#a mix of technical skills

[education43]

What Are the Qualifications for a Data Scientist?

In today's data-driven world, the role of a data scientist has become one of the most coveted career paths. With businesses relying on data for decision-making, understanding customer behavior, and improving products, the demand for skilled professionals who can analyze, interpret, and extract value from data is at an all-time high. If you're wondering what qualifications are needed to become a successful data scientist, how DataCouncil can help you get there, and why a data science course in Pune is a great option, this blog has the answers.

The Key Qualifications for a Data Scientist

To succeed as a data scientist, a mix of technical skills, education, and hands-on experience is essential. Here are the core qualifications required:

1. Educational Background

A strong foundation in mathematics, statistics, or computer science is typically expected. Most data scientists hold at least a bachelor’s degree in one of these fields, with many pursuing higher education such as a master's or a Ph.D. A data science course in Pune with DataCouncil can bridge this gap, offering the academic and practical knowledge required for a strong start in the industry.

2. Proficiency in Programming Languages

Programming is at the heart of data science. You need to be comfortable with languages like Python, R, and SQL, which are widely used for data analysis, machine learning, and database management. A comprehensive data science course in Pune will teach these programming skills from scratch, ensuring you become proficient in coding for data science tasks.

3. Understanding of Machine Learning

Data scientists must have a solid grasp of machine learning techniques and algorithms such as regression, clustering, and decision trees. By enrolling in a DataCouncil course, you'll learn how to implement machine learning models to analyze data and make predictions, an essential qualification for landing a data science job.

4. Data Wrangling Skills

Raw data is often messy and unstructured, and a good data scientist needs to be adept at cleaning and processing data before it can be analyzed. DataCouncil's data science course in Pune includes practical training in tools like Pandas and Numpy for effective data wrangling, helping you develop a strong skill set in this critical area.

5. Statistical Knowledge

Statistical analysis forms the backbone of data science. Knowledge of probability, hypothesis testing, and statistical modeling allows data scientists to draw meaningful insights from data. A structured data science course in Pune offers the theoretical and practical aspects of statistics required to excel.

6. Communication and Data Visualization Skills

Being able to explain your findings in a clear and concise manner is crucial. Data scientists often need to communicate with non-technical stakeholders, making tools like Tableau, Power BI, and Matplotlib essential for creating insightful visualizations. DataCouncil’s data science course in Pune includes modules on data visualization, which can help you present data in a way that’s easy to understand.

7. Domain Knowledge

Apart from technical skills, understanding the industry you work in is a major asset. Whether it’s healthcare, finance, or e-commerce, knowing how data applies within your industry will set you apart from the competition. DataCouncil's data science course in Pune is designed to offer case studies from multiple industries, helping students gain domain-specific insights.

Why Choose DataCouncil for a Data Science Course in Pune?

If you're looking to build a successful career as a data scientist, enrolling in a data science course in Pune with DataCouncil can be your first step toward reaching your goals. Here’s why DataCouncil is the ideal choice:

Comprehensive Curriculum: The course covers everything from the basics of data science to advanced machine learning techniques.

Hands-On Projects: You'll work on real-world projects that mimic the challenges faced by data scientists in various industries.

Experienced Faculty: Learn from industry professionals who have years of experience in data science and analytics.

100% Placement Support: DataCouncil provides job assistance to help you land a data science job in Pune or anywhere else, making it a great investment in your future.

Flexible Learning Options: With both weekday and weekend batches, DataCouncil ensures that you can learn at your own pace without compromising your current commitments.

Conclusion

Becoming a data scientist requires a combination of technical expertise, analytical skills, and industry knowledge. By enrolling in a data science course in Pune with DataCouncil, you can gain all the qualifications you need to thrive in this exciting field. Whether you're a fresher looking to start your career or a professional wanting to upskill, this course will equip you with the knowledge, skills, and practical experience to succeed as a data scientist.

Explore DataCouncil’s offerings today and take the first step toward unlocking a rewarding career in data science! Looking for the best data science course in Pune? DataCouncil offers comprehensive data science classes in Pune, designed to equip you with the skills to excel in this booming field. Our data science course in Pune covers everything from data analysis to machine learning, with competitive data science course fees in Pune. We provide job-oriented programs, making us the best institute for data science in Pune with placement support. Explore online data science training in Pune and take your career to new heights!

[olessan]

"My challenge lieth before thee, Arisen. Wiltst thou answer it?"

Grigori from Dragon's Dogma 🐉

[bmpmp3]

dysgraphic artiƨts risɘ UP!!!!!

[nabaath-areng]

"Make sure everything is in order before completing!" oh god i thought it was right but now because you asked im immediately doubting myself

[meion]

not to be too serious about it but ive wanted to make games for most of my life, like way before I learned programming or anything. I've made attempts, but they've all failed due to motivation/confidence/anxiety issues etc. I became really frustrated with myself last year, thinking "there's no good reason I haven't done this yet. If I hit 30 without releasing something, im a waste"

anyway it shouldn't have taken me this long but I feel really good about finally finishing something EVEN if its scrappy for now. And we are gonna talk about polishing it into a 'full' game later :') yahoo

[soft-serve-soymilk]

Kiddos, now with bios!

[creepyscritches]

I remember worrying I'd regret it when I left my art education scholarship behind to get into healthcare but with how hellish public school legislation has gotten I'm kinda glad I didn't end up completing that degree. There's not a county in my state that I wouldn't be Extremely Nervous to work in. I do miss the kids though :(

[erabundus]

scaramouche turning himself into electro for fun jumpscare shenanigans was 100% based on my brainrot theory that he would have an alt sprint and i'm too attached to let it go.

[fushitoru]

seperation anxiety! a (clan head) gojo satoru fic

pairing ⸺ clan head!gojo x wife!reader

summary ⸺ satoru begs you to attend a meeting with the higher-ups, but not for the reasons you thought. inspired by this art by @/baobei-bu!

warnings ⸺ SMUT, gojo is a warning by himself, VERY public sex, reader has a vagina, fem reader implied, no penetration, fingering, fondling, making out, panty-ripping, exhibitionism, kinda cucking but the only ppl humiliated and humbled are the higher ups, porn no plot, but plot if you squint, reader is a strong independent woman (until gojo charms her, bc who wouldn't turn into a cockslut for gojo?), this took me at least five hours to write for no good reason?, not edited (like always....)

a/n pls enjoy and thank u to the queen for making such delicious art (p.s. go to their twitter for nsfw ver i squirted)

general masterlist

“Pleaseeeee,” Satoru has his face buried in your chest, nuzzling in further while complaining. It’s almost comical how he—head of the biggest clan in Jujutsu—is leaning down to match your height. You, meanwhile, stand firm, arms crossed, regarding him with a mix of exasperation and reluctant affection as he leans down to meet your gaze. “Will you come with me?”

The question comes as the dreaded meeting with the higher-ups looms, a gathering he's been dodging all day. It technically began ten minutes ago, and you barely managed to wrangle him into his formal kimono just twenty minutes earlier. You sigh, fingers brushing his hair. “Satoru, you know what they think of me. I'm not exactly their favorite person.” You’re both standing in the middle of your shared bedroom, you imploring him to be on time for his meeting to avoid getting even further shit from the higher-ups.

Mind you, you’re the more rational one between you and Satoru—in fact, most of the people who know you would agree that you’re a very mature, wise person in general (with the exception of some circumstances, of course). And despite the respect your skill commands, the higher-ups have never warmed to you, not since you refused to play a pawn in their games. Marrying Satoru, the one jujutsu sorcerer they could never control, only amplified their discontent. They see you both as threats—powerful sorcerers bonded in defiance.

At the mention of "higher-ups," Satoru's pout deepens, and his pleading voice grows more insistent. “Pleeeease,” he drags out, practically whining. “I have separation anxiety.”

You feel a pang of sympathy. These meetings are miserable for him—hours trapped in a room with men twice his age, trying to dictate his every move. “I don’t know, Satoru…” you murmur, hesitating.

But Satoru takes advantage of your softening resolve, hugging you tighter, his face pressing into you again. “Don’t make me go in there alone!” he says, his voice muffled. “You have no idea how much you silence them. One word from you, and they all think twice. I’m already one step away from wanting to kill them all.”

A sigh escapes you as you realize he’s not letting up. And while you’re reluctant, you know that your presence, your opinion—one of the few he truly values—might actually give him a sense of calm in that harsh room. “Alright, alright,” you concede finally, hand smoothing the fabric of his sleeve. "But no making a scene." 

His answering smirk is smug, giving you a fat, sloppy kiss on your cheek that you’re not afraid to show your partial-disgust about. You all but have to wrestle him off of you white he’s smothering you in kisses, getting out something about how much loves you, oh so thankful to have such a wise wifey like you as you get ready in a kimono similar to his and head to the limo waiting outside of the manor you and Gojo reside in. 

As soon as you get in, Gojo turns sharply to Ijichi, who’s shifting the gear. “Put the divider up.”

“O-Okay, Gojo-san.” A little intimidated by the commanding tone in your husband’s voice, he quickly presses the button to activate the screen, and Gojo pounces on you, grabbing you and hoisting you up by your sides to put you on his lap.

“Satoru!” you exclaim, surprised as he captures his lips with yours. His hands roam your body as he moans, almost obnoxiously, because he knows you’re always paranoid whenever he initiates anything in public. Your crotch aligns with his thigh, big and stuffed with muscle as he drives your hips to grind on him, and despite yourself and your circumstances, you find yourself leaning into his touch.

“My pretty wife,” he purrs, now trailing kisses down your jaw and into your neck. “So pretty, so supportive.”

Despite his dizzying movements, you try to get a hold of yourself. “Satoru, we shouldn’t be doing this here. We need to discuss what to sa—”

“Fuck that,” he sighs, so breathless that you want to cave in.

“No, but—”

His eyes darken, and his hands start creeping up your legs, going slowly and slowly closer to your pussy. “Baby, you know I value what you have to say,” and his fingers graze your folds, making you leak even more with his teasing, “but I wanna listen to something else.”

He drags his index finger up and down your slit, making you whimper. His fingers then prod into your hole, putting pressure there but not quite delving in. “Satoru,” you whine out, clutching his upper arms as he has his way while toying with you.

“Yea, that’s what I wanna hear,” he groans, giving you a kiss. It is then that he rewards you with inserting his digit in, curling to hit your spot as he fingers you. HIs other arm is around you, holding your panties’ crotch to the side to allow him to touch you. “My good girl.”

As he’s touching you, the squelching sounds fills the enclosure you’re in and you’re desperately praying to God Ijichi can’t hear the lewd things the both of you are doing in the back. You’re just reduced to whimpering, unable to reject Satoru’s dizzying touches, his free hand leaving your panties to grope at your inner thighs, ass, and breasts. It’s like he’s devouring you with his kisses, urgent, as he continues curling his fingers. 

Between kisses, you try to get out a “Satoru—mmph,” smooch, “we shouldn’t be—mm” smooch, “shouldn’t be doing this here!” 

“What,” he drawls, and with the glint in his eyes you know the fucker’s trying to toy with you, knows what he’s doing is mischievous. “I can’t touch my wife?”

Before you could utter a response, however, the limo suddenly slows, and the sensation of using the brakes to stop the car makes you sober up. “We’re here, Satoru we need to go—-” As you’re trying to rip yourself off his lap, he pulls out the finger that was inside you and uses his hand instead to entangle it with the crotch of your panties, pulling and pulling until the cloth is nothing but shreds, falling off your body.

Oh my god, you were not paid enough for this shit.

With his oh-so-irritating eyes—the same ones that you spent despising in your early school years—he looks at you through his pretty white lashes as he makes a show of sniffing the now tattered shreds that were your panties and putting them in his pocket. Under your kimono, you can feel your slick escaping your panties as the cool air wafts through it, landing on your pussy. You look at him in disbelief. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

He giggles, giving you a kiss on the cheek while helping you off his lap, putting a hand on your head to make sure you didn’t bump your head against the car’s ceiling. “Let’s go and deal with those hags, my love.”

To be honest, you don’t really understand why Satoru is so handsy today. He’s on some sort of man-ovulation, you think, as you stride into the room. Even ripping off your panties was a bit excessive, if not out of pocket (no pun intended). Breaking out of your thoughts, you grounded yourself in the present, noticing hostile eyes turned towards your husband, and then you. You match their barely-subtle glares with a stink eye of your own, holding your chin up as you walk past them dismissively. Just as you’re about to take a seat next to Gojo—being mindful of your kimono so you don’t flash any of these old bastards—one of them speaks up. 

“Gojo-sama, why is this woman here?”

You continue to take your seat, noticing Satoru’s jaw clenched. But right as he’s about to say something, you cut in for him. “This woman,” and you smile, deceptively sweet, “is the lady of the clan. It would do you well to remember the hierarchy of the Gojo clan.” You don’t need to turn to look at your husband to know he has a proud smile on his face, making no effort to hide his smugness. What shocks you instead is that he swings an arm around you, effectively dragging you closer to him until you’re basically sitting on his lap, and his hands go to roam your sides.

Now, some old grandpa starts talking, commencing the meeting, on their usual bullshit of the need for extermination of Sukuna’s vessel, but Satoru pays them no mind. Instead, what they receive in response is non-committal hums as his hands drag themselves up your stomach and down where your legs are crossed to the hem of your kimono, and then under. 

Any semblance of paying attention to the meeting and responding to their infuriating beliefs leaves your mind as you blank out, panicking that Satoru is trying to commit public indecency with you. As an argument erupts between the higher ups about something, you turn to Gojo to furiously whisper, “What is wrong with you today?! Cut it out.”

In your life, you’ve fought many curses, first grade and even special grade included as you climbed up the ranks of Jujutsu sorcery despite having a non-sorcerer upbringing. What you will never be able to defeat, however, is your husband’s charm. Satoru knows what he’s doing as he lets out a deep moan in your ear, making you squeak and become even more flustered, as he continues to make lewd noises, puffs of his breath fanning across your neck. 

a/n gojo the type to start moaning randomly to make you fold #sorrynotsorry 

The indecency of all of it—-Gojo basically whimpering in your ear sweet nothings like good girl, that’s my wife, gonna let me finger you in front of all these ugly hags, right?—-being loud in your ear but also just quiet enough that you’d only hear made you so wet, heat throbbing between your thighs as Satoru’s hands start rubbing your fold. It’s a teasing touch, one not enough to satisfy you but to stimulate you nonetheless. 

It’s just when his index finger starts slowly circling around your clit that you buck your hips slightly, making him look at you teasingly, peering down at you from above your shoulder. “Oh you liked that, didn’t you?”

“I hate you,” you puff out, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck as Satoru’s circles on your clit get more tangibly, simulating you oh so deliciously. To make sure you hold yourself up, you set your elbows down on the table, Satoru’s arms engulfing you as you’re forced to take whatever touches he’s giving you under the table. 

“She’s so loud,” he whispers, pointing out the noises your pussy was making as his digits roved over your folds. The squelches were tangibly there, audible to anyone who would strain their ears. You could tell your lack of response to the meeting was catching attention, because there were several eyes towards you, waiting for something; it was then you realized that they had posed a question but were simply too fucked out to respond. 

A voice comes out to reprimand your husband sharply. “Gojo-sama, this is hardly appropriate.”

Satoru chuckles, not stopping his ministrations as he picks up a cup filled with water, his smug gaze still turned towards you while observing and appreciating your every hiccup and reaction. “Can’t my spouse attend this meeting? I value her opinion above everyone else’s in this room, after all,” he drawls, lodging his chin in the curve of your neck. “Besides,” and he flashes a dangerous grin to the man who spoke out, “weren’t you the ones who were oh so worried about me not having an heir?” 

At this point, you’ve filtered out all noises, focusing and honing in on the sensation of your orgasm coming. His digits are playful, curling up to hit your g-spot repeatedly, his palm tickling your clit. Each time he hits your spongy spot a bout of electricity runs up your body, pulling you closer and closer to your orgasm. 

“But guess what,” and he gives you a kiss on the cheek, despite the aversion the rest of the higher ups have to any displays of affection, “we can solve that problem right here, right now.” He punctuates it with a harsh sink of his fingers into your plush cunt, and, with that, you finally cream his fingers, a result of Satoru teasing you all day now. You try to temper the shakes wracking your body by slamming your fist against the table, trying not to moan out.

It seems that no one’s seen you riding out your orgasm out so visible, because there are gasps around the room at how obscene Gojo’s suggestion was. “It is shameful of you to be saying such things, Gojo-sama!” one of them sputters out, red with anger and outrage. 

Your husband not so subtly rolls his eyes. “Then don’t bring it up all the time, old man.” Satoru knows how touchy and vulnerable you are right after you cum, so he’s running his hands softly up and down your thighs to quell your quivers affectionately. “Actually, what about this? You all haven’t witnessed us consummate our marriage, correct?” He smirks. “What about witnessing the heir-making next time?”

general masterlist

a/n pls see the vision like i want gojo to claim me and rail me into next tuesday while the higher ups just watch uncomfortably like maybe i am a freak like that. like gojo would be so obsessed with how he's claiming you in front of the fuckers that piss him off so much...might do a part two if pookiesa like this :P

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots :3

[alchemiclee]

4 and 20 for the Artist Ask Game! 👀

4. Fav character/subject that's a bitch to draw

not sure about character...but subject? probably poses/anatomy in general. still bad at it. brain can't quite comprehend shapes lol all the anatomy tutorials just go in one ear/eye and out the other. no brain process in between 😅 same with lighting/shadows. basic art things make me trip and fall

20. Something everyone else finds hard to draw but you enjoy

eyes?? do people think eyes are hard? I always enjoyed doing eyes. maybe hair. hair is fun but i've seen many people say it's hard

[prokopetz]

I've touched on this in passing in recent posts, but: speaking as a technical writer, it is 100% okay to mix mechanical text and flavour text in your short-form RPGs. The rule against ever allowing the two to meet is a good one in its original context, but it's important to understand that the original context in question was long-form RPGs written in an era where it was customary for an RPG's main rulebook to contain a full-length novel worth of microfiction. Like, yeah, drawing a bright line between which bits of the text are the game's actual rules and which bits are for narrative inspiration is valuable when the alternative is making people painstakingly comb through three hundred pages of microfic every time they can't remember what this or that piece of mechanical jargon means, but that's less of a concern when your game is only 1500 words long. Don't feel that you're not allowed to get a little fancy with your skill descriptions just because some random urban fantasy game from 2006 abused the privilege.

[themultifanshipper]

Hello!!

I was wondering if I could ask for a request? I love your work and I had an idea for a fic but don't have the skills to make it a reality, ANYWAYS lol.

Charles leclerc finding out his crush does onlyfans 😏

You were very well paid as an engineer in one of the top Formula 1 teams, but your secret side hustle provided much more of an... escape, than your day job did.

Warnings: onlyfans, sextapes, smut, masturbation, fluff, Charles’ brain literally malfunctionning, angst but it end well, also I know this isn't how being a brand ambassador works but for the sake of this fic pretend Charles owns part of APM.

You had an Onlyfans. You'd had the account since college, and it had helped pay for your engineering degree.

But you'd found the experience so liberating and exciting, that you never really stopped.

So you continued posting regularly, and streaming, completely anonymously of course.

It would be absolutely mortifying if any of your colleagues found out about your other source of income.

You were smart about it. You never showed your face, barely spoke, and didn't put anything on your account that would in any way hint at your identity.

Your username was inconspicuous, you didn't really have any defining features on your body like tattoos or scars, and you'd even bought a green screen to hide your surroundings.

Sometimes you recorded videos in risky places, but they were never recognisable enough for someone to know exactly where you were.

Being a mechanic for Charles Leclerc was a dream.

He was so nice to you, if a bit shy, and extremely helpful in his feedback to you and the team.

He had made moving to Italy a lot easier and the flat he rented for when he was there was in the same neighbourhood as yours.

Charles had a thing for you. He couldn't deny it, he'd been taken with you ever since your first day, when you walked in late, and wearing a Ferrari uniform that was obviously several sizes too big for you.

“They sent me the wrong ones!” you panted as you tried to explain your attire “the orders got mixed up and I got sent someone else's uniform, I've just been at the office trying to figure it all out”

He was barely listening, your eyes had captivated him and it was too late, he just stared at you.

“Charles?”

He snapped out of it and you could finally get to work, but not before Carlos had sniggered in the corner and given Charles a teasing look.

The teasing only got worse when it turned out that the uniform mix up was actually with Charles, because you had similar addresses.

The discovery that you'd actually been technically wearing his clothes had driven Charles to the edge of madness and back.

You'd tried to give them back to him once you’d received your own, but he insisted you keep them.

“I don't need them, you can have them”

“But they're yours! I don't need them either and they're way too big for me anyway”

“They look really good on you, you can wear them for bed or… or something…” he stuttered, the image of you in bed and in his clothes was too much for him, and he blushed his way out of the room as Carlos, who had unfortunately witnessed that interaction, howled with laughter at the idiocy of his friend.

Over the next few months Carlos was getting increasingly annoyed with Charles.

He'd teased him to bits for a few weeks, but now it was getting just plain pathetic.

You were all Charles could talk about, but he was too shy to do anything about it.

“Cabrón, you need to ask her out instead of talking my ears off about her”

“It's worse than that Carlos, I've done… something”

Carlos raised an eyebrow at his teammate, whatever Charles had done, it couldn't be good.

“Go on”

Charles blushed and looked around before getting his phone out to show Carlos something.

"There is this Onlyfans account…” he started and Carlos groaned in frustration, already knowing where this was going.

“She looks and sounds a bit like her and… Carlos I'm obsessed. I think I have a problem”

Carlos glanced at the screen. The girl didn't not look like you, but given that her face wasn't visible, and he had never seen you naked, he wasn't capable of making any sort of comparison.

“You need to do something about this mate, this is not healthy”

Charles sighed, putting his phone away. “I know”

They were at a race, waiting for qualifying to start while you were out working on the car that would hopefully get him pole position.

And it did.

The first thing he did when he got out of the car was run to you and lift you up as you laughed.

“Thank you, thank you for the car. It was perfect!” you blushed and hugged him back.

“Anything for you, Charles”

Eventually he was whisked off for his interviews and you were left red-faced and grinning as you watched him go.

The first week of summer break was spent in the factory doing some sim work and testing to see exactly what was so right about the setup, and whether you could replicate it for Carlos' car.

So the three of you (plus all the usual employees) were in Maranello for a few days.

Charles took you to one of his favourite restaurants to celebrate his latest race win.

You had a few drinks and laughed the night away, and when you separated at the end of the night, all Charles could manage was a peck on the cheek.

You went home to finally start your stream, late, and Charles went home to discover his favourite account would be starting their stream late.

 Perfect timing, he thought as he unbuckled his pants and got to work.

Yeah, he had a problem.

“Ferrari69 has joined the stream”

It wasn't rare that formula 1 themed usernames popped up in your subscribers, but it always made you chuckle when your literal employer's name appeared while you masturbated on camera for the world to see.

Ferrari69’s name was a regular sight, and a regular donator, and quite generous too.

It was probably an old rich man who had nothing better to do with his money, you supposed.

You had planned to film one of your riskier videos that week.

You didn't want to livestream it in case something went wrong, or you got caught.

There was a beautiful park in Maranello, one that had plenty of hiding spots.

That, and you did it at night when no one was around, so it was all good.

It all went smoothly, and once you were done you packed up your equipment and started making your way home when you spotted a familiar frame walking down one of the footpaths in front of you.

“Charles?” you called out and you heard a gasp followed by a relieved chuckle.

“Oh my god you scared me!” he smiled at you as you got to his level.

“What are you doing outside at this time?” he asked, perplexed.

“I uuhh… I was just clearing my head I guess… it's been a long week, you know?” you tried, and he obviously wasn't convinced but he nodded anyway and silence fell over you.

“So um…” you could feel the awkwardness dripping from his tone “that's a nice bracelet”

He motioned to your wrist and you grinned at him.

“Thanks… it's your own collection” you giggled and he facepalmed.

Yes it was his collection, he was wearing the same one around his own wrist.

“Right, right… I think I should probably head home and get some sleep then” he chuckled.

“Yeah, me too. Need to be up bright and early tomorrow for my flight home”

“Yes! Me too actually…” he fiddled with his hands nervously and the awkward silence became too much for you.

“Right well, goodnight then. I'll see you in a few weeks, Charles” and before you could think too much about it you leaned in and pressed a light kiss to his cheek.

He reddened and smiled shyly.

“Yeah, see you around”

You rushed home and slammed your front door, leaning against it as you tried to slow your heart rate down.

That could have been a disaster. God knows what could've happened if Charles had wandered past a few minutes earlier.

You shuddered, the idea of Charles catching you in the act wasn't completely unpleasant.

But you couldn't risk it, you wouldn't be filming in that park ever again.

You looked through the footage, editing what needed to be edited, and uploaded it to your channel before going through your nightly routine.

Your phone buzzed with likes and notifications as your most avid followers reacted to your new post but you didn't look at them until you were firmly planted in your bed, ready to go to sleep.

By the time Charles got home, he was ready to do some serious unwinding.

‘that's a nice bracelet’ ??? What the fuck was wrong with him.

He took a quick shower and checked his phone for the notification he hoped would be there.

He clicked on the video and grabbed a bottle of lube before climbing into bed.

He didn't even get to open the bottle though, because his eyes zoned in on the little familiar blue diamond chain around the woman's wrist.

Then he took in the surrounding trees and bushes, which were even more familiar.

No...

It couldn't be you, surely it was some kind of twisted coincidence.

But objectively, the evidence was damning.

He decided to look through the comments as a distraction.

There were the usual comments about how hot she was and how people wished they were with her.

A flash of possessiveness surged through Charles at those.

That was new. He'd never felt possessive over her before, but now that he suspected it was you… that was a different story...

You liked a few comments, replied to a couple of others and were about to call it a night when you got a different notification.

A private message. From Ferrari69.

You opened it curiously, he'd never messaged you before, despite the numerous times he had sent you money.

“That's a nice bracelet”

A chill ran down your spine. That's exactly what Charles had said, in the park.

“Is it new?”

Bit of an odd introduction, but you supposed he deserved to know, it was his money that had paid for it after all.

“It is yes. I was in Monaco recently and I thought I'd spend some of the very generous tips you've been sending me ;) thank you so much by the way”

Charles' possessiveness flared again. Technically he had paid for that little trinket that he'd seen you wear only hours prior. He felt emboldened, and a bit turned on by that fact.

“That's a shame… I happen to know the owner of the collection, I could have made sure you got one for free. You could’ve spent the money on something else…”

Several red flags went off in your mind.

He seemed to be taking an interest in becoming your sugar daddy, which is not what you'd signed up for.

But more importantly, this man (you assumed it was a man) was potentially acquainted with Charles. Big no-no.

He could be lying for attention of course, but if the amount of money he'd sent you was any indication, he was proper rich, and therefore could very possibly know everyone in the goddamn paddock.

“If it makes you feel better, I've spent your money on other things as well, like a custom dress I'll be wearing to an event soon, and also that custom dildo I used in the park earlier :)”

Charles' dick throbbed as he thought back to the video.

“Really? Money well spent in that case. I enjoyed the video very much ;) Will you be doing any more risky ones like that?”

“I don't know… I was almost caught by a colleague of mine tonight”

Charles was in too deep. He needed to stop this madness before somebody got hurt.

He ended the conversation as quickly as he could without seeming off, and groaned when the thumbnail of the video flashed on his screen again, cock twitching at the sight of you riding a dildo that he'd paid for.

And then you’d met him in the woods, and acted as if you hadn't been getting yourself off minutes before.

Instead of doing the reasonable thing and having a cold shower, he put the video on again and fisted his cock desperately until he was spent.

Yeah, Charles was fucked.

A chill ran down your back as you turned your phone off.

You couldn't shake the feeling that your identity was in danger.

You shrugged it off, putting your paranoid thoughts down to the fact that it was late and you were tired as fuck.

You caught your flight the next day, barely, because you'd forgotten to set an alarm. So the night before was successfully put out of your mind for now as you snoozed away on the plane.

A couple of weeks later was the event.

You and Charles called it that in a derogatory way, because you knew it would be anything but an event.

It was possibly the most boring day of the calendar, basically the equivalent to a business meeting, but with everyone forced to be dressed to the nines because sponsors would be there.

It took place in a big mansion, belonging to some CEO or another, in the Swiss countryside.

So all the most important staff were invited, and put up in a fancy hotel.

Charles was waiting anxiously for you to arrive.

He had decided that today was the day he was going to tell you he knew about your uhh… side activities.

He didn't quite know how to broach the subject, but he was sure the inspiration would come to him at some point.

He'd spent the last two weeks avoiding any conversation with you, and he hadn't told Carlos a thing, confusing the Spaniard to no end as he watched Charles suddenly turn completely dismissive whenever you were mentioned.

When you arrived, he thought he was dreaming.

You were wearing a long red satin dress. It showed off your curves, having a very low neckline and no back.

The old rich pigs sponsors were going to love you.

He certainly did.

Wait what? Did he love you? He was certainly possessive over you. And completely obssessed with you, and your eyes, and your smile, and the way you were the only one who laughed when he made stupid puns…

“Charles?” you frowned at him, eyes full of concern as you snapped your fingers in his face, trying to get his attention.

You were standing right in front of him, sparkly makeup making you glow, and you smelled divine. He didn't know how long you'd been standing there.

His brain was short circuiting and he stared straight at your breasts that were barely covered by the rosso corsa fabric that was clinging to your body.

“Charles?” you knew he was staring, and you were getting slightly uncomfortable. “Are you okay, man?”

He paid for that dress. You looked fucking sexy incredible in a dress that he was responsible for buying, in his colour.

Something glinted in his vision as you lifted a hand to his forehead to check whether he was having some kind of fever.

You were wearing the bracelet. His collection. The bracelet you were wearing when you fucked yourself on camera with the dildo he also paid for.

“Charles people are staring. Do you need to lie down?”

Shit. He needed to say something.

But there was no way in hell that anything that came out of his mouth could possibly be appropriate right now.

He gave it a go anyway.

“You're all mine” he growled.

You jumped at his tone, retracting your hand in surprise.

“What?” you whispered, glancing around to see if anyone was listening in.

“Do you want to know a fun fact?” he said, mouth dry, brain barely working.

“Uhh… sure?”

“I paid for that dress”

You looked at him questioningly but he didn't elaborate.

“What?” you chuckled nervously. “No, I paid for this?” you were very confused by Charles' sudden change of personality. He looked like he was on drugs, pupils swallowing his irises as he scanned your body.

“I also paid for this” his voice was hoarse as his hand went to grab you wrist.

He internally begged you to understand what he was saying, even if his mouth couldn't say it out loud.

“I… I don't understand Charles… this is from your collection but you didn't buy it for me? What has gotten into you?” you ripped your arm away from his grasp.

“No, I paid for it, and I can prove it to you.”

You frowned as he took out his phone and tapped away on it for a minute, hiding it from your view.

You were even more confused when he put it back in his pocket and waited.

“Charles what-“  you were cut off by the sound of your phone buzzing in your bag.

What on earth was he playing at? You pulled it out to check it.

He opened his mouth just as you saw the notification on your screen, and you froze as your brain absorbed the information.

“I just sent you two hundred euros”

‘Ferrari69 has sent you 200€’

Your fingers tightened around your phone.

You physically couldn't look away from the screen.

You reread the notification over and over, while your brain replayed Charles' words.

This couldn't be happening.

You tried to heave in a breath but it got caught in your throat and you choked on a sob.

You walked away as quickly as you could, tears threatening to blur your vision as you almost ran down a hallway in search of somewhere you could block out the thoughts threatening to split your head open.

You've been found out. You're going to lose your job. Charles has lost all respect for you. You will lose your career, your friends, everyone you've ever known is going to be disgusted by you.

You didn't hear the footsteps behind you until it was too late.

Charles wrapped an arm around your middle and dragged you into the closest room he could find.

You didn't have the strength to fight.

Tears flowed freely down your cheeks as he sat you down in a chair and cradled your face in his hands, crouching down in front of you.

“Hey. Hey, it's okay. You're going to be okay. It's just me. I'm the only one who knows. Just breathe. Come on, deep breaths for me.”

Thankfully, Charles' brain had rebooted at the sight of your trembling frame running away from him.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.” He leaned his forehead against yours, thumbs wiping the tears from your cheeks. “I shouldn't have told you like that. I don't know what came over me. I’m sorry…”

At last you were breathing relatively normally again.

“Charles” your voice shook as you pushed him off and put your head in your hands.

“You have no idea. No idea how humiliating this is.”

“I won't tell anybody, I promise.” Charles took your hands in his and squeezed.

“That's not the point. It’s supposed to be secret. If anyone else finds out I'll lose my job, and… and you”

“Look at me” he whispered, and you slowly raised your head, eyes betraying nothing but vulnerability.

“You are not going to lose your job, or me. I have been in love with you for months. This is not going to change that. And I will not tell a soul about this, I promise…”

Your jaw dropped. Your head was pounding with all this information.

“And do you want to know a fun fact?” he cracked a smile and you couldn't help letting out a nervous laugh.

“I think I've had enough fun facts today thank you very much”

He chuckled dryly and nodded understandingly.

“This one is important though. Do you want to know why I followed your uhh… account, in the first place?”

You shook your head.

“It is because I was too much of a coward to tell you how I felt, and the woman in the videos reminded me of you. So it was like I was in my own little fucked up fantasy when I watched them.”

Your eyes were wide as you listened to him. He was thinking of you, while unknowingly jerking off to your actual nudes…

“And you have no idea how fucking hard I came when I figured out it was actually you”

Your breath caught in your throat.

“That is so fucked up, Charles”

He nodded.

“I know. So if anything, I'm the one who is humiliated, and if you never want to speak to me again, I will understand”

You laughed disbelievingly. It was almost sweet how he was trying to make you feel better.

“Charles… I don't think you understand. I am in love with you.”

His mouth opened and closed several times before any sound came out.

“Oh…”

You laughed “Yeah, oh…”

“You don't care that I am a pervert who has been sending you money?”

You froze and thought back to the conversation you'd had that night.

“Oh my god… is that how you figured it out?”

“No” he chuckled “I figured it out because you wore my fucking jewelry collection in a video filmed in a place I know very well, minutes before I saw you in it”

You sighed. “I knew it was a bad idea”

Charles’ hand came to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing at your lower lip.

“If it makes you feel better, not a day has passed where I haven't thought about fucking you in those bushes”

Your breath hitched and you saw his pupils grow in size.

“As long as we don't film it and post it on the internet, I don't see why we can't make that particular fantasy come true”

It was his turn to gasp.

“Next time we are in Maranello, I am going to fuck you under the moonlight.”

You scrunched your nose at his words.

“That's very sappy Charles”

He laughed, slowly leaning in closer to you as he responded.

“Well, so far the beginning of our relationship has been… complicated. I need to make up for it…” his lips brushed yours and your unsteady breath mingled with his “starting right. Now.”

He pressed his lips to yours and your eyes fluttered shut.

It was surreal, kissing the object of your long time affections.

His lips were so unnaturally soft, parting your own as his tongue came to deepen the kiss, and his hands came to rest on your waist.

Your own hands came up to curl in his hair and tug at the strands, making him groan.

“Fuck- don't do that unless you want to walk out of this room limping”

You smirked at him, very tempted by the offer. But you knew that at any moment someone was going to come looking for Charles for his speech.

“I'll take you up on that at some point, but right now you need to go. I'll get myself freshened up and join you in a minute”

He nodded, coming to his senses. He did need to go make a speech. Inaugurating his new relationship would have to wait.

His speech was the most entertaining thing of the event, considering how dull the rest of it was.

Every time he spotted you in the crowd he would stutter, blush, and need about a minute each time to get back on track.

And only you noticed, but he kept subtly readjusting himself every time he put a hand in his pocket, feigning nonchalance.

The two of you left straight after the speech, bumping into Carlos in the lobby.

“Where are you going, Cabrón? You need to do the thing at the end with the-“

He took one look at your guilty faces, and intertwined hands, and groaned.

“Jesus… okay, go. I will cover for you”

You both thanked him breathlessly and all but sprinted to Charles' car.

He drove you to the hotel you were both in, and dragged you up to you room as fast as was humanly possible.

Unlocking the door was a challenge, already climbing on each other by that point, and if someone else had been in the corridor at that moment they would have seen a shirtless Charles pulling your dress up around your waist while trying to get his keycard in your slot, as it were.

It wasn't long before you were inside, fully naked, pressed against the wall with your legs hooked over his arms as he pounded into you.

You panted and whimpered into each other's mouths, pulling each other closer as you struggled to kiss with the pleasure that was coursing through your bodies.

“I love you” he said, voice cracking with the effort of holding back.

“I love you, Charles” you whined, one hand scratching down his back, the other tangling in his hair to pull on it once again.

He growled and his hips slammed yours against the wall.

“Fuck, I'm going to fill you up if you keep doing that”

You moaned, extremely close to edge yourself.

“Do it. Fill me up, Charlie. Make me yours!”

You reached your highs at the same time, moans echoing in the room as you rode the waves of pleasure, clinging to each other desperately.

He carried you over to the bed, put you down gently and kissed you senseless.

You showered together and you put one of his shirts on (the ones mistakenly sent to you) to sleep in.

While you were in bed, cuddled up together, one of his hands slipped under the shirt and came to rest on one of your breasts.

“Baby?” you giggled as he gave it a quick squeeze.

“I can't believe I used to fantasize about these, not knowing they were next to me the whole time…”

He kissed your cheek and you groaned.

“God, you are such a perv, Charles”

He laughed softly. “I think you are not well placed to be saying that to me”

You gasped in mock offence.

“Why? Because I've been posting myself masturbating for the world to see?”

“Nooo…” he purred in your ear “Because, you are going to keep doing it” he bit your ear lightly as his other hand trailed down your body “and I am going to buy you all the things I want you to use on yourself, for the world to see”

[eu-nicola]

the fastest driver part 1

summary: you are a young and talented driver, who begins your journey in Formula 1 with Ferrari. despite your undeniable ability, you are constantly relegated to the background due to the Scuderia's strategies, which always favor your teammate, Charles Leclerc.

warnings: nothing for now

word counter: 9026

author's note: english is not my first language, this is from an amazing request

You grew up in a small town where dusty streets were your first track, and the only kart your parents could afford became an extension of yourself. You spent years perfecting your skills under the blazing sun, your hands always stained with grease, while dreaming of the big leagues. Your determination and talent didn’t go unnoticed for long, and by the age of seventeen, you were already competing in Formula 3, winning races, and building a reputation that few could ignore.

However, the transition to Formula 1 was no fairy tale. Despite your achievements in the lower categories, many doors remained closed. You were a woman in a sport dominated by men, and while you hated admitting it, you knew the battle to prove yourself extended beyond the circuits. But when Ferrari came calling, you realized all your sacrifices had been worth it. Ferrari, the team with the most history and prestige in Formula 1, had set its sights on you.

The first time you set foot in Maranello, Ferrari's heart, you felt a mix of nerves and excitement. The walls of the main building were adorned with iconic images: Lauda, Schumacher, Vettel... all the greats who had raced for the Scuderia. And now you were there, ready to make your mark in history.

They introduced you to Charles Leclerc, your teammate. Tall, charismatic, and with a smile that could disarm anyone, Charles greeted you politely but with a reserved attitude. It was clear he wasn’t going to let his guard down around you.

The technical team showed you the SF24, the car you’d be driving that season. It was beautiful, a machine designed to fly on asphalt, and when you finally sat in the cockpit for the first time, everything felt right. This was your place.

Preseason testing in Barcelona was your first big challenge. The media was eager to see you in action, and the headlines were as varied as they were predictable: some hailed you as a breath of fresh air for Formula 1, while others questioned your ability to handle the pressure.

When you finally hit the track, all the external noise disappeared. It was just you, the car, and the circuit. From the first lap, you proved you belonged in this world. Your times were competitive, sometimes even better than Charles’, which didn’t go unnoticed by the team or the press.

But then, in the middle of your best stint, you received a radio message: “Box, box. We need to check something on the car.” There was nothing to check, and you knew it. But you obeyed. Charles needed more track time, and Ferrari made sure he got it.

The day of the first race in Bahrain was a whirlwind of emotions. Seeing your name on the red cars alongside Charles’ was a dream come true. But you also knew your real challenge was just beginning.

You qualified third, right behind Charles, which left the team satisfied but not surprised. In the race, you had a spectacular start, overtaking Charles at the first corner. Adrenaline surged through your body as you realized you were leading the race for Ferrari. But then the radio crackled again: “Let Charles through. He has better pace.”

You clenched your teeth. You knew it wasn’t true, that you had the pace to fight for the win, but you also understood the unwritten rules of the Scuderia: Charles was number one. So you lifted your foot off the accelerator, watching as Charles took the lead while a bitter frustration built up inside you.

You finished second, a result any rookie would have celebrated, but for you, it wasn’t enough. In the press conference, journalists bombarded you with questions about being relegated to second fiddle. You smiled professionally and replied that it was all for the good of the team, but inside, you were burning.

The dynamics within Ferrari didn’t take long to settle. You were the driver who followed orders, no matter how illogical or unfair they seemed. From the beginning, you had accepted that a place in Formula 1 was a hard-earned privilege and that surviving in such a legendary team required showing commitment and loyalty. But at Ferrari, the price of that loyalty seemed increasingly steep.

You were always the first to arrive at the garage and the last to leave. You immersed yourself in the technical details, analyzing every bit of data from the car and holding long meetings with the engineers. But no matter how hard you worked, there was always an invisible line you couldn’t cross. Every strategy, every race decision, seemed designed to keep you in your place: the perfect support for Charles Leclerc, Ferrari’s "star man."

Some moments were particularly frustrating. Like that Sunday in Monaco, when the sky threatened rain and the track conditions were changing rapidly. You were in a strong position, right behind Leclerc, and clearly faster than him at that point. When you asked for permission to attack over the radio, the response was curt:

“Hold position. The priority is to protect Charles’ race.”

That day, you bit your lip and obeyed. You lifted slightly in every corner, letting Charles pull away enough to avoid pressuring him. And, as if it were a cruel joke, Charles’ strategy backfired: he was called to the pits at the wrong time, losing all his advantage. Meanwhile, you got stuck in traffic you couldn’t overcome with the car you had. You finished off the podium.

You could have screamed, could have let out your frustration, but you didn’t. When journalists approached with questions about the strategy, your response was impeccable, the “good girl” answer they expected:

“It’s part of racing. I trust the team and the decisions they make.”

Even when you didn’t feel it, even when it ate away at you inside.

Ferrari, an institution as legendary as it was unyielding, seemed to thrive on your docility. In internal meetings, you weren’t the one to stand up and challenge the strategists or argue over team orders. It was Charles who raised his voice, who demanded explanations or changes. You, on the other hand, nodded, worked harder, and returned to the grind. In the team’s eyes, that attitude made you the perfect driver to support the project. “Predictable,” some would say. “Reliable,” others would call it.

However, there were days when the injustice weighed too heavily. You remembered races like Silverstone, where you led for more than 20 laps, only to receive the order to let Charles through under the pretext that he had better pace. You complied without protest, watching your chance for a first victory vanish with a maneuver that didn’t even make sense to the commentators.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” a journalist asked you in the post race press conference, almost reproachfully.

Your answer was automatic:

“The team has its reasons, and I trust them.”

But inside, you wanted to scream. Of course, you wanted to fight. You wanted to prove you hadn’t come this far just to be a shadow.

Despite everything, you never broke. You kept working, accumulating miles, and learning every step of the way. At Ferrari, you were known as the hardest worker, the one who spent extra hours reviewing data and analyzing races. Sometimes, even Charles joked with you:

“You should relax a bit. You don’t need to prove so much to the team; they already know you’re good.”

But you knew it wasn’t enough. Your place always seemed precarious, as if you were under constant evaluation, always one step behind in the team’s priorities.

Throughout the season, this dynamic became so evident that even some fans began to notice the disparity. On social media, the discussions were constant: some praised your obedience, seeing you as the ideal teammate, while others criticized Ferrari for not giving you a fair chance. You didn’t say anything, but you read the comments. You felt the frustration of those who wanted to see you succeed, and that gave you strength to keep going.

And although that helped you move forward, there were things that got in the way. Spending so much time with Charles Leclerc was inevitable. You shared meetings, strategies, team dinners, and endless travels from one circuit to another. Sometimes, during long waits at airports or motorhome rides, he relaxed enough to drop the façade of being the perfect driver.

It was in those moments that you began to notice him differently. Maybe it was the way his smile widened when you managed to make him laugh with your sarcastic comments or how he looked at you with a mix of awe and admiration when you discussed strategies, showing detailed knowledge of every technical aspect. You found yourself anticipating those small moments, those conversations where the weight of the motorsport world seemed to disappear, even if just for a few minutes.

At first, you tried to ignore it. You told yourself it was nothing, simply a side effect of being so close to someone for so long. But little by little, that feeling began to grow. You found yourself watching him during meetings, noticing details that had previously gone unnoticed: the slight accent in his English, the way he ran a hand through his hair when frustrated, his easy laughter when something truly amused him.

Reality hit every time you remembered that, to him, you were just his teammate. Maybe a friend, even a sort of younger sister, but nothing more. Charles had a natural way of making you feel comfortable but also reminding you of where you stood in his life.

One night in Suzuka, after a long day of training and meetings, you both ended up in the small lounge of Ferrari's motorhome. You had gone to get a cup of tea to clear your mind and found him sitting on the couch, looking at something on his phone. He looked up when he saw you and smiled.

“Long day?” he asked, setting his phone aside.

“As always,” you replied, pouring hot water into your cup. Then you turned to him. “And you? I haven’t seen you since the last meeting.”

Charles sighed and stretched. “I was trying to reply to some messages, but I don’t even know where to start. Family, friends, everyone wants to know how I’m doing all the time. It’s exhausting.”

You smiled, sitting in a chair across from him. “Must be tough being Charles Leclerc.”

He laughed. “Don’t believe it. You’re a Ferrari driver too. You must have your own endless list of messages.”

“Yeah, but the difference is that I’m not seen as the team’s big star. I only have to worry about my parents and a couple of close friends.”

He tilted his head, as if evaluating your words. “Don’t think we don’t notice. The whole team knows how dedicated you are. Maybe they don’t say it all the time, but they know how much you bring to the table.”

Your heart skipped a little. You hadn’t expected that kind of recognition from him. You tried to stay composed.

“That’s... good to hear. Sometimes it doesn’t feel that way, but thank you.”

A comfortable silence settled between the two of you. Charles looked at you with curiosity.

“And you? How do you handle it? Being here, under so much pressure, one of the few women in this sport... It can’t be easy.”

You lowered your gaze to your cup, letting your thoughts swirl.

“It’s not. But I don’t expect it to be. I grew up knowing I’d have to work twice as hard to get here. So, I do. Sometimes it’s frustrating, especially when it feels like no matter how much I try, things don’t change.”

“Are you talking about the team orders?”

You looked up quickly, surprised he mentioned it. He was watching you with that intensity of his, as if trying to unravel your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he said with a half smile. “I know. It’s not fair.”

“Then why don’t you say anything?” you asked, almost without thinking.

He seemed to ponder this for a moment. “Cause this sport isn’t fair. It never has been. You know that as well as I do.”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.”

Charles nodded, as if he understood perfectly what you meant. Then, to your surprise, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Look, I know it doesn’t always seem like you’re valued, but believe me, you’re incredible. You’re fast, smart, and more hardworking than anyone in this paddock. You don’t need Ferrari to tell you that because you’re proving it every time you get in the car.”

His sincerity left you speechless. For a moment, the noise of the outside world disappeared, and all you felt was the warmth of his gaze and the weight of his words. You wanted to say something, but the lump in your throat stopped you.

Finally, he broke the silence with a smile that seemed to lighten the atmosphere.

“Besides, if you start beating me, I’ll have to work harder. And I don’t want that,” he joked.

You laughed, grateful that the moment had turned lighter.

“Don’t worry. You still have a bit of an advantage... for now.”

You both laughed, and the moment passed. But as you walked back to your room that night, you couldn’t stop thinking about what you had felt. No matter how much you tried to deny it, your feelings for Charles were there, silently growing. And the worst part was knowing that, to him, you were just a teammate, a friend, maybe even that younger sister he joked about in meetings.

But you wanted to be more than that. And you had no idea how to handles.

The conversation with Charles left you more affected than you wanted to admit. His words echoed in your mind like a constant refrain: “Your incredible,” he had said. Did he really mean it? Or was he just trying to motivate you, like an older brother would with a younger sister? You couldn’t shake the feeling that, while he valued you, he didn’t fully see you. Not as an equal, not as a true rival, and certainly not as anything more.

That, combined with the weight of the team orders and the constant feeling of being a shadow in Ferrari, began to wear you down in ways you couldn’t ignore. The following races only reinforced your frustration. In Austin, you were once again told to hold position behind Charles, even though you were faster. In Interlagos, you were excluded from a key strategy that could have landed you on the podium. Every time you received the order over the radio, you obeyed, because that was what was expected of you. The “good girl” who didn’t cause trouble. The obedient driver who always put the team above herself.

But inside, something was breaking.

It was in the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix, the last race of the season, that you reached your limit. At the Yas Marina Circuit, the sun was sinking into the horizon, bathing the paddock in golden and orange hues as the tension filled the air. For Ferrari, this race was crucial: the team was still fighting to secure second place in the Constructors Championship, and every strategic decision was made with that goal in mind.

But for you, this race meant something else. After months of following orders, of being relegated to a supporting role, you knew this was your moment. There would be no next time. Ferrari had made it clear that their priority was Charles Leclerc. You’d heard the rumors that, regardless of the results, your seat was at risk. You had nothing left to lose.

You had qualified fourth, right behind Charles, while the Red Bulls occupied the front row. You knew you would have to play your cards smartly to have a chance, but you also knew you weren’t going to follow orders that hurt you again.

As you adjusted your gloves in the cockpit, you heard your engineer’s voice over the radio:

“Remember, the priority is to maintain positions and support Charles if necessary.”

You bit your lip to keep from responding. Instead, you simply said:

“Understood.”

But this time, you didn’t understand. You weren’t willing to sacrifice yourself again.

When the lights went out, your reaction was flawless. You held your position, avoiding an aggressive attack from a Mercedes. Charles was trying to keep pace with the Red Bulls, but it soon became clear he didn’t have enough speed to catch them.

By lap 15, you were right behind him. Your tires were in better condition, and you were clearly faster in the technical corners. You tried to put pressure on him, but the order came over the radio before you could attempt an overtake.

“Hold position. Repeat: hold position.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath. This was the moment. You could obey, as always, or you could risk it all.

On lap 18, down the main straight, you moved out of Charles’ slipstream and went for the overtake. The maneuver was clean, an impeccable move that left the team speechless. The protests came immediately over the radio.

“What are you doing? Give the position back, now.”

But you ignored the orders. You didn’t respond. Your only answer was to push harder.

From the pit wall, the tension was palpable. You could imagine the strategists shouting, the engineers exchanging nervous looks. Charles tried to reclaim the position, but his worn tires didn’t allow him to get close enough. You focused on your pace, pushing to the limit in every corner.

By lap 40, the critical moment arrived. A safety car came out after a crash, and Ferrari called Charles in first to change tires. However, you ignored your order to pit on the next lap, staying out to maintain the strategic advantage. When the safety car period ended, you were in third place, with the Red Bulls ahead and Charles behind.

The final laps were a battle of pure instinct. Max and Checo fought for the victory while you defended your podium spot tooth and nail. Charles attempted an aggressive overtake on the penultimate lap, but you blocked him with a move that was clean yet firm.

The checkered flag waved, and you crossed the finish line in third place. You had achieved your first podium in Formula 1. Emotions overwhelmed you as you heard the commentators’ cheers and the fans’ applause. It was the moment you had dreamed of your entire career.

But the celebration was short-lived.

When you arrived at parc fermé, the faces in the Ferrari team were telling. Charles stepped out of his car and gave you a look you couldn’t decipher. There was no anger, but no joy either. You removed your helmet and walked toward the podium, feeling the mix of joy and tension around you.

The podium was a whirlwind of emotions. You allowed yourself to enjoy the moment: the champagne, the cheers, the feeling of proving what you were capable of. But when you returned to the motorhome, reality hit you like a punch.

The team principal was waiting for you in the meeting room, his expression cold as steel.

“What do you think you were doing out there?” he asked, his voice restrained but loaded with anger.

You looked him straight in the eye.

“I was racing to win.”

“You disobeyed direct team orders, jeopardizing our strategy and our relationship with Charles. This is unacceptable.”

“What’s unacceptable” you said firmly “is that I was never given a fair chance. Today, I proved that I can compete. That I deserve to be here.”

A tense silence followed. Finally, the team principal sighed, as if carrying a massive weight on his shoulders.

“This cannot continue. There is no place in Ferrari for someone who doesn’t follow the rules.”

And so, the decision was made. You were fired from Ferrari that very night.

As you packed your things, you felt a mix of emotions. Sadness and anger, yes. But also pride. You had shown that you weren’t just another cog in the system. You had fought for yourself, for what you believed in.

Before you left, Charles approached you.

“That was a great podium” he said with a small smile. “I knew you had it in you.”

“Thanks” you replied, feeling a pang of emotion.

“What are you going to do now?”

You looked at him, letting a defiant smile cross your face.

“I’m going to keep racing. Wherever, with whoever, but I’ll keep racing.”

And with that, you walked away.

After your departure from Ferrari, there was no time for regrets. You had barely stepped out of the motorhome at Yas Marina when the motorsport world began to react. News of your dismissal spread like wildfire, and the controversy dominated every headline: “The rebellion that shook Ferrari,” “A driver fired for disobedience but with talent to shine,” “Was Ferrari’s decision fair?”

At first, you tried to escape it all. You hid at home, turned off your phone, and avoided social media. But you soon realized the world wouldn’t leave you alone. The story had become too big, and to your surprise, the public was mostly on your side. In every interview, in every analysis by the experts, the same argument arose: Ferrari had wasted undeniable talent.

It didn't take long before the calls started coming in. First, they were from midfield teams: Aston Martin, Williams, even Alpine. They all saw you as a golden opportunity, a talent Ferrari had let slip away. But there was something about those offers that didn’t quite convince you. After fighting so hard to prove your worth, you didn’t want to take a step back in your career.

One day, while you were having breakfast at home, your agent arrived with an expression you had never seen before a mix of disbelief and excitement.

“Red Bull is interested in you.”

You almost dropped your coffee cup.

“Red Bull? The world champion team?”

“Yes, them. They called me this morning. They want to meet with you.”

The news was surreal. Red Bull, the most dominant team on the grid, the one that had won championships with Max Verstappen, was now interested in signing you.

A few days later, you traveled to Milton Keynes, where the team’s headquarters were located. From the moment you walked into the building, you felt the difference. Here, there was no solemn, almost monarchical air like at Ferrari; Red Bull was modern, fresh, with an energy that was palpable in the atmosphere.

You were greeted by Christian Horner and Helmut Marko. During the meeting, Horner got straight to the point.

“We’ve been watching you all season,” he said with a confident smile. “What you did in Abu Dhabi was risky, but it showed you have a hunger for victory, and that’s what we’re looking for in a driver.”

“We know Ferrari didn’t give you the opportunities you deserved,” Marko interjected in his characteristic serious tone. “You won’t have that problem here. We want you to compete at the highest level.”

The proposal was clear: you would be part of the Red Bull team as the second driver, alongside Max Verstappen. It wasn’t an easy seat. Verstappen was the undisputed champion, and competing alongside him meant facing one of the greatest in history. But it also meant a golden opportunity to prove you belonged in the elite.

“What do you say?” Horner asked, smiling expectantly.

You looked at your agent, who gave you a slight nod, as if to say it was your decision. You took a deep breath and then responded:

“I accept.”

The news of your signing with Red Bull was announced during the winter break, just before Christmas. The official statement included words from Horner praising your talent and fighting spirit, highlighting that you would be a key piece in maintaining the team’s dominance.

The public reaction was explosive. Social media was flooded with messages of support and surprise. Some criticized the decision, arguing that Verstappen didn’t need internal competition, while others celebrated it as a victory for a driver who had earned her place against all odds.

Even Charles Leclerc reacted in an interview:

“I’m happy for her. She’s a great driver and deserves this opportunity. Red Bull is an incredible team, and I’m sure she’ll do well.”

The first day at the Red Bull factory was completely different from what you had experienced at Ferrari. From the beginning, they treated you like part of the team. The engineers showed you the progress on the new car, and Max, though reserved, gave you a professional welcome.

“It’s not easy here,” he told you during lunch at the factory canteen, “but if you’re here, it’s because you have what it takes.”

The buzz reached its peak after the announcement of your signing with Red Bull. While the whole world debated your arrival at the most dominant team on the grid, you were only beginning to process what this new chapter in your life meant. However, something kept crossing your mind. At first, the excitement and thrill of the new opportunity kept you busy, but when things calmed down, one question arose strongly: What had happened to Checo?

Checo had been Max Verstappen’s teammate for the past few seasons, and although he hadn’t reached the Dutchman’s level, he had been a key pillar in the team’s success. You had seen how he fought on track, defending positions with a ferocity few could match. So why had they terminated his contract?

Rumors about Checo’s departure started surfacing even before your arrival was announced. Some said his results hadn’t been enough for Red Bull, especially compared to Max’s absolute dominance. Others suggested that the internal atmosphere in the team had deteriorated and that Checo was tired of living in the champion’s shadow.

However, there was no clear statement. Red Bull, true to its style, had handled the situation discreetly. Even during your first weeks with the team, no one directly mentioned Checo. The engineers, mechanics, strategists… everyone seemed focused on you and Max, as if the past had been erased in one fell swoop.

One day, while you were in the simulator at Milton Keynes, you ran into Horner. You had finished an intense testing session and were wiping off sweat when he approached.

“How are you feeling so far?” he asked in his usual relaxed tone.

“Good, I think I’m adapting quickly,” you replied, though deep down you knew you still had a long way to go to reach Max’s level.

Horner nodded, but you noticed something in his expression. As if he knew there was something else you wanted to ask. You decided to take the chance.

“Christian, I wanted to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

You took a deep breath before speaking. “What happened with Checo?”

Horner looked at you for a moment, as if deciding how much to say. Finally, he sighed.

“Checo is an incredible driver and was fundamental to many of our successes. But the level of demand here is very high. This year, he didn’t meet the expectations we had set.”

“Was it just that?” you asked, doubtful.

“He felt he deserved more support, and I can’t blame him for that. But in the end, we decided it was best for both parties to go separate ways.”

You nodded, though Horner’s words didn’t resolve all your doubts. You had seen Checo give it his all on the track, and it was hard to believe that simply hadn’t been enough. But at the same time, you knew how ruthless this sport could be.

A few weeks later, while scrolling through the news on your phone, you finally found out about his future. Checo had signed with Aston Martin, a team that wasn’t at Red Bull’s level in terms of performance but offered him the opportunity to be the undisputed leader.

You looked at the photo of his announcement on social media: Checo in his new green and black suit, smiling in front of a car that would hardly compete with the leaders. There was something in his expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Resignation? Or perhaps relief?

You caught yourself wondering how he must have felt being displaced. Although you hadn’t made the decision, your arrival at Red Bull had been the catalyst for his departure. For a moment, you were overwhelmed by a sense of guilt.

The preseason began, and with it came the tests in Bahrain. It was there that you saw Checo for the first time since the announcement. You were walking towards the Red Bull hospitality when you saw him coming out of the Aston Martin garage. You hesitated but finally decided to approach him.

“Checo,” you called out, trying to sound casual.

He turned and looked at you with a friendly smile.

“Hey! How’s it going?” he responded, as if nothing had happened.

“Good… I think,” you said, a little nervous. “I just wanted… well, I wanted to tell you that I really admire what you did at Red Bull. You’re incredibly talented, and I know it wasn’t easy.”

Checo looked at you for a moment, then slowly nodded.

“Thank you. That means a lot. But don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Aston is a new challenge, and I’m excited to lead a project.”

You nodded, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

“I know you’ll do amazing things.”

He smiled, and for an instant, you saw the determined and proud driver who had fought so hard on track.

“And so will you. You’ve got a great opportunity. Don’t waste it.”

You said goodbye with a handshake, feeling strangely at peace. You had feared there might be resentment, but Checo seemed to have found his path.

After the first day's testing and your conversation with Checo, you were in the circuit's canteen, reviewing your engineer's notes. It was a quiet night; most of the drivers had already retired to rest. However, when you looked up, you saw Charles walk in. He hesitated for a moment upon seeing you but then walked over to your table with his hands in his pockets.

“Can I sit?,” he asked, his tone more neutral than usual.

You nodded, surprised.

“Sure.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. Charles fiddled with a napkin between his fingers while you waited, unsure of what to say. Finally, he broke the silence.

“Red Bull isn't an easy team.”

“I know,” you replied, keeping your gaze fixed on him.

Charles nodded slowly, as if carefully choosing his words.

“Max is... complicated. Not because he's a bad person, but you know how he is. He's the favorite, the team leader. And Red Bull isn't exactly forgiving with those who don't meet their expectations.”

“Are you worried I can't handle the pressure?” you asked, feeling a slight sting to your pride.

“That's not it” he replied quickly, his tone softening. “I know you can handle the pressure. What worries me is that you'll have to deal with an environment where you won't always be supported, where everything you do will be scrutinized to the smallest detail.”

You looked at him in silence. There was something about his words, the sincerity of his tone, that disarmed you. Charles, always so focused on his own career, was taking the time to warn you about the challenges you would face.

“It’s not so different from what I experienced at Ferrari, don’t you think?,” you finally responded, trying to sound confident.

Charles let out a faint smile, but he didn’t seem convinced.

“Maybe. But at Ferrari, there was... balance. Even when it didn’t seem like it, you knew there were people who believed in you, even if they didn’t say it outright. Red Bull is different. They’re all or nothing. And Max... he doesn’t share easily.”

You knew he was right. From day one, you’d felt Verstappen’s presence like a shadow that dominated everything. But it didn’t scare you.

“If there’s one thing I learned at Ferrari, Charles, it’s that I don’t need everyone to believe in me. I just need to believe in myself.”

He looked at you intently for a few seconds, as if evaluating every word. Finally, he nodded, though his eyes reflected something you couldn’t quite decipher.

“Just don’t lose yourself in all this, okay?.”

“Lose myself?.”

“Yeah. In the politics, the pressure, the constant need to prove something. Don’t let that define who you are.”

When Charles stood to leave, he left his crumpled napkin on the table. For a moment, you wanted to say something, maybe thank him, but the words didn’t come. Instead, you simply watched him walk away.

There was something unusual about that conversation. Charles had always been direct and competitive, but this time, there seemed to be something more. Genuine concern, perhaps even something deeper he wasn’t ready to express.

You stayed in the canteen for a while, thinking about his words. You knew he was right in many ways. But you wouldn’t dwell on that now.

Despite Charles’ warnings and your own fears about joining Red Bull, things started off better than you expected. Max Verstappen, the man who dominated the grid with a mix of raw talent and relentless confidence, surprised you from the very beginning.

You had assumed he’d greet you with reluctance or, at least, a certain coldness. After all, you were taking the seat that had belonged to Pérez. However, from the first day, Max was open and genuinely friendly.

That day, you had arrived early, nerves on edge. You were reviewing your notes in a meeting room when Max walked in with his characteristic relaxed stride.

���Hi, how are you?,” he said, smiling as he took a seat across from you.

“Good, thanks” you replied, feeling a bit awkward about the formality of the moment. “And you?.”

“Surviving the winter. I always miss being on the track.”

His tone was light, almost casual, and it helped you relax a bit. You briefly talked about the upcoming season, the regulation changes, and the expectations for the new car. Then, Max abruptly changed the topic.

“I know this might be tough for you. Joining a team like this isn’t easy, especially when everyone expects you to measure up to me.”

You looked at him, surprised by his candor.

“I suppose so, but I’m not here to measure myself against anyone. I’m here to do the best I can.”

Max nodded, clearly satisfied with your response.

“That’s what I wanted to hear. Don’t worry about me. I get along with everyone who works hard and is honest. And from what I’ve seen, you’ve got both.”

His words left you slightly taken aback. You had expected a more distant relationship, but it seemed Max had no intention of turning this into an uncomfortable rivalry.

As preseason progressed, you started working more closely with him and the team’s engineers. Max proved to be surprisingly collaborative, sharing information and advice without hesitation. There was something refreshing about his attitude: you didn’t feel like he was constantly evaluating you or trying to assert dominance.

“If the car feels weird in fast corners, try adjusting the differential. Sometimes it gives a more stable feeling,” he told you during a simulator session while you were reviewing your laps.

You tried it, and to your surprise, it worked.

“Thanks” you said, smiling.

“No problem. Just don’t thank me too much if you end up beating me on track,” he replied with a light laugh.

Many journalists speculated whether Max would try to "psychologically crush" you or if Red Bull would relegate you to the role of second driver. However, within the team, the reality was completely different.

Max seemed to understand that, while you were new to the team, you weren’t a rookie. You had proven your worth at Ferrari and didn’t need to show anyone you belonged at this level.

“The key here is to enjoy the process,” he told you one day while waiting in the paddock during testing. “Everyone’s going to criticize you, no matter what you do. So, just do it your way.”

His words resonated with you. They weren’t condescending advice or a lesson from an experienced driver to a younger one; they were the words of someone who understood exactly what you were facing.

Over time, you discovered a side of Max that few saw. Off the track, he wasn’t the aggressive and dominant driver everyone knew. He was relaxed, even humorous, and had a genuine passion for racing.

One day, while waiting for a meeting, he asked you:

“What made you fall in love with racing?.”

The question caught you off guard. It wasn’t common for someone in this world to talk about emotions so directly.

“I guess the freedom,” you answered after thinking for a moment. “The feeling that, when you’re in the car, everything depends on you.”

Max nodded, smiling slightly.

“Exactly. That’s the best part. Sometimes I think the teams, the sponsors, everyone forgets that. But in the end, we’re here because we love racing.”

It was at that moment that you understood something crucial: Max didn’t see you as a threat or an intruder. He saw you as someone who shared his love for the sport, someone who understood what it meant to live to compete.

When the first Grand Prix in Bahrain arrived, your relationship was solid. Max was still the undisputed leader of the team, but he had also become someone you could rely on. During pre-race meetings, he encouraged you more than once.

“Remember, the first race is always the hardest,” he told you as you walked towards your cars. “But once you start, everything else will feel easier.”

You nodded, grateful for his support.

The race itself was intense, but the atmosphere within the team was surprisingly positive. You finished in fourth place, right behind Max, who won the race in his dominant style. When you returned to the garage, he was the first to congratulate you.

“Good job. Not bad for your first race with us.”

His smile was genuine, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

Despite your initial doubts, your relationship with Max turned out to be much easier and more rewarding than you had expected. You knew things could change quickly in this sport, but for now, you were enjoying the process.

Although you had the skill and determination needed, you knew that joining such a dominant team meant adapting to a completely new level of demands. Max, with his experience and ability to squeeze every fraction of a second out of the car, quickly became someone you admired more than you anticipated.

What you hadn't expected was for Max, the four time world champion, to take on the role of mentor with you. From the beginning, he seemed determined to share everything he knew, not just about the car but about how to survive and thrive in such a competitive team.

Max didn’t just give you technical advice; he also taught you how to navigate team dynamics and the stress of the season. During a testing session, he took the time to show you how to better analyze the car's telemetry.

“When you're looking for time, don’t obsess over what others are doing. Compare your laps against yourself. Sometimes, the small mistakes aren’t in the big corners but in the transitions, in how you shift the car's weight.”

You sat next to him as you analyzed a lap together. Max pointed out details you hadn’t even noticed, like slight steering corrections or changes in throttle pressure.

“You have good instincts,” he said, pointing to a particularly fast sector you had achieved. “But with a bit more analysis, you can be even more precise.”

His words motivated you. It wasn’t common for Max to give compliments, and whenever he did, you knew they were sincere.

More Than Technique: The Mentality

One afternoon, after an intense day of testing in Barcelona, Max invited you to his motorhome to chat. There was a relaxed atmosphere as you both shared a cup of coffee.

“Let me tell you something that took me a long time to learn,” he began, with an unusual seriousness. “Formula 1 isn’t just won on the track. Half the battles are up here,”

he said, tapping his head. “If you let criticism or politics affect you, you won’t have the clarity you need when it matters.”

“And how do you make sure it doesn’t affect you?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“I don’t always succeed,” he admitted. “But I’ve learned to focus on what I can control. It doesn’t matter if someone says you’re not good enough, or if the team doesn’t seem to support you. In the end, the only judgment that matters is your own.”

Those words stayed with you. Max wasn’t just a master at driving; he had also developed a mental strength that made him practically unbeatable.

Max helped you understand the trickiest circuits, manage tires in changing conditions, and anticipate other teams strategies. Whenever you had a question, he was there, willing to explain, no matter how busy he was.

In Japan, during a strategy meeting, one of the engineers suggested a setup you weren’t entirely convinced about. Before you could say anything, Max intervened.

“I think she’s right,” he said, gesturing towards you. “With that setup, the car will be more unpredictable in fast corners. Let her try what she suggests.”

It was a small gesture, but it meant a lot to you. Max wasn’t just helping you improve as a driver; he was also teaching you how to make yourself heard in an environment where you had often been silenced.

The mutual respect between you grew with each race. While Max remained the undisputed leader of the team, he never made you feel inferior. On the contrary, he seemed to enjoy watching you progress.

After a Grand Prix in Japan, where you achieved your first podium with Red Bull, Max was one of the first to congratulate you.

“I knew you’d do it,” he said, patting you on the shoulder as you walked up to the podium.

In that moment, you understood that his support wasn’t just professional. Max genuinely wanted you to succeed, not because it benefited the team, but because he recognized your talent and believed in you.

Your progress within the team was evident: you had earned podiums, improved your lap times, and, most importantly, found your place within the team hierarchy. Max had become more than a teammate; he was a key figure in your professional and personal life. As the months went by, something else began to grow between you, something you both knew but neither dared to acknowledge.

The bond you shared was solid, forged on the track but also in those moments away from it. The long talks after races, lunches with the engineers, jokes, and knowing glances it felt natural, almost inevitable, to feel so comfortable around each other. Max had taught you so much, not just about driving a Formula 1 car, but about handling the pressures of life in the paddock. He had shown you his vulnerabilities, sharing stories of his career, frustrations, and fears, as only someone close would do.

But that closeness began to blur the lines between professional and personal. And you started to realize that the emotions you felt for him were more complicated than you had anticipated even more than they had ever been with Charles.

It was in Monza, after one of the most intense races of the season. The track was wet, making the race even more challenging. Both of you had fought to the end, and while Max won, you finished an impressive second. On the podium, the smiles were genuine, but there was a tension in the air, something neither of you could deny.

After the race, Max approached you to congratulate you. When he hugged you, it felt different this time. There was a palpable energy, something neither of you could ignore. A lingering touch, a soft and almost imperceptible whisper that made time stop for a moment.

“You were amazing today,” he said, his face just inches from yours.

The eye contact between you was intense, as if you were seeing something in his eyes you hadn’t noticed before. Suddenly, you became acutely aware of his closeness, the warmth of his body, the softness of his voice, the way his hands rested on your shoulders differently than before. Something in his demeanor had changed.

Max was the first to pull away, as if he had felt the same unease you had.

“Let’s celebrate,” he said quickly, smiling, but his tone sounded slightly strained.

You looked at him, but for a moment, the words caught in your throat. You knew what had just happened, and you knew Max did too. Yet neither of you said anything.

The celebration that night was lively, full of laughter and joy, but the atmosphere between the two of you remained marked by that unresolved tension. You were happy with the result, but there was something else on your mind. You couldn’t stop thinking about that hug, the way Max had looked at you, the closeness that had felt so different from any other interaction you’d had with him.

As the night ended and you returned to your room, doubts began to creep in. What did it all mean? You had worked so hard to be in this position, to be part of such a prestigious team, and now, it seemed like something was threatening to destabilize it all.

The next day, Max didn’t come down for breakfast as he usually did. His room was empty when you passed by his door. You decided to wait until the afternoon to talk to him, but when you found him on the track, the conversation was distant. He wasn’t rude, but there was something about his posture that told you he was also trying to process what had happened.

"Everything okay?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

Max raised an eyebrow, as if considering whether to answer or not.

"Yeah, sure. I just... felt a bit tired this morning." He shrugged. "But everything’s fine."

You knew it wasn’t just tiredness that had caused his silence. There was a lingering discomfort between you two. Something you couldn’t easily shake off.

By nightfall, the two of you were sitting on the hotel terrace, looking out at the sea. The cool breeze from the Italian coast made everything feel calmer, but the atmosphere between you was far from it. Max was silent, and so were you. Finally, he broke the silence with a phrase that felt much heavier than it seemed on the surface.

"You know, things get really complicated when you start mixing emotions with work."

You looked at him, surprised by the frankness of his words. You knew exactly what he was referring to, but you also knew it was a conversation neither of you wanted to have.

"I know," you replied in a low tone. "But it’s not that easy to control what you feel, is it?"

Max sighed, running a hand through his hair, something he often did when he was uncomfortable.

"No, it’s not." He was silent for a moment. "But there are lines we can’t cross, especially in this team. You know that I... I have Kelly."

That mention of Kelly hit like a bucket of cold water. Although you knew Max was in a steady relationship, you had never thought it would affect you so much. Acknowledging that reality, that he was committed to someone else, left you feeling a mix of guilt and confusion.

"I understand," you said, your voice barely a whisper.

But inside, you questioned whether you really did. How could you control something that felt so natural, so undeniable between the two of you? The attraction, the chemistry, that connection that had grown over time. You knew Max felt it too, even if he wouldn’t say it out loud.

After that conversation, it was clear that neither you nor Max were willing to cross a line that could cost you everything: your careers, your mutual respect, and the team’s stability. However, the attraction between you didn’t go away. If anything, the tension became more palpable. It was a constant game of restraint, a delicate balance between what was right and what wasn’t.

In public, everything seemed normal. Both of you maintained impeccable professionalism, working together as the team Red Bull needed. Max continued helping you as a mentor, and you kept learning from him, impressing the team and fans alike with your progress. But behind closed doors, things were very different.

One day at the Milton Keynes factory, during a simulator session, Max entered the room while you were finishing a run. When you stepped out of the simulator, he was reviewing your data, as he often did. His expression was calm, almost indifferent, but the way his eyes followed you as you approached the monitor said otherwise.

"You’re improving in the slow sectors," he said, not taking his eyes off the screen. "But you’re still losing a bit of time in the fast corners."

"Any advice?" you asked, trying to keep a casual tone.

Max looked at you for a moment, and that look lasted a second longer than it should have. It was enough to feel that spark of electricity between you, the one you both tried to ignore.

"Yeah, sure," he finally replied, turning to the screen to point something out. "Here, in Turn 5, you need to be more aggressive with the throttle. Don’t be afraid to use the full width of the kerb."

You leaned toward him to get a better view of the screen, and for a moment, you were too close. You could feel his breath, and the tension in the air was almost tangible. He was the first to step back, realizing that such closeness only complicated things further.

"Try it on the next run," he said quickly, breaking the moment.

Over the course of the races, that tension only grew. There were lingering glances during strategy meetings, accidental brushes in the garage, and prolonged silences that made it even clearer what you were both thinking. Max remained just as committed to helping you progress, but his behavior was sometimes contradictory. There were days when he seemed to deliberately keep his distance, and others when his closeness was unmistakable.

One night, after a team dinner in Monaco, you both ended up in the hotel elevator. It was late, and most of the staff had already gone to rest. The silence between you was almost deafening as the elevator ascended slowly. You could feel his presence, every movement he made, even if he didn’t look at you directly.

"Good job today," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

"Thanks. You did well too. As always."

Max gave a small, sideways smile but said nothing more. When the elevator stopped on your floor, you both hesitated for a moment. You felt like he wanted to say something, something he was struggling to contain, but in the end, he simply nodded and let you exit first.

What surprised you was that, even though you tried to keep your distance, it seemed like Max was the one closest to crossing the line. There were moments when you caught him watching you from across the garage, with an expression that made you wonder what he was thinking. And then, in meetings, he always found a way to be by your side, even when it wasn’t necessary.

One day, during a technical meeting in Zandvoort, Max made a comment that, although it seemed innocent, had an undertone you couldn’t ignore.

"You know, sometimes I wonder if you do this on purpose," he said with a slight smile, pointing out a minor mistake in your data.

"Do what?" you asked, confused.

"Be so... persistent. It’s like you want everyone to notice you."

You knew he was talking about your determination on track, but something in his tone made you think he meant something more. You held his gaze, trying to decipher him, but before you could respond, someone else entered the room, cutting the moment short.

Despite everything, neither of you mentioned what was really happening. Both of you were aware that crossing that line could destroy everything you’d built. Max had a stable relationship with Kelly, and you were in a delicate position as the team’s rising star. There was too much at stake, and neither of you was willing to risk it.

[jezebelblues]

live on tour (interlinked) | h.s | 1

pt 1, pt 2 (complete)

summary: we don’t talk about it, it’s something we don’t do—cause once you go without it, nothing else will do.

cw: smut18+ in pt 2, weed, alcohol, angst, sort of a slowburn idk, fem!reader, hs1rry

word count: approx 21.5k gulp

| idk how to feel ab this!!! stay with me now. + tumblr forced me to put this into two parts. [wink, nudge: the lyrics always mean something] i'm posting pt 2 right after this. smut is in 2nd part if that's only ur cup of tea

masterlist

June, 2017

It was Mitch who vouched for her.

Harry had trusted him implicitly since the first meeting. His effortless cool, his way of speaking only when necessary, and the way his guitar sounded like it could split the sky—all of it made him essential to Harry’s debut. If Mitch said someone was good, Harry would believe it.

But good wasn’t the issue.

“S’not about talent,” Harry had said one night in rehearsals, after the original second guitarist dropped out. “I just need t’feel like we fit, you know?”

Mitch had nodded, taking that as permission to make the call.

Her name was YN.

He’d heard the name before. Her reputation in the industry wasn’t loud but sharp—a razor’s edge that hinted at precision and professionalism. A prodigy of sorts, she’d landed her big break with Pink Floyd’s operatic revival of The Wall, the youngest lead guitarist in the show’s history. Since then, she’d moved from project to project, touring, sitting in on sessions, lending her guitar to artists who wanted her distinct, cutting sound.

Harry had always assumed she was someone you called when you needed the best, but not someone you kept around.

He wasn’t sure why that thought stuck in his head when Mitch mentioned her name.

He fumbled with the hem of his white t-shirt and stood at the back of the dim rehearsal space, watching Mitch set up. The low hum of amps warming up filled the room. Mitch’s quiet focus steadied Harry’s nerves—until the door opened.

She walked in with her guitar strapped across her back. She wasn’t early, but she wasn’t late either. The kind of timing that said she knew she was good but wasn’t going to make a show of it.

“Hey.” Mitch greeted her with a slight nod. He’d already taken his place behind the mixing board, leaving Harry to do the introductions.

YN turned her head toward Harry. Her eyes flickered over him briefly, as if appraising him, and then landed back on Mitch. “This the audition?”

Harry frowned. “Not an audition. A rehearsal.”

She raised an eyebrow, but her expression didn’t waver. “Right. Rehearsal.”

There was no handshake, no nervousness, no wide-eyed awe that he was used to when people first met him. She treated him like someone she was there to work with, not someone she wanted to impress.

Mitch gestured to a stand near the tall brunette. “You can set up there.”

She walked past them both without another word, unzipping her guitar case and pulling out a battered Stratocaster, crème and pine green. Harry noticed her hands immediately—nimble fingers with calluses thick enough to catch the light.

“Let’s get on with it then,” she grinned, plugging in.

He leaned toward Mitch, speaking low enough that she couldn’t hear. “Bit cocky, isn’t she?”

Mitch smirked but didn’t reply.

The first run-through was solid. She played with precision, hitting every note cleanly, and her technical skills were undeniable. But something about it felt cold, distant. Harry tried to catch her eye while they were playing, but she was hyper-focused on her guitar, her face blank.

When they finished the first song, he put his hands on his hips. “Alright,” he paused, louder than necessary. “That’s…fine. Let’s take it from the top.”

YN looked at Mitch. “Fine?”

Harry cut in before he could respond. “Yeah, fine. It’s technically good, but there’s no feeling in it. This isn’t session work. We’re putting on a live show. People need t’feel something when you play.”

She stared at him for a moment, then set her guitar down on its stand. “And what exactly do you want me to feel? We’re playing your songs.”

The tension in the room spiked. Mitch glanced between the two of them, looking ready to intervene.

He crossed his arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” she started, brushing her hair back from her face, “that if you want something specific, maybe tell me what you’re looking for instead of just saying it’s not good enough.”

Her words hung in the air.

Mitch cleared his throat. “Why don’t we try the next track?”

She picked up her guitar without waiting for Harry’s input. Her fingers brushed the strings in a quick, angry strum as she tested the tuning. Harry stared at her, his jaw tight.

She didn’t flinch under his gaze.

It went on like that for the next hour.

Every time YN played, he found something to critique. Her tone, her phrasing, her timing—it didn’t matter that Mitch disagreed and kept insisting she was perfect for the role. Harry refused to back down, nitpicking every detail.

By the time they reached the final song, the air in the room was thick with unspoken animosity. YN played the opening riff of kiwi with more aggression than necessary, her fingers sliding over the frets like she wanted to punish the guitar.

When they finished, she shifted her weight and unplugged her amp. “Are we done?” she asked, slinging her guitar back over her shoulder.

Harry opened his mouth, ready with another critique, but Mitch cut him off. “Yeah. We’re done f'today.”

She nodded, her expression unreadable. She didn’t look at Harry again as she walked toward the door.

When it closed behind her, Harry let out a frustrated sigh. “She’s not right for this.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“I’m positive,” He snapped. “She’s not a team player. She doesn’t fit.”

He leaned back against the mixing board, crossing his arms, hair falling behind his shoulders. “You ever think that maybe you’re the one who doesn’t fit?”

Harry glared at him. “What’s that supposed t’mean?”

“It means,” he said slowly, “that she’s a better guitarist than you’re giving her credit for. And maybe you don’t like her because she’s not trying to kiss your ass.”

He scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”

Mitch shrugged. “If you want to replace her, go ahead. But good luck finding someone else who can keep up with me…or you.”

Outside the rehearsal space, YN stood by her car, lighting a cigarette. She didn’t smoke often, only with a drink or if she was tense. 

She exhaled a plume of smoke into the warm evening air, her jaw clenched. She wasn’t angry exactly, but there was something about Harry Styles that got under her skin.

It wasn’t his fame or his music—that was fine. She’d worked with big names before. It was the way he carried himself, like he expected the world to bend around him.

He wasn’t used to people pushing back, and YN had no intention of making it easy for him.

If he wanted her to feel something when she played, she’d give him exactly that.

Even if it meant setting the whole stage on fire.

The rehearsal space smelled faintly of stale coffee and amps that had been running too long. The walls were lined with soundproofing panels, their faded gray color doing little to brighten the room. YN arrived early this time—not out of eagerness, but because she didn’t want to give Harry anything else to criticize.

Her guitar case thumped onto the ground before she adjusted the ring on her pinky—not dainty, but not loud. Her mother’s birth flower ingrained along the gold surface, a piece of her she could carry since her death in 2014. She could hear Mitch in the back, tuning his Gibson, and the faint shuffle of Harry’s sneakers as he moved across the space, adjusting mic stands and scribbling notes.

She was effortlessly pretty, the kind of beauty that crept up on you when you weren’t paying attention. Her lips held a natural pout, and her hair framed her face in a way that looked casual but impossibly deliberate, like it had conspired with the universe to fall just right. Her outfit was understated, perfect for rehearsal—straight-leg blue denim that sat just right on her hips, an off-white baby tee with cherry bomb splashed in bold red across the center, and a pair of scuffed white club c reeboks that had seen more than their fair share of years since 2015.

Around her wrist was a faded friendship bracelet, its once-bright threads dulled by time but no less significant. Jude, her best friend since high school, had tied it there the night they graduated, their laughter mingling with the hum of summer cicadas. She’d never taken it off, not once, even as life swept them into different journeys.

When YN told Jude over vodka cranberries that she’d landed a gig playing guitar for Harry Styles—yes, that Harry Styles—Jude nearly fell off her barstool. She’d been the kind of One Direction fan who made custom shirts for concerts and cried during little things. YN still remembered the way her voice shook with disbelief as she grabbed her by the shoulders and said, “You’re telling me you’re gonna play for Harry fucking Styles?” It had taken two rounds of shots to calm her down, though her enthusiasm had lingered for weeks. It was the kind of reaction that reminded YN how surreal this opportunity really was.

She promised she’d get her a front row ticket the first night in New York. 

She took her time setting up, deliberately slow. If Harry wanted to play mind games, she could too.

“Morning,” Mitch greeted, glancing up from his guitar.

“Hey,” she replied, flashing a quick smile. Mitch was the only person in the room she felt remotely comfortable around.

Harry’s voice cut through the room, sharper than it needed to be. “You’re early today.”

YN didn’t bother looking at him. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of complaining.”

The sound of Mitch’s guitar string snapping filled the silence that followed. He muttered something under his breath and bent to grab a spare string from his bag.

He walked over, his footsteps deliberate. “It’s not complaining. It’s feedback.”

“Uh-huh,” YN’s lips twitched, focusing on adjusting her amp. She crouched to test the levels, purposely ignoring him.

Harry crouched too, just enough to catch her eye. He smelt like cedar and pine. “You have something t’say?”

Her hands paused on the dials. “Nope.”

“Good.”

She stood abruptly, the motion forcing Harry to lean back. Her expression didn’t change, but her grip on her guitar tightened.

The rehearsal started the same way the last one ended: tense.

YN matched Harry’s intensity with her playing, her fingers precise but hard, striking each note with the kind of force that could shatter glass. She didn’t look at him once, even when he stopped the song halfway through to give her another round of vague critiques.

“Can you make it less…clinical?” he asked, his hands gesturing vaguely in the air.

“Clinical?” she repeated, her voice flat.

“Yeah, like…put some soul into it. Like it means something to you.”

Her lips twitched into the faintest smile, one that didn’t reach her eyes. “I wasn’t aware Sign of the Times was a soul song.”

She didn’t mean that, not really. It was a song of his that she enjoyed, she liked the 70’s elements he took, the way his voice sounded with the instruments in the back—but he was getting under her skin, he deserved the same.

Mitch coughed to hide his laugh.

Harry’s jaw clenched. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

The tension in the room was palpable now, a live wire crackling between them. Mitch stood off to the side, quietly restringing his guitar, pretending not to notice.

Harry took a deep breath, his tone softening. “Look, I just need it t’feel real. Like you’re part of it, not just playing over it.”

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Alright.”

She picked up her guitar again and launched into the song before anyone could say another word. This time, her playing wasn’t just technically perfect—it was angry. The notes tore through the air, raw and sharp, as if she were trying to prove a point with every riff.

He watched her, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He couldn’t deny it sounded good—better than good—but there was something about her attitude that made him want to push back harder.

By the time they reached the last song of the set, the air in the room was thick with frustration.

Mitch played the opening riff, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the strings, and YN followed with her part. Her playing was looser now, more natural, but the tension in her shoulders hadn’t eased.

When they finished, Harry didn’t say anything right away. He stood there, staring at her, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Well?” she asked, her voice clipped.

“S’fine,” he said, his tone careful.

“Fine?”

“You’re improving,” he clarified, though the words felt begrudging.

She laughed under her breath, shaking her head. “Good to know I’m living up to your impossible standards.”

Harry bristled. “It’s not impossible to ask for some effort.”

“Effort?” Her voice rose slightly. “I’ve been putting in effort since I walked through that door, but all you’ve done is nitpick every single thing I do.”

“Because I know what this show needs!”

“No, you know what you need,” she shot back. “This isn’t about the music—it’s about your ego.”

The words hit like a slap. Mitch’s guitar strap slipped from his shoulder as he froze, watching the scene unfold.

Harry’s expression darkened. “If my ego were the problem, you wouldn’t be here.”

The room went silent.

YN’s gaze didn’t waver. “Right. Well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you dragged me into this.”

She slung her guitar over her shoulder and walked toward the door, her sneakers squeaking against the floor.

“Where are you going?” Harry called after her.

She paused, her hand on the doorknob. “Taking a break. Unless you have a problem with that too.”

Before he could respond, the door swung shut behind her.

Mitch set his guitar down and looked at Harry, his expression unreadable. “You’re really bad at this, you know that?” he said finally.

Harry glared at him. “At what?”

“Not making her hate you.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. “She doesn’t hate me.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “And the sky isn’t blue.”

He didn’t reply. He sat down on the edge of the stage, his shoulders slumping slightly. He wasn’t used to being challenged like this, and it was throwing him off balance.

Mitch leaned against the amp, watching him. “You know, you don’t have to like her. You just have to work with her.”

“I know.” 

“Then stop pushing her so hard. She’s already good enough for this tour—you’re the one who needs to let go a bit.”

He didn’t say anything, but the knot in his chest tightened. He wasn’t sure if it was frustration or something else entirely.

Outside, YN leaned against the wall, her cigarette glowing faintly in the dim light. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool evening air.

She wasn’t sure what was worse—working with Harry or wanting to prove him wrong so badly it made her chest ache.

She took another drag and let the thought dissolve in the smoke.

September third

The studio was quiet now, the hum of amps and chatter of the band long gone. The others had left half an hour ago, leaving YN to pack up her gear in peace. She moved deliberately, her hands steady despite the exhaustion settling deep in her bones.

The rehearsal had been grueling. Harry had pushed harder than ever, his sharp critiques grating on her nerves until every strum of her guitar felt like a defiance. She wasn’t sure if he noticed—or cared—but by the end of the session, she’d felt like she was one wrong note away from throwing her guitar through a wall.

Now, alone with the quiet, she could finally breathe.

Until she wasn’t alone.

The sound of footsteps echoed behind her, and YN stiffened, glancing over her shoulder to see Harry stepping back into the room. He had swapped his stage shoes for sneakers, the cuffs of his trousers rolled slightly at the ankles. His sweater was slung over one shoulder, and the faint sheen of sweat on his neck suggested he hadn’t been gone long.

“Forgot m’notebook,” he said, his voice casual as his eyes scanned the room.

“Lucky me,” she muttered, turning back to her guitar.

He didn’t reply, but she could feel his presence as he crossed the space, moving toward the table where his things were scattered.

YN focused on wrapping her cable, each loop tight and precise. She wasn’t in the mood for small talk, not after the day they’d had.

But Harry didn’t leave.

The silence stretched, heavy and charged, as he lingered near the table. YN’s movements slowed, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Something you need?” she asked, not bothering to mask the edge in her voice.

When he didn’t answer right away, she turned to face him, her hands still clutching the coiled cable.

Harry was watching her, his notebook forgotten on the table. His eyes were sharp, unreadable, and the weight of his gaze made her stomach twist uncomfortably.

“You were pushing today,” he said finally, his tone measured.

She blinked, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”

“During rehearsal,” he clarified, crossing his arms. “You weren’t playing like y’normally do.”

“Maybe I was just tired.” She countered, though the words felt like a lie even as she said them.

“You weren’t tired,” he said softly.

Her jaw tightened. “What do you want, Harry? If you’re here to critique me again, save it. I’ve heard enough for one day.”

His brow furrowed, but he didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he stepped closer, his movements deliberate but unthreatening. “I wasn’t trying t’pick on you,” he breathed, his voice quieter now. “If that’s how it felt, I’m sorry.”

YN stared at him, her mind struggling to reconcile the words with the man who’d spent months nitpicking every note she played.

“Why do you care?” she asked, the question slipping out before she could stop it.

He hesitated, his lips pressing into a thin line as he looked at her. “Because I need this to work.”

His words landed heavily between them, and for a moment, the room felt too small.

“You act like it’s just me,” she said finally, her voice quieter but still tinged with frustration. “Like I’m the only thing keeping it from working.”

“I don’t think that,” he said quickly, his eyes locking onto hers. “You’re good—better than good. That’s not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.”

YN froze, her breath catching at the raw honesty in his voice. She hadn’t expected that—not from him.

The silence between them grew heavier, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second.

Harry’s gaze dropped briefly, like he was searching for the right words. When he looked back up, there was something different in his expression, something softer but no less intense.

“You frustrate me,” he said finally, the words low but certain.

YN’s throat went dry. “Right back at you.”

He took another step closer, and this time, she didn’t move away. Her heart pounded as she looked up at him, her chest tightening under the weight of his stare.

Neither of them spoke, the silence crackling with unspoken words.

She didn’t know who leaned in first—maybe it was him, or maybe it was her—but suddenly the space between them was almost nonexistent. She could feel the warmth of his breath, see the faint flicker of hesitation in his eyes as he lingered just close enough to touch.

Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her fingers curled into the coiled cable in her hand, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Harry,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.

The sound of his name seemed to pull him back, his eyes searching hers for a fleeting moment before he stepped away.

“I should go.” 

He grabbed his notebook and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

YN stood there, her heart still racing, the ghost of his presence lingering in the air.

Whatever had just happened—whatever had almost happened—she wasn’t sure what to do with it.

September nineteenth

San Francisco was humming.

The Masonic sat perched atop Nob Hill like a jewel overlooking the city, its art deco façade catching the early morning light. By dawn, the line of fans already snaked around the block, blankets and camp chairs scattered across the sidewalk. A faint fog clung to the streets, giving the historic building an ethereal quality as the first rays of sunlight broke through.

It was opening night of Harry’s solo tour, and the air outside the venue was electric.

Groups of fans huddled close, wrapped in scarves and oversized sweatshirts, their conversations a steady hum of anticipation. Some clutched homemade signs or albums, while others leaned against the building, scrolling through their phones to pass the hours.

Inside the venue, it was chaos.

The crew had been there since 6 am, unloading crates of equipment, running cables like veins along the stage. Monitors were stacked, adjusted, then adjusted again. Lights were tested until they bathed the empty floor in saturated pinks and golds. A countdown clock blinked red backstage, a digital reminder that time was slipping through the cracks, too fast and too slow all at once.

By 10 am, the band was in full rehearsal mode, locked in a cycle of repetition and frustration. YN perched on a stool near the edge of the stage, her guitar resting against her thighs, the strap digging into her shoulder. Mitch was on her left, his head bent over his guitar, fingers moving like smoke over the frets. The two of them had been working together for months now, tight and efficient, a partnership forged in long hours and shared cigarettes.

Harry stood center stage, mic in hand, dressed like he hadn’t quite decided if he wanted to be a rock star or a poet today. He wore a loose black blouse unbuttoned to his sternum, tucked into tailored trousers that hung just right. His boots clacked against the floor as he paced, his movements restless, his voice sharp as glass when he spoke.

“Stop, stop,” he sighed, waving his free hand. “It’s off. That transition’s not right.”

She bit down on her tongue. It wasn’t off. She knew it wasn’t off. But Harry had a way of finding faults where there weren’t any, like he needed to pick at something just to prove he could.

Mitch glanced at her, a subtle flick of his eyes that said, Don’t.

She ignored him.

“It’s not the transition,” she jutted her chin, her voice cutting through the murmur of techs and assistants scurrying around the stage. “The timing’s fine. It’s your entrance that’s late.”

He turned to her slowly, the mic dangling from his fingers like a threat. “Oh, is it?” he asked, his tone light, almost amused, but his jaw was tight. “You sure about that?”

YN met his gaze, unflinching. “Positive.”

For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of an amp in the background. Harry didn’t say anything, just tipped his head slightly, his lips curving into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Then he turned back to the band. “Alright,” he paused, his voice smooth again, commanding. “Run it from the top.”

Mitch exhaled, a quiet sound that YN barely caught. She didn’t look at him. Instead, she adjusted the strap on her guitar and settled her fingers on the fretboard, ready for another round of the same song they’d played fifteen times already.

By noon, the tension was palpable.

Lunch was a quick affair, eaten standing in the dim backstage area while techs rushed past with tangled cords and boxes of equipment. She leaned against a speaker case, picking at a dry sandwich, her guitar propped up against her leg. Across the room, Harry was surrounded by his usual orbit of stylists and assistants, his laugh ringing out every now and then, low and easy. He looked completely unbothered, like he wasn’t the reason half the band was on edge.

Mitch sat down next to her, his plate balanced precariously on his knee.

“You’ve got to let it go,” he said quietly, not looking up from his food.

“Let what go?” She asked, feigning innocence.

He gave her a flat look. “You and Harry. The little pissing contest you’ve got going on.”

“There’s no contest,” she shrugged, taking a bite of her sandwich. “I already won.”

Mitch snorted, but he didn’t argue.

By 5 pm, the soundcheck was over, and the venue was nearly ready. The stage lights cast long, dramatic shadows across the room, making everything feel larger than life. Outside, the crowd had grown to hundreds, their voices rising in bursts of cheers every time someone peeked out from behind the curtains.

Backstage, the dressing rooms were a flurry of last-minute preparations. Harry was in his dressing room, a blur of motion as his stylist fussed over his outfit. A floral suit hung on a rack nearby, catching the light like a disco ball.

In her own space, YN was tightening a loose screw on her guitar, her fingers moving with practiced ease. Her nerves were starting to hum, a low undercurrent she couldn’t quite shake. This was her first tour—her first real tour in a set band, a member, belonging—and it felt like walking a tightrope with no safety net.

A knock on the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Come in,” she called, not looking up.

The door creaked open, and Harry stepped inside, his presence filling the small room like a gust of wind.

YN froze for half a second before returning to her task.“What do you want?” she asked, not bothering to hide the edge in her voice.

Harry leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Just checking in,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “You ready for tonight?”

She glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “Are you?”

His lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile. “Always.”

For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. Then Harry pushed off the doorframe and straightened, his eyes lingering on her for a beat longer than necessary.

“See you out there,” he mumbled, and then he was gone, leaving the room feeling smaller and heavier than before.

By eight, the doors had opened, and the crowd was pouring in, filling the venue with a rush of energy that seemed to seep into the walls. Backstage, the band was gathered in a tight circle, their instruments tuned, their game faces on.

Harry stood at the center, his suit catching the light, his presence commanding as he gave a short pep talk. YN stood slightly to the side, her fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against her thigh. She barely listened to his words, too focused on the sound of the crowd beyond the curtains, their cheers swelling like a tidal wave.

When the house lights dimmed, the noise was deafening.

As the band took their places on stage, the roar of the audience hit her like a physical force. The spotlight burned bright, blinding her for a moment as she adjusted to the sheer magnitude of it all.

Harry stepped forward, his silhouette outlined in pinks and gold as he grabbed the mic stand. The crowd went feral, their screams rising to a fever pitch as he flashed that grin, the one that could disarm even the sharpest tongue.

He didn’t speak, he didn’t need to—the crowd did that for him. 

YN’s fingers hovered over the strings of her guitar, her pulse thrumming in time with the cheers.

And then the music began.

It was loud and raw and electric, the kind of sound that sank its teeth into you and didn’t let go. The stage pulsed with life, the crowd moving like a single, writhing entity, their hands reaching for something intangible.

Harry owned the stage, his presence magnetic, his voice weaving through the room like a spell. YN played like she had something to prove, her fingers dancing over the strings with precision and fire. For all their clashes, for all the sharp words and narrowed eyes, when they played together, it was seamless.

Perfect, even.

And maybe that was the problem.

The stage felt alive. No, not alive. Hungry. Like it had been waiting for this moment, this crowd, and it wouldn’t be satisfied until every single body in the Masonic was consumed by the music.

YN’s sneakers scuffed against the stage floor as she adjusted her stance, fingers flying over the strings of her guitar. The heat of the lights was a constant pressure on her skin, beads of sweat forming at her temples and sliding down the back of her neck. But she didn’t care. Not about the lights, or the heat, or the way her thighs ached from standing so long.

She was falling in love—with the music, with the electricity in the air, with the way the crowd moved like a living organism, surging and crashing like waves in sync with every beat of the drums.

The screams had been deafening from the start, a tsunami of sound that swelled every time Harry leaned into the mic, his voice wrapping around the room and pulling it taut. He worked the crowd like a master, every glance, every laugh, every sway of his hips sending the audience into hysterics.

She wasn’t immune.

She hated to admit it, but she felt it too—that gravitational pull, that magnetic charisma that seemed to pour out of him effortlessly. She caught herself watching him when she shouldn’t, her eyes flicking to the way his shoulders moved under the sharp lines of his pretty suit, the easy way he gripped the mic stand like it was an extension of his body.

And every so often, he’d glance at her.

Not a passing look. A moment.

It would last half a beat longer than it should, his eyes catching hers under the wash of the stage lights. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, challenging her, or something else entirely. But it was enough to make her fingers stumble once, the wrong note ringing out for a split second before she recovered.

If Harry noticed, he didn’t show it.

The setlist was relentless. The kind of music that made you feel like your heart was going to explode, like you couldn’t keep up and didn’t want to. The kind of music that made YN forget she was supposed to hate the guy running the show.

“Alright,” Harry said into the mic, his voice lower now, intimate, like he was sharing a secret with each and every person in the crowd. “I want to slow it down for a bit. Let’s make this next one special, yeah?”

The audience erupted, their cheers shaking the walls.

She let herself glance up, just once, and there he was.

Harry stood center stage, his eyes sweeping over the crowd like he could memorize every face. And then his gaze found hers. It pinned her, held her still even as her hands moved over the strings with practiced ease. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t smirk or tease. His expression was soft, unreadable, like he was trying to figure her out and didn’t quite know how.

YN looked away first, focusing on her guitar, on the warmth of the strings under her fingers. But she felt his eyes linger, even as he turned back to the crowd, his voice slipping into the melody.

The audience swayed, their voices blending with his, turning the room into one collective heartbeat. She could feel it under her skin, in her chest, this pulsing connection between the stage and the people who filled the seats. She couldn’t explain it, but it made her chest ache, a hollow kind of ache that was somehow beautiful.

She wasn’t just falling in love with the crowd—she was falling in love with the way they loved him. The way their energy fed into his, creating this endless loop of give and take. It was magnetic, intoxicating, and she hated how much she wanted to be part of it.

As the show reached its climax, the band hit the frenetic rhythm of kiwi. The crowd lost their minds, screaming and jumping in unison as the pounding bassline and frantic guitars drove the song forward like a freight train.

Harry was in his element now, prowling the stage like a lion in a cage, his energy sharp and electric. He threw himself into the song with reckless abandon, his voice raw, his body moving like it was possessed by the music.

She felt it too, her fingers sliding over the strings with an intensity she didn’t know she was capable of. She played like she wanted to leave a mark, like she wanted the crowd to feel every note down to their bones.

Harry spun toward her at one point, his eyes catching hers as he sang.

All over me it’s like I paid for it, like I paid for it—I’m gonna pay for this

The line wasn’t even hers, maybe thrown toward her, sure, but the way he locked eyes with her as he belted it made her throat tighten. There was something feral about the way he looked at her, something that sent a jolt of adrenaline straight to her chest.

She didn’t look away this time.

By the time the last note of the encore faded into the ether, the crowd was still screaming, still begging for more. Harry stood at the edge of the stage, his hands pressed together in a gesture of thanks, his smile wide and genuine.

YN hung back, her guitar still slung over her shoulder, her chest heaving from the exertion of the last few songs. She watched him bask in the adoration of the crowd, the way they screamed his name like a prayer.

And for the first time, she felt it too.

That pull. That strange, inexplicable magnetism that made it impossible to look away.

The final notes of the encore still buzzed in her ears as she followed the band offstage, the roar of the crowd trailing behind them like an echo that refused to fade. Her body ached in places she didn’t know could ache—her fingers stiff from hours of playing, her calves burning from the constant movement—but the adrenaline still surged, making her feel weightless and untouchable.

She had done it. They had done it.

The opening night had gone off like a firework, every moment exploding brighter and louder than the last. From the first chord to the final bow, it had been electric. And for once, she didn’t feel like just another cog in the machine. On that stage, with the lights scorching her skin and the crowd’s energy feeding her soul, she felt like a part of something massive. Something alive.

And Harry—despite everything—had been a part of that.

They’d had moments up there, brief but undeniable, where their music seemed to sync in ways their personalities couldn’t. He’d looked at her like she was the only other person in the room, and she’d felt it, that spark. That rare kind of connection that made everything else fade into static.

She thought maybe he’d felt it too.

Backstage was a flurry of chaos, but it was the kind of chaos that came with relief. Crew members slapped high-fives, a few whooped into the cavernous space, and Mitch grinned at her as they stowed their gear.

“That was something, huh?” he said, leaning back against the wall, his guitar case resting at his feet.

“Yeah,” she said, breathless. “It really was.”

Her eyes darted toward Harry, who was standing in the middle of it all, his floral suit catching the dim light of the hallway. He was talking to a few crew members, his laugh echoing down the corridor, easy and loud.

YN lingered on the edge of the group, still cradling her guitar, waiting for him to glance her way. Say something. Anything.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he clapped Mitch on the shoulder as he passed by, murmured something low and warm to the bassist, then disappeared down the hallway, flanked by his manager and stylist.

Her stomach sank.

Seriously?

The after-party was just as loud as the show, a whirlwind of congratulatory cheers and glasses clinking in a private room at some sleek hotel downtown. The crew was there, the band, a few industry types YN didn’t recognize but figured she should. She was used to this kind of thing—small, exclusive, the kind of celebration that was more about appearances than fun—but tonight it felt different.

She stuck close to Mitch for most of it, nursing a vodka sour and letting the buzz of conversation wash over her.

“Relax,” Mitch said at one point, leaning against the bar beside her. “You look like you’re still waiting for the second set to start.”

“I’m good.” She mumbled a little too quickly.

His brow arched, but he didn’t press.

Across the room, Harry was the center of attention, as always. He moved through the crowd like he belonged there, laughing and chatting like he hadn’t just poured himself out on stage for hours. She couldn’t help but watch him, the way people gravitated toward him, how he seemed to light up every corner of the room he stepped into.

But he didn’t look at her. Not once.

She tried not to let it bother her, but it did.

After everything on stage, after every glance, every unspoken connection, it felt like he was intentionally keeping his distance. Like he’d flipped some invisible switch, cutting her off before she could even figure out what had changed.

By the time the party wound down, YN had had enough. She slipped out quietly, her guitar case slung over her shoulder, and headed for the lobby. The cool night air hit her like a slap when she stepped outside, the noise of the party muffled behind the heavy glass doors.

She stood there for a moment, letting the city’s chaos replace the strange hollowness that had settled in her chest.

She didn’t know why she’d expected something different from him. He was Harry Styles, after all—the man who could command a room with a smirk, who probably had a million other things on his mind besides her.

But still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted tonight.

Maybe it was the crowd, or the way the music had felt like it was tying them together in ways they didn’t quite understand. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at her, like she was part of it, part of him.

Or maybe she was imagining it all.

She sighed, adjusting her grip on the guitar case as she started down the empty street toward her hotel.

Behind her, the sound of the door opening and closing made her stop.

But when she turned, it wasn’t him.

It was just some random guest stepping out for a smoke, their lighter flaring briefly in the dark.

She shook her head and kept walking.

The morning after opening night started with a headache.

The alarm went off at five, its shrill tone slicing through the still-dark San Francisco hotel room. YN groaned as she rolled over and slapped it off, her limbs heavy with the weight of too little sleep and too much tension. Her body ached from the show—her fingers stiff, her shoulders sore—but the adrenaline still hadn’t completely worn off.

She dressed in silence, pulling on denim shorts and an oversized hoodie, her hair shoved under a worn baseball cap. By the time she dragged her case and bookbag downstairs, the lobby was already filled with half-awake crew members milling around with to-go coffees and luggage carts. The band gathered near the hotel entrance, everyone moving slow, bleary-eyed.

Everyone but Harry.

He stood near the glass doors, sunglasses perched on his nose even though it was still too early for sunlight. His outfit—effortlessly tailored black slacks and black tee, paired with boots that clacked against the marble floor—looked like it belonged in a photoshoot, not a cramped tour bus ride down the coast. His hair was artfully disheveled, like it had been tousled by the same wind that carried his confidence.

YN hated that he didn’t look tired. He looked perfect, unbothered, untouchable.

And, true to form, he didn’t acknowledge her.

Not directly, anyway.

“Morning, Mitch,” Harry nodded, his voice smooth and low as he greeted the guitarist with a clap on the shoulder. He grinned at Sarah and made some easy joke that had her laughing quietly, her coffee held close to her chest.

She stood off to the side, shifting her weight between her feet, watching the scene unfold like an outsider looking through a frosted window.

She thought about last night. About how he’d looked at her on stage like the world had narrowed to just the two of them. About how he hadn’t spoken a single word to her after.

She didn’t understand it. She didn’t understand him.

“Let’s get moving,” their tour manager barked, clapping his hands. “Bus leaves in five.”

YN grabbed her things and followed the group outside, the cool morning air biting at her cheeks as they made their way toward the waiting bus.

The ride to Los Angeles was tense in the worst kind of way.

She had claimed a window seat near the middle of the bus, her headphones cranked up to drown out the low hum of conversation around her. She stared out at the Pacific Coast Highway, the ocean stretching endlessly to the right, the cliffs jagged and wild to the left. It should’ve been peaceful, beautiful even, but she couldn’t focus on anything but the gnawing irritation in her chest.

Harry was sitting three rows ahead, leaned back in his seat with one arm slung lazily over the headrest. He was talking to Sarah again, his voice low enough that YN couldn’t hear the words, but the sound of it still grated on her nerves.

She wasn’t sure why she cared so much. She didn’t want to care.

If he wanted to ignore her, fine. She could ignore him right back.

By the time they reached LA, the tension had evolved into a quiet kind of war.

At the Greek Theater, the crew unloaded equipment, their movements brisk and practiced as they prepared for soundcheck. The sun blazed down on the open-air amphitheater, turning the white seats into a blinding sea of light.

YN was on edge, her patience wearing thinner with every passing hour. He still hadn’t spoken to her, not even in passing. He was polite, distant, the way he’d been before opening night. Like nothing had changed. Like he hadn’t spent the night before throwing glances her way that felt like they could peel her apart.

When he handed out notes during rehearsal, she barely looked at him, keeping her responses clipped and indifferent.

“Got it,” she muttered after one of his suggestions, her tone flat as she adjusted her guitar strap.

Harry blinked at her, his lips twitching into something that might have been surprise. “Good,” he said after a beat, turning his attention to Mitch without another word.

By the time the soundcheck wrapped, She was biting the inside of her cheek so hard it felt raw.

Later, while the rest of the band lingered backstage before the show, YN found herself leaning against the rail of the amphitheater, staring out at the empty seats. The sun had started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in deep purples and oranges.

She didn’t hear him approach.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

The voice startled her, and she turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers.

“Yeah.” She breathed, her voice guarded. She didn’t move closer.

He didn’t say anything else, just stood there, his gaze fixed on the horizon. The silence between them stretched, heavy and awkward.

“Something you need?” she asked finally, her tone sharper than she intended.

Harry’s head tilted slightly, his sunglasses reflecting the fading light.

“Just checking in.”

It felt like a lie.

“I’m good, Harry” She mumbled, turning back toward the stage.

He didn’t respond, and when she glanced over her shoulder a few moments later, he was already walking away.

Her fingers tightened around the rail, her chest heavy with frustration she couldn’t quite name.

She hated this.

Hated the way he could make her feel so small, so seen, then turn around and act like she didn’t exist.

It was like trying to hold onto water. The harder she gripped, the faster it slipped through her fingers.

-

Harry stood at the edge of the stage, soaking it all in. He bowed low, his sequined shirt catching the light, a grin breaking across his face. To the crowd, he was untouchable—a god in Gucci.

She followed Mitch and Sarah offstage, her steps quick and mechanical. She could feel Harry trailing behind them, his presence heavy even when she couldn’t see him.

Backstage was chaos, as it always was after a show, but it didn’t faze YN. She moved through the crowd of crew members and assistants like a ghost, ignoring the chatter, the congratulatory smiles.

Her heart was still racing, the adrenaline from the performance twisting into something darker, something restless.

“You good?”

Mitch’s voice cut through the haze. He was leaning against the wall, his guitar case already packed, his expression calm but curious.

“Yeah.” 

Lie.

Harry entered the dressing room a few minutes later, his presence shifting the energy in the space instantly.

He was laughing at something Sarah had said, his voice loud and warm, but the sound grated against YN’s nerves. She kept her back to him, pretending to be busy adjusting a loose string on her guitar.

She felt him glance her way—she could feel it—but she didn’t turn around.

Two could play this game.

And so, the bus ride back to the hotel was unbearable.

YN had claimed a seat near the back, her headphones on, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights outside the window. She could see Harry a few rows ahead, his arm draped casually over the back of his seat as he chatted with the others.

He hadn’t spoken to her all night, and now, sitting there in his own bubble of easy conversation and laughter, it was like she didn’t exist.

Her frustration simmered, bubbling just below the surface.

She replayed the show in her head, each pointed glance, each lyric he’d aimed at her like an arrow. It felt like he was trying to send a message, but she couldn’t decipher it.

Was he angry with her? Was this some kind of punishment? Or was he just playing a game she didn’t know the rules to?

She clenched her jaw and turned up the volume on her music, drowning out the sound of his voice.

By the time they reached the hotel, her nerves were shot.

She practically stormed off the bus, her guitar case banging against her thigh as she made her way to the elevators.

The band and crew trailed behind her, their voices a low hum of exhaustion and contentment. Harry was in the middle of the group, laughing softly at something Mitch had said.

YN pressed the elevator button harder than she needed to, willing it to come faster. She didn’t know if she was more angry or confused. Maybe both.

The elevator doors slid open, and she stepped inside, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes as the others piled in.

She felt him before she saw him.

Harry stepped in last, taking a spot in the corner opposite her. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word, but his presence filled the small space like smoke, curling around her, suffocating.

The silence stretched as the elevator ascended, the soft ding of each passing floor the only sound.

When the doors opened on her floor, YN didn’t wait for anyone to move. She pushed past them, her guitar case bumping against Harry’s shin as she stepped out.

“Careful.” He muttered under his breath, the word low but deliberate.

YN froze, her grip tightening on the case. She turned back, her jaw tight, her voice barely above a whisper “You were in the way.”

Harry’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and for a moment, the tension between them was almost unbearable.

But then he smiled. That infuriating, lopsided grin that always seemed to carry a thousand meanings “Goodnight, YN.” he breathed, his tone maddeningly calm.

And just like that, the elevator doors closed, taking him with it.

She stood there in the empty hallway, her chest heaving, her hands trembling against the strap of her guitar case.

She hated him.

And she hated that she didn’t.

Nashville hit like a fever dream.

The kind of heat that stuck to your skin and turned the air thick, every breath tasting like concrete and sweat. YN stepped off the plane and into the chaos of arrivals, her carry-on slung over one shoulder and her nerves buzzing like a live wire. The overhead announcements droned on, blending with the chatter of passengers and the whir of suitcase wheels.

Behind her, the band followed, each of them bleary-eyed but quiet, the exhaustion of constant travel settling into their bones. They’d left Los Angeles behind with barely enough time to breathe, and now they were here. Another city. Another show.

Harry was in the middle of it all, of course.

He strode through the airport like he owned it, dressed in a casual white t-shirt and plaid trousers, his sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. His carry-on was slung lazily over his shoulder, the strap resting on a ringed hand, and he moved with the kind of effortless ease that YN had learned to despise.

She hated how calm he looked. How composed. Like he hadn’t spent the last two days pulling the same infuriating routine—ignoring her during rehearsals, barely acknowledging her existence outside of the necessary, and throwing her those strange, pointed glances on stage.

She adjusted the strap of her own bag and turned away from him, focusing on the bustling terminal as they followed the signs toward baggage claim.

By the time they made it outside, the air was heavy with humidity, the sun dipping low on the horizon and casting long shadows across the tarmac. Their bus waited near the curb, sleek and black, the driver already loading their checked equipment and luggage into the belly of the vehicle.

YN stepped aside to let Mitch and Sarah board first, leaning against the side of the bus and tugging her baseball cap lower over her eyes. She was tired. Bone-tired. And the thought of spending another night in close quarters with Harry’s infuriating silence made her chest feel tight.

“YN.”

His voice came from behind her, low and steady, and it made her stomach flip in a way she refused to acknowledge.

She turned to find Harry standing a few feet away, his bag slung carelessly over his shoulder. He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses now, and his green eyes caught the soft light of evening, sharp and clear.

“Yeah?” she sighed, her tone flat.

Harry blinked at her, like he hadn’t expected her to answer. “I, uh…” He hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “You left this.”

He held out a small notebook, the worn leather cover instantly recognizable. YN’s stomach twisted. She didn’t even realize she’d forgotten it.

“Thanks.” She mumbled, reaching for it. Their fingers brushed, and the contact sent a shiver down her spine. She snatched the notebook quickly, shoving it into her bag.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. Harry shifted his weight, his gaze flicking past her to the bus, like he was trying to find an escape route.

“Long flight,” he said finally, the words almost awkward.

She raised an eyebrow. “You’re making small talk now?”

His mouth twitched—something between a smirk and a grimace. “Just trying t’be polite.” His voice was low, almost teasing.

She didn’t know why that annoyed her so much. “Well, don’t strain yourself,” she shot back, her words sharper than she intended.

Harry’s expression shifted, the teasing edge dropping away. For a moment, he looked at her like he wanted to say something, something important, but then he just shook his head.

“Right.” he said softly. “Good t’know where we stand.”

Before she could respond, he turned and climbed onto the bus, leaving her standing there in the heavy Nashville air, her pulse thundering in her ears.

She clenched her jaw, gripping the strap of her bag so tight it hurt.

What the hell was that supposed to mean?

With a frustrated sigh, she followed him onto the bus, determined to avoid him for the rest of the night.

The hotel lobby was as tired as YN felt—dimly lit, decorated in muted earth tones that looked like they hadn’t been updated since the 90s. A long line of leather couches stretched across one side, mostly empty now that the band and crew had already checked in and trudged upstairs to collapse into their rooms.

She stood at the reception desk, trying to ignore the looming presence of Harry a few feet behind her as she slid her ID across the polished counter.

She croaked out her first and last name, her voice tight with exhaustion. “Should be a reservation under that.”

The receptionist, a young woman with tired eyes and a forced smile, tapped at her keyboard. For a moment, YN let herself hope this would go smoothly.

“Ah…” the woman began, her smile faltering as she looked up at her apologetically. “It seems there’s been an error in the system.”

Her stomach sank. “What kind of error?”

“It looks like…” The receptionist squinted at her screen, then back at YN. “Your booking and Mr. Styles’ booking were combined. There’s only one room reserved for both of you.”

She blinked, certain she must have misheard. “What?”

“One room,” the woman repeated, her voice overly kind, like she was delivering bad news to a child.

A low sound from behind her drew YN’s attention, and she turned to see Harry standing there, his lips twitching into the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Of course,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

YN turned back to the receptionist, her pulse spiking with frustration. “Okay, well, can you fix it? Book me another room?”

The woman winced. “I’m so sorry, but we’re completely booked out. Between your show and a large business conference in town, there’s nothing available.”

“Nothing?”

The receptionist shook her head. “Nothing.”

YN stared at her for a long moment, hoping that if she stood there long enough, a solution would magically present itself. When it didn’t, she let out a slow breath, trying to keep her voice calm. “Okay, then I’ll sleep on the tour bus,” she said finally, her tone clipped.

“I wouldn’t recommend that,” the receptionist replied, her voice filled with polite concern. “It’s not very safe overnight, and the temperatures are supposed to drop quite a bit.”

YN’s jaw clenched. She didn’t care about the temperature. She cared about not being stuck in a hotel room with Harry Styles for an entire night.

“You can take the bed,” Harry said suddenly, his voice low and casual.

She whipped around to look at him, her exhaustion briefly replaced by irritation. “Excuse me?”

“You can take the bed,” he repeated, his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers. He didn’t look tired like she did; if anything, he looked almost amused. “I’ll take the couch. Problem solved.”

His eyebrows lifted, but he didn’t continue the way she half-expected him to. He acknowledged her silence with a shrug. “Suit yourself.”

YN turned back to the receptionist, her last shred of hope dying as the woman gave her a small, helpless smile.

“I really am sorry,” the receptionist said.

“Yeah,” She muttered, grabbing her room key off the counter. “Me too.”

The elevator ride to their shared room was suffocating.

She stood with her arms crossed, leaning against the back wall, her eyes fixed on the digital floor numbers ticking upward. He stood on the opposite side, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

She could feel the tension between them, thick and heavy, like it had been building all day.

When the elevator dinged and the doors slid open, she practically bolted into the hallway, her shoes squeaking slightly against the polished floor as she found their room and slid the keycard into the lock.

The room was small but clean, decorated in the same neutral tones as the lobby. There was one queen-sized bed, a narrow couch by the window, and a small desk tucked into the corner.

YN set her bag down near the door, letting out a long breath. This was going to be a long night.

Harry stepped in behind her, the door clicking shut softly as he took in the room. “Well,” he said after a beat, his voice laced with dry humor. “Cozy.”

YN shot him a glare over her shoulder. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he replied, raising his hands in mock innocence.

She rolled her eyes, grabbing her carry-on and unzipping it with more force than necessary. She pulled out her pajamas and stalked toward the bathroom, muttering under her breath.

“You’re welcome to take the bed!” Harry called after her.

She didn’t reply, only slamming the bathroom door behind her.

Inside, she leaned against the sink, gripping the edge tightly as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was a mess under her hat, her face flushed with irritation and exhaustion.

This was the last thing she needed.

She splashed cold water on her face, changed into her pajamas, and forced herself to take a deep breath before stepping back out into the room.

Harry was already sprawled out on the couch, his long legs dangling off one end, one arm draped lazily over his eyes. He looked too comfortable, like he wasn’t even remotely fazed by the situation.

“Goodnight, YN.” he smiled, his voice soft and teasing, muffled by his arm.

She didn’t bother replying, instead climbing into the bed and yanked the blanket up to her chin. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, her back to him.

But even as she lay there in the dark, her body exhausted and her mind racing, she couldn’t ignore the steady sound of his breathing filling the room.

And somehow, that made sleep feel even further away.

The night dragged on like a bad song on repeat.

YN tossed and turned, the sheets tangling around her legs no matter how many times she tried to straighten them. The bed itself wasn’t the problem—it was soft enough, even if the pillows were too firm. The issue was the room. Or rather, the person in the room.

Harry’s breathing was steady and slow, almost annoyingly calm, like he had drifted off with zero trouble. The faint rustle of the blanket he’d pulled off the back of the couch only made it worse. She hated knowing he was just a few feet away, as oblivious and infuriating in sleep as he was awake.

Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the weight of him in the room, like his presence was something tangible pressing against her skin. She could picture him sprawled out on the narrow couch, too long for it, his hair a wild mess against the pillow. He had to be uncomfortable, but of course, he made even that look effortless.

She clenched her teeth and turned over again, dragging the blanket over her head.

She must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing she knew, pale sunlight was streaming through the thin hotel curtains, casting faint patterns on the wall. The sound of movement drew her attention, and she rolled onto her back, blinking against the light.

Harry was already up.

He stood near the desk, pulling a fresh shirt over his head, the muscles in his back shifting under smooth skin. His hair stuck up in every direction, and there was a faint red line on his cheek, probably from the couch pillow.

YN groaned softly, her voice gravelly from sleep, and sat up.

He turned at the sound, his eyes catching hers for a split second before he gave her a lopsided smile. “Morning,” he rasped, voice low and rough.

She ignored the strange flutter in her chest and instead rubbed at her face, her palms digging into her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Just past seven,” Harry replied, glancing at his watch.

“Why are you up so early?” she asked, her voice still heavy with sleep.

“Couldn’t stay on that couch any longer,” he said with a shrug, running a hand through his hair. “Figured I’d let you sleep.”

She raised an eyebrow, more suspicious than grateful. “How thoughtful of you.”

Harry smirked, leaning against the desk. “I’m full of surprises.”

YN swung her legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor against her bare feet waking her up a little more. She glanced at the couch, the blanket crumpled in a heap at one end, and felt the tiniest pang of guilt. He might be irritating, but even she had to admit that couch looked like hell.

“Did you even sleep?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Enough,” he said, brushing it off with a shrug. “You?”

She hesitated. She wanted to lie, to tell him she’d slept like a rock just to avoid giving him the satisfaction. But she was too tired to keep up the pretense. “Barely,” she muttered, running a hand through her hair.

Harry didn’t say anything, but his smirk softened into something else, something almost understanding. “We’ve got a couple hours before soundcheck,” he said after a beat, pushing off the desk. “I’ll grab coffee if y’want.”

She blinked at him, caught off guard by the offer.

“You’re being weirdly nice this morning,” she drawled, narrowing her eyes.

Harry grinned, all teeth. “Don’t get used to it.”

Before she could respond, he slipped out the door, leaving her sitting there in the quiet room, her heart beating just a little faster than it should have been.

When Harry returned twenty minutes later, carrying two steaming cups of coffee and a bag of pastries from the shop across the street, YN couldn’t bring herself to be annoyed.

But she didn’t thank him either.

She wasn’t sure why, but the tension between them felt different in the light of day. Lighter. Less suffocating. Still there, sure, but not as sharp.

She sipped her coffee in silence, watching as Harry lounged on the edge of the bed, scrolling lazily through his phone.

By ten that morning, they were at the Ryman.

The iconic auditorium was a cathedral of music, its wooden pews and high ceilings steeped in history. YN had played a lot of venues over the years, but this one felt different. Sacred, almost.

The crew was already bustling around the stage, running cables and testing equipment as the band took their places for a quick run-through. She strapped on her guitar and adjusted the amp settings, the familiarity of the process grounding her.

“Alright,” the stage manager called, his voice echoing in the empty hall. “Let’s run it from Carolina. Just a quick one, then you’re free for the day.”

Harry stepped up to the mic, giving a thumbs-up to the techs at the soundboard. His voice rang out clear and confident, slipping into the song like it was second nature.

YN played her part without thinking, her fingers moving easily over the strings. But she couldn’t help noticing the way Harry was watching her again.

It wasn’t as obvious as before—just the occasional glance, fleeting but deliberate, like he was checking her reaction to something she couldn’t quite place.

Her stomach twisted. She didn’t know if it was frustration or something else entirely.

They wrapped up soundcheck in record time, the stage manager dismissing them with a wave of his clipboard.

“Alright, folks. Enjoy your free day. Don’t get into too much trouble.”

The band dispersed quickly, everyone eager to make the most of the rare downtime. Sarah and Mitch mentioned something about finding a good barbecue spot, and within minutes, YN found herself standing outside the Ryman, squinting in the bright Tennessee sun.

She was about to head back toward the hotel when Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey, Hendrix.”

She turned to see him leaning against the tour bus, his sunglasses perched on his nose. She hummed in response, holding her hand above her eyes to shield the sun.

He grinned, his voice light and teasing. “You’re not gonna spend the whole day in the room, are you?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” he said with a shrug, pushing off the bus. “Just thought you might want to come along.”

“Come along where?”

He slipped his hands into his pockets, tilting his head in that infuriatingly casual way he had. “I was thinking about exploring. But if you’d rather sulk in the hotel…”

She glared at him, her irritation mixing with reluctant curiosity. “I’m not sulking,” she muttered.

“Prove it.” His grin widened.

She sighed, weighing her options. She could spend the rest of the day alone, aimlessly wandering the city, or… she could let Harry drag her into whatever chaos he had planned.

Against her better judgment, she took a step closer.

“Fine.” she grumbled. “But if you annoy me, I’m leaving.”

Harry laughed, a warm sound that somehow made her chest feel lighter. “Deal.”

As they made their way through the streets of Nashville, YN couldn’t help but notice how easy it was to fall into step with him.

They wandered through the heart of downtown, the air thick with the sound of live music spilling out of honky-tonk bars and the faint smell of fried food. He seemed relaxed, his usual sharp edges dulled by the easy rhythm of the day.

They ducked into a record store, where Harry spent an obscene amount of time flipping through vinyls, offering commentary on the cover art of each one.

“Look at this,” he said, holding up a copy of Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours. He grinned at her, and for once, it felt less like a challenge and more like… something else.

YN raised an eyebrow as she glanced at the album he held up, the iconic cover staring back at her. “What about it?” she asked, folding her arms and leaning against the edge of the nearest display.

Harry’s grin shifted, softer now, almost boyish. “It’s a masterpiece. Don’t tell me you’ve never given it a proper listen.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a small smirk. “Of course I’ve listened to it. Who hasn’t? Don’t go acting like you’ve discovered fire.”

“Ah, but have you really listened to it?” He stepped closer, tilting his head as he studied her expression like it might hold the answer. “Like, lying on the floor, headphones on, letting it ruin your entire mood?”

“That sounds unnecessarily dramatic.”

“Dramatic? YN, this album is a rite of passage. The Chain? That bassline alone deserves its own religion.”

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her, a quick, genuine sound that caught her off guard as much as it did him. “You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, shaking her head.

He looked pleased with himself, his grin stretching wider. “I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

“Take it however you want,” she shot back, moving past him to inspect a crate of blues records. Her fingers skimmed over the edges of the albums, her pulse oddly steady in the low hum of his company.

Harry hovered near, occasionally picking up a record and commenting on it. “You’re quiet,” he noted after a few minutes, his tone lighter than she’d expected.

“Just... looking,” she replied, hoping the words sounded casual enough.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

“No.” The lie came easily.

He didn’t press, and for once, she appreciated his silence. It gave her room to breathe, to figure out why the usual tension between them felt... different today. Lighter, maybe. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice quieter this time. “I like this, you know.”

She glanced up, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sincerity in his tone. “Like what?”

“This.” He gestured between them, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. “Hanging out. You’re tolerable when y’not glaring at me.”

She blinked, unsure whether to laugh or scowl. “That’s your idea of a compliment?”

“Take it or leave it,” he said, his smirk returning but not fully masking the warmth behind it.

She rolled her eyes again but didn’t look away, and for a brief moment, the air between them shifted. The faint tension that always seemed to linger was still there, but it wasn’t sharp or heavy. It was something else entirely.

As the afternoon wore on, the tension that had been brewing between them seemed to fade, replaced by something quieter.

They grabbed lunch at a hole-in-the-wall diner Harry insisted on, where they shared a plate of fries and argued over whether ketchup or mayo was the superior dipping sauce.

“Ketchup,” YN said, dipping another fry.

Harry shook his head, mock disappointment written all over his face. “I expected better from you.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of her.

By the time they made their way back to the hotel, the sun was sinking low, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. She felt lighter, like the weight of the past few days had lifted, if only for a little while.

As they reached the elevator, Harry glanced at her, his expression softer than she’d ever seen it.

“Thanks for coming along,” his voice was quiet but sincere.

She hesitated, surprised by the sudden vulnerability in his tone. “Yeah, well… it was better than sulking.”

He smiled.

The hotel room was quiet, the kind of stillness that settled into your bones and made you feel the weight of the day. After their spontaneous exploration of Nashville, she had parted ways with Harry in the hallway. He mentioned something about meeting up with Mitch, tossing her a casual, “See you later,” before disappearing down the corridor.

YN had nodded but hadn’t said much else. She wasn’t sure if she was relieved or annoyed that he was leaving for the night.

After a long shower, she tugged on an oversized band tee—some faded thing she’d thrifted years ago—and a pair of soft cotton shorts. Her damp hair clung to her shoulders as she padded barefoot around the room, her phone in one hand as she scrolled through texts from her family.

Dad: Don’t forget to drink water. You sound so busy. Call us when you have time.

Younger sibling: lol saw a vid of harry styles crowd at your show. how’s that going???

She smiled faintly at the last one, shaking her head as she typed a quick response.

It wasn’t until she’d tossed her phone onto the bedside table that she remembered the little stash she’d hidden away.

She opened her suitcase, digging past neatly folded shirts and random cables until her fingers brushed against an emptied bag-balm tin, where she hid a pre-roll. She grinned to herself, pulling it out along with the battered cherry red lighter she always kept with it.

YN grabbed her guitar and wandered to the deep window sill, settling into it like a cat in the sun. She pushed the window all the way up, the night air warm against her skin as it rushed into the room. Nashville stretched out before her, the faint glow of the city lights mixing with the distant hum of passing cars.

She tucked the joint between her lips, the flame of the lighter flickering as she lit the tip. She took a slow drag, letting the smoke curl through her lungs and settle into her chest before she exhaled out into the open air.

The buzz hit quickly, a soft warmth unfurling in her limbs. She leaned back against the window frame, her guitar resting comfortably on her lap as she started to strum.

The notes came easily, her fingers gliding over the strings as she played whatever came to mind. A soft, haunting melody took shape. She kept her voice low, just above a whisper, the lyrics spilling from her lips like they were meant for the quiet night.

Spent my days with a woman unkind, smoked my stuff and drank all my wine

The joint hung from her lips as she sang, her voice airy and unpolished, but easy.

Made up my mind to make a new start, going to California with an aching in my heart 

She was so lost in the song, the feel of the strings beneath her fingers, that she didn’t hear the door open.

Harry stepped inside, the door clicking shut softly behind him. He paused, his eyes catching on the scene in front of him—the open window, YN perched on the sill with her guitar, the smoke from the joint curling lazily in the dim light.

She didn’t notice him at first, too wrapped up in the song. Her voice was soft and raw, carrying just enough emotion to make the lyrics hit harder than they should have.

Seems that the wrath of the gods got a punch in the nose and it’s starting to flow—think i might be sinking.

Harry stayed where he was, leaning against the wall near the door, arms crossed as he listened. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t announce himself right away. Maybe it was the way she seemed so unguarded, so lost in her own little world. It felt wrong to interrupt.

Her fingers lingered on the last note of the song, letting it fade softly into the warm night air. She leaned her head back against the window frame, the faint hum of the guitar strings still vibrating against her skin.

The room was quiet now, the only sound the distant buzz of traffic outside. She thought she was alone—until a flicker of movement caught her eye.

Her head snapped up to see Harry stepping closer, his strides slow and deliberate. He didn’t say anything, didn’t smirk or crack one of his usual jokes. He just moved, quiet and assured, until he stopped by the desk next to the window.

He sank into the chair with a soft creak, still close enough that YN could feel the heat of his presence.

Her heart stuttered, but she didn’t acknowledge him outright. Not yet.

Instead, she glanced at him briefly, her eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second before returning to the guitar in her lap. Her fingers idly plucked at the strings, pulling out a soft, wandering melody—not another song, just sound to fill the silence.

Harry stayed quiet, leaning back in the chair as his gaze followed the slow, practiced movements of her hands.

When she paused, fingers hovering over the frets, the faint smell of smoke still curling in the air, Harry’s attention shifted.

Without a word, he reached for the joint resting between her fingers near the neck of the guitar. His movements were smooth, casual, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

YN didn’t stop him, but her lips parted slightly in surprise, her pulse quickening as his hand brushed against hers.

He brought it to his lips, the faint ember at the tip flaring as he inhaled. The smoke curled lazily between them, filling the small space with a warmth that felt heavier than the fading summer air outside.

She watched him, her fingers still resting lightly on the strings, the unfinished melody hanging between them.

He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking back to hers as the smoke dissipated into the room. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something else. Something charged, like the tension from the last few days had found a new way to manifest itself.

YN finally broke the silence, her voice low and rough. “Didn’t realize you smoked.”

Harry’s lips curved into a faint smile, the kind that didn’t give anything away. “Didn’t realize you played Zeppelin.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her lips twitching as she fought the urge to smile back.

“Don’t stop playing,” he murmured, leaning back in the chair and tipping his head toward the window.

YN hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering on him before she shifted the guitar back into place.

She didn’t play for him. Not really. But as the quiet notes filled the room again, she couldn’t help but notice how close he was, how the faint smell of smoke and something distinctly Harry seemed to blur the edges of everything else.

The melody was unmistakable, a classic she knew by heart. Slow, deliberate, and wordless, the tune drifted into the still night air. She tilted slightly, fingers brushing over the strings with a lightness that made it feel effortless.

Harry stayed in the chair by the desk, close enough that she could feel the weight of his presence but far enough that he seemed content to linger in the space between them.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t interrupt.

His eyes flickered between her and the view outside, where the skyline blinked faintly in the distance. He seemed lost in thought, the faint haze of smoke from the joint twisting lazily around him.

The rhythm of her playing was slow, hypnotic, like it had seeped straight from her fingertips into the quiet air. She didn’t look at him directly, but she could feel his attention, even when it wasn’t on her.

When the joint burned low between his fingers, Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he turned toward her. He lifted it to her lips, careful not to disrupt her playing, his movements casual but precise.

YN paused for just a fraction of a second, caught off guard by the gesture, but she let it happen. Her lips closed around it, inhaling deeply as her fingers continued their soft rhythm across the strings.

He stayed there for a moment, watching her before leaning back in the chair and taking the joint back between his own lips.

The smoke lingered between them, faint and warm, curling like an unspoken connection.

The song continued—soft, wistful, and unhurried. Her focus shifted to the melody, letting it guide her as Harry flicked his gaze between her hands, her face, and the view beyond the window.

Every so often, he’d lean forward again, passing the joint to her silently, his movements slow and patient. It felt strangely intimate, the quiet exchange, the way their hands brushed in the dim light.

Neither of them spoke, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy, yes, but not with tension. It felt… deliberate.

When YN finally let the last note of the song fade into the air, her hands stilled on the guitar.

He didn’t say anything right away. He leaned back in the chair, the joint burning low between his fingers as his gaze lingered on her for just a moment too long.

“You should do that more often,” he said softly, his voice rough around the edges.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into the faintest smirk. “Play Floyd?”

“Play anything,” he replied, taking one last drag before stubbing the joint out on the edge of the ashtray she’d left by the window. “Or keep me guessing.”

YN shifted the guitar off her lap, leaning it gently against the window sill. She crossed her arms, the soft night air brushing against her bare legs as she glanced at Harry. “It’s my job to play for you, Harry.”

His head tipped slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he considered her. “That why y’were playing now?”

She scoffed, leaning her shoulder against the window frame. “No. But it’s why I’m here, isn’t it? To play what you want to hear. To make your shows sound good.”

Harry didn’t react immediately. He stayed leaned back in the chair, the now-extinguished joint resting in the ashtray beside him. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, almost lazy.

“You think that’s all you’re here for?”

“That’s what it feels like sometimes,” she muttered, her words laced with the kind of honesty she didn’t usually let herself share. “You’ve got everything planned, Harry. The look, the sound, the crowd. You don’t need me.”

His lips curved into a faint, humorless smile. “If I didn’t need you, you wouldn’t be here.”

YN frowned, tilting her head. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? Like I’m just another piece of the machine?”

Harry leaned forward then, his elbows resting on his knees as he met her gaze. The air between them felt heavier now, his next words slow and pointed. “You’re not just a piece. And you know it.”

For a moment, she didn’t know how to respond. She hated the way her pulse quickened under his stare, the way his voice—low and rough—seemed to wrap around her like smoke.

She turned her head slightly, looking out at the view instead of him. “You don’t act like it,” she mumbled.

He let out a low laugh, though there was no humor in it. “And how do I act, YN? Enlighten me.”

She hesitated, then turned back to face him, her arms still crossed over her chest. “You act like I’m just… there. Like you can turn me on and off when it suits you. Like I don’t matter unless I’m standing on stage next to you.”

His jaw tightened, his gaze never wavering from hers. “That’s not true.”

It was.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The silence that followed felt like it stretched forever. The only sound was the faint hum of traffic outside and the soft creak of the chair as Harry shifted his weight.

“You think I don’t notice you?” he said finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense.

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

Harry stood then, closing the distance between them in just a stride. He stopped just shy of the window, leaning one hand against the frame as he looked at her.

“You think I don’t notice you,” he repeated, his voice steady, almost accusing. “Every time you play, every time you step on that stage. Every time you look at me like you’re trying to figure out if I’m about to push you away again.”

YN swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “You don’t notice anything,” she said, though the words came out weaker than she intended.

His gaze dropped to her lips for the briefest moment before snapping back to her eyes. “I notice everything,” he countered softly.

Her breath hitched, and she hated the way it made her feel like she was on uneven ground. “Then why do you act like this? Why do you make it so hard?”

“Because y’make it hard,” he shot back, his voice low but sharp. “You shut me out before I even get the chance to try.”

YN laughed then, a hollow, bitter sound. “You’ve never tried, Harry.”

“And you’ve never let me.” he said, the words falling between them like a challenge.

The weight of his stare was suffocating, and for a moment, YN didn’t know what to say. She could feel the tension crackling between them, thicker now, more volatile.

“Bullshit.” She turned back to the window, her voice softer when she spoke again. “This is pointless.”

Harry didn’t move, his hand still resting on the window frame as his eyes lingered on her.

“Maybe,” he said quietly. “But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.”

YN closed her eyes, letting his words hang in the air as the night wrapped around them. Neither of them said anything else, but the silence spoke louder than anything they could’ve said.

The morning came earlier than YN wanted it to. She’d barely slept, the weight of the night before hanging over her like a low fog.

The room was quiet when she woke, the faint hum of the air conditioning filling the stillness. Harry’s side of the room was empty, the crumpled blanket on the sofa the only sign he’d stayed at all.

YN sat up slowly, rubbing the heel of her hand against her eyes as the memory of their conversation came rushing back. She didn’t know if she regretted it—what they’d said, what they hadn’t said—but she knew it had left her chest feeling heavier than it had in weeks.

She glanced at the clock. They had a longer rehearsal today, prepping for the Ryman show tomorrow. If she didn’t hurry, she’d risk being late.

With a groan, she threw off the covers and got ready, pulling on a worn pair of jeans and a t-shirt before stuffing her guitar into its case and heading out the door.

The venue was already buzzing with activity when she arrived. The crew was setting up the stage, the hum of amps and feedback filling the auditorium as the band trickled in one by one. Mitch and Sarah were already there, chatting quietly by the drum kit, while Harry stood near the mic stand, flipping through a setlist with their tour manager.

YN felt his presence before she saw him, the memory of his words from the night before still fresh in her mind.

Maybe. But it doesn’t mean it’s not real.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to push the thought aside as she made her way to her usual spot on the stage.

“Morning,” Mitch gave her a small smile.

“Morning,” she replied, setting her guitar case down and pulling out the instrument.

Harry didn’t say anything as she arrived, but she could feel his gaze flicker toward her for a brief moment before he turned his attention back to the stage manager.

Rehearsal started slow.

The band worked their way through the setlist, adjusting transitions, tightening harmonies, and fine-tuning every detail until the songs sounded like they could fill the Ryman’s historic walls without effort.

YN tried to focus, but it was harder than usual. Harry’s voice was everywhere—smooth and commanding, sharp and playful, depending on the song. His presence filled the room, making it impossible to ignore him no matter how much she tried.

But he didn’t speak to her directly. Not once.

It was infuriating, the way he could act like nothing had happened. Like they hadn’t spent the night before saying things that neither of them had the courage to finish.

The longer the rehearsal went, the more it started to gnaw at her. By the time they reached Ever Since New York, her patience was wearing thin.

“Hold on,” Harry said, waving a hand as the band finished the first chorus. He turned to Mitch. “That transition’s still too rushed. Can we stretch it out a little more?”

Mitch nodded, already adjusting his guitar.

She sighed quietly, her fingers hovering over the frets as she tried not to let her irritation show.

“Something wrong?” He asked suddenly, his voice cutting through the space like a blade.

Her head snapped up, her eyes narrowing at him. “No.”

“Sure about that?” he asked, his tone light but his gaze sharp.

She stared at him for a moment, her chest tightening with frustration. “Just play the song, Harry.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Alright. Again.”

By the time rehearsal wrapped, YN was drained. Her fingers ached from hours of playing, and her chest felt heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

As the crew began packing up, she slung her guitar over her shoulder and made her way toward the back of the stage, desperate for a moment alone.

But before she could disappear, Harry’s voice stopped her.

“Hey! YN.”

Her grip on her guitar strap tightened as she turned to face him, the tension between them sharp enough to cut. He was standing near the edge of the stage, his expression carefully unreadable, though his shoulders were tense. “What?” she asked, her voice curt, already bracing herself.

He hesitated, just for a moment, then tilted his head slightly, his gaze flicking over her like he was trying to figure out how to start. “About last night.”

Her jaw tightened. She hadn’t wanted to think about last night—how raw it had felt, how vulnerable she’d let herself be for even a second. She’d been trying to shove it to the back of her mind all day. “What about it?” she said flatly, her tone leaving no room for softness.

Harry’s lips pressed into a thin line, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, quieter, but it still held an edge. “You meant what y’said, didn’t you?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“You think I don’t notice you,” he mumbled, his words more a statement than a question.

Her stomach churned, but she forced herself to keep her expression steady. “I don’t know why you care.”

“Because I do,” he shot back, his voice sharpening, though he still kept it low enough that no one else could hear. “And don’t act like you don’t, either.”

Her chest tightened at the accusation, but she refused to let it show. “You’ve got a funny way of showing it,” she said coldly, crossing her arms.

His jaw ticked, and he took a small step closer. “You think this is easy? Working with you? Being around you?”

She scoffed, the sound bitter in her throat. “Right. Because you’re so perfect to deal with, Harry.”

His eyes narrowed, the frustration clear now. “You act like I don’t care, but you’re the one who’s been pushing me out since the start.”

Her breath caught, and for a second, she wasn’t sure if it was anger or something else flaring in her chest. “Because you make it impossible,” she snapped, a whisper. “You walk around like the world revolves around you, and you expect everyone to just fall in line.”

“I don’t expect anything from you, YN,” he said, his voice sharp, almost defensive. “Except maybe to stop pretending like none of this matters t’you.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs, the words cutting deeper than she wanted to admit. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Harry paused, his voice quieter now but no less intense, “you’ve made it pretty damn clear you’d rather be anywhere else than here—with me, with this band. So don’t act like I’m the one who doesn’t give a shit.”

YN stared at him, her chest heaving, her hands trembling at her sides. She wanted to throw something at him, wanted to shout, but the anger in her throat felt too tangled with something else—something raw and uncertain.

Before she could think of a response, Harry shook his head, his lips curling into a bitter half-smile. “Forget it,” he muttered, turning on his heel.

He stalked off the stage without looking back, his steps echoing in the empty auditorium.

YN stayed frozen where she was, her pulse pounding in her ears as his words replayed over and over again in her mind.

She hated that he was wrong.

And she hated even more that he wasn’t entirely right.

The 25th came fast, bringing with it the weight of a sold-out show at the Ryman Auditorium. YN felt it the moment she woke up—the low hum of tension in her chest, the kind that came from knowing she was about to step onto one of the most iconic stages in music history.

She moved through the day on autopilot, her interactions with the crew and band kept short and polite. She didn’t have it in her to do more, not after yesterday’s rehearsal, not after the argument with Harry that still lingered like a bruise.

By the time the sun dipped low over Nashville, casting long shadows across the city, the energy backstage was crackling with anticipation.

The band gathered in the wings as the crew finished final checks. She adjusted the strap of her guitar, her fingers tightening and loosening around the neck in a rhythm she didn’t realize she was keeping.

Harry stood a few feet away, his presence as inescapable as ever. He was wearing a dark, tailored suit with just enough sparkle to catch the light, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair was tousled in that perfectly imperfect way that she hated to admit suited him.

He hadn’t spoken to her since yesterday. Not directly. And she hadn’t gone out of her way to fix that.

“Alright, everyone ready?” the stage manager called, clipboard in hand.

The band nodded, one by one. Harry turned to them, his usual grin firmly in place, but there was a flicker of something else in his eyes when his gaze landed on YN.

“All good?” he asked, his tone light but pointed, like he was challenging her.

She held his stare, refusing to let him see the nerves twisting in her chest. “Good.”

Harry’s smirk softened, but he didn’t push it. “Let’s do this, then,” he said, turning back toward the stage as the house lights dimmed.

The roar of the crowd was deafening, a wall of sound that hit YN square in the chest as they stepped onto the stage.

The show opened strong, the band locking into the rhythm like clockwork. The crowd was electric, their cheers and screams filling every corner of the Ryman as Harry worked the stage, his voice weaving effortlessly through the music.

She focused on her playing, her fingers moving over the strings with practiced precision. She kept her eyes on the crowd, on Mitch, on the neck of her guitar—anywhere but Harry.

But it didn’t matter. She could feel him, his presence pulling at her like a tide no matter how hard she tried to resist.

It was during Woman that the tension finally cracked.

The song had always been a crowd favorite, its sultry rhythm and teasing lyrics sending the audience into a frenzy. Tonight was no different.

Harry prowled the stage, the mic in one hand, his free hand gesturing to the crowd as they screamed the words back to him.

And then, without warning, his gaze found hers.

—I told you but I know you’d never listen.

YN’s fingers faltered for the briefest moment, the wrong note slipping out before she corrected herself.

He smirked, slow and all-knowing, because he did. He knew what he was doing.

He sang the chorus, his voice low and taunting as he turned to her fully, his body angled toward her now.

The crowd screamed, but they didn’t notice the way his eyes stayed locked on hers, sharp and unrelenting.

Her chest tightened, but she refused to look away. Instead, she matched his intensity with her playing, her fingers flying over the strings like she could drown him out with sheer force.

The song ended in a crescendo, the applause erupting like thunder. Harry grinned at the crowd, blowing kisses into the sea of adoring faces, but when he turned back to the band, his smirk softened into something more subtle.

YN ignored him, focusing instead on retuning her guitar for the next song. But her hands were trembling slightly, and she hated herself for it.

The rest of the show passed in a blur of music and adrenaline.

By the time they reached the encore, she felt both exhausted and wired, her body caught in that strange limbo that came after hours on stage.

She risked a glance at Harry, and for a moment, she thought she saw something in his expression that mirrored her own—a kind of quiet exhaustion, tinged with something unspoken.

But then he turned back to the crowd, his charm cranked up to full volume as he thanked them, his voice ringing out like a promise. “Goodnight, Nashville,” he said, his grin wide and infectious. “You’ve been incredible.”

The applause was deafening, the crowd chanting his name as the band took their final bow.

Backstage crew members moved in every direction, packing up equipment and shouting over the noise. The band had scattered, Mitch and Sarah disappearing into their dressing rooms while Harry lingered by the door, chatting with a few industry types who’d come to the show.

YN slipped past the commotion, her guitar case slung over her shoulder as she made her way to the dressing room she was sharing with Mitch.

But before she could reach the door, Harry’s voice stopped her.

She froze, her grip tightening on the strap of her guitar. She turned slowly, her expression carefully neutral.

Harry was leaning against the wall, his shirt damp with sweat, his hair sticking to his forehead. He looked tired but satisfied, his usual post-show glow dimmed by something quieter.

“Good show tonight,” he said, his tone casual but his eyes sharper than his words.

YN raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a faint smirk. “You don’t have to tell me that.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, his smirk returning. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, turning back toward her dressing room. “Look in the mirror, Harry.” She didn’t wait for his response, didn’t look back as she pushed open the door and let it close behind her.

September 26th, Chicago Theatre

Chicago was cold, a brisk wind biting at the edges of everything, but the theater itself felt electric. The second show on this leg of the tour, and the crowd roared louder than even the Nashville audience had. YN had expected it—Chicago fans had a reputation—but it still sent a jolt through her chest every time the applause hit.

She’d kept her head down all day, avoiding Harry as much as possible after the tension-filled Ryman show. He hadn’t gone out of his way to talk to her either, which suited her just fine. The dynamic between them was still strained, but now it felt heavier, sharper, like a spring wound too tight.

On stage that night, they were professional, seamless even. The music flowed like second nature, and the crowd ate up every word Harry sang, every note the band played.

But Harry’s energy was different.

He stalked the stage like he had something to prove, his voice sharper, his movements purposeful. Every so often, his gaze would flicker toward her, his eyes dark under the stage lights, and her fingers would stumble, just for a second.

She hated that he could still affect her like that. Hated that her pulse quickened every time he looked at her like he was daring her to break.

When the show ended, she slipped out of the backstage chaos as quickly as she could, retreating to her dressing room before Harry could find her.

But she couldn’t escape the feeling that their fight wasn’t just simmering—it was boiling over, and it was only a matter of time before it all spilled out.

September 27th, New York City Music Hall

New York felt different, brighter somehow. The Music Hall was massive, its gold interiors glinting under the lights, the kind of place that made you feel like you were a part of something monumental just by standing inside it.

YN was buzzing, but not because of the show. Tonight, she’d finally made good on her promise to get her best friend in with VIP tickets.

Jude had shown up grinning from ear to ear, dragging along another friend, Sage, a boy she knew from a few mutual connections but hadn’t spent much time with. She didn’t mind—Sage was friendly, good-looking in that casual, effortless way, and Jude seemed thrilled to be there.

The show was flawless, a whirlwind of sound and energy that left the crowd screaming for more by the end of the encore. YN felt good, better than she had in days. Maybe it was Jude’s energy, or the thrill of being home in New York, or the fact that she’d managed to avoid Harry’s smirking glances on stage.

The energy backstage was lighter than usual, the post-show adrenaline mingling with the warmth of a half-empty box of beers someone had dragged in from a gas station. YN sat on a crate near the corner of the room, Jude and Sage perched close by, the three of them surrounded by the casual hum of conversation. Mitch was strumming idly on an unplugged guitar, Sarah was laughing with one of the techs, and the crew milled around, taking turns grabbing beers and tossing them to each other.

Harry sprawled in the cheap folding chair like it was a throne. His legs stretched out, boots crossed, beer bottle swaying loose between his fingers. He wore the smug indifference of someone who knew exactly how good he looked, from the sweat-mussed hair to the open collar of his shirt. A rock god slumming it in a room full of mortals.

Jude, of course, was eating it up, no matter how hard she tried not to. Her eyes kept drifting back, quick flickers like a moth circling a flame. YN could see the effort it took for her friend to focus on Sage, laughing a little too hard at his jokes, leaning just a bit too close. But the second Harry glanced their way, Jude’s attention snapped to him like a compass needle finding north.

“This is VIP treatment?” Sage asked, flashing one of his trademark grins. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his bottle raised like a toast.

Jude latched onto the question, grateful for the distraction. “Welcome to the glamorous life of rock and roll,” she quipped, sweeping a hand around the dingy green room. Half-eaten takeout boxes, a broken amp shoved in the corner, and a stack of mismatched chairs that looked like they’d collapse if you breathed wrong.

“I’m not complaining,” Sage said, his smile lingering, his tone dipping lower. “Not if it means I get to see you.”

The words hung in the air just a second too long.

YN felt the heat crawl up her neck before she even realized it. She took a long sip of her beer, keeping her face neutral, trying to ignore the heavy stare boring into the side of her head. She didn’t have to look to know Harry was watching. She could feel it.

“Careful,” Harry drawled, finally breaking the silence. His voice was low, lazy, but there was an edge to it. “Say something like that, and you might get her hopes up.”

Sage blinked, caught off guard, then let out a short laugh, brushing it off. “I think she can handle it.”

“Oh, sure,” Harry said, leaning back further in his chair. He swirled the beer bottle idly, staring into the amber liquid like it held secrets. “Just don’t trip over yourself trying too hard. You’d hate to embarrass yourself in front of the talent.”

Jude stiffened beside YN. Sage’s easy smile faltered, but he recovered fast, glancing at YN with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Speaking of talent, you were incredible out there,” he said, his voice softer, directed at her now. “That solo in Woman? Gave me chills.”

YN opened her mouth to respond, but Harry beat her to it.

“Yeah, chills,” he echoed, not looking up from his bottle. “Or was it the AC in the venue finally kicking in? Hard t’tell.”

Sage chuckled, but it was tight. Forced. “I meant it,” he said, still talking to YN. “You’ve got something special. You know that, right?”

Harry made a sound low in his throat, almost a laugh. Not quite. “Special,” he repeated, like he was tasting the word and finding it bitter. “Special enough t’get you a free beer and a backstage pass. Quite the honor.”

Sage turned to him now, his posture shifting, more squared. “That’s not what I meant.”

Harry’s eyes finally lifted, locking onto Sage with a lazy sort of intensity. “No?”

The word hung there, sharp and cold, daring Sage to keep going.

YN set her bottle down harder than she meant to, the dull thunk slicing through the thick air. “Harry.”

“What?” he said, the picture of innocence, except for the smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.

Her jaw tightened. “Can I talk to you outside?”

Harry raised his eyebrows, playing dumb. “Outside?”

“Mm-hm.” She hummed sharply, pushing herself to her feet. “Now.”

He took his time standing, unfolding himself from the chair with the kind of slow, deliberate movements that made every second stretch out like taffy. His boots scraped against the floor as he stood, towering over her but pretending not to notice. “You sure y’don’t want to hash this out here? We’ve got an audience and everything. Could be fun.”

“Outside,” she repeated through gritted teeth.

Harry chuckled, low and infuriating. “Alright,” he breathed, gesturing toward the door like he was humoring her. “Lead the way.”

As she brushed past him, she caught a glimpse of Jude, wide-eyed and silent, clutching her bottle like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Sage sat back, his jaw tight, his smile long gone.

Behind her, Harry followed, his footsteps slow and heavy, like he wanted her to know he wasn’t in any hurry. And as they stepped out into the cold, stale air of the hallway, she could still hear his laugh echoing softly, more to himself than anyone else.

That laugh made her want to scream.

The alley behind the Music Hall was quiet, the distant hum of city traffic echoing off the brick walls. The air was cool, a sharp contrast to the stuffy warmth of the backstage room. “What the hell was that?” she asked, spinning around to face him.

He took a slow sip of his beer, his eyes steady on hers. “What was what?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she snapped, her arms crossing over her chest. “All the comments. The interruptions. What’s your problem?”

Harry leaned against the wall, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. “No problem,” he said lightly. “Just thought I’d keep the conversation interesting.”

“Interesting?” she repeated, her voice rising. “You were being a dick, Harry.”

His smile faded slightly, his gaze narrowing. “Maybe I don’t like watching some guy who barely knows you act like he’s been waiting his whole life to kiss your ass.”

YN blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of his words. “Are you serious?”

“You heard me,” he murmured, his voice quieter now, but no less intense.

She stared at him, her chest tightening with a mix of frustration and something she didn’t want to name. “Why do you even care?”

He pushed off the wall, stepping closer until there was barely a foot of space between them. His eyes locked on hers, unflinching. “I dunno.”

Her breath hitched, her pulse hammering against her ribs. “That’s not an answer.”

“S’the only one you’re getting.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved, the tension between them thick and crackling like static electricity.

She finally broke the silence, her voice quieter now but no less sharp. “You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry. Not after everything.”

He looked at her for a moment longer, something unreadable flashing in his eyes. Then he took a step back, his smile returning, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Got it,” he said simply, turning toward the door.

She watched him go, her fists clenched at her sides, her heart pounding with anger—and something else she didn’t want to name.

She stayed in the alley long after Harry disappeared back inside. Her chest felt tight, her breathing uneven as she tried to process the exchange.

The words echoed in her mind, a sharp contrast to the smirk he’d worn when he walked away. She hated how he could get under her skin so easily, how his presence seemed to shift the air around her, how her anger at him never felt simple.

She leaned back against the cool brick wall, tilting her head up toward the night sky. The distant hum of traffic was a low comfort, a reminder of how big the world was outside of the theater, outside of him.

You don’t get to pull this shit, Harry.

But he had, and he would again. That much she was sure of.

Harry didn’t stay backstage for long. When he stepped back into the room, the energy was lighter without her there. Jude and Sage had moved on to laughing about something Mitch was saying, their voices rising over the clinking of bottles. Harry slipped past them with a nod, setting his empty beer bottle on the edge of a table.

“I’m heading out,” he said, his voice easy, casual, as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened.

Mitch looked up, raising an eyebrow. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Harry grumbled, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired. Think I’ll head back to the hotel.”

No one questioned him further. Harry had a way of ending conversations before they started, and tonight was no different.

YN finally pushed herself off the wall, shaking off the lingering tension as best she could. The night air had cooled her temper slightly, though the weight of her frustration still hung in her chest.

When she stepped back inside, the room felt just as loud as before, though the dynamic had shifted.

Jude waved her over immediately, her grin as bright as ever. “Hey! You okay?”

“Fine.”YN said, her voice clipped. She didn’t want to talk about what happened. Not now, not ever. “Where’s Harry?”

“Left a few minutes ago,” Mitch shrugged, strumming a lazy chord on the guitar he’d picked back up. “Said he was tired.”

YN’s stomach twisted, though she couldn’t pinpoint why.

“Good,” she muttered, grabbing a fresh beer from the nearly empty box. She twisted off the cap and took a long sip, letting the bitter taste settle her nerves.

Sage caught her eye, his grin still intact. “You alright?” he asked, leaning closer.

“I’m fine,” she said sharply, the edge in her voice enough to make him hold up his hands in surrender.

Jude gave her a look—something between concern and curiosity—but didn’t press further.

She leaned against the table, tuning out the chatter as the night dragged on. But no matter how hard she tried to focus on anything else, the memory of Harry’s words—and the look in his eyes when he said them—refused to leave her alone.

The night dissolved into a blur of laughter, music, and the bitter taste of cheap beer. YN had let herself go too far, her usual restraint eroded by the buzz in her veins and the way Sage kept leaning closer, his voice soft and insistent in her ear. She didn’t even remember how the drinks had piled up so quickly, only that by the time Mitch and Sarah coaxed her into leaving, the room was spinning, and her legs felt unsteady beneath her.

Her friends had already left, a whirlwind of hugs and goodbyes as they promised to text when they made it back to campus. She barely remembered waving them off. Her focus had narrowed to just putting one foot in front of the other, the alcohol turning everything fuzzy around the edges.

Mitch had one of her arms draped over his shoulder, Sarah steadying her other side as they guided her into the hotel.

“You’ve got to start drinking water at some point,” Mitch said, his tone amused but laced with concern.

“Water’s overrated,” YN mumbled, her voice slurred but determined.

Sarah snorted. “Tell that to your liver.”

They maneuvered her into the elevator, Sarah punching the button for their floor. The quiet hum of the ride did little to settle the nausea building in YN’s stomach.

“Alright, this is us,” Mitch said when the doors opened on their floor. He adjusted his grip on her arm, but she shook her head, pulling away clumsily.

“No, no, I’ve got it,” she insisted, stumbling forward and catching herself on the elevator wall.

“You sure?”

“Totally,” YN smiled, swaying slightly as she gave them a thumbs-up.

Mitch exchanged a look with Sarah, then sighed. “Okay, but if you fall over in the hallway, we’re not coming back down.”

“Love you guys,” She gave lopsided grin, blowing a haphazard kiss in their direction.

The walk to her room felt impossibly long. Her footsteps were uneven, and she clutched the wall for balance, the plush carpet doing little to steady her spinning head.

When she finally reached her door, she fumbled with the keycard, her hands clumsy and uncooperative. After several failed attempts, she groaned, leaning her forehead against the door in frustration.

But then her gaze shifted, and she realized something.

This wasn’t her room.

The gold numbers on the door were too low—she was on the wrong floor.

Harry’s room.

Her thoughts moved sluggishly, like she was trying to wade through molasses, but one thing became clear—she didn’t want to go back and figure it out. Not tonight.

Her fist hovered over the door for a moment, hesitation flickering in the back of her mind. She could just go back to the elevator, figure out her room, and collapse in her own bed.

But the alcohol dulled her better judgment, and she knocked before she could stop herself.

The door opened after a beat, and there he was.

Harry stood in the doorway, barefoot, loose sweatpants that hung low on his hips. His hair was messy, like he’d been lying down, and his eyes flicked over her with a mix of confusion and concern.

“YN?” His voice was low and rough with sleep.

“Hi.” She smiled, the word slurred and uneven.

He glanced down the hallway, then back at her. “You’re drunk.”

She hummed, nodding her head and leaning heavily against the doorframe.

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Dunno,” she pouted, blinking up at him. “I was trying to find my room, but…” She trailed off, waving a hand vaguely.

He sighed, stepping back and holding the door open wider. “Come in before someone calls security.”

The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the bed. She stumbled inside, kicking off her shoes and collapsing onto the armchair by the window.

Harry shut the door, leaning against it for a moment as he watched her.

“You alright?” he asked.

“Fantastic,” she mumbled, closing her eyes as the room spun around her.

“You do this often?” he asked dryly. “Stumbling drunk into the wrong room?”

“Not wrong,” she muttered, wagging a finger at him as she half-heartedly reached for the bottle of water on the table next to her. “I knew where I was going.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sure you did.”

She squinted at him, her lips twitching like she was trying to suppress a laugh. “You’re awfully judgy for a guy wearing sweatpants with wine stains on them.”

Harry glanced down, frowning faintly at the faint red blotch near his knee. It could have been wine, those were old—not that’d he’d remember. But for arguments sake, “s’not wine.”

“Oh, I see,” She smirking as she leaned back in the chair. “Fancy rock star can’t even handle his grape juice.”

“That’s rich,” he shot back, his tone calm but pointed. “Coming from someone who can’t even find her own room.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but her expression softened into something quieter as the room fell silent. The edges of her bravado dulled under the weight of the alcohol and exhaustion, and she ran a hand through her hair as her voice dropped.

“Why were you so mean to me?”

Harry stilled, the teasing edge slipping from his face.

“When?” he asked, though his tone made it clear he knew exactly what she was talking about.

“From the start,” she frowned, her words slurred but steady enough to cut. “You act like you don’t give a shit about me one minute, and then you—” She broke off, gesturing vaguely. “And then you pull this I notice everything bullshit.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he uncrossed his arms and moved toward her slowly, his footsteps soft against the carpet.

“You should drink that,” he breathed, gesturing to the water bottle still sitting untouched on the table.

YN blinked at him, her frustration flaring again. “Don’t change the subject, Harry.”

“I’m not,” he said evenly, crouching down in front of her. His eyes met hers, steady but guarded, and he grabbed the water bottle, holding it out. “Drink.”

She stared at him for a long moment, her chest tight. “You’re annoying,” she muttered, taking the bottle from his hand.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, his tone soft but laced with the faintest hint of amusement.

She took a few sips, grimacing as the cool liquid hit her empty stomach. Her head swam, the alcohol making her limbs heavy and uncooperative.

Harry stood, watching her carefully. “Come on.” He whispered after a moment, holding out his hand.

She frowned, looking at it suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Helping you into bed,” he said simply, his voice calm as he wriggled his fingers.

“I’m fine here.”

“You’re not sleeping in a chair, YN.” He sighed, his tone firmer now. “Come on.”

With a groan, she let him pull her to her feet, though her legs buckled almost immediately.

He caught her around the waist, shaking his head. “I’m fine.” He mocked breathily, a faint smile tugging on his lips, but he stifled it.

He guided her to the bed, steadying her as she sat down heavily on the edge. She looked up at him, her expression softer now, the alcohol dulling the sharpness of her frustration.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Harry leaned down ever so slightly, brushing her hair behind her shoulders, thumbing away some of the mascara that smudged her cheeks. “Get some sleep, YN.”

“You’re deflecting,” she pouted, though her voice was fading, her head already sinking toward the pillow.

Harry shifted, pulling the blanket over her as she curled onto her side.

“Goodnight.” His voice was low and unreadable.

Silence.

He frowned, taking a step back. “I’m sorry.” He whispered, although he knew she didn’t hear him. 

-

The tour bus hummed steadily as it sped toward Boston, the headlights slicing through the dark. It was well past midnight, and the world outside the window was nothing but a blur of shadows and the occasional glimmer of a passing car.

Everyone else was tucked away in their bunks, lulled to sleep by the gentle sway of the bus. The only sounds were the low murmur of the engine and the soft, absentminded strumming of an acoustic guitar.

YN sat curled up in the corner by the window, Mitch’s guitar resting on her lap. Her fingers moved lightly over the strings, coaxing out a quiet, meandering tune—nothing specific, just something to keep her hands busy. She stared out at the dark highway, the faint glow of her reflection in the glass blending with the streaks of passing lights.

Across the room, Harry sat at the small table, his laptop open in front of him. His shorts were bright pink, shirt faded and worn, hair messy and falling into his eyes. His fingers tapped softly on the keys, the blue glow of the screen reflecting off his rings.

For a while, neither of them said anything. The silence wasn’t tense exactly, but it wasn’t comfortable either. It felt like it had been stretched thin, like something fragile that might break if either of them pressed too hard.

She plucked a few more strings, then let the sound fade, her gaze flicking briefly toward Harry. “You don’t sleep, do you?” she asked, her voice soft but not without its usual bite.

He didn’t look up, his fingers still moving across the keyboard. “Not much.” he replied evenly.

“What are you even working on?” she murmured, shifting slightly in her seat to get a better view.

“Emails,” he breathed, glancing at her briefly before turning back to the screen. “Tour stuff.”

YN smiled faintly, her fingers returning to the guitar. “Rock star by day, admin assistant by night?”

Harry’s lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Someone’s gotta do it.”

She let out a low hum, her fingers drifting into a soft riff, the notes barely audible over the hum of the bus.

“Is that Mitch’s?” Harry asked after a moment, nodding toward the guitar.

“Yeah.” She brushed her thumb lightly over the strings. “He left it out earlier. Figured he wouldn’t mind.”

He leaned back in his chair, pushing the laptop back slightly. “He doesn’t. Just doesn’t usually let anyone play it.”

YN raised an eyebrow, glancing at him. “You saying I’m special?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, finally meeting her gaze. “Hardly.”

She rolled her eyes, her lips curving into a small, reluctant smile. “You’re such an ass.”

“Look in a mirror.” He smiled, echoing her words from days before, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.

For a while, the silence returned, but it felt slightly less brittle this time. YN continued strumming, the quiet notes blending with the steady rhythm of the bus.

“You’re good.” Harry said eventually, his voice softer now. 

YN looked at him, surprised by the unexpected compliment. “Don’t sound so shocked.”

He let out a breathy laugh through his nose, leaning back again. “Just noticing, petal.”

Her chest tightened at the word, but she quickly shoved the feeling aside, focusing on the guitar.

“You’re not so bad yourself.” She shrugged, her tone casual but laced with a challenge.

Harry tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “That a compliment?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. It’s big enough.”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, and for a brief moment, the tension between them eased.

But then her fingers stilled on the strings, her gaze drifting back to the window. The reflection of the two of them in the glass felt surreal, like something out of a dream she wasn’t sure she wanted to wake from.

“Why were you up last night?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

Harry’s smirk faded, his expression shifting into something more guarded. “Didn’t feel like sleeping,”

“That’s not what I meant,” she countered, turning to face him fully. “You didn’t have to let me in. Could’ve just shut the door and gone back to bed.”

Harry didn’t respond right away. His gaze flickered to her hands, still resting lightly on the guitar, before meeting her eyes again. “Didn’t seem like you wanted to be alone.”

YN’s throat tightened, and she looked away, her fingers brushing over the strings again. “I didn’t ask for your help.”

“I know.” he said simply.

The quiet between them stretched, heavy and filled with things neither of them seemed willing to say.

YN strummed a few more notes, her movements slower now, more deliberate. She didn’t look at him, but she could feel his eyes on her, steady and unrelenting.

“Go to bed, Harry,” she sighed eventually, her voice soft but firm.

“Not tired, YN.” There was no edge to the words.

She sighed, leaning her head back against the window as her fingers stilled on the guitar. “You will be tomorrow.”

“Guess I’ll take my chances.”

She glanced at him, her chest tightening at the faint smile playing on his lips. She wanted to say something, wanted to break the strange tension hanging between them, but the words caught in her throat.

So she said nothing, letting the silence settle again as the bus rumbled on through the night.

September 30th, Boston

The air backstage at the Wang Theatre was thick with anticipation. YN sat in the corner of the green room, tuning her guitar for the third time in as many minutes. The hum of the crew preparing for the night buzzed through the walls, but her focus was pinned to the task in her hands. She needed something to do, anything to keep her from replaying the last few nights over and over in her head.

She tightened a string a little too hard, the sharp twang making her wince.

“You alright over there?” Mitch asked, glancing up from where he was adjusting his pedalboard.

“Fine,” she muttered, not looking up.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Harry glance her way, his expression unreadable. She forced herself to keep her focus on the guitar.

By the time the lights dimmed and the crowd erupted into cheers, YN was itching to get the show over with. The theatre was packed, the historic venue alive with energy, but it did nothing to ease the knot in her stomach.

The first few songs went smoothly enough, the band locking into their usual rhythm. Harry prowled the stage like he owned it—because he did—and the crowd hung on his every move.

But by the time they hit woman, things began to unravel.

It started small. A glance. A smirk.

Harry turned toward her as he sang, his voice dipping into the lyric like he was saying it directly to her.

The crowd screamed, oblivious to the sharp edge in his gaze. YN’s fingers faltered on the strings for a fraction of a second before she caught herself.

Her eyes snapped to his, narrowing, but he didn’t look away. Instead, his smirk deepened, daring her to react.

She refused to give him the satisfaction, pouring her frustration into her playing as the song built to its climax.

After the final note, the applause was deafening, the crowd on their feet as Harry grinned and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He turned to the audience, shouting his thanks into the mic, but YN didn’t hear a word.

She slipped offstage the second the lights dimmed, her guitar slung over her shoulder as she headed toward the green room. Her chest was tight, her pulse racing, and she needed a minute to cool down before she said something she’d regret.

But she didn’t get far.

“YN!”

Harry’s voice cut through the noise backstage, and she stopped dead in her tracks, her hands tightening on her guitar strap.

She turned slowly, her jaw clenched as she met his gaze.

Harry jogged the last few steps to catch up with her, his sequined jacket glittering under the faint overhead lights. “What the hell was that?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. “What are you talking about?”

“On stage,” he said, gesturing vaguely behind him. “You were off.”

“I wasn’t off,” she shot back, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You missed a note in woman,” his voice was low and firm. “I heard it.”

YN’s jaw tightened, and she took a step closer, her voice dropping to match his. “Maybe if you stopped staring me down like a lunatic during every damn song, I wouldn’t miss anything.”

Harry’s lips twitched, but there was no humor in his expression. “You think that’s why?”

“Don’t start with me, Harry,” she warned, her hands gripping the strap of her guitar so tightly her knuckles turned white.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. “You’re the one starting something, YN. You’ve been looking for a fight all night.”

“Oh, I’m looking for a fight?” she snapped, her voice rising slightly. “That’s rich coming from the guy who can’t seem to decide whether he wants to piss me off or…”

She stopped herself just in time, the words catching in her throat.

Harry tilted his head, his gaze flicking over her face as a faint smirk curled at the corner of his mouth. “Or what?”

YN glared at him, her chest heaving as she struggled to keep her composure. “Forget it.” She spat, turning on her heel and heading for the green room.

Harry didn’t follow, but she could feel his eyes on her back, heavy and unrelenting, as she disappeared down the hallway.

Back in the green room, she slumped into a chair, her guitar resting against the wall beside her. She closed her eyes, letting out a slow breath as the adrenaline from the stage finally began to fade.

She didn’t know what pissed her off more—Harry’s constant needling, or the fact that he was right.

She’d been off tonight.

But only because of him.

-

The tour bus rumbled down the highway, the lights of Boston fading far behind them as the road stretched dark and endless ahead. The show at the Wang  was barely two hours in the past, but it already felt like a weight YN couldn’t shake.

She sat in her bunk with the curtain pulled tightly shut, her knees tucked up to her chest and her notebook balanced precariously against them. Her pen hovered over the blank page, unmoving. She had opened it in an attempt to write something—anything—to push the tension out of her head, but her mind refused to cooperate.

Instead, it replayed the night in an endless loop: Harry’s sharp words backstage, the way his smirk twisted into something darker, the challenge in his eyes daring her to finish what she hadn’t meant to say.

Her chest tightened at the memory. She’d spent the rest of the night avoiding him—on stage, backstage, and now on the bus.

The thin curtain separating her from the rest of the bus didn’t do much to block out the low hum of conversation from the main area. Harry’s voice rose and fell in rhythm with Sarah’s and Mitch’s, casual and unbothered. He laughed at something Mitch said, the sound low and easy, and it made YN’s stomach twist.

How is he so unaffected?

Hours later, the bus quieted as everyone began retreating to their bunks. The lights dimmed, and the gentle sway of the vehicle as it sped down the highway turned the space into a cradle of silence.

Everyone except YN and Harry seemed to have no trouble falling asleep.

She could feel his presence even though they weren’t in the same part of the bus. He was out there, probably stretched out in one of the seats, scrolling on his phone or reading something. She hated that she knew his habits, hated that she’d memorized the way he fidgeted when he was restless, or the sound of his quiet sigh when he gave up on trying to distract himself.

She hated, most of all, that she cared.

She finally slid out of her bunk, her bare feet silent against the soft carpet as she padded toward the kitchenette. The small fridge buzzed faintly as she pulled it open, grabbing a bottle of water and leaning against the counter.

She tried to focus on the cold press of the bottle against her palm, the faint vibration of the road beneath her feet—anything but the sound of movement behind her.

Harry stepped into the kitchenette without looking at her. He opened one of the cabinets, pulling out a box of tea bags and tossing one onto the counter before reaching for the electric kettle.

YN didn’t say a word. She twisted the cap off her water and took a long sip, staring at the far wall as if it held the answer to whatever storm was brewing in her chest.

Harry didn’t seem to mind the silence. He filled the kettle, set it on the counter, and leaned back against the opposite side of the small space, his arms crossing over his chest.

The room felt smaller now, the air heavier.

YN turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

She froze, her back still to him.

“Not a bad thing,” he added casually. “Just different.”

Her grip on the water bottle tightened, her jaw clenching as she turned her head slightly. “Maybe I just don’t feel like talking.”

Harry let out a soft hum, not quite a laugh. “How long will that last?”

Her chest tightened as she walked away, slipping back into her bunk and yanking the curtain shut behind her. She sat in the dark, the sound of the kettle clicking off faint in the distance.

She hadn’t seen his face, but she knew he’d been smirking. She could feel it in the way his words lingered, curling around her thoughts like smoke.

And despite herself, she hated that it still mattered.

October 1st, Washington, D.C.

DAR Hall was completely sold out, shoulder to shoulder, elbow into ribs. 

Clips from the show in Boston, among other shows, started to surface online with whispers and reposts. It was only a matter of time, the crowd wasn’t stupid—the tension between the two was obvious, it was just a matter of deciphering if it was real or not. 

The consensus seemed to be split down the middle—they hated each other’s guts, or they were fucking behind closed doors. 

YN wasn’t sure if Harry saw it, but she sure did. Her younger brother had texted her about it first, a series of spam texts at three in the morning asking for every detail.

She left him on read. 

And now, here they stood in DC, before a sea of fans that seemed like they saw right through them, when YN herself didn’t even know what there was to see. 

Luckily, and unfortunately, there were only a few signs that seemed to be about YN and Harry, no one on stage acknowledged them. 

It was a sort of silent agreement that YN would stick to her one guitar during the entirety of the tour. But, when Mitch went to switch out for the acoustic, Harry had stopped him. 

He pulled his ear piece out slightly, whispering something to the guitarist before stalking towards YN on the wings of the stage. With the ear piece out, he could hear how insanely loud the crowd was—he couldn’t help but send shocked smiles in their direction. 

YN furrowed her eyebrows, her palm lying flat over the strings of the guitar as she pulled on her own ear piece. “What’s going on?” 

He stood near her, his breath peppermint and flat sprite. “Switch out, you’re doing track seven.”

She narrowed her eyes, leaning her head in further. 

Track seven on the setlist, meet me in the hallway. “What do you mean? You or Mitch play that.”

He smiled, bunny teeth and dimples. “Now you are.” He nodded toward her, shoving the ear piece back in and ambling back toward the mic that stood center stage. 

She wasn’t nervous, more caught off guard. She knew how to play it, it was just being asked to play it. She pulled the strap from over her shoulders, walking back toward the rest of the band and setting the instrument in its place. 

Mitch would approach with an easy smile, settling the acoustic strap over her frame while Harry continued to talk to the crowd. He adjusted it to her body, looking over the frets to make sure they were tuned for the song—they were. “You know it?” 

She rested her fingers on the neck, nodding with a distant smile. “Back of my hand.” She breathed, earning a small nod from the other guitarist. 

Her eyes squinted in the bright lights as she moved toward Harry, his smile still bright—as if nothing had been happening between them at all. He said something into the mic, his voice a buzz in the background to YN—all that made sense was the second glance he sent her, the look to start. 

The fans simmered down, but not silent. She let out a breath, eyes scanning over the crowd then back to Harry. Her pick moved over the chords seamlessly, as if she played it this way for years. 

His hands gripped the mic stand as he echoed out the first lines, his rings glinting in the golden light. His eyebrows would furrow, his lips would part—he was just music. 

He was an asshole to her, he knew it. He hated it, and she hated how he was completely under her skin, threaded into her veins. 

As they approached the chorus, they looked toward each other, a fleeting sideways glance. He nodded his head down, shifting slightly to the side to make room for her. 

His voice boomed over hers, deeper and more emotional, but they mixed in harmony. Her voice was soft underneath his, lighter, only a backing vocal for the chorus.

The crowd erupted, and some sense settled over YN’s shoulders, the lyrics eerily familiar to them, to their situation. 

Her tummy twisted, yet she played the cords harder, falling into the melody, his words, the reverberation of the crowd. 

—Cause once you go without it, nothing else will do. 

Nothing else will do.

[raguiras]

Music Weeks at NRC!

A Twisted Wonderland fan event

For a big event, Night Raven College splits into four large music groups, each with their own unique style and aesthetic. Follow the beat of your heart and create something miraculous!

These are just some quick sketches, but I'm pretty happy with them!

SHARING IS SUPER APPRECIATED!!! ♡♡♡

DEADLINE: none :) // My other ongoing event (ship art trades)

ALL INFO BELOW THE CUT!

☆ LORE ☆

RAGU Entertainment, an up-and-rising music company focusing on young talents, has offered Night Raven College a sponsorship and cooperation! The student body is being split into four large music groups, each with their own aesthetic and style. For every song made by the students, Night Raven College is rewarded with both exposure and money in exchange for promoting the company through the students' music. Some of the teens chose their groups themselves, others were assigned to one; some are performers, others work behind the scenes. Additionally, everyone is turning the music weeks into an unofficial battle — who makes the best, most well-received songs?

The NRC faculty members supervise the groups themselves, and Allen, the Ramshackle student known for his lyrical talent, organization skills and passion for music, is in charge of supervising the event's quality while simultaneously also working as the co-leader of his own group.

☆ GROUP INTROS ☆

Hazard/Riff: hip hop/rock fusion // street style aesthetic // leader: Deuce (+ Allen)

PASTEL BXMB!: bubblegum/dance pop fusion // pastel aesthetic // leader: Kalim

GLOWCHAIN: k-pop/EDM fusion //sparkly, mature aesthetic // leader: Vil

lonely lantern: indie/soft pop fusion // light academia/cottagecore // leader: Silver

The descriptions are rather vague so there's more room for you to be creative.

You obviously aren't limited to these pictures and can expand on the aesthetic as long as it's still similar! Draw your OC in whatever clothes you consider to be fitting.

☆ HOW TO PARTICIPATE ☆

Pick one of the four groups for your OC. Which one suits them best?

Use said group's designated background (scroll down in this post to find them) and make a TWST event card for your OC!

Write some voicelines, such as gacha or homescreen ones.

OPTIONAL: Make a GROOVY version portraying your OC in a music video scene (may be posted separately).

OPTIONAL: Include a few fun doodles or outfit-related stuff.

Post it with the hashtag ragu music weeks, tag (@) me so I can see it, and link this post in it!

I will link your OC's card in the official lineup section of this post.

Writing a fic, drawing something other than a card, or just doing anything creative in general is also allowed! You can obviously mix multiple of these things, too.

I'm looking forward to ALL types of entries.

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

☆ RULES ☆

No NSFW.

All types of NRC student OCs are allowed (except for fan children/another generation)! Faculty OCs are also allowed, but as supervisors instead of performers.

Your student OCs can be anything: a vocalist, rapper, dancer, instrumentalist, producer, lyricist, makeup artist, stage designer, director, choreographer, whatever! Just don't make them a co-leader without my approval.

You can obviously enter with multiple OCs!

Making cards of canon characters is technically allowed, but the event is supposed to focus on OCs. (I will draw Deuce's OFFICIAL card and maybe also some others.)

There are no canon ships (other than Deuce x Allen, which is only canon/extremely implied because Deuce's planned event lore is heavily dependent on his relationship with Allen), so please don't bash anyone for implying that their OC is dating/crushing on the same canon character as yours.

Don't make your OC beef with other people's OCs unless they've given you permission to do so.

Don't move a canon character into a different group. The official lineups can be found below.

☆ CARD BACKGROUNDS ☆

Hazard/Riff -> PASTEL BXMB! -> GLOWCHAIN -> lonely lantern

☆ OUR LINEUPS ☆

[Your OC will be added here with a link!]

Hazard/Riff (supervised by Vargas)

DEUCE, Allen, EPEL, ACE, LEONA, RUGGIE, FLOYD, Zian, Estella, Iyad, Estelle, Yuhua

PASTEL BXMB! (supervised by Sam)

KALIM, LILIA, IDIA, ORTHO, SEBEK, Carla, Bonbon, Astrid, Romeo, Fiend, Yumi, Yuya, Forsythea, Ben, Ruby, Victor (links will be added once I've regained them... they got removed 😭)

GLOWCHAIN (supervised by Crewel)

VIL, TREY, CATER, AZUL, JAMIL, MALLEUS, Ryuuni, Viviroe, Stephanie, Erin, Kyoi, Aurinelle

lonely lantern (supervised by Trein)

SILVER, JADE, RIDDLE, JACK, ROOK, Jinx, Cass, Yorrana, Illysabeth

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

☆ OUR LEADERS ☆

DEUCE: Having adapted music as an outlet for his delinquent tendencies from Allen and enjoying himself with this form of self-expression, Deuce is the born leader of Hazard/Riff. Not only have his vocals and especially his rap greatly improved by now, but he also writes lyrics together with Allen.

KALIM: Spread joy! Despite it being different from his usual aesthetics, Kalim immediately felt intrigued by the concept of PASTEL BXMB! and knew that this was the group he wanted to join. Through his naturally positive aura and ability to bring people together, he fits them incredibly well, and serves as a vocalist as well as the main dancer.

VIL: GLOWCHAIN has a mature, elegant sparkly aesthetic — it was a no-brainer that Vil would be its leader. The ambitious, talented artist makes sure that the group stands out and draws people in with his preexisting popularity and charisma. He is a vocalist as well as the visual of the group.

SILVER: Being calm, kind and well-liked, Silver is a fitting leader for lonely lanterns, an indie group welcoming to all kinds of personalities and skill levels. With his soothing vocals, good looks and somewhat odd aesthetic, he became the face of the group.

(ALLEN: Being the person who introduced music as a coping mechanism to Deuce, Allen is the co-leader of Hazard/Riff. Not only is he a talented producer and rapper as well as an exceptional lyricist, but he also has a blind understanding with Deuce, and the two spend tons of time together. When it comes to the group, Allen is perfectionistic but enthusiastic.)

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

☆ GROUP FOCUSES ☆

Hazard/Riff: Partial usage of instruments. Focuses on rap, rock vocals, and meaningful lyrics.

PASTEL BXMB!: No usage of instruments. Focuses on positivity, good vibes and dance.

GLOWCHAIN: No usage of instruments. Focuses on aesthetics, elegance and good vocals.

lonely lantern: Partial usage of instruments. Has no focus and is the most open-minded group.

☆ INSPIRATION PLAYLISTS ☆

Hazard/Riff — PASTEL BXMB! — GLOWCHAIN — lonely lantern

☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★☆★

☆ OTHER EVENT NOTES ☆

You're very much allowed to include my designs, Allen (his profile is linked in the leader section), or the Deuce x Allen ship (they have duo magic too!) in your OC's card's groovy version. No need to ask for my permission!

Interactions between your OC and Allen are very much encouraged! Feel free to mention him in your OC's voicelines, too.

I'll make a card for Allen, and I'll also make Deuce's OFFICIAL card. If the mood strikes me, I'll possibly also draw official cards for some other canon characters.

I'll reblog every entry on my reblog blog and also link all entries in this post!

If this event ends up being well-received, I'll do a second part someday! So far, the idea is that it would be vkei/electro swing/weirdcore/Europop.

All resources were found on and downloaded from Pinterest, then edited. The event art was drawn by me.

If you have any questions, please leave a comment!

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

A fun question your opinion: In each arc, what do you think is the theme of each arc? ( It can be a motif, messages, subject)

These are a mix of jokes and serious thoughts ^^ just to avoid the post from being too heavy overall!

The Rose-Red Tyrant:

Breaking free from perpetuating a cycle of abuse

You are your own person, not a puppet controlled by your parent/guardian

At the same time, you have to take accountability for your own actions (your background can explain your poor behavior toward others but it does not excuse that behavior)

Control that is too constrictive will only push away potential connections and experiences, keeping you isolated and complacent

Anger management classes are good for you, guys

The Usurper from the Wilds:

Let’s play fairly and be good sports!

Judging people for their merits rather than by titles or birth

What makes someone worthy to lead is noble behavior and attiude

Standing up for what’s morally right, even if everyone else seems to be against you

You have value, worth, and hope in spite of what others may tell you and put you down for

It’s totally okay to get revenge on the asshole that tripped you that one time/j

It’s technically not a crime if you don’t get caught (except Leona did, in fact, get caught)

The Merchant from the Depths:

Don’t be ashamed of your past self—embrace it, accept it, and use it as a point of reference for self growth

Be the bigger person rather than becoming a bully yourself

Let your accomplishments speak for themselves

There is no “easy way out” or shortcut; be prepared to face the consequences of your actions

Not everything is as it may seem (think about the “trick” with Azul’s contracts)

… Read the terms and conditions very carefully and think things over before you sign a contract 💀

Schemer of the Scalding Sands:

Wow, this baby can fit so much generational trauma!!

Sometimes you just miss each other’s messages or greatly misinterpret the other’s intentions (Kalim giving Jamil the benefit of the doubt, Jamil obviously being the Bad Guy and everyone else has to point that out to Kalim)

There’s a very complicated relationship between those in power and those without power; this can breed hatred for those at the top

Talent and skill left unacknowledged can fester into resentment

Institutions of higher education can and will accept monetary bribes, what are you gonna do about it?

Not everyone wants to reconcile and make friends; this is okay and should be more normalized

A Beautiful Tyrant:

You can try your best and work hard, but life doesn’t owe you anything (depressing thought, but unfortunately true)

Beauty is not limited to just one’s looks; beauty can also extend to one’s character and actions

Your worth shouldn’t come from external forces; if you are satisfied with yourself, you will always be “beautiful” no matter how you look or what losses you may experience

Public opinion and the entertainment industry are brutal af

Screw gender norms 😤

The Watchman of the Underworld:

The grieving process in general

Moving on from the past instead of fixating on it and letting the past consume your present and hold you back from a future

Learning to forgive yourself

Reaching out and making new support systems/opening up to others to help you cope

Bearing the sins of your ancestors (Shroud family curse)

The Lord of Malevolence:

Change is inevitable, all good things must come to an end; we must learn to accept them and bravely move toward the future

Love endures, transcending race (Sebek), blood (Silver), and time (Lilia)

Self-sacrificial love (Maleanor for Malleus, Lilia for the other Diasomnia boys, Dawn Knight for his own family, etc.)

Is it “true” happiness if it is a fake reality, a convenient dream?

We hate and fear what we do not understand, even though we have the capacity to

You cannot live forever in a happy fantasy world where none of your loved ones/favorite characters leave you, your trauma doesn’t exist, and everything conveniently pans out how you want it to; sooner or later, you must “wake up” and face reality (this point is particularly meta; it applies both in-game and in the real world, speaking to us players and our relationship with the escapist fictional content we consume)

Prologue: Welcome to the Villains’ World and Overall Main Story:

The power of friendship :))

Revisionist history (cuz… y’know… Great Seven and all)

We’re stronger together than alone

It’s okay to rely on others

We may be very different people from very different backgrounds, but it is still possible for us to understand one another