#and i am slightly bitter that there are people out there who are like

[sweetromanova]

High Risk, Higher Maintenance: Part Four🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

Warnings: relationship abuse, emotional/verbal (not physical), stalking, manipulation/gaslighting, intent to hurt, minor character death, mentions of trauma, general emotional distress

Chapter Four

The press event was at a rooftop venue overlooking the city skyline, all glass railings, champagne trays and polished politicians pretending to be warm.

You arrived with Natasha one step behind you, sharp lines and focused glances. Her suit was black and her eyes were everywhere. She hadn’t been the same since she’d witnessed the letter, something physical that threatened the safety of you. She scanned the crowd, the balconies, the cameras. You didn’t ask if she was armed, you already knew the answer.

You wore a pale shade of pink. The kind that couldn’t be ignored. You let them photograph you stepping out of the car, the soft curl of your hair grazing your collarbone, lips painted, smile practiced.

Evelyn was already inside. You saw her before she saw you, standing near a donor table, laughing with someone from the governor’s office, wine in hand, like she didn’t leave hurricanes behind her wherever she went.

Her expression shifted when her eyes found yours.

You didn’t flinch. 

You smiled, not out of love. Out of warfare. Game on.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

She found you twenty minutes in, pulled you aside between the flower wall and the glass railing. You let her but only because Natasha had eyes on you the entire time.

“You’re ignoring my calls.” Evelyn said, flatly.

“I am.”

“You’re still my wife.”

You sipped your champagne. “On paper.”

Her jaw twitched. “I asked you to be here tonight.”

“I’m not here for you.” You said. “I’m here for the cameras. The appearance. The same thing you’ve always asked of me.”

Evelyn glanced over your shoulder, saw the reporters, the flashbulbs.

And Natasha.

Standing near the front doors now, smiling with two people who were clearly supporters, dressed in flag pins and wide eyes. She laughed at something one of them said, polite, practiced.

But her eyes never left you.

“She’s good at her job.” Evelyn said, almost bitter.

“She’s not a prop.” You snapped. “She’s an Avenger, giving up her time. She’s not a political stunt. And neither am I.”

Evelyn’s mouth twitched.

You leaned in slightly, voice just above a whisper. “I’ll keep showing up. I’ll smile, I’ll wear what you need me to, I’ll play the part until your campaign is over.”

Then you straightened. “But when the lights go out? I’m done pretending. You lost me a long time ago. You just never looked close enough to see it.”

And with that, you walked away.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Outside of the room, Natasha was still watching like a hawk, a little less fiery as she entertained some of the smiles of fans and supporters that were hoping for just a look at you or your wife.

One woman in particular was speaking quickly, too quickly, showing off a photo on her phone that looked a little too candid. A shot of you and Natasha getting out of the car. But from a distance, from the wrong angle.

Natasha’s smile dimmed, just slightly.

“I just think she’s so beautiful.” The woman said, eyes a little too wide. “I follow everything. I know she’s not directly in politics but she’s such a role model. Every step she takes-“

“I’m sure she’d be flattered,” Natasha said coolly, glancing down at the photo. “Where was this taken?”

“Oh, last week. From my car. She was with you. I think you were at the store. You remember, right?”

The chill that spread through Natasha’s veins was immediate.

She tilted her head, smile gone now. “What’s your name?”

The woman blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I asked…” Natasha said, slow and cold but still polite. “…what your name is.”

The woman stuttered something. “Elizabeth.”

Natasha took one step closer.

“Elizabeth. I suggest you delete that photo. And any others you didn’t ask permission to take. Because if I ever see you again near her? You won’t have the chance to show anyone anything.”

The woman backed off, fast, her eyes wide but not with admiration not, fear. 

Natasha turned just as you approached, eyes a little narrowed, head cocked.

“You okay?” You frowned, already sensing something off.

Natasha reached for your elbow, gently guiding you back inside.

“Fine.” She said. “Some fans just get a little too comfortable with your boundaries.”

You didn’t question it.

But you leaned in anyway and whispered. “Thanks for always having eyes on me.”

And she said nothing but her hand lingered at your waist the rest of the night. Protective to anyone else, grounding to you. 

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The crowd adored you, they always did.

It wasn’t surprising. You were warm, articulate, funny in the way that made people think you weren’t trying too hard. And married to the Evelyn Prescott? The power couple fantasy was alive and well.

You stood near a garden trellis with a glass of ice water and a polite smile that never quite reached your eyes.

Someone was taking a photo, someone always was.

“Oh, you’re even more beautiful in person.” A woman gushed, grabbing your hand a little too tightly. “You just glow.”

You laughed lightly, thanked her, shifted away as subtly as you could.

Then came him.

Mid-thirties. Donor badge clipped crooked to his blazer like he wanted everyone to know he mattered. His smile stretched too wide, too practiced, the kind of grin that looked like it had been tested in mirrors, refined over networking events and hotel bar drinks.

He stepped into your space like it belonged to him.

“Hi there.”

You turned, polite and measured. “Hi. How are you?”

He didn’t blink or back up.

“Better now. Seeing you up close? Wow. You’re even more beautiful in person.”

The smile you gave him was the kind reserved for cameras and strangers, professional, polite and paper-thin.

“Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“I’ve followed your story since the beginning.” He added, voice dropping like it was a secret between you. “The way you’ve handled everything with such… grace. Honestly, it’s inspiring.”

He lingered on the word grace like it meant something filthy.

You nodded once. “I appreciate that.”

But he didn’t take the cue. Instead, his eyes roamed, from your neckline to your waist, just a flicker too slow to be innocent.

“I just think it’s a shame.” He said, leaning in like it was a private conversation now. “Someone like you, stuck with a job like that.” He chuckled like it was an inside joke. “You deserve better. Real admiration. Real love.”

You stiffened, even as your smile held.

“I’m very lucky to have the support I do.”

“Yeah.” He said, almost mockingly. “Lucky.”

You took a half-step back. “Thank you for coming out today-“

He reached to touch your arm. Not aggressively. Just entitled. The way someone touches furniture they’re considering buying.

“Could I trouble you for a quick photo?” He asked, not really giving you a chance to decline as his arm was already wrapping around you.

“Of course.” You said, graciously but his hand at your back, fingers grazing lower than necessary, breath a little too close to your ear when he said. “Maybe I’ll frame this next to my bed-“

“Step back.” Natasha said, voice cool and absolute.

She was there in an instant, one hand between you and the man, her body cutting into the space like a wall of ice. You breathed a sigh of relief, he was probably innocent sure but the entitlement the men had here was exhausting.

The man blinked. “Excuse me?”

Natasha didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look directly at him, her attention fixed on you, a subtle glance checking your face, your posture, the tension in your shoulders.

Then she turned. Slowly. Deliberately.

“I said.” She repeated, voice low and dangerously even. “Step. Back.”

He tried a laugh. Too loud. Too defensive.

“I didn’t mean anything by it, it’s just a picture-“

“You touched her.” Natasha said, tone still eerily calm. “Without permission.”

He straightened his tie like it might give him courage. “Jesus, relax. I’m a donor.”

“Not anymore.” She retaliated, coolly. “Step back or I’ll make you.”

That wasn’t a threat. It was a promise. Delivered so clinically it made the man pale.

You stood still beside her, gracious as ever, chin up, hands folded in front of you but anyone who looked close enough would’ve seen the way your fingers curled, like you were fighting the tremor.

“I think we’re done here.” You lightly smiled, soft but clear. “Thank you for your generosity.”

The man hovered for a second too long, as if debating whether to argue then caught the way Natasha’s hand hovered near her hip.

He stepped back. Smart enough, at least, to know when the room no longer belonged to him.

Natasha didn’t move until he was gone, fully gone and even then, she didn’t speak right away. She watched the space he left behind like it might come alive again.

You sighed and offered her a faint smile. “I had it handled.”

She finally turned to you. “I know.”

“But thank you.” You added, quieter. “Really.”

Natasha just nodded, jaw still tight.

“People like him?” She muttered, barely audible. “They’re always the first to play innocent and the last to know when they’ve crossed a line.”

You tilted your head, amused despite yourself. “So protective. It’s almost like you care.”

She met your eyes for a beat too long.

Then, simply: “You have no idea.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Behind the velvet-draped hallway of the VIP wing, the second the door clicked shut behind you, Evelyn was already waiting. Arms crossed. Lips drawn tight. Eyes like a storm cloud about to burst.

“Do you have any idea how that looked?” She hissed.

Natasha didn’t flinch. She stood just in front of you, still positioned like a shield.

“She was uncomfortable.” Natasha explained, voice low and sharp. “He crossed a line.”

Evelyn’s heels clicked as she stepped forward, the subtle perfume of power and champagne wafting behind her. “You embarrassed a major donor.”

“She was unsafe.”

“She was fine.” Evelyn snapped. “You made it worse. You caused a scene. Do you know how many optics I have to juggle already?”

“I’m not concerned about your optics.” Natasha replied, coolly. “I’m concerned about her.”

You stood between them now, silent, watching the power clash unfold like it had too many times before. But this time, Natasha didn’t back down.

Evelyn’s gaze cut to you like a blade. “And you. You just let her step in like that? Like you’re some fragile little thing who can’t say no to a handshake?”

You laughed, short, humorless. “Funny. I didn’t see you step in at all.”

Evelyn flushed with rage or shame, it was impossible to tell. “She is your protection, not your voice. Don’t confuse the two.”

“She’s more than both.” You said, flatly. “Which is more than I can say for you right now.”

Evelyn scoffed, head thrown back, an ugly sound of disbelief. “You’ve really lost it, haven’t you? You’ve got a bodyguard and now you think you’re brave.”

Natasha moved then. Subtle. Deliberate. She stepped closer, standing just a breath behind you, not touching but her presence lit up the space between like a spark waiting for flame.

“Say one more thing to humiliate her-“ Natasha warned, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. “-and I’ll embarrass a lot more than your donor list.”

Evelyn’s lips parted but no sound followed, just the flicker of fury behind her eyes.

She exhaled slowly and met Natasha’s gaze, cold and calculated.

“Next time you want to make a scene…” She said, icily. “Try not to do it at the expense of someone writing me checks.”

You didn’t say a word. You didn’t have to. You turned and walked, not rushed, not flustered. 

Just… finished.

Natasha followed.

This time, you didn’t look back. The hallway behind you fell into a vacuum of silence, pressurised and still.

Then you blinked and just laughed, almost scoffed. A small noice, sharp with something bitter laced beneath it. 

“God, you don’t even try anymore, do you?

Evelyn scoffed, playing at indifference. “It was a minor incident. He didn’t hurt you.”

“He didn’t have to.” Your tone was even and calm, which somehow, that made it worse.

Evelyn turned to Natasha, looking for support, a nod, a lifeline.

But Natasha didn’t speak or blink. She wasn’t cold or angry but she had the same signs as you, she was done with this, especially with her.

You smoothed your dress, lifting your chin as something broke quietly open inside your chest, not sadness, not rage. Clarity.

“Well.” You said, glancing toward the ballroom. “I’m going to spend time with people who do think I matter.”

And then you walked back into the glow of the event, head high, steps light.

With Natasha right behind you.

Like a shadow that would never again leave you in the dark.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Natasha sat comfortably in the car, not knowing how to approach you. She knew you were hurt but she also knew you were more than finished with the sham you called your marriage.

The distant buzz of the city filtered in through the tinted windows but neither of you said anything. The air between you was thick, not with tension, but with all the things left unsaid.

You stared out the window, face turned away, still wearing the same expression you’d worn after Evelyn’s dismissal: unreadable. Your lipstick was faded. One earring was slightly askew.

Natasha watched you.

She noticed every detail.

When you turned toward her, it was slow. Intentional. There was something soft and glassy in your eyes now, not quite tears, not quite desire.

Just need.

You leaned in. Close. Closer.

And kissed her.

It was soft. Your hand came up to the collar of her jacket, gently tugging, searching for something.

But Natasha pulled back, not harshly, just enough.

“Not like this.”

You blinked.

Your voice was quiet. “Why not?”

She looked away, jaw tight. “We’re not alone. This isn’t private.”

Your lip trembled, not quite visibly but she felt it.

“Does it matter?” You whispered. “After everything? Just… let me feel like I’m someone.”

She hesitated and when she looked at you, she really saw you, mascara smudged, breath uneven, eyes full of that glassy ache that said I’m still here, I just need you to touch me like it matters.

You reached again, fingers brushing her cheek.

“Please.” You whispered.

And that was it.

That was the word.

Natasha leaned in and kissed you like it was a promise she hadn’t realised she was keeping, hands cradling your jaw, your hair, your breath. It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t public. It was for you.

You climbed into her lap, straddling her and she let you, careful, protective but present. She held your hips like you were delicate art, kissed down your neck, whispered quiet reassurances between every breath.

Not possessive. Not performative. Just wanted.

She didn’t take it too far, didn’t let it spiral.

She just made sure that for those few stolen moments in the backseat of a black SUV under streetlight glow, you remembered what it felt like to be held like a choice.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The car pulled up to the house just past midnight.

Quiet. Still. Just the two of you, locked in the dim afterglow of the night, Natasha’s hand on your thigh, your breath steady for the first time in hours.

You were both halfway out of the car, Benji just about to wave goodbye when the shouting started.

“WAIT-“

A voice from the end of the driveway.

Natasha was moving before your brain caught up, door open, stance sharp, hand already on the weapon at her hip.

You turned just in time to see him, a man, maybe mid-thirties, messy hair, pale hoodie, sprinting up the drive toward the car, hands raised.

“Please!” He called out, breathless. “I just need to talk to her!”

You froze but Natasha didn’t. She stepped forward, gun drawn and levelled in seconds, stance wide, voice steel.

“Stop right there!”

The man faltered, slowed, hands in the air, still pleading.

“I’m not dangerous! I just wanted to see her- Please, I admire her! She’s everything, I’ve followed her for years, I just want-“

“DOWN ON THE GROUND!” Natasha barked.

He hesitated. “I’m not a threat!”

“She said down.” The SHIELD agents flanked behind her, two from the perimeter, already weapons drawn.

“Please, I wrote her letters! I just wanted her to know I see her! She’s- she’s so kind and I knew Evelyn never deserved her and I just wanted to protect her! There’s crazy people-“

“Crazy people are ones who trespass.” Natasha scolded back, her posture stiff like a dog ready to attack. 

“Please just let me explain-“

Natasha’s voice cut like ice. “You didn’t write the letter.”

That stopped him.

You looked between them, barely breathing. 

The man blinked. “What?”

Natasha didn’t waver.

“Because the person who wrote that letter didn’t want to talk. They wanted to watch her suffer. You? You’re just obsessed. They’re calculating.”

“Agent-“ One of the SHIELD officers murmured.

“Take him. Now.”

And with a blur of motion, they did. He hit the ground with a thud and a shout, restrained, cuffed and dragged back toward the gate.

Natasha turned to you without missing a beat.

“Inside. Now.”

You didn’t argue.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house was silent when she closed the door behind you and checked the lock twice. She didn��t speak until you were halfway up the stairs, barefoot and shaken.

“I’ll check the bedroom then you need to stay there. Do you understand me?”

“Yes but I-“

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

As she entered the room, still full of adrenaline and alert, she led you to sit on the bed while she checked every crack and corner of the room. You watched her search places you’re 99% sure nobody could hide and other places you’re not sure you even noticed.

“I don’t think someone could hide in there-“

“It’s not just about people.” Her voice was sharp, stiff and still in that authoritative mode. “Bugs, weapons, bombs, anything.”

You didn’t reply, of course she had a point. Once she had stopped, she started to text on her phone, manically, her fingers moving fast but her eyes lifting to scan the room again and again, faster.

“The agents are going to sweep the house. We need to stay here until it’s safe.”

You immediately nodded, figuring it was best to let her do what she needed too before you got in the way.

After around ten minutes, her phone buzzed.

She answered immediately.

“Romanoff.”

A pause. Her face didn’t change, not much but just enough to notice.

Then: “Are you sure?”

Another pause.

“Confirm it.”

When she hung up, she stood there, jaw tight, staring at the floor like it had insulted her.

Because the man in the driveway?

Wasn’t the one who wrote the letter, they were still trying to work out HOW he knew about the letter.

He was just a complication. A misdirection. A decoy.

And whoever was really behind the message?

They were still out there.

Still watching. Still waiting.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The movie had long since stopped being the point. Natasha had demanded you to sleep in the guest room tonight, of course she was with you but she muttered something about confusing whoever it was. It wasn’t like you asked. You trusted her and would blindly do whatever she asked.

You were curled against Natasha, her hoodie drowning your frame, your legs tangled over hers as the glow from the TV flickered across the bedroom ceiling.

You were just resting, head on her chest, breathing even and warm. For a moment, it felt like the world had ended somewhere else.

Until the knock.

Three short raps at the bedroom door.

Natasha was up in a blink.

No hesitation.

No talking.

She slid out from beneath you and crossed the room in silence, opening the door just a crack.

Agent Brooks stood on the other side, steady and tense.

“Something was found.” He murmured. “Perimeter check, north side mailbox. It was tucked into the fencing slot, not the post.”

Your blood went cold. Natasha didn’t even look back.

“I’ll take it.”

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You stayed in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, watching her through the foyer window as she opened the evidence bag under the floodlight.

One sheet of paper. Typed. Clean. No greeting. No signature.

Just one line:

You moved her to the back bedroom. Smart.

That was it.

But it was enough.

Natasha’s jaw flexed. Her grip tightened. She handed the bag back to Brooks, voice ice-calm.

“Check every camera. Cross-check it with shift logs. I want timestamps. I want faces. Make sure they get everything they can out of the guy from earlier.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And rotate the outer agents. Now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She came back inside like a storm held in skin.

You didn’t ask what it said. Not yet. She looked at you and forced something neutral into her expression.

“You okay?” You asked softly.

“Yeah.” She said.

You didn’t believe her.

But you let her lie.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Later, you fell asleep before she did. It wasn’t deep sleep, just the kind that pulled you under long enough for your hand to go slack on her stomach.

She stayed awake, eyes fixed on the window.

It had a clear sightline to the back gate. She’d chosen it for that reason.

They weren’t watching you. Not exactly.

They were watching how she moved you. How she responded.

The threat wasn’t obsession.

It was strategy.

And Natasha Romanoff had never hated losing control so quietly.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

You were humming when you came downstairs.

Barefoot, warm from sleep, Natasha’s t-shirt hanging off one shoulder. The kitchen smelled like toast and honey and fresh-cut strawberries. The sunlight pooled across the counter like a movie set.

The housekeeper looked up from the sink with a smile. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

You grinned. “June… There’s coffee. There’s sunshine. And a six-foot bodyguard who lets me use her chest as a pillow. I’m thriving.”

She laughed, bright and easy and handed you a fork for the fruit. That was the best thing about June, she didn’t ask questions, she just let you be.

Natasha was already seated at the table, dressed in full black tactical wear, reading something on her phone, jaw tight.

You leaned over her shoulder and kissed her cheek.

“Morning, gorgeous.”

She flinched, just slightly.

You didn’t notice. Not at first.

You sat beside her, leg tucked under you, snagged a piece of toast from her plate and took a bite. She didn’t look up.

You tilted your head, teasing. “No sarcastic retort? Are you okay or have you been replaced by a less charming clone?”

Still nothing.

The housekeeper glanced between you. You nudged Natasha with your socked foot under the table, playful.

“You gonna scowl at your eggs all morning or pretend to like me a little?”

That did it.

She exhaled sharply and stood, pushing her chair back a little too hard.

You blinked. “Nat-“

“You think this is a joke?” She snapped.

Your mouth parted, more in shock than anything. Natasha ran a hand through her hair, pacing the small length between table and fridge.

“Do you know what it means when they know the layout of the house? The window lines? The bedroom?”

You stood slowly. “I was just-“

“Just playing house while I figure out who wants to make you disappear?”

The words hit like a slap. June went still and silent.  You stared at Natasha, the sting creeping in slow.

“I wasn’t trying to be careless.” You murmured, quietly. “I was trying to live.”

She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose. Regret bloomed immediately on her face but the words were already loose in the room and you’d already heard them.

You turned away, wiping your hand on your shirt.

The silence stretched.

And then, your voice softer now, lower. “I get that you’re scared. I get that you’re doing your job. But don’t make me feel stupid for being happy when I finally stopped being afraid to do it.”

Natasha stepped forward.

“Wait-“

But you were already walking toward the stairs, leaving behind the toast, the sunlight and the version of the morning you’d tried so hard to have.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The room still smelled like toast but the warmth had gone out of the morning.

Natasha stood in the kitchen, unmoving, hands braced against the counter. Her phone was on the table. Her gun holster hung at her side. She could feel her pulse behind her eyes.

Upstairs, the bedroom door had closed with the gentlest click imaginable.

But the quiet it left behind was so loud.

The housekeeper said nothing for a long while. Just rinsed a bowl, wiped her hands dry. She was precise with her movements, calm. Like she wasn’t watching Natasha unravel one slow crack at a time.

“You know…” June said, finally. “You’re not the first person to make her feel small.”

Natasha looked up sharply but the woman wasn’t scolding. Just… stating a fact.

“She’s spent years being edited down.” She continued. “To a dress. A smile. A silence that didn’t upset the press cycle.”

“I didn’t mean to-“

“I know.”

She turned, leaning her hip against the counter, folding the towel between her hands.

“But if you’re not going to be soft with her Natasha, then you should leave. Because she doesn’t need another person who confuses control with care.”

Natasha’s jaw worked. Her chest rose, sharp inhale, slow release.

“She could’ve died. This person we don’t know anything and I-“

“She still might.” The woman answered. “But that’s not why she kissed you this morning. That’s not why she wore your shirt and danced barefoot into this kitchen like her life isn’t in the hands of other people.” 

She looked Natasha dead in the eye.

“She did that because she was trying to live.”

And Natasha felt it, not guilt. Worse.

The knowledge that she’d ruined the only good moment you had let herself have in weeks.

She pushed away from the counter, took the stairs two at a time but when she reached the door, she stopped, handhovering over the handle.

Because this wasn’t something she could fix with protection. Or reports. Or readiness.

This needed something she’d spent her entire life running from. Vulnerability.

[mingiatz]

Y/N thought Jongho was just the annoying black-coffee addict who made her mornings miserable. But late-night movie marathons, marathon training (literally), and one accidental kiss prove he might be the one person who can turn her world upside down—in the best and worst ways.

Pairing: Choi Jongho (ATEEZ) x Female Reader (Y/N)

Trope(s): College AU, Enemies to lovers (light), Slow burn, Mutual pining, Idiots in love, Protective!Jongho

Genre: Romantic Comedy, Fluff, Light Angst, Smut (later), Slice of Life

Featuring: ATEEZ (Hongjoong, Seonghwa, Mingi, Yunho, Wooyoung, San, Yeosang) as Jongho’s chaotic but supportive friend group, Original female roommates Mina & Hyun as Y/N’s equally chaotic emotional support system

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

The first time you meet him, it’s too early in the morning for anyone to be that smug.

You’re standing in line at your favorite campus coffee shop, still half-asleep, scrolling on your phone and rehearsing your order in your head. It’s long. Ridiculous, probably. But you’ve earned it. You stayed up until 3 AM finishing a paper that wasn’t due for another week. If anyone deserves a venti caramel cookie crunch frappuccino with extra drizzle, three pumps of vanilla, and oat milk, it’s you.

“Hi! Can I get a venti caramel cookie crunch frappuccino? Extra caramel drizzle, three pumps of vanilla, oat milk, and—”

“That’s not coffee.”

The voice comes from directly behind you, deep and startlingly calm. You turn, blinking.

“Excuse me?”

The guy behind you doesn’t even flinch. He’s tall—not in a lanky, awkward way, but in that broad-shouldered, built-like-he-belongs-on-a-sports-team way. His dark hair is slightly tousled like he didn’t bother fixing it before leaving his dorm. He’s wearing a plain black hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed into his pockets, and he’s staring at the pastry display case like it owes him money.

“That’s not coffee,” he says again, his tone maddeningly neutral.

You blink at him, processing. Then you laugh—a sharp, incredulous sound that turns a few heads.

“Wow. Thank you, random caffeine snob. I don’t remember asking for your opinion on my order.”

“Wasn’t an opinion,” he replies smoothly. “It’s just a fact. That’s dessert in a cup.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you shoot back. “I didn’t realize you were the appointed gatekeeper of coffee. Should I kneel or something?”

He finally glances at you then—properly looks—and you hate how annoyingly nice his face is. Strong jawline, warm brown eyes that don’t seem warm at all right now, lips pulled into the faintest smirk.

“No need to kneel,” he says. “Just admit you’re ordering a milkshake.”

You gape at him. “Milkshake? This is coffee.”

“That’s sugar, caramel, and whipped cream with a splash of coffee,” he counters.

“Okay, Mr. Black Coffee,” you snap. “What’s your go-to order then? Straight-up regret?”

As if on cue, the barista calls for the next person in line. “What can I get for you?” she asks him.

“Large black coffee,” he says without hesitation. No cream. No sugar. No joy.

You can’t help it. You scoff loud enough for him to hear. “Figures.”

He raises an eyebrow, accepting his cup when it’s handed over. “What does?”

“You’re one of those ‘real coffee’ people. The ones who think adding milk is a crime against humanity. Bet you’d drink it straight out of the bean if you could.”

A small laugh escapes him—a huff of air, really, but still. “Better than drowning it in syrup and sprinkles.”

You clutch your cup like it’s a lifeline. “Do you even taste happiness? Or is it all… bitterness and despair?”

“Bitterness builds character,” he says, already heading toward the door.

“Yeah, well, sugar builds serotonin,” you call after him. “Enjoy your bean water!”

“Enjoy your liquefied cake,” he shoots back without turning.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

The next morning, he’s there again. This time he’s ahead of you in line, which should be a relief. Except when he collects his black coffee, he glances over his shoulder—and smirks.

“Still alive after all that sugar yesterday?”

You groan dramatically. “Barely. My pancreas sent me a strongly worded email last night.”

He exhales a small laugh. “At least you’re honest.”

“At least you’re consistent,” you retort. “Still ordering disappointment in a cup?”

“Disappointment tastes better than a cavity.”

You grab your drink, muttering under your breath as you pass him, “I’d rather get cavities than be boring.”

“I heard that,” he says lightly, holding the door open for you.

“Good. You were supposed to.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

By the third encounter, it’s practically a routine. Same time. Same café. Same infuriatingly calm guy with his plain black coffee and subtle little smirks. He holds the door for you again, wordlessly.

“Thanks,” you mumble.

“Don’t mention it,” he says. “Really.”

You’re too tired to come up with a retort before ordering, but when he steps up next, you tilt your head with faux curiosity.

“Let me guess. Black coffee. Again.”

He glances at you. “Let me guess. A drink so sweet it could rot teeth on sight. Again.”

“You’re relentless.”

“You’re predictable.”

“And you’re insufferable,” you say, grabbing your cup and heading for the door.

He follows, falling into step beside you for some reason. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Still taking it.”

You stop walking and turn to face him. “Do you annoy everyone in your vicinity, or am I just lucky?”

That earns you the faintest hint of a real smile. It’s… annoyingly nice. The kind of smile you could get used to if he wasn’t so aggravating.

“Jongho,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“My name. Since we’re apparently doing this every morning.”

“Oh. Cool.” You tell him your name too, against your better judgment.

“Great,” he says, sipping his coffee like this isn’t weird at all. “Now I can properly judge your order every time.”

“Wow. I’m so honored.”

“You should be.”

You don’t realize it yet, but this is how it starts—not with a spark, but with a slow, simmering heat. Like coffee left a little too long on the burner.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“Tell me why my mornings have turned into caffeine-fueled battle royales with some random guy.”

Your friend Mina doesn’t even look up from her phone. “You mean your enemy-to-lovers rom-com meet-cute?”

“NO. Not lovers. Enemy-to… enemy.” You jab your straw into your caramel frappuccino with more force than necessary. “He’s insufferable. He drinks black coffee and acts like I committed a war crime every time I order my drink.”

“Sounds like he has taste.”

You whip your head toward Hyun, who’s smirking from his spot across the table.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying. Maybe he’s got a point. Your order is like… 90% sugar.”

“Oh my God. Don’t you start too,” you groan, slumping forward dramatically. “I’m already being verbally assaulted every morning. I don’t need my own friends turning on me.”

Mina finally looks up. “Okay, but is he hot?”

You freeze. “That’s irrelevant.”

“Which means yes.” She grins. “What’s his name?”

You take a long sip of your drink, stalling.

“…Jongho.”

“Oh my GOD.” Mina claps her hands. “It’s a hot name too! You’re so doomed.”

“Doomed to murder,” you correct. “I’m going to snap one of these days. They’ll find me on the news: Local college student bludgeons caffeine purist with a venti caramel frappuccino.”

Hyun snorts. “At least you’d go viral.”

You bury your face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“Be honest,” San says between bites of his bagel, “did you really tell her she’s drinking liquefied cake?”

“I might have,” Jongho admits, sipping his black coffee.

The room explodes.

Hongjoong’s laughing so hard he has to set his laptop aside. Yunho nearly chokes on his orange juice. Mingi actually claps.

“You didn’t,” Wooyoung wheezes. “Oh my God. You’re such a menace.”

“She started it,” Jongho says calmly.

Seonghwa raises an eyebrow. “Did she, though? Or did you provoke her first?”

“She was ordering something with… I don’t even know. Extra drizzle? Three pumps of vanilla? Whipped cream? That’s not coffee. That’s—”

“—happiness,” Yeosang cuts in with a smirk.

Jongho shoots him a look. “It’s a dessert.”

“Sounds like someone’s bitter,” San singsongs.

“I drink coffee to wake up, not to—” Jongho pauses as Wooyoung leans across the table, grinning like a devil.

“Not to what? Fall in love?”

Jongho rolls his eyes. “She’s loud, dramatic, and calls my coffee ‘bean water.’ Definitely not my type.”

“Yet here you are, talking about her,” Yunho points out with a knowing grin.

Jongho opens his mouth to argue—and promptly shuts it.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

It’s crowded. Too crowded. You almost consider leaving when you see the only available seat… directly across from Jongho.

You freeze. He looks up, already smirking.

“Don’t say it,” you warn.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says mildly, sipping his coffee.

“You were about to.”

“You’re imagining things. All that sugar must be affecting your brain chemistry.”

You set your cup down with a dramatic sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet, here you are.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m only sitting here because there’s nowhere else. This is purely out of necessity.”

“Sure.” He leans back casually. “Keep telling yourself that.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

Later that night, Mina’s lying on your bed scrolling through her phone.

“So let me get this straight,” she says. “You sat with him for forty minutes. Didn’t kill him. And even brought him up again now.”

You groan, rolling over to bury your face in a pillow.

“Do NOT make this into a thing.”

But deep down, annoyingly, you can still hear his laugh.

This is fine. Totally fine.

Except it’s not.

Because sitting at your table—your sacred corner table, your daily caffeine sanctuary—are not one but two of them.

One, you’re used to. Jongho with his black coffee and unreadable expression, like he owns the place. But today there’s a second one. His friend. Dark-haired, mischievous eyes, and a grin so wide it should be illegal this early.

“Morning,” the friend says as you approach, voice smooth and inviting. “You must be the famous frappuccino girl.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Jongho’s told me all about you.”

Your eyes snap to Jongho, who—of course—doesn’t even flinch. He’s just calmly sipping his coffee like he isn’t being betrayed in real time.

“He hasn’t,” you say flatly.

“Hasn’t he?” The friend leans forward, resting his chin on his hand. “I feel like I know you already. Sweet tooth, dramatic, calls black coffee ‘bean water’—”

“Oh my God,” you mutter. “There’s TWO of you now.”

“I’m Wooyoung,” he adds, smirking. “But you can call me anytime.”

“Are you serious right now?” You stare at him. “Is this… is this your bit? Are you the flirty one?”

“Depends.” Wooyoung winks. “Is it working?”

“On me? No.” You drop into the seat across from them with an exasperated sigh. “On Jongho? Maybe.”

Jongho’s lips twitch. It’s the faintest reaction, but you catch it.

“Don’t drag me into your dramatics,” he says evenly.

“Oh, sorry,” you shoot back. “Didn’t realize I was interrupting your bromantic coffee date.”

Wooyoung snickers. “Bromantic? I like her.”

“I don’t,” Jongho mutters.

“You love me,” Wooyoung teases.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

This was a mistake.

Bringing Wooyoung along seemed harmless when he suggested grabbing coffee together. He didn’t know you’d show up at your usual time. But the second he saw you, Jongho could see the gears turning in Wooyoung’s chaotic brain.

Now Wooyoung’s flirting like his life depends on it, and Jongho’s trying very hard not to react.

“You know,” Wooyoung says, chin still propped on his hand, “I don’t actually mind sweet drinks. I think it says something about a person.”

“Oh yeah?” you ask, arching a brow.

“Yeah. Like… you’re fun. Warm. A little impulsive maybe, but in a good way.”

Jongho fights the urge to roll his eyes.

You snort. “Or maybe I just like sugar.”

“That too,” Wooyoung agrees easily. “But still. I like people who don’t pretend to be bitter for personality points.”

Jongho’s eyebrow twitches. “I’m not—”

You cut him off with a triumphant grin. “HA. He’s talking about you.”

Wooyoung’s grin widens. “Didn’t say any names…”

Jongho takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. He refuses to give either of you the satisfaction.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You don’t know what’s worse—Wooyoung’s blatant flirting or Jongho’s calm, unbothered facade. Like he doesn’t care. Like he’s above it all.

But you see it. The way his jaw ticks slightly. The way he’s gripping his coffee cup just a little tighter than necessary.

Good. Let him suffer.

“Anyway,” Wooyoung says, flashing another grin, “I should probably let you two get back to your—what is this? Morning rivalry? Slow-burning enemies-to-lovers thing?”

You sputter. Jongho glares.

“Not a thing,” you both say at the same time.

Wooyoung’s laughter fills the café. “Sure. Keep telling yourselves that.”

He stands, stretching. “Well, I’ve got class. Nice meeting you, sugar queen.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Too late.” He winks and saunters out, leaving you alone with Jongho.

There’s a long beat of silence.

“Your friend is…” you start.

“Annoying,” Jongho finishes.

“Exactly.”

Another pause.

“You’re still sitting here,” he points out.

You glare at him. “There’s still nowhere else.”

He smirks faintly. “Sure.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“You’re never going to believe this.”

Mina doesn’t look up from her phone. “You and coffee boy made out in the middle of the shop?”

“WHAT—NO.” You nearly choke on your bubble tea. Hyun snorts from the other side of the booth.

“Then why do you sound so dramatic?” Hyun asks, eyebrow raised.

“Because he brought backup.”

“Backup?” Mina repeats.

“His friend. This… this menace named Wooyoung. He was there today. And he’s just as bad as Jongho but in a different way.”

Hyun leans forward, interested. “Define ‘bad.’”

“Like… annoyingly charming. Flirty. Called me ‘sugar queen’.”

“Oh my God.” Mina claps her hands. “That’s iconic. What did Jongho do?”

“Nothing. He just SAT there sipping his disappointment juice like it wasn’t even weird that his friend was flirting with me.”

Hyun exchanges a look with Mina. “So… let me get this straight. You’re mad because now there are two attractive guys giving you attention every morning?”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “It’s not attention. It’s psychological warfare.”

Mina leans across the table, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Y/N… babe… this is the first somewhat romantic interaction you’ve had since psycho ex-boyfriend.”

You sit up straighter. “WHAT. No. It’s not romantic! It’s infuriating. He insults my drink every day.”

Hyun smirks. “Yet you keep going back.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.

“That’s because it’s the only good coffee shop on campus!” you finally blurt.

“Mmhm,” Mina hums. “Sure.”

“Don’t make this a thing,” you plead.

But it’s already a thing. You can see it in their smug little faces.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“Wooyoung told us what you said,” Mingi says as soon as Jongho walks in.

“About what?” Jongho asks warily.

“About sugar sludge girl.”

Jongho stops in his tracks. “Don’t call her that.”

“Ohhhh.” Wooyoung’s eyes light up. “You’re protective now?”

Jongho scowls, heading straight for the fridge. “She’s annoying. That’s all.”

“You keep saying that,” San says, grinning. “But you also keep sitting with her.”

“I don’t—” Jongho cuts himself off, realizing too late there’s no winning this.

Seonghwa smirks knowingly. “Sounds like you’re in trouble, Jongho.”

He glares at all of them. “I’m not.”

But later, lying in bed, he can’t stop replaying the way your eyes flashed when you called his coffee “disappointment juice”.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You’re running on three hours of sleep and spite.

It wasn’t your fault, really. You’d broken up with your ex weeks ago. Weeks. And yet here you were, staring at your phone screen at 2 AM while it vibrated over and over with calls you didn’t answer.

You hate how his name still makes your stomach churn.

This is fine, you told yourself as you trudged to the campus café in your hoodie and leggings. Totally fine.

Until you saw him.

Of course Jongho is here. And of course he looks irritatingly well-rested, sipping his black coffee like he’s never experienced anxiety in his life.

“You look tired,” he says as you approach the counter.

You shoot him a glare. “You look… annoying.”

He hums, unbothered. “So, the usual?”

“Why do you care?”

“Because I was going to guess your mood based on your order,” he says simply. “Frappuccino with extra drizzle? You’re in a good mood. Iced caramel macchiato? Stressed. Hot chocolate? Midterms week breakdown.”

You gape. “You’ve… been paying that much attention?”

He shrugs. “It’s hard not to when your drink orders are an event.”

Your cheeks warm despite yourself. “Well, today it’s just… a latte.”

“Ah,” he says softly. “So tired.”

“Drop dead.”

His lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

It started as a regular hangout. Just him, Wooyoung, San, Mingi, and Yunho walking across campus after grabbing food.

But then Wooyoung freezes mid-step, eyes narrowing at a figure across the quad.

“Hey… isn’t that Y/N?”

Jongho follows his gaze and sure enough—there you are, standing stiffly near the old library. Except you’re not alone.

Some guy has you cornered against the stone wall, talking too close, too loud. Your arms are crossed tightly over your chest, and even from here, Jongho can see how uncomfortable you look.

“Damn,” San says lowly. “She’s cute, Jongho. You didn’t say she was cute.”

“Very cute,” Mingi adds, grinning. “No wonder you fight like an old married couple.”

Jongho doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens as he watches.

But then Yunho frowns. “Wait. Is it just me, or does she look… I don’t know. Off?”

Wooyoung’s smile fades too. “Yeah. She doesn’t look like she’s enjoying that conversation.”

For a moment, nobody says anything. The guy leans closer to you, gesturing wildly. You flinch slightly.

And that’s all it takes.

“I’ll be back,” Jongho says, already striding forward.

“Wait—are you—?” San starts, but Jongho doesn’t respond.

“Why are you avoiding me?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, eyes darting around for an escape. “We broke up, remember? That means I don’t owe you anything.”

“Don’t give me that. You’re probably seeing someone else already, aren’t you? That’s why you’re avoiding me.”

“I’m not,” you snap, hating how defensive you sound. “And even if I was, it’s none of your business.”

He steps closer. Too close. “Y/N, don’t lie to me. I know how you get with guys—”

“Everything okay here?”

The voice is calm but firm. You look up, startled, and see Jongho standing a few feet away. Hands in his pockets, expression neutral but eyes sharp as they flick between you and your ex.

Your ex scowls. “Who the hell are you?”

Jongho tilts his head slightly. “A friend. Is she bothering you?”

You blink. “Wait—you mean is he bothering me?”

“Ah.” Jongho’s gaze returns to your ex. “So you are bothering her.”

Your ex scoffs. “Stay out of this.”

But Jongho doesn’t move. His posture is relaxed, almost casual, but there’s something in his stance—controlled, solid—that makes your ex hesitate.

“I think she asked you to leave,” Jongho says evenly.

Your ex mutters something under his breath and stalks off, shoving past Jongho’s shoulder.

You let out a shaky breath. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“But… thanks.”

Jongho studies you for a moment. “He does that a lot?”

You glance away. “Not usually in public. But yeah. He’s… he doesn’t take no well.”

He doesn’t push for more. Just nods once.

“Want me to walk you home?” he asks softly.

You almost say no. Almost. But then you realize you don’t want to be alone just yet.

“…Yeah. Okay.”

You’re still processing the fact that Jongho—a guy who’s spent the past two weeks making your mornings mildly unbearable—just rescued you from your psycho ex.

Now he’s walking beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, steps matching yours. It’s quiet. Strangely not awkward.

Or at least it was…

Until you hear voices behind you.

“Ohhhhhh my GOD.”

You freeze. So does Jongho.

You turn around to see a whole group of guys approaching—laughing, whispering, and very obviously staring at you two.

“Please tell me that’s not your entire friend group,” you mutter.

Jongho exhales through his nose like this is the exact nightmare he’d been hoping to avoid. “It’s my entire friend group.”

Wooyoung’s the first to catch up, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment his whole life. “Well, well, well. What do we have here?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “You have nothing here.”

“Funny,” San adds with a smirk. “Because it looks like something.”

“It’s not,” Jongho says firmly, his tone giving nothing away.

“Sure.” Wooyoung winks at you. “Hi, sugar queen.”

You groan. “Not you again.”

“She hates that nickname,” Jongho tells him.

“Which is exactly why I’m keeping it,” Wooyoung shoots back.

You didn’t ask for this. One guy walking you home was enough. Now there are five of them.

San and Mingi are up ahead, loudly debating something about snacks. Wooyoung and Yunho trail behind, whispering and laughing like middle schoolers. Seonghwa walks with the calm air of a chaperone trying to keep the chaos contained.

And then there’s Jongho, right next to you. Silent but… present.

“You really hang out with these people voluntarily?” you whisper.

“Unfortunately.”

You stifle a laugh. “You seem like the least chaotic one.”

“I am.”

“Congratulations on being the dad friend.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly.

“Alright,” Seonghwa announces as you near the halfway point between the café and your dorms. “We’re cutting out here. You two can handle the rest, right?”

You blink. “Wait, you’re leaving?”

“Yep.” Wooyoung wiggles his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t want to third-wheel your romantic night stroll.”

“It’s not romantic,” you and Jongho say in unison.

Mingi grins. “Sure. Keep telling yourselves that.”

Before you can argue, they’re already disappearing down a side street, their laughter echoing behind them.

You and Jongho are left alone in the quiet.

“Sorry about them,” Jongho says finally.

“Don’t be,” you reply. “They’re… surprisingly entertaining.”

He gives a small huff of amusement.

A few steps pass in silence before you speak again. “So. Do you always rescue people from crazy exes, or is that a limited-time offer?”

His lips twitch. “Limited time. Don’t get used to it.”

You smirk faintly. “Oh no. I was planning to make it a weekly thing.”

Jongho glances at you, and for a moment there’s something soft in his expression. “Seriously though… you okay?”

You hesitate. “Yeah. I mean… I will be. He just… doesn’t take rejection well.”

“Does he still call?”

“…Sometimes.”

He doesn’t push, but his jaw tightens slightly.

“Thanks for stepping in earlier,” you say quietly. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.”

You reach your dorm steps too soon.

“Well… thanks again, Jongho.”

He nods, and there’s a beat where it feels like he might say something else. But then he just gives a small wave and turns to leave.

“You walked her ALL the way home, huh?” Wooyoung teases as Jongho rejoins them.

“Shut up,” Jongho mutters.

San grins. “Bet you didn’t even insult her drink once.”

He didn’t. And he’s still not sure why.

Something’s off.

You can feel it the second you step into the café. Maybe it’s because you actually slept last night. Or maybe it’s because you can feel Jongho’s eyes on you from his usual table in the corner.

“Morning,” he says calmly as you approach the counter.

You blink. “Morning.”

No snark. No mocking. Just… “morning.”

The barista (you’re pretty sure her name’s Hyejin) glances between you two with raised eyebrows. “Whoa. No sarcastic remarks? No drink-related judgment?”

You and Jongho speak at the same time:

“She started it.”

“He started it.”

Hyejin snickers. “There it is.”

But even as you shoot Jongho a look, the usual fire isn’t there. Instead, he just gives a small smirk and sips his black coffee.

“Did you sleep better?” he asks casually.

You hesitate. “…Yeah. Thanks.”

Hyejin nearly drops the espresso cup she’s holding.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you say, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into your mouth. “It’s like… we’re broken.”

Mina blinks. “Broken?”

“He didn’t insult my drink today.”

“Okay… and that’s bad because…?”

“It’s weird! He always insults my drink. It’s our thing.”

Hyun grins. “Sounds like your ‘thing’ is evolving.”

“It’s NOT.” You groan dramatically. “It’s just… after last night, things feel… different.”

“Different how?” Mina presses.

“Like… less annoying? But also… not not annoying?” You bury your face in your hands. “Why am I like this? He’s still smug and judgy and drinks sadness in a cup.”

“Yeah,” Hyun says lightly. “But he also walked you home after saving you from psycho ex. That’s… kinda hot.”

“It’s not hot.”

“It’s a little hot,” Mina says.

You grab another spoonful of ice cream. “I hate you both.”

“Sure,” Mina hums. “But not as much as you don’t hate Jongho.”

“You didn’t even call her sugar queen this morning?” Wooyoung teases.

“No.”

“Didn’t insult her drink?”

“No.”

Mingi gasps dramatically. “Did you even make eye contact or did you propose on the spot?”

Jongho throws a pillow at him.

“It’s not like that,” he says evenly. But even as he says it, he remembers how your shoulders had seemed looser today. How your voice didn’t sound as tired.

And how, for some reason, the silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable anymore.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“This was supposed to be a chill girl’s day,” Mina grumbles as she fans herself. “You know. Sun, water, gossip.”

“It still is,” you say, adjusting your sunglasses. “Just… slightly more populated than planned.”

She glares at you over the rim of her drink. “Populated? Girl. You didn’t mention your mortal enemy comes with seven other extremely hot friends.”

“They’re not my friends,” you hiss.

“They’re hot, though,” she says.

Hyun nods solemnly. “Objectively hot.”

You groan into your beach towel. Because of course the universe decided to dump Jongho and his entire squad at the same lake, on the same day, at the same time.

And of course Wooyoung immediately clocked Mina and started turning on every ounce of chaotic charm in his arsenal.

“You must be Y/N’s best friend,” Wooyoung had said when they first crossed paths. “She didn’t tell me she rolls with goddesses.”

Mina nearly choked on her soda.

“She didn’t tell me all her mortal enemies are boyband-level attractive,” Mina had shot back, crossing her arms. “Seems like a crucial detail.”

“I don’t consider myself her enemy,” Wooyoung had said smoothly. “I consider myself… a fan.”

Mina’s still fuming over it. “You’re dead to me, Y/N. DEAD.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“Don’t stare.”

“I’m not staring,” Jongho says automatically.

“You’re staring,” Yunho teases, elbowing him lightly.

Jongho drags his gaze away from where you’re laughing with your friends by the water. But not before his brain betrays him with a very inconvenient thought:

She’s hot.

He clenches his jaw. Nope. Not going there.

But of course, Wooyoung doesn’t let him off easy.

“You seeing this, Jongho?” he whispers conspiratorially. “Our sugar queen in a bikini. Bet you didn’t expect that when she was ordering liquid cake every morning.”

“Shut up,” Jongho mutters.

“She’s pretty, huh?” Mingi grins.

San leans back on his elbows, smirking. “He’s been staring since we got here. Can’t even blame him.”

“I wasn’t staring.”

“Sure,” Seonghwa says dryly.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

Mina has fully surrendered to Wooyoung’s relentless flirting and is now arguing with him about Marvel movies while Hyun watches in horror.

You’re trying not to think about Jongho. Failing. Because every time you glance up, he’s there—lounging in the shade, black swim trunks, hair slightly damp from the lake.

You hate how unfairly good he looks.

You’re sitting on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, when footsteps approach.

“You’re quiet today,” Jongho says, sitting down a few feet away.

“Maybe I’m saving my energy for when you insult my drink again,” you reply.

But your voice lacks ist usual bite.

He glances at you. “You’re different lately.”

“You started it.”

He hums. “Maybe.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“You look…” he starts, then stops.

You raise an eyebrow. “I look what?”

“Never mind.” He shakes his head slightly.

But you catch the faintest flush on his cheeks before he looks away.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“Did you talk to her?” San asks as Jongho rejoins the group.

“For like two minutes,” Jongho says coolly.

“Two minutes of you staring at her like she hung the damn sun in the sky,” Wooyoung mutters.

“Shut up.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

“This is a cruel joke. A cosmic prank. I’m going to sue the universe.”

Mina doesn’t even look up from her phone. “What now?”

You shove your screen in her face. “Look at my partner for the campus pair marathon.”

She squints. “…Choi Jongho?”

“Yes. Choi. Freaking. Jongho.” You collapse into a dramatic heap on your dorm bed. “Of course it’s him. Out of hundreds of students. The caffeine snob. The destroyer of frappuccinos. My mortal enemy.”

Hyun’s voice drifts from the mini-fridge where he’s stealing your snacks. “You mean your slow-burn love interest?”

“Get out,” you groan.

“I’m just saying,” he replies around a mouthful of Oreos. “If this were a rom-com, this would be the part where you realize you’re falling for him.”

Mina finally sets her phone down. “Wait. Does he even run?”

You pause. “…Actually, yeah. He’s on the intramural track team.”

“So he’s hot and athletic.” Mina sighs dreamily. “Are you sure he’s not your type?”

“I’m sure.”

“Sure-sure? Or rom-com sure?”

“GET OUT,” you yell.

“You’re late,” Jongho says the next afternoon as you approach your usual café.

“You’re smug,” you shoot back, tugging your hoodie tighter.

He’s leaning against the railing in full running gear—black joggers, a fitted gray long-sleeve, and sneakers. Of course he looks good. Of course.

“You ready?” he asks, straightening up.

“For what? For you to lap me and rub it in my face?”

“You said it, not me.”

You glare. He smirks.

The first half-mile goes surprisingly well. You’re keeping pace. Your breathing is steady. Maybe this won’t be so bad—

“Slowing down already?” Jongho asks casually.

You shoot him a death glare. “I’m conserving energy.”

“Uh-huh.” He’s barely breaking a sweat. His voice is calm. His stride effortless. It’s infuriating.

“Stop… looking… so smug,” you pant.

“I’m not smug.”

“You’re radiating smugness. It’s suffocating.”

He glances at you, amused. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you’re—” Your foot catches on a stray rock. You stumble but recover, shooting him a glare. “Shut up.”

You collapse onto a park bench, chugging from your water bottle like your life depends on it. Jongho sits beside you, annoyingly composed.

“You’re wheezing,” he observes.

“I’m not wheezing.”

“You sound like a pug.”

“Shut up.”

He smirks and offers his bottle. “Want some? You look like you’re dying.”

You take it reluctantly, chugging half before shoving it back. “You’re gross.”

“You’re welcome.”

“So let me get this straight,” Mina says, scrolling through her phone as she sprawls across your bed. “You’re meeting him daily to train. You share water bottles. And you haven’t killed each other yet?”

“It’s not like that,” you insist.

“Sure. And I only follow Wooyoung on Instagram for his dog pics.”

Hyun snickers. “Face it. You’re in a training montage with your enemy. Next step is romantic tension.”

You fling a pillow at him. “There is NO tension.”

“So how’s training with sugar queen?” Wooyoung asks, grinning like the devil.

“It’s fine.”

“Fine? That’s it?” San leans forward. “You’re not gonna mention how she almost tripped but kept running? Or how she refused to quit even when she was dying?”

Jongho exhales. “She’s… persistent.”

“Persistent is code for cute,” Mingi says knowingly.

“It’s not cute.”

But later, lying in bed, Jongho catches himself replaying the way your hair stuck to your face with sweat, how determined your expression was.

Maybe… a little cute.

He rolls over and shoves his face into his pillow.

The second run is quieter. You’re still bantering—mostly him teasing you for trying to match his pace—but there’s less bite. More… ease.

“Hey,” he says as you both slow to a walk.

“What?”

“You didn’t die today.”

You smirk. “Thanks for noticing.”

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

Jongho had never considered himself the jealous type.

He wasn’t the guy who got possessive. He didn’t brood over things that weren’t his business. And he definitely didn’t care who you talked to outside your training sessions.

At least, that’s what he thought.

Until this morning.

You were standing outside the café when he arrived. Dressed in your usual hoodie and leggings, hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Except this time, you weren’t alone.

The guy was tall. Athletic-looking. Designer joggers, blindingly white sneakers. His smile was wide and confident, the type of smile that implied he was used to people laughing at his jokes.

And you were laughing.

You weren’t even paying attention to your phone in your hand. Or to the way the guy leaned in slightly, hand brushing your forearm as he said something else.

Jongho couldn’t hear him, but he didn’t need to. The body language said enough.

And for some reason, it felt like a pebble lodged in his shoe—small but impossible to ignore.

He’d walked past without a word, keeping his expression neutral. Not that you noticed.

⛧°. ⋆༺☾𖤓༻⋆. °⛧

You spotted Jongho waiting by the park entrance, arms crossed over his chest, jaw set tighter than usual.

“Hey,” you said, a little breathless from jogging over.

“You’re late,” he replied flatly.

You blinked. “It’s five minutes.”

“Five minutes is still late.”

“Wow. Okay. Someone’s in a mood today.”

He didn’t respond, just turned and started jogging. Faster than usual.

You frowned but followed.

The air was thick—not just with humidity but with the unspoken tension between you.

“You’re slowing down,” Jongho said abruptly, glancing over his shoulder.

You bristled. “I’m keeping pace.”

“You’re half a step behind.”

“It’s called pacing myself.”

“It’s called slacking off.”

You almost tripped over your own feet. “Excuse me?”

“You said you wanted to improve. This isn’t improvement.”

“Oh my God.” You quickened your stride, heart pounding from more than just the run. “Did you wake up and choose violence today or what?”

He didn’t answer.

Another quarter mile later

“Not everyone’s a track star, Jongho,” you snapped as you struggled to keep up. “Some of us are trying.”

“Trying isn’t enough if you’re not pushing yourself.”

“Maybe I’d push harder if my coach wasn’t a human glacier.”

“That’s your excuse?”

You stopped dead in your tracks. “What is your DEAL today?”

He stopped too, finally turning to face you.

“My deal,” he said tightly, “is that I’m trying to get us both ready for this marathon, and I’m tired of you treating it like a joke.”

Your mouth fell open. “A joke?”

“Yeah. You show up late. You don’t take it seriously. You think you can coast on half-effort—”

“I’m giving everything I have!” you shouted. “Sorry if I’m not perfect like you, Mr. Black Coffee Track God!”

The words echoed a little too loudly across the empty park trail.

He stared at you, chest rising and falling with barely concealed frustration.

You stared back, too angry—and too hurt—to back down.

Then you turned and started jogging again. Faster than before.

You weren’t paying attention. Not to the uneven trail. Not to the way the path narrowed as it curved around a low slope.

Your foot hit loose dirt.

There was a terrifying moment of weightlessness.

And then you were sliding—gravel scraping your palms, branches whipping your arms—until you landed hard at the bottom of the incline.

Pain shot up your knee as you tried to move.

“Shit,” you whispered, clutching it.

Above, you heard the sound of pounding footsteps skidding to a halt.

“Y/N!” Jongho’s voice, sharp and panicked.

You looked up at him from the base of the slope, tears pricking your eyes—not from the pain alone, but from sheer frustration at everything.

“Y/N!”

The sound of his own voice startled him. Too loud. Too panicked.

You were clutching your knee at the base of the slope, hair falling into your face, dirt streaking your hands.

“I’m fine,” you called weakly.

You weren’t fine.

By the time he slid down and knelt beside you, Jongho’s chest felt tight.

“Where does it hurt?” His voice came out sharp, but his hands hovered gentle and sure.

“My knee. Left. Landed on it weird.”

“Any sharp pain?”

“Not… sharp. Just throbbing. It buckles when I try to stand.”

“Don’t,” he said quickly. “You could make it worse.”

You stared at him. “You sound like you know what you’re doing.”

“Pre-med,” he admitted. “Orthopedics rotation last semester.”

You blinked. “Wait—you’re a medicine major?”

“Yeah. What, did you think I was a professional coffee critic?”

Despite everything, a small laugh escaped you. “Honestly? A little.”

He sat back, running a hand through his hair.

“Listen…” he started. “I was out of line earlier. Snapping at you like that.”

You stared at him, surprised.

“I don’t know why I did. I think I was… frustrated. But that’s no excuse. You’ve been trying. I wasn’t fair.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Are you… apologizing to me?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. Mr. Perfect is human after all.”

“Don’t push it.”

“Can you stand?”

“Probably not.”

“Then I’m carrying you.”

“Wait—what?”

Before you could argue, Jongho slid an arm under your knees and the other around your back, lifting you effortlessly.

“Hey—”

“Don’t argue. You’re not walking on that knee.”

Your arms flailed for a second before you gave up, crossing them tightly over your chest.

“This is so embarrassing. I probably weigh a ton.”

Jongho didn’t even pause. “You could weigh more and I’d still carry you.”

You blinked up at him.

“You’re as light as a feather,” he added matter-of-factly.

Your face went hot. “You’re lying.”

“Why would I lie? I lift more in the gym.”

He hadn’t expected to notice—hadn’t expected to feel—how small you were.

Your weight barely registered in his arms. Your hair smelled faintly like vanilla shampoo. You were quiet now, gaze fixed anywhere but his face.

For some reason, it made his chest feel tighter than when he’d watched you laughing with that guy earlier.

Back at campus he heard a voice.

“Jongho?”

He looked up to see four familiar faces: Seonghwa, Mingi, Yunho, Yeosang and Hongjoong.

“Bro… are you carrying someone?” Mingi’s eyes went wide.

“Holy shit, he is,” Yunho whispered loudly.

“Wait—” Hongjoong squinted. “Isn’t that…?”

Seonghwa’s lips twitched. “The girl from the lake.”

Your eyes went wide. “You guys were there too?”

“Of course,” Yunho said, grinning. “The infamous sugar queen in the flesh.”

“Oh my God,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

“Nice to see you again,” Seonghwa said smoothly. “We didn’t know you two were this close.”

“We’re not,” you said quickly.

“Could’ve fooled us,” Mingi teased.

Jongho muttered, “She hurt her knee.”

“Mmhm.” Hongjoong’s grin widened. “Sure.”

Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2

[wolvietxt]

𝓢ILENT 𝓣REATMENT.

pairings : frank castle x fem!reader warnings : argument, crying, hurt / comfort, happy ending, established relationship au, shouting, implied size diff (like my fav trope if you can’t already tell) silent treatment  summary : after an argument with frank, you both end up giving eachother silent treatment, until the tension gets too unbearable for you in the car. wc : 4.5k a/n : i got a req for this a few days ago but i think i deleted it or something i can’t find it now💔 but it was from an anon so thank you for this one because i loved writing this ALSO!! thank you to everyone who leaves feedback + little comments on my frank fics i notice it happens more when i write for frank and it’s the absolute sweetest

the air in the apartment felt heavy, charged, like a storm was brewing right there in the middle of the living room. frank was pacing now, his big hands flexing at his sides, his jaw tight enough that you swore you could hear his teeth grinding.  

you didn’t fight - not like this. not with him raising his voice and you trying so hard not to let yours crack. it wasn’t how things usually went. frank was tough, sure, rough around the edges in a way that didn’t really go away even when he was at his gentlest. but with you, he was softer. he made an effort to rein it in because he’d told you once, in a rare moment of vulnerability, that he didn’t want you to ever be scared of him. and you never had been.

but tonight, he was angry. angrier than you’d ever seen him at you, and the worst part was you weren’t sure how it had even escalated to this.  

“so what?” frank barked, spinning on his heel to face you, his broad frame taking up what felt like the entire room. “you think i’m just gonna sit back and let this slide?” his voice was sharp, cutting, and it made you flinch, even though you knew deep down that he’d never in a million years actually hurt you. “you think that’s who i am?”  

you held your ground, even though your heart was pounding against your ribs. “it’s not about letting it slide, frank,” you said softly, your tone calm, measured - a stark contrast to the heat in his voice. “it’s about not making it worse. escalating doesn’t fix anything.”  

“escalating?” he repeated, his voice rising, almost incredulous. “this isn’t escalating, this is handling it. you don’t just let people treat you like crap n’ walk away. you should know that’s not how it works.”  

“sometimes it is,” you said quietly, refusing to match his volume. “sometimes walking away is the only thing you can do. not everything has to be a fight.”  

“bullshit.” the word came out harsh, and the bite in it made your chest tighten. frank rarely swore at you, and when he did, it was never like this, never with this kind of edge.  

your hands trembled slightly, so you folded your arms across your chest, not in defiance but as a way to steady yourself. “frank, please. i don’t want to argue about this.”  

“yeah, well, maybe you should’ve thought about that before you went and tried to handle this on your own.” he threw his hands up, his frustration spilling over like a dam breaking. “you didn’t even tell me, and now i’m supposed to just sit back and be okay with it?”  

“i didn’t tell you because i knew this is how you’d react,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.  

his face twisted, a mixture of disbelief and something else - hurt, maybe. but it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by a hard, almost cold expression. “damn right this is how i’d react,” he shot back. “because i give a shit. because i don’t want you getting hurt or screwed over or whatever the hell else might happen if i’m not there to step in.”  

“i know you care,” you said, your voice still soft but firm. “but you can’t control everything, frank. sometimes things happen, and you just have to let them go.”  

he let out a sharp, bitter laugh, running a hand through his hair. “letting it go gets you hurt. letting it go gets you walked all over. i’m not gonna let that happen to you.”  

his words were loud, forceful, like he was trying to hammer them into your head, but they only made your throat tighten more. “i can handle myself,” you said, your voice shaking slightly despite your best efforts.  

“can you?” he snapped, and the doubt in his tone stung worse than any of the yelling.  

you flinched, your eyes dropping to the floor. “that’s not fair,” you whispered.  

“yeah, well, life’s not fair,” he shot back, his tone still razor-sharp.  

silence fell between you, heavy and suffocating. you could feel the sting of tears threatening to spill, but you refused to cry - not in front of him, not when he was like this, which he never had been before. you’d seen flashes of it occasionally, never once directed at you. so instead, you turned on your heel and walked out of the room, your steps quick but steady, your back straight even though every part of you felt like curling up into yourself.  

you didn’t look back, but you could feel his eyes on you as you left.  

the door clicked softly as you shut yourself in the bathroom, leaning back against the cool wood as you tried to pull in a steadying breath. it felt like all the air had been sucked out of your lungs back in the living room, and now the weight of it all was crashing down on you.  

you stared at the tiled floor, your arms wrapped around yourself like that might somehow hold you together. your chest felt tight, your eyes stinging with unshed tears, but you bit down hard on your bottom lip, refusing to let them fall. not yet, anyway.  

you weren’t used to this - not with frank. he could be sharp, blunt, even infuriatingly stubborn sometimes, but he was never cruel. not to you. in the years since you’d met him, since the whirlwind of your relationship had gone from cautiously circling each other to something real and steady, frank had always been your safe place. he was intense, sure, but his intensity had always felt protective, grounding, like you could lean on him no matter how bad things got.  

so why did it feel like he was the one knocking the ground out from under you now?  

you pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to will the tears away. it wasn’t fair to pin all the blame on him, you knew that. this argument wasn’t entirely about frank’s temper, or his need to protect you - it was about your own unwillingness to let him.  

the issue had started small, just a casual remark you’d made earlier in the week about someone you worked with - someone who’d been taking advantage of your kindness. you hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but frank had picked up on it immediately, and the more you’d tried to brush it off, the more his protective instincts had kicked in.  

at first, it had been sweet, his quiet grumbles about how people didn’t deserve to treat you that way, how you needed to stand up for yourself more. but somewhere along the line, it had turned into this - a full-blown argument where neither of you seemed to be able to see the other’s side.  

you weren’t blind to why he was upset. frank had been through more than most people could even imagine, and the idea of someone hurting you - or even disrespecting you - lit a fire in him that he couldn’t always control. but the way he handled that fire was what made your chest ache. it felt suffocating, like his need to protect you was overshadowing the fact that you didn’t want - or need - him to fight your battles for you.  

you let out a shaky breath, the first tear slipping free as the weight of it all settled heavier on your shoulders.  

frank had always been larger than life to you - not just physically, though his sheer size and strength made you feel small in comparison, but in the way he carried himself, the way he seemed to command every room he walked into. it was part of what had drawn you to him in the first place, the quiet confidence that bordered on intimidating until you saw the softness he tried so hard to hide.  

he’d always been gentle with you, even when his hands were so calloused and rough, even when his voice was so gravelly and low. it made the harshness of his words tonight cut deeper, the sharp edges of his anger something you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of.  

you wiped at your face quickly, straightening up as you tried to pull yourself together. you hated crying - especially over arguments like this. it made you feel weak, even though you knew it wasn’t, and the last thing you wanted was for frank to think he’d broken you. he’d never stop beating himself up over it.

still, you couldn’t bring yourself to go back out there yet. not with the way his words were still echoing in your mind, the frustration in his voice still ringing in your ears.  

you stayed there for a while, letting the quiet of the bathroom wrap around you like a blanket, giving yourself the space to breathe and feel without the weight of frank’s presence bearing down on you.  

meanwhile, in the living room, frank was pacing again. his hands were on his hips, his brows drawn together in that way they always did when he was deep in thought - or pissed off.  

he knew you were upset. hell, he wasn’t an idiot, and he’d seen the way your eyes were brimming with tears before you’d turned and walked away. it wasn’t the first time he’d pushed too hard, but it was the first time it had been directed at you, and it was eating at him in a way he didn’t want to admit.  

but the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface, and he couldn’t seem to let it go. it wasn’t directed at you - not at all. it was at the situation, at the asshole who’d made you feel like you had to handle everything on your own. but frank wasn’t exactly good at untangling those things, at separating his frustration from the people he cared about most.  

he scrubbed a hand over his face, letting out a low growl of frustration as he dropped onto the couch. his mind was running in circles, replaying the argument over and over again, each word sharper than the last.  

the silence in the apartment felt deafening, and for a moment, he considered going to find you, to try and talk this out. but he stopped himself, his jaw clenching as he forced himself to stay put. you needed space - he knew that much, even if it went against every instinct he had.  

he sat there for a long time, the tension in his body refusing to ease as he stared at the spot where you’d been standing just minutes before.  

the car keys sat on the counter, untouched, while the clock crept closer to the time you were supposed to leave. it had been a whole thing - this charity function a few towns over. someone important to frank had invited him, and even though it wasn’t the kind of event he’d normally go for, he’d said yes because it mattered to them.  

you had said yes because it mattered to him.  

but now, with the argument still heavy in the air, the thought of sitting next to him for almost four hours felt like trying to breathe underwater. the quiet that lingered between you wasn’t the natural kind you often enjoyed. it was thick and suffocating, and neither of you seemed ready to cut through it.  

you stood in the bedroom doorway, watching frank tie his boots like the act itself had wronged him. his movements were sharp, jerky, and his mouth was set in a grim line. you weren’t sure if it was guilt or frustration written in his expression, but either way, it left your stomach in knots.  

he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, yanking it on with a force that looked like it made the seams strain. his head turned slightly toward you as if he was about to say something, but then he thought better of it, his eyes dropping to the floor instead.  

you didn’t move, didn’t speak, just hovered in the doorway as he brushed past you toward the front door. the weight of it all - the argument, the way he hadn’t looked at you since - pressed down on your chest like a boulder, and your throat burned with more unshed tears.  

when he held the door open for you, you walked through it wordlessly, your gaze fixed on the floor.  

outside, the crisp night air felt sharper than it should have, like even the weather was conspiring to remind you how raw everything was. frank locked the door behind you without a word, and the sound of the lock clicking into place made you flinch.  

he didn’t notice.  

the car ride loomed ahead of you like a punishment, the thought of sitting in that confined space together for hours making your palms sweat. but there was no way out of it, not without causing more problems.  

frank climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. he started the engine without looking at you, the low growl of it filling the space where words should’ve been.  

you slid into the passenger seat, keeping your hands in your lap and your gaze fixed on the window. the city lights blurred into streaks as the car picked up speed, but you weren’t paying attention to where you were going. your mind was stuck on everything that had been said - and everything that hadn’t.  

he’d been angry. louder than usual, harsher, the words tumbling out of him like he didn’t know how to stop them. but you knew frank. you knew the fire in him wasn’t because he didn’t care - it was because he cared too much, and it scared him sometimes.  

still, knowing that didn’t make it hurt any less.  

the silence in the car was unbearable, the kind that made you want to fill it just so you didn’t have to sit with the weight of it anymore. but frank wasn’t giving you an inch, his eyes glued to the road and his shoulders hunched up like he was trying to shield himself from the world.  

you stole a glance at him, your chest aching at the sight of his furrowed brow and clenched jaw. he looked tired - angry, yes, but tired too, like the argument had drained him in ways he didn’t want to admit.  

your own emotions were bubbling up, threatening to spill over no matter how hard you tried to keep them in check. your hands trembled slightly in your lap, and you clenched them into fists to try to stop it, but it didn’t help.  

you didn’t even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, cool against your flushed skin. you brushed it away quickly, hoping frank wouldn’t notice, but you doubted he’d even glanced your way.  

the road stretched on, dark and empty except for the occasional glow of headlights from oncoming cars. the longer the silence dragged, the heavier it felt, like it was wrapping around your throat and making it hard to breathe.  

eventually, the ache in your chest grew too much to bear. you didn’t know what you wanted - comfort, maybe, or some kind of reassurance that everything would be okay - but the urge to reach out was overwhelming.  

your hand hovered hesitantly over the center console, your fingers trembling as you debated whether or not to do it. it felt like crossing some invisible line, like putting yourself out there in a way that left you completely vulnerable.  

but then you glanced at frank, at the way his brow furrowed and his jaw tightened, and something in you broke.  

with tears brimming in your eyes and a small, helpless pout tugging at your lips, you let your fingers reach up to grasp at his. the touch was so light it was barely there, but it was enough to draw his attention.  

he glanced down at your hand, his gaze softening instantly as he took in the way your fingers trembled and the sheen of tears in your eyes, the wet tracks of tears that’d already fallen etched on your face.

“ah, sweetheart,” he muttered, his voice rough but laced with a tenderness that made your heart ache.  

his hand moved to cover yours completely, his fingers curling around your smaller ones in a gesture that felt both protective and grounding. his thumb brushed over the back of your hand in slow, deliberate strokes, and the tension in your chest eased just a little.  

you sniffled, blinking quickly to clear your vision as you looked up at him. his expression had shifted, the hard lines of his face softening as he met your gaze.  

“i’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.  

frank let out a heavy sigh, his grip on your hand tightening slightly as he pulled the car off to the side of the road. the tires crunched against the gravel as he put it in park, and before you could ask what he was doing, he was out of the car.  

your breath caught as he rounded the front of the vehicle, his movements deliberate but not rushed. he opened your door, the cool night air rushing in as he crouched slightly to meet your eyes.  

“c’mere,” he said softly, his tone a stark contrast to the anger that had been there earlier.  

you hesitated for only a moment before unbuckling your seatbelt and letting him pull you into his arms. his embrace was warm and solid, his arms wrapping around you in a way that made you feel small and safe all at once.  

“’m sorry, baby,” he murmured against your hair, his voice rough with emotion. “shouldn’t’ve yelled. shouldn’t’ve made you feel like that.”  

you buried your face in his chest, your own arms slipping around his middle as you let out a shaky breath. “i’m sorry too,” you whispered.  

“you don’t gotta be sorry, you did nothing wrong. my sweet girl’s just nice to everyone, isn’t she?” he cooed, his hand came up to cradle the back of your head, his thumb brushing gently against your temple as he peppered hard kisses over your face. “we’re okay?”  

you nodded against him, a small, shaky smile tugging at your lips. “we’re okay.”  

he pressed another kiss to your forehead, lingering for a moment longer than before. but instead of pulling back completely, frank’s lips trailed down, brushing lightly against your temple, then your cheek.  

your breath hitched, your hand tightening around his shirt as he hesitated, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. when your eyes flicked up to meet his, there was something unspoken between you - an ache, a pull that neither of you could ignore.  

“frank…” your voice was barely a whisper, and it only made him lean in closer.  

his hand moved to cradle the side of your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as his lips finally found yours. the kiss was slow at first, soft and careful, but there was a heat behind it, a depth that made your stomach twist in the best way.  

he kissed you like he needed you, like he couldn’t get close enough no matter how tightly he held you. his other hand slid to your waist, pulling you against him just enough to make you feel the strength behind every touch, every movement.  

when he pulled back, it was with a low, rumbling breath, his forehead resting against yours as he tried to steady himself. “you’re somethin’ else, you know that?” he murmured, his voice rough and tinged with something deeper.  

your cheeks flushed, your heart racing as you tried to find the words, but all you could do was nod, your fingers still gripping the front of his shirt.  

he pressed one last, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth before stepping back. “c’mon,” he said, his tone softer now, his thumb brushing your cheek one last time before helping you back into the car.  

as he slid into the driver’s seat, his hand found yours again, holding on tightly. this time, neither of you let go.  

the rest of the drive was quiet, but not in the same way as before. frank kept one hand on the wheel, the other holding yours firmly in his grasp. his thumb moved in slow, lazy circles over your knuckles, a silent apology with every stroke.  

you felt the tension melting bit by bit, your chest no longer tight with the weight of everything left unsaid. instead, there was this warmth - a softness between you that hadn’t been there earlier. it was unspoken, but it was enough to ease the ache in your heart.  

“we’ll stop soon, yeah?” frank broke the silence, his voice low and softer than usual. “get you somethin’ to eat.”  

your lips curved into a small smile, your first real one since the argument. “i’m okay,” you murmured. “we don’t have to stop.”  

“nah.” he glanced over at you, his eyes lingering for a second longer than they should’ve. “you didn’t eat much earlier. ain’t lettin’ you sit through this thing hungry.”  

the tenderness in his voice made your cheeks heat, and you squeezed his hand lightly in response.  

it wasn’t long before frank pulled off at a small diner on the side of the road. the neon sign flickered against the night sky, casting a warm glow over the parking lot.  

“c’mon,” he said, cutting the engine and stepping out.  

before you could even reach for the door handle, frank was already there, pulling it open for you. his hand was outstretched, waiting for yours, and when you slipped your fingers into his, he gave them a gentle squeeze.  

inside, the diner was quiet, the hum of conversation and the clatter of dishes filling the space. frank led you to a booth in the corner, his hand never leaving yours until you slid into your seat.  

“what’re you in the mood for?” he asked, his eyes scanning the menu even though you both knew he’d end up ordering the same thing he always did.  

you shrugged, your fingers playing with the edge of the napkin in front of you. “maybe just some fries.”  

frank frowned, lowering the menu to look at you. “you need more than that.”  

“frank, i’m fine - ”  

“i’ll get you somethin’ else too,” he cut in, his tone leaving no room for argument.  

you bit back a smile, knowing better than to push him when he got like this. instead, you let him order for both of you, his gruff voice somehow softer when he spoke to the waitress.  

when the food arrived, frank nudged the plate closer to you, his eyes narrowing slightly when you hesitated. “eat, sweetheart,” he said gently.  

you rolled your eyes but grabbed a fry anyway, earning a satisfied grunt from him.  

as you ate, the tension from earlier felt like a distant memory. frank had a way of grounding you, of making you feel like no matter how bad things got, everything would eventually be okay.  

after the meal, frank walked you back to the car, his hand settling on the small of your back as he guided you outside. the night air was crisp, but his touch was warm, steady, and it made you lean into him just a little.  

“y’alright?” he asked once you were back in the passenger seat.  

you nodded, looking up at him with a soft smile. “yeah. i’m okay.”  

his eyes lingered on yours for a moment, and then, without a word, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to your forehead. it was quick but tender, and when he pulled back, his hand cupped your cheek for a second longer.  

the drive to the function was quieter this time, but it wasn’t the heavy silence from before. it was comfortable, the kind of quiet where words weren’t necessary because you both knew everything was okay now.  

as you pulled up to the venue, frank cut the engine and turned to you. his expression was softer, his usual rough edges smoothed out in a way that made your heart ache.  

“you look beautiful,” he said, his voice gruff but sincere.  

your cheeks flushed at the compliment, and you glanced down at your dress, suddenly feeling shy. “thank you,” you murmured.  

he leaned over, his large hand settling on your knee as he pressed a quick kiss to your temple. “‘m gonna keep tellin’ you that all night,” he added, his lips quirking into the faintest of smirks.  

the warmth in your chest grew, and you couldn’t help but smile back at him. “you don’t look so bad yourself,” you teased, your tone light.  

he chuckled, the sound low and rumbling, and you swore it was the best thing you’d heard all day.  

“c’mon, sweetheart,” he said, opening his door. “let’s get this over with.”  

as you stepped out of the car, frank was already by your side, his hand finding yours once more. he held it tightly, his grip firm and reassuring, and when he glanced down at you, there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch.  

it was love - raw and unfiltered, the kind that didn’t need words to be understood.  

and in that moment, you knew that no matter what, you and frank would always find your way back to each other.  

ᰔ frank castle : @stvr-dust, @uncertified-doc

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

[fear-is-truth]

ft. in-ho (001) ‧ hyun-ju (120) ‧ nam-gyu (124) ‧ su-bong (230) ‧ se-mi (380) ‧ dae-ho (388) ‧ jun-ho

a/n — did these bc i was bored… english is not my first language, sorry if there’s any mistakes !

HWANG IN-HO (황인호) / PLAYER 001

in-ho doesn’t let his jealousy show. not even a twitch of the eye. when he sees someone flirting with you, his expression remains calm—maybe even a little amused. the mask never slips, but there’s something cold and calculating beneath it, like a viper watching from the grass.

he has a habit of always “coincidentally” being nearby. yeah.

in-ho knows exactly how to manipulate without being overt. he never accuses, never demands. instead, he asks harmless little questions like, “you two seem to be getting along well.”

and then, after a small pause—he adds, “be careful who you trust. some people don’t have your best interests at heart.” his tone is casual, but he’s planting seeds of doubt, nudging the situation just enough to make you second-guess. his gaze flickers briefly to gi-hun, like he’s searching his face for confirmation. am i right?

then, as if to break the awkward tension, in-ho lets out a light laugh. “i suppose you can’t completely trust us, either.”

tl;dr — man doesn’t always slip up, but when he does, he backtracks FAST

CHO HYUN-JU (조현주 ) / PLAYER 120

she’s a pretty straightforward and genuine, so her jealousy would come across in a very honest, but an insecure way. when she notices someone flirting with you, she won’t try to hide how she feels, though she also won’t cause a scene in front of them.

instead, she’ll try to naturally slide into the conversation, maybe offering a friendly smile or a casual comment just to insert herself without being too obvious.

afterward, when it’s just the two of you, she’ll admit that she didn’t like how things went. she’d be direct but still unsure, maybe looking away or fiddling with her hair as she confesses, “i don’t know… i didn’t like how they were talking to you. it made me feel… weird. i know it’s silly, but…” even though she’s admitting her feelings, she’ll follow it up with a self-conscious laugh, brushing it off in a way that makes it clear she doesn’t want to burden you, even if she just needed to say it.

NAM-GYU (남규) / PLAYER 124

nam-gyu’s jealousy is ugly. unlike thanos, who masks his irritation with forced camaraderie, nam-gyu doesn’t even try to hide it. the second he catches you talking—laughing—with someone else, his expression sours.

his eyes flick away like he can’t be bothered, but his irritation lingers in the small, compulsive gestures that follow. fingers twitch toward his face, rubbing his temple and dragging down his cheek in a slow, irritated motion as if he’s physically restraining himself from saying nasty. then, he tucks his hair behind his ear, fingers lingering at the ends before dropping back to his side.

tl;dr — just am interesting quirk i noticed lol

but later? when it’s just the two of you? suddenly, he’s different. as if the bitterness never existed in the first place. his hands disappear into the sleeves of his jacket, the fabric bunching at his wrists as he curls his fingers inside like paws. he tilts his head slightly as he leans closer, “y/n~” he drawls, dragging out your name. “why were you talking to them for so long? you’re not getting bored of me, are you?”

and the person who got a little too comfortable in your presence? yeah, they’re screwed.

nam-gyu doesn’t just make their life difficult—he makes it fucking dangerous. during games, he’s reckless with them. a sudden, well-timed shove at the worst possible moment. a convenient distraction that nearly gets them eliminated. nothing that can be traced back to him, of course.

when he passes their bunk, he gives a small shove to the back of their head as he walks by, the kind that makes it look like an accident, but it’s far from it.

CHOI SU-BONG (최수봉) / PLAYER 230

thanos wouldn’t be subtle about his jealousy—he’d be super obnoxious about it.

the moment he catches someone flirting with you, he’s all over them, acting like they’re best friends. throws an arm around their shoulder chummily, “my boy!” he grins, smacking them on the back so hard it nearly knocks the air out of them. his overall demeanour is playful, but there’s something off about it. like he’s sizing them up. like he’s deciding how much of a problem they’re about to become.

later, he and nam-gyu make it their personal mission to make their life even more miserable than it already is.

during mealtime, the person just so happens to trip right in front of everyone. maybe it’s thanos’ foot, maybe it’s nam-gyu’s—either way, they did a face-plant. thanos crouches beside them, fake sympathy dripping from his voice. “damn, that must hurt,” he says, shaking his head. “maybe you should be more careful, yeah? how else are you gonna survive the next game?”

it doesn’t stop there. at the bunks, he and nam-gyu make a point of cornering them, bodies blocking any easy escape. thanos grins, “so, you’re real friendly with y/n, huh?” with nam-gyu smiling cutely menacingly in the background. if they try to shrug it off, he just laughs. “aw, don’t be shy! we love meeting new friends.”

if the poor bloke ends up alone in the men’s bathroom? bad luck. thanos is suddenly right there, leaning against the urinal stall, inspecting his colourful nails. “hey, man. funny thing…” his voice drops, and the humour is gone. “you don’t wanna make yourself a problem, yeah?” he doesn’t have to say it outright. the message is clear.

SE-MI (세미) / PLAYER 380

se-mi’s reaction is barely noticeable. when she sees someone flirting with you, her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes get a little colder, and she might look away, focusing on something else.

she might look at you for just a second too long, as if waiting for you to catch her gaze and understand without saying anything.

she doesn’t hold a grudge, but she definitely keeps her distance until she feels like you’ve figured it out on your own.

KANG DAE-HO (강대호) / PLAYER 388

when he sees someone flirting with you, dae-ho doesn’t get angry—he just feels a creeping sense of inadequacy settle in his chest.

if you try to talk to her after, her responses are polite, but there’s a certain sharpness to them—like she’s not fully engaged. every now and then, she’ll throw in a comment, maybe something about not trusting people easily or how “everyone has their own agenda,” but it’s all under the radar.

being the good-natured person that he is, dae-ho doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t push himself into the conversation. but if there’s a chance to naturally one-up them, he’ll take it. dae-ho’s jealousy is a bit more showy, but not in a malicious way. he straightens his posture a little more. rolls up his sleeve to expose the marine tattoo on his arm.

dae-ho isn’t one to sulk, but he goes quiet. fidgets more, rubbing the back of his neck, cracking his knuckles, anything to keep his hands busy. when he looks at your direction, it’s fleeting—like he’s afraid of seeing something he doesn’t want to.

he never lets it turn into resentment. dae-ho doesn’t want to be that guy, doesn’t want to make it your problem. but later, when it’s just the two of you, he gets a bit clingy.

HWANG JUN-HO (황준호)

a gentleman to his core, jun-ho’s jealousy doesn’t come with flare or outward signs. when he sees someone flirting with you, his smile remains polite, almost cordial. posture stays poised, tone respectful—nothing gives away the annoyance bubbling inside.

if the other person crosses a line—that’s when the temperature drops. a slow blink. a slight tilt of his head. a stare just sharp enough to unsettle. jun-ho doesn’t need words to make his presence known.

──⟢  fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-Five

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, time skips, so much fluff, sexual content, mentions of pregnancy.

Notes — The first of two 2022 chapters. Prepare yourselves, maybe grab a drink and a snack. It’s a long one.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! - Peach x

February 2022

Max and Pietra’s flat smelt of hairspray and lavender air freshener. One of Pietra’s playlists, hilariously named ‘Soft Amelia Approved’ was playing from her phone. Amelia sat in front of the vanity, gripping the edge of the stool. Her hair was half-styled, soft waves pinned back temporarily, and her dress, a sleek, ice-blue gown with structured shoulders, hung on the front of the wardrobe like a quiet threat.

Pietra stood behind her in leggings and a hoodie, carefully applying highlighter to Amelia’s cheekbones. “You’re doing very well,” she said gently. “You haven’t cried yet.”

Amelia glanced up in the mirror, blinking quickly. “I’m very uncomfortable right now.”

Pietra laughed, soft and fond. “Okay, that’s fine. Being uncomfortable is a normal human experience. But if it gets too much, just say so.” She told her. 

“My face feels weird.”

“That’s because you’re used to only wearing moisturiser and mascara. I’ve given you a full face.”

Amelia grimaced. “Yes. I know. I can feel it. All of it. Every layer.” 

“Mmhm.” Pietra stepped back and handed her the lip balm. “So, to distract you: I cannot believe that you got engaged and didn’t tell anyone for, like, weeks.”

Amelia dabbed the balm with a heavy hand. “Lando did. He was telling everyone, P. And your Max knew. Still can’t believe he didn’t even bother telling you. Men are so strange.” She sighed. 

Pietra leaned against the vanity, arms crossed. “I am still a little bitter that you didn’t tell me yourself.” 

“Sorry,” Amelia said simply.

“You let Lando tell the entire McLaren factory.”

“I know,” Amelia muttered. “But I told you eventually. It still counts.”

Pietra grinned. “The old lady at the Monaco patisserie knew before I did.”

Amelia made a face. “Thanks to Lando, that lady knew before our parents did. But it’s fine. She’s started giving me free madeleines.”

They shared a quiet laugh. The warmth in the room softened Amelia’s shoulders slightly. Pietra picked up one of the makeup brushes, but didn’t start working again — just watched her, brows lifted slightly.

“Am I really your only girl friend?”

Amelia didn’t look away. “You are.”

“That’s kind of sad.” Pietra frowned. 

“It’s not.” Amelia denied. “Most people, girls especially, expect… social cues. Emotional reciprocity. I don’t have that in the way they want it. But you’ve never made me feel like I’m broken for it.”

Pietra blinked, suddenly glossy-eyed. “Okay, well. Now I’m the one who’s going to cry.”

“I love you,” Amelia said, in her typically direct way. 

Pietra swallowed. “I love you too.” There was a beat before she cleared her throat. “So, are you ready for tonight? Lando’s briefed you, yes? It’s going to be a bit intense.” Pietra said, picking up her steamer and glancing at the gown.

Amelia stared at her reflection for a moment longer. “No. But I’ll do it anyway. It’ll make him happy to have me there with him.”

“Exactly. And when it’s over, you’ll come back here, and you’ll be able to scrub all of that makeup off of your face, eat pasta in your dressing gown, and watch Love Island with subtitles on.”

Amelia exhaled, steadier now. “Will you make me some tea?”

“Of course I will,” Pietra said, grabbing the dress and holding it out. “Now. Let’s get you dressed.” 

— 

Lando was pacing Max’s bedroom, adjusting the cuff of his suit jacket for the tenth time. The bow tie was already starting to feel too tight, but he refused to mess with it and risk messing it up. He could hear Pietra bustling in the other room, her voice drifting faintly through the cracked door; sharp, encouraging, then quiet.

Then the door opened.

And he stopped breathing.

Amelia stepped out slowly, one hand smoothing down the front of her gown. It was the palest icy blue, the neckline clean and sharp, the silhouette structured and strong, like something from a fucking fairy tale. Her dark hair was tucked back loosely, a few curls brushing her jaw, and she was wearing more makeup than usual — shimmer at her cheeks and a soft shine on her mouth. Not too much. Just enough.

She froze when she saw him. “You’re staring at me.”

“You—” Lando blinked. “I’ve forgot how to say words.”

Amelia tilted her head. “Oh no. You’re supposed to present an award tonight. On stage. Maybe you should work on that.” 

He stepped closer, slow and reverent, his eyes scanning her face, the line of her shoulders, the way the dress hugged her waist. He reached out, hands hovering for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to touch her. “You look like— I don’t even know. So beautiful, baby. We should just ditch the red carpet, yeah? Just drive a million miles and never have anyone other than me look at you ever again.”

She blinked at him. “That’s… either deeply romantic or mildly horrifying.”

“Both,” he whispered, finally letting his hands settle at her waist. “God, Amelia.”

Her eyes softened as she looked up at him, and when he kissed her, it was careful — like he didn’t want to smudge anything, like she was made of glass.  “You’re going to outshine everyone there,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’ll be fine just standing in the corner,” she replied. “With my noise-cancelling earbuds and a glass of icy cold water. With a straw.” 

Pietra poked her head around the corner. “If you two are done, the car’s downstairs. Max is talking to the driver.”

Lando reached for Amelia’s coat. “Come on then, future Mrs. Norris. Let’s go cause a scene.”

She slid her arm into his, leaned against him just a little. “Pietra promised me pasta and Love Island when we get back.”

“I’ll make sure of it,” he promised.

—

The red carpet was chaos.

Flashes strobed like lightning, the roar of photographers cutting through the February night. Celebrities in designer gowns and sleek tuxedos moved with a strange kind of practiced elegance — confident, gliding, like they belonged here.

Amelia did not feel like she belonged here.

She held Lando’s hand tightly, her free hand tucked into the folds of her dress. Her heart was hammering, her mouth set in that unreadable, slightly stern line. 

Lando looked dazzling, sharp suit, mischievous grin, curls tamed only slightly. He was doing fine, charming the press line like it was just another race weekend.

“Amelia!” Someone called. “Can we get a shot of the ring?”

She flinched.

Lando glanced sideways at her instantly. He didn’t answer the shout, didn’t pull her closer, didn’t make a big deal, just gently rotated his body, stepping into the line of fire, cutting off the view of her hand as subtly as breathing.

“You okay?” he murmured.

“Too loud,” she said quickly. “Too fast. I can’t filter any of it.”

He gave a single nod. “Okay. One minute more, and then we’re inside. I’ll get you a drink, and we can sit. You can take your earbuds out of your purse if you want. Or we leave. Say the word.”

She didn’t say anything, just pressed her hand harder into his.

A woman in a gown made entirely of sequins called out, “Amelia! Congratulations on the Championship!”

Amelia blinked, slow. “Thanks.”

Lando gave her the smallest nudge, his thumb brushing hers, like a reminder that she didn’t owe anyone more than that. And Amelia… surprisingly, said nothing else. Just nodded once.

A few more photos. A few more questions, mostly aimed at Lando, who held her hand through it all.

Inside the venue, the noise was muffled. Lights were softer. Music thudded beneath the floor.

Lando led her to a table, his hand still resting low on her back, letting her settle before crouching down next to her chair. “You want me to skip presenting?”

She shook her head. “No. Of course not.”

“You sure?”

“I’ll be fine now. It was just the flashing. And the shouting. And that one guy who stepped on my toe.” She grimaced. 

He grinned. “You look cute when you’re mad.”

She gave him a flat glare. “I wasn’t mad. It hurt. He was heavy, and visibly overweight. He couldn’t—.”

He kissed her ring. “Okay, shush. No talking about how people are overweight, okay? That’s an inside thought.”

She glowered. “He stepped on my foot.” She argued. 

Lando laughed. “Yeah, baby, I know.”

—

Amelia had never been particularly interested in award shows. The noise, the rehearsed spontaneity, the endless clapping — it all felt overstimulating and fake. But she was here, in a dress that shimmered when the light caught it, seated at a quiet corner table near the back of the room, earbuds clenched in her fist. 

Lando was on stage.

Her eyes didn’t leave him.

He was reading from the teleprompter now, doing his bit between the two pop stars flanking him. Charming, slightly awkward, but trying hard not to fidget. His hand reached up once to run through his curls, a nervous tic she’d seen in debriefs and race week interviews a hundred times. She smiled.

“Bit young to be up there, isn’t he?” Someone at the next table whispered, not cruelly, just curious.

Amelia pursed her lips.

And then he was talking about her.

It was just a passing comment, part of a joke about his tux not being his idea — “You can thank my fiancée for this,” he said, and the crowd laughed — but it turned Amelia’s breath into something tight in her throat.

The word “fiancée” coming from Lando still made her ears buzz.

He looked so natural up there. A little boyish, a little charming, but confident. He didn’t overplay it, didn’t try too hard. Just stood straight and smiled through the chaos.

And when the camera cut briefly to her in the crowd, she could see herself on the big screen overhead, staring up at him with a look she hadn’t even realised she wore, it felt like the whole world was seeing it, too.

How much she loved him.

How proud she was.

How, despite the chaos and the cameras and the sound and the flash, she would sit through it all again, just to see the way he lit up when he got to do something like this. Something that made his world feel as wide as it was.

When Lando stepped offstage, disappearing into the wings, Amelia let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.

He was always saying she was the impressive one. That she was the smart one, the one who had it all figured out.

He underestimated his own brilliance. 

—

It was well past midnight by the time they made it back to Max and Pietra’s flat, and the entire night had already started to feel like a distant fever dream.

Now, in the quiet warmth of the living room, things started to make sense again.

Lando was in grey sweatpants and a sweatshirt. Amelia had scrubbed off her makeup the second they walked through the door. She was wrapped in one of his hoodies, warm and perfumed with his aftershave, her hair damp from a quick shower. She was curled into the corner of the couch, her bare feet tucked under Lando’s thigh.

Pietra was spooning pasta straight from the pot. Max — her Max, the softer, goofier one, not Verstappen — was hunched next to her on the floor, picking the olives out of his bowl with surgical precision.

Love Island was playing on the TV, low volume with subtitles, just background noise really. None of them were truly paying attention, but every so often someone would react dramatically and the others would follow. 

“I’m sorry,” Lando said, through a mouthful of fusilli, “but Ron is absolutely going to kiss that girl and then lie about it.”

“Ron would lie about breathing if he thought it’d give him more screen time,” Amelia muttered, eyes half-lidded, chin resting on Lando’s shoulder.

Pietra pointed her fork at the screen. “Justice for Ella. She’s the only one with a single working brain cell.”

Max nodded solemnly. “I support women’s rights and women’s wrongs.”

Amelia laughed, soft and sleepy, the kind that buzzed against Lando’s collarbone. He leaned down to kiss the top of her head, like it was muscle memory.

“Is this what we do now?” She asked, tilting her face up to him. “Is this our life? Fancy award shows and then this?”

“Yup,” Lando said proudly, twirling his pasta. “This is the dream, babe.”

“It is kind of the dream,” Pietra agreed.

“It’s a lot more chaos than I’d have chosen,” Amelia murmured.

Max threw an olive at her. “You like our chaos.”

She caught it, flicked it back at him without looking, and it hit him square in the forehead.

Lando laughed, full and unrestrained. “God, I love you.”

The room went quiet for half a second. Then Pietra softly nudged Amelia’s foot with hers, grinning. “Disgusting.”

Amelia smiled. She let herself lean further into Lando, heart calm, mind settled. 

— 

The Red Bull Technology Campus was quiet in that specific, humming way it always was at odd hours — the whirr of servers, the low buzz of fluorescent lighting, the occasional muffled footstep on polished concrete. Amelia liked it like this. She could think.

She stood beside Adrian at one of the long tables in the design office, sleeves pushed up, fingertips hovering above the CFD printouts of the new RB18 side-pod concept. The paper still smelled faintly of toner.

“Other teams will be talking about this,” she said, tapping the edge of the schematic. “But it’s fully within regulation. Section 3.7.5 of the technical directive covers internal channeling—so long as it's not considered a movable aerodynamic device, which we’ve clearly proven it isn’t.”

Adrian gave one of his quiet smiles, more a twitch at the corner of his mouth than anything obvious. “You memorised the whole regulation manual over the winter break, didn’t you?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “I colour-coded it.”

He chuckled, a warm, almost paternal sound. “I believe you.”

They stood in silence for a moment longer, both of them studying the cooling profile of the undercut and how it flowed back to the floor. She knew what he was doing — this was the ritual, the unspoken challenge. The final review before a radical concept met the tarmac.

“You were on the red carpet last week,” Adrian said, casually.

That made her look up. “Briefly.”

“You looked very…” He trailed off, thinking. “Different.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow. “You’re used to seeing me with dark circles under my eyes and a wrench in my hand.”

Adrian smiled again. “You just looked very happy. That was good to see.”

She blinked at him, surprised. “I was,” she said eventually. “It was weird, and loud, and everyone wore too much fragrance. But I was happy to be there with Lando.”

He nodded, then gestured back to the design. “If this works in Barcelona the way we expect, that’ll give you something else to be happy about.”

She smiled. “It will work. Maybe… maybe there’s other components of the car I’m not so happy about, but…” She shrugged. 

“If we put together your dream car, it would be a rocket-ship,” he said dryly. 

She took a few steps back and run her finger over the edge of the side-pod blueprint. “They’ll be mad. Probably raise it with the FIA before testing even begins.” She guessed.

“Let them. While they’re complaining, we’ll be winning the championship.”

Sleek, aggressive, elegant. It was beautiful in the way only something painstaking and dangerous could be.

She smiled.

“Yeah,” she murmured. Back-to-back championships would be a nice way to end her time with Max. “We will be.”

— 

The news had just gone live. Every F1 social channel was ablaze with McLaren’s orange-and-blue graphics: Lando Norris signs with McLaren through 2025.

Lando tossed his phone facedown on the kitchen counter and turned to look at Amelia, who stood barefoot in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over her chest, watching him with that unreadable, slightly fond expression she reserved for moments like this — big moments that she was already half-analysing in her head.

“Say it,” he said, walking toward her. “Come on. Just once.”

She blinked up at him. “Say what?”

“That you’re proud of me.” He gave her a mock-wounded look. “I extended my contract, Amelia. Three more years. I made a sensible, adult decision.”

Amelia’s mouth twitched. “You did it mostly because you like the papaya team kit and you’re emotionally attached to your engineering crew.”

Lando grinned, not denying it. “True. But also because I believe in them. In us.” He reached for her hands. “In you. As if I’d ever consider leaving a team that I know you’re going to be running soon.”

Amelia looked down at their hands, then back up at him. Her voice was soft. “I am proud of you.”

“There it is,” he breathed dramatically, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I win.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t pull away. “You want your actual prize?”

He perked up. “You got me something?”

She reached behind the kitchen island and lifted a small, bright orange box with the McLaren logo embossed on it. Inside: a tiny teddy bear wearing an LN4 shirt. 

He stared at it. “It’s so cute.”

“I know,” she said. “I also convinced my dad to make them stop serving fish at the MTC. Like, fully. So. You’re welcome.” 

He laughed, full-bodied and unfiltered, and swept her into a hug. “I love you,” he whispered into her hair. 

She pressed her cheek against his chest. “Good.”

They stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the soft hum of their kitchen, the headlines buzzing just outside the door. He was staying. She was planning. And for once, everything felt perfectly in sync.

— 

Amelia stood alone at the back of the Red Bull garage as the final laps of the day ticked down. The sun was low over Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, casting long shadows across the pit lane. Her iPad was in her hand, filled with split times and engine mapping data, but her mind was somewhere else, half in the numbers, half in the ache behind her eyes.

The side-pod had worked. Their new cooling configuration, her brainchild, if she were being honest, had exceeded expectations. The media didn’t know what to do with it yet. There’d been mutterings in the paddock, whispers of legality and grey areas, but Adrian had just smiled that quiet, knowing smile and said, “Let them talk.”

And Max? Max had been quick. Too quick, maybe, for this early. But she saw it in the data. The balance was close. The new aero philosophy was holding its ground. They’d come into 2022 ready for war.

But he hadn’t been the quickest. 

No, that title had gone to Lando. 

Later, her fiancé found her outside the circuit, still in his hoodie and slides, sunglasses pushed up into his curls. “Date night?” he asked, bright-eyed.

She blinked. “I smell like engine oil.”

“You always smell like engine oil. It’s part of your charm.”

The restaurant was a tucked-away spot in the Gothic Quarter. Lando had found it on Instagram, bored in a briefing. Amelia ordered for both of them in quiet, fluent Spanish, and the hostess gave her a warm smile and a complimentary dessert. Lando leaned across the table, grinning like she’d just performed magic. “That was so hot.”

“Ordering risotto was hot?”

“The Spanish,” he said. “The confidence. The little voice you do when you’re being polite. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever head. I— Yeah, I’m totally turned on right now.”

She kicked him under the table. 

After testing wrapped, they rented a villa in the hills for the weekend; a last breath before the storm of the season. Max and Celeste joined them on the second day. Celeste arrived in linen pants and oversized sunglasses, the very image of calm European glamour. She kissed Amelia twice on the cheek and said, “You look stunning.”

“Doesn’t she,” Lando agreed, pulling Amelia into his side.

But even in that villa, with its terracotta walls and olive trees outside the window, Amelia couldn’t fully power down. She sat by the pool in the afternoons, sketching cooling layouts on her iPad, earbuds in, humming low under her breath. Lando watched her sometimes, quiet and smiling, like he couldn’t believe she was real.

Celeste brought her spritzes and Max offered occasional input on tire wear models. It was ridiculous and warm and kind of perfect.

— 

March 2022 

The jet hummed steadily as it travelled from Europe to the Middle East, the soft cabin lights dimmed to a comfortable glow. Amelia was sitting sideways in her seat, one leg curled under her, talking animatedly with her hands while Charles stared at her like he was being held hostage.

“—so if you start your aero development from a high rake philosophy, you have to reconfigure your floor stiffness. Otherwise you get this nasty longitudinal instability on corner entry, especially in medium-speed turns. You know what I mean?”

Charles blinked. “Non.”

Amelia frowned. “Really? But Ferrari ran similar philosophy in—”

“I mean, yes, I technically understand you,” Charles said, smiling tightly, “but also, no. No, Amelia. I am just a driver. Please, I am begging you. I do not need to know all of these facts.”

Across the cabin, Lando snorted into his hoodie sleeve. He was lounging two rows behind, legs kicked out, headphones slung around his neck. “You good over there, Charles?”

Charles threw a hand up dramatically. “I am exhausted just from listening to how her brain works. How does she exist this way?”

“I’m just explaining rear downforce consistency—”

“You said the words longitudinal instability! That is not a casual conversation phrase, Amelia!” He argued. 

Lando grinned and leaned forward over the seat. “C’mere, baby. Why don’t you tell me how Oscar’s pre-season testing went?”

Like flipping a switch, Amelia’s head turned toward him, eyes bright. “Oh my God, he was so good. His tyre management’s already cleaner than half the grid—"

Charles let out a theatrical sigh of relief and collapsed into his seat. “Merci, Lando. Merci.”

Lando gave him a mock salute. “You're welcome, mate. I’ve had, like, three years to develop countermeasures.”

“Does she do this to you too?” He asked. 

“She once explained crankshaft thermal expansion to me during sex.” He said. He was smirking. 

“Mon Dieu.” Charles grimaced. 

Amelia didn’t even register it, she was still talking. “—and once he gets used to the car rotation speed in low-speed corners, I think his timings will be so much better, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” Lando said, grinning as he slid into the seat beside her. “Tell me more, baby.”

Charles gagged into his travel pillow.

— 

The heat was unbearable. The Middle Eastern races were a sensory nightmare, and Bahrain was one of the worst. The air was thick and heavy, like breathing through cloth. The desert sun scorched everything it touched, the paddock buzzed with noise, radios crackled in her ears, lights glared, and distractions came from every direction—her brain was in overdrive.

Then Max and Checo both DNF’d, and the noise got louder.

She was running on fumes. The temperature never let up. The cars screamed nonstop, the floodlights were blinding, and the food—too rich, too intense—sat heavy in her stomach.

Saudi Arabia was hotter still. Max’s strategy meeting dragged on, tense and complicated with the car’s aggressive setup. The race itself was chaos—Max clawed his way forward, wheel-to-wheel until the very end. He won, just barely, Charles less than half a second behind.

It was a victory. But it didn’t feel like one.

Back in the hotel room that evening after the race in Saudi, she sank onto the bed, the weight of everything pressing down on her chest. The hotel was pretty, all big rooms and expensive chandeliers, but all she felt was hollow and slightly claustrophobic. 

Lando flopped down next to her. “Another one of those days, huh?” he asked softly, stretching out on the bed beside her.

“Yeah,” Amelia murmured, closing her eyes for a moment. The flickering of the overhead lights seemed too sharp against her eyelids. She’d never really understood how other people could tune out all the chaos. “It’s so hot. I can’t escape it.”

“I know,” Lando replied. “Wanna get room service and take a cool shower?”

She smiled at him, her eyes still shut, the AC bringing her some comfort. “I’d love that. I don’t want to leave this room.”

He chuckled, leaning over and brushing her hair away from her face. “Okay, baby.” 

she curled against him, her fingers seeking the comfort of his touch. He didn’t say anything more. He just pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her. The rhythm of his breathing slowed her own.

“Better now?” He asked, after a few moments of silence.

Amelia nodded, though she didn’t open her eyes. “Much.”

— 

iMessage – 10:45PM

Mark Webber Big day tomorrow 👀

Amelia It’s official then?

Mark Webber Yep. Oscar is officially a joint Alpine/McLaren reserve. Zak just signed off.

Amelia Good. More doors.

Mark Webber You’re sowing your seeds, Miss Brown.

Amelia This’ll just make it easier when the time comes. If Alpine dig in their heels, Oscar will have already been in contract with McLaren for months. 

Mark Webber Smart girl

Amelia I know.

Mark Webber I’m sick of Otmar already. Refusing to give us any straight answers. 

Amelia Fernando said the same thing

Mark Webber Lando okay with all this?

Amelia Of course. He’s Lando. Jealous for five minutes, then proud.

Mark Webber You picked a good one.

Amelia I know. 

Mark Webber I’ll keep you updated

— 

April 2022 

The little bakery tucked off Rue Grimaldi smelled like spun sugar and cinnamon. 

Amelia was already halfway through her iced matcha, perched in the corner at their usual table, wearing a cotton sundress and sunglasses that kept sliding down her nose. Lando had gone inside to order, almond croissant for her, pain au chocolat for him, and a couple of extra pastries they definitely didn’t need but always ordered anyway.

He returned with a grin and two paper bags, sliding into the seat across from her. “I told them not to warm yours up,” he said, handing over her croissant. “Because you don’t like gooey.”

“I don’t,” Amelia confirmed flatly, unwrapping the pastry. “The texture gets weird.”

“Right,” Lando said, biting into his. “How do we feel about the accent wall in the streaming room being that navy blue colour I showed you?”

“I hate it,” she told him.

“You didn’t hate it yesterday.” He complained. 

“Yesterday I hadn’t imagined how it would look under the LED strips.” She said, her lip curling. 

Lando groaned. “Babe.”

“I’m right.” 

“You’re opinionated.”

“I’m autistic.”

“Same thing.”

She giggled into her croissant.

He took a sip of his freshly squeezed orange juice and leaned back in his chair, squinting up at the sun. “Okay, new idea. We get that matte grey from the hallway for the main walls. Then black soundproof panelling on the back wall.”

“No, you’re soundproofing the whole room,” she said without even looking up.

Lando frowned. “Is that really necessary?”

She finally looked at him, eyebrow raised. “I do not want to be listening to you playing on Valorant at two o’clock in the morning.”

“…Right. Whole room.” He nodded. 

She nodded.

He shook his head, fighting a smile. “Remember, I’m back in London next weekend, Thursday to Tuesday. Quadrant’s shooting at Silverstone.”

“Sounds fun,” she said, brushing a flake of pastry off her skirt. “I’ll stay here. Oversee the decorating. Make sure the soundproofing goes in. And that the shelves are built level this time.”

“They were level.” He rolled his eyes. 

“They absolutely weren’t. I checked with a spirit level.”

He threw his head back dramatically. “Baby, please don’t terrorise the decorators with your spirit level again. They’ll refuse to ever come back.”

“You live with someone who needs things not to be crooked.” She informed him, appearing slightly embarrassed. 

He reached across the table and took her hand. “I live with someone who makes everything perfect.”

Amelia blinked. Softened. “You’re being sweet.”

“Only because I don’t want you to bully the decorators when I’m not here.”

She rolled her eyes, but let her thumb brush over his knuckles. The bakery buzzed around them — plates clinking, baristas calling out names, the Mediterranean sun painting the pavement golden.

—

Amelia had her yellow golfball in her hand, her eyes squarely set on the replays from free practice. There was always something to track, always something shifting. 

Jos was standing outside the hospitality suite, arms folded, sunglasses perched low on his nose. Amelia approached quietly, iPad under one arm, her MV1 shirt crisp in the morning light.

“Jos,” she greeted. He nodded once in acknowledgment.

“They’re faster than expected,” he said without preamble. “Ferrari.”

“Yep,” Amelia replied. “Top-line speed’s excellent. Aero efficiency’s strong, and they’re managing their tires better than projected. But we’ve got updates coming.”

Jos glanced sideways at her. “Barcelona?”

She shook her head. “Imola.”

He grunted. “Cutting it close.”

“I like a challenge.”

He gave a huff of amusement. “I know.”

She tapped her tablet, showing him a sketch of the new floor and side-pod configuration. “This’ll help mitigate the porpoising and give us cleaner airflow into the diffuser. I ran the numbers with Adrian yesterday — it’s barely legal, aggressive, but… it’ll work.”

Jos studied her for a long moment. “And Max?”

“He’s got the pace. We’ll give him the car to match it.” She shrugged. 

After she excused herself, Amelia wound her way through the back of the paddock, navigating behind the media pen and through the tight hospitality corridors until she found the Alpine motorhome. She stood outside for a moment, considering the entrance — and then slipped in without ceremony.

Oscar Piastri was leaning over a printed-out set of data. When he noticed her, he did a double-take. “Amelia?”

She smiled, subtle as she could possibly be. “Hello.”

He straightened quickly, a bit awkward in that endearing way of his. “Um—hi. What are you doing here?”

“Just… making the rounds,” she said. Then, a small nod. “Congratulations, by the way. On becoming McLaren-associated.”

Oscar blinked. “Oh—thanks! Yeah, it’s been a bit surreal. Double reserve, more chances to get out on track, I guess.”

“I’ve been following your sim data, your testing laps,” she added, like it was just a passing comment. “You’re adapting fast.”

He flushed slightly. “Trying my best.”

She gave a rare, tiny smile. “Keep doing that.”

Then she was gone again, leaving Oscar to stare after her with an astonished blink.

—

Amelia had just exited the Red Bull garage, iPad in one hand and stim toy in the other, when a trio of microphones were suddenly in her face.

“Amelia, can we get a comment on Red Bull’s lack of reliability in the early season?”

“Is it true you were seen going into Alpine’s motorhome yesterday? Are you considering switching teams?”

“Rumours are swirling about your next career move—care to confirm anything for us?”

She stiffened. Her sunglasses hid the instinctive panic, but her knuckles has gone white around her stim snake. They weren’t being aggressive exactly, but they were pushing in, leaning into her space, stacking questions rapid-fire without giving her a second to process.

“I’m not doing media today,” she said firmly, voice flat and clipped.

“Just one quote—”

“I said no!” She said, a little louder. 

But they didn’t back off. One cameraman stepped closer to frame the shot, bumping into her arm slightly, and her breath gt stuck in her throat and her shoulders started to curl up toward her ears. 

And then — “Ah, hey! Back off.” Charles was the first to appear, all soft curls and red team kit, stepping smoothly between Amelia and the cameras with that disarming Monegasque smile that somehow managed to be polite and threatening all at once. “She said no,” he repeated, and though his tone was light, his stance was not.

Behind him, Lando materialised from seemingly nowhere, slipping his hand around Amelia’s wrist and raising an unimpressed, slightly pissed-off eyebrows at the reporters. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

That earned a quick retreat of at least one mic.

“She is not public property,” Pierre added as he came to stand beside Charles, arms crossed, voice dry and unimpressed. “If you want a quote, you ask someone who wants to be asked.”

Mick trailed behind them with Zhou, both of whom offered quiet, present support, just bodies standing nearby, close enough to break the intensity of the circle that had formed around her. Mick gave her a small nod of reassurance.

The reporters, now very aware of the optics, half the grid forming a loose but definite protective arc around Amelia, finally relented and stepped back.

“Thanks,” Amelia murmured once they were gone.

Lando squeezed her wrist, eyes scanning her face. “You good, baby?”

“I’m fine,” she said, exhaling. “Just… wasn’t ready for all that.”

Charles tutted. “They are vultures. If they do anything like that in the future, just shout, yes? One of us will come.” 

— 

The morning sun filtered through the massive glass panels of the MTC, casting neat reflections across the polished floor. Amelia sat across from her father at one of the quieter corners of the cafeteria, legs folded underneath her in the booth seat, her coffee rapidly cooling next to a barely-touched muffin.

Zak Brown, CEO of McLaren Racing and wearer of many hats, was reading the Financial Times off his tablet with the easy calm of a man who’d had two espresso shots already. He looked up suddenly, over the rim of his glasses, and said casually, “So. Are you going to tell me the deal with Oscar?”

Amelia blinked. "What deal?"

Zak gave her a look. “Amelia.”

She sighed, poked at the edge of her muffin. “He’s going to be a McLaren driver.”

Zak blinked owlishly at her. “Amelia…”

“I’m going to bring him here.” She told him. 

He slowly set the tablet down. “Interesting. And when were you planning on mentioning to me—the team boss and CEO—that this was happening?”

She tilted her head, almost sheepishly, though mostly matter-of-fact. “I knew if I asked, you'd say yes. So I was just waiting for the right time.”

Zak just stared at her.

Amelia shrugged. “It’s Oscar. Once he gets through this season of Alpine purgatory, he’ll be ours. And when he’s in papaya… I’ll come back. Officially. I’ll build you a car that wins championships. I have the designs ready. I’ll be Oscar’s race engineer too.”

Zak was quiet for a long moment. He rubbed his hands over his face, then looked at her with the begrudging mix of fatherly exasperation and professional admiration he often wore when talking to her. “You’re impossible,” he muttered. “You are actively working for Max Verstappen. And you have a car designed for us?”

Amelia just nodded, sipping her lukewarm coffee.

He leaned back, exhaling in shock. “You’re supposed to ask me to give you a job, not tell me that you’re going to restructure my entire staff.” 

She shrugged. “It’ll make you win. Isn’t that all that matters?”

He sighed. “And what about Lando? What does he think about all of this?”

“We talked about it, obviously. He doesn’t need me in his ear. He has me at home. That’s the difference.”

Zak smiled slowly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll talk to Andrea, honey, and you know it’d be incredible to have you working for McLaren officially, but…” 

She cut him off. “I don’t want to hear it. It’s useless. I’ll be here, and so will Oscar, and that’s how it’s going to be.”

He barked a laugh, shook his head, and gestured for the waiter. “I’ll need another coffee. It sounds like you’re planning a coup.”

Amelia giggled. 

— 

Max Fewtrell’s streaming camera was pointed at his gaming setup; Lando and Max shoulder to shoulder in their matching headsets, controllers in hand, squinting at the screen in total concentration. The Twitch chat was flying by at light speed, full of emojis and chaos, most of it delighting in the rare duo-stream. 

What made this stream a little different, though, what made it iconic, was the soft background chaos visible just beyond them. Behind the couch, nestled on a thick rug with pillows and snacks strewn everywhere, sat Amelia and Pietra cross-legged, utterly absorbed in a heated game of Monopoly. Amelia, in Lando’s oversized hoodie and fuzzy socks, was sorting her money into piles with ruthless efficiency. Pietra had a mischievous glint in her eye, hand hovering over a stack of hotels.

“…I swear to god, if you put another hotel on Park Lane, I’m going to flip the board,” Amelia muttered, tone flat but somehow more threatening than if she’d yelled.

“Mi amor, it’s a legitimate investment strategy,” Pietra countered sweetly.

“Your strategy is financial terrorism.” Amelia grunted. 

Max glanced at them over his shoulder, grinning. “They’ve been at that for two hours, chat.”

Lando didn’t look away from the screen. “Yeah, she’s gonna break the board. It’s only a matter of time, guys. Don’t clip it. You’ll embarrass her.” 

“Oh my god, you two,” Pietra said, glancing toward the camera, “This is a very serious game, much more serious than whatever you are playing!”

Max snorted. “Agree to disagree.”

From the floor, Amelia said without looking up, volume slowly raising, “Pietra, you’re on my hotel. No, don’t roll the dice, you’re on my hotel!”

Twitch chat exploded.

PIETRA MONOPOLY CHEATER CONFIRMED STOP THIS IS SENDING ME  HELP Bro Lando rly said ‘She will break the board’ like he knows from experience lmaoooo

On the floor, Amelia made a crisp transaction. “That’s four thousand pounds. You can pay in instalments, but I will be charging interest.”

Pietra groaned. “You’re worse than the IMF.”

Lando was laughing now, head falling back, nearly dropping his controller. “Amelia, baby, I love you, but you’ve got the most brutal capitalism streak I’ve ever seen.”

“Only when fake money is involved,” she said coolly. 

Max leaned into his mic and said to chat, deadpan, “In case anyone was wondering, yes, I am also surprised that this game is still somehow going.” 

The stream lasted two hours.

It was clipped and shared all over social media, labeled things like “Max & Lando try to game while Amelia ruins friendships via Monopoly” and “Quadrant’s Chaos Double Date”. Fans latched onto every bit of domestic hilarity, from Lando stealing a bite of Amelia’s cookie mid-stream to Pietra declaring herself “a capitalist queen” while mortgaging Mayfair.

It was absurd. Intimate. Hilarious. And it felt like a glimpse into something real.

By the end of the night, Monopoly had ended in dramatic silence (Amelia had won, obviously), Max and Lando had finally clinched a sweaty victory on stream, and someone, probably Lando, had convinced them all to order spring rolls at 1 a.m.

—

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ameliabrown fluffy hair i love that picture of you ❤️ by landonorris

landonorris love u baby

maxfewtrell Mate your barnet is a STATE

ameliabrown Shut up, Fewtrell 🔪

mclaren The cutest couple in the paddock🤩

user39 the pool pic. the amelia wrapped in a duvet pic. THE MATCHING BRACELETS?

user33 the amelia pic got me too..... she's so fucking cute and he's obviously SO IN LOVE

user18 everytime they post abt eachother im reminded how crazy it is that they're both 5 years younger than me and have established careers and are literally engaged i cant do this

—

Max sat in the cockpit of the RB18, gloves off, sweat clinging to his forehead despite the cool. Amelia stood beside him, one hand braced against the halo, the other flicking through telemetry sheets on her iPad.

“Can you tweak the steering calibration?” he asked, nodding toward the wheel. “Turn-in still feels a touch tight into Acque Minerali.”

Amelia nodded, thumbing in a few quick notes. “We’ll open the ratio a little between 60 and 120 degrees. Keep the weight where you like it, but you should get a bit more rotation without overworking your wrists.”

Max smiled faintly. “You’re so smart.”

She glanced at him, dry as ever. “I’m aware.”

He rolled his eyes good-naturedly, settling deeper into the cockpit as mechanics moved around them.

There was a comfortable silence for a moment. Then, casually, as she tapped in a few last changes to the wheel settings, she said, “Lando and I are thinking about getting married. Maybe around Silverstone.”

Max blinked. “What?”

Amelia didn’t look up. “We haven’t picked a date. But we’ve been looking. The summer break is too packed with testing and prep for Spa, so… Silverstone makes the most sense.”

Max stared at her. “This year?”

She finally met his eyes. “Yeah.”

He shook his head, but he was smiling now. “That’s fast.”

“You don’t object though?”

“To the steering setup? No. Feels good.”

She huffed a laugh. “Max….”

“To the wedding,” Max added, voice softer. “Also no. I do think it’s fast—very fast—but then, that’s a pretty big part of our world, isn’t it?”

Her expression didn’t shift much, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—gratitude, maybe. “Thanks,” she said. “You’ll be invited.”

“Gee, thanks,” Max teased, sitting back and flicking a switch on the wheel. “If I’d known there was any concern over having a seat at the Norris wedding, I’d have written it into your contract.”

Amelia tilted her head. “I was always planning to invite you, obviously, but it’s not official until you get an invitation.”

Max tilted his head at her. “I bet you already have at least five invitation designs picked out.”

She pursed her lips and looked away. 

Outside, the rain began to fall again, soft and steady on the roof of the garage. Max fiddled with the wheel as Amelia double-checked her notes.

“Silverstone, huh,” he said after a moment. She nodded. “You nervous?” He asked. 

“No,” Amelia said honestly. “I want to be his next of kin as soon as possible. It makes sense.”

Max studied her, thoughtful. “Yeah. I guess it does.”

— 

Amelia sat alone on the small balcony outside the team hospitality, her iPad balanced on her lap, untouched. The rain had cleared, but the air was still heavy with mist, soft droplets clinging to the railings. Below, the paddock was beginning to wind down, freight being packed, media finishing up their final takes, voices quieter than they’d been all weekend.

Max had won.

It felt triumphant. A clean weekend, pole to flag, fastest lap. It was the kind of result that justified everything; the long hours, the endless data, the sleepless debriefs. The RB18 had been flawless. The side-pod gamble was proving worth it.

But still… Amelia felt the kind of bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond just being tired. It was emotional fatigue. Mental strain. A thousand variables she’d juggled, most of which no one would ever see. She wasn’t unhappy, far from it, but there was a muteness to the pride. 

She exhaled through her nose, fingers picking at the edge of her iPad case.

Max was in media. Lando had finished fifth, solid, reliable, but a far cry from what she knew he could be. She hadn’t seen him yet. Just a brief nod across the paddock, the flash of his helmet in parc fermé, a thumbs up from afar.

She wanted to hug him. To tell him that fifth was good, that fifth, with the shit-box of a car he had, was better than good.

And maybe, selfishly, she wanted him to tell her she’d done a good job too.

Behind her, someone called her name, softly, respectfully, but she move right away.

She was thinking about the championship. About Max’s lead. About Ferrari’s early season strength, and what it would take to keep beating them. About what was waiting in Miami. 

And for a moment, just one, she let herself think about Silverstone; not the race, but the chapel just outside of Glastonbury, which she’d only seen one time, but knew it was where she could see herself getting married. 

—

May 2022 

The music was loud. The bass thumped through the floor, reverberated up through the soles of Amelia’s heels, but her earplugs softened the edges. The lights were neon and overwhelming — but the dress was soft against her skin, and Lando's hand was warm and solid on her hip.

She wasn’t drunk, not really. Just lightheaded from the adrenaline, the heat of the Miami night, the dizzy joy of watching Lando laugh and dance, glowing from a solid qualifying.

They were packed into the middle of the club — Lando, Daniel, Pierre, and a few others — a messy, writhing group of drivers letting off steam. Amelia was tucked under Lando’s arm, swaying with him to some Latin remix pulsing through the air.

“You okay?” He asked, ducking down so his voice hit her over the beat.

She nodded, smiling. “I’m good.”

“You’re beautiful.”

“Stop,” she said — not irritated, just amused. He never stopped saying it.

He didn’t. He kissed her instead, hands firm on her hips, and she laughed into his mouth.

They danced for hours. Bodies slick with sweat, her hair pulled back off her neck, Lando’s shirt half unbuttoned and clinging to his back. At one point, she swapped her heels for sneakers from the club's coat check. At another, he twirled her like they were at prom, and not in a nightclub.

By 2 a.m., they were both exhausted and dizzy like lovesick teenagers. Daniel shouted something about an afterparty, but Lando grabbed Amelia’s hand and shook his head.

“Nope,” he said. “I’ve got other plans.”

— 

They barely made it through the door.

Her back hit the wall, and Lando kissed her like he was starving. His hands were rough with need, but still gentle, one settling on her waist, the other cupping her jaw as he kissed her like she was something sacred.

Her dress slipped down her shoulders.

His shirt hit the floor.

It was just a little frantic. Warm. Familiar. Like gravity pulling them closer. He whispered her name when he pressed his forehead to hers.

She pulled him down to the bed.

And somewhere between the sound of the city outside and the rise of the Miami sun, they disappeared into each other completely.

— 

It happened fast.

Amelia wasn’t on comms for Lando, but she always had one ear tuned to his channel. Her tablet buzzed in her lap, live data scrolling, her focus split between Max’s telemetry and the multiple feeds in front of her.

And then suddenly; a yellow flag was shown in sector two.

She heard it before she saw it: the sharp bark of Lando’s voice over the radio, crackling with frustration, pain, impact. Her heart dropped into her stomach.

Camera switch. Replay.

Gasly. A misjudged overtake. Lando clipped, turned, spun around. A flying wheel.

Virtual safety car. 

Her breath stopped. For a second, maybe longer, the paddock felt silent. The world narrowed. Just white noise and static and the pounding of her pulse.

He was out of the car. Slowly. Helmet still on. He waved. She exhaled so sharply she felt dizzy.

Still. That wasn’t enough.

She excused herself from the Red Bull pit wall with a wordless nod and a clenched jaw, already walking, already texting someone from McLaren’s medical liaison team. 

They didn’t let her into the medical unit for ten minutes. He was sitting on the bed, still in his race suit, fireproofs peeled down to his waist, a bruise already blooming across his shoulder, his curls damp with sweat and adrenaline.

He looked up and softened instantly. “Hey, baby.”

She didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room in three steps and wrapped herself around him. Tight. Too tight. Her arms around his neck, her face pressed into his shoulder.

“I’m okay,” he murmured, hand rubbing her back.

“You could’ve not been,” she whispered. After a moment, she pulled back enough to look at him. Her fingers trembled as she reached up to touch his cheek. “We need to get married.”

Lando blinked, confused. “What?”

“Soon,” she said. “As soon as we can arrange it.” He studied her, reading the truth in her eyes — the vulnerability, the clarity. This wasn’t nerves or a whim. It was control. A way to make sense of a world where tomorrow was never promised.

His hand found hers. Squeezed. “Okay,” he said softly. “Then we will. As soon as you want.”

“Really?” She checked. 

“I’d marry you tomorrow in a Tesco car park if that’s what you wanted.” He told her. 

She gave a choked laugh. “Not Tesco.”

“Okay, fine. Waitrose.”

“Better.” She cracked a smile. 

He leaned forward and kissed her, gently, slowly. 

When they pulled apart, she glanced over her shoulder briefly before looking back at him and whispering, “The nurse doesn’t like me. She wouldn’t let me in here, even though I’m on your pre-approved list. I think we should have her fired.” 

Lando’s lips twitched, but God, she was so deadly serious, so he managed a nod and suppressed the urge to burst out laughing at the pure indignation on her face. “Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” 

— 

Their Monaco apartment was chaos. Controlled chaos, but chaos all the same.

Swatches of fabric were spread across the coffee table. A mood board with handwritten notes and clippings from bridal magazines sat balanced on the arm of the sofa. There were open tabs on Amelia’s laptop — five venues, four florists, and a document titled 'Ceremony Logistics: Sound, Seating & Sensory'. A printed-out Google calendar stuck to the wall with blue tack had been torn down and replaced three times that morning already.

Amelia stood barefoot in the middle of it all, wearing a sports bra and pair of leggings, a highlighter in one hand and her phone cradled between shoulder and ear. “No, I don’t want peonies,” she was saying sharply. “They’re pretty, but they’re uncontrollable. And they smell too strong—no, I—no, listen, lilies are fine. But white ones. Nothing dyed!”

Lando was on the sofa, half-wrapped in a throw blanket, trying to keep his eyes open as he scrolled half-heartedly through a list of DJs on her iPad. He wasn’t sure if he had a fever or if the apartment had just decided to become a sauna, but his skin felt tight and his throat had been sore since yesterday.

He sneezed.

Amelia, mid-call, snapped her fingers toward him and mouthed, “Bless you.”

He gave a thumbs up.

She hung up a moment later and dropped onto the sofa beside him, crossing her legs under herself and immediately launching into the her next focus. “Okay, so my dress fitting is next week, and then the invitations go out by—”

“Babe,” Lando croaked, barely above a whisper.

She blinked, mid-sentence. “What?”

“I love you,” he said, eyes squinting in that way she’d come to recognize as his version of ‘please don’t be mad, but I’m dying.’ “But I think I might be losing the will to live.”

Amelia paused. Really looked at him.

His curls were flat. His eyes glassy. His skin was a little pale, flushed around the cheeks. His voice? Wrecked. She frowned. “You’re sick.”

“No,” he said too quickly. “Just a bit run down. Fine. I’m fine.”

“Lando.” She said, unimpressed by his attempt. 

He coughed. A rasping one that came from deep in his chest.

She reached out and touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “You have a fever.”

“I just love you so much it’s giving me a temperature,” he joked weakly.

She didn’t laugh. Just climbed into his lap gently, settled her forehead against his. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

He shrugged, closing his eyes. “You’re happy. Planning. You’ve got your little colour-coded lists and your spreadsheets and your anti-guest-scent policy. I didn’t wanna ruin it.”

Her heart pinched. She brushed her fingers through his curls, voice softening. “You’re not ruining anything. You’re my favourite part.”

He smiled, tired and a little loopy. “Even when I sound like Kermit the Frog?”

“Especially then.”

She kissed his temple, pressed her cheek to his. “Alright. Wedding planning on pause.”

He hummed. “For how long?”

“Until you’re back to yourself,” she said. She tucked the blanket tighter around him and reached for the remote. “Tea?”

“Chamomile?”

“You want sleepy tea in the middle of the day?” She teased.

“I want my tonsils to evaporate.”

Amelia nodded solemnly. “Okay. I can do the tea.”

As she moved around the kitchen, humming under her breath, Lando watched her with drooping eyelids and the softest kind of smile. Even sick, even overwhelmed, he knew one thing with absolute clarity — he’d marry her a thousand times over.

—

Lando shuffled into the bathroom, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, nose red, throat raw. He was just looking for toothpaste. That was it. Just toothpaste.

What he found instead was the object sitting innocently on the counter: white plastic, digital screen, slim body. Rectangular. Familiar. Terrifying.

A pregnancy test.

He froze.

His brain clicked into overdrive.

‘No. No, we’ve been careful. Haven’t we? Wait, maybe not that one time in Miami, but that was— Oh my god. Oh my god. She's been more tired lately. And weird about food. And I’m sick — what if she’s sick too, but not with a cold?—‘

He blinked down at the object, heart thudding.

It lit up.

Lando screeched.

Without thinking, he jumped away from it like it was radioactive. His pulse was in his ears. His fevered brain was already building a nursery in his head. He was googling prenatal vitamins in his mind. He was buying a Volvo. He was calling Zak to ask for paternity leave and then apologise for knocking up his only daughter.

He was— He was—

The front door clicked open.

“Lando?” Amelia’s voice echoed through the apartment. “I got your antibiotics. And some cough syrup. They only had the cherry flavour, sorry.”

He burst out of the bathroom. “Stay away from me!” He pointed at her.

She blinked. Stopped. “What?”

“I don’t want the baby getting sick!” He said, suddenly extremely defensive, halfway between panicked and protective. “You shouldn’t be carrying heavy bags either! And you shouldn’t be walking around in this heat—wait, did you eat? You need to be eating properly, and we need to call a doctor—wait, did you see a doctor? How long have you known?”

Amelia stared at him, completely blank. “…What baby?”

Lando gestured wildly toward the bathroom. “The baby from the pregnancy test!”

Amelia squinted, took two slow steps toward the bathroom, peered in. And then started snorted. “Oh my god,” she said, “you mean the thermometer?” She asked. He blinked. She walked in, pulled the digital thermometer off the counter and held it up. “The thing I used this morning to check your temperature for the doctor?”

Lando looked from her to the object and back. “…Oh.”

She was wide-eyed, staring at him. “You freaked out over a thermometer.”

“I was mentally preparing to raise a child,” he mumbled, half-offended, half-relieved.

“A nonexistent child,” she said, handing him his antibiotics. “You should’ve seen your face. Funny.” She giggled a little. 

He took the blister pack sheepishly. “I think I’m still feverish.”

Amelia made a face. “Sure, we’ll blame the fever.”

He tugged her gently into a hug. “So no baby?”

“No baby,” she confirmed. 

He exhaled dramatically. “Well, now I feel kind of disappointed.”

“Lando.” She frowned at him. 

“…Eventually,” he corrected, kissing her forehead. “Like, in five years. When you’ve had time to design a pram with a DRS button.”

She snorted. “Shut up. Take your medicine.”

He popped the pill, made a face. “Ew.”

“Use water, Lando!” 

— 

The bathroom tiles were cold under Amelia’s feet. She was sat on the closed toilet lid, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, phone clenched between her fingers.

She stared at the pregnancy test box on the counter. It sat there like a challenge. Or maybe a joke. A very unfunny one.

She hit the call button.

Pietra answered on the third ring, already squinting. “Did you eat lunch?”

Amelia didn’t answer that. Instead, she blurted, “I think I might be pregnant.”

There was a beat. Then Pietra leaned back in her chair, blinked once, twice. “Do you want me to freak out with you?”

Amelia exhaled. “I don’t think I am. I don’t know. I… I’m probably not. I’m just— spiralling. A bit.”

“Okay. Spiral gently,” Pietra said. “What made you think it?”

“Lando freaked out over the thermometer,” Amelia admitted. “Thought it was a test. Got all serious. Protective. Said he didn’t want to get the baby sick. There’s no baby. But then I started thinking—what if?”

Pietra was already opening FaceTime. Amelia accepted the call and was met with Pietra’s patient, knowing eyes. “Are you late?”

“No,” Amelia said. “But I thought my boobs felt weird. But I also had too much salt yesterday, so maybe that’s it? And I thought I was nauseous but it was just the smell of the weird cheese Jon had Lando put on his pizza last night.”

Pietra smiled gently. “So you’re inventing symptoms.”

“Yes,” Amelia mumbled. “I’m hyper-fixating. I know I am. But now I can’t stop.”

“Well,” Pietra said, “we’re going to need to see it through, then.”

“I already bought the test,” Amelia admitted. “It’s like… right there.”

Pietra nodded, her voice soft. “I’m right here. Take it.”

The test took five minutes to give a result after she’d peed on it. Amelia paced the bathroom the entire time, muttering about hormone levels and false negatives and how she hadn’t even finished building the new simulator yet, and how could she possibly begin Oscar’s championship preparation if she had a baby on her hip.

When the timer beeped, she turned the stick over.

Negative.

She exhaled, sharp and tight. And then, to her own surprise—tears pricked at her eyes.

Pietra saw it happen in real time, through the screen. “Oh, honey…”

“I’m not upset,” Amelia said quickly, swiping at her face. “I’m not—I didn’t want it to be positive. Not really. I’m not ready. We’re not ready. But… I don’t know. I’m crying. I think I’m relieved. But also—”

“You’re sad,” Pietra finished for her. “And that’s okay. You want it, Amelia. Of course you do. But it’s okay to not get everything you want right away.”

Amelia sat back down, sniffling. “I think… I want it someday. I didn’t even know that about myself. But now it’s there and I can’t un-know it.”

Pietra smiled gently, resting her chin on her hand. “That’s how it starts. One ‘what if’ and suddenly your heart is a bit bigger than it was yesterday.”

Amelia looked down at the negative test. “I’m glad it’s not now.”

“Then it’s the right result,” Pietra said. 

They sat in silence for a while. Pietra waited until Amelia’s breathing calmed, until her shoulders dropped from around her ears. Then she grinned. “Want to watch something dumb and distract yourself?”

Amelia nodded. “Please. No babies. No weddings. No surprise pregnancies.”

“I’m putting on The Grand Tour.”

“Ugh, so much worse.”

Pietra laughed. 

— 

They finally had something to celebrate. 

Amelia was sat on the pit wall steps, headset still around her neck, the red imprint from the ear-pads marking her cheeks. The Spanish sun was going soft with late afternoon light, golden and hazy. Her eyes followed Max through the crowd; he was somewhere between smug and exhausted, hugging the engineers one by one, helmet tucked under his arm.

He’d earned this one.

“Ferrari almost had us at the start of the season,” Amelia said quietly, almost to herself. “But I think we might have won out with these new upgrades.”

Adrian nodded. “We’re quicker over the distance. And Max—Max is relentless when he has a point to prove.”

She nodded. Smiled. “He is.”

The race had started out tense. Charles had pole. Max’s DRS had been temperamental all weekend, the kind of small gremlin that could derail a championship effort in the early stages. But Charles’ engine had given up on lap 27, and Max had kept pushing—team orders and all. The one-two with Checo sealed it. It wasn’t just a win.

It was a statement.

Max was, once again, the championship leader. Eleven points clear of Charles now.

Amelia stood slowly, body tired but blood still buzzing from the win. She glanced back once toward the Red Bull garage before walking out toward the paddock.

Max caught her eye through the crowd, grinned with that glinting, boyish confidence. She gave him a cheesy grin in return. She didn’t need to say anything.

He already knew.

—

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landonorris you are the most beautiful girl in the world i dont understand how ur mine

user62 does he have her post notifications on because brother is ALWAYS the first comment jfc

pietra.pilao BEAUTIFUL GIRL. I NEED YOUR WARDROBE ❤️ by ameliabrown

maxverstappen1 What a great memory!

ameliabrown Many gin tonics for the championship leader

user53 ok own up to it. who showed amelia the instagram filter button

—

June 2022 

Baku was brutal.

Straight-line speed ruled the weekend, and the Red Bull's superior DRS efficiency gave Max the edge Amelia had quietly hoped for, though the porpoising issue across the grid was now impossible to ignore. Ferrari’s reliability crumbled in spectacular fashion, both Leclerc and Sainz retiring due to engine issues. 

Amelia spent most of Sunday hunched over telemetry graphs and searching for tire degradation patterns in the data. Max drove flawlessly, no unnecessary inputs, no late braking where it wasn’t earned. Just clean, mechanical dominance. She loved it.

In the hotel room that night, Lando sat on the floor, surrounded by colour swatches and lighting samples for the wedding reception tent while Amelia talked about marzipan roses and 3D-printed miniature diffuser centrepieces. He didn’t understand a single one, but he was happy.

He also very gently asked if they could maybe not have a gearbox motif on the wedding cake.

She ignored him.

— 

Canada was damp and delicate. The rain had come early in the weekend, turning FP1 into nothing more than a data scrub and giving Amelia a migraine from the constant argument over full wets or inters.

Ferrari’s pace returned, but their strategy floundered, because of course it did.

Lando’s McLaren struggled with top-end performance; not enough power on the straights, and not enough downforce through Turn 10 to make up for it. Amelia scribbled a few notes in her personal notebook, airflow direction at the rear wing junction was still too chaotic, and added them to her "Future Oscar Setup" binder.

Max won. Barely. Carlos had been on his tail for the last ten laps. But it was enough.

The wedding planner sent Amelia a text about flower availability mid-qualifying, and she replied with a 14-item bullet point list between timing sectors. Later that night, back in the hotel, she realised she'd colour-coded the seating chart using FIA compound codes (white = hard family, yellow = medium friends, red = soft VIPs), and Lando nearly died laughing.

“Why are you like this?” He said, still giggling as she shoved a pen behind her ear.

Amelia just shrugged, already halfway through redesigning the table centrepieces to match the McLaren heritage livery.

— 

Amelia stirred her iced coffee once, twice. Didn’t drink it. Her hair was still slightly damp from the rain. Across from her, Mark Webber leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his head instead of his nose; that told her everything. He looked like he hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

“Alpine still thinks they have him locked in,” he said. His voice was low, even. “They’re pushing a narrative that doesn't match the contracts.”

Amelia didn’t flinch. “And McLaren?”

“Waiting. Quietly. Playing the long game, just like you said.” He studied her face. “How long have you been planning this?”

She didn’t hesitate. “Since Abu Dhabi 2020.” Her mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “I knew if Oscar was even half the driver I thought he was, it’d be worth it. And it turns out he’s more.”

Mark nodded once, slowly. “You always did have good taste in underdogs.”

“I’m marrying one,” she said dryly.

Mark laughed, the tension in his shoulders loosening for half a second. “Touche.”

There was a pause. Amelia finally sipped her coffee, it had gone warm.

“They’re going to fight us on this,” he said. “Hard.”

“I know,” Amelia replied. “But Oscar isn’t theirs. Not really. You and I both know it. They’ve kept him on ice too long. And if they push… I’ll make noise.”

Mark raised a brow. “Since when do you do noise?”

She gave him a look. “I do precision noise. Controlled chaos. Just enough to shake the right cages.”

Another beat.

“Zak knows?” Mark asked.

“I told him what was going to be happening,” she said. “But when the time comes, I’ll give him the whole picture. And he’ll want it too. Oscar. The car. The future. Me.”

Mark rubbed the back of his neck, thinking. “It’s a good thing Oscar’s worth it.”

“I know he is,” Amelia said. “And I’m going to be there when he proves it.”

NEXT CHAPTER

[jarofstyles]

Blossom

In which Harry is hard but Y/N is his soft place to land. People have doubts over her being able to handle the alpha, considering her cashmere and tea like demeanor, but something about it evens out. 

Check out our Patreon for early access and 250+ exclusive writings and series!

WC- 6.3k

Warnings- supernatural themes, wolfrry, possessive behavior, threats, obsessed tbh, soul mates, smut, biting, knotting, breeding, praise kink, worship!

—-

“My Blossom.” The alpha spoke lowly, watching as his mate approached him. Something was wrong- something was bothering her. He could smell it- and he didn’t like it. “Why are you wilted, my love?” 

It was his way of asking her why she was upset. Usually, she was upbeat. Chirpy. Cooing and grinning, moving slowly with the air of comfort radiating around her. Warmth was her aura, and people tended to feel it. Even Harry’s closed off demeanor had felt it the first time he had seen her- but today, she seemed to have cooled down.

Her scent was always the first indicator that something was amiss, the sweet honey and jasmine tinged with the smoke of a candle blown out too soon. It was the most obvious alert, but he could see it very clearly. She was trying to act alright, but that precious smile didn’t reach her eyes- and it pissed him off. If it were just a documentary bothering her, having accidentally stepped on a bee, burning a batch of cookies or something he could soothe away with a few purrs, she would say so. Communication was usually never an issue with them.

She didn’t come out and say it, meaning something had pissed her off.

Something he was going to deal with. 

“I’m okay, my Moon.” Stepping into his vacinity she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame, hands finding his chest with another weaker smile. Like he wouldn’t see that her eyes weren’t crinkled just the tiniest bit like normal. “It is nothing of importance. I’m fine.” 

Of course he didn’t buy it. Pawing at her waist, he backed her up into the counter before lifting her up on to it. His gaze was intense, searching her thoroughly as he tried to get it out of her. There were no marks or bruises on her, no sign of physical pain, so that was something- but an emotional bruise could hurt just as much, if not worse. 

His hands settled on her waist possessively, pulling her closer as he towered over her seated form on the countertop. "Look at me." He growled lowly, his eyes searching hers for any sign of deceit. He could smell the lie on her, the faint scent of bitter herbs hiding beneath her usual sweet aroma. Nothing displeased him more than her pain. Emotional, physical, it irritated him more than most would consider rational- but he tried to be, for her benefit. Y/N hated making him upset at all. She did whatever she could to avoid tripping the delicate wire that was his temper. Not because he was ever aggressive with her, but he was quick to satiate his thirst for revenge. An eye for an eye. The preferred method for the mother of the pack was peace, calm, order. The complete opposite, balancing him out. This time, though, he didn’t seem too keen on letting it be brushed under the rug. 

 "Who upset you?" His tone left no room for argument, his alpha voice rumbling slightly as he demanded answers. The slightly sharp tone was paired with the sweet stroke over her cheek, trying to sooth any sting the tone may have. Harry didn’t want her to feel like he was upset with her, but not knowing what upset the love of his life was infuriating.

“I am alright, Alpha.” She whispered, cupping his face in her hands. “It is simply the wind bringing in the weeds. Soon it will blow over.” Her fingertips scratched slightly over his stubble, letting out a soft little sigh for him. Her sweet, stubborn man. The leader of the pack had to be, and he was born for it- but it was hard to calm the fires he was impulsive to start when it came to her. “I was made aware that some members of our pack simply do not understand our dynamic, my Moon. And that is alright.” It did upset her, though. He could smell that and she knew it, but she also knew his temper. Harry usually was a fair alpha to his pack despite his temper, especially since she had mated with him, and she didn’t want him losing his head over something so trivial.

"Blossom..." He caught her wrist gently but firmly, bringing her hand down from his face to press a kiss against her palm. Her sweet touches only partially distracted him from the rising storm inside. The wolf pressed against his mind, insisting they protect their mate from the unseen threats, pacing like he was locked in a cage. Always a fighter, it had still taken Harry by surprise how bloodthirsty he could become when it came to Y/N.

 "You think I won't gut every creature who looked at you wrong today?" The words were a dark whisper against her skin, the alpha tone heavier. Enough to make her let out an almost silent whine as she squirmed just a bit, giving him a look. “No, none of that.” Tapping against her chin, he searched her eyes. “You come in looking wilted and sad. Who has taken your time in the sun, sweet one?” Nudging her nose with his own, he knew it was a dirty play to make her fess up, but she responded to his sweetness. “Hm? Just let me know what was said.”

“Harry.” She sighed, letting her eyes close. “It truly is trivial. I promise. I had just…” Swallowing the lump that had materialized in her throat, she leaned into him and let their forehead press together. The closeness usually helped. “People have been talking… questioning me today, actually. About if I think I will be able to handle you at your worst.” She started off slow, running her hands down his shoulders. Trying to keep him calm, feeling his body tense up as she spoke. His hackles were raised. 

“Some of the warriors, they were speaking to me in the great hall. They were warning me of how you are during times of war. In battle. About how you almost went feral, and they said that I seem very… soft.” It didn’t offend her that they thought she was soft because she was. Y/N took pride in it. But softness didn’t equate to being weak. “They had said in passing they had expected you to mate with a fierce warrior. Someone with more bite, who could keep up with you. I suppose it upset me because I am not that. I’ve never wanted to be. I know my strengths, but.. Hearing that some of our pack think we are not well matched? It displeases the soul connection.” To her wolf. It had angered her, and Y/N hated feeling angry. The inky black feeling swirling through her body was not a common one she felt and it was one she wanted to rid herself of.

A low growl rumbled in his chest as he processed her words, his grip tightening slightly on her hips. The audacity of any of the pack to question their bond, to doubt the strength of his gentle mate... Considering the kindess she showed every day? The meals she planned, the baskets she had started to put together for families expecting pups? Did they really not know how badly his nerves needed some calm, some sweetness? Y/N was his match in every sense of the word. The goddess wouldn’t have paired them together if that wasn’t the case. Hearing the surely censored version from her -because she was still being a pack mother and protecting them-, it set his blood aflame with barely contained fury. The disrespect. The disgusting lack of gratitude. It was unfathomable.

 "Listen to me very carefully, Blossom." His voice was velvet over steel, each word precisely enunciated while trying to keep it softer for her sake. "Our connection goes far beyond mere strength or fierceness of a warrior. Your fierceness lies in putting up with me.” He tried to soften his tone with a joke but it didn’t really work. The anger was festering and he wanted to know who exactly said it. Most of all, he wanted her to never let those words bother her because none of them knew what he needed. Only she would ever have the slightest clue of what he would need.

 “You are my anchor in every storm, my light in the darkest of nights. The only reason I have not set out to find who it is that is spreading this disgusting lie, this delusion that anyone but you would ever be remotely capable of knowing my needs, is because you soothe me. Like your teas do for you, your presence does for my entire being. Wolf and all.” Needing the skin contact, he slipped his hand under her top, feeling the warmth of her back. “Do you see? You understand how I just calmed, just by touching your bare skin?” His voice dropped to a rasp, shaking his head. “They will never know what I need. You, my mate from the stars, are the only thing I will ever need.”

Y/N let out a sigh in response, relaxing a little as he spoke his truth to her. Not once did she doubt that he thought these things, not once did she doubt her connection to him- but it had hurt to hear people think she wasn’t the correct woman for him. That they thought he could do better. Some of it was from obvious jealousy, considering some of the very wolves saying the things were warriors themselves, but it still did not feel good. The alpha female would be the first to admit she was sensitive, she always had been- but it also bothered her to know they doubted their alpha’s bond.

She could see why they’d be jealous. Harry was powerful in every sense of the word. He was handsome, intelligent, strong, able to lead effortlessly. There was nothing about him that would turn off a wolf looking for a mate to protect them and provide the best life- but he was hers. Y/N owned his heart.

His heart ached as he felt her relax against him, her warmth that he adored so much seeping into his hand. He hated that she had to hear such nonsense, hated that it hurt her- lies. Pure and utter shit lies that had him feeling the flames of anger flicking back to his stomach. "I swear to the moon and back, Blossom, no one knows me like you do. You see things in me that I don't even see myself.” His mate would never be able to truly know how much it had shocked him from their first meeting until now, how she could read him. How she knew what he needed at all times, even if he tried to deny it of himself.  

“And as for needing someone stronger, fiercer... that is complete shit. They have no idea what you do for me. How you uplift me, keep me strong on your own terms. They don't understand that your gentle strength is the very thing that keeps me grounded."

Harry's voice dropped to a whisper, his breath ghosting over her ear as he pulled her impossibly closer. "You are the shield that guards my feral nature from emerging and becoming everyone’s problem. You saved me from losing myself. You, my love, are the soft melody that soothes the savage beast within me." His instincts urged him to protect her, to hunt down those who dared speak ill of his mate- the mother of the pack, no less. Yet, he held back, knowing she needed gentleness, not brutality. It would be dealt with, no doubt, but she would be put above that. That’s the way it would always remain. "Anyone can battle, but only you can give me peace. Only you can quiet the storm inside me."

As he whispered those words into her ear, he felt her melt into him, her smaller frame pressing against his built one like a puzzle piece. Her scent seemed to wrap around him, sweet honey and jasmine filling his senses- calming the beast within him further. Her breathing hitched slightly, a soft whimper escaping her lips as she nuzzled into his neck, seeking out comfort and reassurance that only he could offer her.

The sound of her soft whimper was music to his ears, the gentle vibrations traveling through his chest as he held her close. He responded with a purr of his own,  stroking her back soothingly. His scarred hand rubbed the bare skin with comforting circles as he pressed kisses to her hair. "Hush, my love... my gentle soul. None of that matters. What matters is you and I, our bond, our love. Nothing and no one can ever change that." His voice was a warm blanket, wrapping around her and keeping the chill of doubt at bay.

Harry could feel her frame shaking slightly, not from cold but from the emotional turmoil she had endured today trying to release itself. It infuriated him that anyone had made his angel of a mate feel this way, but he focused on soothing her instead of hunting down the culprits immediately.  If this had been before she had worked her magic on him, any other true problem, he would have snapped. Attacked. But his priorities had shifted. "Blossom..." He murmured, his voice low and rumbling, "Look at me, please."

Slowly, she lifted her head, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears as they met his gaze. The sight of her grief pierced his heart like a dagger, his instincts yet again screaming at him to eliminate whatever had caused her distress. But he swallowed his fury, choosing instead to drink in the beauty of her vulnerable expression. "There she is," he whispered, thumb gently wiping away a stray tear that dared to trickle down her soft cheek. "My fierce, tender flower."

He pressed gentle kisses to her forehead, her cheeks, her nose, her jawline, and finally her lips- each one a silent promise of his unwavering love and protection. His touch was worship, as if he were praising every contour of her face with his lips. Perhaps he was. It’s what an angelic being like her deserved. Too fucking sweet for the likes of the beasts that tried to steal that sweetness from her. It belonged to him. She belonged to him as he belonged to her, and that was going to be made very clear.  Between each kiss, he murmured soothing words against her skin, peppering his own affection in the ways he knew how. How she’d taught him. "You're perfect. Made of the stars. Brave. Mine. Always mine." His hands cradled her face, his calloused thumbs caressing her smooth skin in a soothing rhythm.

He loved her with a power that had previously been unknown to him- and now that he was more than familiar with it? The people who had made her question it were going to find out. 

——

When Harry walked into the training ground, they knew immediately. It was a change in the air, like the birds stilling in the trees. Nature knew he was angry. With his broad shoulders back and his expression like stone, it was hard to miss. The harsh lines of his face were accentuated by his jaw ticking slightly. His eyes were dark, almost black, his entire body language screamed "danger". He was silent, deadly, and someone was in for it. No one spoke as he entered, the wolves freezing mid-training. They knew that look.

Each step echoed off of the trees deliberately, measured, as he approached the front of the training grounds. His presence was a storm front, cold and heavy enough that the other wolves began to shift nervously. He didn't need to bark orders, didn't need to raise his voice. The pure menace rolling off him in waves was more than enough. "Who was speaking about my mate?" His voice was quiet in volume, but it cut through the air like a blade.

The group exchanged uneasy looks. None wanted to be the one to answer. They had seen Harry lose his shit before, but never like this. Never so controlled. So dangerously still. It was silent for a while, looks nervously thrown to one another. They knew what he was talking about, but no one wanted to speak out. Not when he looked that angry. It took a few minutes of uncomfortable silence before one of the bravest, or perhaps dumbest, Grace, stepped forward slightly. "Alpha?" She tested the waters carefully. "We were- it was just chatting shit. Teasing. You know how it goes." She tried to laugh it off, but it fell flat. Nothing about this was a joking matter. Multiple people winced at her attempt to try and be casual with the Alpha, but there was nothing they could do. 

The forest seemed to echo the unnatural silence as Harry's eyes snapped to her. "So you think she's not good enough?" His voice was deadly soft, head tilting slightly. "You think you have the right to question her worth? To question our bond?" He took a step closer to Grace, towering over her. Not just in physical presence, but in power. His eyes flashed with a primal fury that made her take a step back. "She's the heart of this pack. The very air that we breathe. And you dare to speak ill of her?" His voice rose, reverbing through the trees. "I should rip out your throat for even thinking such things, let alone trying to speak them out loud. Cut out your tongue. I thought you would be able to put pathetic jealousy to the side and embrace having a pack mother, but I overestimated some of you." The other wolves shifted uncomfortably, suddenly very interested in the ground. They knew he was correct. His anger wasn’t misplaced. No alpha took well to their mates being threatened.

"I should line you up and demand the names of anyone whose goal was to make my mate upset. Make you suffer the same amount of days as the tears I’ve cleansed her face of. It’s what anyone deserved after disrespecting not only the pack mother, but the alpha himself. Any disrespect on her is a disrespect to me.” His snarl was deep as he watched them flinch. It pleased him, in a sick way. They should be scared to upset her. 

“I think you all have gotten a bit too comfortable with her kindness. I am not as kind as her. I have a penchant for revenge and you all know how I handle that in this pack. I should kill you all for trying to place doubt on my soul tie.” He said after a long moment, his snarling voice returning to that deadly calm. "But I won't. Because she asked me not to. My mate is kind, forgiving. Things I am not. She thinks you're misguided, not malicious." 

He looked out at the group, his gaze icy and unforgiving. "But let me make one thing clear. If I ever hear such talk again, if I ever sense even a hint of disrespect towards my mate, the matriarch of this god damn pack? There will be consequences." He paused, letting his words sink in. There was no denying that Harry would make good on his word. He always did.

Harry took one last glance around the circle of startled wolves, ensuring his message had sunk in thoroughly. His stance remained rigid, hands clenched at his sides as he battled the lingering urge to discipline physically, let out the anger. But for his mate's sake, he restrained himself. She was asleep in their bed with swollen eyes, and that simply wouldn’t do. Getting back to her was the priority. "Understood?" He growled, awaiting their confirmation with barely concealed impatience. The weight of his gaze pressed down on them, demanding verbal acknowledgment of the unspoken rules he'd just laid out.

The chorus of “Yes, Alpha.” Wasn’t good enough for his wolf- but it would do for now. 

—— 

As Harry slipped back into their shared room, he moved with a practiced quiet, not wanting to disturb his sleeping mate. The soft moonlight filtering through the closed sheer curtains illuminated her peaceful form, curled up beneath the blankets like a little lump. Her body was turned away from the door, one of his pillows between her arms as she snoozed- most likely to get his scent close. He shouldn’t have had to leave her at all so she had the scent from the source, but it had been a necessary sacrifice. 

Quickly shedding his clothes, the fabric rustled softly in the still room as he kicked it to the side. The laundry basket would have to wait for tomorrow. With no shame of his nudity he carefully climbed into bed beside her, slipping under the blankets to share his body heat with her. He inched closer, his larger frame spooning around her smaller one as he placed a few kisses to her bare shoulder.

Rubbing his nose into the crook of her neck, the man took a deep inhale of the purest source of her. The familiar sweet scent of honey and jasmine soothed his frayed nerves, undoing some of the tension that had his bones creaking. There was no cure like the feeling of the one person in the world that was hand plucked by the goddess herself. Nothing could compare. His arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her back flush against his chest as his hand rested over her soft stomach. Even in sleep, she let out a content sigh and wiggled back against him, seeking out his warmth. His hardness pressed against her backside, but he ignored it for now. This moment was about comfort, not lust.

“Where were you?” Well… with her not as asleep as he thought, he let out a hum as he inhaled her scent again. Y/N was sleepy, sure, but her hands rested over his own rubbing over the backs of them, over his knuckles and fingers.

"Training grounds." He murmured lowly, exhaustion in his voice. He knew she was checking his hands for bruises, for cuts, his knuckles for any splits. She always did that when he was gone too long. He loved that she worried about him, that she checked his body for damage- but he had promised not to lose his temper and torture anyone in her name tonight. He had made good on that promise- even when it was extremely hard. "Why are y’up?" He called softly. "Are you alright?"

“I’m alright, my Moon.” She nodded, leaning back into him. “I just can not manage to sleep well when you aren’t in the bed with me. Especially when I don’t know wherever it is you’ve run off to. Sneaky”

"Mmhmm." He hummed skeptically, pulling her into him. He knew she wasn't sleeping well without him, but he had to handle it soon or he would go crazy letting he anger fester. "M’sorry, my petal. I had to make sure they knew you were to be respected. That is all." He asked, his voice low as he felt her fingers splaying over his knuckles again, searching for any signs of injury as she was given the other one. 

"Stop worrying about my hands, love." He murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple as he interlaced his fingers with hers deliberately, halting her inspection. "They're fine. I kept my word, didn't fight anyone." He reiterated softly, squeezing her hand gently to reassure her. His breath tickled her ear as he nestled closer, feeling himself settle a little bit. This was the meaning of life, he was pretty positive. To be laid up in bed with the love of his life. To protect her and keep her happy. All of those things felt like the best thing to do.

She let out a content sigh, her body melting into his as she squeezed their intertwined fingers. The relief was palpable, her shoulders sagging slightly as the tension drained from her muscles. "Thank you, Harry." She whispered, her voice thick with both the interrupted sleep and multitude of emotions. "I know it's hard for you to hold back, especially when it comes to protecting me. But... thank you for keeping your promise."

"For you? Anything." The Alpha mumbled into her hair. The way she trusted him, even when he was clearly wound up... it meant everything. "Go back to sleep, beautiful Blossom." He whispered, pressing a soft kiss to her shoulder. "Need your sleep." But he didn't move away yet.

Unable to ignore the hardness pressing insistently against her ass cheeks, Y/N squirmed, grinding back against him. Sleep was not on her mind now that he had come back. The breathy little moan that escaped her lips betrayed her body's awakening desires, even if her mind was still fuzzy with sleep. Harry growled softly into her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he stiffened further against her. "Sleeping beauty," he murmured huskily, "don't wiggle your perfect little ass like that unless you want me to do something about it."

 She needed the sleep, sure, but if she tempted him… Harry would give her what she needed. What she deserved. His body was hers in whatever way she needed it. The erection was a natural reaction to being so close to her own naked body, but he knew that if she continued he would have little time before he lost restraint and pushed into her plush little cunt.

He waited for her response. Would she go back to sleep like an angel? Or would she grind against him again, seeking out friction? His body was tense, his length throbbing against her backside. If she gave one little hitch of her hips, he would spread those lush thighs apart and slip inside. He was an Alpha, he had a lot of repressed feelings from today and he hasn’t been able to completely release them yet. He was already hanging by a thread. The fact she was naked and his body was wrapped around her wasn't helping any bit of self control he had.

As she remained still for a few moments, he let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding in his chest. But then, without warning, she gave a subtle shift of her hips, rubbing her ass against his cock- and what was left of Harry's control snapped like a twig. He groaned, his hands gripping her hips tightly as he pushed her thighs apart and notched his head against her entrance. "Fuck, baby..." He hissed, feeling how sweet and sticky she was. Her cunt was always perfect but he especially appreciated it today. Slick, like she had been waiting for this exact thing. Always waiting for his cock. “S’good. Good little pussy…” The words were slurred against her throat, holding her still as he pushed the thick tip further into her.

Her lips parted in a silent gasp as he entered her, back arching slightly from the sudden- but welcomed- intrusion. Though they'd made love countless times, the sheer size of him never failed to take her breath away. One of her hands went for his wrist, nails digging in as she anchored herself. A whimper escaped her, muffled against the pillow as he buried himself deeper. The feeling of him inside of her was more satisfying than anything else she had experienced- Having her mate so close to her was a dream. She felt her inner walls flutter around him, welcoming him home.

Her reaction spurred him on, his hips starting to move in a slow, deep rhythm. Each thrust was measured, designed to make her feel as good as possible. It was all instinct at this point, knowing exactly how she liked it because they were designed in the stars to compliment each other. His forehead pressed against her shoulder, breath coming in short pants as he focused on the feeling of her wrapped around snugly him. "So fucking tight." He groaned, his fingers flexing on her soft skin. "Missed this. Missed you. Missed being inside my girl..." It didn’t matter if he had fucked her awake this morning, it was never enough. “So good.” His voice was ragged, filled with hints of that primal need that had been clawing at him all day long.

"Sweetest flower..." The Alpha breathed against her ear, thrusting slower but deeper. Each careful push hitting that spot inside her that made her mewl. His free hand slid down to toy with her clit, knowing exactly how sensitive she was there, feeling her tighten up around him as he found the swollen little thing. Her slick coated both his cock and fingers, the sound of their fucking filling the quiet room. "Feel how perfectly you take me? You were made just for me..." His teeth nipped at her neck, holding her in place while he continued to worship her body. “This pussy was made t’take this cock all the way in.”

"Harry..." She panted, her voice going up an octave. He knew that voice. Knew that she was getting there. Knew that she was loving how he filled her up. Her inner muscles tightened around his length, sucking him deeper. 

"Mmhmm?" He hummed, his fingers swirling around her clit faster. He knew her body better than she knew herself sometimes. Like how she liked to be touched. Like how she liked to be kissed. Like how she liked to be stretched around him. He could hear it in her voice every single time, the slight hitching, the way she was panting his name. He knew she was begging without actually begging. 

"You need something, petal?" He growled, his fingers pausing their swirling motion. "You need me deeper? Harder? More?" He flexed his hips experimentally, pushing a little deeper inside her. "You need me to mark you up again?" He licked over the side her neck, inhaling her scent deeply as it got thicker, sweeter with the arousal she leaked all over him.

The reaction was obvious to him as she clenched up around his cock, letting out a keening little whine. She wanted to be marked up, to be bitten again. Nothing would compare to the bond mark she had, but she loved the snap of pain. More marks and bruises on her to show how well loved and fucked she was. Just because she was sensitive and sweet didn’t mean she wasn’t just as  jealous and possessive as her mate.

Harry's response was immediate, his teeth sinking into the tender skin of her neck. He held her in place with his arm wrapped around her waist, his other hand gripping her hip as he fucked her harder, deeper. The bite was hard enough to leave a mark, his canines piercing her skin as he claimed her once more. "Mine. My perfect Blossom… All I ever need." The growl of his voice vibrated against her neck, hot breath panting against her. "Always mine." He sucked at the mark, his tongue soothing the bite before he bit her again, this time on the other side of her neck.

"F-Fuck..." She whimpered, the sharp stings of his bites making her clench around his cock with such intensity that he could barely hold himself back. She melted into him completely, one hand reaching up to grip his hair, nails digging into his scalp, pulling him closer. "Harry- I love you." The words were panted out as her hips moved with his rhythm, meeting each thrust desperately.

"Love you too, baby. So much." He kissed the marks, his hips snapping forward and back at a bruising pace. "Gonna fill you up, mark you inside and out." His fingers found her clit again, pinching and rolling the sensitive nub as he fucked her towards her building orgasm. "Cum f’me, Blossom. Squeeze my dick with that sweet little cunt. Show me who it belongs to." The order was low and commanding, his teeth nipping at her earlobe.

The sound of their flesh meeting filled the room along with her breathy moans and his gravelly growls. Every stroke of his cock felt like heaven, stretching and filling her completely. It was the way it was supposed to be, having him keep her full. His tongue grazed her new marks occasionally, sending jolts of pleasure and pain through her body.

His movements became more insistent, his cock swelling slightly. "Need your tight little pussy to milk me." His hand moved from her clit down to rub against the sensitive spot where they joined, feeling where his cock was stretching her open, where his knot had begun to slowly swell. "Need me to breed you deep and keep you filled?" His voice was raw with desire, knowing exactly what she craved. It’s precisely what she always wanted. His girl always wanted it, craved it just as much as he did.

"Mhm." She pushed back against him, taking him deeper. "Your knot, Harry..." She whined softly, spreading her thighs wider for him. "Want it inside me..." Her hips rolled back to meet his thrusts, her hole fluttering around him already. "Fill me up." She loved his knot. Loved how it stretched her out, how it locked them together, kept him as deep as he could get. It was possessive and dirty and she really, really loved it. “Harry-“ She moaned softly. “Want to be full of you. Please?”

"Fuck, my heart..." He groaned, his knot swelling larger as he fucked her with growing desperation. "Gonna lock you up with my knot. Give you what y’want." His voice was strained, words slipping off his tongue as he had no filter when he was inside of her. "Gonna make you cum on my dick, milk my knot. I'll keep you full of me all night. S’what you deserve." The thought of it was too much, his control snapping as he felt her slicked up pussy starting to convulse around him.

His knot swelled, thick and ready to take her as it pressed against her tight hole. Holding himself there for a moment, he savored the feeling of her, of her cunt trying to milk him for all he was worth- but he didn’t want to hold it from her any longer. With a grunt, he pushed forward, his knot seating itself inside her with a soft pop. He was trapped, locked inside her, unable to pull out even if he wanted to. And he never wanted to. He wanted to stay buried inside her, keeping her full and satisfied as he got to stay warm.

As his knot sealed them together, Y/N's orgasm crashed over her, her pussy clamping down around him like a vice as she let out a high pitched whine. "Fuck yes, cum on me. Give it all to me, my love." Harry groaned, grinding into her. He could feel her pulsing around him as he emptied himself deep inside her, marking her as thoroughly as possible. Each twitch of his cock sent another spurt of his seed flooding her, his hips making shallow grinding motions, ensuring every last drop stayed buried within her.

"Gods, you're the most beautiful thing to walk this plane of existence." He murmured, his lips finding her shoulder as his hips moved slowly, working them through it. "Look at you taking everything I give you...The most incredible woman alive. You are what I live for." Petting her hair back softly, his voice dropping lower as he felt her body relax around his knot. "Best I've ever had. You ruin me. I never want anything else."

She let out a soft little mewl, feeling the pulses of him emptying every drop in her. Intimacy like this was something she had never even fathomed, but it was everything needed. "Harry. My love." His name was like a purr, her body languid and happy. "You make me feel incredible. Always so sweet." Her voice was dreamy as she sunk into his embrace. "You know how to make me feel loved..." He made love to her body and her mind each and every time. I was impossible to not feel the adoration pouring off of him. "You always protect me. You are the best Alpha.” Turning her head, she met his eyes. “Kiss me, please.”

A soft, adoring smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he shifted slightly to catch her lips in a tender kiss. One hand remained possessively on her hip while the other caressed her face. "How could I not protect my perfect mate? My everything?" He murmured against her lips before deepening the kiss, showing her exactly how much she meant. If he could figure out a way to hang the stars in an order she found pleasing, he would do so. He would rearrange the hours in a day if he had the power. Never in his life had he found a motivator like she had become for him. He would change the entire world just to see the ghost of a smile on her perfect lips. He would move mountains, shift tectonic plates, and rewrite the laws of physics if it meant seeing her happy. "You are my reason, Blossom." He whispered against her lips, his voice filled with an overwhelming amount of love and devotion. "My reason for breathing, for living, for being. You own all of my love.”

[prettygirl-gabi]

Title: Ours to Claim

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd x Reader

Fandom: UConn Women’s Basketball

Summary: who would’ve thought an old friend would have that affect on Paige and Azzi…

Sorry it took so long, @paigeluvvr

🏷️: @yailtsv , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @elalfywhore , @starfulani , @authentic-girl03 , @paige05bby , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld

I was just about to head into the little café in Storrs when I heard my name called from across the street.

“Y/N? No way!”

I turned to see a familiar face—Josh, an old friend from high school. We hadn’t spoken much since graduation, but he was one of those people who always felt easy to reconnect with.

“Josh?” I grinned, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Business trip,” he said, jogging across the street. “Figured I’d grab some coffee before heading to my next meeting. How have you been?”

We started catching up, talking about old times, laughing about how much had changed since high school. It was nice, lighthearted, and completely innocent.

But the warmth in my chest quickly turned to unease when I caught sight of Paige and Azzi standing at the entrance of the café, staring at us.

Both of their expressions were tight, unreadable to anyone who didn’t know them well. But I did. And I knew that kind of silence meant trouble.

I wrapped up my conversation with Josh, giving him a quick side hug before he left, and turned to my girlfriends.

“Hey,” I said, a little breathless, stepping up to them. “I was just catching up with an old friend. He was in town for—”

“We saw,” Paige cut me off, her voice sharp.

Azzi crossed her arms, gaze cool but jaw clenched. “Looked real cozy.”

I blinked, caught off guard by the edge in her voice. “Wait, are you guys serious right now?”

Neither of them responded, just turned and walked into the café. I followed, confused and already irritated.

Lunch was tense. Paige barely touched her food, and Azzi was quieter than usual, both of them simmering in unspoken jealousy.

By the time we got into the car to head back to our apartment, the silence had stretched too thin. I sighed, arms crossed over my chest as I sat in the passenger seat while Paige drove.

“So are we gonna talk about this?” I asked, breaking the silence.

Azzi scoffed from the backseat. “Talk about what? How our girlfriend was giggling with some guy we’ve never even heard of?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh my God, you’re both being dramatic.”

Paige let out a bitter laugh, gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. “Dramatic?” she echoed. “We show up for lunch and see you hugging some random guy, looking all happy and touchy, and we’re supposed to just be cool with that?”

“He’s not a ‘random guy,’ he’s an old friend!” I snapped. “I haven’t seen him in years, and we were literally just talking. You two are acting like I was making out with him in the street!”

Azzi leaned forward, her voice lower, but firm. “You weren’t, but the way he was looking at you? He wanted to.”

I scoffed. “And how the hell do you know that?”

“Because we know what it looks like when someone wants you,” Paige said, eyes locked on the road.

I clenched my jaw, frustration bubbling under my skin. “Well, too bad for him, because I’m already taken,” I shot back.

Paige pulled into our parking spot, threw the car in park, and turned to me with piercing eyes. “Are you?” she challenged.

I inhaled sharply, heat flashing in my chest. “You know damn well I am.”

Azzi tilted her head. “Then why didn’t you introduce us?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, because I didn’t have a real answer. The truth was, I had gotten caught up in the moment and hadn’t even thought about it.

Paige smirked slightly, but it wasn’t a kind one. “Exactly.”

The moment we stepped into our apartment, I turned to them, ready to argue some more, but Paige was on me in an instant.

She pressed me against the wall, her hands gripping my waist firmly, possessively. My breath hitched, and before I could react, Azzi was right there too, her body caging me in from the other side.

“Wait—”

“Not so fast,” Paige murmured, her lips brushing against my jaw. “You had your fun catching up with him. Now, we remind you who you belong to.”

My heart pounded as Azzi’s fingers traced up my arm, her touch featherlight but intentional.

“You’re ours,” Azzi whispered against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

Their jealousy had shifted into something else—something intense and undeniable.

Paige kissed along my neck, slow but with a purpose, her lips and teeth leaving marks. I gasped, gripping her hoodie, torn between protesting and melting under their attention.

“Look at you,” Azzi mused, tilting my chin so I had to meet her eyes. “Always saying we’re dramatic, but you love when we get like this, don’t you?”

I swallowed hard, my body betraying me as I pressed further into them.

Paige chuckled against my skin. “That’s what I thought.”

Their hands roamed, leaving no part of me untouched. A shiver coursed through me as Azzi’s fingers danced along the hem of my shirt, slowly inching it upwards. Paige’s hands were equally skilled, tracing the curve of my hips, sending sparks of anticipation through every nerve ending.

“We’re going to spoil you tonight,” Azzi whispered, her breath warm against my ear. “Completely and utterly spoil you.”

I didn’t doubt her for a second. There was a hunger in their eyes, a possessiveness that both thrilled and intimidated me. I knew I was walking a dangerous line, surrendering control to their desires, but the temptation was too strong to resist.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Azzi pulled my shirt over my head, tossing it carelessly to the side. The cool air of the room kissed my skin, heightening my awareness of their touch. Paige’s gaze intensified as she took in my exposed torso, her eyes lingering on every curve and contour.

“Beautiful,” she breathed, her voice husky with desire.

Before I could respond, Azzi’s lips were on mine, her kiss deep and demanding. I met her intensity with my own, losing myself in the intoxicating swirl of passion. Paige joined in, her hands tracing the sensitive skin of my back, sending shivers of pleasure down my spine.

Their kisses were a symphony of desire, a tantalizing blend of tenderness and dominance. I moaned softly, my body aching for more. They seemed to take pleasure in my reaction, their touch becoming bolder, more insistent.

Azzi broke away from the kiss, her eyes gleaming with mischief. “Ready for the next step?” she purred, reaching for the bedside drawer.

My heart pounded in my chest as she retrieved a sleek, purple strap-on. I had seen it before, of course, but the sight of it now, in Azzi’s hands, sent a jolt of electricity through me.

Paige gently guided me to the edge of the bed, positioning me so that my legs dangled over the side. I watched, mesmerized, as Azzi expertly strapped the harness around her waist, her movements fluid and confident.

“Relax,” Paige murmured, stroking my hair. “We’re going to take care of you.”

I tried to follow her instructions, but my nerves were on edge. I had never done anything like this before, and the anticipation was almost overwhelming.

Azzi straddled my lap, her eyes locking with mine. “Are you ready?” she asked, her voice low and seductive.

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.

With a slow, teasing motion, Azzi pressed the head of the strap-on against my entrance. I gasped, my body tensing in anticipation.

“Easy,” Paige whispered, her hands gently kneading the muscles in my shoulders. “Just breathe.”

Azzi began to move, slowly at first, testing my limits. I closed my eyes, focusing on the sensations that were building within me. It was intense, unfamiliar, but undeniably pleasurable.

As Azzi’s pace quickened, I lost myself in the rhythm of her movements. My body arched against hers, craving more. Paige’s hands roamed my body, teasing and tantalizing, driving me closer to the edge.

Just as I thought I couldn’t take anymore, Azzi stopped, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Your turn to worship, baby” she commanded, her voice husky with passion.

I didn’t hesitate. I reached for Azzi, pulling her closer, my lips meeting hers in a searing kiss. Paige moved to stand in front of me, her eyes filled with desire.

I lowered my head, my tongue tracing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. Paige moaned softly, her hands gripping my hair. I continued my exploration, teasing and tantalizing, until she was writhing in my grasp.

With a final, desperate plea, Paige guided me to her most sensitive spot. I licked and sucked, my tongue working its magic, until she was screaming my name.

As Paige’s climax subsided, Azzi took her place. I knelt before her, my eyes locking with hers. She was a vision of raw desire, her body trembling with anticipation.

I lowered my head, my lips brushing against her most sensitive point. Azzi gasped, her hands gripping my head, urging me closer.

I knew what she wanted, and I was more than happy to oblige. I licked and sucked, my tongue dancing over her sensitive flesh, until she was moaning and begging for more.

As Azzi’s climax approached, Paige took over, her fingers expertly teasing and tantalizing, driving her over the edge. Azzi screamed, her body convulsing in pleasure.

When Azzi had recovered, it was her turn to take control. She positioned me on my hands and knees, my back arched, my body exposed. Paige stood beside her, coaching her through every move.

“Easy, baby,” Paige murmured, her voice soft and encouraging. “Just take it slow.”

Azzi hesitated for a moment, her eyes filled with uncertainty. But with Paige’s guidance, she found her confidence.

She positioned the strap-on at my entrance, her hands trembling slightly.

With a deep breath, she pushed forward, slowly and deliberately. I gasped, my body tensing in anticipation.

“Relax,” Paige whispered, her hands gently stroking my back. “You’re doing great.”

As Azzi’s pace quickened, I lost myself in the rhythm of her movements. My body arched against hers, craving more. Paige’s hands roamed my body, teasing and tantalizing, driving me closer to the edge.

Just as I thought I couldn’t take anymore, Azzi stopped, her breath coming in ragged gasps. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice filled with concern.

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.“I don’t want to hurt you,” she said, her eyes searching mine.

“You’re not hurting me,” I assured her. “I want this.”

Azzi’s eyes lit up with renewed determination. She took a deep breath and began to move again, her pace quickening, her movements becoming more confident.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the sensations that were building within me. It was intense, exhilarating, and undeniably pleasurable.

As Azzi’s climax approached, I felt myself spiraling out of control. My body convulsed, my muscles tensing and releasing in a wave of pure ecstasy.

I screamed, my voice echoing through the room. Azzi continued to move, her own climax building, until she finally collapsed on top of me, her body trembling with exhaustion.

We lay there for a long time, our bodies intertwined, our breath coming in ragged gasps. The air was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, a testament to the intensity of our passion.

Finally, Paige stirred, her eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and satisfaction. “That was… incredible,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Azzi nodded in agreement, her head resting on my chest. “Definitely one for the books,” she added, her voice equally soft

The room was quiet now, save for the slow, steady rhythm of our breathing. My body was still buzzing from the intensity of what had just happened—Paige and Azzi’s hands, their mouths, their whispered claims against my skin.

Now, I lay sandwiched between them in our bed, their warmth pressing against me from both sides. My skin still tingled where they had marked me, but the raw tension from earlier had softened into something gentler, something tender.

Paige was tracing slow circles along my side, while Azzi’s fingers were lightly combing through my hair, her touch soothing. I exhaled, my body sinking deeper into the mattress.

For a while, none of us spoke. The jealousy-fueled storm had passed, leaving only the quiet hum of comfort in its wake.

Then, Paige let out a sigh against my shoulder, her lips brushing my skin. “We were assholes,” she murmured.

Azzi hummed in agreement, her fingers still carding through my hair. “Yeah… we were way out of line.”

I blinked, tilting my head slightly to look at them. “So you admit you were being dramatic?” I teased, though my voice was softer now, no real bite behind it.

Paige groaned, burying her face against my neck. “Don’t rub it in, ma.”

Azzi chuckled, but then her voice turned more serious. “For real, though… we shouldn’t have made you feel like that. We trust you—we know you wouldn’t do anything to hurt us.”

Paige lifted her head, her blue eyes meeting mine. “But that doesn’t excuse how we acted. We let our jealousy get the best of us, and instead of talking about it like normal people, we just…” She trailed off, exhaling. “Yeah, we fucked up.”

I watched them for a moment, taking in the sincerity in their faces. My chest ached—not with anger anymore, but with affection.

“You really did,” I admitted, but my tone was gentle. “You made me feel like I did something wrong when I was just catching up with an old friend.”

Azzi winced. “We know. And we’re sorry, baby.”

Paige nodded, brushing a hand along my jaw. “We love you. So much. And sometimes, that love makes us a little…” She searched for the right word.

Azzi smirked. “Possessive?”

I rolled my eyes playfully. “A little?”

Paige huffed, nudging my nose with hers. “Fine. A lot.”

I sighed, letting some of the last remnants of tension leave my body. “I love you guys too. But next time, just talk to me, okay? Instead of jumping straight into jealousy mode.”

Azzi nodded, leaning in to kiss my forehead. “Promise.”

Paige followed suit, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. “Promise.”

For a moment, we just lay there, wrapped up in each other.

Then Paige shifted, pulling the covers up around us. “You good? Need anything?”

Azzi’s fingers traced down my arm. “Water? Snacks? A bath?”

I smiled, feeling the warmth of their care settle deep in my chest. “Honestly? Just wanna stay like this for a while.”

Paige smirked. “Good, ‘cause I wasn’t planning on letting you go anytime soon.”

Azzi grinned. “Yeah, we gotta make sure you remember exactly who you belong to, right?”

I rolled my eyes but snuggled deeper between them. “Yeah, yeah… I got the message loud and clear.”

Paige pressed another kiss to my shoulder, and Azzi tucked me closer into her warmth.

---

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                 -Thank You For Reading!🩵🩶

                             -prettygirl-gabi🎀✨️

[cameronsbabydoll]

FINDING OUT ♕ RAFE CAMERON ARRANGED MARRIAGE AU

WARNINGS: sexism, alcohol, and smoking

You and Rafe had known each other since childhood—not by choice, but by circumstance. Your father and Rafe’s father, Ward Cameron, were business partners—both powerful men who built their empires on power, money, secrecy, control, and manipulation. You knew very well that their business wasn’t built in a day; it had been passed down through generations, from their fathers and grandfathers, who had risen to power through corruption and dirty work, reaching a status other people could only dream of.

Growing up, you would walk downstairs in the princess gown your mother bought you, only to be met with hushed whispers and men in tailored suits huddled in deep conversation around the dining room table. And then there was Rafe Cameron—the Kook King, the golden boy of Figure Eight—who seemed to only speak in blunt truths. You and Rafe weren’t friends by any means, more like two spoiled children forced to be around each other while your fathers drank overpriced whiskey and discussed business deals. You knew his sister, though. The two of you weren’t best friends, but you were friendly. She was outgoing and fun, while you had always been more reserved and shy. Still, you often found yourself with her whenever your fathers were around.

Now, years later, you found yourself sitting at the same long, polished oak dining table in Tannyhill. Your mother had dressed you in a pale pink satin dress, which felt completely out of place as you sat beside her, the thick smoke of cigars floating above your head and creating a sense of dread in your stomach.

Ward Cameron sat at the head of the table, swirling the rim of his whiskey glass with his finger before finally pulling the attention to himself.

"Your father and I have been thinking for a while, and we’ve decided that the best way to strengthen our power and alliance is to bind our families together. Which is where you two come in," Ward said, his eyes darting between Rafe and your father, as if you weren’t even there. "So, we’ve arranged a marriage between the two of you. It’s the only way this can happen."

The swirling air of cigars felt heavier. Your chest tightened with his words. Marriage itself didn’t scare you, not at all. In fact, the idea had always sent you into a girlish state of planning every detail—from the exact cut of your ring to the names of your future children. But this was different. Instead of your dream man, it was Rafe Cameron—a man a few years older than you, a risk-taker, and, quite frankly, someone you could never have imagined marrying.

"You can’t be serious," Rafe said, his voice flat, void of emotion. "This has to be some sort of joke." He finished, slamming his bourbon glass onto the table.

"Your father and I never joke about business; you should know that by now," your father replied, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

In your head, your thoughts raced. Why is this happening? Isn’t this outdated? Why am I not even part of this conversation? And why is everyone drinking bitter, old-fashioned alcohol but me?

But you already knew the answer to that—you had only just turned twenty, and it wouldn’t be ladylike, would it?

"And quite frankly, it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to do this," Ward continued. "We’ve already started the arrangements. The venue is booked, and the process is underway. I’d appreciate it if you learned a lesson from your future wife about not questioning your father."

The attention was suddenly on you. Lifting your eyes slightly from your lap, you felt the burning stares of the three men.

Your father looked at you with a sense of pride—not for who you were, but for your silence. Ward was watching you closely, as if expecting your compliance to influence Rafe’s resistance. And Rafe? He was looking at you like you were the mastermind behind this whole thing—as if you were the culprit of the situation.

"Well, that’s because she’s already playing into the compliant wife role, isn’t she?" Rafe scoffed, his knuckles turning white. "I’m not going to sit here, keep my eyes on my lap, and stay silent like some obedient puppy." Though his voice was sharp, there was something uncertain in his words—like a question buried beneath his frustration.

You knew better than to answer.

You had learned early on never to question your father—or any man who held power, for that matter. So, instead of speaking up like any normal woman might, you remained in your seat, forcing your mind to drift to something—anything—positive about this situation.

The only thing that came to mind was the wedding itself. The dresses. The dream ring. The excitement of planning.

You didn’t even notice your mother pulling your hand into hers, "How about the two of us girls leave and start talking about the more important things—dresses, color themes, and more wedding planning? You all can finish talking business," she suggested.

Your father nodded without sparing you so much as a glance.

Your mother led you to the living room, where Rose, Rafe’s stepmother, sat with a cup of tea, flipping through a wedding planner.

"Oh, I’m glad you two managed to escape that conversation; I’m sure it was dreadful," Rose said with a soft smile. "Please, sit. Your mother and I have already been going over some ideas for the wedding, but we figured you should have most of the control. It’s the least we can do, considering this whole... situation." She reached for your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before setting a baby blue binder on your lap.

"W-Wow... you guys really started planning," you muttered, your thumb tracing the engraved words Wedding Planner on the cover. "Is there some kind of order we should go in? L-Like, I know you all want the... wedding to happen soon...?" You trailed off, lifting your gaze from the binder to the two women.

Your mother let out a soft chuckle, placing her hands over yours. "Well, that’s one way to put it, sweetie. I figured we’d start with the ring and the dress, and we’d plan the colors and theme around that."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "Y-Yeah... that sounds good. When can we go?"

Rose and your mother exchanged glances before Rose beamed."How about tomorrow? And if we don’t find anything, we can always order some custom dresses or travel to find the perfect one!"

"That sounds amazing, actually," you giggled, closing the binder and setting it down on the glass coffee table.

Your mother squeezed your hand gently, her expression warm. "I’m glad, honey. We’ll make a day out of it—shopping, wedding planning, maybe even a spa visit."

Rose placed her tea cup on the table and nodded. "Perfect! We’ll leave tomorrow around ten. You two should get some rest now—I’ll let your father know."

You gave Rose a small, grateful smile. "Thank you, Rose. I’m excited for tomorrow."

As you and your mother left the Cameron estate, she drove home—a short trip filled with comfortable silence.

When you arrived, you bid her goodnight, thanking her before heading upstairs. You climbed the grand staircase, undressed from the upscale dress into a nightgown, and finally lay your head against your silk pillows.

With a deep breath, you let your thoughts drift to some far-off fantasy, whispering to yourself a quiet hope that maybe—just maybe—it would all be okay.

TAGLIST: @vanessa-rafesgirl @lolasangelz @malibuhearts @popou61

[konigslittleliebling]

DEMOISELLE.

table of contents; distressing situation, violence, injury, attempted sa, hurt/comfort, fluff, soft!sandor, slightly suggestive. masterlist !

“tell me true, sansa.” you say as you catch up to her, linking your arms. “does my sweet brother make you happy?”

around you, the poor gather. leering stares, some hateful and bitter, others hungry and lustrous, bear down on you and your family like teeth.

sansa glances back to where your brother and his kingsguard follow, then looks ahead of her to where your mother leads the party with her men.

your sworn shield, sandor clegane, sword half-drawn, follows closely at your heel.

“of course, princess.” sansa finally answers you. shae, her handmaiden and a frequent bed warmer to your uncle, casts you a suspicious eye.

“he isn’t the nicest.” you carry on, twisting as low chants start to rumble from the crowd. “if you wish to go home, return to the north, there may be some strings i could pull.”

the tully-haired girl smiles sweetly. you’ve shown her a great kindness since her betrothal to your twin, and asides from perhaps your uncle tyrion, you’re the only friend she’s got.

“i am loyal to king joffrey.” she tells you, straight-faced and over-confident, like she’s rehearsed it in front of a mirror. “he is to be my husband and i his queen. my place is here.”

you glance back at your shield, but he’s too busy keeping a watchful eye on the men who stare at you like you’re the only woman ever.

“bastards!” comes a distant shout.

you feel the cool kiss of steel through your dress when sandor presses himself to you, hand still glued to his sword’s hilt.

“let them have their fun,” you tell him. “there’s small harm in feckless rumours.”

“it’s not the rumours that worry me, princess.” he grunts.

“who are they talking about?” sansa asks you, worried.

“me and joff.” you say, unfazed. “you’d think after what happened to your father—” you stop yourself and place a hand atop her arm. “gods, forgive me. . .”

“it’s fine.” she says, not so sure of herself this time. “he was a traitor.”

“brother-fucker!” comes another, and that remark makes your mother turn around. her eyes find you, then flit to your brother who pays his people little mind. they might as well not be there at all, for he appears to be forever trapped within his own self-centred mind.

“move faster, princess.” sandor urges you, nudging you along. you pull sansa with you, and she reaches for shae’s hand.

then you hear your brother make a contemptuous noise and he stumbles, hand risen to his cheek. you all turn just as he reels around, red-faced and furious, a cow pat smeared over his face, some of it stuck in his hair whilst most of it collects at his shoulder in a disgusting mass.

“who threw that?!” he shrieks, then yelps like a girl when meryn trant grabs him and pins him to his side.

“protect your king!” the red-cloaked phantoms of lannister men command.

“find who threw that and bring them to me!” joffrey screams again, shrill.

sandor wraps an arm around your waist, shielding you with his body. you lose sansa in the struggle, but shae keeps hold of her hand just as he whisks you away.

your mother calls your name somewhere ahead of you, but you hear your uncle tell her to keeping going just as an onslaught of chaos lays siege on your brother’s entourage.

“kill them!” you hear him order. “kill them all!”

it all happens so fast. the crowd break free from the shackles of their self-control, leaping out at you from places you didn’t realise they’d been lurking.

“hold onto me.” sandor shoves you behind him, then with an enraged roar, he cuts through any man or woman who dares to approach you like they’re chops of tender mutton.

he opens them up on his blade, spilling their blood like a girl spills tears, and they drop like sacks of potatoes. you cling to his cloak, navigating the bodies of those who got in his way. around you women squeal like boars as men pounce on them, and the men make similar noises when men better than them put the steel to them.

sandor reaches back for you and you hug yourself to his arm. “stay close.”

rioters jump out from all sides, herding you as though you’re the sheep and they’re the lions. “sandor, i’m scared.”

“they won’t hurt you, little lion.” he assures, slashing at anyone who attempts just that. “i won’t let them.”

then a stampede of particularly angry revolters charge at you, knocking him to the ground. you fall with him, but somewhere amongst trampling feet and tumbling corpses you lose sight of him. “sandor!” you wail, unable to regain your footing amid the hustle and panic.

the mob swarms you, suffocating you as they flock you and any man who adorns the lannister sigil or happens to be draped in red.

you had favoured silks of green today, though now they might as well be red themselves as the blood of dead pilgrims tarnish them, staining you with their scorn forever.

they stomp over you and you weep, cradling the hand that met the wrath of someone’s boot. your finger bends away from the rest, already swelling and turning purple. you look around you as a heavy droplet makes way down the side of your face, and you lift your good hand to dab at your forehead where a deep gash weeps with you.

“sandor!” you cry a little louder, and somewhere to your left you’re certain you hear him call back to you, followed by the screech of double-edged steel whistling through the air, singing once it slices bone.

then a pair of large hands scoop you by your underarms and heave you from the ground. when they place you back on your feet you spin into them, but your expression drops again when you’re met with the sharp twist of a stranger’s face.

his rotten, yellow-toothed grin cuts your heart out of your chest and you back away, gasping when your back hits another’s chest. you jump, turning to see a similar sour smile, only this one has less teeth, and it somehow smells fouler than the former.

to your side you spot an alleyway and make a break for it on terrified legs. your feet hammer against the concrete and you only now realise that you’ve lost a shoe when something sharp burrows into your foot’s sole. but it doesn’t stop you, if anything you flee faster, taking the odd sharp turn in the hopes there’ll lose your trail.

but you’ve left an easy one, the blood from your foot seeping a perfect print onto the ground, and it’s not long before you hear their boots thundering behind you.

a third assailant steps from the shadows, blocking your escape path and you skid to a stop, the skin of your foot peeling against the gravel. looking back, the two men draw nearer and you spring forward, bursting into what you hope is a house.

whatever it is, no one’s home, and you kick yourself when you see that you’re cornered.

three grim chuckles resonate in the doorway and dread soaks through you to the bone, seizing up in your joints. you stiffen and face your back to the wall, trying to muster the power of speech.

your mouth opens, but no words roll from your tongue, and the men chuckle darkly amongst themselves again.

one by one they prowl towards you, practically foaming at the mouths.

“ever been fucked, princess?” the first one asks, spit flying from his decaying mouth.

“yes.” you’re quick to answer, finding your voice. “i’ve already been broken-in, you can’t ruin me.” you tell them, hoping they’ll lose interest.

but if anything it makes them desire you more.

“if you do this, my brother will decorate the city gates with your heads!” you try to sound unafraid, but your voice betrays you, as does the fear in your eyes.

“your brother,” the other repeats, his stench almost bringing you to a fever. “is he who you laid with?”

your back hits the hard stone and your heart trips over itself, almost beating its way through your chest.

“are you a brother-fucker like your whore mother, girl?” the third one is the first to close in, claiming your personal space for his own.

due to either desperation or adrenaline or both, you strike him with your uninjured hand, feeling the sting of it against your palm. his head snaps to the side and the other two stop in their tracks.

he spits out a globule of blood, then sends a backhand cracking against your cheek. you’re sent flying onto your front, completely prone before them.

you hair cascades over your face, and your elbows catch in it when you try to crawl forwards, shooting a harsh ache through your scalp.

then the weight of an ill-boding man sinks atop your back, an unwelcome hardness lodging between your sprawled thighs.

a grubby hand tilts your head up by your neck, then a decomposed tooth scratches at the shell of your ear as he speaks. “we don’t get girls like you down in flea bottom.” you feel him reach between you, hand travelling towards his groin. “we’re gonna take our time with you, princess.”

the splattering of guts hitting concrete causes the pressure of his body against yours to ease, and you both peer up to see one of the other men dangling mid-air, his limbs twitching as he dies.

then the man’s body drops in a heap on the floor and relief washes over you when you see sandor, his eyes mad with rage and armour soiled with patches of maroon.

the second man tries to run, but he’s caught within the jaws of sandor’s grip, mighty enough to lift the man above his head with one hand. he splits the man’s torso from sternum to cock, his intestines almost as rotten as his soul when they decorate the ground.

sandor drops his shell of a body like it’s a pair of shoes, and you hear a couple of bones crunch from the impact when he does.

“we didn’t mean no harm, ser.” says the man who meant to harm you, his voice high and nerve-racked.

he slowly stands, and you hadn’t realised how crushing he was until he’s retreated. you feel as though you can breathe again, and you do, strangled and throaty.

you rise onto your hands and knees and crawl to the nearest corner, curling yourself into a timid ball as you watch on, arms hugging your legs to your front so you can rest your chin on your knee.

sandor watches his every move, face thunderous and sword trembling within his grasp. his brown eyes follow the man as he tries to sidle around him, but then he hears his name pass through your lips.

“sandor,” you say, broken. “i want his head.”

you needn’t say more.

sching.

the thud of the man’s head falling from his body bounces off the room’s four walls, then the empty thump of his flesh and bones follows promptly.

you stare at it, void of feeling.

“you’re alright now, little lion, you’re alright.” sandor offers his hand and you take it without hesitation, allowing him to sling you over his shoulder. on his way out he ducks down again, plucking your attacker’s head by the hair.

“put it in a box.” you tell him, nuzzling your face into his cloak. “mail it to my brother, let him learn what happens when he orders the massacre of his people.”

your gaze is hollow, even as your handmaiden, tiri, washes your wounds with a salty solvent. your bath water becomes grimy as your blood flows into it like red silk, and you don’t even blink when she pours warm water over your head, allowing its excess to trickle over your bloodshot eyes.

“do tell me if you’re in pain.” tiri says, massaging your favourite hair oils against the crown of your skull. hints of jasmine and vanilla and citrus fill the air but it does little to comfort you like it usually would. “maester pycelle will be here shortly, princess. to suture your wounds.”

“i don’t need stitches.” you say, and it’s the first time she’s heard you utter a word since sandor carried you to your chambers.

she rinses her hands off and wrings out the cloth, draping it over the basin to dry. “as you wish, princess. i shall send word to him at once.” she holds out her hand but you ignore it, wanting to sit a little longer. you feel safe inside the tub. “i’ll be back soon.” her hand gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze, then she makes haste for the door.

she gasps when she opens it, jumping as she comes face to face with sandor who was reaching for the handle.

“how is she?” you hear him ask, gravelly and low.

“not well.” tiri tells him. “i fear this will effect her for some time.”

“leave us.” he orders and she nods, feeling no need to tell him that she was on her way out anyway.

you don’t seem to compute his arrival until he’s at your side, crouched at the basin with features that hang wearily. as soon as you see him you erupt in tears and launch yourself onto him, tangling your arms around his neck without care for your nakedness.

his hands, rough and labour-torn, hover for a moment before they latch to your back, lifting you from the water in a hold that wants not to release you.

“i’m sorry.” he mutters against your damp hair, scarcely succeeding a whisper.

you pull back to look at him, hefty tears rolling down the length of your face. “stop that,” you cup his face in your hands. “you saved me.”

“you shouldn’t need saving.” he says, never so full of self-loathing as he is in this moment. “i swore to protect you—”

“—they were going to rape me.” you blurt, fierce and almost savagely. “but they didn’t, because you saved me.”

he lets you down, clearing his throat as he averts his gaze. “let’s get you dried.”

you hug your arms around your middle, not to conceal yourself, but to replicate his warmth. you wince when a sharp twinge crawls from your finger up your arm and he holds a cotton sheet up for you, fencing off his view of your nudity. “that finger still bothering you?”

“well it doesn’t tickle.” you mumble, stepping into the towel with raised arms so he can wrap it around you.

he chuckles, though it doesn’t stretch to his eyes, and scrapes a golden strand from your face. his expression darkens when met with the cuts and scrapes that pepper it, bruised and angry-looking; and he turns to leave.

“where are you going?” you ask, suddenly frightened of being alone.

“to take post at your door, princess.” he says flatly. outside your door is where he spends much of his time, if not glued to your side.

“i don’t need you to guard my chambers if you’re in here with me.” he turns at your words, face skeptical. “stay with me,” you plead. “i command it of you.”

so he remains on the same side of the door as you, only he doesn’t move from it. you frown, padding closer. “you don’t need to stand there. it locks, you know. and tiri will return later.”

“locks haven’t stopped people in the past.” he grunts, barricading a portion of it with his shoulder. “and tiri doesn’t have a sword.”

“if the door doesn’t, you will.” you take his hand. “hold me,” he doesn’t move, but he does allow himself to look at you. “please.”

he deliberates the matter in his head a few times, but ultimately, he’s never had the capacity to refuse you. your heart thaws when he removes his sword and allows you to lead him toward your bed. you get yourself comfortable, arranging your pillows how you like them, then motion for him to join you.

he chews at his lip, standing awkwardly at your bedside.

you tsk and pat the mattress impatiently. “sandor clegane, i refute the notion that you’ve never gotten into a lady’s bed before.”

“whores don’t have beds,” he retorts, placing his sword on the table next to him. “and they aren’t the king’s sister.”

you roll your eyes at the very mention of him. “spare me, my brother would’ve let those men have me if it meant saving his own skin. besides, he’ll never know of this unless you plan to tell him.”

sandor studies you for a beat, then the mattress dips beneath his weight, armour clinking as he settles. “this bed is no good for my back.”

you smirk and scooch closer, snuggling against him. his armour is cold against your flesh and he’s not yet polished flea bottom from its surface, but you don’t care. “did you send joffrey my gift?”

“if i had, he would’ve sent you my head in the same box stamped: return to sender.” he jokes, though it isn’t far-fetched, and tucks you into his side.

“well, we wouldn’t want that.” you giggle, throwing a lazy leg over his lap. “you keep it, then.”

“already mounted the fucker on my wall, princess.”

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; a new face arrives in town, and everything begins to shift. something is terribly wrong strange, but no one is talking.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ next

☆ story masterlist

As the first light of dawn filtered through the windows of the apothecary, you buzzed around, busy with substituting half-way empty jars with new ones full of elixirs and various herbs. The heavy scent of sage hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of brewing potions bubbling in the cauldron nestled in the corner. With a flick of your wrist, you lit the candles scattered around the shop, their soft glow casting long but warm shadows around the shop. 

Your familiar Sybil, a snow white Borzoi, twitched from her spot under the counter, slightly raising her head in attention. Not a second later, the bell above the door chimed with your first client of the day. 

“Well, well, still up with the dawn, I see.” The deep, raspy voice was unmistakable.

Alex stepped into the apothecary with his usual long strides, his dark blonde hair a touch wilder than you remembered. 

“And you're still sneaking around at sunrise," you teased lightly. “Here for Farah’s order? I was just about to pour a fresh batch.”

“Yeah,” he replied, as he handed you his usual green thermos for the refill. “She’s been feeling… well, she’s hanging in there. Just a bit more tired lately.”

You hummed knowingly, tightening your apron and moving to get the order ready. 

“Have you heard?”

“About?” You replied absentmindedly, focused on getting the exact quantity of steaming liquid into the thermos. 

“The new girl that Laswell took in.” 

That made you pause and turn to look at him. 

Laswell was a witch like you, and a deeply influential one at that. That made her difficult to approach, but even harder to earn her trust. It had taken you a year of back and forth before she allowed you to set up shop in this part of the city. So to say that you were slightly intrigued was an understatement. 

“Who now?”

He snorted, stretching over the counter to wriggle his fingers down at Sybil, and who in response raised her large snot to meet them in greeting. 

“Apparently a few nights ago Ghost saved this rando girl from the Rose District―”

“What the hell was she doing in the Rose District?” 

“Well clearly she’s not from around here.” He retorted, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, which clearly wasn’t. Even people from out of town knew to stay away from that place, especially at night. She was either from another country altogether or really, really, dumb. 

“Anyways, he took her to Laswell and she offered her a job on the spot. She even let her settle in the loft above her bar and all.”

“Well, that’s….unexpected? But good for her I guess.”

“But wanna hear the best part?” Shrugging you rang him up, throwing in a few stray herbs in a satin pouch as an extra for his wife. 

“She’s magicless, and a total smokeshow.” He was clearly trying to get a rise out of you, and honestly, he was successful. Rolling your cleaning rag tightly, you snapped it against his hand. He yelped in surprise, cradling his hands with mock-indignation. 

“Anything else?” He shook his head and dropped the exact amount for the order into the ornate dish you kept beside the register. 

“You’re no fun,” he pouted, stashing the flash into his bag before pointing at the satin bag. “What’s this?” 

“They should help with Farah’s morning sickness. Just mix them in with her morning tea, a dash of honey will help with the bitterness.” 

He gave you a wide boyish grin. “You’re the best, you know that?”

Waving him off and as if telling him ‘oh I know’, you watched him leave with a spring to his step, clearly eager to go back to his wife. You waited for him to disappear from sight, before reaching for your phone in your apron’s pocket. 

9:15 am

you: hi

you: everything k? alex told me about the rose district

9:17

👻: 👍🏻

9:18

you: lmk if u need anything

you: btw your order’s ready, you can drop by anytime

you: sybil says hi 

(picture attached) 

You didn’t get a reply right away, which was strange, but not uncommon for the half-wraith. In the end, he always got back to you. Telling Sybil to stay put and care for the storefront, you moved to the back to organise the rest of the day’s orders. 

Once upon a time, Ghost’s go-to place had gone out of business (he had personally taken it down after discovering it was a front for a fairy trafficking ring), and as per Laswell’s recommendations, he had appeared one day to commission you with a list of potions and ingredients, each tailored to his pack’s specific needs. He gave you three days, and you had gone above and beyond to deliver. 

You knew you had succeeded in meeting their expectations after he came back the following month with a much bigger and more detailed list in hand. And it was through his monthly visit that you got to know the rest of the pack. 

Simon took care of pickups and never stayed long, but long enough to listen to you rant about lousy customers, all while answering to Sybil's demands for pets. 

You never got much done with Johnny around, but his charm definitely helped you with sales, especially with the older gnome ladies. The werewolf also played tug with your familiar when the shop became notably busy and you couldn’t take Sybil for her daily walkies. 

As the only son of a witch, Kyle liked to help you with just about everything. He especially enjoyed peering over your shoulder whenever you delved into one of your many experiments, smiling like a child whenever you asked for his opinion. 

You got to know John last, a human Hunter and their de facto leader. He never dropped by, but whenever you encountered him outside your shop, he never failed to greet you with a warm smile and ever warmer shoulder-squeeze. The older man also was a worrywart to his core, always asking about you and Sybil, as in have you had breakfast/lunch/dinner yet? Did you get your windows insulated for the winter? He can take care of it for you, and oh he got a good bargain on some chicken, let him share some of it with you. 

Slowly but surely, they each had wormed itself into your stiff-witchy heart. 

10:30

👻: can’t today

👻: sendin’ alejandro

The curt answer made you falter, a mix of disillusion and confusion settling heavily on the pit of your stomach. His lack of response to Sybil's picture was also worrying, that never happened. You struggled not to push him for an explanation. 

And so, you waited. 

Alejandro made his appearance a few hours later. Again, you left Sybil in charge while you greeted him and his partner, Rudy.

“Preciosa, it’s good to see you.” Alejandro enveloped you in a tight hug and kissed you on the cheek, Rudy following right after. 

You returned their greeting just as warmly, guiding them to the back and to the crates stacked neatly and ready for them to take. You watched them work, swaying a little from side to side, before finally mustering up the courage to ask them about Ghost’s unusual absence. 

“Is Ghost okay?”

Alejandro grunted as he loaded the crates into the trunk, hand falling over his hips before he turned to regard you with a raised eyebrow. “Yeah he’s fine, por (why)?”

You shoved your hands deep into your apron’s pockets, a nervous habit. “He has never missed a pickup, and he’s not answering my texts.” 

“Oh, it’s probably that girl.” He acknowledged dismissively. As if sensing your dismay at Alejandro’s lacklustre response, Rudy chimed in. 

“Leah, the new girl working for Laswell.”

Making the most of his receptiveness, you prodded Rudy for more details. “Have you met her?”

He shook his head, tilting his chin towards his partner. “Nope, but Ale has.”

“Well she’s cute, in a mousy kind of way.” He supplied while scratching his chin, and something about his pensive gesture told you that he still hadn't exactly made up his mind about her. 

They were quick to leave however, busy with their own things, plus having to drop off the pack’s order. You watched them go, fingers twisting and turning 

Yes, hopefully this strange episode would pass.

. . .

Things did not pass, if anything, they only got worrisomely stranger. 

A few days later, you found yourself in the supermarket. It was just another part of your routine that you usually enjoyed.  You reached for a jar of honey, when you felt it—a shift in the air, a tingle at the back of your neck. Straightening, you allowed your gaze to wander, searching for the source.

And then you saw him.

He stood a few feet away, staring intently at a shelf of cereals. Your heart skipped a beat, not from surprise but from the pleasant flutter you always felt when you saw him. You  instinctively moved closer, a full smile already settled on your lips.

“Johnny, hi!” 

His head jerked up as if startled, eyes widening when they met yours. For a moment, he looked at you with a strange mix of confusion and surprise, as if he barely recognized you. 

“Och aye! Hello there! Whit ye daein' here?"

“Uh, I always shop here on Sundays?” But you know that, you’ve come with me more than once!

"Oh, dae ye no? Well, anyways!” Johnny’s brows furrowed, and he blinked rapidly, like someone waking from a deep sleep. His gaze flickered away from your face and back to the rows of cereal “Whit dae ye think Leah would fancy the most?"

That caught you off guard, so much so that you couldn't give him a rightout answer.

Suddenly, a second figure came from around the corner. It was Gaz. He walked up to the two of you, but something was off. 

“Mate, stop running off! We need to get back to—” Gaz blinked at you, as if seeing you for the first time. “Oh, hi?”

“Hi?” You parroted back with an incredulous guffaw. 

You just stood there, feeling an unfamiliar and uncomfortable sensation—like the ground beneath you had shifted and you were the only one who noticed. This wasn’t right. Your relationship had always been so easy, and filled with laughter. But now, it was like there was a barrier between you and them, unseen and unsettling.

“Is…everything okay?” You asked them, voice laced with a mix of worry and disbelief. 

Gaz looked at you again, but there was no warm recognition in his eyes. “We’re fine,” he said, though his voice was flat. Then, without another word, he turned and walked away, Johnny following him like a shadow, a box of chocolate flavoured loops in hand.

He hated that kind, not even bending whenever Gaz tried to coax him into getting them as a treat. 

You watched them disappear down the aisle, dumfounded. The vibrant hum of the grocery store around you flickered slightly as your mind whirled. 

Taking a breath, you forced yourself to stay calm. You should head back to the apothecary and Sybil, maybe even check in with Laswell. 

She’d know what to do, right? She always did.

banner credit

[pazzi5351]

Make it to the morning

“The shit I did last night I’m not real proud of, but let’s just make it to the mornin”

Word count: 1.8k

AN: I was listening to this song and was like “holy shit this would be good” I sincerely apologize for what I’m abt to write and what ur abt to read (I AM SO SORRY OH MY GOSH I SWEAR)

Warning: 18+

————————————————————————————

The bar was loud, hot, and heavy with bodies, but Paige only had eyes for Azzi.

She leaned in behind her, lips brushing the shell of Azzi’s ear, breath warm as her hand curled around Azzi’s waist possessively.

“You look too good tonight mami,” Paige murmured. Her voice was low, rough from beer and want.

Azzi smiled, head tilted back just slightly. “You told me that already,” she said, a little breathless.

“Doesn’t make it less true.” Paige’s hand dipped lower, fingers playing just under the hem of Azzi’s crop top. “I jus’— can’t help myself ‘round you.”

They’d been doing this for weeks now—hookups behind closed doors, secret touches at parties, makeouts in the empty locker room. It was supposed to be just fun. Easy. They never talked about it. That was the rule.

Until now.

Because Paige had her hand on Azzi’s waist one second… and the next, she was laughing with some girl. Her old hookup. Brunette. Tight dress. Bold. Shameless. And touching Paige like she had a right to.

Azzi’s heart twisted. She felt it before she even fully saw it—before the girl touched Paige’s chest, before Paige leaned in just a little too close, smiling like she didn’t just have her hand down Azzi’s pants two nights ago.

Fine.

Two can play this game.

Azzi drifted over to the edge of the bar. Her hips swayed a little more than usual as she struck up a conversation with the guy next to her—cute, tall, dimples. He leaned in fast. Then another girl joined, sliding up behind Azzi and laughing into her drink.

Azzi laughed too, hand brushing the girl’s arm. She could feel Paige’s eyes on the back of her head like lasers on her.

A beat later, Paige was there.

She slid in behind Azzi with a sharpness that made the air tighten. Her hand glided around Azzi’s waist, fingers on her like she owned her. Her voice was low, dangerous.

“Who are you talking to?”

Azzi didn’t turn. She just sipped her drink, slow and petty.

“Go talk to your little ex or whatever the fuck,” she said, cold. “Looked like you were having fun.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. “The fuck did you just say?”

Azzi turned now, eyes narrowing, fire flickering under the surface.

“You heard me.” She smiled, bitter. “You’re all over me, then suddenly you’re back in slut ‘player P’ mode the second someone gives you an ounce of attention. So yeah—fuck you.”

That did it. Paige’s fingers gripped tighter around Azzi’s waist, her breath coming harder through her nose.

“You wanna talk your shit mama?” she said, bitter.. “Cool. Let’s go.”

She pulled Azzi with her, not even letting her finish her drink.

They slammed into the single-stall bathroom, the door clicking locked behind them. Paige had Azzi against the wall in two seconds flat, one hand gripping her waist, the other wrapped tight around her throat—not choking, just… stilling.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” Paige’s voice was low, her eyes blown wide with anger and something darker. “Flirting with two people in front of me? You know you’re fucking mine Az. Don’t fucking play with me.”

Azzi’s breath caught. Her pulse thundered under Paige’s hand. Her body betrayed her—heat blooming between her legs, knees going weak. But her pride held firm.

“You did the same shit,” she hissed. “You make me feel fucking stupid, Paige. Every time I think this could be more than just… this. Whatever the hell this is,” Her voice cracked at the edge. “You make me feel fucking replaceable. Like I’m a goddamn option.”

She shoved Paige off her and stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

Paige stood there, dazed, chest heaving, guilt washing over her in a wave so strong it nearly knocked her over. She had feelings.

Fuck. She had real feelings.

She chased after Azzi, catching her before she reached the door. Her arms wrapped around Azzi’s waist from behind, holding her still.

“Lemme make it up to you, mama,” she whispered, lips close to Azzi’s ear. “Please. I promise… you won’t regret it.”

Azzi was still breathing hard, but she didn’t pull away.

The Uber ride to Azzi’s dorm was a blur of hands and heat.

Paige couldn’t stop touching her—fingertips dragging over Azzi’s bare thighs through the rips of her jeans, palm gripping the soft curve of her waist, thumb brushing just beneath the waistband of her pants.

Azzi’s breath stuttered every time Paige’s hand got close to her pussy.

Their mouths crashed together like magnets. Paige kissed her like she was trying to win her back with lips alone—deep, wet, hungry. Azzi moaned softly into her mouth, pulling Paige’s hair as Paige slid her tongue past her lips.

“I’m sorry,” Paige breathed between kisses, pressing hot kisses down Azzi’s neck. “The shit I pulled tonight was fucked up. I’m not proud of it.” Her voice dropped as she kissed just above Azzi’s collarbone. “But let me show you. I can get you right.”

Azzi melted under her, nodding, unable to speak.

Back at Azzi’s dorm, clothes came off fast.

Paige had Azzi through the door as soon as it was unlocked.

Paige shoved her back onto the bed, climbed over her like she owned her.

Azzi tried to flip them, voice teasing. “What if I want to ride you tonight?”

Paige just smirked, grabbed both of Azzi’s wrists and pinned them above her head.

“I told you mami,” she said, voice dark with promise, “I’m making it up to you.”

Paige moved down between Azzi’s legs, kissing every inch of her skin, slow and reverent like she was worshipping her. She licked long and slow over Azzi’s pussy, teasing her until Azzi was gasping, squirming under her.

“Paige,” she whined.

“Mhm?” Paige hummed against her, the vibration making Azzi buck her hips.

“You’re… it’s like— you’re trying to make it to morning doing this.”

Paige paused for a beat, grinned, and pressed her mouth back down with more purpose.

“I might just do that,” she said, voice thick with want. “You deserve it, baby.”

And she did.

All night long.

Azzi’s legs trembled against Paige’s shoulders, the sheets beneath her already twisted from how hard she’d been clutching them.

Paige didn’t stop—not when Azzi whimpered, not when she begged. If anything, it just fueled her. Her tongue moved slow and firm, circling Azzi’s clit with relentless precision. Every flick, every moan, every graze of Paige’s nails down Azzi’s thighs felt like she was trying to write her name into Azzi’s body.

Azzi’s fingers curled in Paige’s hair, tugging just enough to make Paige groan into her, and the sound made Azzi’s whole body jolt.

“Fuck,” Azzi gasped, hips grinding against Paige’s mouth. “I’m gonna—”

“I know ma,” Paige murmured, voice vibrating against her. “Give it to me, baby.”

She flattened her tongue and sucked gently around Azzi’s clit while sliding two fingers inside her with practiced ease. Azzi’s eyes rolled back, her back arching off the bed as her orgasm hit—loud, breathless, raw. Paige held her down through it, eyes locked on her face, watching the way Azzi completely unraveled just for her.

And still, she didn’t stop.

Azzi twitched, overstimulated, as Paige’s tongue started its slow circles again.

“P-Paige, wait—”

“I told you,” Paige said, licking her lips as she looked up. “I’m not done.”

She kissed up Azzi’s stomach, licking a stripe between her breasts, before leaning in to kiss her—deep, tongue tasting Azzi’s moans, her own cheeks flushed with heat and dominance.

Azzi was limp under her, but her fingers were already slipping down to Paige’s ass, trying to pull her closer. “Ride my thigh,” she whispered, breath still jagged. “Want you to come too.”

But Paige grabbed her wrist and pinned it to the bed again, her mouth just barely brushing Azzi’s.

“You’re not giving me anything tonight,” she growled. “You’re taking it. And you’ll like it.”

Azzi shuddered at the authority in her voice. Paige kissed her again, harder, teeth grazing Azzi’s bottom lip before moving back down—kissing across her inner thighs this time, slower, savoring.

“Open ‘em,” Paige said.

Azzi’s legs opened automatically. She was soaked, thighs glistening, still catching her breath from her last orgasm.

Paige smirked and slid three fingers into her this time.

Azzi gasped, head falling back. “F-fuck, Paige.”

“That’s right,” Paige murmured, curling her fingers up into that perfect spot that made Azzi’s mouth fall open without sound. “You’re mine, remember that shit.”

She worked her fingers deeper, thumb back on Azzi’s clit, stroking in rhythm as Azzi came again—legs shaking, voice cracking on Paige’s name.

Then Paige pulled her up, flipping her onto her stomach, gripping her hips and dragging her to the edge of the bed. She leaned over her back, pressing kisses to her spine before biting her shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark. One for just them to see.

“You feel so fucking good baby,” she said, grinding against her from behind. Her hands roamed everywhere—over Azzi’s ass, her back, up to her wrists that Paige pinned again on her back.

She bent low, licking over Azzi’s inner thigh from behind, then started eating her out again from that angle—slow, messy, filthy.

Azzi could barely keep herself upright.

It was too much. And not enough.

By the time Paige finally let her turn back around, Azzi was flushed and breathless, lips kiss-swollen, eyes glassy with want. Totally fucked out.

Paige hovered over her, kissed her slowly, then slid two fingers into Azzi again while keeping deep eye contact.

“Want you to come in my mouth one more time,” she said softly. “Then I want you to fall asleep knowing you’re mine. Got it?”

Azzi nodded, dazed.

“You gotta say it.”

“I’m yours,” Azzi whispered, completely ruined. “I’m fucking yours.”

Paige went down on her again—this time even slower, deeper, more drawn out. She sucked Azzi’s clit into her mouth, circled her tongue while curling her fingers inside, and didn’t stop until Azzi came again, legs wrapped around Paige’s head, crying out her name with a rawness that echoed through the dorm.

Azzi collapsed backward, panting, trembling.

Paige climbed up next to her, kissed her temple, then her shoulder, then the bruises she’d left along her neck and chest.

“You good, baby?” she asked, voice quieter now, fingers stroking Azzi’s hip.

Azzi just nodded, melted into the sheets. “You trying to kill me?”

Paige smirked. “I told you I was making it up to you.”

They lay there in silence for a moment, Azzi curled into Paige’s side, Paige’s hand stroking slowly over her back.

“You’re mine,” Paige said again, quieter this time.

Azzi didn’t say anything. But her hand slid across Paige’s chest, fingers curling in the front of her hoodie like she was scared she might disappear.

————————————————————————————

AN: I’m a slut i sincerely apologize. I’m gonna go touch grass.

[psychoticfemmm]

waves and whispers

pairing: Rafe Cameron x Maybank!reader

The sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet. The salty breeze swept through your hair as you walked barefoot along the shore, the cool water lapping gently at your feet. The beach was quiet, save for the rhythm of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls. It felt like you had the whole world to yourself.

Well, almost.

You could feel Rafe’s presence beside you—warm, familiar, and undeniably close. He had been quiet for a while now, just walking at your pace, hands stuffed into his pockets as he stole glances your way when he thought you weren’t looking.

“What?” you asked, laughing softly, catching him in the act.

Rafe grinned, the kind of smile that made your stomach do flips. “Nothing,” he teased, but the look in his eyes said otherwise.

“Uh-huh. Sure,” you replied, nudging him playfully with your shoulder. The two of you had spent the entire day together—swimming, joking around, and lounging under the sun. But now, as the day faded into night, something about the air felt different. Charged.

“Come here,” Rafe suddenly said, his voice quieter now.

Before you could question him, he took your hand gently in his, pulling you just a little closer. The world around you seemed to blur—the golden sky, the whispering waves, the fading sun—and all you could focus on was him. His blue eyes held you there, soft yet intense, like he was trying to memorize every detail about you.

“Rafe,” you whispered, your heart racing.

He didn’t say anything. Instead, his hand came up to brush a loose strand of hair from your face, his fingers grazing your skin and sending chills down your spine. You felt the heat of him, so close now, and your breath hitched as his gaze dropped to your lips.

“I’ve wanted to do this all day,” he murmured, so low you barely caught it.

And then he kissed you.

It was soft at first, his lips capturing yours gently, like he was savoring the moment. But as you leaned into him, your arms wrapping around his neck, the kiss deepened. Rafe’s hands settled on your waist, pulling you flush against him as the waves crashed softly at your feet. The whole world melted away, leaving just the two of you in this perfect, fleeting moment.

“What the hell?!”

The voice cut through the moment like a knife, and you froze, pulling back from Rafe with wide eyes. You knew that voice.

JJ.

Your older brother stood a few yards away, his expression a mixture of disbelief, anger, and… yeah, mostly anger. His blonde hair was windblown, his hands clenched into fists as he took a step forward.

“JJ—” you started, your cheeks burning.

JJ pointed a finger at Rafe, his eyes narrowing into a glare. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Him? You’re kissing Rafe Cameron?”

Rafe tensed beside you, his jaw clenching. “Back off, Maybank,” he muttered, trying to stay calm, but you could feel the tension radiating from him.

JJ let out a bitter laugh, completely ignoring Rafe’s words. “Oh, I’m sorry—am I interrupting your little romantic moment?” His voice dripped with sarcasm, but his eyes were locked on you now, disappointment flashing through them. “What are you doing with him? Of all people, Y/N?”

“JJ, it’s not what it looks like,” you stammered, though even you knew how ridiculous that sounded. It was exactly what it looked like.

JJ scoffed, shaking his head. “Not what it looks like? I just saw you two practically swallowing each other’s faces!”

You groaned, embarrassed beyond belief. Rafe, however, stepped forward, his voice steady but low. “You don’t need to talk to her like that, Maybank.”

JJ turned his glare on Rafe, squaring his shoulders. “And you don’t need to be anywhere near her.”

“JJ, stop!” you said sharply, stepping between the two of them before things could escalate. “You don’t get to decide who I spend my time with.”

JJ’s expression faltered just slightly, his anger giving way to something softer—protectiveness. “I’m your brother, Y/N. It’s my job to look out for you. And this guy?” He shot another glare at Rafe. “He’s bad news.”

Rafe let out a humorless laugh behind you. “Classic.”

“Rafe,” you muttered, giving him a warning look before turning back to your brother. “You don’t have to like him, JJ, but you do have to trust me.”

JJ stared at you for a long moment, torn between his instincts and his trust in you. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t like this. At all. But fine. I trust you. Not him.”

He shot one last glare at Rafe before turning on his heel. “You’re lucky she’s here to stop me,” he muttered as he walked off down the beach.

The tension hung heavy in the air as JJ’s figure disappeared in the distance, leaving just you and Rafe once more. You let out a shaky breath, turning to face him.

“Well,” you said, trying to lighten the mood, “that went great.”

Rafe smirked, shaking his head as he tucked his hands back into his pockets. “You really think that’s the worst reaction I’ll get? I’m just getting started with the Maybank family drama, aren’t I?”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped. “You have no idea.”

Rafe grinned, pulling you close again. “Worth it,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

And somehow, despite the chaos that had just unfolded, you couldn’t help but agree.

[chrissssssmut]

You heard of parasocial relationships where fans of a celebrity feel like they know the celebrity and am close to them even though they aren't?

Imagine a reverse yandere parasocial relationship where an idol sees social media posts from a guy online who is a fan of her and she becomes obsessed with him and goes full yandere

NOTICED

Yandere Kazuha x Male Reader

AN: Sorry I take so long writing! I've been super busy recently and I hope you all could understand!😭♥️

You didn’t expect your K-pop fan account to go anywhere. It was just a place to dump your edits, fancams, and long-winded rambles about how “Kazuha doesn’t even feel real sometimes,” or how “no human should move that gracefully unless they were sculpted by the gods.”

You were just one of thousands. One more voice in a sea of fanboys.

But… she saw you.

And she never stopped looking.

It started small. A like.

You noticed it one night around 2:12 AM, while lazily scrolling through your old posts, chasing dopamine. Your most recent tweet—“If I ever get reincarnated I hope it’s as Kazuha’s phone charger”—had a new like.

From her official account.

You sat upright so fast your spine popped. The checkmark stared back at you like a blinking cursor on a love letter.

“Okay,” you whispered, screen glowing in the dark. “Okay, that’s not… normal.”

Your heart wouldn’t stop racing. She had millions of followers. Why your post? Why now?

Maybe it was her social media manager? Maybe it was random?

You retweeted it anyway, captioning it with:

“No way Kazuha just liked my tweet???? Is this real life???”

You didn’t know it then, but she was already watching. Already scrolling.

Next Day — Seoul

Kazuha scrolled through your feed, her thumb trembling ever so slightly as she lay on her hotel bed. The blue light carved shadows into her face.

Every post. Every caption. Every breath you typed into the void—meant for her.

“He thinks I’m not real,” she murmured, eyes glinting. “He thinks I’m a goddess.”

A slow, eerie smile tugged at her lips.

“Then I’ll become one.”

Three Days Later

Your account was exploding. Kazuha had liked three more of your posts.

One was your fan edit—her rehearsal shots layered with angel wings and a dreamy filter.

Another was your tweet:

“Kazuha's smile should be registered as a WMD.”

And the third?

“If Kazuha ever looked at me the way she looks at the camera, I’d pass out. Actually pass out.”

You were losing your mind. Your DMs were flooded. Kazuha had liked three more of your posts, and the internet was combusting over it. Your phone buzzed non-stop—mentions, retweets, follows, and angry fanboys and fangirls trying to decode what black magic you used.

Some of the messages were just chaotic:

@swanfeetfanatic:

BRO??? WHAT DID YOU SELL TO THE UNIVERSE FOR THIS?? GIVE ME THE RITUAL CIRCLE???

@kknuckles:

This is rigged. You’re not even her biggest fan. You don’t even tag your fancams right.

But then came the jealous DMs.

unknown:

“Seriously? SHE liked you? You barely know anything about her. You said she looked ‘unreal’ like three times. That’s lazy simping.”

user82837:

“You're just a thirst account. If anyone should get noticed, it's people who actually care about her art.”

zuha4life:

“You think she’s gonna date you now or something? LMAO. Delusional.”

private account (no pfp):

“She follows me too. You’re not special. Stop pretending you matter.”

The bitterness dripped off every word, but you couldn’t lie—it kind of made it sweeter. You knew it was petty, but something about being the one she saw… it stirred something in your chest.

You refreshed again.

Another like.

This time, on your old post from months ago:

“If Kazuha showed up at my door soaked in rain asking to stay the night, I wouldn’t even ask questions. I’d just pray she never leaves.”

You stared at it.

And then the DM came from that private account with no posts.

unknown:

"You wouldn’t pass out. You’d fall to your knees."

Then it vanished.

Same Night — Hotel Room

Kazuha grinned at her burner account. She had watched your reaction through the reflection in her hotel window, playing your stream on mute.

She could see you squint at your screen, confused and flustered. She could practically taste your pulse.

“That’s enough teasing for now,” she whispered, rolling onto her back. “He’s almost ripe.”

Next Day — Fanmeet

You had to fly out. You couldn’t resist anymore. Kazuha was attending a public fanmeet in Seoul and you had to see her.

You didn’t expect to get in. You didn’t expect your fan letter to even be read. But someone—somehow—pushed your name to the top of the list.

You were called up.

And there she was.

Kazuha, smiling up at you from across the small table. Her skin glowed. Her eyes—deep, unreadable—fixed on you like you were the only thing left in the world.

You stammered. “H-Hi…”

“Hi,” she said sweetly, but her tone was low. Slow. Intimate.

Your heart did a backflip.

She tilted her head. “You look… just like I imagined.”

You blinked. “W-What?”

Kazuha leaned in, lips just a whisper from the mic.

“Your voice. Your face. I’ve seen all of it. So many times.”

You stood frozen. The staff gestured for you to move along, but she raised her hand—delicate but firm.

“One more minute,” she told them.

Then her eyes turned back to you.

“I liked your post,” she said quietly. “The one about reincarnating as my phone charger.”

You let out a half-choked laugh. “I-I was joking, of course—”

“I wasn’t.”

Silence. Her stare burned into you.

“Would you let me keep you in my room?” she asked. “Just… on the floor. Warm. Plugged in. Close.”

Your throat dried.

She smiled. “I’m kidding.”

But her eyes weren’t.

Two Days Later — Your Apartment

You couldn’t shake her from your mind. Every notification made your heart stutter. Every shadow in your hallway felt like it was holding its breath.

You told yourself you were being paranoid.

Until the note appeared under your door.

“I know where you live now. I liked it better when I was the fantasy. But I’ll make reality better, don’t worry. — K”

You dropped the note like it burned.

Outside, the wind howled.

You couldn’t sleep. Every sound outside your window had you glancing over your shoulder. You checked the locks again. You checked your phone.

No notifications. No messages.

Then the lights flickered.

You turned—slowly—to see her.

Kazuha.

Standing in your living room.

Barefoot. Hair wet. Dressed in one of your oversized hoodies.

“Hey,” she said, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Miss me?”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.

She walked toward you, slow and deliberate.

“I told myself I’d wait. That I’d be patient. But you kept posting. You kept calling me a goddess. You kept making me real.”

You backed up, bumping into the wall.

Kazuha raised a hand and gently pressed it against your chest. “So here I am.”

Her smile was soft. Her eyes weren’t.

“I’m yours, right? You made me yours. You manifested me.”

“I—Kazuha, this isn’t—”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Don’t ruin the fantasy. You prayed for this. Every post. Every word.”

She leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.

“Let me be what you worship.”

The words lingered in the air, thick with heat and danger.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding so violently it echoed in your ears. Kazuha was inches from you now—too close. The hoodie she wore was yours, you could tell from the faint detergent scent and how it draped perfectly over her dancer’s frame. Her bare legs, toned and poised, brushed against yours like it was deliberate.

“Kazuha,” you whispered, as gently as you could. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

She tilted her head, feigning confusion. “Why not? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?”

“I—”

“You said it yourself,” she murmured. “Over and over. You wanted me in your room. You said you’d let me stay the night. That I could do anything. Be anything.”

She pressed her forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath warm.

“You told the world you’d worship me. So why hesitate now that your goddess is standing in front of you?”

You didn’t know what scared you more—how calmly she said it, or how much of you wanted to give in.

Your hand moved up, instinctively reaching for your phone, but she caught your wrist with gentle fingers.

“No,” she said, smile still soft. “This isn’t something you share.”

Her grip tightened slightly.

“This moment is ours.”

Hours Later — Same Night

You didn’t sleep.

Kazuha sat curled up on your bed like a cat who had always belonged there, scrolling through your phone as if it was hers now. Occasionally, she'd let out a soft giggle or hum.

“Oh,” she said, waving the screen. “This one’s cute.”

She read aloud:

“I’d let Kazuha slap me with a ballet shoe and I’d thank her. I’m sick in the head.”

She turned to you with wide, amused eyes. “That was you?”

You nodded mutely from the corner of the room, where you sat—legs pulled up to your chest—trying to make sense of the nightmare you were trapped in.

“God, you’re adorable,” she cooed. “You’re so loyal.”

She crawled toward you, slow and deliberate, dropping the phone beside you.

“You made me feel seen. Real. Not just some perfectly sculpted robot for the stage. You talked to me like I was art. Like I was holy.”

Her hand slid against your cheek.

“So I’ll treat you like my most devoted worshipper. Isn’t that what you are?”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

She smiled, tapping her forehead to yours again.

“Don’t be scared. You’re mine now. That’s all this is.”

You awoke to the smell of breakfast—burnt toast and eggs, slightly too salty. Kazuha was dancing barefoot in your kitchen, humming a Le Sserafim song under her breath like she was home.

Like she belonged here.

She turned when she saw you, eyes lighting up.

“Good morning, sleepyhead!” she chirped. “I made food. It's probably bad, but you’ll eat it anyway, right?”

You stared at her.

“Zuha… you can’t stay here. This isn’t normal. People will notice—”

“Let them,” she said, expression unchanging. “Let them see what real love looks like.”

“But your fans—your company—”

Her face shifted just slightly. A small, almost imperceptible crack in her serene expression.

“I don’t care about them,” she said flatly. “I care about you.”

Silence.

Then, quietly:

“You think they’d still love me if they knew what I was willing to do for you?”

You didn’t move.

She stepped closer.

“If they knew how long I’ve been watching? How many of your locations I’ve tracked from tweets? How many people I blocked from your replies—using sock accounts—so you’d feel like I was the only one who cared?”

“Kazuha—”

“They’d crucify me,” she whispered, smiling. “But you wouldn’t. You’d kneel.”

Later That Day — Twitter

Your account was different now. Your follower count had mysteriously dropped. Your tweet replies were unusually quiet—no more chaotic DMs. No more angry fangirls or jealous snark.

They were gone.

You opened your DMs and saw nothing.

Nothing.

Except one new message.

From @onlyzuha (a private account with zero followers).

“You’re welcome. I cleaned up the noise. I want to hear you clearly.”

“Post something for me. Something true. Tell the world who you belong to.”

And somehow… you knew if you didn’t, she’d find another way to make it clear.

You hovered over the tweet button.

Your hands were shaking.

“I don’t know how this happened… but she’s mine now. And I think I’m hers.”

You hit post.

Seconds later—liked by @Kazuha_official.

Your post went viral.

Not viral like before—no chaotic memes or fan envy. This time, it was quiet.

Sinister.

Everyone could feel something was off.

Your tweet:

“I don’t know how this happened… but she’s mine now. And I think I’m hers.”

Got liked only once—by Kazuha’s verified account.

No replies. No fan jokes. No chaos.

Just silence.

And then, one by one, your tweets started disappearing.

Not the ones Kazuha liked—those remained, carefully pruned. But old ones, ones where you casually mentioned your friends, college, exes, late-night gaming buddies—they all vanished. It was as if someone was scrubbing your digital identity clean.

That Night — Your Apartment

Kazuha was humming in your room again. Sitting cross-legged in your chair, scrolling through your timeline like it was hers.

“Your friend Dan,” she said calmly, “he called you pathetic once in a Discord voice call. I saved the clip.”

You stared at her. “How did you—”

“I joined with a throwaway,” she smiled. “Voice mod and everything. Cute, right?”

You stood frozen, bile creeping up your throat. “You… you were listening?”

“I am listening,” she said softly. “All the time.”

She got up, walked to you, and gently took your face in her hands.

“I know you better than anyone. Better than your mother. Better than God. Because I chose to.”

“Kazuha,” you whispered, barely breathing, “I’m scared.”

Her smile didn’t falter.

“I know, baby. It’s always scary when divinity touches you.”

Next Morning — Trending Tab

#FREE___

Your name.

It started trending without context. Just your name. Bold. Empty. Dozens of fans began asking:

“Why has this guy’s account been completely wiped except the Kazuha tweets?”

“Did he delete himself or did someone else delete him?”

“He was super active and now he’s silent af. Where is he?”

“This is giving Black Mirror.”

You tried to post something. Anything.

But the tweet wouldn’t send. Your drafts vanished as you typed them.

Kazuha walked past behind you, brushing her teeth, wearing your shirt. “Internet issues?”

She spat in the sink, smiling through the mirror.

“I locked you out. Just for a bit. You were shaking too much.”

Sometime later, a secret video is leaked.

A blurry video was posted by a burner account and quickly deleted.

It showed you—clearly distressed—sitting on a balcony. Kazuha beside you, holding your hand, smiling into the camera. Whispering something into your ear. You looked like you were crying.

Fans lost it.

“No idol should be that close to a fan, ever.”

“He doesn’t look okay. He looks like he’s being held hostage.”

“If this is real, we need to help him.”

But the video disappeared in minutes.

The account that posted it? Nuked.

The people who reposted it? Suspended.

Your last tweet remained.

Still liked.

Still pinned.

Still yours.

You sat on the edge of the building, wind tugging at your clothes. Kazuha sat beside you, her hand on your thigh, casual like always.

“I think people are starting to notice,” you murmured.

“They’re irrelevant,” she said. “They don’t understand us.”

She leaned her head on your shoulder, like a girlfriend in a drama.

“I used to think I needed the world. The stage. The lights. But it was all so… hollow.”

“Then I found your words.”

“You made me alive.”

The wind howled. You didn’t speak.

“If the world burns because I chose you,” she whispered, “then let it burn.”

She looked up at you.

“So choose, baby. Me or them.”

Your lips trembled.

“Kazuha…”

“I won’t ask again.”

One Week Later — You were declared missing.

It started with a welfare check.

Neighbors hadn’t seen you in days. Lights on all night. Packages stacked outside your door. No noise, no movement. Your parents tried calling—you didn’t answer. Your friends, the few who hadn’t been pushed away, filed a report.

By the time police reached your apartment… it was empty.

No sign of a struggle. No signs of violence.

Just your phone—cracked, screen facing the wall. And a note:

“Don’t worry about me. I’ve gone somewhere better.”

Your name hit the trending tab again.

#RIP[YourName]

#JusticeFor[YourHandle]

#WhatHappenedToTheSimpKing

Memorial edits popped up. Fan theories ran wild. Some blamed Kazuha—pointing to the tweets, the video, the possessive behavior. But HYBE’s legal team moved fast. Every accusation was buried. Every account mysteriously suspended.

It was dark when you woke up. Dim yellow lighting. A room with no windows. Your limbs ached from disuse, your body heavy. The bed beneath you was soft. Too soft. Sheets freshly washed. The scent of clean linen mixed with something sweeter—like jasmine and static.

Then you heard her voice.

“There he is.”

Kazuha stepped into the room, barefoot, wearing a flowy white dress that made her look like a dream—or a ghost. She sat beside you, brushing your hair from your face.

“Sleep well?” she whispered.

You tried to sit up. “Where am I?”

“Safe,” she said, like that explained anything. “The world thinks you’re gone. And for once… they’re right.”

You stared at her, mind spinning. “You faked my death?”

Her smile didn’t waver. “I set you free.”

The bunker—because that’s what it was—had everything.

Soft lighting. A stocked fridge. A mattress. Speakers playing Le Sserafim on loop. No internet. No phone. Just books she picked out. Sketchbooks. Headphones. Her.

She was always there. Always.

Feeding you. Bathing with you. Stroking your hair as you lay on her lap like some prized possession she could finally keep.

“You were too soft for the world,” she said one night, straddling you with a featherlight touch. “Too pure. They would’ve ruined you.”

“But I kept you.”

You stared at the ceiling.

“You stole me.”

She giggled, kissing your cheek. “And yet… you haven’t run.”

You didn’t respond.

You didn’t even know where the door was anymore.

Above Ground — Fan Reaction Shifts

A user posted screenshots of your old tweets.

“Guys. Look. She liked every single one that hinted at him wanting to disappear with her. This wasn’t random.”

“What if she saw him coming? What if she planned it?”

They were shut down instantly. IP banned. DMCA strikes. Cease-and-desist.

Kazuha’s fans pivoted.

“He was clearly unstable. Poor girl must’ve been traumatized.”

“She hasn’t smiled once onstage since it happened.”

And it was true.

Kazuha’s performances changed. She danced slower. Sang with empty eyes. But in between sets, a ghost of a smile would return. Not for the cameras. Not for the fans.

Just when she looked at her phone.

Because she still had photos of you.

Videos.

Recordings.

Proof that you were here, beneath the floorboards of the world.

It had been over a month. You couldn’t tell time anymore. Kazuha walked in with two mugs—one for you, one for her.

You didn’t even look up.

“Are you ever going to let me leave?” you asked softly.

She sat beside you, curled her legs underneath her. “No.”

You finally turned to her. “Then why pretend this is love?”

She looked at you, long and deep, like you were scripture.

“Because you loved me when no one else saw me. You wrote about me like I was more than skin. More than choreography. You called me sacred.”

“You gave me that godhood. I’m just returning the favor.”

You laughed bitterly. “You buried me.”

“I immortalized you,” she said, tone still calm. “You're legend now. The fan who loved me so much he vanished.”

She kissed your knuckles.

“And now you’re mine forever.”

Final Scene — A New Fan Surfaces

Far away, in a different country, a new Twitter thread begins.

Someone posts an edit of Kazuha.

Captions it:

“If Kazuha kidnapped me, I’d say thank you.”

The tweet goes viral. Harmless joke. Just another fan craving attention.

But in the shadows… a new account likes it.

@onlyzuha

💬 “Do you really mean that?”

[bueckersstuff]

SICK & TWISTED

Part I Part II Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

You knew who Paige Bueckers was.

Of course, you did.

Everyone at UConn did.

She was Paige Bueckers, after all—golden girl, basketball star, the kind of campus royalty people whispered about when she walked by. But you didn’t know her. Not personally. She was just someone you saw from a distance, always with Azzi Fudd, always untouchable.

Which was why it was weird seeing her here, alone at the bar, gripping an almost-empty glass like it was the only thing keeping her upright.

She was wasted.

You weren’t sure how long she had been drinking, but from the glazed look in her eyes and the way she swayed slightly on the stool, it was clear she was deep in it.

Still, none of this was your problem. You weren’t friends. You weren’t even acquaintances. So you ignored her, focused on your own drink—until she turned, eyes locking onto you like she was seeing you for the first time.

"You’re in my psych class," she slurred.

You blinked. "Uh…yeah?"

A lazy smile tugged at her lips. "Knew I recognized you."

You just nodded, unsure why she was even talking to you.

Then Paige let out a sigh, rubbing her face. "I am so fucked up."

You frowned. "What?"

She waved a hand, vaguely motioning to the air.

"Everyone's expectations fucking me up." Then she scoffed, shaking her head. "I’m so fucking tired, man."

There was something in her voice, something raw and aching, that made you hesitate. This wasn’t the confident, untouchable Paige Bueckers everyone knew. This was someone unraveling at the seams.

Still, you weren’t sure what to say. You barely knew her.

But Paige—Paige was looking at you like you meant something in this moment. And before you knew it, she was grabbing your wrist, tugging you toward the dance floor.

"Come on," she mumbled. "Just—just for a second."

You didn’t even like dancing, but somehow, you let her pull you in.

The bass thumped through the room, the air thick with sweat and cheap alcohol. Paige was close, her fingers still wrapped around your wrist, her breath warm against your cheek as she leaned in.

"Do you ever feel like you’re drowning?" she murmured suddenly.

You stiffened slightly. "What?"

Her grip on your wrist tightened for half a second before she let go, tilting her head back as if the ceiling had answers. "Like no matter what you do, no matter how much people love you, it’s never enough?"

You hesitated. "I mean...yeah, I guess."

Paige let out a short, humorless laugh. "Yeah. Fucking sucks, huh?"

You had no idea what was going on in her head, but before you could ask, she turned back to you—closer now, her pupils blown wide.

"You're kinda cute," she mused, her voice barely audible over the music.

Your stomach flipped for a second, but you shook it off. "You’re drunk."

"Maybe." A slow smile spread across her lips. "But I’m not blind."

Your breath caught in your throat as she leaned in.

It happened too fast.

One second, she was just looking at you, her expression unreadable.

The next, her hands were on your face, and her lips were on yours.

It was messy, uncoordinated—alcohol and heat and recklessness.

You froze.

Then, instinctively, you pushed her back, breath coming short.

"Paige—what the fuck?"

Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her blue eyes still clouded with something you couldn’t quite place.

And then, just as fast as it happened, she laughed—a dry, bitter sound that barely reached her eyes.

"Shit," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. "I—I shouldn’t have—"

Without another word, she turned and stumbled away, disappearing into the crowd.

You stood there, stunned.

Paige Bueckers was crazy.

The next morning, you woke up to chaos.

Your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. Your roommate was staring at you like you’d just murdered someone.

"What the hell did you do?"

You frowned, grabbing your phone. One notification stood out among the rest.

A Twitter post. A picture. You. Paige. Kissing.

Someone had seen. Someone had snapped a shot of that split-second mistake. And now the entire school—maybe the entire country—knew.

Your stomach dropped.

The headlines spread like wildfire.

Paige Bueckers caught cheating on Azzi Fudd?

UConn’s golden couple crumbles!

Who the hell is this girl?!

The dorm room was suffocatingly silent.

Azzi stood stiffly, arms crossed, phone clenched in her hand. The glow from the screen cast harsh shadows across her face.

Paige stood a few feet away, still in the same clothes as last night, her hair a mess, her face pale.

Azzi turned the phone toward her. "What the fuck is this?"

Paige swallowed hard. "Azzi, I—"

"Don’t." Azzi’s voice was dangerously quiet. "Just answer me."

Paige’s hands shook. "I was drunk."

Azzi let out a hollow laugh. "Oh, so that makes it okay?"

"No—" Paige stepped forward, eyes glassy. "I swear, I don’t even know why I—" She let out a shaky breath. "I love you, Azzi. You have to know that."

"Do I?" Azzi’s voice cracked. "Because if you loved me so much, why the hell would you do something like this?"

Paige’s heart clenched. "You are. You are, Azzi, I just—I wasn’t thinking. I was fucked up, I was—"

"No." Azzi’s tone turned sharp. "That’s not an excuse. You had one job, Paige. One fucking job—to love me and only me. And you—" Her voice broke, her hands trembling. "You threw it all away for what? For some random person you don’t even care about?"

Paige stepped closer, tears brimming in her eyes. "Azzi, please—"

"Don’t." Azzi took a step back, shaking her head. "Don’t touch me. Don’t beg like this wasn’t your choice."

Paige’s breath hitched. "It wasn’t—"

"Yes, it was." Azzi’s voice was raw now. "You chose to kiss her. You chose to fucking ruin us."

Azzi let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. "Do you have any idea how many girls have thrown themselves at you, Paige? How many times I watched them flirt with you, practically begging for your attention?" Her voice cracked, and she blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. "And never—not once—did you ever let them in. Not even for a second. Not even a fucking glance."

Paige closed her eyes, guilt crashing over her like a tidal wave.

Azzi’s voice turned hollow. "Except this time. Which makes this so much worse." She gestured to the phone. "What was so different about her, Paige? Why her?"

Paige’s breathing was uneven. "It wasn't like that, Azzi."

"Bullshit." Azzi’s hands clenched into fists. "You don’t just wake up one day and decide to throw everything away. You don’t just—just forget about us. About me."

Paige stepped closer, desperate. "I love you."

Azzi shook her head. "No, you don’t."

"I do—"

"Then why wasn’t I enough?"

Silence.

Paige’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. Because there was no answer that wouldn’t hurt.

Azzi blinked rapidly, voice trembling. "I have spent years loving you, Paige. Standing by you. Defending you. Supporting you." Her breathing was shaky. "And I never—I never thought you’d do this to me."

"I would do anything to take it back," Paige whispered, desperate. "Please. I—I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t—don’t leave me."

Azzi inhaled sharply, eyes shimmering with tears. "You should’ve thought about that before you kissed someone else."

Paige shook her head violently, vision blurred. "It meant nothing! I swear to God, it meant nothing!"

"It meant enough to ruin us."

Silence.

Paige’s breaths came in sharp gasps, her body trembling, her heart shattering into a million pieces. "Azzi—"

"Goodbye, Paige."

Azzi grabbed her bag and walked past her without looking back.

The door clicked shut.

And Paige collapsed to the floor, sobbing.

Because she had just lost the love of her life.

And it was all because of you.

You didn’t leave your dorm the next day.

Not because you were guilty—because you weren’t.

It was Paige who had kissed you. She was the one who had been drunk, reckless, and out of her mind. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But none of that mattered.

Because the pictures were everywhere.

Someone from the bar must have seen, must have thought it was funny—scandalous, even. And now, all of UConn was talking about it.

The golden couple? Done.

Azzi had ended things. Publicly. Brutally.

Paige was heartbroken, her entire world crumbling overnight.

And you?

You were the villain in a story you hadn’t even written.

You could already hear the whispers outside your dorm, the occasional knock at your door—probably someone looking for a fight. Some girls on campus loved Azzi. Some were obsessed with Paige. And all of them wanted someone to blame.

You almost didn’t go to class. You almost skipped, let this whole thing blow over. But you couldn’t hide forever.

So, you went.

And, of course, the first class of the day? Psychology.

The air was suffocating the moment you walked in. Conversations stopped. Heads turned.

And then there was her.

Paige sat near the back, hood up, arms crossed, shoulders hunched. She looked wrecked—like she hadn’t slept, like the weight of everything was pressing down on her chest. Her teammates were scattered throughout the room, some stealing glances at her, others purposefully avoiding eye contact.

And then she looked up.

Her eyes locked onto yours, and for a split second, something flickered across her face—grief, maybe. Pain.

Then it twisted into something darker.

Hatred.

Pure, unfiltered hatred.

You swallowed hard, quickly looking away, heart hammering. The entire class, you felt her burning holes into the side of your head.

You hesitated after class.

Every instinct told you to leave, to run, to pretend none of this was happening.

But the sight of Paige—shoulders still slumped, eyes rimmed red—made something in your chest twist.

So, stupidly, you walked up to her.

"Paige…" Your voice was hesitant, barely above a whisper. "I—I didn’t mean for this to happen."

Her head snapped toward you, blue eyes flashing.

"You didn’t mean for this to happen?" she echoed, voice sharp, bitter. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

You flinched. "Paige, you were drunk. You kissed me—"

"Don’t fucking say that," she snapped, stepping closer. "Don’t stand here and act like you’re innocent."

Your stomach dropped. "I am innocent."

She let out a sharp, humorless laugh. "Yeah? Then why the fuck is my life falling apart because of you?"

You clenched your jaw, frustration bubbling up. "I didn’t take those pictures. I didn’t spread them. I didn’t tell you to—"

"Shut up," she hissed, voice trembling. "Just—just shut the fuck up."

Her hands were shaking.

You had never seen someone look so furious and so broken at the same time.

"Azzi left me," she whispered, voice cracking. "She fucking left me."

Your heart clenched. "Paige—"

"No." Her breath hitched, and she took another step closer, voice trembling. "You don’t get to say my fucking name like we’re friends. Like you care. Because if you actually cared, you wouldn’t have let this happen."

Your jaw clenched. "Let this happen? Paige, you—"

"It should have been anyone else!" she snapped suddenly, eyes wild. "Do you understand that? Anyone! But for some reason, I—" She sucked in a sharp breath, shaking her head. "You ruined my life."

Your stomach dropped. "That’s not fair."

"I don’t care!" she shot back, eyes glassy. "Because it’s not about fair—it’s about the fact that I lost everything because of you. So, yeah, I’m gonna make your life a fucking nightmare. You think it’s bad now? Just wait."

You stared at her, chest tight, throat dry. "Paige—"

She stepped even closer, voice so low, so venomous, that it sent a chill down your spine.

"You’re gonna regret ever meeting me."

Then she turned and walked away.

And just like that, your life at UConn was over.

You told yourself you wouldn’t get involved.

This wasn’t your mess to clean up.

Paige was the one who kissed you. Paige was the one who fucked everything up. Paige was the one who had her world fall apart.

But your name was being dragged through the dirt along with hers. The whispers had turned to full-on accusations. People stared at you like you had single-handedly ripped apart the golden couple, like you had set fire to something sacred. Some girls in your dorm refused to even look at you. Others muttered things just loud enough for you to hear.

It was suffocating.

You weren’t even eating much anymore. Not because you didn’t want to, but because sitting in the dining hall felt like a death sentence. So, against all logic, you decided to do the one thing you knew was a terrible idea.

You went looking for Azzi.

You found her outside the practice facility, headphones in, gaze distant.

She noticed you immediately, though she didn’t react much—just pulled out an earbud and raised an eyebrow, waiting.

She wasn’t mad.

She wasn’t anything, really.

Just…indifferent.

And somehow, that made it worse.

You swallowed hard, then said, "Can we talk?"

Azzi studied you for a moment before nodding. "Okay."

You weren’t sure what you had expected—resistance, maybe. A brush-off. But she just turned and started walking, expecting you to follow.

So you did.

You told her everything.

How you had never really known Paige. How you had been at the bar, minding your own business. How Paige had been drunk, rambling, lost. How she had kissed you out of nowhere, and how you had pushed her away.

Azzi didn’t interrupt.

She didn’t even flinch.

She just listened, her expression unreadable.

When you finally finished, you exhaled shakily, waiting for some kind of reaction.

But Azzi just nodded. "I see."

Your stomach twisted. "That’s it?"

"What do you want me to say?" she asked simply.

You hesitated. "I don’t know. I—I just thought you should know the truth."

Azzi finally met your eyes, and for the first time, you saw it—certainty.

"I already knew the truth," she said softly. "I just needed to hear it from someone else."

Your throat tightened. "Azzi—"

"It was her fault." Her voice was calm, like she had already accepted it. "She had all these chances to stop herself. She never would’ve done that with anyone else."

Something about the way she said it made your chest tighten.

"I—I wasn’t trying to make things worse—"

"But you did." Azzi’s eyes were dark, unreadable. "And that’s not your fault. But it doesn’t change anything."

You felt sick.

You had come here hoping—what? That this would somehow fix things? That Azzi would understand, forgive Paige, and everything would go back to normal?

But all you had done was give Azzi the last piece of proof she needed to never look back.

You had just ruined whatever chance Paige had left.

And somehow, that felt even worse.

After that, things got worse for you.

The rumors didn’t stop.

If anything, they got worse.

You were the homewrecker. The one who had seduced Paige. The one who had waited for the golden couple to crumble so you could sink your claws into Paige Bueckers.

You stopped correcting people.

It didn’t matter what you said—no one cared.

Paige still looked at you like she wanted you gone.

And Azzi?

Azzi just moved on.

But you? You were stuck.

Barely eating. Barely sleeping. Barely existing. And for what?

For a mistake that wasn’t even yours?

You knew Paige was going to make your life hell. She had promised as much.

But knowing it and living it were two different things.

Paige was miserable, and she wanted you to feel it.

At first, it was subtle.

Your seat in psych? Taken. No one said a word, but suddenly, your usual spot was filled every day, forcing you to sit at the very front, where every whisper drilled into the back of your skull.

Walking across campus? Eyes followed you everywhere. You’d hear your name slip from someone’s mouth, followed by a scoff, a laugh.

Your dorm? Someone knocked on your door at odd hours—sometimes loud, sometimes soft, but always unsettling.

And then, it escalated.

Paige started showing up everywhere you were.

Dining hall? She was there, sitting with her teammates, speaking loud enough for you to hear.

"Some people really have no shame," she’d say, voice dripping with venom. "Like, if I fucked up someone’s relationship, I’d at least have the decency to leave campus."

You kept your head down. You didn’t react.

That wasn’t good enough for her.

During pickup games at the rec center, you stopped going after she made a show of calling you out in front of everyone. "Oh, you’re here?" she sneered one night, spinning a ball on her fingertips. "Didn’t know we were letting homewreckers here with us."

Laughter. Stares. Your entire body burned with humiliation.

And still, you ignored it.

Then she started getting bolder.

One night, you left the library late. You barely made it down the steps before you heard her voice.

"Don’t walk away from me."

You turned, heart hammering. Paige stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyes dark, jaw clenched.

"I didn’t do anything to you," you said, voice tight. "Why are you doing this?"

She scoffed. "You didn’t do anything? Are you serious?"

"Paige, you kissed me."

Her whole body tensed. "Shut up."

"You kissed me," you repeated, anger flaring despite the way your hands shook. "I didn’t ask for this."

She took a step closer, and for a second, you swore you saw something flicker in her eyes—guilt, maybe.

Then it was gone.

"You should’ve pushed me away harder," she muttered. "You should’ve done something."

You laughed, but it wasn’t funny. "What was I supposed to do, Paige? Hit you? Call Azzi right then and there?"

Her hands curled into fists. "I don’t fucking know. But I lost everything, and you—" Her voice broke. "You’re still here."

You stared at her, chest tight. "You want me gone?"

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t have to.

She had already made sure you had nowhere left to go.

Your phone rang.

It was nearly 2 AM.

You blinked at the screen, unknown number.

"Hello?"

"You did this to me." Paige?

Paige’s voice was slurred, thick with alcohol and something heavier.

"Paige—"

"You fucking ruined my life."

You exhaled, rubbing your temple. "Go to sleep, Paige."

"Azzi left me because of you," she spat. "You took everything from me."

Guilt curled in your stomach, even though you knew none of this was really your fault.

"Paige, I—"

"Come get me," she interrupted, suddenly softer. "Please."

You frowned. "What?"

"Come get me," she repeated. "I’m outside the bar. I need help."

It was like a switch had flipped, like she was two different people.

You hesitated.

You should hang up.

You should let her deal with this on her own.

But instead, you sighed. "Where exactly?"

"Parking lot," she murmured. "You’ll come, right?"

And despite every rational thought screaming at you—

You went.

You found her slumped against a car, head tilted back, eyes barely open.

When she saw you, she let out a breathy laugh. "Knew you’d come."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "Come on."

She didn’t move. "You know, you should take responsibility."

"For what?" you asked, annoyed.

Paige’s head lolled toward you, her gaze glassy. "For ruining everything."

"You ruined everything," you shot back.

She ignored that, smiling lazily. "You kinda look like her, you know."

Your stomach twisted. "Like who?"

"Azzi."

You stiffened. "Paige—"

She reached for you suddenly, her fingers clumsily brushing your face. "Just for a second…"

You grabbed her wrist, firm but careful. "I’m not Azzi."

Her face crumpled, something breaking in her expression. "I know."

She yanked her hand away, suddenly angry again. "You should’ve left me alone that night. Should’ve pushed me away harder. Should’ve—"

"You keep saying that," you cut in, exhausted. "But you kissed me. And I don’t know why, Paige. I don’t know what the hell is going on in your head, but I didn’t want this. Any of this."

She went quiet.

For the first time since that night, she actually looked at you.

And for a split second, you thought she might apologize.

But then she just scoffed. "Take me home."

When you got to her dorm, it was KK who answered.

She blinked at you, then at Paige, who was half-asleep, leaning on your shoulder. Before you could explain, Caroline appeared behind KK, eyes narrowing slightly.

Neither of them said anything. But the way they looked at you—it wasn’t anger.

It wasn’t blame.

It was understanding.

"Where was she?" Caroline asked.

"Drunk outside the bar," you muttered. "She called me."

Caroline’s jaw tensed. "Of course she did."

They took Paige from you, guiding her inside. You hesitated, unsure if you should leave or—

"Wait," Caroline said. "I’ll be back."

A few minutes later, Caroline stepped outside, arms crossed.

"You good?" she asked.

You almost laughed. "Do I look good?"

Caroline sighed. "Paige is a mess right now."

"Yeah, no shit."

"She’s spiraling," Caroline said. "And she’s dragging you down with her."

You ran a hand through your hair. "She hates me."

"No," Caroline corrected. "She hates herself. And she doesn’t know what to do with that, so she’s taking it out on you."

You swallowed hard. "She’s ruining my life, Caroline."

Caroline nodded slowly. "I’ll talk to her."

You blinked. "Why?"

"Because I think she still respects me enough to listen."

For the first time in days, something in your chest loosened just a little.

"Thanks," you muttered.

Caroline gave you a look. "Don’t thank me yet. She’s stubborn as hell."

You huffed out a tired laugh. "Tell me about it."

Caroline’s lips twitched. "Get some rest."

You nodded, turning to leave.

You didn’t know if anything would change.

But for the first time in a while, you weren’t completely alone in this.

It didn’t stop.

The first time Paige called you drunk, you thought it was a one-time thing.

But then it happened again. And again.

And every time, against your better judgment, you picked up.

Call #1 – 1:47 AM

"Azzi?"

You sat up in bed, blinking. "What?"

"I miss you," Paige slurred. "Can you come over?"

You swallowed. "Paige, it’s me."

Silence.

Then a soft, broken laugh. "Right. Fuck. Never mind."

She hung up before you could say anything else.

Call #2 – 2:21 AM

"Why did you leave me?"

You sighed. "Paige, go to sleep."

"I don’t want to be alone."

You squeezed your eyes shut. "You have KK. Caroline."

"They don’t get it. But you do, right?" Her voice was quiet now, fragile. "Azzi, please."

Your heart clenched.

"I’m not her."

She went silent again.

And then, "I know. That’s the fucking problem."

Call #3 – 3:03 AM

You ignored it.

She called again.

And again.

On the fifth ring, you gave in.

"What do you want, Paige?"

"To talk."

"We don’t have anything to talk about."

"Come on, Azzi, don’t be like that."

Your breath caught. "Paige, you’re drunk."

"So what? You don’t wanna see me?" She let out a bitter laugh. "Guess that makes sense. I wouldn’t wanna see me either."

You rubbed your temple. "Paige—"

"You kissed me first."

Your blood ran cold. "What?"

"That night," she murmured. "Tell me it wasn’t real."

You shut your eyes. "It wasn’t."

A pause.

Then,

"Liar."

Click.

The more it happened, the worse it got.

The way she looked at you—sometimes, for a split second, you saw something raw in her eyes, something desperate.

Like she needed you.

Like she wanted you.

But you knew better.

It wasn’t you she wanted.

It was Azzi.

And no matter how many times you reminded yourself of that—

Some nights, it wasn’t enough.

It started subtly.

Paige was still cruel, still bitter, still drunk-calling you at ungodly hours. But there were moments—brief, fleeting—where she softened. Where she looked at you like you weren’t just the person who ruined her life.

Like you were someone she needed.

It was in the way she lingered when you crossed paths, her gaze not as sharp, her insults not as cutting. The way her fingers brushed against yours when she walked past. The way, some nights, she called you and just breathed into the phone, saying nothing at all.

At first, you almost thought she was finally letting go of her anger. But then you saw it—the way her eyes glazed over when she looked at you too long, like she was seeing someone else.

Like she was seeing her.

And then it hit you.

Paige wasn’t getting nicer.

She was just trying to love Azzi through you.

The breaking point came one night after another one of Paige’s drunk calls. This time, she wasn’t sobbing or slurring accusations.

She was sweet.

"You should come over," she murmured. "I just… I wanna see you."

You swallowed hard. "Paige—"

"Please."

It was different. Dangerous.

But against your better judgment, you went.

Her dorm was dimly lit when she opened the door.

She wasn’t as wasted as usual.

Her eyes softened when she saw you. "Hey."

"What do you want?" you asked cautiously.

"Just company," she said, stepping aside. "Come in."

You hesitated before entering.

She watched you closely, then suddenly smiled—soft, almost shy.

"You ever think about growing your hair out?"

Your brows furrowed. "What?"

"It’d suit you." She tilted her head. "Maybe dye it darker too?"

A slow, sinking feeling curled in your stomach.

"Paige," you said carefully. "What are you doing?"

She blinked innocently. "Nothing. Just… thinking."

Your hands curled into fists. "Thinking about what?"

She took a slow step toward you. "You really don’t see it?"

"See what?"

She reached up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead. "You remind me of her."

The world tilted.

Your breath stilled. "No. I don’t."

Her gaze softened even more. "But you do."

And that was it. That was when you snapped.

"I’m not Azzi!" you burst out, shoving her hand away. "I don’t look like her. I don’t sound like her. I don’t move like her. We’re nothing alike!"

Paige reeled back, startled.

"Look at me!" you shouted, voice shaking. "Really look at me! Tell me what you see!"

She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Because for the first time, she actually looked.

Her eyes roamed over you, wide and unblinking, taking in every difference she had been pretending not to notice.

Her breath hitched.

She took a shaky step back.

"Shit," she whispered, realization crashing into her like a tidal wave. Her expression shifted. The warmth disappeared. The softness vanished.

And in its place—distance.

Indifference.

Like a switch had flipped.

Like she was finally seeing you for what you were.

Not Azzi.

Just some stranger she had projected onto for far too long.

"I should go," you muttered.

She said nothing.

And that silence—the cold, empty silence—cut deeper than anything she had ever said to you before.

Paige’s tactics changed.

She no longer called you at night. No more drunken confessions, no more whispers over the phone, no more confusion in her gaze when she looked at you.

Instead, she made you feel like you didn’t exist.

And when she wasn’t ignoring you, she was flirting with others.

Not subtly. Not accidentally.

Deliberately.

She made sure you saw.

You had just picked up your tray when you saw her—leaned in close to some girl from the soccer team, whispering in her ear, laughing at whatever she said.

The girl touched Paige’s arm, and Paige let her.

Then, like she knew exactly where you were, Paige turned—her eyes locking onto yours for a brief second.

She smirked.

You looked away, suddenly not hungry anymore.

You had been lounging at the student hall, trying to clear your mind, when Paige walked in with another girl—this time from the volleyball team.

She threw her arm around the girl’s shoulders, guiding her toward the treadmill, murmuring something that made the girl giggle.

You watched as Paige casually brushed the girl's hair back, tucked it behind her ear, smiled like she meant it.

Like it was easy.

Like it was real.

You forced yourself to look away.

You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

But how could you not, when Paige was right there, voice raw, pleading?

"Azzi, please," she begged. "I miss you. I’ll do anything, just… don’t shut me out."

Silence.

Then Azzi’s voice, soft but firm. "Paige, I can’t."

You turned the corner just in time to see Paige slump against the wall, eyes shining with unshed tears.

You should’ve walked away.

But instead, you stood there, heart twisting in your chest, watching as the one person who had spent weeks making you suffer looked utterly broken.

It shouldn’t have mattered.

You shouldn’t have cared. But somehow, despite everything—despite the hell she put you through, despite the fact that she was only ever using you as a substitute—Paige had crept into your heart.

And that realization?

That scared you more than anything.

You clenched your fists.

No.

It didn’t stop.

The whispers. The stares. The pointed fingers and muffled laughter whenever you walked by.

If anything, it got worse.

People didn’t just talk behind your back anymore. They made sure you heard them.

And the media? They were relentless.

Clickbait headlines twisting the story, painting you as the homewrecker, the villain, the nobody who had somehow ruined the golden couple of UConn basketball.

Your phone never stopped buzzing—messages from numbers you didn’t recognize, comments under your posts, strangers telling you exactly what they thought of you.

Telling you to disappear.

And through it all, Paige did nothing.

She saw it. She knew. And she let it happen.

It happened in the courtyard, in broad daylight.

You had just stepped outside when you heard them.

"She’s really still showing her face?"

"No shame."

"Paige should’ve ruined her worse."

Laughter.

You kept your head down, gripping the straps of your backpack, willing yourself to just keep walking. But then—

"You hear she tried to talk to Azzi? Like, are you kidding? After everything?"

"So desperate. She probably thought Paige actually wanted her."

That made them laugh even harder.

And that’s when you felt it—something cold and wet splashing across your back.

Your breath caught as the icy liquid soaked through your shirt. You turned, heart pounding, to see a girl holding an empty cup, smirking.

"Oops." The group around her cackled.

You stared at her, frozen. Your hands trembled. You wanted to say something, do something, but what was the point?

No one would stand up for you.

Not even Paige. Especially not Paige.

Because she had been there.

Standing just a few feet away, watching.

She had seen it. And she had done nothing.

Your chest tightened. Something inside you cracked.

Paige.

Paige, who had caused all of this. Paige, who had kissed you first, who had dragged you into this mess, who had made you feel something you never should have felt—

And now, she just stood there.

Unbothered. Indifferent. Like you meant nothing.

Something sharp twisted in your gut.

For the first time since this whole thing started—since the night of that stupid, reckless kiss—

You hated her.

You thought things couldn’t get worse. You were wrong.

You stopped checking your phone. It wasn’t worth it anymore. The notifications, the messages, the mentions—they all blurred into one ugly, suffocating noise

You barely ate. Barely slept. And your parents noticed.

"Are you okay?" your mom asked over the phone, voice laced with concern. "You don’t sound like yourself."

You forced out a laugh. "I’m fine, Mom. Just busy with school."

But you knew she didn’t buy it.

"Honey, if something’s wrong, you can tell us."

"I said I’m fine."

A beat of silence. Then your dad’s voice, softer than usual. "We’re worried about you."

You swallowed the lump in your throat.

"Don’t be." Lying had never felt heavier.

It happened on a random afternoon. You had gone downtown, hoping for some sense of normalcy. But even that had been taken from you. You barely had time to register the shove before you stumbled, hands scraping against the pavement.

Laughter rang out behind you. "Watch where you’re going, homewrecker."

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You turned, breath shaky. A group of them. Faces you didn’t recognize, but you knew their type. The ones who thrived off cruelty, off watching others break.

"Didn’t know sluts shop downtown too," one sneered.

Another stepped closer, the smirk on her face making your stomach churn. "Guess she thought Paige actually wanted her."

Another shove.

Your shoulder slammed into the brick wall. You saw red.

"What the hell is your problem?" Your voice was hoarse, exhausted, but you refused to let them see you crumble.

"You," one of them spat. "You ruined her."

Ruined.

Like you were the villain in this story.

Like you had asked for this.

Like you had been the one who kissed her.

The rage inside you simmered, hot and consuming, but before you could react—

"Hey! What’s going on here?!"

A store owner had come out, his sharp voice slicing through the tension. People had stopped to stare.

"Nothing," one of them muttered. But the damage was done.

You heard someone say call the police.

You knew it was over.

You didn’t want to do it.

But the officers at the station insisted. "This situation involves another party. Someone influential. If there’s going to be an official report, we need Paige Bueckers to come in."

You wanted to laugh.

Like Paige would ever help you.

But you had no choice. You dialed.

The first call rang out. No answer.

The second call—same.

On the third, she picked up.

"What?" Her voice was sharp, irritated, like you were nothing but an inconvenience.

"Paige, I—" You swallowed hard. "I need you to come to the station. There was an incident, and they said you have to—"

"Fix your own mess," she cut in coldly. "I don’t care. I don’t care about you. Who even are you to me?"

Silence.

Something inside you cracked.

And for the first time in a long time—

You cried.

Not from the pain, not from exhaustion, not even from fear.

From hatred.

Pure, searing, all-consuming hatred.

You had never hated anyone more than you hated Paige Bueckers in that moment.

And from that day forward, you promised yourself—

You were done.

You never looked back.

The moment you stepped out of that police station, something inside you clicked into place. The weight, the exhaustion, the never-ending suffocation—it all led to one undeniable truth.

You had to leave.

So you did.

Telling your parents everything had been terrifying. But they had surprised you.

"You should’ve told us sooner," your mom had murmured, holding your hands in hers. "We wouldn’t have let you go through this alone."

Your dad, usually a man of few words, had looked at you with something that almost resembled guilt. "We’ll do whatever it takes to get you out of there."

And they did.

Transferring so late into your college career wasn’t easy, but with enough determination—and money—your parents made it happen.

USC welcomed you with open arms.

And just like that, you disappeared from UConn’s world.

No goodbyes. No explanations.

You blocked everyone.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you breathed.

USC was a dream. Warm weather, fresh faces, zero drama.

You threw yourself into school, determined to make up for the hell you had endured.

Graduation came faster than you expected.

With a degree in hand and no ghosts trailing behind you, you stepped into the professional world—clean slate, new opportunities.

And somewhere along the way, you met her.

Her name was Natalie Rivera.

Bright eyes, infectious laughter, a presence that made the world feel lighter.

You work for the same company—she was in marketing, you in project management. The chemistry was undeniable.

But when things got serious, you knew you had to tell her everything.

One night, curled up together on the couch, you finally let the past spill out.

The scandal. The hate. The girl who nearly destroyed you.

She listened. No judgment, no pity—just quiet understanding.

"I’m so sorry you went through that," she whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple. "But I’m glad you’re here now."

She held you a little tighter that night.

And you let her.

Years ago, you never thought happiness would be possible again.

Now?

You woke up every morning next to a woman who adored you.

You had a job you loved, friends who knew you, not some twisted version of your story.

No whispers. No side glances.

Just peace.

For the first time in a long time, life was yours.

And Paige Bueckers?

She was nothing more than a name you once knew.

It had been years.

Years of silence. Years of healing.

Years of forgetting.

Or so you thought.

Los Angeles had become home—its chaos predictable, its streets familiar.

You weren’t expecting to see her.

Paige Bueckers.

Standing just a few feet away, like a ghost from a past you had long buried.

You weren’t even sure how it happened—maybe it was fate, maybe it was just bad luck.

You had just finished work, stopping by your usual coffee shop, when it happened.

The door chimed behind you, a normal sound in the everyday noise of the city. You paid no attention—until you heard a sharp intake of breath.

A presence. A familiar presence.

You turned. And there she was. Paige Bueckers.

She stood frozen a few feet away, her blue eyes blown wide in disbelief.

Her body was tense, like she had seen a ghost.

And maybe, to her, you were one.

Because she had no idea you were here.

You watched as her fingers twitched at her side, gripping the strap of her duffel bag like she needed something to ground her.

Dallas Wings gear, an unmistakable sign of why she was here.

A game against the Sparks.

Of course she was here.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to stay indifferent.

You weren’t the same person she had left behind.

So when her eyes finally landed on you, you simply nodded.

Civil.

Detached.

Like she was nothing more than a stranger.

But she wasn’t supposed to see you.

Her lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came out.

Shock.

Pure, unmistakable shock.

Like she had just been hit with something she wasn’t ready for.

And then, it changed.

Her expression shifted—slowly, carefully—masking whatever whirlwind of emotions had just flashed through her.

The surprise dimmed.

The disbelief faded.

And what remained was something unreadable.

"Hey," Paige said, stepping closer.

You almost expected hostility, maybe some sort of tension—but there was nothing.

Just a small smile, an easy tone, like you were old friends.

Like she hadn’t spent months making your life a living hell.

You blinked. "Hey."

And that was it.

Just a greeting. Just two people acknowledging each other in passing.

Except—it wasn’t.

Because the way she looked at you lingered, a quiet intensity in her gaze that made the air feel heavier.

Like she was seeing something she wasn’t prepared for.

Like she had never expected to see you.

The tension in the air was suffocating.

Because you knew she was still processing.

She hadn’t expected you.

Hadn’t prepared for you.

And yet, here you were.

Alive. Thriving. Unbothered.

And she? She looked like the ground had just crumbled beneath her feet.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out instinctively, glancing at the screen.

Natalie.

Your heart settled.

"Hey, baby," her voice was soft, familiar, grounding. "I’m outside. Got a good parking spot for once."

"Perfect. I’ll be out in a sec," you murmured.

And then—Paige saw her.

Saw her.

The way her body tensed was almost imperceptible, but you caught it.

Natalie stood outside, leaning casually against the hood of her car, scrolling through her phone like she had all the time in the world. The sunlight caught in her hair, framing her in a golden glow.

And Paige—Paige froze.

Just for a second.

Just long enough for something in her expression to shift.

It wasn’t shock.

It wasn’t anger.

It was something deeper.

Something unreadable.

Something dangerous.

Her throat bobbed, and for a split second, the mask cracked.

Just a flicker.

Just long enough for you to see it.

But as fast as it came, it was gone.

Then, like a snap of a rubber band, she smoothed her features. The Paige Bueckers the world knew—composed, untouchable—slipped back into place.

She smiled, casual, controlled. "Didn’t know you were in LA."

You shrugged. "Didn’t think you needed to."

Her jaw clenched—so fast, so subtle, that if you weren’t looking, you might’ve missed it.

There was a pause. A heavy one.

And then she nodded, stepping back. "It was good seeing you."

Liar.

"Yeah. You too."

You turned away first. Walked toward the door like this meant nothing.

Like she meant nothing.

But even as you stepped outside, feeling the warmth of Natalie’s presence as she looked up and smiled at you—

You felt the weight of Paige’s gaze.

Still lingering.

Still burning.

Like a storm waiting to break.

The next morning, your phone buzzed with a notification.

Unknown Number: Hey.

You stared at the screen, confused. You had changed your number when you left UConn, cutting ties with everything and everyone from that life. No one should have this number except for the people you let in.

And yet…

Unknown Number: It’s Paige.

Your stomach twisted.

Paige.

You hadn’t even thought about her after yesterday. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But now—this?

You hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

What does she want?

You exhaled sharply, finally typing back.

You: How’d you get this number?

A few seconds passed before the typing bubbles appeared.

Paige: A friend of a friend.

Vague. Typical.

Paige: Can we hang out?

Your eyebrows pulled together.

Hang out?

Like nothing had happened? Like she hadn’t once made your life a living hell? Like she hadn’t pretended you didn’t exist for years?

You let out a bitter chuckle.

You: There’s no point. We both have our own lives now.

Your response was cold, direct. Final.

Or at least, it should’ve been.

Paige: Please.

You stared at the word.

Paige Bueckers, pleading.

Why?

Paige: Just one time. A proper catch-up. No drama.

You clenched your jaw. No drama? From her?

It was laughable.

Your past had been burned, buried, erased. And now, like some relentless ghost, Paige was clawing her way back into your life.

You exhaled sharply and locked your phone.

Ignoring her.

For now.

Ignoring Paige should have worked.

It should have been the end of it.

You had spent years perfecting the art of forgetting her, of erasing her from your life. But Paige Bueckers had never been the type to accept being ignored.

The messages kept coming.

Paige: I get it, you don’t want to see me. Paige: But can we at least talk? Paige: Just five minutes? Paige: I’ll stop after that, I swear.

She was relentless.

You stopped responding after the first day, but she didn’t stop sending them.

Then the calls started.

You never answered.

Your girlfriend, Natalie, started noticing.

“You okay?” she asked one evening, looking up from the couch as you stared at your phone.

You turned the screen down on the table. “Yeah.”

She didn’t push. Natalie never did. She trusted you.

Unlike Paige, who didn’t know the meaning of boundaries.

And then—Paige took it further.

You stepped into your office building that morning, coffee in hand, fully prepared for a normal workday.

Until you saw her.

Paige.

Standing in the sleek lobby, hands in the pockets of her hoodie, acting as if she belonged there.

Your stomach dropped.

She looked… different. Still Paige Bueckers, still beautiful, but—something else lurked beneath the surface. A quiet desperation.

She met your eyes, and for a split second, something passed between you.

And then you snapped out of it.

You turned on your heel, heading straight for the elevator.

She was right behind you.

“Hey—”

You didn’t stop.

“Wait, can we just—”

You stepped inside and pressed the button. Paige followed, slipping in before the doors could close.

You glared at her. “Are you insane?”

She just shrugged, leaning against the wall. “Wouldn’t be the first time you thought that.”

The doors shut.

You gritted your teeth, gripping your coffee cup so hard the lid nearly popped off. “How the hell did you even get in here?”

She smirked. “Connections.”

Of course.

Paige Bueckers could get in anywhere.

The elevator climbed in suffocating silence.

“I just want to talk,” she said.

You scoffed. “Stalking me at work is your idea of talking?”

Paige exhaled, rubbing the back of her neck. “I wouldn’t call it stalking.”

You shot her a sharp look. “What would you call it, then?”

She hesitated.

Exactly.

The doors dinged open. You stepped out, but Paige kept pace beside you.

Enough.

You yanked out your phone and shot a quick message to Natalie.

You: We need to talk. Paige is here.

Seconds later, your phone buzzed.

Natalie: What??

You: Yeah. I’ll explain everything.

You slid your phone back into your pocket and turned to Paige.

“This needs to stop,” you said. “You need to stop.”

Paige’s jaw tightened. “I just—”

“No,” you cut her off. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to chase me down after all these years. I moved on, Paige.”

Something flickered in her eyes.

Before she could say anything, you walked away.

And this time, you weren’t looking back.

You barely had time to collect yourself before Natalie called.

You shut your office door before answering.

“Tell me I misread your text,” she said immediately. “Paige is here?”

You sighed, running a hand down your face. “She was in the lobby when I got in.”

“What the hell?”

“She got in through connections.”

Natalie let out a humorless laugh. “Of course she did.”

You sat down, rubbing your temple. “I told her to stop. I don’t know if she will.”

A pause. Then—“Do you want me to handle this?”

You hesitated. Natalie was protective. If she got involved, she wouldn’t be nice about it.

But maybe that’s exactly what needed to happen.

“…Not yet,” you said. “But if she doesn’t back off, I might need you to.”

Another pause. Then, softer, “Okay. But if she crosses another line, I’m stepping in.”

You didn’t argue.

You expected Paige to try again the next day.

But she didn’t.

No messages. No calls.

Just silence.

You should’ve felt relieved. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t over.

And you were right.

Because Paige found a new way in.

Two days later, you got a text from your boss.

Boss: Hey, someone from the Dallas Wings is asking for a meeting with you. Any idea why?

Your blood ran cold.

You gripped your phone tighter, rereading the words.

Paige.

She was relentless.

You responded as casually as possible.

You: No idea. Maybe a mix-up? I’ll check.

Then, before you could lose your nerve, you called her.

She picked up on the second ring.

“I was wondering when you’d call,” she said, smug as ever.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Trying to talk to you,” Paige said simply. “Since you won’t listen, I had to get creative.”

Your jaw clenched. “You’re playing games, Paige.”

“Maybe.”

She didn’t even deny it.

You gritted your teeth. “Whatever you think you’re doing—stop.”

“I will,” she said. “After we talk.”

A long silence stretched between you.

Then Paige sighed. “Look, I know I’m being—” she paused, searching for the word, “—annoying. But I swear, I just want to talk.”

You closed your eyes. “There’s nothing left to say.”

“There is,” Paige insisted. “And you know it.”

A beat.

Then, reluctantly, you exhaled. “Fine. One conversation.”

She sounded almost surprised. “Really?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “One. That’s it.”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “Name the time and place.”

You hated how easy she made it sound. Like it was that simple.

It wasn’t.

And you had a feeling this conversation would prove exactly why.

You picked a public place. Neutral ground. Somewhere she couldn’t corner you.

A quiet café, tucked away in downtown L.A. You sat by the window, watching the world move on—like you had.

Paige was late.

Typical.

And yet, when the door swung open and she stepped inside, your stomach twisted like you hadn’t expected her to come at all.

She was different.

Her features sharper. But her eyes—those damn eyes—still held the same weight they always had.

Like they could see too much.

Like they still had a hold on you.

You forced yourself to look away as she approached.

Paige slid into the seat across from you, studying you.

"You look good," she said.

"You look surprised," you shot back.

Her lips twitched, almost like she wanted to smirk—but then she sobered.

"I guess I am," she admitted.

You didn’t know what to say to that, so you just lifted your coffee to your lips, waiting.

Paige exhaled, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “I didn’t know you were here.”

You finally met her eyes. “I figured.”

A beat.

Then—softer—“Why didn’t you tell anyone?”

You almost laughed. "Are you serious?"

Paige sighed, running a hand down her face. “I know I don’t have the right to ask, but—”

“You don’t,” you cut in. “Not after everything.”

She flinched. But she didn’t argue.

Instead, she nodded, like she’d expected it.

"I just—" she hesitated, choosing her words carefully. "I never thought you'd actually leave."

"Neither did I," you admitted.

Silence settled between you. Heavy. Unspoken things pressing in.

You sighed, setting your cup down. “You wanted to talk, so talk.”

Paige hesitated. Then, with a deep breath, she said—

"Do you ever think about it?"

Your stomach clenched.

You didn’t need to ask what she meant.

The past. The pain. The things she did.

The things you felt.

"No," you lied.

Paige's gaze flickered, like she caught it. But she didn’t call you out.

Instead, she nodded. "Must be nice."

There was something bitter in her voice. Something resentful.

You frowned. "Why are you even here?"

Paige looked at you for a long moment. Then she exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly.

"I don’t know."

You believed her. And maybe that was worse.

Because if she didn’t even know what she wanted, then what was stopping her from destroying everything all over again?

She looked like she wanted to say more. Like she had a hundred things sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't find the right words.

Good. Let her struggle. Let her drown in all the things she left unsaid.

Because you weren’t going to save her.

You leaned back in your seat, fingers drumming against the table. “So… that’s it?”

Paige blinked, as if snapping out of a trance.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” she admitted.

“That makes two of us.”

She exhaled sharply. “Can we just… I don’t know. Talk? Catch up?”

“There’s nothing to catch up on.”

You expected her to flinch. To back off. To realize there was no fixing something she destroyed so thoroughly.

But this was Paige Bueckers.

And Paige Bueckers never knew when to quit.

“You can’t tell me you don’t have questions,” she pushed. “Not even one?”

“I don’t.”

She huffed a humorless laugh. “God, you really hate me, don’t you?”

Your jaw clenched.

Hate was easy. Hate was safe.

But the truth was, you didn’t know what you felt anymore.

Paige studied you, something unreadable in her expression.

“You’re different,” she murmured.

You frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, tilting her head slightly. “You just… feel different.”

A scoff left your lips. “Yeah, well. Trauma does that to a person.”

Silence.

Paige swallowed, her throat bobbing. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

You shrugged. “Then you shouldn’t have come at all.”

She ran a hand through her hair, clearly frustrated, but for once, she didn’t argue.

Instead, she sighed, glancing toward the window.

"You have a good life now," she murmured.

You didn’t respond.

She turned back to you, something unreadable in her gaze. “Does she make you happy?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. Just slightly.

And maybe you imagined it, but you swore you saw something flicker in her eyes.

Regret? Pain?

It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Your phone buzzed.

Natalie.

You didn’t even have to check the message. You knew what it was.

You had a life now. A life Paige wasn’t part of.

You pushed your chair back, standing up. “I should go.”

Paige’s gaze snapped to yours. “Already?”

“There’s nothing else to say.”

She looked like she wanted to argue. To make you stay.

But what would be the point?

She wasn’t part of your world anymore.

She lost that right a long time ago.

You pushed your chair back, preparing to leave. But before you could take a single step, Paige reached out, grabbing your wrist.

“Wait.”

Her fingers were warm, firm—not desperate, not forceful, just… steady. And for some reason, that was worse.

You froze.

She let go almost immediately, as if realizing she had no right to touch you. “Please. Just… a few more minutes?”

You hesitated, your body screaming at you to walk away. To leave her behind like she had left you in the wreckage of her past.

But then she said, “I’m sorry.”

And you actually stopped.

For the first time since she waltzed back into your life, she looked different—not the arrogant, reckless Paige Bueckers who had made your life hell.

No. This was something else.

She looked… remorseful.

“I mean it,” she added, her voice quieter now. “For everything. For what happened. For making you suffer. For making you feel like it was your fault when it never was.”

Your chest tightened.

You weren’t sure if you were ready for this conversation.

She took a deep breath. “I was a coward. I lost Azzi, and I didn’t know how to handle it, so I took it out on you. I blamed you when I should’ve blamed myself.”

You swallowed hard.

You weren’t expecting this.

Paige ran a hand through her hair, exhaling shakily. “I made your life a nightmare, and I can never take that back. I don’t deserve forgiveness, but I need you to know that I regret it. Every single day.”

She looked up at you then, and there was something raw in her eyes.

“Can you ever forgive me?”

The question hit you like a bullet.

You had imagined this moment before—what it would feel like if Paige ever apologized. If she ever looked you in the eye and admitted she was wrong.

But now that it was happening, you didn’t know what to do with it.

A part of you wanted to say no.

A part of you wanted to hold onto the anger, the pain, the years of resentment.

But another part of you—one you weren’t ready to acknowledge—felt something else.

Something dangerously close to relief.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I really don’t.”

Paige nodded, like she understood. Like she expected it.

“I get it,” she murmured. “I just… I needed to say it.”

Silence stretched between you.

You needed to leave. To walk away before you got caught in her storm all over again.

But Paige wasn’t done.

She forced a smile, rubbing the back of her neck. “You look good, you know. Happy.”

“I am.”

Paige nodded, but there was something distant in her gaze. “That’s good. That’s… really good.”

She meant it. You could tell.

But deep down, you could also tell that something about it bothered her.

And that was the moment you should’ve walked away.

The moment you should’ve put an end to this.

But you didn’t.

And you should’ve known then—Paige Bueckers wasn’t just here to apologize.

She was here to stay.

—

At first, it was subtle.

Little things you could brush off as coincidences.

Running into her at a café you liked. Seeing her at a gym you sometimes visited. Bumping into her at events that, logically, she had no reason to be at.

Then, it started becoming obvious.

Paige showing up at your work building, pretending it was a coincidence. Her sending the occasional DM, even though you never responded.

Natalie started noticing too.

One evening, as you curled up on the couch with her, she spoke up.

“She’s hovering,” Natalie said simply, scrolling through her phone.

You stiffened.

“She’s not,” you muttered, though even you didn’t sound convinced.

Natalie raised a brow. “She’s showed up at your work twice now. You really think that’s normal?”

You didn’t respond.

Because the truth was, you weren’t sure anymore.

Paige had changed. She wasn’t cruel or reckless or looking to hurt you anymore.

She was… present. Too present.

And you were starting to realize—she was getting in between you and Natalie.

[mikkies]

「 IN THE SHADOW, I CONTINUE TO REGRET. 」

007n7 x GN! Reader

warnings: none!

notes: I was scrolling through Pinterest and saw a comic of c00lkidd limping towards 007n7, heartbreaking but saw potential

THE FOREST STRETCHED endlessly, a sea of dark trunks and whispering leaves. The small cabins dotted throughout were the only semblance of shelter in this cruel, godforsaken place. By day, they were a fragile refuge; by night, they felt like cages. Tonight, the quiet carried a different weight, broken only by a sound you couldn’t ignore—the muffled sobs of a man who had long since run out of hope.

007n7 sat slumped on a log outside his cabin, his burger hat tilted to one side as though he’d forgotten it was there. His pink glasses sat askew on his nose, fogged by tears he made no effort to hide. The blue polo stretched over his figure, soft around the middle, and his light brown pants were wrinkled and frayed at the edges. Flip-flops dangled precariously from his toes, his foot tapping against the damp earth in a jittery rhythm. The ankle monitor caught the faint glint of the cabin’s lantern light, a harsh reminder of his past that seemed to weigh him down with every movement.

You approached slowly, the crunch of leaves underfoot alerting him. His head snapped up, brown eyes red and puffy as he hastily wiped his face with the back of his hand. “What do you want?” he croaked, his voice rough from crying.

“To check on you,” you replied softly, stopping a few paces away. “You’ve been out here for a while.”

He let out a hollow laugh, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “You shouldn’t waste your time. I… I don’t deserve it.”

Ignoring his self-pity, you closed the distance and sat down beside him. The log creaked slightly under your combined weight, the smell of damp wood and the faint metallic tang of the ankle monitor filling the air. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence hanging heavy between you.

“I heard about c00lkidd,” you said finally, watching him carefully. His face crumpled at the mention of his son, and he turned away, his shoulders shaking with renewed sobs.

“They hurt him,” he choked out, voice breaking. “They had to. He’s a killer in their eyes… and I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t protect him.”

Your heart ached at the raw pain in his voice. “They didn’t do it because they’re heartless,” you said gently. “They were scared. It’s the only way they can survive this… this nightmare.”

“But he’s still my son!” 007n7 exclaimed, his voice cracking. He buried his face in his hands, his fingers gripping his hair as though trying to hold himself together. “He’s all I have left, and I can’t even keep him safe. What kind of father am I?”

You reached out, placing a steady hand on his arm. “You’re a father who loves his son. And you’re trying, 007n7. That’s what matters.”

He let out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. “I made him a target. I made all of this worse. If I hadn’t been such a selfish, reckless person before, none of this would have happened. They wouldn’t hate him if it weren’t for me.”

“Maybe you can’t change what’s already done,” you said softly, “but you’re here now. You’re doing what you can to protect him, to make things right. That’s more than most people in this place can say.”

He looked at you, his brown eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Do you really think that’s enough? That I can fix this?”

“You can’t fix everything,” you admitted, your voice steady. “But you can try. And he knows you’re trying. That’s why he came to you.”

007n7’s gaze dropped to the small replica of c00lgui resting beside him. He picked it up, his fingers tracing its edges as if seeking comfort from the faint glow it emitted. “He cried for me,” he murmured. “Even after everything… he still wanted me.”

“Because he loves you,” you said simply. “And he needs you now more than ever.”

He let out a shaky breath, his shoulders slumping as the weight of his guilt and exhaustion bore down on him. Slowly, he leaned toward you, his head resting against your shoulder. His messy brown hair tickled your neck, and his breaths came in uneven shudders. The quiet of the forest wrapped around you both, a fragile cocoon against the chaos.

“I don’t know why you’re being so kind to me,” he whispered. “I’ve done nothing to deserve it.”

“Maybe not,” you said with a small smile, “but everyone deserves a chance to be better. Even you.”

For a long moment, the two of you sat there, the distant sounds of the forest filling the space around you. The horrors of this twisted life felt far away, replaced by a fragile sense of understanding and hope.

“Thank you,” he said finally, his voice barely audible.

“We’ll figure this out,” you replied, giving his arm a reassuring squeeze. “You and c00lkidd. You’re not alone in this.”

And for the first time in a long while, 007n7 allowed himself to believe it.

[hamilton-here]

Your writing is so great, I love it :)

I would love one, where Lewis and the reader are teammates and she has an accident and after that they finally show their feelings for eachother 😊

Have a nice day :)

𝒜𝓁𝓁’𝓈 𝐹𝒶𝒾𝓇 𝐼𝓃 𝐿𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑅𝒶𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Slowly recovering from my sickness. At the moment I’m moving house, so I am very busy. Thank you so much for loving my writing and I hope you have a wonderful day as well. I hope you enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: After a devastating crash at Silverstone, Lewis Hamilton and his fiercely competitive new teammate finally confront their buried feelings. Turning rivalry into something much deeper.

Warnings: mentions of a crash

Taglist: @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes @piston-cup

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Mercedes garage was alive not just busy, but buzzing, like an organism with a thousand moving parts, each one vital and hyper-focused. Engineers hovered over telemetry screens, scanning data streams with eyes sharpened by caffeine and pressure. Mechanics swarmed the sleek silver machines, torque wrenches hissing, tires being wrapped in blankets like swaddled infants. The air was a heady mix of fuel, rubber, and carbon fibre, undercut by the palpable crackle of anticipation.

But the static in the air had nothing to do with machinery.

It was you.

You stood in the heart of it all, posture straight, eyes forward, your helmet resting against your hip. The shimmering vehicle sat before you, its aerodynamic frame gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Your name, stencilled in crisp black letters near the cockpit, still looked foreign to you. Beautiful. Surreal. Replacing Nico Rosberg wasn’t just a seat switch, it was a seismic shift.

He had stunned the world by retiring right after sealing the 2016 championship, a move no one saw coming. But now the world was watching again. Watching you.

And the weight of that was heavy.

But you didn't show it.

You adjusted the cuff of your fireproof undersuit as someone stepped up behind you.

“Looks like they upgraded the team,” came a voice smooth, amused, unmistakably British.

Lewis Hamilton.

You turned slowly, eyes meeting his. He stood there, casually leaning against the wall, race suit half-zipped and hanging around his waist, arms folded, tattoos stark against the rich brown skin of his chest and collarbone. His curls were slightly damp, and a grin pulled lazily at his lips like he was in on a secret.

He wasn’t just confident. He was magnetic.

You raised a brow. “Still bitter Nico got the title before retiring?”

Lewis chuckled, pushing off the wall to close the space between you. “Not bitter. Just intrigued. Replacing the guy who beat me? That’s a hell of a way to make an entrance.”

You tilted your head. “Are you worried?”

“Only about how many times I’m going to have to carry your ego off the podium.”

You smirked, eyes narrowing. “You might want to focus on staying ahead of me before worrying about podiums.”

There was a beat. A moment too long. The tension hung between you not sharp but charged like a storm waiting for the right moment to break.

He stepped closer, voice lower. “Guess I’ll have to find out, won’t I?”

Before you could reply, Toto Wolff walked in, clutching a clipboard like it was the last shred of his sanity. He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw you two, then closed his eyes like he was already calculating the therapy bill for the season.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “I can feel it. It’s going to be one of those years.”

“What years?” you asked innocently.

“The ones where I regret every decision that brought me here,” Toto said without missing a beat. “Let’s go, people. Media in thirty.”

You and Lewis gave matching innocent smiles.

“No promises,” Lewis called after him.

That afternoon in the press conference room of Albert Park Circuit.

Flashes from dozens of cameras exploded as you stepped onto the stage with Lewis. The air was warm, crowded with the scent of fresh print paper, deodorant, and just a hint of media bloodlust. Reporters practically vibrated with excitement.

Lewis slouched back in his chair with practiced ease, mic already adjusted, one hand on the desk. You sat beside him, back straight, legs crossed, every inch the composed professional. Until the questions began.

“Y/N,” a journalist in the front row started, “how does it feel stepping into the shoes of Nico Rosberg, the reigning champion and are you prepared for the inevitable tension that comes with partnering Lewis Hamilton?”

You leaned into the mic, barely concealing the sparkle in your eyes. “It’s an honour. Nico’s shoes aren’t easy to fill, but I’m not here to fill them. I’m here to win. And as for Lewis…” You turned your head; gaze locked with his. “I like a challenge.”

The room rippled with murmurs.

Lewis arched a brow, then turned to the crowd. “Why do I feel like I’m being flirted with and threatened at the same time?”

The press burst out laughing.

You didn’t blink. “Because you are.”

Toto, seated beside the stage, dropped his pen.

Soon enough free practice 2 was official.

You lit up the track.

Fastest in FP1. Even faster in FP2. You pushed the car to the edge of its capabilities and then some, dancing on the line between risk and brilliance. When you peeled into the garage, unbuckling your helmet and pulling it off, your face was flushed, pulse racing.

And Lewis was waiting.

He stood just outside the engineers' circle, his arms folded, visor already up, suit rolled down to his waist.

“Okay, okay,” he said, clapping once, grinning from ear to ear. “I see you. Coming out swinging.”

You blew a strand of hair from your face. “Gotta keep the world champ humble.”

“You keep this up and you’ll be paying for my therapy.”

“I’m flattered you think I’m worth that kind of emotional damage.”

An engineer near the back of the garage fumbled a wrench with a loud clang.

No one looked at Toto.

That night after completing your nightly routine, you scrolled on your phone in bed, bare feet tucked under the covers. The F1 Twitterverse was melting down.

@f1teatime:

THE FLIRTING. THE SMIRKS. THE COMPETITION. THIS IS A FANFIC COME TO LIFE.

@mercedesgirl77:

y/n and lewis need to GET A ROOM or GET A TROPHY. Either way I’m here for it.

@f1media:

The tension between Hamilton and his new teammate Y/N Y/L/N is already setting up the 2017 season to be unmissable.

The clips were going viral - your smirk, his grin, the toe-to-toe timing charts, Toto’s eternally pained expressions.

You didn’t reply to any of it.

But you watched. You watched the replays of your lap, the press conference, the teasing glint in Lewis’s eye when he looked at you.

You didn’t know where this was going.

But it was already moving fast.

And God, it was going to be one hell of a ride.

You were only a few races into the season, but by the time the paddock touched down in Bahrain, it was clear to everyone:

You were no longer “Nico Rosberg’s replacement.”

You were something else entirely.

The headlines had stopped comparing you to the former world champion.

Stopped framing every move you made in the shadow of the 2016 title winner.

Because the longer you stayed in the car and the faster you went the more obvious it became:

You were nothing like Nico.

Nico had been cold steel beneath the surface. Calculated. Tactical. A chess player in the body of a racer.

You?

You were fire.

You provoked. You teased. You smiled when the red lights went out and snarled when the helmet came off. Where Nico baited with passive aggression, you bantered with bite. While Nico gave quiet interviews, you gave headlines.

Where Nico and Lewis had waged a cold war - all unsaid tension and icy post-race stares as you and Lewis were something else.

Something volatile. Something dangerous. Something alive.

And Lewis?

He didn’t resent it. He thrived in it. Even when you beat him. Especially when you beat him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The desert sun pressed down on the paddock like a spotlight. You sat side-by-side with Lewis during the media pen interviews, legs crossed, sunglasses on, your fireproof undersuit peeled halfway down and tied at your waist. Reporters hovered like vultures, microphones extended, every question laced with the same electric curiosity.

“How’s the dynamic shaping up between the two of you now that we’re into race four?” someone asked. “You’ve already split pole positions and race wins. Is it friendly rivalry, or something more intense?”

You didn’t hesitate. “I think it depends on what you mean by ‘friendly.’”

Beside you, Lewis let out a quiet laugh. “She means she enjoys making me sweat.”

You tilted your head toward him. “Only because you deserve it.”

“You love it.”

“Guilty.”

The reporters lapped it up.

Someone else chimed in. “Y/N, do you think Lewis underestimates you?”

You glanced sideways at him, lips twitching. “I don’t think he underestimates anyone. But I do think he was expecting a handshake, and I showed up with a middle finger.”

Lewis smirked, biting back a laugh.

“Didn’t know you were this charming,” he said under his breath.

“Wait ‘til race day.”

Toto, who was lurking at the edge of the pen like a chaperone trying to prevent a scandal, muttered something in Austrian German and walked away shaking his head. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

A week later Saturday: Monaco Qualifying

You were flying once again.

The streets of Monte Carlo blurred past in a kaleidoscope of speed, precision and adrenaline. The engine screamed in harmony with your heartbeat as you threaded the car through corners that had claimed legends and yet you treated them like home.

You danced with the track, kissed every apex, flirted with every wall. Sector one? Purple. Sector two? Flawless. In sector three, your rear tires twitched slightly under braking at the Nouvelle Chicane, but you caught it smooth as silk and hugged the inside barrier at the tunnel exit so tightly that the tire brush left a black kiss mark on the guardrail.

The lap was a work of art. Pure poetry in motion. As you crossed the line, your race engineer’s voice crackled through the headset.

“P1. That’s provisional pole. Outstanding, Y/N.”

You exhaled, a grin forming beneath your helmet as the adrenaline washed over you in waves. This was Monaco. This was your lap.

And now, all eyes were on Lewis.

You peeled off your gloves as you sat in the garage, helmet in your lap, eyes glued to the screen. Lewis was still out on track his silver car slicing through the dusk-lit circuit. He was fast. You watched the timing split glow purple in sector one. Then green. And then - Turn 15. A millisecond of instability as he clipped the inside curb. The rear kicked out. He corrected, but he had to lift.

You saw the tenth slip away like water through his fingers.

The screen flashed: P2.

The moment he stepped out of the car, still in his helmet and suit, his eyes went straight to the monitor above the engineers. Then, slowly, they turned to you. He tugged off his balaclava and stalked toward you, sweat glistening at his hairline, jaw tight.

“Seriously?” he said under his breath, voice low enough that no one but you could hear. “You knew I was on a flying lap.”

You stood, arms crossed, unbothered. “What, I wasn’t even on track?”

He tilted his head, annoyed but not angry. Just frustrated. “I want a fair fight.”

You stepped a little closer, the air between you dense with heat and pride. “That was a fair fight, Hamilton. You just lost.”

He stared at you. Long enough that a mechanic nearby awkwardly turned away.

Then his lips twitched. A reluctant smile.

“You’re dangerous.”

You raised a brow, slow and deliberate. “You’re just figuring that out?”

He didn’t answer. He just walked away, pulling his suit down to his waist and muttering something to Bono. But his eyes lingered, and you felt the static he left behind like a spark on your skin. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Everything about race day in Monaco felt dipped in gold.

The bay shimmered with anchored yachts, the hillsides were dotted with sun-kissed faces behind sunglasses worth more than most cars, and every lens in the paddock turned to follow you and Lewis as you made your way to the grid. You in P1. Him beside you in P2. Side by side at the front of the most prestigious race on the calendar, the most unforgiving circuit in the world.

When the lights went out, you launched off the line like you were shot from a cannon. The opening laps were clean. Tense. Calculated. Monaco didn’t leave room for wheel-to-wheel chaos, but the pressure was suffocating and Lewis applied it like a surgeon with a scalpel.

By lap 22, he was on your gearbox.

You could feel him, not just in your mirrors, but in your bones. Breathing down your neck, matching your pace, probing every turn. He never committed not yet. But he was watching. Waiting. And you knew what he was doing. He was calculating the moment you’d crack.

But you didn’t.

You defended like hell. Protected the racing line. Blocked just enough without overstepping. A lesser teammate would have moved aside. But you weren’t lesser, and Lewis wouldn’t have wanted that anyway.

No team orders came.

Whether Toto was trusting you both...or screaming into a couch cushion in the hospitality suite was anyone’s guess.

But then, you made one mistake.

Just one.

You stayed out one lap too long before pitting. Your tires were crying out, the fronts beginning to lock in the hairpins. Your race engineer called you in and you dove into the pits, seconds too late.

Lewis had already pitted.

And he’d undercut you.

When you rejoined, it was behind him. Behind traffic. Trapped. Furious.

You slammed the wheel, muttering through clenched teeth, “You clever bastard.”

Your engineer’s amused reply was barely containing laughter. “Copy that.”

You pushed like hell, got past the traffic but Monaco offered no second chances.

Lewis won. And you finished second.

You’d barely unbuckled when Lewis was there at the paddock gate, helmet in hand, sweat on his brow, looking for you. You half-expected the signature smirk, the subtle dig. But he surprised you.

Instead, he just said, “Now we’re even.”

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, stepped closer. His voice dropped.

“Oh, I will.”

And then, for a second, it felt like something cracked. Something shifted between the rivalry and the banter. Like maybe it wasn’t just about racing anymore.

The afterparty was held at the Hôtel de Paris, the kind of place where history dripped from the walls and every champagne bottle had its own sommelier. The ballroom was glowing with crystal chandeliers and classical string quartets; elegance wrapped in decadence.

You walked in wearing a black satin gown that fit like a second skin, open-backed, thigh slit high enough to draw attention but not outrage. Your hair was swept up; your earrings sparkled under the low lighting. You knew you looked good.

But the look on Lewis’s face when he saw you?

It was something else entirely.

He stood near the bar, a flute of champagne in hand, wearing a tailored tuxedo with the top button undone and just enough swagger to make it lethal. When your eyes met across the room, something in your chest tightened.

He made his way over, slow, deliberate.

“You clean up alright,” you said, sipping your drink.

He handed you another glass perfectly chilled, of course. “I was about to say the same, but I’m a little distracted.”

You raised a brow. “By what?”

His gaze swept the room, then returned to you sharp, possessive and somehow both a warning and a confession. “By the fact that every guy in this room is looking at you. And I can’t tell if I want to punch someone...or ask you to dance.”

You took a slow sip, letting the silence hang between you. “Maybe both?”

He leaned in slightly, lips near your ear. “You always ruin my smooth lines.”

You looked at him over the rim of your glass. “You always give me something to ruin.”

His smirk turned molten.

And for the first time that night, the racing lines between the two of you blurred. Just a little.

Thursday – Press Conference, Montreal

The media room crackled with the usual pre-race tension of humming cameras, the soft rustle of notepads, lights too bright for comfort. You sat next to Lewis at the long table, arms crossed, legs casually stretched out, the brim of your cap pulled low enough to shade the quiet smirk on your face. Your fingers tapped lightly against your knee, equal parts nerves and anticipation.

By now, it was routine. You and Lewis, shoulder to shoulder, playing your well-rehearsed roles of the rising star and the reigning titan. But Montreal had a particular energy, one that electrified beneath your skin and made your heartbeat a little louder in your ears.

The journalists started off polite enough. Predictable questions. Tire choices. Weather forecasts. Championship predictions. You and Lewis answered like seasoned pros, never missing a beat until one voice cut through the room like a scalpel.

“Lewis, do you think having Y/N as a teammate is pushing you harder than Nico ever did?”

Silence, sharp and immediate, followed. Then Lewis’s lips quirked but not into a smile.

“Y/N doesn’t push,” he said, voice smooth, deliberate. “She shoves.”

Laughter rippled across the room. You tilted your head toward the reporter, resting your chin on one hand, eyes half-lidded with mock innocence.

“What can I say?” you murmured. “I like making him sweat. He said it himself once.”

The laughter got louder. Cameras clicked, trying to capture the side glance Lewis gave you a part glare, part grin.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes on you now instead of the press. “That explains the tire strategy you pulled last race,” he said lowly, just loud enough for the microphones to catch.

Your smirk widened, unapologetic. You shrugged one shoulder as if to say sorry, not sorry.

Between you, Toto let out a long, audible sigh. “I’m going to need blood pressure medication before Austria.”

You and Lewis, in perfect sync, didn’t miss a beat:

“Sorry, Toto.”

The room laughed again, but this time, you barely heard it.

Because when you looked at Lewis again - really looked the tension between you sparked. Not angry. Not flirty. Something quieter. Something simmering. Something you weren’t quite ready to name.

But it was there.

And you both knew it.

On Saturday, the day had drained you. Qualifying had been brutal every sector fought down to the millisecond. You’d taken pole, but only by the skin of your teeth. Lewis was right behind you, less than a tenth off. The debrief had been stiff, full of long stares across the table and passive-aggressive telemetry talk.

You were back in your hotel room now, trying and failing to wind down. Pyjamas on. Strategy notes open. You were on your third read-through of tire degradation predictions and still hadn’t taken in a word. The air conditioner hummed softly. Outside, the city sparkled, golden and wide awake. But you weren’t thinking about the lights.

You were thinking about him.

The knock at the door was soft. Three quick raps. Hesitant.

You blinked. Pushed your laptop aside. Walked to the door, heart ticking faster than it should have.

When you opened it, Lewis was standing there in sweats and a hoodie, hood pulled up. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, and he looked at you like he was waiting for you to tell him to go away.

But you didn’t.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said simply.

You nodded and stepped aside.

“Same.”

He walked in without another word. Sat on the edge of the bed like it was his own. You crawled back under the sheets, legs tucked under you, trying not to feel the shift in the air.

He didn’t speak. Just scrolled idly through his phone. The glow of the screen lit up his jaw, sharp and unreadable. You pretended to return to your notes, but your eyes kept drifting.

Minutes passed. Quiet minutes. Comfortable, strangely.

There was nothing romantic about it. And yet…it was the most intimate thing you’d felt in weeks.

Eventually, exhaustion crept in, and you let your eyes close. Just for a second.

You didn’t even realise you’d fallen asleep.

When you woke hours later, to the dim blue light of dawn bleeding into the room - Lewis was gone.

But his hoodie was folded at the foot of your bed. Left behind like a signature.

You stared at it for longer than you should have.

You should’ve laughed. Sent him a text. Something stupid, sarcastic. Didn’t know you moonlighted as a sleep therapist.

But instead, you picked it up - soft, worn-in, warm and pulled it over your head. His scent clung to the fabric. Clean. Familiar. Too familiar.

You didn’t think about what it meant. You didn’t want to.

You just tucked your hands into the sleeves and went back to your notes.

The next day rolled in faster than you expected but, the Canadian Grand Prix always delivered. This year was no exception.

From pole, you held the lead through the first stint, managing the tires, fending off Lewis who was never more than a second behind. Every lap felt like a chess match at 300 km/h DRS threats, over-cut possibilities, traffic playing interference.

He never let up. Not for a second. But neither did you.

When the pit window opened, you stayed out an extra lap which was a gamble. One you thought might gain you time.

But when you rejoined, Lewis was ahead.

He’d undercut you by half a second.

“Shit,” you muttered into your radio.

The rest of the race was damage control. You pushed. You clawed. You closed the gap to within striking distance by the final ten laps, but the tires weren’t there. Lewis crossed the line three seconds ahead.

P2.

When you climbed out of the car, helmet tucked under your arm, you expected the usual smug grin. Expected a quip. A jab. Something sharp-edged.

But Lewis met you at the paddock gate, helmet still on, visor lifted just enough for you to see his smile.

Not arrogant. Not taunting.

Just proud.

“Now we’re even,” he said, voice low.

You rolled your eyes and tossed your gloves at his chest. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

He caught them easily, grin still playing at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, I will.”

After Montreal

Something had shifted.

Neither of you said anything about the hoodie. Or the hotel room. Or the way the air between you had started to hum with something more than competition.

But it was there.

The paddock noticed. The engineers noticed. Hell, even the Sky Sports commentators started speculating.

You still fought each other tooth and nail on track. But in the quiet moments, a look across the garage, a shared smirk during warm-up, a shoulder brush that neither of you stepped away from. The line between enemies and something else began to fade.

Whatever was growing between you and Lewis, it didn’t have a name yet.

However, it was coming fast.

One minute, you were stepping off the plane from Montreal, the champagne still sticky in your hair and Lewis’s half-smile still lingering in the back of your mind. The next, you were in the middle of the Styrian hills, Red Bull Ring laid out like a postcard, sky stretched above you in impossible shades of blue.

Austria was always beautiful. Always fast.

But this year? This year it felt like a storm waiting to break.

The paddock buzzed with something electric. Sharper than usual. Everyone moved with that mid-season intensity, chasing perfection in half-second intervals but underneath all of that, something else stirred.

You and Lewis.

It followed you like a shadow. Your names stacked beside each other on headlines, in interviews, across every trending hashtag. The questions came faster now from fans, press, even other drivers. The tension? Constant. Thick enough to feel on your skin. Like the moment before lights out.

Like standing too close to a flame you couldn’t stop reaching for.

Saturday – Qualifying Day

Q3 was hell.

Fast laps. Dirty air. Nerves wired too tight. Sector times bounced between green and purple like a heartbeat. You were quicker in the middle sector, Lewis in the third. Each lap built on the last, the timing screen an endless taunt.

Final run.

DRS open. Grip on the edge. You nailed your entry into Turn 7, carried perfect speed through the double left and still, it wasn’t enough.

Lewis crossed the line just before you. 0.036 seconds. You stared at the screen. P2. Your name flickering beneath his.

You muttered a curse into your helmet, just loud enough to fog the inside of your visor but not loud enough for Bono to ask questions. When you rolled into the garage, helmet off, race suit peeled halfway down, Lewis was already there leaning against the wall like he’d been born there.

He didn’t even look at you at first.

Just unzipped his race suit a little lower, sweat still drying across his collarbone, before shooting you a look over his shoulder.

“You’re getting slow.” His voice was low. Teasing. Dangerous.

You walked past him, deliberately close, brushing the edge of his elbow as you tugged off your gloves.

“You’re getting cocky.”

His smirk turned razor-sharp. “You like it.”

You paused, gaze flicking to his, something warm and wicked curling in your chest.

“Never said I didn’t.”

For just a second, he blinked. Smirk faltering like a driver who missed the apex by a breath. You saw it the shift behind his eyes and then he straightened, like the moment hadn’t just punched him in the ribs.

He stepped back. Just an inch.

But the space between you stayed hot. Buzzing. Unspoken.

Not quite rivals. Not quite anything else.

Saturday night was the team dinner.

The restaurant sat at the edge of a valley, glass walls framing a sunset that didn’t look real. The whole team had turned out - engineers, strategists, comms. Wine flowed. The food was good. Someone was halfway through a dramatic retelling of Canada 2011 when the chair beside you scraped back.

Lewis.

He didn’t ask. Just dropped into the seat beside you like gravity had pulled him there. Your shoulders brushed. You didn’t move.

He leaned over mid-story to steal a piece of bread from your plate, elbow bumping yours. His thigh pressed against yours not enough to be obvious, but enough that neither of you adjusted.

The jokes flowed faster. Every glance from him lasted a little too long. When you made a crack about his hair taking longer than his tire warm-up, he let out a bark of laughter and reached across to steal your fork in retaliation.

Toto, across the table, looked like he wanted to throw the wine bottle at both your heads.

He took a slow sip. Deadpan. “Did I wrong a god in a past life?”

You batted your lashes. “I’m delightful.”

Lewis raised his glass and clinked it against yours.

“Debatable,” he said, eyes glinting.

You didn’t look away.

And neither did anyone else. But no one said it. Not out loud. Because they all saw it too.

The next morning was race day.

Lights out. Chaos. Heat.

The race was all muscle and instinct.

You stuck to him like a second shadow. DRS flaps opened in perfect rhythm. You hunted him down, corner by corner, lap after lap. There was nothing gentle about it - this was a war fought in tenths of a second, elbows out, every move on the edge of legal.

He blocked you cleanly in Turn 3. You dove down the inside into Turn 7, forcing him wide. He retaliated the next lap, sweeping across the racing line so sharply you nearly clipped his rear.

It was beautiful. Exhausting.

By the final stint, your tires screamed, and your hands ached. The gap narrowed to under a second, but he held you off. Barely.

P2. Again.

You rolled into parc fermé, helmet still on, adrenaline laced with bitterness. Lewis was already climbing out of his car. He caught your eye. Didn't say a word not there. No smug comments in front of the cameras. No podium digs.

But later, when you passed him in the paddock still flushed from the heat, helmet tucked under your arm he was waiting.

That smirk was back.

“You’re starting to make this a habit.”

Voice low. A little too smooth.

You stepped up, so close your words dropped between you like sparks.

“Keep pushing me, Hamilton. I dare you.”

His eyes narrowed, half-amused, half-something else.

“Who said I ever stopped?”

And then, silence.

You held his stare for too long. Too knowing. And for a breathless second, it wasn’t about racing lines or qualifying splits.

It was about the way his gaze dropped to your mouth and back. The way your chest rose like a challenge. Whatever this was it was dangerous.

And you were already too far in to care.

After Spielberg

The internet exploded.

#HamY/N trended globally. Again.

Every clip dissected: the looks on the grid, the thigh-brushing at dinner, the tension in parc fermé. Some tabloid ran a side-by-side photo of the two of you from the national anthem, both staring straight ahead except your heads tilted just enough to catch the other out of the corner of your eyes.

“Rivals?”

“Lovers?”

“F1’s Slowest Burning Flame?”

Neither of you said a word. Didn’t need to.

Because the next time you stayed late in the sim room, Lewis showed up with two iced coffees and a smug grin. He dropped into the chair next to yours like it was routine. No questions. No excuses.

Later, in his hotel room, the silence settled differently.

The TV played some old onboard footage - Monaco, maybe 2008 with the volume low enough to be a lullaby. The light flickered faintly across the bed, the muted glow of past speed and younger versions of the man beside you. Your knees touched under the blanket. Neither of you moved.

He told you about a karting race he lost when he was twelve. You told him about the first time someone told you girls don’t win world championships and how, for a long time you almost believed them. He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like it physically pained him. Like if he could go back in time, he’d put his hands around the words before they ever touched your ears.

Eventually, his eyes fluttered shut. Breath deepening. Shoulders relaxing.

Sleep, gradual and quiet, claimed him.

You didn’t mean to stay that long. But something about the weight of the day, the warmth of his side pressed to yours, the way his blanket smelled faintly like him of citrus, salt and something woodsy made you still. And when you shifted, curling ever so slightly in his direction, your head found its way to his chest.

His breathing hitched not quite awake, but not fully gone either. And then his arm moved. Slow. Sleepy.

He tucked you in closer, hand spreading wide across your lower back, anchoring you to him like his subconscious already knew what he wanted like this was muscle memory. You froze for a moment. Just breathed. He sighed in his sleep a soft, content sound and murmured your name so faintly it barely carried.

You didn’t answer. Because that was the moment you let go. Head rising and falling with the rhythm of his chest, you let your eyes fall shut. Let yourself be held.

And for all the chaos that waited outside that room the racing, the press, the questions - here, in this quiet space, Lewis was just a man asleep with his arm around you. And you? You were exactly where you wanted to be.

You didn’t dream of winning that night. You just dreamed of him. Though both of you were just too oblivious to see one another’s feelings.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Soon enough the oppressive weight of Silverstone loomed, not as a harbinger of rain, but as a chilling premonition of impact. Each breath caught in your throat, tight and constricted, a physical manifestation of the immense pressure. This was Lewis Hamilton's home race, the very heart of British motorsport, a crucible where legacies were forged or shattered. The pressure wasn't merely heavy; it was a suffocating shroud that clung to every inch of the paddock.

The air vibrated with an amplified hum, louder than any other race weekend. The British press, a relentless pack, circled with predatory intent, scenting vulnerability. And the fans - a roaring, impassioned sea of Union Jacks, homemade signs, and painted faces unleashed a deafening chorus of cheers. The Silver Arrows, your team, bore the crushing expectation to deliver.

The championship, though still technically within grasp, was a precarious dream, its fragile hold threatened by the encroaching might of Ferrari and Red Bull. Every single point became a battleground, every position a declaration of war. The team itself operated with the precision of a finely tuned machine, sharp-edged and tightly wound, yet disturbingly brittle.

Smiles were absent, relaxation a forgotten luxury. The only thing more fragile than the fluctuating standings was the pervasive sense that any distraction, however slight, could shatter their collective focus.

And you, were rapidly learning that distractions often wore the disarming, elusive and utterly impossible guise of Lewis Hamilton. He was dangerously close, both on the track and off. During media rounds, he consistently stood a little too near, always just beyond reach. You felt his presence before you saw him, the undeniable weight of his attention, a lingering static in the air.

The press, with their keen, predatory instincts, noticed. "Y/N, are you prepared to play support to Lewis this weekend?" one reporter purred, their voice thick with feigned sweetness, the microphone thrust so close you could feel its proximity, catching the barest flicker in your eyes. You didn't blink.

You steadfastly refused to glance at Lewis, even as you felt the searing intensity of his gaze, a palpable sensation akin to the electric calm before lightning strikes.

Instead, you offered a smile sweet, sharp and undeniably lethal. "Tell him to stay ahead of me," you retorted, your voice laced with a subtle challenge, "and we won't have a problem."

A low, warm chuckle escaped Lewis's lips beside you, the kind of sound that instantly became headline news. He attempted to mask it with a cough, but the charade fooled no one. Somewhere beyond the flashing cameras, you could almost hear Toto Wolff's enraged roar echoing into his water bottle.

The internet, predictably, erupted. The hashtag #Y/NvsLewis trended furiously, even before the first free practice session had begun.

Free practice began not long afterwards. The car beneath you felt like an extension of your own body, light and incredibly nimble, possessing the kind of perfect balance that drivers dreamt of. Each lap was a testament to precision, tighter and smoother than the last.

You felt an almost symbiotic connection, as if your very being and the machine spoke a shared, intuitive language. The screens in the garage glowed with your name at the top of the FP2 timings, fastest overall, fastest through the speed traps.

As you climbed out of the cockpit, the garage erupted in a wave of applause, though only one sound truly registered: the distinct clap of Lewis Hamilton. He leaned casually against the wall near your workstation, a water bottle arcing through the air towards you.

His eyes, crinkled at the corners, held a quiet admiration. "Nice lap," he murmured, his voice low and steady, carrying an undertone of something deeper than mere politeness.

You didn't offer a verbal reply, simply took a long sip of water, fighting to suppress the schoolgirl grin that threatened to break through your carefully maintained composure. It wasn't just a compliment; it was something else entirely.

Sunday — Race Day

Five red lights glowed, each one a stark, silent countdown. Your breath hitched, held captive in your lungs.

Then, they extinguished.

Go. A clean start. You and Lewis launched yourselves forward, a synchronised dance of pure power and precision. The world around you blurred into an indistinct canvas of speed. Nothing existed beyond the guttural roar of the engine and the rapid-fire pulse of strategy in your ear.

Lap after relentless lap, you hunted, your gaze locked onto the intricate dance of Lewis's gearbox. He defended flawlessly, with a clean, precise artistry, but you were gaining, clawing back tenths of a second with each corner, your car biting harder, hungrier.

On Lap 7, you closed the gap through the challenging Maggots and Becketts complex. DRS active, you weighed your options, considering a move. He covered, a seamless defensive manoeuvre. You held your line. It was still clean, still fair. But you saw it – the faintest flicker of vulnerability.

Lap 8. Copse. A flat-out, no-lifting, absolute commitment corner. You went for it.

And in that terrifying instant, the world shattered. Mid-corner, the rear of your car violently gave out. Snap oversteer. Zero grip. The tires screamed a desperate, futile protest, unable to save you. The car spun once, twice and then, abruptly, it wasn't spinning anymore. It was flying. There was no time for a scream.

There was only the sickening, visceral crunch of carbon fibre and steel tearing themselves apart against unforgiving concrete. Then: silence. Total. Absolute. Silence. The kind of silence that drowns. Your ears rang, a deafening hum. Or perhaps that was your own frantic heartbeat. Or perhaps, horrifyingly, you were already gone. You didn't know.

A red flag. The race halted. Marshals scrambled, a flurry of orange and white. Back in the garage, radios shrieked with panicked static. And then, Lewis's voice, raw and desperate, sliced through the chaos. "Is she okay?! What happened?! Tell me she's okay!" Nothing. Only static. No confirmation, just the chilling echo of chaos. He didn't care about the race, didn't care about restarts or championship points.

"Y/N?!" he shouted into the comms, his voice cracking, strained with anguish. "Someone answer me!"

Finally, a voice, calm and professional, from the medical team. "She's conscious. Awake. She's being taken to the medical centre." Lewis exhaled, a long, shuddering breath, as if he hadn't drawn one since the moment of impact. But it wasn't relief. It was merely the bare minimum of hope, a fragile thread in the face of overwhelming fear.

He got back into the car when they told him he had to. Lights out, again. He drove like a man possessed, a singular, unstoppable force. He seized the lead, held it with an iron grip, extended it relentlessly, dominating the restarted race. But he didn't celebrate. Not once. The race concluded. He won. Ten seconds clear of the field. Fastest lap. British Grand Prix champion.

The crowd erupted in a thunderous ovation. Fireworks painted vibrant streaks across the sky. And Lewis didn't even look up. He pulled into parc fermé, his helmet coming off to reveal a blank, unreadable face, his eyes dark and haunted.

He didn't pose with the trophy. He didn't take the flag. He walked straight past the throng of press, past the podium, past the waiting champagne.

He was already gone. Already heading for the medical centre, consumed by a singular, urgent purpose.

The world surged back, not with a sudden clarity, but in disorienting fragments. The oppressive hum of fluorescent lights, buzzing like an agitated hive, slowly coalesced from blurred streaks into harsh overhead fixtures.

Shapeless blurs sharpened into the outlines of unfamiliar medical equipment. A dull, persistent ache in your ribs, a grim souvenir of the impact, pulsed with every shallow, agonising breath, reminding you of the violent forces that had brought you to this sterile place.

The distant, rhythmic hum of machines, a symphony of life support and monitoring, permeated the air, punctuated by the insistent beeping of monitors that seemed to track every fragile beat of your heart. Faint, indistinct murmurs of voices drifted in and out of your consciousness, fragments of conversations you couldn’t quite decipher.

And then, cutting through the haze, came his voice. It was low, tense, a raw thread of anxiety woven into every syllable. Yet, it was undeniably familiar, a sound that resonated deep within you. “…you didn’t see her? Nobody saw the rear instability?” The words were sharp, accusatory, and edged with a desperation that sent a shiver down your spine.

You blinked, your eyelids impossibly heavy, feeling like they were weighted with lead. But his silhouette, even through the fuzzy veil, was unmistakable. Lewis.

He was a restless shadow, pacing agitatedly at the far side of the hospital room, his movements tight and jerky. He was still in his race suit, the top half unzipped and hanging loosely at his waist, revealing a sweat-dampened undershirt.

His brows were deeply furrowed, etched with worry lines that made him look as if he’d aged five years in the past five hours, each wrinkle a testament to the agony he’d endured.

A soft-spoken nurse, her expression a blend of professional calm and gentle authority, stepped forward, attempting to block his path as he tried to storm past the flimsy privacy curtain separating your bed from the rest of the room.

“I just need to see her,” Lewis pleaded, his voice a strained whisper, stripped of its usual confidence and bravado. “Just for a minute.” The nurse, understanding the raw emotion behind his words, replied gently, her voice soothing. “She’s awake,” she confirmed, a small, reassuring smile gracing her lips. “But sore. Don’t stress her.”

Your body, still protesting its recent ordeal, responded with a soft groan, a low, involuntary sound of discomfort as you shifted slightly in the bed. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through your battered body, reminding you that every inch of you was a battlefield. But that small sound, insignificant as it might have seemed, acted like a potent spell, freezing Lewis in his tracks.

His head whipped towards you, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and raw relief. And then in what felt like two impossibly swift strides he was there, suddenly beside the bed, dropping to his knees with a speed that belied his agitated state. He looked like a man on the verge of either proposing a lifetime commitment or shattering into a million pieces.

“Hey,” he breathed, the single word a fragile whisper, laced with an overwhelming tenderness. His voice cracked, betraying the immense emotional strain he was under. “

“Hey.” Your lips, dry and cracked, twitched into a faint, weak smile. Despite the pain, despite the confusion, a familiar spark of your competitive spirit flickered. “You win the race?” you managed to croak out, your voice hoarse and barely audible.

He let out a short, choked laugh, a sound devoid of its usual mirth, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Yeah,” he said, his gaze fixed on you, as if trying to memorise every detail of your face. “But who cares.” The words, usually so important to him, were dismissed with a dismissive wave of his hand, their significance utterly dwarfed by the sight of you.

You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling like sandpaper. “You should be celebrating,” you insisted, a faint echo of your usual banter in your tone. “Not without you,” he countered instantly, his voice firm, unwavering.

Something profound, something fragile and yet immensely powerful, broke open between you in that moment.

He looked at you, as if he hadn’t taken a full, unburdened breath until this very second. His fingers, trembling slightly, hovered near your hand, not quite touching, as if afraid to break the delicate spell. “I thought I lost you,” he whispered, the words laced with an agonising vulnerability that sent a jolt through your heart.

“You didn’t,” you said, your voice still weak but imbued with a fierce conviction. “I’m here.” He closed his eyes for a moment, a wave of relief washing over his features.

When he opened them again, they were clouded with a torment you hadn't seen before. “I watched the crash back,” he confessed, his voice raw with self-reproach. “Over and over. Trying to see what I missed. What I should’ve done differently.” The weight of his unasked questions hung heavy in the air between you. “It wasn’t your fault—” you started, trying to reassure him, to alleviate the crushing guilt you saw in his eyes.

“I know that. I know.” His voice wavered, a tremor running through it that spoke volumes of his barely contained emotion. “But you don’t get it. I’ve never cared like this. Not with a teammate. Not with anyone in the paddock.” His gaze intensified, seeking to impress upon you the profound truth of his words.

You stared at him, your mind racing, trying to process the magnitude of his confession. He continued, his voice softening, becoming almost reverent. “You got under my skin so fast I didn’t even feel it. One minute you’re challenging me, mocking me, laughing at me and the next I’m in the hospital hallway thinking what if she doesn’t wake up. What if I never get to tell her.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat that had nothing to do with the lingering pain from the crash, and everything to do with this. The raw honesty of his words, the vulnerability he laid bare, stole your breath away.

“What would you have told me?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, the question hanging delicately in the silence between you. He looked down, his gaze dropping to your intertwined hands, then slowly, deliberately, looked back up, his eyes locking with yours.

“That I love the way you race,” he began, his voice imbued with a newfound tenderness. “That I hate how much I want to win until I see you smile and suddenly second place feels okay. That every time I lose to you, I fall harder.” A profound silence settled over the room, broken only by the soft beeping of the monitors.

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “That I’m falling for you, Y/N. And I don’t think I know how to stop.”

You didn’t reply immediately. The weight of his words, the sheer vulnerability of his confession, left you speechless. Instead, you reached out your fingers, still a little weak, gently brushing over his, a tentative, unspoken invitation. His breath hitched.

“You’re not the only one,” you said softly, your voice thick with emotion, a fragile admission mirroring his own. “You made it impossible not to.” Lewis blinked, his eyes wide, as if unsure he heard you right, as if the reality of your words was too good to be true.

Then, slowly, deliberately, your fingers laced together, a silent confirmation of the burgeoning connection between you. “I should’ve told you sooner,” you confessed, the words a soft sigh of regret. He shook his head, a small, barely perceptible smile gracing his lips.

“You’re telling me now,” he murmured, his thumb gently stroking the back of your hand. A beat of comfortable, understanding silence passed between you. “Come here,” you whispered, the invitation a soft plea.

He stood, his movements careful and gentle, leaning over you as if you were made of the most delicate glass. Your fingers remained locked, a constant, reassuring link between you. You lifted your face just enough, your eyes meeting his, a silent permission passing between you.

And then he kissed you. It wasn’t the hesitant, exploratory kiss of a first date, nor the grand, passionate declaration of a dramatic confession. This was a kiss born of relief, of profound gratitude, a silent vow-exchanged between two souls who had stared into the abyss of loss and found each other again.

His lips against yours were soft and reverent, a gentle pressure that grounded you. It was a promise whispered without words, a silent affirmation of your shared vulnerability and the deep affection that had blossomed between you.

When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured, his voice still thick with emotion. “You made it worth it,” you breathed, your eyes fluttering closed, a profound sense of peace settling over you.

Current time Monday, June 10, 2024 at 12:47:04 AM AEST.

Two days after the terrifying embrace of the hospital room, a subtle shift had occurred. You were no longer just a teammate to Lewis, nor he merely a formidable rival. There was an unspoken current, a tender understanding that hummed beneath the surface of your every interaction. Lying in your stark white hospital bed, still mending, you picked up your phone, a fleeting thought sparking in your mind.

You recorded a quick voice note, the lingering pain in your ribs a dull throb, your voice a little scratchy from disuse. “I’ve watched the crash three times,” you admitted, a wry smile playing on your lips. “I think I’m more upset about your lap time than the wall.” It was a familiar jab, a return to the playful antagonism that defined your professional relationship, a subtle test of the new boundaries.

Lewis’s reply was almost instantaneous, a clear indication of how closely he’d been awaiting your communication. He sent a selfie, a rare glimpse into his off-track world. He was in the simulator, the familiar cockpit surrounding him, but his usual intense focus was replaced by a wide, unburdened grin.

“Heal up fast," his text read, the words accompanied by an emoji of a flexing bicep. "I need you back on track so I can finally beat you without feeling guilty about it." The playful bravado was back, but now, it was tempered with a warmth that hadn’t been there before, a subtle acknowledgment of the stakes that had been so dramatically raised.

Recovery, it turned out, did not suit you. You were a creature of perpetual motion, of high-octane adrenaline, and the forced stillness chafed at your very soul. You hated the relentless downtime, the endless hours of physio that promised slow, arduous progress, each session a frustrating reminder of your temporary incapacitation. What you hated even more was the agonising experience of watching the races from a screen instead of being out there on the grid, the roar of the engines a distant, tantalising echo.

But Lewis, in his own quiet, persistent way, kept you anchored, kept you close. His presence was a constant, comforting hum in the background of your recovery: constant texts filled with mundane updates and genuine concern, late-night calls that stretched into the early hours, dissolving the distance between you, and a steady stream of photos from the garage captioned with a poignant, almost wistful, “your seat misses you.”

You weren't accustomed to such softness in motorsport. The paddock was a cutthroat world, a place where vulnerability was a weakness, where emotional attachments were liabilities. But with him? With Lewis, it didn't feel like a weakness. It felt like fuel, igniting a different kind of strength, a warmth that seeped into your bones and accelerated your healing. And by the time the Hungarian Grand Prix loomed on the horizon, you were not just recovered; you were ready. You were ravenous for the track, for the fight, and for him. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Race weekend. Budapest. The very air vibrated with anticipation. Your return was, quite literally, all anyone could talk about. The paddock buzzed with a frenetic energy, and every journalist, every pundit, every fan had an opinion. "She’s back!" echoed through the media centre, a triumphant declaration. "What will this mean for the Hamilton dynamic?" they mused, recognising the intricate dance between you two. "Have the team lost control of their golden duo?" The question hung in the air, tinged with both apprehension and excitement.

You stepped out of the motorhome, the vibrant team colours a stark contrast to the flash of a hundred cameras that instantly swarmed you, their lenses like hungry eyes.

But you didn’t blink, didn't flinch.

You met their relentless gaze with a steely resolve, your focus already elsewhere. Just past the press barrier, amidst the controlled chaos, Lewis was waiting. His gaze, usually so guarded, was open, raw, searching only for you.

His arms opened slightly, just enough, a silent, almost imperceptible invitation. You didn’t hesitate. You walked right into them, the world blurring around the edges as his embrace enveloped you. It wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense of a passionate, sweeping gesture. Instead, he hugged you the way someone hugs the missing half of a whole. It was tight, desperate in its unspoken relief, an absolute connection that transcended words.

The cameras caught it all, every single click immortalising the unguarded moment, the undeniable truth of your bond.

Later that day, the press conference was packed, the air thick with expectation. The moderator, a seasoned professional, smiled warmly. “Y/N, how does it feel to be back?”

You leaned into the microphone, the familiar weight of it a comforting presence. “Like I’ve been holding my breath for three weeks,” you confessed, a wry smile playing on your lips, acknowledging the stifling frustration of forced inactivity.

Then, the moderator turned to Lewis, a mischievous glint in his eye. “And Lewis,” he began, “what’s it like having your teammate back on the grid?” Lewis didn’t miss a beat, his answer delivered with a smooth, almost theatrical flourish. “Safer, faster, and way more fun.”

Across the table, Toto, the stoic team principal, sat beside you both. At Lewis’s declaration, he visibly sagged, his shoulders slumping. He then closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for an inevitable onslaught. “Please,” he muttered, his voice barely audible, laced with a plea that bordered on desperation. “One race weekend without flirtation. I beg.”

You, emboldened by Lewis’s easy charm and the shared moment, leaned forward, a playful glint in your eye. “Define flirtation,” you challenged, a subtle dare in your tone. Lewis, never one to be outdone, added, “Define fun,” his grin widening.

The room, filled with jaded journalists and cynical analysts, burst into genuine laughter, the tension momentarily dissipating in a wave of shared amusement. Toto, however, merely massaged his temples, a man perpetually on the verge of an aneurysm.

The race itself was a masterclass in controlled aggression, a tight, thrilling ballet of speed and strategy. Lewis led, a familiar sight at the front of the pack. You followed, a relentless shadow, chasing hard, pushing the limits of your still-recovering body. But you didn't push stupid.

Your instincts, honed over years of high-stakes racing, held you back from unnecessary risks. Your body was still adjusting, finding its rhythm, reacquainting itself with the brutal demands of a Grand Prix.

You crossed the line in P2, a second-place finish. And for the first time, it didn’t sting. There was no bitter taste of defeat, no gnawing frustration. Because as the chequered flag waved, a blur of black and white, and the team erupted in cheers over the radio, Lewis’s voice, clear and resonant, cut through the celebration. “That’s my girl.”

Your breath caught in your throat, a sudden, unexpected gasp. You didn't answer not over comms, not where the entire team, the entire world, could potentially hear. The intimacy of his words was too precious to be broadcast.

But later, in the cool-down room, the sterile air a welcome relief after the oppressive heat of the cockpit, you sat on a low bench, sipping water, trying in vain to stop sweating through your race suit. Lewis sat beside you, his presence a comfortable weight, his gaze soft as he watched the replays on the wall monitors. “You know they’re gonna figure it out, right?” he said, his voice a low murmur, a subtle acknowledgment of the cameras that dotted the room, capturing every nuance.

You wiped your face with a towel, the cotton rough against your skin. “They already have,” you stated, a quiet certainty in your voice. He leaned back, stretching out his long legs, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“So, what do we do?” he asked, the question hanging in the air, laden with unspoken possibilities. You looked at him, your gaze unwavering, a confident grin spreading across your face. “You drive,” you said. “I drive. And we keep being us.” He turned his head, his smile deepening, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Even if it’s complicated?” he pressed, a hint of playful apprehension in his tone.

You laughed, a genuine, unburdened sound. “Lewis,” you said, shaking your head in mock exasperation. “What about this was ever going to be simple?”

Soon enough Monza race day arrived dawned under a sky heavy with the promise of chaos. Rain began to fall, turning the iconic Monza circuit into a treacherous, shimmering ribbon. It was a day for brave hearts and precise hands, a day for mayhem. You thrived in these conditions, your instincts razor-sharp.

You overtook him on Lap 4, a daring move that sent a ripple of excitement through the commentary boxes. He undercut you during the first pit stop, his team executing a flawless strategy that put him back ahead. But you weren't done. You dived past again in Turn 1, a breathtaking manoeuvre that brought the crowd to its feet, a collective gasp and roar echoing through the grandstands. By the final ten laps, you were neck and neck separated by a single second and sheer willpower, an epic duel unfolding before the eyes of the world.

“Let me race her,” Lewis demanded over the radio, his voice urgent, a primal desire to compete with you, unhindered.

Toto’s voice, a mixture of exasperation and grudging admiration, came back: “You two are going to drive me into therapy.” Inside your helmet, a wide, unbidden smile spread across your face. “Then book a double session,” you muttered to yourself, the words a silent challenge to the man who held your careers in his hands.

You won. Your second win of the season, a momentous victory on one of motorsport's most iconic tracks. Lewis crossed the line just behind you, a mere blink of an eye separating your cars but his face, visible on the big screens, was plastered with a wide, unburdened grin, as if he’d won too.

On the podium, the air crackled with a triumphant energy. Champagne rained down, a glorious, golden shower. You sprayed him, a playful, victorious torrent, soaking him thoroughly. He didn’t even fight back, he just stood there, letting the cold spray wash over him, his eyes fixed on you, a gaze so intense it felt like sunlight through smoke, seeing only you in that moment.

And then, as the cheers reached a crescendo, as the champagne continued to fall, he pulled you close, still soaking wet from the celebration. He didn't say a word, just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his drenched race suit. And then, in front of the entire world, on the hallowed ground of the podium, he kissed you.

It wasn’t a quick peck, or a tentative brush of lips. It was a kiss that spoke volumes, a powerful, raw, and undeniable declaration. His lips, still wet with champagne, met yours with a desperate urgency, a profound relief, and a fierce, burning passion. It was a kiss that tasted of victory, of fear conquered, of love unleashed.

His hand found the back of your head, tangling in your damp hair, pulling you even closer, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist. Your hands instinctively found purchase on his shoulders, gripping him tightly, as if to anchor yourself against the sudden, overwhelming force of his confession. The world faded, the roar of the crowd, the flash of cameras, the presence of your team - it all dissolved into a singular, all-consuming moment.

It was a kiss that acknowledged every shared glance, every late-night call, every unspoken understanding. It was the public unveiling of a private love, an answer to every rumour, every whispered question. When he finally, reluctantly, pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his eyes still closed, breathing you in. The air around you thrummed with a tangible energy, a silent hum of connection.

That night, the headlines didn’t know what to do with you, or with him. They struggled to categorise the raw, undeniable force that had just been unleashed on the world stage.

Sky Sports, usually restrained, ran with a headline that captured the essence of the moment:

“Teammates, Rivals, Lovers — Whatever They Are, It’s Working.”

Motorsport.com, ever the pragmatist, focused on the immediate outcome, but couldn’t ignore the context:

“Y/N Y/L/N Becomes Title Contender. Hamilton Still Grinning.”

The world watched, captivated, as the lines between professional rivalry and profound personal connection blurred, creating a story far more compelling than any championship fight.

This was more than just racing; this was a love story, unfolding at 300 kilometres an hour, for all the world to see.