as flattering as he thinks, he's still offering her everything he thinks she wants and needs: affection, security, his good name, wealth, an escape from the embarrassments of her situation, the world. How can there be anything to object to? Why would anyone ever refuse so much of value?
Elizabeth quite rightly cuts him to pieces. He lashes back with a few hard truths of his own and they separate. During that separation, he thinks and he learns. He takes to heart the criticisms she offered, re-examines his assumptions, opens his eyes. Thinks about her perspective and how sometimes the only difference between pride and arrogance is where you're standing. He does the work. When they meet again he tries to demonstrate that he's learned--not in order to court her again (yet), but because the only real apology he can offer, the only one that would have weight, is to show that he's grown, he listened to her. He changed.
Elizabeth of course has her own journey, accepting that many of her own conclusions about Darcy were erroneous because they were formed without her having the full picture to hand, and once she's done that she has to apply it to her own situation as well. She loves her family, but they do place her at a disadvantage on a number of levels, leading eventually to full-out disaster as her younger sister carelessly ruins all of their reputations. It's hard to admit, it's mortifying, but Darcy was offering her a great deal she needs. His offer did have worth for all that she dismissed it as an insult. And as she learns to value his own character more highly, and then as she sees that he did listen to her even though she insulted him so thoroughly...well, she grows too. And when they do eventually come together it's not because of courting and balls. There's a big romantic gesture in his rescue of her sister but even that isn't why they'll get their happy ever after. It was just the catalyst for the conversation. They win because they've learned how to understand each other and how to communicate for the future. How they can strengthen and support each other, how to balance their strengths and weaknesses. The films leave them at the wedding, but the book shows a bit of their marriage too, and during it they keep learning from each other. Their relationship is held up as a superior love story for good reasons.
The end of season one was romantic too. Crowley stopped time rather than face a world where Aziraphale would never speak to him again, Aziraphale walked into hell to protect Crowley, they dined at the Ritz and toasted the world. But then they stopped. Sure they spent time together, talked, enjoyed each other's company. But if they were talking about important things would Crowley still be living in his car? They had a bit of respite but all that real world baggage that exists outside of the romantic moment hasn't been faced, none of it. Four or five years sounds like a long while but for beings who are quite literally older than the earth? That's just an intermission.
Nina's relationship ends, leaving her with a tangled mess; Maggie realises the sweet dream of love she's been longing for isn't as important as the real Nina. They talk. They plan. Nina will sort through her life, get closure, figure out what went wrong with Lindsay and what she wants from a relationship, learn how to ask for respect instead of just bending under her partner's demands. Maggie will support Nina the way Nina needs, which sometimes means helping her get oat milk for the shop and sometimes means giving her processing space. They're on the same page; they're going to do the work. That's why most likely they'll succeed. To quote one of my favourite fanfics: it's not happily ever after, but it's a chance. It's all going to be okay. (The Profane Comedy by Mussimm, who absolutely nailed this theme)
The romance is nice, it's lovely. We need it to keep ourselves going. To give ourselves the dreams that help us get through the days and nights. But it's not the relationship. It's not enough on its own. The wedding can be the grandest most beautiful ceremony ever with doves flying and sweeping music and bells ringing, but that doesn't guarantee the marriage will last.
Crowley and Aziraphale have had their romantic gestures, oodles of them. One wing raised to protect the other from falling stars, another from rain. Shared ground, shared interests, hands offered in friendship and held on a bus. They've tried to get to the same page, they really have. They just aren't there yet. The biggest most important things still haven't been talked about, and season 2 showed there are even more of those big important things than we'd realised.
The show paints Maggie as Aziraphale's foil and Nina as Crowley's, even to the point of Nina casually calling Maggie 'angel'. But Aziraphale's baggage is Nina's. The toxic relationship has to be processed and understood and closed, and it hasn't been, despite season one. Lindsay never really liked Nina very much, for all that they tried to keep her trapped; Heaven never really liked Aziraphale very much for all that he believed in it. They both let themselves be used. But Lindsay left Nina and went to their sister's, whereas now the head of Heaven has reached out to Aziraphale and said here, we can fix this, you can fix this, don't you want to fix this? Others are already writing about that and maybe I'll add to it later, not sure. And Crowley, like Maggie, has had a sweet dream that he has to set aside. Maybe he'll be able to pick it up again eventually, maybe not. But sometimes you offer support by buying oat milk or rescuing your beloved from the legions of hell, and sometimes you do it by standing back while they sort through their shit.
Quiet, gentle, romantic. It was.
But that's only part of the story. Now they have to do the work. They thought they had, but they were wrong, because there's so much they just hadn't touched yet and tried to cover over with relief and sleight of hand and alcohol and forgiveness. The apology dance doesn't mean much without showing that you listened and learned. They've faced so much trauma already and that should have been enough, we wanted it to be enough and so did they and it's such a blow for it to turn out that there's still more to do, that the baggage hasn't just gone away and can't be hidden under blankets or soothed with cocoa. The texts are still coming in and demanding answers.
But it'll be okay. It will. It's still a chance. And one that in the long run makes them better, builds something real that lasts.
The best stories, the ones that last longest and become classics, are the ones that don't end with the kiss under the awning or the blanket scenario or the wedding. They're the ones that heal us while the characters heal themselves. It's hard to accept that there's still more to do. Harder to imagine how it can possibly work out. And yes, bloody frustrating to wait and see.
And we'll get through that interim by telling even more stories. Because the story is never just a story. It's how we get through the work, it's what we tell ourselves so we can do the damn work. Stories are what we cling to and how we remind ourselves we're human and connect. A book is a person you can carry with you. We're not alone, none of us, stories connect us because we love them and see ourselves in them, which means we see each other.
Aziraphale's back up in Heaven to deal with his unfinished baggage; Crowley left his behind long ago and it's clearly going to come back and bite him in the arse however much he tries to go his own way. And they can't help each other with that. Not yet.
But they'll get there. So will we.
#good omens#good omens season 2#gos2 spoilers#good omens season 2 spoilers#crowley#aziraphale#ineffable husbands#nina#maggie#nina and maggie#stories#romance#relationships#am I projecting here#of course I am isn't that the whole point?#pride and prejudice#elizabeth and darcy#quiet gentle romantic#good omens meta
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Oh, Crowley. Nothing lasts forever.
I think the entirely of Crowley and Aziraphale's interactions in the Final Fifteenâ˘ď¸can be summed up by the idea that they are talking past one another, failing to fully understand each other, but I want to talk about this line in particular. This isn't a full analysis of the scene - just this isolated bit.
Crowley: ...If Gabriel and Beelzebub can do it, go off together, then we can. We don't need Heaven, we don't need Hell, they're toxic. We need to get away from them, just be an us. You and me, what do you say? Aziraphale: Come with me. To Heaven. I'll run it, you can be my second-in-command. We can make a difference. Crowley: You can't leave this bookshop. Aziraphale: Oh, Crowley. Nothing lasts forever. Crowley: No. No, don't suppose it does.
As methods of occult/ethereal communications go, the metaphor is quite versatile.
Crowley is saying: stay here with me. We have this enclave. We can be together properly now - stay here with me. Never mind that they have not actually made any progress on this in the last four-ish years since the end of the world. Never mind that Crowley is so stagnant that four years after the end of the world he's still living in his car.
Keep in mind that Aziraphale didn't have the benefit of Nina and Maggie's intervention - Aziraphale doesn't see this as a confession under Crowley's own initiative, he sees it as a response to what Aziraphale is saying. Aziraphale says, let's go make a difference, and Crowley is sort of forced into taking this position as an alternative offer - to Aziraphale, it looks almost like a temptation. Nothing changed in the last four years, but now that Heaven needs you (and we must give Aziraphale the benefit of his belief that Heaven truly does need him, even though this is clearly a manipulation), I'm ready to move forward, don't you want to stay, don't you want to deny Heaven and exist with our heads in the sand?
"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says. "Nothing lasts forever."
To Crowley, who is offering himself and this enclave, this bit of existence that can just be theirs - nothing lasts forever is an obvious smackdown: not even us.
That's not what Aziraphale is saying, though. What Aziraphale is saying is, we can't live like this forever. If we want to protect it, we have to change. Nothing lasts forever isn't a betrayal or a resignation - it's a sacrifice. Aziraphale cares so much about Earth, about fixing Heaven, and about Crowley himself that he's willing to give up the bookshop and their enclave on Earth in order to save it.
They cannot just maintain the status quo. It's been four years since Armageddon and nothing has changed, and keeping on ignoring Heaven and Hell didn't work! It didn't work! They were on their own and here's Heaven and Hell again, in their business, dragging Crowley back to Hell, dragging Aziraphale back into Heaven's politics. Four years was all they got. Four years, and they were under threat, risking each other, risking their very existences. They can't sit in their enclave and pretend it won't happen again because it absolutely will.
Aziraphale spends a lot of this series burying his head in the sand. If he can just hide Gabriel, everything will be fine! (It won't - he'll still have Gabriel.) If he can just make Maggie and Nina fall in love, everything will be fine! (It won't - he'll still have Heaven and Hell waiting in the wings for the next suspicious event.) If he can just get everyone at the Jane Austen Ball, if he can just keep the demons out, if he can just ignore it, it will go away! If he can make the participants know the steps to the dance and if he can control the lingo, he can create a new fantasy world for them all to live in and everything will be fine!
It won't. Aziraphale isn't in control. Aziraphale can't stop this. Aziraphale can't protect himself, and he can't protect Crowley to the point where he has to let Crowley leave him and work a plan on his own. He's a principality, and he can't protect the things and the people he loves.
Then the Metatron walks in, makes a point of validating all the things Aziraphale loves - coffee (food/drink), Crowley (your demon can recognize me even when these angels can't), the shop (do you need to take anything with you? I've made sure the shop will be safe), separates Crowley from Aziraphale - Crowley, Aziraphale's guiding light in all those minisodes, Crowley, the one being Aziraphale trusts - and then.
And the Metatron offers Aziraphale the control he's been missing all season.
Nothing lasts forever. We can't survive in this enclave forever. If we stay here, it will all end. If we stay here, I can't protect you, or humanity, or any of it. I have to try, we have to try, because no one else will, and I'm willing to give up my freedom and my bookshop if it means I can save everything. I want to save it with you, I want you to be with me, I need you, I need us, but--
If I can save you, even if it costs me us, at least you'll have survived.
If that's the price, well. Nothing lasts forever.
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