#and not to have the pressure of the world and his family's past on his shoulders

[sushirrrry]

OURS || a harry styles x original character story

cw: infertility/fertility struggles, emotional distress, themes of grief and uncertainty, declining mental health, graphic sexual content, language, alcohol-use, depression, medical intervention for pregnancy word count: 20,355

summary: harry and thea are looking to grow their family. over seasons of trying, their lives look a little bit different; emotions run high, their limits are tested, but if there's one thing for sure: it's their love for one another.

authors note: this is a story that's been on my mind for a while - this took me a full day to write, it just kept flowing out. it's loosely inspired by certain inspirations from landslide by fleetwood mac; following the seasons of our lives, and understanding where who we are when we disappoint ourselves for who we think we should be. it's about the pressures we put on ourselves, even when we have everything we want.

this is a really really special one to me & this is one that I don't think it's one for everyone because it's very emotional, but I hope you give it a chance <3

without further ado; I hope you enjoy <3

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Spring

The house was quiet in the early blush of morning; a hush wrapped in the pale gray-blue light of spring. Rain ticked gently at the windowpane, not enough to storm, just a soft percussion against the silence. The early spring showers were comforting to them; they always had been.

Thea sat on the closed toilet lid, knees drawn together, fingers knotted in the hem of Harry’s old T-shirt that she had been wearing the past few nights; it was the t-shirt that she had found out she was pregnant in both other times. It still smelled faintly of him—laundry linen and cedar from the left-over cologne that rubbed from his skin. Her bare toes curled against the tile of the cool floor, the cold seeping through as she counted down the seconds.

The test lay on the edge of the sink, face-down, unread and pending a result.

Outside the door, she could hear the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant thrum of a car passing on the wet road. But inside, time had paused even when it needed to move faster than ever. Thea closed her eyes, inhaling sharply, willing her heart to slow. It felt too fast, too eager, too much like something was about to break open with joy or sadness.

When the timer on her phone buzzed, it startled her. She reached out with trembling fingers, turned it off quickly. She didn’t want Harry to hear it; she didn’t want to make this a big deal. Making it a big deal meant that there would be disappointment if things didn’t go the way she needed it to go.

When she flipped the test, her eyes focused on the words:

Not Pregnant.

The breath left her lungs in a soundless sigh. Not devastation—not yet, no, it was more a bit of confusion, if she was honest. This was only the second test she had taken, they were only on month two of actively trying. It wasn’t supposed to happen overnight, she knew that. Her doctor had said it could take time, and she may have just been lucky with the ease of it with Teddy and Niko. Thea and Harry got pregnant practically on command with their two boys – no scheduling, no ovulation testing, just the pure love and admiration that was bundled up when they tried.

Then, it was like her body had known what to do— fate had simply reached down and tucked new life into her with a gentle sort of magic that only expecting mothers could understand.

This time felt different. She was reaching for something she couldn't quite catch, and she was frustrated with the waiting process.

She sat there for a few more minutes, test in hand, until the world beyond the bathroom began to stir and she had been broken from her thoughts. She heard the boy’s bedroom door creak open and the soft shuffle of little feet padding down the hall—this early, it had to be Niko.

Thea quickly slid the test back into its foil wrapper and tucked it into the bottom of the drawer beneath the sink, under a pile of spare toothbrushes and half-used tubes of ointment. She washed her hands in cold water, splashed her face to feel something, and forced her shoulders to soften before she stepped into the hall and preparing herself for the weekend morning.

When she entered the kitchen, Harry was already up. He stood at the stove, barefoot in sweatpants and an old band t-shirt that had fraying on the edges, flipping pancakes with Niko perched on the counter beside him. Niko’s cheeks were pink with sleep and joy in helping his dad cook breakfast, his curls tousled as he watched the batter bubble.

“Mornin’, gorgeous,” Harry said over his shoulder, his voice warm and a little husky with sleep as he watched Thea enter. He moved over to kiss her temple as she entered. “Coffee’s on. Teddy’s still out like a log.”

“Thanks,” she said, and smiled as she reached for a mug. It didn’t quite reach her eyes—the smile, but Harry was too focused on preventing Niko from sticking a finger into the skillet to notice that.

“Mummy, Daddy said I can do the blueberries,” Niko announced proudly; his legs swinging along the countertop.

“Did he?” Thea poured her coffee, watching her son beam. She moved over to kiss the top of his head, feeling her son’s warmth and certainty made her feel just a bit better. His little arms wrapped around her as she stood and watched Harry grab the small bowl of berries for Niko to help with.

“He’s on berry duty,” Harry confirmed with Niko, watching the little boy nod incessantly. “But only after the pancakes are on the griddle. No sabotage this time, huh?”

“Right!” Niko stated, unwrapping himself from Thea and taking the bowl in his hand.

Thea moved to settle at the table, curling her hands around the mug for warmth and grounding. She took in the scene before her—Harry humming the music he had put on under his breath, the smell of vanilla and cinnamon wafting through the kitchen, Niko swinging his feet and singing a made-up song about blueberries as he of course enjoyed a few straight from the bowl.

It was beautiful, their life. Full of small, golden joys. But then there was a quiet space in her heart that had begun to echo; the loneliness of knowing that she wasn’t pregnant, and how she was starting to question her own capabilities.

Her attention had been taken as they started to hear Teddy stumbling down a few minutes later, rubbing his eyes and dragging his worn fleece blanket behind him like a cape. He crawled into Thea's lap without a word, nuzzling into her shoulder. She wrapped both arms around him, burying her face in his hair, breathing him in.

“You okay, Mum?” he mumbled into her collarbone. Teddy was so inquisitive and sensitive and understood emotions much more than any six-year-old should; it gave her such confidence in not only their parenting but knowing she had procreated with such a wonderful human being.

“Yeah, baby. Just tired.” She ran her fingers through his hair, managing the bedhead that he sported.

He accepted the answer easily, already half-asleep again in her arms. After a few incidents of too-early blueberrying the pancakes, Harry brought over a plate stacked high with pancakes, blueberries dotting the surface like constellations. Teddy got everyone a cup, Niko brought the juice to the table. They ate as a family, passing syrup and discussing the prehistoric period of dinosaurs, laughter blending with the rain pattering outside. And for a little while, Thea let herself pretend the weight in her chest wasn’t there—this was too important not to soak up.

After breakfast was finished and the boys had run upstairs to get dressed for the day, she lingered in the kitchen, washing the dishes and putting everything into the dishwasher. Harry came up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist in a moment that felt intimate, but also made her still.

“Go get dressed,” he said, voice low against her ear. “We’re taking a walk.”

Thea turned towards the window, noticing that the rain had slowed, but just to a small shower, “In the rain?”

Harry nodded, kissing her cheek before her backed away, giving her a small pat on her behind and walking towards the stairs, “The slow kind. The gentle kind. You like that.”

And he was right—he was always right.

After they had managed to get everyone dressed and ready for a walk in the weather, they walked to the park with umbrellas and wellies, the boys splashing in puddles, laughing so loud it startled a pair of geese. There was something magical about holding her husband’s hand and watching the way that their boys loved one another, and life itself.

Thea watched them from a bench under cover as they grabbed onto the wet monkey bars, Harry beside her with a hand on her knee.

“You’ve been quiet this morning” he murmured into her hair, pulling her into him

She let herself melt into him. “Just tired.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment; she could feel that he was wanting to ask a question. She didn’t make eye contact because she didn’t want to upset him or make him think that she was upset. She wasn’t. She was just…

“Any news?”

Thea stilled at his question, and Harry felt it immediately. His fingertips ran against her shoulder, as his head turned towards her, watching her profile.

“I took one this morning,” she told him quietly. “Negative.”

His arms tightened around her. Not in frustration or pity. Just presence.

“It’s only the second month,” he said, shrugging it off. “We’re okay, right? I mean, you’re doing okay with it?”

She nodded, but it wasn’t confident. “Yeah. I know—I’m fine. It’s just—it’s different this time.”

Harry turned her around to face him. His eyes searched hers, soft and steady.

“Well, I want you to know,” he said softly, holding her hands in his, “there’s no pressure from me. None. I don’t want this to weigh on you.”

“I know.” She reached for his hand. “But I want it. It’s just... harder to admit that when it’s not happening, especially because Teddy and Niko were so quick—I mean, I don’t even know that we really planned Niko.”

Harry nodded; a possible smirk trying to cross his face as he remembered the night that Niko was conceived—or the trip they had taken where Niko was conceived. It was unclear the actual date, but he knew that on the fourth day of the trip, he could barely move from how busy they had gotten with one another after being able to be alone for a week.

His eyes turned towards the boys. “Still feels early, doesn’t it? Like we just opened the gate, and maybe the timing is just… not right, right now.”

Thea could tell that Harry was trying to keep the positive mindset, which she appreciated to some degree. Everything he said was true, but she didn’t want to be hopeful right now—she would later, but not right now. Now, she just wanted a moment to feel sorry for herself; she wasn’t sure why.

“Yeah,” she said. “But I feel like I’m already behind, or that something is wrong.”

The wind tugged at her coat. He squeezed her hand, shaking his head.

“We’re not behind,” He told her confidently, “We have so many options if this is really what we want, and we’ll give it a year. If nothing happens, we’ll make sure that nothing is wrong and go another route. There’s no reason to give up on it when everything before has been fine.”

Everything he said was true, she knew that. She felt that—she felt him.

“Mum, look!” Teddy yelled, the boys ran towards them, breaking them out of their bubble before Thea and Harry put their façade back on. Teddy barreled towards them with a black obsidian rock, shiny and wet from the rain, Niko following behind with his wellies sloshing around the puddles.

“Wow!” Thea gave him exaggerated surprise and wide eyes as she looked at it, “Very beautiful, Bear.”

“You think that the dinosaurs saw this rock?” Teddy asked, rolling it around in his hands.

Thea breathed in, “Probably, are we bringing that home with us?”

Teddy nodded, setting the rock between Harry and Thea before the boys ran back out to the playground—they had been loving to pretend that they were knights with armor and swords, sticks in their hands as they let their imagination run wild. It was one of the best parts of parenting: watching their children have imaginations that grew and grew to the point of magical fantasy.

Thea felt the ping in her chest: it was guilt. Guilt that she had been feeling sorry for herself all morning and not taking in these small moments with her boys while they were in such a beautiful age; they were giggling and talkative, so brilliant, and completely independent on so many levels.

She bit her lip as she felt Harry pull her shoulders towards him, kissing her temple.

“Our life is so beautiful,” Harry reassured her quietly, “It can only get more beautiful.”

She nodded, licking over her lips as she felt a sting behind her eye. It could only get more beautiful.

That evening, after they had made, eaten, and cleaned up dinner, while the boys painted paper butterflies at the table, Thea watched them and wondered how long she would carry this mix of gratitude and longing.

Their boys were loud and beautiful and messy. There was so much love here, in the chaos. Still, she wondered what a third would look like seated between them.

Would they look more like Harry? Would they have her quiet streak, or be another storm of joy like Niko? Would they be inquisitive like Teddy?

Harry noticed her staring and smiled from across the table. He mouthed, "Still hopeful?" and she gave him a slow nod. It wasn’t all sadness. It wasn’t even grief yet. But it was something between the lines of waiting and wanting, and she didn’t know how to carry it except with both hands open.

Later, while the boys built a fort out of couch cushions and old blankets to wind the night down with a film, Thea went upstairs to get their nighttime routines started. She wasn’t avoiding Harry—not really. She just needed a few moments to herself, to sort through the dull ache of disappointment that clung to her ribs like cobwebs.

She remembered when they'd first talked about a third baby, curled up together after one of Niko’s rare full nights of sleeping in his own bed. They had made such a deal of it; letting their own thoughts merge back together as a couple and not just as mum and dad.

"What if we went for three?" Harry had murmured, his hand tracing lazy shapes on her bare back.

She'd laughed, breathless and stunned. "Three? You sure?"

"I'm sure," he'd whispered into the darkness, still being able to see her eyes at their proximity. "I could do this forever with you."

And she’d wanted it too. Another little voice in the house, another pair of chubby arms flung around her neck. They had waited until things settled—until Teddy was in school, until Niko was potty-trained, until her work schedule became more flexible. They had waited for the perfect time.

But the body doesn’t always follow the calendar.

She walked slowly through the boys' shared room, straightening rumpled blankets and stepping over LEGO mines on the carpet. On the shelf above Niko's bed was a framed photo of their family from last summer—Teddy with an ice cream mustache, Niko in Harry's sunglasses, and Thea squinting from the sun, her arms draped around them all.

She touched the frame gently. A pang tightened in her chest. How could there be so much fullness, and still, something missing?

Harry found her folding laundry at the end of the small bed. She was tucking one of Teddy’s dinosaur T-shirts into a drawer when she noticed that he had been standing in the doorway.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said. “We don’t need a test to tell us we’re doing something right. Look at those two tornados’ downstairs.”

Thea laughed through a tight throat. “They are a bit much.”

“You gave them to me,” he said, crossing the room now. He bent down in front of her, taking her hands into his as he looked up and saw her—really saw her. “And you’ll give us what we need now. However that looks. We just have to keep loving each other through it.”

She bit her lip before she leaned down and kissed him then, grateful. He always knew how to hold her together.

That night, once the boys were in bed and the house had gone still again, Harry lit the candle on her nightstand—the one that smelled like peonies and old books and really took in the scents of spring. Thea curled into him under the duvet; her head tucked beneath his chin as he rubbed her back, letting the silence of the room speak for a few moments.

He whispered stories about what summer looked like. Imagined their children running wild through a garden they hadn’t planted yet. He spoke as if it was already true, every detail vivid.

“And the baby?” she asked softly.

“They’ll be the loudest one of all,” Harry said softly. “Just like you.”

She smiled, even as her chest ached. Even as the rain began again against the windows.

The following morning, she woke to birdsong and the smell of coffee. Sunlight streamed in pale ribbons across the sheets. She rolled over to find Harry already dressed, hair damp from a shower, a mug in each hand as he gave her a tight smile. He knew she needed to be loved the most and doused in hope.

Hope, she thought again, is a kind of love. And today, they still had both.

+++

A few days later, the house cracked open at the seams more than either of them could handle in the moment. It was just before dinner, everyone home—Harry had gotten home from work just an hour prior, and things spiraled in the way only families with small children could truly understand.

Thea had spent the day with the boys; her part-time job at the library was helpful, allowing their childcare needs to be kept to a minimum. Harry was standing by the stove now, shirt sleeves rolled up as he prepared dinner, letting Thea handle the rest of the days chores—laundry, cleaning the bathrooms, and currently, vacuuming upstairs.

Niko had refused to wear pants, again. This had been ongoing for quite a while, and Harry and Thea just let it go. But, he was currently screaming from the hallway floor, red-faced and sweaty, because Teddy had told him all the dinosaurs had died. Teddy, now sulking and having emotional turbulence himself, crossed his arms at the kitchen table and shouted back at his brother that he was just telling the truth, and if Niko didn’t like it, he could go play with someone else.

Niko screeched loudly, tears staining his cheeks as he threw a toy truck at Teddy—who matched in the screeching.

Harry, elbow-deep in a boiling pot of pasta, turned sharply to the table. "Enough, both of you! That is not how we talk to each other,” He pointed his finger, “No hitting, Nikolai.”

His voice cracked like a whip across the room. The sound was sharper than usual—too loud, too angry, almost like he was at the end of his tolerance.

“Theodore, go to your room, now.” 

Teddy’s face crumpled at the suddenness of his dad’s words; it was more of the shock that scared him. He shoved his chair back with a screech and bolted down the hallway, up the stairs, and slamming his bedroom door behind him.

Niko hiccupped once, startled out of his tantrum, and stared at the kitchen doorway. Thea stood there, her expression hard to read.

“Harry,” she said softly. Too softly—it was the kind of tone that meant trouble. He shut his eyes for a moment. He turned, already sighing.

“I didn’t mean to shout like that, but—”

“I know,” she said, nodding. “But they’re kids. And you scared them. You scared me a little, too,” She shook her head, “You don’t talk like that.”

He blinked, chest rising and falling, guilt rising fast as he looked down the hallway.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, running a hand down his face. “I just—I’m tired. And everything was loud, and it’s been a long day and—”

She crossed the room, touched his hand gently. “I know. I really do. But we have to be better than that. We’ve always said we would be.”

He looked at her, eyes tired, shoulders slumped. There was such a growth about Harry that she couldn’t pinpoint; he looked older, hair shorter but mature, the softness of his features was starting to fade from the young memories that she held of him.

He wasn’t just a young, cocky boy who she fell in love with anymore. She knew there were aspects of him that would come out every once in a while; she loved the way he spoke to her in their intimate moments that reminded her of their youth.

But then there was this Harry. The father she had made of him; the husband she had turned him into. There was a softness to him now, one she couldn’t explain.

“I just don’t want them to think they can’t make mistakes. I want them to feel safe. I messed that up—I’m sorry.” He bit the inside of his cheek as he shook his head.

Thea leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Then go fix it.”

He nodded and set the spoon down, brushing his hands on a towel to dry them before heading up towards the boy’s room.

Moments later, she heard him knock on Teddy’s door. It didn’t open right away. But then it did; she heard the softness of the words, not the specifics. Harry got down on one knee next to the boy’s bed where he had been hiding under the covers, and apologized like he meant it, arms open, heart wide.

Teddy didn’t say much, but he hugged him tight.

Down in the kitchen, Thea scooped Niko into her arms and held him close, murmuring quietly that she was sorry he was sad, that daddy mean to yell. Her eyes met Harry’s over their boys’ heads as he returned.

It hadn’t been a perfect way to handle a situation, but it had been real. And sometimes, that was the kind of love that mattered most. The real moments.

That same night, after the boys had gone to bed and the house had fallen into a rare quiet, Thea and Harry curled up together in their bedroom. It wasn’t a scheduled night—it was just a night to them. There was something about the hush that made everything feel closer, more tender. The soft lights of the lamp on the bedside table illuminated around the headboard, a glow of amber giving the room a romanticism.

Thea shifted beneath him, fingertips tracing the line of his jaw as he kissed a slow, familiar path down her neck, his knee guiding her thighs apart. It had been weeks since they’d had a night like this—no interruptions, no exhaustion that overtook them first. It was just time; it was just them together.

The boys had gone to sleep quite quickly, which allowed this to be sought after time.

He moved with care, every touch reverent, as if reacquainting himself with every inch of her skin. Her shirt had long since been discarded, his hands beneath her thighs, mouth brushing over her breastbone as he let his hands wander to the edge of her shorts.

“God, I’ve missed this,” he whispered against her, and she hummed in agreement, arching toward him. Her hands knitted through his hair as she giggles just a bit at the softness of his kisses.

Just as he began to slide his hands down the waistband of her pajamas, a soft whimper echoed through the hallway. They both froze.

Another cry, a sniffle. It was closer now, but then there was a tiny knock, then the creak of the door opening.

“Mummy?”

Niko stood there, hair mussed, clutching his favorite stuffed monkey. His bottom lip wobbled, and tears were filled in his eyes like earlier, but he looked completely broken and needing like a hurt puppy.

“I had bad dream.”

Thea blinked, chest rising with a silent, exasperated laugh. Harry rolled off her, falling back against the pillows with a groan muffled by a grin as he pulled the blanket around himself.

Thea had the blanket thrown against her chest as she sat up a bit and took in a deep breath, calling the smaller boy over, “Come here, love.”

Niko climbed into the bed without hesitation, crawling right between them. He snuggled into Thea’s side on top of the blanket as she held him close, and sighed dramatically; his warm cheek pressed to her arm.

Harry turned onto his side, gently brushing the boy’s hair back. “Scary dream? Loud dream?”

“There was a shark in the garden,” Niko murmured, thumb moving to his mouth, but Thea moved it away gently; they had been trying to break the thumb sucking habit.

Thea kissed his head, letting him fall into her touch. “That’s terrifying. We’ll make sure it doesn’t come back tomorrow, okay?”

Niko nodded sleepily, snuggling into his stuffed monkey, just a soft voice speaking out. “Thanks.”

Within minutes of having his hair brushed, he was out again, breathing soft and even.

Harry met Thea’s gaze over Niko’s head. She was laughing silently now, face buried in the crook of her elbow.

Harry sighed and mouthed, “We were so close.”

Thea reached out, lacing her fingers through his. “Rain check.”

He squeezed her hand, smiling at the ceiling. “I guess you’re worth the wait.”

And somehow, even with a squirming toddler wedged between them and desire shelved for another night—it still felt like everything was exactly where it was meant to be.

Like Harry had mentioned before, they weren’t on a ticking clock. These small moments reminded them of that; to enjoy what they had in front of them. And while the night would be full of toddler kicks, and no space in the bed, Thea would soak in every single minute.

Summer

Thea felt the change in the air before she marked it on a calendar. The lilacs were gone, replaced by the buzz of bees in lavender and the tang of sunscreen on small shoulders as she prepared the boys for another day swimming in the blow-up pool in their backyard.

Summer had arrived quietly, not with a bang but with a sigh, and the long, warm days brought with them a particular kind of expectation.

The ovulation calendar on the fridge had more marks on it now, just a few months later. Little hearts, red dots, their hopeful stars in the corners. Thea had begun logging symptoms in her phone, charting basal temperatures, listening to podcasts about fertility over breakfast while the boys painted at the kitchen table.

Even Teddy had started calling the stickers on the calendar her "wish stars," not knowing the weight each one carried. Niko tried to peel one off and stick it to his forehead once, giggling until she laughed too hard to stop him.

She didn’t want it to consume her. But it had begun to trickle into everything they did.

Every cramp, every headache, every mood swing felt like a message from her body she couldn’t quite translate; it was always a reminder that she was failing. Hope made her hyper-aware. Disappointment made her mute.

And in between it all, she clung to the gentle routines of motherhood, wiping sticky fingers and tying shoelaces, brushing crumbs from the table and kissing Niko's knees after falls. Folding laundry while Harry read to the boys in the next room, making grocery lists while thinking about due dates that never appeared.

But then there was the aspect of being a wife; being a partner. Harry was there through it all, and she knew that every movement, every word spoken between them had been calculated to what had been going on behind the scenes of it all.

It was as if there were two tracks in her mind—the life she was living, and the one she was waiting for.

She couldn’t have been more grateful for Harry if she tried; Harry tried to keep things light. He cracked jokes during scheduled intimacy by letting her know that her that she was late to her appointment with the love doctor, teased her gently about their shared Google calendar reminders, cooked elaborate meals to distract her when the test was negative again in early June.

He even baked a lemon cake from scratch. He picked peonies from the neighbor’s yard because he knew she loved them and wanted her to smile when she woke up. He made a playlist titled "Hopeful and Horny" and played it while they folded laundry, wiggling his hips until she finally cracked a laugh. He wore ridiculous boxer shorts with tiny hearts on them one morning and strutted around like a runway model just to get a smile.

She loved him for it; she did. But she could see the worry in his eyes when he thought she wasn’t looking. In the way his hand lingered on her lower back, as if he could soothe something inside her just by touch. The way he watched her when she wasn't watching him.

"Maybe it’s the timing," she offered one night, their limbs tangled under the ceiling fan, sweat glistening between them after their scheduled session. "Maybe we’re just missing it by a day or two."

"Or maybe we’re just tired right now," Harry said softly, brushing a strand of hair from her temple. "And this is going to happen when we’re not looking."

But they were always looking. Every cycle was a countdown; every day was crossed off the calendar waiting for a new one. Every month another chance, another test, another quiet ache of disappointment when she got her period. And underneath it all, there was the pressure to stay soft with each other and to not let the want harden them.

It wasn’t helpful that they were both stressed; there were many arguments—stupid ones, nitpicking and petty. Ones about milk left out or who forgot to switch the laundry from the day before, so they had to run it again. But they weren’t really about the left-out milk or undone laundry. They were about pressure, unspoken and constant. A weight pressing down even on the days that felt easy.

Harry and Thea weren’t like this; they had never fought about anything. But now, they got under each other’s skin.

One afternoon, Thea snapped at Harry for letting Niko eat too many popsicles before lunch.

It wasn’t a big thing, really, just one of those tired, half-hungry moments where words came out too sharp and fast. She had been unloading the dishwasher, the sink still full from after breakfast, when she noticed the empty plastic wrappers tossed on the counter.

She counted three of them when she held them out to Harry.

“Seriously?” she said, eyes narrowing. “You let him eat all of those? He’s not going to touch his lunch now.”

Harry had barely looked up from where he was drying off a sippy cup. “He’s three. He wanted something cold.”

“That’s not the point.” Thea narrowed her eyes at him, shaking her head.

Harry shrugged, placing the cups back in the cabinet. “Well, I didn’t think it’d ruin his entire appetite.”

“It’s not about ruining his appetite, it’s about boundaries. You can’t just give in because it’s easier,” She didn’t want to raise her voice, “I also told him no.”

That was when Harry set the cup down with a little too much force, the clatter echoing through the kitchen; Thea stilled. “You know what?” he said quietly, and then louder—“Sorry I’m so fucking incompetent.”

He didn’t slam the door when he left, but the silence that followed was louder than anything he could have said. Thea didn’t follow right away, almost shocked by the way that he spoke. She stayed in the kitchen, breathing through the heat rising in her chest. She knew she’d been too harsh. It wasn’t really about the popsicles.

It never was.

Ten minutes later, she stepped outside with the screen door creaking behind her.

The sun was high and bright, hanging heavy in the sky like it couldn’t be bothered to move. The air was thick with honeysuckle, warm and heady, the scent curling lazily in the breeze. Cicadas droned in the background. Somewhere, a lawnmower hummed distantly; the boys were in the small pool in the back, one that Harry had set up for them that morning and they never left in the summer.

She found him at the edge of the yard, shirtless, knee-deep in the garden bed. He was yanking weeds with tight, angry fists, tearing them straight from the roots like they’d wronged him personally. His back glistened with sweat, the muscles beneath his shoulder blades shifting with each pull. His hair clung damp to the back of his neck.

The flower beds were a mess now; half-dug up, soil scattered in uneven mounds across the grass. Clumps of earth clung to his forearms, his knees. One of the tomato cages was bent at an awkward angle, shoved aside in his frenzy.

It was like something had needed breaking, and this was the only thing he could break without consequence. She stood quietly for a moment, arms crossed over her chest, watching him. He didn’t acknowledge her; he just kept pulling.

“I didn’t mean to snap,” she said eventually, squinting in the warm June sun, her voice softer than it had been in the kitchen. “It’s just… I get overwhelmed, you know.”

Harry paused, breath caught in his throat. He didn’t turn around, and just let the weeds fall from his hand and dropped back on his heels.

“I know,” he said, voice low and rough, nodding. “Me too.”

Thea took a step forward, the grass warm beneath her bare feet. She crouched beside him, not touching him yet. Just sitting in the wreckage of their backyard garden, the heat of the day pressing against their skin like a held breath.

“Let’s not fight about popsicles,” she murmured, grabbing at some of the weeds he had been throwing.

Harry gave a tired, huffed-out laugh, rubbing his forehead with the back of his wrist. “Then stop talking to me like I’m the fucking babysitter.”

Thea’s heart dropped; shaking her head as she tries to explain, “I wasn’t. I’m just tired. And you’re—”

“I’m tired too.”

They sat there, side by side, the dirt between their fingers and the silence between their breaths. Thea looked over at him—really looked this time. His jaw was tight, his hands raw from pulling, but his eyes were soft. Hurt. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at feeling like he couldn’t get it right.

And she understood that. God, she really did.

She reached out, brushed her fingertips lightly over the curve of his knuckles, dusted with soil and sweat that was caking it on. “You’re a good dad,” she said. “I wouldn’t be wanting you to have my third if I didn’t think that.”

Harry looked at her then, finally, and something in his shoulders released. Not fully, but enough for her.

“Yeah?” he asked.

She nodded with a confirmation. “Yeah,” She bit her lip, “I’m sorry.”

Their boys shrieked in the kiddie pool nearby, splashing and laughing as if the world were simple. For a moment, they just sat there, watching their children and breathing through the quiet. Then Harry reached for her hand. Their fingers were dirty and warm, and neither of them let go.

They didn’t really talk again until dinner; just letting their moods mellow out. And even then, it was just about what movie the boys wanted to watch afterwards. But something had eased in the silence. +++

A few weeks later, they decided that they needed to leave the house.

One of their ideas involved taking the boys to the beach for a weekend. It was a last-minute, summer escape to breathe something saltier than their house. Thea wore a white sundress, her hair braided back in a pretty French braid, and she smiled more that day than she had in weeks.

They built sandcastles, of course. Harry was the king at building sandcastles, being very articulate and being patient with the boys. Teddy buried Harry’s legs in the sand. Niko collected shells and gave Thea each one with a kiss to the back of her hand as they laid in the sun. They let the boys stay up past bedtime and ate fish and chips on the boardwalk, salt on their fingers and the sound of crashing waves in their ears.

Harry watched her splash in the surf with Teddy while Niko dozed on a towel. She looked radiant, so alive in the heat and wind, her laugh carried by the sea breeze. Something about being in the ocean and letting her hair down made even the tensest moment feel like it could be washed away by the salt water. Teddy clung to his mum’s side as they waded in the water, laughing when a big wave would come around.

To Harry, it felt like falling in love again. But not new love—deeper love, an earned love. A love that had been through the ringer.

That night, back at the rental house, she curled into him in bed, the scent of saltwater still clinging to her skin that had turned a darker shade of tan. The windows were open, the air warm and slow, cicadas humming outside along with the sounds of the water hitting the shores. She wore one of his old T-shirts and nothing else, and he knew without asking that she just wanted to be held.

A ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, not doing much except moving the warm air around the room.

Harry had one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting against the dip of her waist. He was half-asleep, lulled by the sound of water and the sticky, slow rhythm of summer nights. His fingers idly traced the hem of the shirt she wore.

“You know what I miss?” she whispered into the darkness.

“Hmm?” He echoed; his eyes were closed as he just listened.

“Us. Just being us. Not planners or hopefuls or testers. Just... you and me.”

He rolled to face her fully. “Then let’s just be us tonight, huh?"

There was no rush. No sense of calculation or looking at the schedule and trying to understand how to track temperatures.

He leaned in and kissed her, slow and warm, like she imagined the ocean at night would feel if it washed up on her body. Her hand slid into his curls, and his fingers moved under the hem of the shirt to find her bare hip, the curve of her ass. Her breath hitched when he squeezed gently, and the kiss deepened, their mouths opening like they were starving for something that had been waiting just beneath the surface.

Thea shifted beneath him, rolling to her back, pulling him over her. The old mattress dipped with their weight, and the air between them sparked like a struck match.

Harry pushed the shirt up her torso, dragging it slowly so it bunched beneath her arms. He leaned down, kissed her sternum, her ribs, the underside of her breast, pausing to suck and mark her where tan lines had formed. She gasped softly, threading her fingers through his hair and holding him there, encouraging him to take more.

They weren’t in their heads tonight. There was no "should we" or "what if." Just a slow burn of want that felt familiar and feral and organically them.

He pulled her underwear down, slow, one side at a time as he shimmied them down her legs, letting his knuckles brush along the inside of her thighs. When she was bare, he sat back on his heels and looked at her with her legs spread open for him, chest rising and falling, flushed and already wet for him.

“You’re fucking beautiful,” he murmured back at her, like it was something he hadn’t said to her in a while but had never stopped thinking.

She pulled him back down with a smile, one hand sliding into the waistband of his boxers. He gasped at the feeling of her hand around him as she helped him out of his own underwear, eyes fluttering as she pumped him; something dirty, something that didn’t happen very often nowadays. “So are you. Especially when you look at me like that, Styles.”

Their mouths met again, messier this time, hungrier with a need that neither of them had realized was built up. Her thighs wrapped around his hips, heels pressing into the backs of his legs. He slid into her with one slow, grounding thrust, and they both gasped at the sensation—how familiar and electric it still was, even after all this time.

They didn’t rush. His hips rocked into hers in long, rolling waves, her back arching to meet him. The headboard tapped softly against the wall, the rhythm of their bodies syncing with the pulse of summer outside. She clawed at his back, left little half-moon indents in his skin. He kissed her jaw, her throat, her collarbone—every place he used to know by heart.

At one point, he pulled out and flipped her over, hands gripping her hips as she buried her face into the pillow, muffling a moan when he slid back in. It was a little dirtier now, a little grittier—like how they used to do it on those college nights when they couldn’t get enough of each other. She smiled into the pillow at the familiarity that hadn’t been so frequent.

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his voice low and wrecked against the back of her neck. His hips snapped forward again, a little rougher this time, and he bit down on her shoulder—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her gasp and clutch the pillow tighter.

Every thrust dragged a moan from her throat, high and broken, her body rocking with the force of his pace. Her knees were wide, pressed into the mattress, back arched in offering. She was dripping around him, so wet he could feel it slick and hot down his thighs, the way her body gripped him like it didn’t want to let go.

His fingers dug into her hips, bruising almost, pulling her back to meet him as he drove into her, deeper each time. Skin slapped, wet and obscene, and the only sounds in the room were her panting, his groans, the creak of the bed, and the soft lapping of waves through the open window.

“Fuck—baby,” he growled, breath catching as she tightened around him; he knew the game she played. “Your pussy is so fucking good… always taking me so good.”

She whimpered, her voice gone high and desperate. “Don’t stop… please, don’t stop.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he panted, then leaned over her again, chest flush to her back, his hand sliding between her legs. He found her clit easily, fingers slick, and began circling it in slow, filthy little strokes. “Gonna come for me?” he murmured into her ear. “Let me feel you fall apart? Hm?”

Her reply was a choked cry, her hips stuttering, thighs beginning to shake as the pleasure built fast and sharp. His name spilled from her mouth again and again like prayer, like surrender to his dirty games, and then she shattered with a sob, pulsing around him in waves that made his own climax slam into him like a freight train.

He groaned deep in his throat, fucking her through it, losing rhythm, and finally buried himself one last time, spilling into her with a curse and a tremble. His whole body seized, mouth open against her damp skin, like the force of it had knocked the breath from his lungs.

He stayed inside her for a moment, pressed to her back, their bodies sticky with sweat, tangled in the sheets and each other.

Eventually, he slid out with a groan and collapsed beside her, chest heaving, arm falling heavy across her as she fell onto her side. Her skin was flushed and glowing, her breath still unsteady, a small, satisfied smile pulling at the corners of her mouth.

The fan whirred around them. The waves kept rolling outside the open window. And the two of them lay there, ruined and warm and absolutely right, the scent of sex thick in the air and his cum slowly leaking down her thighs. Familiarly.

Then she reached for his hand, lacing their fingers together, still catching her breath.

“That,” she whispered, smiling into the dark, “felt like us.”

Harry leaned over, pressed a kiss to her temple, and whispered back, “Still got it in us, apparently.”

Afterward, she cried. It was not loud, but it was after they had gotten ready for bed and everything got quiet again. Just tears that came from some tender place she hadn’t touched in a while. Harry didn’t ask her to explain; he didn’t need her to. He just held her tighter and let her soak the pillow with her fallen tears.

And in the dark, between breaths, they remembered how to feel like home.

+++

July crept in, hot and thick and with unnamed emotion. Their bedroom became a haven of fans and quiet music, a retreat from the weight of wanting. Even their kisses grew quieter, slower. Grief didn’t always roar, sometimes it was just a sigh.

Still, the tests stayed negative. Today was a difficult one; they were all difficult, but this seemed to rock Thea harder.

One evening, Harry came home with a bouquet of yellow roses, a new stack of books from a few authors that he knew that Thea liked, a bar of dark chocolate tucked in the bag, along with a new small bullet vibrator—that was just to be cheeky, but also to remind her.

“Just because,” he said, placing them beside her on the couch.

She looked up from the TV she had been watching in the quietness of the boys playing in their room, her eyes shining. “You always know what I need.”

“You need reminding that you’re loved. Not just on the two days a month we cross our fingers." He moved over to where she was sitting, flopping down next to her.

She leaned into him, head resting against his chest. The TV played some old movie neither of them were watching. His fingers threaded through her hair. Thea closed her eyes and let herself exist without expectation for a moment.

“Do you think it’ll happen?” she asked quietly.

He kissed the top of her head, speechless for a moment before he felt her settle into him. “I don’t know,” He told her truthfully, “But I hope.”

She nodded, but her throat caught.

+++

One Saturday morning in July, Thea met her sister Erika at their usual coffee shop—a small, airy place tucked beside the library, with ivy growing up the brick and mismatched mugs. Erika was already seated at their usual corner table, two iced lattes in front of her, a pair of sunglasses propped in her hair.

“You look tired,” Erika said bluntly, handing Thea a straw as she squinted up at her.

“Wow, thanks,” Thea replied dryly. She stirred her drink and took a long, needed sip. “You always know how to flatter a girl, huh?”

Erika grinned, unapologetic as she leaned forward. "It’s what sisters are for. So... how’s everything?"

Thea hesitated. She hadn't meant to bring it up. But something in her chest cracked the moment she saw her sister's familiar eyes—the ones that had known her before marriage, before babies, before grief had a name in her repertoire.

“We’ve… actually been trying,” she said finally, voice low. “For a third. But it’s not happening.”

Erika blinked almost blankly, like she hadn’t heard her at first. She reached across the table and squeezed Thea’s hand. “Oh, hon. How long?”

Thea nodded, swallowing hard, remembering the last few months. “It’s only been a few months. But it was so easy before. And now I’m doing everything—temping, tracking, testing. I feel like I’m on a timer all the time."

Erika was quiet for a beat. Then she said, “You remember how I got pregnant with the twins?”

Thea blinked, sighing. “By accident. On a cruise.”

“Exactly. Drunk on overpriced wine coolers and not a single ovulation app in sight. There may have even been a bit of ass play—”

Thea barked a surprised laugh to interrupt her sister, “Okay! I get it.”

“Point is,” Erika continued, “even when we’re doing all the ‘right’ things, bodies are weird. Mine decided to double down for no reason and yours is just... taking its sweet time. Doesn’t mean it won’t get there.”

Thea thought for a moment, nodding. “It’s just hard. I feel like I’m failing at something that should come naturally.”

Erika leaned back, holding her cold cup in her hands. “Thea, you’re raising two actual tiny humans who think you hung the moon. You’re not failing at anything. You’re human. And honestly, sometimes I think the people who try the hardest are the ones who love the deepest."

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching a little girl chase a pigeon across the patio.

Erika added, more lightly, “Besides, you really want to be outnumbered? My twins colored on the cat last week. In Sharpie,” She took another sip, “Marshmallow has a green ass.”

Thea snorted into her coffee. “That helps. A lot."

“Good. Because even though I know you want three, it may not be happening for a reason beyond you.”

Thea gave her sister a soft smile, “So, how is being a mum of twins going?”

“I’m wearing yesterday’s dry shampoo and a shirt I stole from my husband, and a diaper."

They both laughed until tears prickled Thea’s eyes.

She reached for her sister’s hand again. “Thank you. Really. I just needed to say it out loud."

“Say it as many times as you need. You’re not alone. And if your uterus needs a pep talk, I have wine and several colorful metaphors ready."

“Deal,” Thea said, smiling genuinely now. “Big deal."

Her sister tipped her cup toward her with a smirk, eyebrows raised. “So. You and Harry, then. Still good?”

Thea lifted a brow herself, glancing at Erika for a moment before shaking her head. “What does that mean?”

Her sister grinned wickedly, leaning back in her chair. “Is he still as good in the sack as he was when you were younger? I was a little worried that’s why you stayed—don’t get me wrong, very glad he’s been the best dad to the boys, but you know.”

Thea laughed, covering her face with her hand. “Oh my god, stop.”

“What? I’m just saying—it was the only thing I couldn’t argue with. You two had that thing. Like, walls-shaking, might-die-of-lust kind of thing. Remember that holiday that we went on as a family and Harry came for the first time?”

Of course, Thea remembered that trip. It was when they were nineteen and full of love and lust and completely unbothered by the world around them. They had to be touching at all hours of the day, and she could barely walk through a doorway without Harry’s eyes trailing her. They had sex on every surface, anytime they were alone. She knew that her family could sense the glow that they both had. It wasn’t just the holiday tan.

“Yes,” Thea pulled her lips into her mouth, “I do remember.”

“Course you do, you were animals.” Erika joked. “Either way, I hope you still want each other like that.”

Thea rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her. She swirled the latte, and stared out at the patio of the café, the warm breeze playing with the hem of her shirt.

There was a pause before she bit on the straw. “But… yeah. We still have that.”

Erika’s teasing faded a little, her tone softening. “Then maybe that counts for something. That you still want each other, after everything.”

Thea nodded slowly. “It does. Especially now. It’s like—when the rest of life feels too big, he’s still the only person I want touching me. Still the one who knows how.”

Erika touched her cup with her sister’s, this time in something like sisterly solidarity. “To good sex with the same person for a decade. Miracles do happen.”

Thea clinked her cup against hers and smiled back at her. “Cheers to that.”

As she drove home, the sun pouring in through the windshield and the iced latte sweating in her cupholder, Thea felt lighter. It wasn’t that anything had changed.

But the weight had shifted. Just enough for her to understand that. And for the first time in a while, she didn’t feel like she was holding it alone.

Later that same weekend, Harry found himself at his mum’s for lunch—just him and his sister, Maeve, and the smell of roast chicken filling the kitchen like childhood. It wasn’t planned, not really. He’d dropped the boys off for a few hours to play with their cousins and stayed for tea, and then Maeve had shown up with a box of old books she wanted to donate.

They sat around the kitchen table, sunlight pooling on the floor, windows wide open to let in the breeze. His mum passed around plates of food while Maeve poured some water, chatting about her work and her daughter’s obsession with glitter glue.

“So,” his mum said after a lull in conversation, eyeing him over her glasses, “how’s Thea? She looked a little run-down last time I saw her.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, not sure if he was wanting to bring up in conversation what had been going on at their house. He figured that between his mum and sister, they should have an opinion on it—he didn’t really know if he wanted them to, but he figured he could test it anyways.

“She’s fine, tired,” Harry said gingerly, tentative before he smirked upwards, “We’ve been trying again. For a third.”

Maeve nearly choked on the sip of her water. “You mad bastard.”

“Thanks for the support,” Harry muttered, smirking. He picked at the corner of his plate, reluctant to look either of them in the eye.

His mum reached across and touched his wrist. “You don’t have to tell us, love.”

“No, it’s okay. It’s just... not going the way it did before. Not as quick. And it’s hitting Thea a bit hard.”

Maeve softened immediately seeing her brother’s reaction. “That’s rough. I get it. It’s not just a want, is it? It becomes this... ache.”

Harry nodded, taking in a large inhale. “She’s doing everything right. Temping, charts, the apps, all of it. And I can’t do anything but show up when the calendar tells me to. I feel like... I don’t know. Useless.”

His mum gave a sad little smile, tilting her head. “That’s because you love her. Watching someone you love carry something heavy—especially something you can’t fix… it’s awful.”

Maeve leaned forward towards him. “You’re not useless, H. You’re the anchor. You’ve always been the one people lean on. Just keep being that. And for God’s sake, let her cry without fixing it. That’s the trick.”

Harry cracked a grin. “You’re starting to sound like a therapist.”

“I have three, so I know how it feels—it feels like when there’s a gaggle of geese and one is chasing you, the other is squawking, and the other is flapping its wings.”

They all laughed, low but communal, the kind of laugh that came from knowing too much.

His mum let her hands rest on his wrist as he stared at the table, wondering if he wanted to talk about it—or why he felt so lonely talking about it. “Three’s a lot. But if anyone can do it, it’s you two. Just don’t forget to be kind to each other while you wait.”

He nodded again, quietly grateful.

As he packed up to leave, Maeve slipped a chocolate bar into his pocket.

“For Thea,” she said. “And maybe a bit for you.”

When he got back to the house, the boys were still napping, and Thea was on the couch with a book he had gotten her. He kissed her forehead and tucked the chocolate beside her without a word. She looked up, surprised, and he just shrugged.

+++

In late August, a heat wave struck. They abandoned the oven in favor of cold pasta salads and watermelon slices. The boys ran shirtless through the sprinkler all day. Harry built blanket forts and read them stories by flashlight. They ate dinner on the floor, drank lemonade by the pitcher, and left chores undone.

Thea wandered the garden barefoot, letting the dirt cool her skin. Sometimes she stood at the edge of the tomato patch and whispered prayers into the wind. Not always to a god, most of the times, sometimes just to the universe, or to the cells in her body.

Once, she found a ladybug on her finger and cried like it was a sign. She cried more often now. In the car. In the shower. When she saw a stranger with three kids at the grocery store. When Niko asked, innocently, if their next baby could have red hair like the doll in the book she had been reading for bedtime.

But she still laughed, too. Still found Harry in the doorway of a room and thought how lucky she was.

Thea didn’t stop hoping—not yet. But she began to ask new questions:

What if this was it? Could she be happy with two? Was she less if her body didn’t give them another?

She didn’t voice them aloud—not yet. But the questions lived in the quiet.

And Harry, he was always there. A constant hand on her back. A note left in her coat pocket. An extra strawberry on her plate because he knew she’d give the first to Niko when he asked. He didn’t push her. He didn’t rush her. He just stayed. And loved her. They hadn’t given up. Not yet.

But something had shifted between them all. The heat of wanting had become something heavier; something deeper. It wasn’t desperation, no, it was devotion.

Autumn

September arrived with a crispness in the air and a hush that seemed to stretch out across the days. The trees began to tinge with color—burnt oranges, golds, and rusts—and the evenings came earlier, curling into their home like a familiar guest. Thea loved autumn, always had. But this year, it felt different. Like the world was letting go of something she was still trying to hold.

One thing that had hit her the hardest was Teddy starting school. Being six, he was starting his first year of primary and there was such a hole in her heart that she hadn’t even been paying attention to.

He wore his new shoes with pride, his backpack bouncing behind him as he ran ahead to his classroom. Harry helped him pack his small backpack the night before, giving him his bath, his pep talks on how to meet new friends.

Thea stayed strong until the car door closed, and then she cried—harder than she expected. Not because she was sad, exactly, but because she felt too many things at once: pride, joy, loss, and that quiet ache that never quite went away with a child growing up. She sat in the driver’s seat with the radio off, her coffee growing cold, remembering the way his hand had slipped from hers without hesitation.

The silence in the house that afternoon was its own kind of heartbreak. Niko played quietly on the rug with his trucks, not asking where his brother was, as if he instinctively knew this was something that would happen now—or he didn’t want to upset Thea. Thea folded Teddy’s little uniform shirts from the drying rack, smoothing them flat with shaking hands, and felt the shape of his growing up press against her chest like a bruise.

She didn’t regret it. She was proud, of course, but she missed him terribly.

Niko turned four the following week—another moment that hit her harder than expected. They threw a party in the backyard with blue balloons and a dinosaur cake with kids and parents from Niko’s play group.

She was smiling, but her eyes were far away—watching Teddy grow too fast, Niko turn another year older, and herself fall behind in a race she never meant to enter. She wanted to freeze this moment: Harry rolling in the grass with Nerf guns, Niko roaring with cake on his face, Teddy trying to explain paleontology to a three-year-old. But time didn’t freeze; it only marched on, quicker.

And that ache in her chest stayed right where it was, nestled between joy and longing.

+++

One evening, after the boys were asleep and the dishes were done, Thea joined Harry on the front porch. In the evenings, he had been sitting out here and reading his books; she let him sit in silence for a bit, he deserved it after working all day. The air was sharp with the scent of fallen leaves, and she wrapped herself in a blanket as she settled beside him. Today, she wanted to distract him.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the crickets before he looked up from his book when she went to speak.

“I keep thinking,” she said softly, “what if this is it? What if it doesn’t happen?”

Harry didn’t answer right away; they sat on the swing that hung from their porch. He reached over, took her hand and took in a deep breath.

“Then we’ll raise two incredible kids and be grateful every day of that. And we’ll still build a life full of love and adventure. You and me,” He swallowed, clearing his throat, “It will take time to… move on from. But we’re the story, remember? We get to write it how we want it.”

She blinked fast, nodding. “I just thought... I don’t know. That I’d feel it. That I’d know when I’m done trying."

“You don’t have to know,” he said. “We don’t ever really have to stop, if you don’t want. We just have to come peace with the results.”

There had been a moment when Harry watched her carefully, seeing the sunken in features of her that looked like a ghost of who she was. Harry was never one to push; pushing her to do something never worked. But this wasn’t the woman he loved sitting next to him. This was a shell of her.

For the first time, Harry felt scared.

Then he asked, gently, “Are you okay?”

She blinked again, surprised by the softness in his voice, how close the question landed to the ache inside her. It took her a moment to answer him, because she tried to settle on an answer that felt correct.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I think I keep saying I’m fine, so I don’t have to explain how tired I really am. It’s like my hope is a thread I’ve been holding too tightly. My hands hurt from it.”

He nodded, thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Would it help to talk to someone? Like, someone besides me?”

She looked over at him, eyebrows drawing slightly together. Harry worried that he overstepped but then shook his thoughts about that away. He was doing the right thing.

“I mean it,” he added quickly, turning towards her. “Not because I think something’s wrong with you. But because I love you. And because sometimes the strong ones—”

“—need help too,” she finished his sentence, voice breaking a little.

Harry squeezed her hand at the break in her voice, noticing the tears in her eyes. “Yeah.”

She was quiet for a while, just listening to the crickets and the rustle of dry leaves across the porch steps.

“Maybe,” she said finally, nodding. “Maybe I do—maybe I need to.”

“Okay,” he said, quietly letting the word fill the space. “Then we’ll figure that out together.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, blanket tucked up to her chin.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Don’t thank me for loving you,” he replied. “It’s my favorite thing to do.”

They stayed there until the air grew cold and the stars came out from behind the soft clouds that had come over the autumn sky, a shared silence between them that was heavy, but healing.

Later that night, after Thea had fallen asleep curled on the couch, still wrapped in the blanket from the porch, Harry stared at her for a moment before he grabbed his keys and drove across town to his mum’s house.

It was a quiet drive there, a thoughtful one. But his thoughts were so jumbled he wasn’t sure where to place them. After he had knocked on her door, she opened the door in slippers, eyebrows lifting at the sight of him.

“Harry?” she asked gently. “What is it?”

It was then that he realized he didn’t have an answer to the question. He didn’t know why he was there.

He just stepped inside and shook his head. “Sorry. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

She didn’t ask questions right away, knowing that something was eating him up. As a mother, she just ushered him to the kitchen and turned on the kettle They sat at the table in silence, the low hum of the heat filling the room until the water boiled.

When she finally placed a cup of tea in front of him, he wrapped his hands around it but didn’t drink any of it.

“I don’t think Thea’s okay,” he said at last, voice low and rough. “She says she’s managing. And I know she wants to be. But I can see it eating her up. The waiting. The pressure. The heartbreak.”

His mum nodded, waiting.

“I feel so useless,” he went on. “Like I’m holding everything with frayed hands. Trying to be strong for her and for the boys, and at the same time, I’m terrified I’m doing it all wrong. I want to fix it. But I can’t. And it’s driving me mad.”

She reached across the table, laid a hand over his.

“Sweetheart,” she said softly, “you’re not supposed to fix her. You’re supposed to love her.”

“I do,” he whispered, eyes wet. “More than anything.”

“Then that’s what you do. You love her through this. And when she breaks down, you let her. You be the steady one—not the perfect one. The present one.”

Harry looked down, shoulders sagging with the weight of it. “I’m just scared.”

“I know,” she said. “But love is still worth being scared for.”

He let out a long breath, blinking fast at the way that he could feel the tears prickling the back of his eyes. Then nodded.

And for the first time in weeks, he let himself cry—quiet and unguarded. Not because he was weak. But because he loved so deeply, he didn’t know where to put it all.

He covered his eyes with his hands, feeling the sob catch up to him before he shook his head. His mum jumped from her seat to move towards him, letting him fall into a hug with her.

“Oh, Harry,” She held him as he cried; it wasn’t something that happened often enough for her to know how to handle. Her eyes shut as she rubs his back to quiet him. He let himself be someone’s son for a moment, not a father or a husband or a man trying to hold up the sky. “She’s going to be okay.”

Harry had come to the conclusion that he just didn’t know how to love anyone as much as he loved her. And he didn’t know how to handle the sadness that overcome her; it didn’t just affect her, it affected him. Everything that was happening to her was happening to him, and he didn’t know how to stop it—how to make it better.

She pulled back to look at him, brushing his hair out of his face the way she always had. “You keep showing up by staying soft, even when the world makes you want to harden. You keep kissing her forehead. You keep making the boys laugh. You keep doing the little things. That’s how we hold the people we love when they’re slipping.”

Harry wiped at his face with his sleeve, laughing under his breath. “I used to think I’d have it all figured out by now.”

“No one does,” she told him, definitely. “We just figure it out in pieces. And when the pieces don’t fit, we make room.”

They sat together in the quiet for a while, drinking tea that had long gone lukewarm.

Before he left, she packed him a container of stew and an old photo from when Teddy was born—Thea asleep in a chair with the baby on her chest, Harry bent over them, his face lit with awe.

“Just in case you forget what you’ve already done right,” she said, handing it to him.

By the time he pulled into the driveway at home, the lights were low in the living room. He walked inside to find the blanket had slipped off Thea’s shoulders. He tucked it back around her, brushing a kiss over her forehead.

She stirred just a little at the movement.

“You okay?” she mumbled, eyes still closed.

He settled beside her on the couch. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I am now.”

They fell asleep like that, tangled together, not knowing what tomorrow would bring—only that they’d face it side by side.

+++

At the end of October, Harry planned something small—just for them. He booked a night at a bed-and-breakfast two towns over, close enough that his mum could watch the boys.

They drove with the windows down, music playing softly, whatever Thea wanted. The trees were truly at their peak, fiery and full, and Thea let her hand drift through the air outside the car like a ribbon.

The inn was old and smelled a bit musty but had character that couldn’t be replicated, with creaky floors and quilts folded at the foot of the bed. They walked through a pumpkin patch that afternoon, laughing at the absurd shapes. They drank cider from paper cups. They touched fingers in the car like teenagers. All of it being a reminder of what they were, who they had been.

That night, after a dinner near the pier where they both had a little too much wine that they had to walk home, Harry gave her a small box.

Inside was a necklace: a delicate silver chain with three small stars—simple and shining like something made of quiet wishes.

“Two for the boys,” he said softly, pointing to it, “One for what we’ve hoped for. No matter what happens next, that part is ours too.”

Thea’s fingers trembled slightly as she pressed the stars to her chest. The gesture, the thought, undid her.

She didn’t speak. She just looked at him with eyes that had loved him through seasons of waiting, and kissed him, so slow and so sure.

It started gentle, it always did. The kind of kiss that said: I remember you. I still want you.

His hands were reverent, moving slowly over her arms, her sides, the curve of her back. She leaned into him, into the warmth of his chest, into the certainty of his touch. His mouth trailed down her jaw, his breath hot against her skin, and when she whispered his name, it was with a need that had nothing to do with making a baby—and everything to do with being seen as his wife. His partner.

He undressed her with care, as if it were something sacred. And when his fingers slid beneath the waistband of her underwear, she gasped, head tipping back. He murmured something quiet against her collarbone—something that sounded like “God, you’re everything”—and she felt her heart swell too big for her body.

They made love that night like it was a beginning instead of an end.

Like it wasn’t about schedules or trying for two lines on a test. It was just skin and breath and the kind of intimacy that comes from years of knowing someone in both silence and chaos.

She guided his hands, showed him where it ached and where it healed. He moved inside her with something close to awe. It was slow, deep, full of reverence and restraint, until restraint gave way to something hungrier. Her legs wrapped around his waist, her hands gripping his shoulders. Every kiss felt like a question of her sanity, every sigh an answer.

And when they came, it was together—trembling and breathless, her name on his lips like a promise.

Afterward, they laid tangled together, her head on his chest, the windows open to the rustle of leaves and the hum of crickets outside. The necklace still hung between her breasts, the stars catching faint moonlight.

Thea stared at the ceiling, letting herself feel all of it—the weight, the want, the wonder. The ache that had dulled, the love that hadn’t.

For once, she didn’t try to name the feeling. She just let it be.

The next morning, they lingered around the small room. Breakfast was warm cinnamon rolls and strong coffee, served in chipped floral China. Harry pulled a chair close to hers on the porch of the inn, both of them bundled in oversized sweaters. The sky was blue with the hint of winter in it; she could smell snow if she tried hard enough.

“We could do this more,” she said, watching the wind ruffle the bare branches of the trees that had lost all of it’s leaves.

“Get away?” He asked softly.

“Just... remember who we are. When we’re not parents. When we’re not hoping. Just us.”

Harry nodded, finishing his sip. “Let’s remember, then. Even when it gets hard.”

She reached for his hand, fingers cold but sure. “Let’s promise.”

They drove home in silence and song, windows down, the air biting but invigorating. When they returned home later that day, the boys barreled into their arms with sticky hands and glitter in their hair. Maeve reported bedtime disasters and cereal for dinner but said it with a smile.

As Harry carried their bags upstairs in the house, Thea lingered in the hallway, watching the boys chase each other down the stairs. She touched the star necklace at her throat.

Something about Thea had started to feel… happier. More put together. Maybe more alive than before. She had her ups and downs, but she knew the person who was there for them all.

Even in her darkest hour, she knew who was there.

+++

A few days later, they went out to dinner with friends—Ben and Lila, college friends who now lived two neighborhoods over, who had one baby and another on the way. Harry and Thea hadn’t been very good about meeting with friends, so they decided to reach out.

They met at a cozy Italian place downtown, the kind with candles stuck in old wine bottles and menus written on chalkboards.

Thea wore her favorite dress, the green one with the sleeves that made her feel pretty, and Harry had shaved and put on cologne. For a little while, it felt easy. They ordered drinks, shared appetizers, laughed over stories from years ago and what had been going on in their lives so far.

Thea wanted to be a good friend and ask about how the pregnancy was going, how excited they were. She tried to push herself to ask questions, to keep herself engaged. It wasn’t always about her, after all.

But then, halfway through dessert, Lila leaned in with a fond smile and said, "You guys are so good with your boys—I love seeing your posts online, they’re always so handsome and smart. Honestly, if anyone should have a big family, it’s you two."

Ben chuckled, nodding in agreement. "You’re the ones we looked up to when we started having kids," He took a sip of his whiskey, “Thinking of having more?”

Harry laughed softly, polite and tight-lipped. Thea managed a smile, knowing it was coming from a place of love. She reached for her wine glass to buy herself a second. "We’re... figuring things out."

“Of course you guys will,” Lila smiled, “Wouldn’t surprise me if it was sooner than later.”

In the moment, she watched Harry shift in his seat; it wasn’t really just an uncomfortable look, it was a bit of a… frustrated one.

The moment passed. Lila started talking about baby names, about the ones that she loved and was thinking of using—they were having a girl. Harry changed the subject, nonchalantly taking it back to asking about if they were putting their son in sports.

After dessert, they paid the bill. Said goodbye on the sidewalk with hugs and promises to do it again soon. The car was mostly quiet on the drive home. It wasn’t until they hit the main road that Thea spoke.

"Well, that was fun."

Harry kept his eyes on the road, lips tight as he tried to not say anything else. "Yeah. It was."

Another pause, the sound of the car on the road was the only silence they had. Then she whispered, "That comment didn’t bother you?"

He exhaled slowly. "Yep."

"I know they meant well," she said quickly, defending the moment. "I know. But—"

"It still hurt."

She turned her head to the window. "I felt like a defective doll. Like, 'Oh, of course they’ll have another soon.' Like it’s that easy."

Harry gripped the steering wheel tighter. "I wanted to say something. I just didn’t want to ruin the night."

"I get it. I do. But I’m so tired of pretending. Of laughing it off and then crying in the bathroom."

Harry reached for her hand. "You don’t have to pretend with me."

She looked at him then, eyes full.

"I know. But I feel like I have to pretend with everyone else. Like it’s shameful. Like I’m not doing my job as a woman or a mother or a wife—like I’m missing something."

He pulled the car into their driveway and shut off the engine. They sat in the quiet hum of the evening.

"You are doing everything," he said, turning toward her. "You are carrying the weight of hope and heartbreak every day. And I hate that people don’t see that. But I do. I see all of it."

She wiped a tear from her cheek and gave him a small smile. "Maybe next time I’ll just say, 'We’re infertile, but thanks for the vote of confidence.'"

Harry laughed, surprised. "Honestly, I’d pay to see that."

They walked inside together, not lighter exactly, but together. And that made all the difference.

+++

One evening in early November, over dinner with the four of them sitting at the table, Teddy put down his fork mid-bite and looked up at them with serious eyes.

“Where do babies come from?” he asked, as serious as he could be.

Thea nearly choked on her water, coughing into her napkin as Harry stopped chewing midbite as he stared straight ahead at his son.

“Wow,” Thea said, eyes wide as she looked at Harry, raising her brows at the suddenness of the question.

“Um,” Harry said, blinking fast, trying to understand where that had come from. “That’s... a great question, mate. Why are you curious?”

“Eli from school says his mummy has a baby in her tummy,” Teddy continued, completely serious, shrugging as he stabbed a bite of chicken. “He said it grew there because she kissed his dad a lot. And they got extra married. Like, twice or something.”

Niko laughed so hard milk came out of his nose. “Extra married!” he howled, pointing at his brother like it was the best joke he’d ever heard.

Harry pressed his lips together, trying not to grin. Thea, still red from her coughing fit, let the smile grow over her face.

“Oh my God,” she whispered to Harry. “Extra married.”

“I mean, I guess we’ve been slacking,” Harry said under his breath. “Only got married once.”

Thea nudged him beneath the table, still laughing. She wiped her mouth, took a deep breath, and met Teddy’s gaze.

“Well, that’s kind of sweet, isn’t it?” she said. “And not entirely wrong. Babies do grow in their mummy’s tummy, but it’s a bit more... complicated than kissing.”

“Like how complicated?” Teddy asked, squinting like he was gearing up for a quiz.

Harry jumped in, biting at his lip. “It’s like gardening, I think,” he said. “You need a seed and a place for it to grow, and lots of love and time.”

“Like when we plant tomatoes?”

“Exactly like that,” Thea said, thankful for the metaphor. “Except instead of dirt, the seed goes into the mummy’s tummy, and if it sticks and grows, then you get a baby.”

Teddy mulled this over. “Where do you get the seeds to grow babies?”

Thea's breath caught, eyes glancing at Harry before he clicked his tongue and shook his head to try and manage an answer for him.

“Eli’s dad probably bought them at the store.” Harry nodded before he took another bite. “They kissed a lot, got married again, and then put the seeds in his mum’s tummy. Boom. Baby.”

Thea smirked at his answer, nodding a few times before she caught his glance; his foot caught hers under the table.

“Do you want another baby?” Teddy asked suddenly, turning his wide, curious eyes on her.

She paused, looked at Harry before turning back to Teddy—glancing at Niko.

“We’d love another one,” she said honestly. “But we love what we already have. You, Niko. You both are everything to us, you know that?”

Harry leaned forward towards Teddy. “Sometimes we dream about one. That’s all.”

Teddy seemed satisfied with this; it was a moment that warmed Thea’s heart. He nodded and picked up his fork again. “Well, I hope the seed works. I want someone littler than Niko. He keeps sitting on my bed when I’m reading.”

“I do not!” Niko yelled at him.

“Yes, you do!” Teddy nodded.

Niko scrunched his nose, looking a little too much like Harry, “I’m guarding you!”

“From what? My books?!”

Dinner dissolved into giggles and squabbling and a heated debate about who had more green beans on their plate left. Thea leaned back in her chair, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. Later that night, as they washed the dishes, Thea turned to Harry, elbow deep in suds.

“You were really good with that,” she told him, leaning her cheek against him.

“I blacked out a little,” he replied, drying a plate. “Pretty sure I compared conception to salad.”

She laughed again, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “Thanks for planting your seeds in my garden.”

+++

A week later, they sat in the doctor’s office, Thea clutching a clipboard of intake forms, Harry bouncing his knee up and down like a drumbeat.

It had taken months to admit it was time to ask for help. Something about the dinner with Teddy had set a moment in Thea’s heart; maybe it was time. Now they were here— blue walls, waiting room magazines, a tray of paper cups in the corner.

They were there for testing, making sure that everything was normal. The tests weren’t painful, just drawn out and took a lot of energy between the two of them.

Blood work, hormone panels, and ultrasounds. Harry gave his sample in a room with posters that made him blush and a nurse with a very professional tone; something very demeaning that he couldn’t think too much about. Thea tried to make him laugh about it, but she could only get a smile.

Thea had never felt so clinical in her own body. She smiled politely, and she thanked people too much each time they came in and out of the room. She counted the tiles on the ceiling and avoided making eye contact with herself in the mirror afterward.

When they returned to the office for all their results two weeks later, Thea felt her stomach twist into a thousand little knots at the answers. The doctor, kind-eyed and composed, sat across from them and cleared her throat with her clipboard—their fate sitting in her hands, literally.

"I want to start off by telling you that everything looks normal," she said. "Which, in a way, is good news.” The doctor gave them a smile, Harry side-eyed Thea for a moment as he watched her shoulders loosen from the news. “But it also means we don’t have a clear answer. This happens sometimes. We call it unexplained infertility."

Thea stared at the table, fingers twisting in her lap. Harry reached over, squeezed her knee.

"So, what does that mean?" he asked, shaking his head, “Or where do we go from here?”

"It means your bodies are doing what they should—all of Thea’s numbers are correct, your sperm count is at perfect levels for conception. But for some reason, conception isn’t happening naturally. You’re still young, and there are options. There are many paths to growing a family, and we obviously want to make sure that you are able to grow that family."

They nodded, dazed.

Thea swallowed hard. She wanted to say something, to ask the right question, to be the kind of person who knew how to advocate for herself in moments like this. But her mouth felt dry, and her thoughts were tangled. She glanced sideways at Harry, who was still staring at the doctor, brow furrowed, jaw tight.

“So, what now?” he asked again, this time more softly.

The doctor leaned forward, her voice calm and measured as she could tell that there may have been some frustration. “There are several options. We can begin with intrauterine insemination—less invasive than IVF, and sometimes successful after just a few rounds. If that doesn’t work, IVF is the next step. And of course, there’s also the path of adoption, if you’d prefer to pursue something non-medical. None of these are easy, but all are valid.”

Thea looked down at her hands. She hadn’t realized her nails were digging into her palm.

“Is it… is it my fault?” she whispered, not meaning to say it aloud.

The doctor’s face softened at her, shaking her head. “No,” she said firmly. “It’s no one’s fault. Please hear me when I say that—this isn’t about blame. It’s about biology, timing, and sometimes things we don’t fully understand yet,” The doctor licked her lips and gave her a pressing smile, “But we have modern medicine, and we have ways to help you.”

Harry turned to her, his expression suddenly raw.

“Thea,” he said quietly, trying to grasp where she was.

“But we did everything,” she murmured, her voice cracking, almost unsure of the uncertainty of the unexplained. “All the right things. The tracking, the testing. The vitamins. The no caffeine. The waiting. The prayers. And still…”

The doctor tried to meet her eyes, “Sweetie, you’re not a failure.”

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. She couldn’t cry in front of this woman in a lab coat who was holding all their quiet heartbreak in a manila folder. After a moment, Harry looked at the doctor and she gave him a tight smile.

“I’m going to give you both some space,” the doctor said gently, “Take your time. When you’re ready, I’ll have my nurse bring in a referral packet, and we can walk you through what the next steps might look like—if and when you're ready,” She held the file close to her, “If it’s not today, that’s okay. We’re here for when you are.”

The door clicked shut behind her. Thea stared at the floor.

Harry exhaled. “We’re still us,” he said, as if that mattered more than anything else. “We still have our boys. We still have each other.”

“I know,” she said. “But it’s just not how I pictured it. I thought it would be… like, what the fuck? Unexplained infertility? How is it unexplained? How—it just feels like I’m failing.”

He shook his head, unable to come up with an explanation of the unexplained. “You’re not failing, baby.”

She looked at him finally. Really looked. His face had softened, but there was a heaviness around his eyes. He was trying to be strong, for her, for them. She could see it.

“Can we not tell anyone yet?” she asked, grabbing her purse. “About the results. About this appointment. I just want to keep it… between us. For a little while.”

“Of course,” he said. “For as long as you need.”

She squeezed his hand. It didn’t feel like closure. Not yet. But it felt like something real. A place to start from. Or start all over again.

But life went on, and being a mum and dad went on.

That night, after dinner, the house felt unusually quiet. Thea was wiping down the counters while Teddy and Niko chased each other through the living room in socked feet, their laughter echoing off the walls. She looked up when she realized Harry wasn’t with them—he was usually the one dragging out bedtime with tickle fights and extra storybooks.

But the boys said he’d gone to “get something from the garage.”

Thea was a bit confused by Teddy’s statement, but she shook her head as she continued the nighttime chores. She finished loading the dishwasher, washing the dishes in the sink. She waited for a while—noticing that the time went from 7 to 7:30. Five more minutes. Then, ten. Twenty. She checked the bathroom. His office. He hadn’t come back.

Nothing.

Her heart started to thrum uneasily as she saw the light on in the unattached garage. Her heart stopped for a moment before she decided to make her way out there. The temperatures had dropped significantly from October to November, and it was quite chilly.

She slipped outside of the door, telling the boys to get upstairs to their room before she got back. The night cool against her skin and padded barefoot across the stone path toward the garage. She pushed open the side door slowly, it was ajar, and there he was.

Harry stood by the workbench, shoulders slumped, head bowed, a bottle of whiskey next to a half-empty glass. He swayed slightly where he stood, like gravity had become a little heavier. There was a second glass beside the first—unused, forgotten. The scent of alcohol lingered in the room, sharp and earthy, cut with motor oil and sawdust.

“Harry?” Thea said softly. He didn’t turn around; didn’t show any signs of acknowledgement before.  

“I’m fine,” he muttered, which of course meant he wasn’t.

She stepped closer, a step at a time. “You’ve been in here a while.”

He gave a hollow laugh, but it was short-lived. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—couldn’t do bedtime tonight. I—I couldn’t.”

She looked at the bottle. Then at him.

“Are you drunk?” she asked him gently, taking in a breath. Her hands dug into her back pockets of her jeans as she approached him.

He exhaled sharply, like he wasn’t sure whether to lie to her. She could tell that tried to come back to the world, he swallowed and responded with raspy breath. “A little.”

Thea’s heart thumped louder. “The boys asked for you.”

“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I know, and I hate that I wasn’t there.”

He turned around then—his eyes bloodshot, lips parted, flushed in a way that wasn’t just from the whiskey. He looked like someone unraveling at the seams.

“I hate this,” he said again, his words slurred but sharp with feeling. “I hate that you have to go through all this, and I’m just standing on the sidelines. I hate that I can’t take the pain or the tests or the pressure off your shoulders. I hate how small I feel in all of it. How powerless.”

Thea moved to him quickly, her hands finding his arms, grounding him.

“You don’t have to do it all,” she said. “You’re not supposed to be the answer. You’re supposed to be with me. That’s it.”

He leaned into her like a man giving up the last of his weight. She wrapped her arms around him, feeling how unsteady he was—physically, emotionally.

“I wanted to be the easy part,” he murmured into her hair. “I wanted to be the one thing in your life that didn’t feel like a fight.”

She pulled back enough to cup his cheeks, her thumbs brushing the warmth of his tear-stained skin. “You are, Harry. You are the easy part. This? This is just life. And I’d rather live it with you falling apart than pretending to hold it all together until you snap—we will figure this out.”

He closed his eyes, his forehead resting against hers. “I’m scared I’m going to lose you.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m scared I’m going to lose me too.”

They stood like that, swaying gently, in the soft, alcohol-sweet air of the garage. He was shaky and tired, and a little drunk, but present—and for Thea, that was enough.

“Please don’t turn to this.” She told him, pleading, begging as she pushed the glasses and the whiskey bottle away. “This—we aren’t going to do this, okay?”

Harry’s jaw was tight as he nodded into her. Tears burned in his eyes; he felt like shit, he looked like shit. He tried to swallow but his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t think of a better way to make the pain go away.

Eventually, she guided him back into the house, one arm around his waist, the other holding his hand. The boys were in their room, the house dim and quiet—she tried to make it unknown that he was in the house, she didn’t want the boys seeing him like that.

She helped him sit on the edge of their bed, pulled his shirt off over his head, and kissed the top of his shoulder.

“Just go to sleep,” she said. “I’ll take care of bedtime.”

Harry nodded, his hand still clasped in hers. “Thanks for finding me.”

“Always,” she whispered back to him. “Loving you is my favorite thing to do.”

Winter

December came with a stillness, as if the world was holding its breath.

Frost clung to the windows each morning, and Thea found herself waking earlier than usual, just to sit in the silence before the boys filled the house with their usual noise. She would wrap herself in Harry's sweatshirt, sip her tea by the window, and watch the steam dance.

They hadn’t made a decision yet. Not about IVF. Not about adoption. Not even about stopping. It was a liminal space—a pause that felt both peaceful and terrifying. But the urgency had eased. The need to solve something had softened into something quieter.

Thea no longer tracked every temperature or symptom. The ovulation stickers were gone from the fridge. Her body, for the first time in a long while, belonged only to her.

The holidays were noisy and sweet in all the best ways. The house constantly smelled like cinnamon and pine, and the stereo kept skipping halfway through Harry’s White Christmas CD because Niko had jammed a raisin into the CD slot.

Teddy made lopsided ornaments at school out of popsicle sticks and sequins, proudly hanging them in clumps on the same branch until it sagged under their weight. Niko got caught chewing on the corner of a salt dough snowman craft that Thea had sat down to do with the boys, the white paint smudged on his lips like frosting and cried when Thea took it away.

There were snowball fights in the front yard until the boys’ cheeks turned pink and Thea had to coax them back inside with promises of marshmallows. There were flannel pajamas all around and matching socks that never stayed on. Harry read The Polar Express by the glow of the Christmas tree while the boys curled into their parents’ sides, eyes heavy with sleep.

Every night ended in drinking cocoa—thick and too sweet, with whipped cream mustaches and sugar highs that led to pajama dance parties in the living room. It was chaos, sticky and warm, and somehow it felt like magic, even with the mess, even with the exhaustion. Especially because of it.

Thea wanted her boys to feel that magic that had been so drained from them for so long.

One night, just a few days before Christmas, the house finally stilled.

The boys were asleep upstairs, their soft snores crackling faintly through the baby monitor on the side table. Outside, snow drifted in lazy spirals beneath the porch light, collecting in hushed white piles. The tree lights glowed dimly in the corner, casting golden halos against the walls. A fire popped in the grate, low and comforting.

Thea lay stretched along the couch, her socked feet tucked beneath Harry’s thigh. A half-finished cup of tea rested on the coffee table, steam no longer rising. Harry’s arm was draped behind her, his hand lazily curling through the ends of her hair. They didn’t need to talk. The silence had a weight to it that felt intimate, not empty. Safe.

“I love you more now than I ever have,” Thea said softly, her voice almost lost in the hush of the room.

Harry turned to look at her. His brows furrowed slightly, not from confusion but from the intensity of hearing something he didn’t know he needed.

“I mean it,” she added, her voice steady now. “Not just in the easy moments. But in the ones where we don’t know what comes next. You make the not-knowing feel okay.”

His throat worked around the emotion building there. He didn’t speak at first. Just studied her face like he wanted to remember it exactly how it looked—soft and honest in the glow of the lights, with her sweater slipping slightly off one shoulder and her fingers curled near her chin.

He leaned down and kissed her forehead—slow, reverent, lingering.

“That’s all I want, Thea,” he murmured. “For us to feel okay. However this looks.”

She blinked up at him, eyes shimmering slightly.

“It’s not always going to be glitter and gingerbread,” she said; her eyes felt the burn of a few tears as she stared at the Christmas tree. “I just… I just have these moments where I get sad that this is what I was made for, and I—I feel like I don’t know how to feel.”

He smiled faintly, rubbing hands through her hair. “I know.”

“But I’m so lucky.”

Harry let out a quiet breath and pulled her closer into his chest. Her hand settled over his heart, and he covered it with his own. Through the window, the snow kept falling. The tree lights blinked on, then off again, a quiet rhythm in the stillness. And in the space between heartbeats, between the mess and the magic, they chose each other again.

Not just in the easy moments. But in all of them.

+++

The living room smelled like cinnamon and roast potatoes and a large roast chicken that could feed a hundred people, and it was about ten degrees too warm from the oven working overtime.

The wrapping paper littered the floor, clinging to socks and bare feet. Teddy and Niko were in the corner with Maeve’s youngest, building a leaning tower of wooden blocks while the older two took turns flying a paper plane dangerously close to the Christmas tree.

Harry’s mum moved through the kitchen like a practiced orchestra conductor, towel thrown over one shoulder, cheeks flushed from heat and champagne. She opened the oven, checked the parsnips, then closed it again with a decisive nod. “Gravy’s done,” she called, even though no one had asked.

Harry had disappeared somewhere with Maeve’s oldest to assemble a toy castle, and Thea found herself alone in the kitchen for the first time that day, standing by the sink with a glass of cranberry juice and flushed cheeks of her own—not from the warmth, but from watching Harry with the kids.

He was in his element here, his hands always full. His heart was wide open.

Maeve leaned her hip against the counter beside her, stealing a segment of clementine from the charcuterie in front of Thea.

“Been a minute since we’ve all been under one roof,” she said casually.

Thea smiled, taking a sip of her juice. “I’m still full of breakfast, too,” She turned towards the dinner being prepared, “Feel like I may explode.”

“She lives for this,” Maeve replied, her voice fond as she gestured to her mum. “You alright, though? You’ve been a bit… floaty today.”

Thea hesitated. She looked at the frosted kitchen window, where snow dusted the garden wall. “Yeah. I’m good. Just… tired.”

Maeve didn’t push. But Harry’s mum came around the corner just then, holding a tray of pigs in blankets, and she caught the tail end of the exchange.

“She’s not just tired,” Harry’s mum said gently, setting the tray down. “She’s been carrying a lot. I see it.”

Thea felt her shoulders stiffen slightly. “It’s okay, really—”

Maeve shook her head. “Don’t do that. Don’t shrink it. You can say it.”

Thea looked between them; two women who loved Harry fiercely, who had welcomed her without condition—and slowly set her glass down as she thought about telling them everything that had been going on.

“We’ve been… thinking,” she said, hesitating as she licked over her lips. “About other options. For trying. To get pregnant, I mean. Not today. Not tomorrow. But... soon, maybe.”

Maeve reached for her hand instantly, grounding her. She didn’t want to say anything until she let Thea finish.

Thea’s throat worked. “Sometimes it feels like maybe we’re pushing something that just... isn’t going to happen again. And other times it feels like I’m giving up too soon.”

Harry’s mum wiped her hands on her apron and stepped forward, “Darling,” she said softly, “you have never done anything wrong in my son’s eyes. You know that, don’t you?”

Thea blinked a few times, parted lips closing as she glanced at the floor.

“He’s been head-over-heels for you since he came home from uni one Christmas break,” she said, turning to Maeve who was smirking at the remembrance of the day. “Walked through that door beaming, like someone had handed him the sun and he couldn’t believe he got to keep it.”

Maeve let out a quiet, knowing laugh. “You should’ve seen him. Wouldn’t shut up. All we heard about was this girl, Thea,” She tilted her head, “And he’s never lost that stupid smile when he talks about you, either.”

Thea looked down, overwhelmed for a moment by how much love they gave her. How much space they made for her to just exist in the gray areas—without judgment, without needing to perform gratitude.

Harry’s mum gave her arms a squeeze. “Whatever you two decide, it’s already the right choice. Because you’re making it together.”

From the other room, there was a loud crash and the unmistakable sound of Harry laughing as one of the kids shouted, “It was his idea!”

Maeve turned and grinned. “Well. Sounds like your sun is being a menace.”

Thea wiped her eyes quickly and laughed, her heart aching and full at once. “Yeah,” she said. “But he’s mine.”

Harry’s mum smiled, eyes crinkling back at her. “Yes, love. He always was.”

+++

On New Year’s Eve, they stayed in.

There was no glitter, no clinking glasses or crowded parties. Just a blanket fort made from sofa cushions and old sheets, lit with the warm glow of fairy lights clipped to laundry pins. The boys had helped build it with the kind of serious concentration only kids could muster—Teddy determined to engineer “roof support beams” out of broomsticks, while Niko insisted they needed two flashlights “in case one gets scared.”

They ordered pizzas and ate them cross-legged on the rug, slices greasy and hot in their hands, laughter echoing off the walls with each melted cheese pull and story about their favorite parts of the year. Harry wore flannel pajama pants and one of Thea’s old university sweatshirts. She wore thick socks and no makeup, her hair up in a messy twist. It was imperfect and quiet and theirs.

By ten-thirty, Niko was fast asleep on Harry’s chest, his little fists tucked beneath his chin. Teddy drifted off moments later with his head on Thea’s arm, his breathing slow and steady, his long limbs flopped across her like he had no idea he was growing so fast.

The TV still played in the background—some countdown special in Times Square, the noise muffled and irrelevant. Outside, snow had begun to fall again, blanketing the neighborhood in a hush.

At some point before midnight, Thea blinked awake. Her arm was numb beneath Teddy, and the lights of the fort cast soft shadows across the ceiling. She slowly untangled herself and stood, stretching her legs as quietly as she could. Padding into the kitchen in her pajamas, she poured herself a mug of warm spiced cider from the slow cooker they’d forgotten to turn off, its sweet scent still lingering in the air like comfort.

She didn’t need noise or fanfare. She just wanted a minute of stillness. The clock on the microwave read 11:53. Only seven more minutes of the year.

A moment later, Harry appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. His hair stuck out in all directions, flattened on one side, and he still had the blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cape. He looked like the grown-up version of the boy he must’ve been—sleepy, kind, quietly wonderful.

“Hey,” he murmured, crossing the tile floor barefoot. “You left me.”

“You were snoring,” she teased gently, handing him a mug of his own.

“Rude.” He took it anyway, standing close beside her as they both leaned back against the counter, watching the snow fall through the window above the sink. The silence between them was comfortable—easy. It didn’t need to be filled.

“We didn’t make any resolutions,” he said after a while, sipping the cider.

Thea glanced over at him, shrugging. “I don’t want to make promises we can’t control.”

He nodded slowly, understanding completely what she meant. “Then let’s not make promises. Just... intentions.”

She considered that for a moment and nodded, then smiled softly. “I intend to find joy. Even when it’s not obvious. Even when I have to really, really look for it.”

Harry looked at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable in the low light. Then: “I intend to keep kissing you in the pantry when the boys aren’t looking.”

A breathy laugh escaped her, unexpected and warm as she thought about the way he looked at her.

“I intend to hold your hand,” she whispered, “no matter what happens.”

Harry didn’t reply right away. He reached out and laced his fingers through hers. The kitchen was quiet but full—with everything they’d shared, everything they hadn’t said aloud, everything they were still building together.

When Thea turned her head, she watched as the clock ticked to midnight.

Somewhere in the distance, a few scattered fireworks cracked through the air—soft and distant behind the snowfall. Niko stirred in the next room, but didn’t wake. Teddy muttered something incoherent and rolled over; both of them sleeping into the new year.

They clinked their mugs together—porcelain meeting in the smallest toast.

“Happy New Year,” Thea said, her voice thick with something close to wonder.

Harry leaned down and kissed her softly. It was just a small kiss; a knowing one that made her hum in acknowledgement as they stared at each other for a moment.

“It will be,” he said, putting the intention into the universe to be caught. “It will be.”

And outside, beneath a sky that didn’t ask anything of them, the snow fell softer than ever.

+++

January was cold in the way only the start of a new year could be—bright skies, brittle winds, and mornings where the frost stretched across the windows like lace. Life had fallen into a rhythm again. School runs, lukewarm coffee, wool socks, and Lego landmines scattered across the hallway. The holidays had passed, but their softness lingered. There was a quiet steadiness to the days now, like everything had settled just slightly into place.

There was a letter that arrived on a Wednesday.

Thea found it among a small pile of post on the kitchen counter tucked between a bank statement and a coupon flyer for carpet cleaning. The envelope was clinical and white, the logo of the fertility clinic embossed in the corner.

She stood there for a moment with her thumb beneath the seal, the kettle starting to hum behind her. When she finally opened it, her eyes scanned the page once, then again, before she set it gently on the counter.

Consultation appointment offered: February 12th, 10:30 AM.

There was no rush of dread, no panic. No buzzing in her ears from being overwhelmed. Just a quiet hum in her chest, like something long held had found its place to rest.

She didn’t call Harry right away at work. She didn’t need to. Instead, she folded the letter in half and slid it into the drawer beside the sink, where she kept the extra birthday candles and takeaway menus and the measuring spoons she always forgot were there.

Not out of avoidance. But out of peace.

That afternoon, while wrangling Niko into his boots to go pick Teddy up from school, she slipped on her long gray coat—the one with the deep inside pocket where she kept tissues and receipts. As her hand brushed the lining, she felt something crinkled and unfamiliar.

It was a small square of folded paper. It was cream-colored, soft at the edges. Harry’s handwriting on the outside in blue ink from the pen that sat by the sink to write notes for groceries.

She opened it slowly, the sounds of the boys echoing in the hallway, snow boots thudding against tile.

whatever path we take, I’m already home.

Her breath caught. Not in that cinematic way, but in the real, aching way where your chest pulls tight before the tears ever come.

He must’ve tucked it there days ago. Maybe even weeks. He hadn’t asked if she’d found it; hadn’t drawn any attention to it. That was how Harry loved her—quietly, consistently. With notes she didn’t know to look for until she needed them most.

She folded it again with careful fingers, pressed it against her chest just beneath her scarf. She didn’t cry—not really. Just stood there for a moment, eyes shut, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

There were decisions ahead that would come with possibility and risks. But standing in the front hall, coat half-zipped, her child laughing behind her, she knew something with absolute certainty:

Whatever came next, their family would be walking into it together.

And she was no longer afraid.

Spring

Three months later. The snow had melted, the times had changed.

Thea stood in the bathroom again.

She’d been feeling off all week. It was nothing really dramatic—just a lingering nausea in the mornings, a strange fatigue that had her yawning before dinner, a faint sensitivity to smells that made her gag when she opened the fridge and saw the left-over chicken from dinner. She’d chalked it up to something going around; Teddy had brought home three colds from school since winter break, and Niko had a habit of sharing his sneezes with open-mouthed affection.

There wasn’t a reason to feel the hope. Not now, not when peace had finally settled into her like snow on a quiet morning. But the nagging feeling had stayed, curling in her belly like a whisper. That hope was always just there.

Thea was still rubbing her temples when Harry walked into their bedroom, carrying a mug of peppermint tea.

“Still feeling sick?” he asked gently, setting the mug on her nightstand. Thea had been under the covers, trying to let her mind relax.

She nodded, holding onto the blanket as she shrugged. “It’s probably just a bug. I’ve just been so tired.”

Harry hesitated, then gave her a look that was part teasing, part hopeful. For the first time in a while, his eyes had a gleam in them that she found to be optimistically cautious.

“Would it be crazy if I suggested taking a test?”

Thea blinked at him, biting the inside of her lip as she spoke quietly. “Really?”

He shrugged, smiling. “Just to rule it out. Humor me.”

There was a hesitancy about it this time. Not dread—just a deep quiet, like her body already knew the answer and was waiting for her mind to catch up.

She opened the drawer beneath the sink, hand brushing past a half-used box of band-aids and a faded bottle of nail polish. There, near the back, was the last test. She paused, held it in her hand for a moment. The foil wrapper crinkled faintly as she turned it over.

They’d nearly forgotten they still had one.

By now, the ritual was muscle memory. She didn’t overthink it. Just followed the motions, her limbs moving like she was outside her body—automatic, practiced, steady. She took the test, washed her hands, and set it down on the counter, screen faced up, untouched.

The phone timer ticked to life beside it: five minutes.

She exhaled and leaned forward, both palms on the counter, head bowed.

Harry stepped beside her, brushing her hand with his fingers. They stood next to one another in silence, watching the screen like it might explode.

The first line appeared. And then another.

Two.

Thea’s breath hitched, her body stiffening as if trying to resist what her eyes were already telling her. Her hand flew to her mouth, barely stifling the quiet gasp that escaped. Her eyes whipped to Harry’s face, searching for confirmation, for disbelief, for shared understanding.

He was staring at the test like it might vanish, his brow furrowed, mouth slightly open. “Is that…?”

She nodded once, then again, her throat too tight to speak. The tears came fast—not the kind that poured, but the kind that welled so thick and full she couldn’t blink them away. “Harry…”

His eyes lifted to meet hers, wide and shining, as if seeing her for the very first time. He moved slowly, as though afraid he might spook the moment. Like she was something breakable. Like this was something sacred.

Then he wrapped his arms around her, tight and sure, drawing her into his chest. His face pressed into the curve of her neck, and she felt his breath catch. They stood like that for a long time—silent, swaying slightly, the hum of the world around them softening into nothing. It felt like holding something invisible but real. Like they were comforting someone already here.

“I can’t believe it,” he whispered, his voice rough and filled with wonder.

She let out a breathy, tear-laced laugh against his shoulder. “I thought I had the flu.”

Harry pulled back just enough to see her face, brushing his knuckles against her damp cheek.

Thea laughed again, chest shaking, heart racing. His hand stayed on her face, thumb stroking just beneath her eye. Her hands were on his ribs, her forehead resting against his. Behind them, on the counter, the test sat in the gentle light of the morning—two clear lines glowing like a secret they could finally keep.

The waiting was over: their garden had suddenly begun to bloom.

Nine Months Later – Autumn

The house was louder now.

Not in a bad way—never that. Just in the way a home grows louder when it’s full of life and happiness and joyful moments that may have been chaotic to some, but necessary to others. When the walls know every laugh, every cry, every set of socked feet thudding down the hall.

It was a crisp October morning. Wind scratched at the windows, and golden leaves danced across the porch as they did every year. The air inside was warm, the scent of bergamot and maple lingering from breakfast and someone’s forgotten apple slice browning on the counter.

In the corner of the living room, the baby stirred, letting out a cry that sounded far too fierce for such a tiny chest to produce. Thea rose slowly from the couch, moving with the practiced sway of a mother whose body remembered the rhythm even when her mind was fogged. She wore leggings, wool socks, and one of Harry’s old university sweatshirts, sleeves pushed up to the elbows. Her hair was in a lopsided twist, and she had that early-motherhood glow—equal parts sleep deprivation and sacred softness; her body hurt, but in an aching way that felt natural.

She lifted their newborn daughter from the bassinet with a quiet hum, settling her gently against her shoulder. The way the baby scrunched when lifted made her smile, kissing her soft face as she held her close. The baby calmed almost immediately, cheek squished against Thea’s collarbone, making those tiny, contented grunts that felt like the most private song.

From the hallway, Niko barreled in wearing one rain boot and holding an orange crayon like a sword. “Teddy took my sock! He’s gonna use it as a flag!”

Teddy, already in his school jumper and wearing a makeshift crown made of pipe cleaners and paper leaves, charged past them, waving the sock like a victory banner. “Long live the Sock Kingdom!”

Thea sat back on the couch with a sigh that was equal parts tired and amused. “It’s not even eight-thirty.”

Harry emerged from the kitchen like a man who’d lived three lives in the past hour. His curls were a bit wild from wrangling school bags, his flannel sleeves rolled to his elbows, and he had that look—part joy, part exasperation—that only came from parenthood on a weekday morning.

“Alright, you two,” he said, stepping over a pile of acorns someone had collected and dumped on the rug—for who knows what. “Teddy, backpack. Niko, you need both socks to fight dragons. That’s just science.”

He herded them toward the front door, multitasking like a pro—finding missing mittens, buttering toast, and handing out gentle warnings not to jump from the stairs again. When the chaos calmed momentarily—Teddy put on his own shoes, Niko pulling his arms into his shirt sleeves as he circled the door, ready for primary.

Their daughter had dozed off against her chest, mouth open slightly, one tiny fist curled in the fabric of Thea’s sweatshirt.

“Let me take her,” Harry said softly.

He moved with quiet reverence, unfastening the baby wrap from where it hung on the chair and securing her to his chest. His hands were steady, careful, practiced. When he was done, he gave her the softest bounce, his lips brushing her temple as he began humming a familiar lullaby—half tune, half breath, something only their daughter knew.

Thea leaned back into the cushions, eyes on him.

Harry looked up at her at the same moment. For a second, the noise dulled. The boys were still yelling from the front door, the wind still scraped the windowpanes, the kettle began to whistle again—but between them, it was quiet.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to.

His eyes asked, You okay?

Hers answered, I am now.

He smiled, soft and crooked. She exhaled, the weight of the morning easing just slightly.

He shifted the baby higher on his chest, wrapping a hand around her tiny back. “She’s got your nose,” he said.

“She’s got your lungs.”

They both laughed quietly. Outside, a gust of wind knocked a small pumpkin off the porch step, and Teddy’s muffled voice called out, “Dad! The pumpkin made a run for it!”

Harry pressed one more kiss to their daughter’s head before heading out to wrangle the boys into the car.

“Let’s go, out to the car.” Harry held the small baby against him, as he prepared to take the boys to class and take the baby with them—giving Thea some time to herself, to shower, to clean the kitchen if she so chose.

Thea watched them as she leaned against the doorframe—her boys in their too-big coats, Harry bent to tie a shoelace, their daughter curled against his chest like she’d always belonged there.

This wasn’t the dream she’d once imagined. It was louder, messier, and constantly in motion.

But it was golden like the leaves outside, fleeting and brilliant. It was mugs left half-full, jackets never hung up, freckles on sleepy cheeks.

It was real. And all she could think as she saw Harry look back at her with a love that she couldn’t have believed was so real, so complete.

All she could think: ours.

[melonlord527]

Do I have brainrot or is Normal Oak a Starkid-coded nerd? Like, this chipper cheery mascot kid WOULDN'T sing "Cool as I Think I Am"??!

To me, Nerdy Prudes Must Die is a tonal match for the teens...

[abbzloves]

Hear me out.

The more we learn about Sylus, the more I think he is still a dragon.

The rumours when MC first comes to the N109 zone saying that he had wings and big teeth? Dragon. Rumours he was celebrating his 90th birthday? Dragon. The way he hordes things and his greed? Dragon. The birthday event saying that he shows his affection and love like a predator and animal? Dragon. He still remembers their past? Dragon. His facial features being sharp, and his inner eye corners? Dragon.

EVEN HIS DAMN VOICE SOUNDS LIKE A GROWL!

Sylus was very clearly abandoned by his family. Too human, but also, not human enough. Never fitting in. Never good enough.

Sylus, however, is loving. He was never provided with enough love or support, so, knowing Sylus, he decided to do the opposite. He learned how much he was hurt in his “past life” and how MC was hurt as well and decided to turn around and show unconditional love. His attachment style is so secure, he’s confident and reliable, he supports the autonomy of those around him that he cares about and never allows them to feel not good enough. He never allows them to feel like they don’t belong.

He never forces himself into her life, after he learns that she truly does not remember him. That she was disgusted by him. He gives her time and space. He allows her to come to him. Though I’m sure his greed makes him want to take all of her time and attention and affection, he resists it. He is even willing to leave her life if she wishes.

Even when she was trying to find the aether core, Sylus knew about her. But he let her come to him first. He let her make that decision. He left breadcrumbs to lead her, Elysium being the prime example. It was her decision. Her choice.

She’s also the one that always initiates the physical affection first. He always allows her to kiss him first, he doesn’t want to make her feel pressure.

If I were to place a bet, he would have built Onychinus as a place where he and mc could belong. Where all of the misfits of the world could feel safe.

He is such a kind person. He is such a green flag. I love him your honour!

Edit: there is more. The Lost Oasis card clearly hinted at him still being a dragon! Especially when MC was doodling him as a wanderer and he added horns and a tail-

[bunnis-monsters]

NSFW

Yandere!Vampire that was once royalty, living in a dilapidated castle, alone and depressed. As a human, he was surrounded by people. Everyone adored him, his golden curls and warm brown eyes charming the hearts of every noble that set eyes on him.

That was until his family was slaughtered by a coven of vampires, leaving him the only survivor. Now with no family, he was turned away from the nobles that once gathered at his side, calling him beautiful and intelligent. Now he was a beast, and was only left alive because no one dared to touch him.

As the years passed by, all that knew of his existence died out, meaning no one remembered or cared for him. In the past, he had at least been grateful he had been in someone’s thoughts, even if it was in a negative light. Now, no one even hated him. He was just nonexistent to the world outside his castle.

Centuries passed by, every day slowly picking at the last bits of his sanity. Days of past grandeur and the current day mixed together, leaving him in a state where he couldn’t tell whether he was back in the living arms of his family, or wandering the dark, crumbling hallways of his childhood home.

It was only when a soft, warm light flooded one of the abandoned rooms he had been standing in that the fog in his brain began to fade, allowing him to see what was in front of him for the first time in decades.

It was you, a young woman in a hoodie and jeans, holding a flashlight. You lived only a mile away, and had been exploring when you came upon ruins of what seemed like an ancient castle.

You had heard rumors of a person that wandered the ruins from the townsfolk, and old tales of vampires that had been passed down by tongue for centuries. Not believing them, you decided to see for yourself…

Your light shone upon what you first thought was an ethereal ghost or some kind of beautiful spirit. A man with a mop of blonde curls, porcelain skin, and the most beautiful pair of ruby red eyes you’ve ever seen stared back at you.

The person attempted to speak, but clutched his throat, as if he hadn’t spoken in so long, his vocal cords had forgotten how.

“H-hello?”

The man perked up at the sound of your voice, his eyes clearing up. It seemed just hearing another human speak made his undead heart leap, and he couldn’t help but stumble towards you.

You yelped when he crossed the room within seconds and pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply.

The smell of another person, of sweat and perfume mixing together to make your own unique scent made him want to sob.

Of course you were freaked out, but the man holding onto you wasn’t hurting you, and you could feel warm tears soaking through your shirt. How could you turn away someone that was obviously in distress?

Unsurprisingly, the man followed you home. It didn’t take a genius to realize he wasn’t human. He was as pale as a sheet of paper, with no pulse or any color to his cheeks. His eyes were scarlet, a shade you had never seen a human have before.

Despite knowing this, you couldn’t help but care for him. He was thin, malnourished, with clothing that was so old and dirty that it nearly crumbled when he took them off.

“Are you hungry?”

You had taken to asking only yes or no questions, since he couldn’t speak. The man frowned, his eyes getting foggy for a second. You decided to ask again.

“Hello? Are you-“

He suddenly snapped back into reality, leaning forward to gently place his lips on your neck. You squeaked out in surprise when you felt his teeth sink into your neck… but it didn’t hurt. Instead, you only felt an uncomfortable pressure and draining sensation, and before long he was pulling back.

“Mmph…” he panted softly, blood running down his chin. “Was… so… thirsty…” he managed to say, his voice hoarse and small.

He cupped your cheek, holding your face in his hands and looking down at you with what could only be described as utter adoration.

“My love…”

From that point on, he was attached to your hip, following you everywhere you went like a lovesick puppy. Any time you were separated, he had severe anxiety, going back and forth from his dreamworld and reality. It was his coping mechanism, but it caused him to never understand what was real and what wasn’t.

You grounded him, made him feel safe and loved. Oh how he adored you. You had saved him from his lonely existence and taken him into your home as if he were a stray dog, and he was loyal like one. His loyalty came at a price, however, and that price was your freedom to do as you pleased.

Late nights out with friends became next to nonexistent, especially if he knew there would be any males there.

“I just want to protect you, my beloved. It’s a dangerous, cruel world. People will act as if they love you when they do not…”

And as you slowly became more and more isolated, his affections only grew. Kisses to your hand began to trail up your arm and to your neck. Snuggles turned into grinding and heavy petting, and even the most innocent of caresses became lewd in nature.

It didn’t take long for him to fuck you for the first time. After all, he had been pent up and alone for centuries, resisting taking you on the spot was excruciating.

The second he sunk into your pussy, he came. You were just so warm and your scent made his head fuzzy. He couldn’t help but fuck into you like a wild animal, feeding from your pretty neck as he filled you up over and over.

After the first time, a day didn’t pass by when he didn’t crave your intimate touch. Some days he was satisfied with heavy petting and kisses, others he couldn’t be satiated until his face was between your legs, lapping at your cunt for hours.

You were his, his mate, his lover. He couldn’t imagine a life without you anymore, so could you really blame him when he clung to you so tightly?

He just loved you, and he did such a good job at keeping you satisfied, just enough to where you didn’t look into the missing cases of your old lovers and male friends.

Why would you need to pay attention to any of that when your loving, attentive boyfriend was right there, ready to worship you from head to toe?

[harrysfolklore]

but daddy i love him. part two - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc:13.5k. READ PART ONE

folkie radio: HERE IT IS !!!! THE OTHER PART OF THEIR STORY !!! first of all i want to thank you all for the incredible support on part one, it was so nice to read all of your feedback ! please make sure to leave some feedback on this part as well. let me know ALL of your thoughts, and most importantly, ENJOY!

Monaco, 2021

The two weeks after Abu Dhabi are the longest of your life. Your phone remains silent - no late-night calls, no secret messages, no pictures of the cats that Max knows always make you smile. The space where he used to be feels enormous.

Your father is still dealing with the aftermath, appeals and media statements consuming his days. You watch him move through the house like a storm cloud, muttering about Masi and the FIA, and think about Max's words: "perfect Mercedes daughter."

You've never felt less perfect.

It's late one night when the doorbell rings. You're alone in the apartment - the one that's technically yours but has become a sanctuary for both of you over the past year. When you open the door, Max is standing there, looking as exhausted as you feel.

"Hi," he says softly.

You stand aside to let him in, heart pounding.

"I'm sorry," he says before you can speak. "I was cruel that night. You didn't deserve that."

"No, I didn't."

He runs a hand through his hair - a gesture so familiar it makes your chest ache. "I was high on winning, angry you weren't there, and I took it out on you. But that's not an excuse."

"I'm sorry too," you move closer. "You were right about some things. I should have been there for your celebration. It was your moment."

"It wasn't just my moment though, was it?" He sits on the couch, looking up at you. "It was your father's worst nightmare. Lewis' heartbreak. The most controversial end to a season ever." He laughs quietly. "Not exactly the best timing to announce we're in love."

You sit beside him, careful to maintain a small distance. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying… you were right. Telling them now, with everything so raw… it would be like throwing fuel on a fire." He reaches for your hand, and you let him take it. "I was so focused on finally being able to tell everyone, I didn't think about what that would mean for you. For your relationship with your dad."

"Max…"

"No, let me finish." His thumb traces patterns on your palm - another familiar gesture that makes tears prick at your eyes. "I've spent six years loving you. I can wait a bit longer for the timing to be right. For the wounds to heal a bit."

"What about what you said? About not being my dirty little secret anymore?"

"You're not keeping me a secret because you're ashamed," he says quietly. "You're protecting your family. And mine too, probably. Can you imagine Jos' reaction if we told him now?"

You both wince at the thought.

"So what do we do?" you ask.

He tugs you closer until you're against his chest, where you can hear his heartbeat - steady and strong and familiar. "We love each other. We wait for the right moment. And this time…" he kisses your head, "this time we decide together when that moment is. No ultimatums, no pressure."

"I missed you," you whisper into his shirt.

"I missed you too. These two weeks…" he shudders slightly. "Never again, okay? No matter how angry we get, no silence. We talk it out."

You lift your head to look at him properly. "Promise?"

Instead of answering, he kisses you - soft and sweet and apologetic. When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours.

"I love you," he says. "Mercedes daughter and all."

You laugh through sudden tears. "I love you too. Even when you're being an insufferable World Champion."

"Speaking of…" he grins, that boyish smile you fell in love with all those years ago, "I believe this is the first time I'm kissing you as a World Champion."

"Technically you've already kissed me as a World Champion."

"Ah, but that was angry championship kissing. This is making up championship kissing. Completely different."

You roll your eyes but let him pull you closer. "Is that so?"

"Mhmm. Much better. Want me to demonstrate the difference?"

Later, curled up in bed together, you talk about the future - not just when to tell everyone, but what comes after. Houses and holidays and maybe someday kids who'll have Wolff determination and Verstappen speed.

"Your dad might actually kill me when we tell him," Max muses, playing with your hair.

"Probably. But at least by then he might have calmed down about Abu Dhabi."

"That's optimistic of you."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him. "Are you okay with waiting? Really okay?"

He considers this, serious now. "Yeah, I am. Because this time it feels different. This time we're deciding together." He touches your face gently. "And because this time I know you're not running away."

"Never again," you promise. "No more running."

As you fall asleep in his arms, you think about timing and choices and love that survives silence. Maybe it's not perfect - sneaking around, hiding from families, loving in the shadows.

But it's yours. And for now, that's enough.

2022

After Abu Dhabi last year, you and Max spent a quiet Christmas apart with your respective families, but managed to escape for New Year's. Away from the media frenzy and family tensions, you found peace in the simple moments - cooking together, watching movies, Max trying (and failing) to teach you sim racing.

On New Year's Eve, standing on your balcony watching fireworks illuminate the harbor, Max held you from behind. "This is how I want every year to start," he murmured against your neck.

"Just us?"

"Just us. No drama, no hiding, no championships on the line."

You turned in his arms. "Well, about that last part…"

"Okay, maybe some championships," he grinned. "But the rest… we'll figure it out, right?"

"We will," you promised, sealing it with a kiss as the clock struck midnight.

The first weeks of 2022 brought exciting changes. Susie announced her plans for the F1 Academy, a project aimed at supporting young female drivers, and immediately asked you to join her team.

"I need someone I can trust completely," she said during one of your planning sessions. "Someone who understands both the technical and human side of racing."

"Are you sure? It's a huge responsibility."

"YN, you're perfect for this. You've grown up in this sport, you understand the challenges these girls will face." Susie squeezed your hand. "Plus, you're the only person besides Toto who can match my caffeine consumption during race weekends."

Working closely with Susie brought you closer than ever. She became more than just your father's wife - she was your confidante, mentor, and friend. You spent long hours together, planning programs, reviewing applications, discussing how to break down barriers in motorsport.

Which made the current breakfast situation even more uncomfortable.

"Andreas has an impressive background in aerodynamics," Toto was saying, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort. "Oxford educated, worked with Ferrari's junior program…"

"Dad," you interrupted, pushing your eggs around your plate. "Can we maybe not?"

"I'm just saying, YN, you should give him a chance. He's exactly the kind of person who would understand your world."

Lewis and George exchanged knowing looks while Susie watched you carefully.

"The new regulations are keeping me busy enough," you tried. "Between that and the Academy with Susie…"

"There's always time for personal life," Toto persisted. "You're young, successful, beautiful. You shouldn't spend all your time buried in work."

After breakfast, Susie found you in your office, surrounded by Academy paperwork.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked, closing the door.

"About Dad's sudden career as a matchmaker?"

"He means well," Susie sat across from you. "He just wants you to be happy."

"Can you maybe… talk to him? Get him to drop it?"

"Why? Andreas seems like a lovely young man. Smart, ambitious…"

You set down your pen, heart racing. This was it - the moment to trust someone else with your secret.

"I… I already have someone."

Susie's eyebrows shot up. "Oh? How did I not know about this?"

"Because…" you took a deep breath. "Because it's complicated. Really complicated."

"YN," Susie leaned forward, "you can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

"It's Max," you whispered. "Max Verstappen."

Susie's eyes widened, but she didn't immediately speak. She got up, locked your office door, and sat back down.

"How long?"

"Since 2015, on and off, you know that story. But seriously since I came back in 2020."

"Through everything? The championship battle?"

You nodded, tears forming. "It was… difficult. Especially Abu Dhabi."

"Oh, sweetheart," Susie moved to your side, pulling you into a hug. "That must have been awful for you."

"You're not… mad?"

"Mad? Why would I be mad?"

"Because he's Red Bull, because of everything with Dad…"

"Listen to me," Susie pulled back to look at you. "Love doesn't care about team colors. God knows this sport has enough rivalry without policing people's hearts too."

"I don't know what to do," you admitted. "We want to tell everyone, but after Abu Dhabi…"

"The timing's not great," Susie agreed. "But YN, you can't hide forever. It'll only get harder."

"I know. But Papa…"

"Your father loves you more than anything in this world. More than Mercedes, more than championships." She squeezed your hands. "Will he be shocked? Absolutely. Probably throw something expensive. But he'll come around."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I've seen how he looks at you - like you're still that little girl who used to fall asleep in the garage. He might not like your choice, but he'll respect it. Eventually."

"He was furious back then, said Max was too young, too reckless, that it would end in disaster. He threatened to send me back to boarding school."

"That explains a lot," Susie said softly. "Why he's been so pushy about these 'suitable' men lately."

"He thinks he protected me back then. Maybe he did - we were young, and things got messy. But now…"

"Now you're both different people," Susie finished. She was quiet for a moment, thinking. "You know what the real issue was back then?"

"That Max was the enemy?" you said dryly.

"No. That Toto couldn't control it. He's used to managing everything, planning ten steps ahead. But this…" she gestured vaguely, "this wasn't in his carefully constructed plan for you."

"I never wanted to disappoint him."

"Hey," Susie's voice was firm. "Loving someone isn't disappointing. It's probably the bravest thing we do."

"Thanks," you whisper, hugging Susie tightly. "For understanding. For not judging."

"Just... be careful, okay? And know that I'm here if you need to talk."

The conversation with Susie lifts a weight you didn't realize you were carrying. Having someone know, someone in your corner, makes everything feel more manageable.

Bahrain, 2022

The morning of the Bahrain Grand Prix buzzed with the familiar nervous energy of a season opener. You were in one of the back offices of the F1 Academy, triple-checking schedules and programs for the upcoming season, when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.

"Shouldn't you be in pre-race prep?" you asked, trying to sound stern but failing to hide your smile.

"I have fifteen minutes," Max murmured, pressing a kiss to your neck. "Wanted to wish you luck. Big day for you too."

You turned in his arms. "Nervous?"

"About the race? Nah." He grinned. "About you stealing the spotlight with the Academy launch? Terrified."

"Idiot," you laughed, playing with the collar of his race suit. "As if anything could overshadow the great Max Verstappen."

"Hey," his expression turned serious. "What you're doing here… it's important. You're going to change lives."

"Now who's being dramatic?"

"I mean it," he insisted. "You remember what it was like, being the only girl in karting? These kids won't have to feel that way because of you and Susie."

"Well... I quit karting after a year," you joke and Max rolls his eyes, "Oh come on, just kiss me before you have to go all defending world champion on track."

And he does, but before you can go any further the door opened.

"YN, have you seen the timing sheets from- OH SHIT!"

George Russell stood frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide as saucers. You and Max jumped apart like teenagers caught by their parents.

"I… um… I should…" George stammered, pointing vaguely behind him.

"George, wait!" You rushed to close the door before he could escape. "Please…"

"This is literally my first day as a Mercedes driver and I'm already caught in..." he gestures wildly between you and Max.

"George," you step forward, "you CANNOT tell my dad."

"I... what... how long..." he stammers.

"Please," Max speaks up, "We'll explain everything, just... keep this between us?"

George looks between you and Max, then sighs dramatically. "Well, I guess this is one way to start my Mercedes career - harboring my team principal's daughter's secret relationship with our biggest rival."

"Welcome to Mercedes?" you offer weakly.

"Right," George shakes his head, but he's fighting a smile. "I'm going to leave, pretend I never saw this, and maybe drink enough tonight to forget it entirely."

As he turns to go, he pauses. "But for what it's worth? Your secret's safe with me."

The door closes behind him, and you collapse against Max, half laughing, half panicking.

"Well," Max says dryly, "that's one more person who knows. At this rate, the only person who won't know will be your father."

You looked up at him. "You should go. GP will be looking for you."

"Yeah," he sighed, but made no move to leave. "Good luck today. Show them what the Wolff women can do."

"Good luck to you too. Try not to make Dad throw anything at the TV?"

He laughed, kissing you quickly. "No promises. But hey," he paused at the door, "for what it's worth, George's reaction wasn't terrible. Maybe there's hope for the others too."

As you watched him leave, you couldn't help but smile. One more person in their corner, one more step toward not hiding. Maybe, just maybe, the universe was trying to tell you something.

Singapore, 2022

The humidity of Singapore still clung to the air as most of the paddock crowded into Marquee, celebrating another street circuit spectacle. The bass pulsed through the exclusive VIP section where drivers and key personnel gathered.

You were at the bar with Lewis when Andreas appeared, looking particularly polished.

"YN Wolff," he smiled, a bit too confidently. "I was hoping to find you here."

You caught Lewis' subtle eye roll as he conveniently spotted someone he "needed to talk to."

"Andreas, hi," you tried to sound polite but distant, very aware of Max watching from across the room where he sat with Lando and Charles.

"You looked beautiful today in the paddock," he moved closer. "That dress you wore to the team dinner…"

"Thanks," you cut him off, scanning for an escape route. You found none.

"Your father mentions you're still single," he continued, either oblivious to or ignoring your discomfort. "I find that hard to believe."

At the other end of the VIP section, Max's jaw clenched as he watched the scene unfold.

"Mate, you're going to break that glass," Lando noted, watching Max's white-knuckled grip on his drink.

"Who is that guy?" Charles asked, following Max's gaze.

"Some engineer Toto's trying to set YN up with," Lando explained, then froze, realizing what he'd revealed.

Charles' eyes widened. "Wait, why do you know that? And why does Max look like he's about to commit murder?"

Before Lando could deflect, Max stood abruptly as Andreas placed his hand on your lower back.

"Oh shit," Lando muttered.

"I don't understand," Charles said, watching Max stride across the room. "Why is he- oh. OH."

Back at the bar, you were trying to subtly remove Andreas hand when you felt a familiar presence behind you.

"Everything okay here?" Max's voice was controlled, but you could hear the edge in it.

Andreas looked annoyed at the interruption. "We're fine, thank you."

"I wasn't asking you," Max said coldly, then softer: "YN?"

You turned toward him gratefully. "Actually, Max, would you mind helping me with something?"

"Of course," he placed his hand where Andreas' had been, but this touch was different - protective, familiar, right.

Andreas looked between you two, confusion turning to understanding. "Wait, are you…"

"She's not interested," Max said simply. "Never was."

You let Max guide you away from the bar, very aware of the eyes following you. Lando and Charles weren't even trying to hide their interest now, and you noticed Carlos and Pierre joining them, speaking in hushed tones.

"You didn't have to do that," you said quietly.

"Yes, I did." Max's hand hadn't left your back. "I'm tired of watching guys hit on my girlfriend because they think she's available."

You reached the relative privacy of a corner booth. "Max…"

"I know, I know. We're being careful. But YN," he turned to face you, "half the paddock already suspects something. Charles and Carlos are literally taking bets right now."

You glanced over - sure enough, money was being exchanged. "Great."

"Would it be so terrible?" Max asked. "If people knew?"

"No," you admitted. "But Dad…"

"Will find out eventually. Wouldn't you rather he heard it from us than through paddock gossip?"

You were about to respond when George appeared, slightly out of breath.

"You two need to be more subtle," he hissed. "Lando just asked me if there was something going on between you."

"What did you say?" you asked anxiously.

"I'm a terrible liar! I just made a noise and ran away!"

Max couldn't help laughing. "Smooth, Russell."

"This isn't funny," George insisted. "Look!"

You followed his gesture. The other drivers were gathered together, all of them looking your way occasionally.

"Oh god," you groaned. "They all know, don't they?"

"If they didn't before, they do now," George confirmed. "Max's little knight-in-shining-armor act wasn't exactly subtle."

"He had his hands all over you," Max defended.

"His hand was on my back for two seconds!"

"Two seconds too long."

George looked between you, amused. "You two are ridiculous. Also, heads up - Lando is coming over."

Sure enough, Lando was making his way through the crowd. He slid into your booth without invitation, expression unreadable.

"So," he said calmly, "how long?"

You glanced at Max, who squeezed your hand under the table. "Since 2020."

"Through the championship battle?" When you nodded, Lando let out a low whistle. "Damn, girl. That must have been…"

"Horrible," you finished. "But we managed."

Lando studied Max for a moment. "You better be sure about this. Because when Toto finds out…"

"I am," Max said firmly. "We both are."

"Good." Lando smiled finally. "Because I'm pretty sure Daniel just started a betting pool on how Toto's going to react, and I've got money on him throwing his headphones."

"Lando!" you exclaimed.

"What? Might as well profit from the drama." He stood up. "For what it's worth, I think it's kind of perfect. In a weird, Romeo and Juliet way."

"They both died in that story," George pointed out.

"Details," Lando waved him off. "Come on, George. Let's go see what odds Daniel's offering."

As they left, you buried your face in Max's shoulder. "This is a disaster."

"Is it?" he asked, running his hand up your arm. "Look around - no one seems shocked or angry. Well, except maybe Andreas."

You peaked up - he was right. The drivers were all still watching, but their expressions were mostly amused or knowing. Carlos gave you a thumbs up when he caught your eye.

"I guess the secret's out," you sighed. "At least in this room."

"Good." Max tilted your chin up. "Because I really want to kiss you right now."

"Max! Everyone's watching."

"Let them watch."

And before you could protest, he kissed you. When you pulled back, Max was grinning. "See? World didn't end."

"No," you said softly, "It really didn't."

The night continued, but differently now. No more hiding in corners or pretending not to know each other. Just you and Max, surrounded by friends who were apparently more supportive than you'd imagined.

Now you just had to figure out how to tell your father that his entire team - including his wife - had known about your relationship before him.

A late afternoon in Monaco, in Toto's office overlooking the harbor. What had started as a routine pre-race weekend meeting had quickly derailed when Andreas' name came up again.

"He asked about you again," Toto said, shuffling some papers on his desk. "He's a good man, YN. Smart, ambitious…"

"Dad," you cut in, "I've told you, I'm not interested in Andreas."

"You haven't even given him a chance," he insisted. "One dinner…"

"No."

Toto sighed, that familiar mix of frustration and concern crossing his face. "Liebling, I worry about you. Ever since that rebellious phase with Verstappen when you were eighteen…"

You tensed, feeling your heart rate spike. In the corner, you saw Lewis shift uncomfortably - he'd been quietly reviewing race strategies, but now he was fully alert.

"Dad…"

"You haven't been serious about anyone," Toto continued. "I know that boy hurt you, but you can't let one teenage romance…"

"You don't know anything about it," you said quietly, dangerously.

"I know enough. I know he was reckless, impulsive. I know ending it was the right decision."

Lewis cleared his throat. "Toto, maybe we should focus on qualifying…"

But Toto was on a roll now. "Andreas is different. He understands our world, he's stable…"

"He's boring," you snapped. "And you don't get to decide who I date."

"I'm trying to protect you!"

"From what?" You stood up. "From making my own choices? From being with someone who actually makes me happy?"

"Max Verstappen did not make you happy!" Toto's voice rose. "He was a distraction, a rebellion…"

"He was everything!" The words exploded out before you could stop them.

The office went deadly quiet. Lewis had his head in his hands.

"What?" Toto asked softly, dangerously.

You swallowed hard, years of secrets sitting heavy on your tongue. "You didn't protect me back then, Dad. You forced us apart. But you want to know something? He was never just a rebellion."

Toto stands slowly, his expression unreadable. "What are you saying, YN?"

You take a deep breath, catching Lewis' subtle head shake in your peripheral vision. The words are there, the whole truth ready to spill out, but... not like this. Not in anger.

"I'm saying I'm not eighteen anymore," you say finally, your voice steady. "I'm a grown woman who runs part of this team, who's helping build the F1 Academy with Susie. I make my own choices - about my career, about my life, about who I date."

"I only want what's best for you," Toto says, softer now.

"Then trust me to know what that is." You move toward the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. "And please, stop trying to set me up with Andreas. Or anyone else."

Zandvoort, 2022

The Dutch air mingles with the lingering scent of champagne in Max's private motorhome. The celebrations outside are still going strong - Dutch fans painting Zandvoort orange in honor of their hero's home win - but here, in this quiet space, it's just the two of you.

"Happy birthday," Max says softly, pulling a small wrapped package from behind his back. You're curled up on his couch, still wearing his Red Bull team jacket that you'd snuck on after everyone else had left.

"You already said that this morning," you smile, but take the package. "And before the race. And after you won."

"Well, it's not every day you turn twenty-five. And it's not every day I win at home on your birthday."

The package reveals a delicate gold necklace with a tiny racing helmet charm. But when you look closer, you notice something engraved on the back of the helmet - 15.03.15.

"The day we met," you whisper, running your finger over the date.

"I thought about getting something more obvious, but since we're still keeping us quiet…" He takes the necklace, moving behind you to clasp it around your neck. "This way you can wear it without anyone asking questions."

You touch the charm resting against your collarbone. "It's perfect."

"Unlike the cake situation," he grins, glancing at the remains of what was supposed to be a homemade birthday cake on the counter. "I really did try."

You laugh, remembering walking in to find Max covered in flour, frustration etched on his face as he stared at the somewhat lopsided creation. "The thought counts. Though maybe stick to driving?"

"Hey, I won today! I deserve some respect."

"You always win here," you tease. "It's your home race."

"True." He pulls you closer, until you're practically in his lap. "But winning on your birthday makes it special. Even if I couldn't kiss you in parc ferme."

"Dad would have had a heart attack right there in the garage."

"Speaking of Toto…" Max's voice turns serious. "How was the birthday lunch with him?"

You think back to the awkward meal, where your father had once again tried to subtly mention Andreas. "Same as usual. He means well."

"Still pushing the Andreas agenda?"

"Mhmm. Though Susie shut it down pretty quickly this time." You play with the helmet charm. "Can we not talk about it tho?

Max kisses your temple. "Whatever you want. It's your birthday - you make the rules."

"In that case…" you turn to face him properly. "I want to dance."

He groans. "YN…"

"Birthday rules," you remind him, already standing and pulling out your phone. When the first notes of a slow song fill the motorhome, you hold out your hand. "Dance with your birthday girl, World Champion."

He takes your hand, pulling you close as you sway together. Outside, you can still hear the distant sounds of celebrating fans, but in here it's just the music, Max's heartbeat under your ear, and the weight of a tiny gold helmet against your skin.

"This is nice," Max murmurs into your hair. "Though if anyone sees the mighty Max Verstappen slow dancing…"

"Your reputation will survive." You lift your head to look at him. "Thank you for making my birthday special, even if we had to celebrate in secret."

"Next year," he promises, "we'll do it properly. Big party, everyone we love, no hiding."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He spins you gently. "But for now…" He dips you dramatically, making you laugh. "I kind of like having birthday girl all to myself."

You kiss him then, tasting chocolate and victory champagne and love that's grown from teenage rebellion into something unshakeable.

"Best birthday ever," you whisper against his lips.

Outside, Zandvoort celebrates its champion. Inside, in this quiet space that belongs just to you, you celebrate something else - another year of loving each other, of building a life in the spaces between public and private, of planning for a future where you won't have to choose between family and love.

For now, though, you're content to dance in a motorhome, wearing his team jacket and a gold helmet that carries your history, celebrating not just your birthday but everything you've built together.

Monaco, Summer 2023

The sleek car glides through Monaco's winding streets, but you can barely focus on the stunning views. Max's mysterious smile has you intrigued and slightly nervous - he's been unusually secretive all day.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?" you ask for probably the tenth time, fidgeting with the sleeve of your sundress.

"Patience," he says, taking one hand off the wheel to squeeze yours. "We're almost there."

"You know I hate surprises."

He laughs. "No, you love surprises. You just hate not being in control."

He turns onto a quiet street lined with elegant villas, each one more beautiful than the last. The Mediterranean stretches out below, a perfect azure canvas. Your heart starts racing when he pulls into a driveway. The house is stunning - modern yet classic, with large windows and a terrace overlooking the sea.

"Max…" you start, but he's already out of the car and opening your door.

"Come on," he says, taking your hand. His excitement is palpable as he leads you to the front door. "Close your eyes."

"Really?"

"Trust me."

You do as he asks, letting him guide you forward. You hear keys jingling, a door opening, then his soft "Okay, open them."

The interior takes your breath away - open and airy, with natural light streaming in from every angle. But it's not just the architecture that catches your attention - there are small touches that feel incredibly personal. Racing memorabilia tastefully displayed, a few framed photos you recognize from your own collection.

"I bought it," Max says softly, watching your reaction. "For us."

You turn to face him, eyes wide. "What?"

"I want this to be our home," he continues, his voice full of emotion. He takes both your hands in his. "Where we can grow old together, maybe raise a family someday. No more sneaking around, no more hiding. Just us."

"But… when? How?"

"I've been working with a realtor for months. Remember all those 'simulator sessions' I had to do?" He grins sheepishly. "I was actually house hunting."

"You sneaky…" You trail off, speechless.

"Want to see the rest?" He's practically bouncing with excitement now. "There's a home gym downstairs, and the kitchen is amazing - I know how much you love to cook. And wait until you see the master bedroom…"

Tears start falling before you can stop them. Max reaches up to wipe them away, but you catch his hand.

"You bought us a house," you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. "You planned this whole future for us, and I can't even tell my dad about us."

"Hey," he pulls you close, one hand cradling the back of your head. "It's okay. We'll figure it out together, like we always do."

"No, it's not okay." You pull back to look at him. "You've been so patient, Max. For years. And I've been such a coward."

"You're not a coward," he says firmly. "Our relationship is complicated. I understand that."

"Still." You shake your head, suddenly determined. "I'm telling him tomorrow."

"YN, you don't have to—"

"I want to." You look around at this beautiful space he's created for your future. "You've given us a home. The least I can do is be brave enough to fight for us."

"Are you sure?" His eyes search yours. "Because if you're not ready…"

"I'm sure." You walk to the windows, taking in the view. "Besides, can you imagine trying to explain why I'm suddenly moving to a new house without telling him why?"

Max comes up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "We could tell him you've developed a sudden passion for real estate investment."

You laugh despite your tears. "Yes, because that would totally explain why half my clothes are already in that closet I spotted upstairs."

"You noticed that, huh?"

"The Dior dress from the FIA gala was a bit of a giveaway." You turn in his arms. "How long have you been moving my things in?"

"A while," he admits. "Susie helped."

"Of course she did." You shake your head fondly. "Any other conspirators I should know about?"

"Well, Lewis might have helped coordinate the furniture delivery…"

"Lewis?!" You pull back to stare at him. "Lewis Hamilton helped you furnish our secret love nest?"

Max winces. "Please never call it that again. And yes - turns out he has great taste in interior design."

You laugh, really laugh, and it feels like releasing years of tension. "This is insane. We're insane."

"Maybe," he agrees, pulling you close again. "But it's a good kind of insane, right?"

You look around at this beautiful house - your house - taking in all the thoughtful details. The photos telling your story, the mix of both your tastes in the décor, the way the space already feels like home.

"The best kind," you whisper, and kiss him.

Max kisses you back, soft and sweet, and you can feel his smile against your lips. When you finally part, he rests his forehead against yours.

"So," he says, "want to see our bedroom?"

"Our bedroom," you repeat, testing the words. "I like how that sounds."

"Me too." He takes your hand, leading you toward the stairs. "Though fair warning - I let Lando help with the media room setup, so that might need some adjustments."

"Oh god."

"Yeah, there may be more gaming consoles than strictly necessary…"

In this moment, in your new home, tomorrow's confrontation feels less daunting. After all, you've built something real and lasting here - something worth fighting for. And as Max leads you through your future together, room by room, you can't help but think that maybe it's time for everyone to know.

You've been standing outside your father's office at Mercedes for what feels like hours, but the watch on your wrist says it's only been ten minutes. Taking a deep breath, you finally knock.

"Come in," his familiar voice calls out.

Toto looks up from his desk, his face brightening when he sees you. "Schatz! What a lovely surprise." He stands to greet you, but pauses when he notices your expression. "What's wrong?"

"Papa, I need to tell you something." Your voice trembles slightly. "And I need you to listen. Really listen."

He gestures to the chair across from his desk, concern etching his features. "Of course. You can tell me anything."

You sit, hands clasped tightly in your lap. "I'm in love."

His face relaxes into a smile. "Is that all? Liebling, you had me worried. Who's the lucky—"

"It's Max." The words come out in a rush. "It's always been Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. You watch as confusion crosses his face, followed by understanding, and then something darker.

"Max… Verstappen?" He says the name like it tastes bitter. "This is a joke."

"No, it's not." You straighten your spine. "We've been together for two years. Actually, we never really stopped loving each other after… after what happened when we were eighteen."

Toto stands abruptly, running a hand through his hair. "This is impossible. You can't be serious."

"I am. And there's more." You take another deep breath. "We're moving in together. He bough a house for us, because he wants us to build a future together."

"No." His voice is sharp. "Absolutely not. I forbid it."

"I'm not asking for permission, Papa. I'm telling you."

He turns to face you, and the hurt in his eyes makes your heart ache. "How long have you been lying to me?"

"Since 2020," you admit quietly. "When I came back… we tried to stay away from each other. We really did. But we couldn't."

"So what, you've been sneaking around behind my back all these years?" His accent grows thicker with emotion. "Meeting in secret like teenagers?"

"We didn't have a choice."

He's quiet after that, and you can almost see the storm inside his head.

"Who knows?" The question is sharp, hurt evident in his tone.

"I told Susie last year. Lewis has known almost from the beginning. George found out in Bahrain. Some of the other drivers..."

"So everyone but me?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My own wife, my drivers, half the paddock knew my daughter was in a relationship with Max Verstappen, and no one thought to tell me?"

"They were respecting our privacy. Our choice."

"Our choice?" He stands again, agitated. "He's Red Bull, YN! Our biggest rival! The same team that's been fighting us for years, the same driver who—"

"Who makes me happier than I've ever been," you interrupt. "Who loves me for who I am, not whose daughter I am. Who's supported my career, my dreams, everything I want to do."

"And the team rivalry? The competition?"

"We've managed it for years, Dad. We know how to separate personal and professional."

"All those times I tried to set you up with other people..."

"I know you meant well."

"And Susie?" His voice catches. "She knew and didn't tell me?"

"She said it wasn't her story to tell. That I needed to be the one to tell you when I was ready."

Toto runs a hand over his face. "And now you're ready because...?"

"Because I'm tired of hiding. Because Max and I have built something real and beautiful, and I want you to be part of it." You stand, moving around his desk to touch his arm. "Because you're my father, and despite everything, I want you to know me. All of me."

"And if I can't accept it?"

The question hangs heavy in the air. You feel tears threatening but force them back.

"Then that's your choice. But I won't give him up. Not again. Not for anyone."

Toto is quiet for a long moment, staring out at the factory below. When he finally speaks, his voice is tired. "You really love him?"

"More than anything."

He turns to look at you, really look at you, maybe for the first time seeing not his little girl but the woman you've become. "And he makes you happy?"

"Yes." Your voice is firm, certain.

Another long pause. "I need time."

It's not acceptance, but it's not rejection either. You nod, wiping away a stray tear. "Okay."

"Does he…" Toto clears his throat. "Does he treat you well?"

"Better than I deserve sometimes."

He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a sob. "No one could ever deserve better than you, Schatz."

You close the distance between you, wrapping your arms around him. After a moment, his arms come around you too, holding you like he did when you were small.

"I'm still angry," he murmurs into your hair.

"I know."

"And hurt."

"I know that too."

He pulls back, cupping your face in his hands. "But you are my daughter. My precious girl. Nothing will ever change that."

Fresh tears spill over. "Papa…"

"I can't promise to like this. Or him. But…" He sighs deeply. "I will try. For you."

It's more than you dared hope for. "Thank you."

As you leave his office later, you know this isn't the end of it. There will be more conversations, more tensions to navigate. But for the first time in years, you feel truly free.

The Monaco sunset paints the dining room in warm hues as you clear the plates from dinner, the conversation flowing as easily as the wine. Lewis lounges in his chair, gesturing with his glass as he speaks.

"Still can't believe Toto didn't notice for two years, honestly," he chuckles. "I mean, you two weren't exactly subtle at the Saudi GP last year."

Max groans. "That was YN's fault. She's the one who kissed me in the paddock."

"After you won! Away from everyone," you defend yourself from across the table. "Besides, Papa was too busy arguing with Christian to notice."

"Lucky for us," Max mutters, but he's smiling.

"How is he taking it now?" Lewis asks, his expression growing serious. "It's been what, two weeks?"

You exchange a look with Max. "Better, I think. He's… processing."

"He called me yesterday," Max adds quietly. "First time ever."

Both you and Lewis straighten up. "What? You didn't tell me that!" you exclaim.

Max shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you can see the tension in his shoulders. "It was brief. He just said that if I ever hurt you, they'll never find my body."

Lewis nearly chokes on his wine. "Classic Toto."

"I'll get the dessert," you announce, standing. "And Max, we're talking about that phone call later."

As you head to the kitchen, you can hear their voices carrying through the open-plan space.

"Seriously though," Lewis' voice drops lower, but not low enough. "You need to be prepared. Toto might try to…"

"Separate us again?" Max's voice is steel wrapped in silk. "I'd like to see him try."

"I'm just saying, be ready. He did it once before."

"We were kids then. It's different now." A pause. "I'm different now."

"I know you are, mate. That's why I helped with the house. But Toto… he can be protective."

"Lewis." Max's voice is deadly serious now. "I would rather end my career tomorrow than lose her again. She's… she's everything."

You freeze in the doorway of the kitchen, tiramisu forgotten in your hands.

"I know what it did to her last time," Max continues, unaware of your presence. "What it did to both of us. But I'm not that scared teenager anymore, and she's not that girl who was afraid to stand up to her father. We fought too hard to get here."

"Good." Lewis' voice is warm with approval. "Because if you hurt her, Toto won't have to hide your body. I'll do it myself."

Max laughs. "Get in line. Susie already called dibs."

"Speaking of Susie, how's she handling being in the middle?"

"Better than any of us deserve," Max sighs. "She's been amazing. Especially with YN. When Toto first found out…"

"That bad?"

"YN cried for hours after telling him. I've never felt so helpless." Max's voice cracks slightly. "All I could do was hold her."

"Sometimes that's enough," Lewis says softly. "Sometimes that's everything."

You wipe away a tear you hadn't realized had fallen. The tiramisu trembles slightly in your hands.

"I'm going to marry her someday," Max says suddenly. "I already have the ring."

The tiramisu nearly slips from your grasp.

"Does she know?" Lewis asks.

"Not yet. I wanted to wait until things settled with Toto. She deserves a proper proposal, not one overshadowed by family drama."

"Smart man." Lewis pauses. "You really have grown up, haven't you?"

"Had to. She deserves the best version of me."

You can't take it anymore. You walk back in, pretending you haven't heard a word. "Who wants dessert?"

Both men straighten up, but you catch the knowing look Lewis gives Max. As you serve the tiramisu, Max's hand finds yours, squeezing gently.

"Everything okay, liefje?" he asks softly.

You look at him - this man who's grown and changed and loved you through everything - and feel your heart swell. "Perfect," you whisper, and mean it.

Lewis watches you both with a soft smile. "You know," he says, "I think Toto will come around eventually. He may be stubborn, but he's not blind. Anyone can see what you two have is real."

"Real enough to redecorate my gaming room?" Max asks hopefully.

You laugh, the emotional moment breaking. "Nice try. But Lando's RGB setup stays."

"It gives me a headache!"

"Should have thought of that before letting him design it," Lewis points out.

As they fall into friendly bickering about proper gaming room aesthetics, you sit back and take it all in - this beautiful home, these people you love, this life you've built. It hasn't been easy, but everything has been worth it.

Your phone rings just as you're finishing up some work in your home office. Seeing your father's name on the screen makes your heart skip.

"Papa?"

"Schatz." His voice is carefully neutral. "Are you free tonight?"

"I… yes?"

"Good. You and Max will come to dinner. Eight o'clock."

It's not a question. You glance at the clock - it's already 4 PM. "Tonight?"

"Unless you have other plans?"

"No, no plans." You swallow hard. "We'll be there."

"Good." A pause. "And YN?"

"Yes?"

"Tell Max to breathe. It's just dinner."

The line goes dead before you can respond. You sit there for a moment, phone still in hand, before rushing downstairs to find Max.

He's in the gym, finishing up his workout. One look at your face and he's pulling off his headphones.

"What's wrong?"

"Papa called. He wants us for dinner. Tonight."

Max freezes mid-stretch. "Tonight? As in… tonight tonight?"

"Eight o'clock."

"Fuck." He starts pacing. "Fuck fuck fuck. This is it. He's going to murder me. He's probably got a plan to make it look like an accident. Lewis will help him hide the body—"

"Max."

"—probably already has an alibi arranged. Susie will vouch for him, of course—"

"Max!"

He stops pacing. "What?"

"He actually said to tell you to breathe. His exact words were 'it's just dinner.'"

Max stares at you. "That's worse. That's so much worse. He's lulling me into a false sense of security."

You can't help but laugh, even as anxiety churns in your own stomach. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "The last time I was in the same room as your father, he looked at me like he was calculating how many pieces he could cut me into."

"That was three weeks ago, right after he found out. Things are… better now."

"Are they? Because that phone call he made last week about hiding my body didn't feel like 'better.'"

You cross the room to him, placing your hands on his chest. "Hey. Look at me."

His eyes meet yours, and you can see the genuine worry there.

"Whatever happens tonight, we face it together. Okay?"

He takes a deep breath, covering your hands with his. "Okay."

"Good. Now go shower, because you stink."

"Charming," he mutters, but he's smiling now. "What should I wear?"

"Something bulletproof?" you suggest innocently.

"Not helping!"

The drive to your parents' house is tense. Susie opens the door, her warm smile immediately putting you both at ease. "Come in, come in. Toto's just opening the wine."

"We brought some too," you say, holding up the bottle you'd carefully selected.

"Ah, his favorite." Susie winks. "Good choice."

The dining room is set beautifully, candles flickering on the table. Your father stands as you enter, and for a moment, everyone freezes.

Then Toto steps forward, kissing your cheek. "You look beautiful, Schatz."

He turns to Max, who looks like he's trying very hard not to bolt. They regard each other for a long moment before Toto extends his hand.

Max shakes it, and you breathe again.

Dinner starts surprisingly well. The conversation stays safe - racing, weather, Susie's latest projects. Max gradually relaxes enough to actually eat, though you notice he keeps looking at your father like he's expecting an ambush.

It comes after the plates are cleared.

"So," Toto says, setting down his wine glass. "We need to talk."

Max's hand finds yours under the table.

"Max." Your father's voice is measured. "I need you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say."

"Yes, sir."

"When YN was born, I made a promise to protect her from anything that could hurt her. When she was eighteen, I thought I was doing that by keeping her away from you."

You feel Max tense beside you.

"I was wrong."

The admission hangs in the air. Even Susie looks surprised.

"You were angry then. Volatile. Too much like your father." Toto continues. "But you've grown. Changed. I see that now."

He leans forward, eyes intense. "But understand this: that girl sitting next to you? She is my world. My greatest joy, my greatest pride. And if you ever - ever - give me reason to think you don't deserve her…"

"I don't," Max interrupts quietly. "Deserve her, I mean. I know that. I try every day to be worthy of her love, and I'll keep trying for the rest of my life."

Something shifts in Toto's expression.

"And you," he turns to you. "My strong, stubborn daughter. You've grown too. Standing up to me… it showed me you're not my little girl anymore. You're a woman who knows her own mind, her own heart."

Tears prick at your eyes. "Papa…"

"I trust your judgment," he says softly. "Even when it differs from mine."

Susie reaches over to squeeze his hand, pride shining in her eyes.

"Now," Toto straightens, his expression growing serious again. "We need to discuss the media situation. Your relationship will be public knowledge soon, if it isn't already."

"We've been careful," you start, but he holds up a hand.

"Careful isn't enough. The press will be relentless. They'll try to create drama, stir up controversy. Everything you do, every interaction, will be scrutinized."

"We know," Max says. "We've talked about it."

"Good. But you need to be prepared. They'll drag up the past, try to create tension between the teams. Your relationship will become clickbait."

"We can handle it," you say firmly.

"Perhaps. But you'll need support." Toto looks between you both. "Which is why… which is why I'm offering mine."

Max's grip on your hand tightens.

"When the story breaks, there will be questions. Speculation. I will make it clear that you have my blessing." The words seem to cost him something, but his voice is steady. "It won't stop the circus, but it might help control the narrative."

You're crying openly now. Max looks shellshocked.

"Thank you," he manages finally. "That… that means everything."

Toto nods once, then reaches for his wine. "Now, who wants dessert? Susie made Sachertorte."

As Susie bustles off to the kitchen, you catch your father's eye. The love there, the acceptance, makes your heart full.

Max leans over to whisper in your ear. "I think I just aged ten years."

You squeeze his hand. "Worth it?"

He looks at you, then at your father who's pretending not to watch you both, then back to you.

"Every second," he says, and kisses your temple.

And just like that, your worlds align.

Saint-Tropez, 2024

The morning sun filters through the sheer curtains of your villa, casting warm patterns across the rumpled sheets. Max's fingers trace lazy circles on your bare shoulder as you lie there, both reluctant to acknowledge that real life awaits.

"Do we have to go back?" you mumble into his chest.

"Mmm, eventually." He drops a kiss on your head. "Though I could get used to this."

"What, me using you as a human pillow?"

"You do that at home too, liefje."

You prop yourself up on an elbow to look at him, taking in the relaxed set of his features, the way his hair is sticking up wildly. "True, but here you're not constantly checking the time for sim racing with Lando."

"That was one time!"

"It was three times last week alone."

He tugs you back down, rolling so you're trapped beneath him. "You're just jealous because I'm better at it than you."

"Excuse me?" You poke his ribs. "Who won last time?"

"You cheated!"

"Did not!"

"You distracted me!"

"Not my fault you can't focus when I kiss your neck."

His eyes darken. "Want to test that theory?"

"We'll be late for our flight," you warn, but you're already tilting your head as his lips find that spot behind your ear.

"Worth it," he murmurs against your skin.

Later, tangled in sheets again, you check your phone while Max dozes beside you. A frown crosses your face.

"That's weird."

"Hmm?" Max doesn't open his eyes.

"Lewis still hasn't answered my texts from yesterday. Or the day before."

You feel him tense slightly. "Maybe he's busy."

"During holidays? And he always answers eventually." You sit up, noticing how Max suddenly seems very interested in the ceiling. "Max…"

"What?"

"You know something."

"I don't."

"You're doing that thing with your jaw."

His hand flies to his face. "What thing?"

"That clenching thing you do when you're hiding something." You narrow your eyes. "Spill it."

"There's nothing to spill." He sits up too quickly. "We should start packing."

"Max Emilian Verstappen."

"YN Wolff," he mimics, but there's an edge of nervousness to his teasing.

"Is Lewis okay?"

"He's fine! Totally fine. Completely fine. Never been better."

You stare at him. "You are the worst liar ever."

"I'm not—" He cuts himself off with a groan. "I can't tell you."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both?" He runs a hand through his hair. "Look, it's nothing bad. Just… something that's not public yet."

Your stomach drops. "Is he sick?"

"What? No! No, nothing like that." He catches your hands. "I promise, he's okay. It's just… complicated."

"Complicated how?"

"The kind of complicated I really can't tell you about yet." His eyes are pleading. "Please don't ask me to. I promised."

You study his face, seeing the genuine conflict there. "But he's okay?"

"Yes."

"And it's not bad news?"

He hesitates. "That… depends on how you look at it."

"Max!"

"I've already said too much." He kisses your forehead. "You'll know soon enough."

You flop back onto the pillows with a huff. "I hate secrets."

"Says the woman who kept our relationship secret for two years."

"That was different!"

"Sure it was." He stretches out beside you, pulling you close. "Can we go back to the part where we were enjoying our last morning in paradise?"

You want to protest, to push for more information, but his hand is sliding up your thigh and his lips are at your neck again and suddenly Lewis' mysterious silence seems less important.

"Fine," you concede, already breathless. "But this isn't over."

"Never is with you," he murmurs fondly. "It's why I love you."

"Because I'm stubborn?"

"Because you never give up on the people you care about."

Something in his voice makes you pause. "Max…"

"Let me love you," he whispers. "Just for now, let that be enough."

The world and its complications can wait. For now, there's just this - the sun on your skin, Max's heartbeat under your palm, and the knowledge that whatever comes next, you'll face it together.

Even if he is terrible at keeping secrets.

The gentle hum of your computer fills your office at Mercedes HQ as you review the latest F1 Academy reports. A notification pops up on your phone - Instagram, probably another post from Max complaining about his training session.

Your coffee cup freezes halfway to your mouth.

BREAKING: Lewis Hamilton to join Ferrari in 2025

The cup clatters onto your desk, coffee spilling across papers you can't bring yourself to care about. Your hands shake as you scroll through post after post confirming it.

Lewis is leaving.

Lewis is going to Ferrari.

Lewis didn't tell you.

Max knew and didn't tell you.

Your father…

You're on your feet before you realize it, striding through the corridors. People step out of your way, perhaps recognizing the storm in your expression. You barely register Susie calling your name as you pass her office.

The door to your father's office bangs open. He looks up, unsurprised.

"What is going on?" Your voice trembles.

"YN—"

"No." You hold up your phone, the Ferrari announcement glaring at you. "What is this?"

Toto sighs, removing his glasses. "Come in and close the door."

"You knew." It's not a question. "You all knew. That's why Lewis wasn't answering my messages. That's why Max was acting strange in Saint-Tropez."

"We couldn't tell you."

"Couldn't or wouldn't?" The words come out sharp, hurt. "I'm not just your daughter anymore, Papa. I'm co-director of F1 Academy. I work here. This affects me professionally as well as personally."

"Which is exactly why we couldn't tell you." He stands, coming around his desk. "The announcement had to be handled carefully. Any leak could have—"

"Leak?" You step back when he reaches for you. "Is that what I am to you? A potential leak?"

"Schatz, no—"

"Lewis is family!" Your voice cracks. "He's been here my entire life. He watched me grow up. He helped Max and me when…" You swallow hard. "I had to find out from Instagram. Instagram, Papa!"

"I know."

"Did everyone know except me? Was there some big meeting where you all decided poor YN can't be trusted?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?" Tears spill over. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like nobody trusted me enough to tell me that one of the most important people in my life is leaving."

Toto moves forward again, and this time you let him pull you into a hug. "Lewis wanted to tell you himself," he says softly. "He was going to come see you today, after the announcement. He didn't want you to have to carry the secret."

"I could have handled it."

"I know you could have." His hand smooths over your hair like when you were small. "But he didn't want to put you in that position. Neither did Max."

You stiffen. "Max knew for how long?"

"YN…"

"How long?"

"Since before New Year's."

The betrayal hits fresh. "That's why he was so weird about Lewis not texting back. He let me worry instead of just telling me."

"He was protecting you."

"I don't need protection!" You pull away. "I need honesty. I need the people I love to trust me. I need—" Your voice breaks. "I need to not feel like an outsider in my own family."

"Oh, Schatz." Toto's face crumples. "You have never been an outsider. Lewis insisted on keeping it quiet precisely because he cares so much. He knew how hard it would be for you."

"It's harder finding out like this."

A soft knock interrupts. You turn to see Lewis in the doorway, still in his Mercedes gear - for one of the last times, you realize with a pang.

"Little Wolff," he starts, but you hold up a hand.

"Don't." You brush past him, ignoring his attempt to catch your arm. "I have work to do."

"Please—"

"Congratulations on Ferrari," you say stiffly, not looking back. "I'm sure you'll do great things there."

You make it back to your office before the tears really start. Your phone buzzes - Max calling. Then Lewis. Then Susie.

You silence it, staring out your window at the Mercedes logo shining in the winter sun. It looks different now, knowing Lewis won't be racing under it anymore soon.

Everything looks different.

Your phone lights up again - a text from Max.

"I'm sorry. I hated keeping this from you. I love you"

You turn the phone face down.

Later. You'll deal with all of it later.

By the time you make it home that evening, your eyes are red and puffy from crying. Max is already there - of course he is - waiting in the kitchen with that worried look you've come to know so well.

"Baby…" he starts, but you brush past him, dropping your bag on the counter with trembling hands.

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Just… don't."

But Max has never been good at leaving you alone when you're hurting. His arms wrap around you from behind, and despite your anger, you find yourself leaning back into his warmth.

"I wanted to tell you," he whispers against your hair. "Every day, I wanted to tell you."

The dam breaks. You turn in his arms, burying your face in his chest as sobs wrack your body. His arms tighten around you, one hand cradling the back of your head while the other rubs soothing circles on your back.

"He's leaving," you choke out. "Lewis is actually leaving. How can he leave? He's… he's my brother, Max. He's been there my whole life. The garage won't be the same without him. The team won't be the same."

"I know, baby. I know."

"He didn't tell me. None of you told me." You pull back enough to look up at him, tears still streaming. "You all just decided I couldn't handle it."

Max wipes your tears with his thumbs, his own eyes suspiciously bright. "Lewis wanted to protect you. We all did. You've been working so hard with F1 Academy, with the team… he didn't want you carrying this weight."

"But I could have handled it! I'm not some fragile thing that needs protecting anymore."

"No," Max agrees softly, "you're the strongest person I know. But Lewis loves you like a sister. He wanted to tell you himself, properly. Not through some leaked rumor or whispered secret."

You collapse against him again, letting out a shuddering breath. "I can't imagine Mercedes without him. Every memory I have there, he's part of it. Even when we were hiding us, he was there, watching out for us, covering for us…"

Max leads you to the couch, pulling you into his lap. You curl into him, feeling drained.

"Talk to him," he murmurs. "Not today, not tomorrow if you're not ready. But don't let this distance grow. You'll regret it."

"When did you get so wise?" you ask weakly.

"Around the same time I realized that sometimes loving someone means letting them be angry at you for trying to protect them." He presses a kiss to your temple. "Even if you'd do it again."

You stay like that for a long time, wrapped in Max's arms as the sun sets outside. Your phone buzzes occasionally - more messages from Lewis, probably - but you ignore it. Tomorrow you'll deal with it all. Tomorrow you'll be strong again.

But tonight, you let yourself be held and comforted, mourning the end of an era while knowing, deep down, that family is family - even when they're wearing red instead of silver.

Bahrain, 2024

The Bahrain paddock buzzes with its usual first-race energy, but everything feels off-kilter. You've been masterfully avoiding proper conversations with Lewis all weekend, keeping interactions professional and brief. The pit wall feels different already, knowing it's his last season here.

You're reviewing data sheets in the garage when his shadow falls across your tablet.

"Little Wolff," Lewis says softly, using the nickname that usually makes you smile but now just makes your chest ache. "Can we talk?"

"I'm quite busy," you reply, not looking up. "Qualifying strategy needs finalizing."

"YN." His voice is gentle but firm. "Please."

You finally meet his eyes, seeing the concern there, the sadness. He looks older somehow, or maybe that's just your perception shifting with everything else.

"What's left to say?" You keep your voice low, mindful of the mechanics nearby. "You made your decision. You kept it from me. We move forward."

"That's not fair and you know it." Lewis steps closer. "I've tried calling, texting…"

"I've been busy."

"You've been avoiding me." He sighs. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"Well, you did." The words come out sharper than intended. "Did you think finding out from social media wouldn't hurt? That watching Max and Papa dance around it for weeks wouldn't hurt?"

"I wanted to protect you—"

"Stop saying that!" You catch yourself, lowering your voice again. "Everyone keeps saying they were protecting me. I'm not a child anymore, Lewis. I run part of this team. I handle confidential information every day. I've kept secrets bigger than this."

Understanding crosses his face. "Like Max."

"Yes, like Max." You swallow hard. "You trusted me then. You helped us. Why couldn't you trust me with this?"

"Because this wasn't just my secret to keep." Lewis runs a hand over his face. "There were contracts, negotiations, timing issues. And yes, I wanted to tell you myself, properly. Not have you carry it around for weeks knowing you couldn't talk to anyone about it."

"So instead you let me worry when you weren't responding to messages? Let me think something was wrong? Let Max lie to me?"

"I asked him not to tell you." Lewis reaches for your hand but you pull back. "He wanted to. He hated keeping it from you."

"But he did anyway."

"Because he understands sometimes protecting the people we love means letting them be angry with us." Lewis's voice softens. "You're my family, YN. You're the little sister I never had. Leaving Mercedes… leaving you… it's one of the hardest decisions I've ever made."

You blink back tears, refusing to cry in the garage. "Then why are you?"

"Because sometimes we need to chase new dreams, even when it means leaving safe harbors." He smiles sadly. "You taught me that, actually. When you chose Max despite everything, despite what it could cost you. You taught me that sometimes the scariest choices are the right ones."

"That's different."

"Is it?" Lewis raises an eyebrow. "You took a risk for love. For growth. For what you believed was right for you, even knowing it would hurt people you care about."

You look away, his words hitting too close to home.

"I'm not asking you not to be hurt," he continues. "I'm just asking you not to let that hurt break us. I'm still your Lewis. That doesn't change just because I'm wearing red."

"It feels like everything's changing," you whisper.

"Some things never will." He opens his arms. "Come here, Little Wolff."

This time you don't resist, letting him pull you into a hug. The familiar smell of his cologne brings fresh tears to your eyes.

"I'm still mad at you," you mumble into his chest.

"I know."

"And you better not beat us too badly in that Ferrari."

You feel his laugh rumble. "I'll do my best."

"Lewis?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to miss you so much."

His arms tighten. "I'm not gone yet. We've got a whole season ahead of us. And after… I'm still your big brother. That doesn't change with the color of my race suit."

Over his shoulder, you catch Max watching from the Red Bull garage, a soft smile on his face. He gives you a small nod before turning back to his engineers.

Some things change. Some things stay the same. And sometimes, you realize, holding onto anger hurts more than letting it go.

Miami, 2024

The sun beats down mercilessly as you pace your hotel room, phone clutched in your hand. The notifications won't stop - Instagram, Twitter, all exploding with the same photos. You and Max on his boat in Monaco last weekend, his hands cupping your face as he kissed you, both of you clearly lost in each other.

You'd been so careful for so long. One moment of letting your guard down, and now…

The door opens and Max rushes in, still in his Red Bull gear from practice. "Baby?" His voice is soft with concern.

"Have you seen them?" You hold up your phone, hands trembling. "They're everywhere. Everyone knows. Papa is going to have to address it in the press conference and—"

Max crosses the room in three long strides, taking your face in his hands - just like in the photos, you realize with a jolt. "Breathe," he murmurs. "Just breathe with me."

"But—"

"Breathe first." His thumbs stroke your cheeks. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me."

You follow his lead, matching your breathing to his until the panic starts to recede. Only then does he lead you to sit on the edge of the bed, keeping one arm around you.

"Now," he says, "tell me what you're really afraid of."

"Everything!" You gesture wildly with your free hand. "The media circus, the speculation, the questions about favoritism in the sport, Papa having to defend us publicly, the board's reaction…"

"YN." Max turns you to face him fully. "We knew this would happen eventually. We talked about it."

"I know, but—"

"But nothing." His blue eyes are intense, earnest. "We're not doing anything wrong. We're two adults who love each other. Yes, there will be talk. Yes, there will be questions. But we can handle it." His lips quirk. "We've handled worse."

You lean into him, letting his steady presence ground you. "Papa's press conference is in twenty minutes."

"And he'll handle it like he handles everything - with that terrifying Wolff composure." Max's hand runs soothingly up and down your back. "He loves you, baby. He's not going to let anyone suggest anything improper about us."

"I should be there," you whisper. "I should face it with him."

"No." Max's voice is firm. "Let him handle this part. That's what fathers do - they protect their children, even when their children are grown up and running F1 programs."

Your phone buzzes again - another news alert. Max gently takes it from your hand and sets it aside.

"Remember what you told me?" he asks softly. "That night in Monaco when I was worried about how people would react to us being together again?"

You smile slightly. "I told you that what other people think doesn't matter."

"Exactly." He presses his forehead to yours. "You said that we've earned the right to be happy, that we're not teenagers anymore trying to sneak around. You said we're stronger together than apart."

"Using my own words against me?"

"Always." He kisses you softly. "Because you were right then, and you're still right now. Let them talk. Let them speculate. We know the truth."

Your phone lights up with a livestream notification - the press conference is starting. Max reaches for the remote, turning on the hotel room's TV where it's already being broadcast.

"We can turn it off," he offers, but you shake your head.

"No. I need to see."

You curl into Max's side as the questions start. Your father sits there, calm and collected as ever, fielding questions about strategy and performance. Then:

"Toto, there are photos circulating of your daughter YN with Max Verstappen. Given the rivalry between Mercedes and Red Bull, and Max's history with both Mercedes and your family, do you have any comment?"

The room goes silent. You hold your breath, feeling Max tense beside you.

Your father adjusts his glasses, that familiar gesture that usually precedes something important. "Yes, I do have a comment." His voice is measured but firm. "My daughter is a highly respected professional in this sport, running our F1 Academy program and working tirelessly to create opportunities for young women in motorsport. Her personal life is her own, and she has my full support in all her choices."

"But given the competitive nature of F1—"

"Let me be very clear," Toto interrupts, and you recognize that steel in his voice. "YN has proven herself time and time again. She has earned her position through hard work and dedication. Max Verstappen is one of the most talented drivers of his generation. They are both adults who conduct themselves with integrity and professionalism. Any suggestion otherwise is not only disrespectful but reveals more about the person asking than about them."

Tears blur your vision. Max's arm tightens around you.

"See?" he whispers. "Terrifying Wolff composure."

On screen, your father continues: "My daughter and Max have my blessing and my respect. They have shown wisdom and maturity in handling their relationship alongside their professional responsibilities. Now, unless there are questions about this weekend's race…"

You bury your face in Max's chest, overwhelmed. His hands stroke your hair as he murmurs soft Dutch endearments.

"He defended us," you say wonderingly. "He really defended us."

"Of course he did." Max kisses the top of your head. "He's your father. And…" he hesitates, "I think maybe he's starting to like, a little bit."

You look up at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. "You know he likes you."

"Yeah." Max smiles softly. "He called me yesterday, you know. Said if any reporters gave me trouble about the photos, to refer them to him. Said he'd handle it."

Fresh tears spill over. "He did?"

"Mmhmm." Max wipes your tears with his thumb."Does this mean I can finally kiss you in the paddock?"

You laugh through your tears. "Maybe let's ease them into it?"

"Fine." He sighs dramatically. "But I'm holding your hand in public. No negotiation on that."

"Deal." You curl back into him, feeling the panic from earlier dissolve into something warmer, more certain. "Thank you for being here. For being you."

"Always, baby." Max kisses you again, soft and sweet. "Now, what do you say we give them something else to talk about and go absolutely dominate this race weekend?"

You smile against his lips. "Now that sounds like a plan."

Las Vegas, 2024

The neon lights blur through your tears as you watch the podium ceremony. George and Lewis stand there together, silver suits gleaming under the artificial lights, Mercedes' last 1-2 with this particular lineup.

Your heart feels like it might burst - pride, joy, and melancholy all tangled together. Max clinched his fourth title today, and you couldn't be prouder.

"Look at them," Susie whispers, squeezing your hand. "Our boys."

You can barely speak around the lump in your throat. George looks radiant, his second win of the season perhaps the sweetest. And Lewis… Lewis is beaming with genuine joy for his teammate, even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears. His last podium in Vegas as a Mercedes driver.

Your father stands tall beside you, his usual stoic expression softened by emotion. As the champagne starts flowing, you catch sight of Max making his way toward the Red Bull garage, where you know the championship celebrations are about to begin.

"Go," your father says suddenly.

You turn to him, surprised. "What?"

"Go celebrate with Max." His voice is gentle. "It's his fourth championship. You should be there."

"But…" you glance at the podium, at your Mercedes family celebrating.

"We've shared every celebration with you," Susie says softly. "Let him have this one."

"Are you sure?" You look at your father. "Papa?"

Toto's eyes are warm as he cups your face in his hands. "For three years, you couldn't celebrate with him. Couldn't share his victories. Couldn't be by his side when he achieved his dreams." He kisses your forehead. "Go make up for lost time, Schatz."

"But Lewis and George…"

"Will understand." Toto smiles. "Besides, I think Lewis would be disappointed if you didn't go congratulate your boyfriend on his championship."

As if on cue, Lewis catches your eye from the podium and nods toward the Red Bull garage, mouthing "Go!"

Tears spill over as you hug your parents. "I love you both so much."

"We know," Susie strokes your hair. "Now go. Make your man's celebration complete."

You run through the paddock, your heart pounding. The Red Bull garage is already in full celebration mode when you arrive. Christian sees you first, and instead of any awkwardness, he just smiles and points toward the back room.

You find Max there, surrounded by his team but somehow looking like he's waiting for something - or someone. When he sees you, his entire face lights up.

"Baby," he breathes, and then you're in his arms, his race suit damp with champagne, his heart beating fast against yours.

"Congratulations, four-time world champion," you whisper against his neck.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes shining. "You came."

"Of course I came." You touch his face, memorizing this moment. "Papa and Susie practically pushed me out the door."

Max's eyes widen slightly. "Really?"

"Really." You smile through your tears. "Papa said we had three years of celebrations to make up for."

Something vulnerable crosses Max's face. "I used to dream about this," he admits quietly, despite the noise around you. "Every championship, every win… I'd imagine you here, celebrating with me. But I never thought…"

"That my father would be the one sending me to you?"

"Yeah." Max laughs softly. "Things really have changed, haven't they?"

"For the better." You kiss him softly, not caring who sees. "I'm so proud of you, Max. So incredibly proud."

He presses his forehead to yours. "Stay? Celebrate with us?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag me away."

"Good." His smile turns mischievous. "Because I have three years of championship celebrations to make up for, and I plan to make this one count."

From somewhere behind you, you hear Jos' voice: "Max! The championship photo!"

"Coming!" Max calls back, then looks at you. "Join us?"

You blink. "In the Red Bull championship photo?"

"Why not?" His eyes are bright with joy and love. "You're part of this story too. Always have been."

The photographer arranges everyone, and Max pulls you close to his side. Here, under the neon lights of Vegas, surrounded by celebrations both here and in the garage next door, you feel the weight of the moment. The past - three years of separation, of watching from afar. The present - standing proudly by his side as he achieves another dream. And the future - stretching out before you both, full of possibilities.

"Ready?" Max whispers in your ear.

You look up at him, this man who never stopped loving you even when the world tried to keep you apart, and smile. "Ready."

The camera flashes, capturing the moment forever - the four-time world champion and the girl who crossed rival lines to love him, surrounded by celebration and joy, making up for all the moments they missed and creating new ones all their own.

In the distance, you hear the Mercedes celebration continuing, George and Lewis' laughter carrying through the night. Two families, two celebrations, and you finally allowed to be part of both.

Melbourne, 2025

"YN, we need to check something at the track," Max says casually as you're getting ready for bed.

"At this hour? It's past midnight."

"Trust me?" He gives you that same boyish grin that still makes your heart skip, even after a decade.

You're both jet-lagged anyway, so you agree. But instead of heading to Albert Park, Max drives to a familiar hotel. Your breath catches when you realize where you are.

"Max…"

"Come on," he takes your hand, leading you through the quiet lobby to the coffee shop where it all began. The lights are dimmed, but it's clearly open - though completely empty.

"How did you…?"

"Being a four-time world champion has some perks," he grins. "Plus, the owner remembered us. Said she never forgot the night the youngest F1 driver and Toto Wolff's daughter had their secret meeting here."

The same table is there, the one where you shared your hot chocolate ten years ago. There's even a steaming mug waiting.

"You were so smug," Max laughs, pulling out your chair. "Letting me ramble about being a driver when you knew exactly who I was."

"You were cute when you were flustered," you tease. "Especially when I dropped my last name."

"I couldn't believe it. Here I was, trying to impress this beautiful girl, and she turned out to be my biggest rival's daughter."

You take a sip from the mug - hot chocolate, just like that night. "Papa wouldn't stop talking about you."

"And now he's my biggest defender," Max shakes his head in wonder. "Remember how scared we were to tell him about us?"

"Worth it though," you squeeze his hand. "Every secret meeting, every careful distance in the paddock, every time we had to pretend we were just friendly acquaintances."

Max's eyes go soft. "You know what I remember most about that first night? You were the first person who didn't treat me like I was either Jos's son or some record-breaking novelty. You just… saw me."

"I still do," you whisper.

He stands suddenly, pulling you up with him. "That night, I was terrified about my first race. Everyone had opinions about whether I deserved to be here. But then there was this girl, sharing her hot chocolate and making me feel like maybe I could actually do this."

"Max…"

He drops to one knee, and your heart stops. "Ten years ago, in this exact spot, I met the love of my life. I didn't know it then, but that girl who kept her name secret until the last possible moment would become my biggest supporter, my best friend, my home."

Through your tears, you see him pull out a ring. "You've been there through everything, YN. Every victory, every defeat. When the pressure got too much, when the critics were too loud - you were my safe place. Just like you were that first night."

"Remember what you told me then? That your intuition said I'd do great?" He laughs softly. "You believed in me before anyone else did. And I want to spend the rest of my life believing in you, supporting you, loving you."

"YN Wolff," his voice cracks slightly. "Will you marry me? Will you keep being my safe place, my biggest supporter, my best friend? Will you let me spend forever trying to make you as happy as you've made me?"

Through your tears, you see the same boy from that late-night coffee shop - still determined, still passionate, still looking at you like you're his whole world. But now he's also the man who's grown with you, fought for you, loved you through everything.

"Yes," you manage, pulling him up to kiss him. "Yes to everything."

As he slides the ring onto your finger, Max pulls you close, and you can smell the same coffee shop scent that surrounded you ten years ago. "Thank you for sharing your hot chocolate that night," he murmurs against your hair.

"Thank you for making me believe in intuition," you reply, feeling the weight of the ring - a promise of all the years to come.

Outside, Melbourne sleeps, just like it did that first night. But now, instead of two strangers sharing a drink and their fears, there's you and Max, sharing a future.

And it feels like coming home.

tags: @mimiteller712 @lydia-demarek, @rory-cakes, @swaggymadi, @chriskevinevans @p7-otterton, @cherrystars81, @whokilledmarlene @lilymaleshka @kodeelynn @formoola1fan @pausmoon @lalala28 @baby-alien11 @allthings-fandoms @downsideup1989 @urbaebarnes @ivegotparticulartaste @liethatyouloveme @codymthepenguin @finn-dot-com @rayaskoalaland @angelluv16 @pourmercymercy0nme @tweetledeedumb @osclerc @scientifichufflepuff @cometpiastri @hobiismyhopeu @monsterdesandia @amyelevenn @damonsalvatorelikessex @rmvb @virtualperfectioncat @emma-chiara @chelle1306 @idontknow0704 @lilypat @elieanana @nothaqks @1800-love-me

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 30: September 2024 - Part 1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Message: Belle Verstappen & Charles Leclerc

Belle:

I know we’re still figuring things out. But I didn’t want to let this moment pass.

You drove a perfect race today. Monza, Ferrari, the pressure — you carried all of it and made it look easy. That final stint? Surgical.

You earned every bit of that podium. And I hope, for once, you believe it too.

I’m proud of you, Charles. Really. Congratulations.

Charles:

…thank you. That means more than I know how to say.

I kept waiting for something to go wrong. For the strategy to fall apart or the engine to give up. But it didn’t. It just worked.

And hearing that from you — It kind of made it real.

Belle:

Let it be real. You deserve to keep the joy this time. Not just the pressure. And for what it’s worth — I was cheering. Loudly. The baby might be a Ferrari fan now. 

***

Instagram Stories: @/belleverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter: 

@/f1girlmath:

Max lives on the grid.

Charles gets 24 hours in stories.

There’s a thesis in this. 📝

@/softforbelle:

She still posted.

Even after the birthday. After the years of silence.

She still showed up for his win.

Belle Leclerc is made of grace and titanium.

@/emotionalslipstream:

Belle Verstappen wrote a better Monza caption than Ferrari PR

and somehow still made it about him

not the noise

not the team

just Charles

@/wifemodeactivated:

Belle posting for Charles proves she’ll always be better than them.

But the feed belongs to the one who chose her first.

@/leclercfanclub:

idc what anyone says, Belle didn’t owe him a damn thing

but she still acknowledged his win

and did it in her voice

respect.

@/verstappenverse:

Charles in stories = “I’m proud of you”

Max on the grid and feed = “You’re home” 🧡

@/burnerforbelle:

“She put him in her stories, not the feed” is my new way of classifying emotional boundaries

***

The fall didn’t feel real until the pain started to bloom.

Belle hit the tile hard — first her knees, then her elbow, then her wrist. The breath fled her lungs like someone had pressed the air out of her, and for a second, she couldn’t even register the sound of the water still running above her.

She didn’t scream.

She didn’t have it in her.

Only a sharp gasp, her body curling instinctively, her left hand cradling her right wrist where it throbbed in quick, hot pulses. Her knees scraped against the tile as she tried to shift, but the ache there made her suck in another sharp breath.

It wasn’t catastrophic. It wasn’t broken. But it hurt.

The baby jumbled under her skin, like he wanted to check on her, and she reached out with her good hand, pressing it against the place where her son had just kicked her. 

Max wasn’t home. Max wasn’t even reachable. He was off somewhere in southern France, testing GT3 cars, in a no-signal zone, blissfully unaware that she was sitting alone and soaked on the bathroom floor, towel out of reach, shaking with adrenaline and trying not to cry.

Emilie was in Lisbon. 

Lando and Oscar were both in England, simulator work for McLaren. Lily was in England too, visiting family. 

Everyone she normally leaned on — gone.

Her phone had landed just outside the shower door. She crawled to it with her good hand, knees burning with every inch of movement, and once she finally grasped it, she just sat there for a moment, dripping and shivering, and stared at her contacts.

She didn't want to call anyone. She hated asking for help. Especially now, when Max wasn’t here to shield her from the vulnerability of it.

But she couldn’t drive herself.

So she texted Arthur.

Belle:

Hey. Sorry to bother you. I slipped in the shower. I think I sprained my wrist. My knees are really bruised and I can’t get up without pain. I need someone to drive me to the hospital. Are you in town?

Three dots appeared. Then vanished. Then came back.

Arthur:

Merde. Belle I’m so sorry. I’m not even in the country — I’m in Maranello. Can you call an ambulance?

Belle:

I don’t think it’s that serious. I just need help driving. It’s fine. I’ll figure something out.

Arthur:

Don’t do that. Don’t say it’s fine.

I’ll call Charles. He’s in the city. He can be there in ten. Just sit tight.

Belle stared at the screen.

Her heart sank before she could stop it.

Belle:

Please don’t. I’m fine. I’ll call a driver. Really, Arthur. It’s okay.

Arthur:

It’s not okay. You’re hurt and alone. He wants to help. Just let him. Please.

She didn’t respond right away.

She didn’t want it to be Charles. Not when she was this vulnerable. Not when the bruises hadn’t even started forming yet, but the emotional ones already ached.

But her hand was starting to shake from holding the phone too long, and her knees throbbed with every shift in position.

She closed her eyes.

Fine.

Fine.

Belle:

Okay. Just… don’t make it a big thing.

Arthur’s reply was instant.

Arthur:

Promise. He’s already on the way.

Belle let the phone drop onto the towel beside her and sat perfectly still, wrapped in silence, her wet hair clinging to her back, her wrist pulsing with each heartbeat.

It was just a fall.

Just a ride to the hospital.

But the lump in her throat said otherwise.

***

Text Messages: Arthur Leclerc & Charles Leclerc

Arthur: You in Monaco?

Charles: Yeah, why? Everything okay?

Arthur: Belle slipped in the shower. She hurt her wrist and can’t drive. I’m in Italy. She needs someone to take her to the hospital.

Charles: Wait—what?? Is she okay?? How bad?

Arthur: Sprained wrist, maybe worse. Bruised knees. She texted me because she didn’t know who else to ask.

Charles: Of course. I’ll go. Where is she?

Arthur: At their apartment. She didn’t want me to text you. I told her I would.

Charles:…Why didn’t she want me to know?

Arthur: That’s not the point right now. Just go. Be there. Don’t make it about you. Just show up.

Charles: I’m already in the car. Send me the address

Arthur: Thank you.

***

Charles didn’t know what he expected when Arthur said go to her, but it wasn’t this.

Not Belle opening the door with her wrist wrapped in gauze and her knees bruised like she’d gone twelve rounds with concrete, her bump just visible beneath the loose fall of her dress. Not the way she moved—carefully, like everything hurt. Not the way she didn’t flinch, didn’t cry, didn’t ask.

She looked pale. Shaken. Her hair still wet from the shower, curling around her cheeks. She didn’t smile when she saw him. She didn’t frown either. She just opened the door, like he was a delivery, not her brother.

And Charles… froze.

He didn’t know what he expected. Gratitude? Relief? The way she used to light up when he came home from a race? Instead, she barely looked at him.

“I’m okay,” she said, preemptively. “We’re taking my car.”

She was giving him the honor of witnessing her pain, and only under her terms.

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You heard me. You drive a Ferrari. I’m not climbing into a low-slung performance ego machine with two busted knees and a baby inside me.”

There was a sharp edge in her voice, and it made something twist deep in his stomach. But he didn’t argue. He just followed her down to the parking garage in stunned silence.

And then he saw it.

 A green Volvo.

Modest. Safe. The kind of car that said I care more about surviving than arriving fast. He hadn’t even known she had a Volvo. Not really. Just memories of her mentioning needing a new car after her old one had broken down. 

“This is yours?” he asked, stupidly.

Belle didn’t even look up as she unlocked it. “Second one. GP picked it.”

Charles didn’t even know where to start with that sentence. That Max Verstappen’s race engineer had apparently picked out his sister’s car or that it was the second one. 

Charles frowned. “What happened to the first?”

“It got totaled,” she said. “In the wreck earlier this year.”

She climbed into the car, leaving him standing in silence.

He swallowed. A fender-bender. That’s what he had thought it had been.

Until Lewis of all people had told him that it hadn’t been that at all. A drunk driver had ran a redlight and Belle’s car had wrapped itself around a lamppost. Still…to hear her say it like this…so simply…

He hadn’t asked if she’d been scared. Or hurt. Or alone.

She winced as she buckled her seatbelt over her belly, shifting like every motion hurt. And suddenly, all Charles could see were the bruises.

The deep purple marks on her knees. The rigid tension in her jaw. The way she wasn’t meeting his eyes.

“You could’ve hit your head,” he said, too fast. “You could’ve blacked out. You’re pregnant, Belle. What if no one had picked up? What if you couldn’t get up? What if—”

“I did get up,” she said tightly, still not looking at him.

His fingers curled harder around the steering wheel. “You didn’t call me.”

“You haven’t exactly been first on my call list for a while.”

The words hit like a punch. Not cruel. Just… true. It landed heavier because she wasn’t even angry. Just tired.

“I would’ve come,” he said, his voice breaking. “If I’d known. I would’ve run.”

“I know.”

She said it so simply it wrecked him. No accusation. No pity. Just resignation.

His throat burned. He looked at her again — really looked at her. At the bump under her dress. At the bruise just visible above the knee. At the way her hand instinctively rested over her stomach, protective and automatic.

That was his little sister. Pregnant. Hurt. Alone. Because she hadn’t thought of him.

And he couldn’t even be angry about that — because he understood why.

“Your knees,” he said, voice hoarse. “They’re really bad.”

She snorted softly. “The tiles were wet. I slipped. It happens.”

But it wasn’t nothing. And Charles knew it.

“You’re pregnant, Belle.”

“Well spotted,” she said, dry as ever.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’m handling it.”

She said it like she always did — like it wasn’t remarkable. Like handling it was a reflex now.

And that’s when it hit him — harder than the sight of the bruises or the bandage on her wrist. The way she sat there, composed and still, like she didn’t expect anyone to help. Like she’d stopped expecting anything at all.

“I should’ve been the one you called,” he whispered.

Belle didn’t say anything for a long time. And when she finally did, it was soft — not bitter, not sharp.

“You’ve had years to answer,” she said. “But I stopped asking.”

Charles turned his head, blinking hard, the weight of that sentence crashing down on him.

How had it gotten this bad?

“How did we get here?” he asked quietly.

Belle stared out the windshield. Then: “It didn’t get bad. You just stopped noticing when it wasn’t good anymore.”

He couldn’t breathe.

He thought about Christmases. Birthdays. The texts she’d sent during lockdown that he never answered. The way she always showed up, always made it easier, always did the work — until she didn’t.

Until she got tired of being invisible.

And now she was in pain. Carrying a child. And he hadn’t known she’d fallen until someone else told him.

He didn’t know how to fix this.

But he knew what he could do, right now.

“Let me go in with you,” he said as the hospital came into view, his voice barely steady. “Please.”

Belle looked over at him — finally. Her eyes were exhausted, but not closed off.

“…Yeah,” she said. “Okay.”

And it wasn’t forgiveness. But it was something.

Charles nodded, already unclipping his seatbelt, adrenaline flooding his veins like he was pulling into the pit lane on the final lap.

He didn’t say I’m sorry. Didn’t say I’ll do better.

Not yet. Not until she believed it.

But as he got out and walked around to open her door, he said, “I’m not letting you walk into that hospital alone.”

And right now, that was all she let him give. And all he had to offer.

***

The waiting room smelled like antiseptic and old coffee.

Belle sat gingerly on the edge of the hospital chair, her knees throbbing beneath the hem of her dress, Charles’ hoodie draped over her shoulders. She wasn’t sure when he’d taken it off — only that one moment she was shivering under the air conditioning and the next, it had been gently draped around her shoulders without a word.

She didn’t thank him. He didn’t ask her to.

Charles sat next to her, one leg bouncing, hands clasped tightly between his knees. He hadn’t stopped watching her — in that quiet, wide-eyed way that made it clear he was trying not to freak out but was, in fact, absolutely freaking out.

“Does it hurt?” he asked suddenly, for the fourth time in twenty minutes.

“Yes,” Belle said dryly, “still.”

He winced. “Right. Sorry.”

She sighed, resting her head back against the wall. “I think I broke it.”

Charles looked at her wrist, wrapped in one of those temporary velcro splints the nurse had given her after triage. “I thought you said sprain?”

“I said I hoped sprain. I also said I was standing on one foot in a wet shower with a basketball where my balance used to be.” She rubbed at her forehead. “The math isn’t in my favor.”

A nurse poked her head in. “Isabelle Verstappen?”

Belle stood carefully, Charles immediately at her side.

“You can come back now. We’ll do X-rays on the wrist and an abdominal check, just to be safe.”

Charles started to follow, but hesitated at the threshold. “Should I—?”

Belle looked at him. “You’re already here. Might as well carry my purse while you’re at it.”

His shoulders dropped half an inch with relief, and he fell into step beside her like he didn’t know how to do anything else.

The X-ray was quick. The fetal monitoring took longer.

“Any dizziness? Cramping?” the nurse asked gently. 

“No,” Belle said. “Lots of movement. He kicked all the way here.”

“A boy?” Charles said suddenly, his voice hoarse. Bell turned her head towards her brother to see he him look…gutted. 

She nodded. “Your nephew.”

He blinked fast. “I didn’t think I’d find out like this.”

Belle shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t think I’d tell you in a hospital gown, but here we are.”

Charles let out a breath that sounded like it hurt. “You’re going to be such a good mom.”

She looked at him, unsure how to respond to that — the sincerity in it, the quiet awe. The grief.

So instead, she offered a small smile.

“Thanks,” she said. “I hope so. He’ll be here in before christmas. Another 15 weeks or so.”

“You’re already 25 weeks?” he asked softly.

Belle shrugged. “He’s the size of a cauliflower this week. Or a soccer ball, depending on which app you ask. Very on brand, considering the kicking.

***

Charles sat stiffly in the chair tucked into the corner of the exam room, hands clenched in his lap, elbows digging into his thighs. He hadn’t spoken much since they checked in. Not since the nurse helped Belle up onto the bed, her movements slower than usual, guarded.

And now…

Now, he couldn’t take his eyes off the screen. Or the rise and fall of Belle’s belly. Or the sound.

The sound.

It was like a bird’s wings beating in his ears. Too fast, too strong, too real.

“Is that—?” he started, but his voice cracked halfway through.

Belle nodded, eyes on the monitor. “That’s him.”

Him.

A boy.

His nephew.

There was a long, stunned silence. The doppler monitor beeped steadily in the background, like it was keeping time for a life Charles didn’t even know he’d been missing.

The nurse smiled gently as she removed the probe, wiping the slick gel from Belle’s stomach. “Heartbeat looks excellent,” she said. “Very strong. And stubborn — he kept kicking the monitor.”

Belle exhaled, half under her breath. “Gets that from his father.”

Charles looked at her then.

Really looked.

Her hair was tied back in a messy braid, frizz escaping around her temples. Her wrist was wrapped in a brace. Her knees were bruised beneath the hem of her dress. She looked tired in a way he hadn’t noticed before — not just from the fall, but from everything.

And still, she was here.

Still calm. Still composed. Still doing this alone.

He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“I didn’t know it was a boy,” he said quietly.

Belle didn’t look at him right away. She adjusted her dress back down and sat up slowly, careful with the wrist, wincing a little as she moved.

“Well,” she said eventually, still not meeting his eyes, “now you do.”

The nurse excused herself with a warm nod, the door clicking shut behind her, and Charles was left sitting in the echo of a moment he didn’t know how to carry.

“What’s his name?” he asked, hesitating.

Belle glanced at him then — not sharply. Not warmly either. Just watching him.

“We haven’t decided yet,” she said. “There’s a list.”

He nodded. Then, after a beat:

“Can I… hear the list someday?”

Belle didn’t answer right away.

She just stared at him, unreadable, like she was trying to decide if the question cost him something or bought him something back.

And finally — finally — she said, “Maybe.”

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t forgiveness.

But to Charles, it felt like the first green shoot breaking through a scorched field.

Hope. Tentative. Small. But there.

And for now, that was more than he’d earned.

And everything he wanted.

***

Leclerc Sibling Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles and Lorenzo)

Charles: She’s okay. The baby’s okay too.

Arthur: God. Okay. Okay. Thanks for going with her.

Lorenzo: How bad is it?

Charles: Sprained wrist. Bruised knees. Nothing broken. They ran every test. Baby’s heartbeat is strong. Stubborn, apparently. A boy.

Arthur: Wait— She’s having a boy?

Lorenzo: ...She didn’t tell us.

Charles: No. She didn’t.

Charles: She let me come in with her. Let me hear the heartbeat. Said I could maybe see the name list.

Arthur: Maybe?

Charles: I’ll take a maybe. It’s more than I deserve.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen

Belle:

Hi Raymond. I know Max is in the middle of testing today and I don’t want to interrupt. Please don’t panic — everything is fine now. I slipped in the shower this morning and sprained my wrist. Got checked out at the hospital, no fracture, just bruises and a wrap. The baby is okay. He’s been kicking non-stop. We’re both fine. I know Max is testing today — no need to interrupt. Just let him know when he’s finished.

Raymond:

Belle. You fell. You’re pregnant. And you think “ We’re both fine.” is going to keep him from panicking?

Belle:

He’s testing.

He needs focus, not panic. I didn’t want to worry him while he’s working.

Raymond:

Respectfully — no. You are his wife. You are carrying his child. He would fire me if I didn’t tell him the moment I knew something happened.

You are his wife. You are carrying his child. You slipped. You got hurt. You went to the hospital. He will want to know everything.

Belle: I know.

Raymond: So when I tell him — and I will, because if I don’t, he’ll fire me— do you want me to soften it, or give it straight?

Belle:

…Softly. But honestly. Lead with “Belle and baby are okay.” Then maybe “She didn’t want to distract you mid-session, but wanted you to know.” Then the wrist.

Raymond:

Noted. He’s going to freak out anyway.

Belle:

Yeah. I know. Let me know when he’s free. I’ll call.

Raymond: He’ll be free now. Testing can wait. You don’t.

***

Text Messages: Belle Verstappen & Emilie Abadie

Emilie:

Just found the cutest little shop in Lisbon Don’t yell at me but I may have bought a tiny linen romper with embroidered lions (I blacked out, Belle, it was so small it looked like a pocket)

Belle:

Okay well now I’m crying a little so thanks for that

Emilie:

WAIT are you crying because hormones or crying because something’s wrong?? Belle?

Belle:

Don’t freak out I’m okay Just… slipped in the shower this morning

Belle:

Landed on my knees and wrist Baby kicked a few minutes after so I didn’t totally lose it I was at the hospital. Everything is fine.   Charles is with me

Emilie:

BELLE. WHAT. You slipped?! Why didn’t you call me?? Why is Charles there?? IS MAX WITH YOU?

Belle:

Max is testing GT3s today, he didn’t see my message I didn’t want to distract him while he was driving I texted Raymond — he’s going to tell him when he can And you weren’t even in the country, Em. 

Emilie:

You absolute menace I leave the country for ONE DAY and you go full final girl in your own bathroom??

Belle:

😂 That’s a dramatic way of putting it Just bruised. Wrist is sprained. Baby is fine. I promise. No bleeding. No cramps. Monitors look good.

Emilie:

Okay but also: I hate you a little right now I’m sitting in a café full of people eating pastel de nata and I just made a distressed noise loud enough to scare a baby Also I’m Googling flights Say the word and I will come home immediately

Belle:

Please don’t I’m okay I just didn’t want you to find out hours later and go full protective rage goblin on the entire continent

Emilie:

TOO LATE Also I’m keeping the lion romper Emotional compensation

Belle: Fair

Emilie: I love you. Next time you so much as trip I want a facetime. Do you understand me?

Belle:

Understood Love you too Now go eat your pastry and pretend I didn’t give you a heart attack before 10am

***

The GT3 session had been going well. Max was focused. Controlled. The way he always got once the helmet came down and the rest of the world went quiet.

The track was smooth beneath him, the car responding exactly how he wanted it to — until the pit radio crackled and Raymond’s voice came through, clipped and deliberate.

“Box this lap.”

Max blinked.

“Everything okay?” he asked, already backing off the throttle.

There was a pause.

Then: “Yeah. Just box, Max. Please.”

That please was new.

Max frowned, eased into the pit lane, and pulled into the garage with a practiced precision that didn’t match the sudden weight in his chest. The second he unbuckled and stepped out of the car, Raymond was already there — not panicked, not smiling. Still.

“Something happened,” Max said immediately.

Raymond didn’t waste time.

“Belle slipped this morning,” he said calmly. “In the shower. She’s okay. The baby’s okay. But she hurt her wrist — maybe fractured — and she bruised both her knees. She went to the hospital. She’s getting checked out now.”

Max stared at him, brain short-circuiting.

“No—what?”

“She’s fine,” Raymond said quickly, hands half-up like he was trying to keep Max from bolting. “She texted me. She didn’t want to interrupt the session. She didn’t want you to panic.”

Max didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She fell. She fell. She was alone. She got hurt and didn’t call him.

Max didn’t hear anything after “Belle slipped in the shower.”

He didn’t wait for Raymond to finish. He didn’t ask for more details. He just pulled his phone from his pocket with fingers that suddenly felt too cold, too tight, too slow.

He barely registered Raymond saying, “Max, she’s fine — they’re fine,” because his thumb was already hitting her name.

The line rang once.

Twice.

Then: “Max?”

Her voice was quiet. Soft. Tired.

“What happened?” he asked. No greeting. No preamble. Just the question that had sunk claws into his chest.

There was a beat of silence.

“Raymond told you.”

“Belle.”

“I’m okay,” she said, gentle but firm. “I slipped in the shower this morning. Bruised knees, probably sprained my wrist — maybe fractured. The baby’s fine. We got checked. Everything’s fine now.”

He sat down hard on the nearest concrete ledge, head in one hand. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“You were in the car. I didn’t want to worry you for something that wasn’t… dramatic.”

Max let out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “You falling while you’re pregnant is dramatic, Belle.”

“I got up. I handled it.”

“That’s not the point.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “I didn’t want you driving off a track at 200 kilometers an hour because I bruised my knees and got scared.”

He closed his eyes. “You got scared?”

Her voice cracked, just slightly. “A little. But I’m okay now. I’m home. Charles drove me back. He’s… still here.”

Max didn’t reply immediately. His hand curled tighter around the phone.

“I should have been there,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. “But it wasn’t your fault.”

He didn’t respond. Just breathed — hard and shallow — because that image was stuck in his head now. Belle, alone. Wet hair. Bruised knees. A hand clutched to her wrist. Their son, safe inside her. And Max — miles away.

“I’m coming home,” he said finally. “Now.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I need to.”

A pause. Then her voice, soft again. “Okay.”

He swallowed. “Are you in bed?”

“Couch. With ice. And a cat.”

“I’ll be there soon.”

Charles’s voice drifted faintly in the background — a low murmur, asking something — and Belle answered without pulling the phone away: “He’s on his way.”

Max stood again, the world narrowing to a single point: her.

“I love you,” he said, fierce and quiet.

“I know,” she whispered. “I love you too.”

“Give the phone to Charles.”

Belle hesitated.

“Max—”

“I’m not mad,” he said, though his voice was already fraying at the edges. “But I need to speak to him. Now.”

There was a soft shuffle, a rustle, and a reluctant, “He wants to talk to you,” followed by silence, then:

“Hello?” Charles' voice was low. Careful.

Max didn’t waste time.

“You’re still with her?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because you’re not leaving.”

Charles blinked on the other end of the line. “I wasn’t planning to—”

“No,” Max cut in, sharper now. “I mean it, Charles. You don’t leave her side until I walk through that door.”

“I—of course. I wasn’t going to—”

“You don’t let her carry groceries. You don’t let her reach for anything above shoulder height. You keep an eye on her knees, and you make sure she drinks water and eats something that’s not toast.”

Charles was silent.

“She’s going to say she’s fine,” Max said, breath catching. “She always does. She minimizes things because she’s used to being the last priority. But she’s not. Not anymore.”

Charles swallowed. “I know that now.”

“No. You start to know it now. So until I’m home — until I see her with my own eyes — you’re staying.”

“…Okay.”

Max’s voice dropped, low and fierce. “Because that’s my wife. And our son. And they’re the most important thing in the world to me. I missed the fall. I won’t miss what comes after.”

There was a long pause.

And then, quietly, Charles said, “I’ll stay. You have my word.”

Max nodded, even though no one could see him. His hand was shaking as he brought it to his face.

“Thank you.”

***

The couch was soft, and her wrist was elevated the way the doctor had told her to keep it. Ice on and off in ten-minute intervals. Max was on his way — she could feel the momentum of it like thunder approaching. He hadn’t said how far out he was. He hadn’t needed to.

Charles hovered in the kitchen, pretending to tidy up the one mug Belle had let herself leave on the counter. His movements were twitchy, like he wanted to be useful but didn’t know how to occupy the silence.

Belle lay back with a soft huff, her knees aching with every shift in position. The bump was rounded now — her belly stretching the soft cotton of the old Red Bull hoodie she was wearing. Max’s, of course.

The front door buzzed.

Charles jumped like she’d slapped him.

“It’s open,” she called.

A second later, Lorenzo appeared, windblown and pink from the autumn. Arthur followed, clutching two paper bags.

“I heard,” Lorenzo said, without preamble. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Belle said. “I just fell. That’s all. Aren’t you supposed to be in Italy, Arthur?!”

“You fell,” Arthur echoed, exasperated. “While pregnant. That’s not just anything.”

She sighed. “Please don’t turn this into a family summit.”

“You scared us,” Lorenzo added, setting one of the bags on the counter. “So we’re allowed to overreact for an afternoon.”

He pulled out a small box and held it out. “Brought cinnamon rolls. Your favorite, right?”

Belle blinked at them. Then shook her head slowly.

“I… can’t eat those. I’m allergic to cinnamon.”

The room stilled.

Arthur blinked. “Since when?”

Belle raised an eyebrow. “Since always.”

Lorenzo’s brows furrowed. “But at Christmas—every year, you made cinnamon cookies. Three. Every time. One each for me, Arthur, and Charles.”

Belle smiled faintly. “I never said I ate them.”

Charles, who had been leaning against the kitchen island, suddenly looked like the floor had tilted beneath him.

“You made them every year,” he said slowly, like he was repeating a math equation he’d never properly solved. “Individually. You decorated them. You even remembered that I didn’t like the ones with the icing glaze.”

She nodded.

“But you couldn’t eat them?”

“Nope.”

“And you still made them?” His voice cracked slightly.

Belle met his eyes. Calm. Steady. “I liked the tradition. And it made you smile. That felt like enough.”

None of them spoke.

Arthur sat down heavily in the chair beside her. Lorenzo hovered near the edge of the couch, cinnamon rolls forgotten.

Charles just… stared. His mouth opened, then closed again.

Because she’d never missed a year. Not once. Every December 24th, like clockwork — cinnamon cookies. Warm from the oven. Plated and placed on the edge of the counter.

And she had never taken a bite.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly.

“I know,” Belle replied. “That’s the point.”

Belle shifted on the couch, adjusting the ice pack on her wrist as carefully as she could with one hand. Arthur had stolen the armchair like it belonged to him. Charles sat at the edge of the coffee table, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her like she might break again if he looked away. Lorenzo had busied himself in the kitchen — not baking, not fussing, just being there. It was more than she was used to.

The box of cinnamon rolls sat unopened on the counter.

Arthur cleared his throat. “So… are we telling Maman?”

Belle didn’t even blink. “Absolutely not.”

Lorenzo let out a low, exhausted laugh from the sink. “Agreed.”

Charles looked startled. “Wait, really?”

Belle turned her head slowly. “Do you want to be responsible for the spiral?”

“She’ll call her entire prayer group,” Arthur muttered.

“She’ll show up with a duffel bag full of vitamin supplements and five volumes of prenatal food myths she found online.” Belle raised a brow. “And then she’ll refuse to leave.”

Charles leaned back slightly, frowning. “But she’d want to know.”

“Oh, she’d want to,” Belle said gently. “But we’re not talking about normal maternal concern, Charles. We’re talking DEFCON one emotional meltdown. And the second she sees a bruise, I become a cautionary tale in every conversation for the next decade.”

Arthur stretched out his legs with a sigh. “She’s been like that since Papa died. The moment one of us gets sick, she acts like it’s a prelude to a funeral.”

“It’s fear,” Lorenzo added quietly. “But it’s weaponized. Like if she controls enough of the environment, nothing bad will happen again.”

“We love her,” Belle said, softer now. “But the only thing worse than being hurt… is watching her panic about it.”

Arthur reached over and gently nudged her uninjured foot with his.

“So we’re agreed,” he said. “This doesn’t leave this room.”

“Not until the bruises fade,” Belle said.

“And Max calms down,” Lorenzo added.

Arthur looked at Charles. “You’re unusually quiet.”

Charles looked down at the floor, then back up at Belle. “I just… didn’t realize how many things you didn’t say. Because you were protecting the rest of us.”

Belle didn’t answer for a moment.

Then: “Now you do.”

And to her surprise — maybe to his too — Charles nodded.

“I won’t forget.”

***

The elevator doors opened, and Max didn’t wait for them to finish sliding apart before stepping out.

His keys were already in hand. The moment he reached the door, he didn’t bother knocking. He let himself in like it was a matter of oxygen.

The apartment was quiet — not silent, but soft with the kind of stillness that said people were there, speaking gently, keeping their voices level.

He stepped inside, heart hammering in his chest.

He saw her first.

She was curled into the corner of the couch, legs folded beneath her, one wrist wrapped and resting on a pillow, her bump rising softly under his old hoodie. Her hair was loose now, a little tangled, and she looked exhausted — but not pale. Not shaking. Just… there.

Breathing.

Safe.

His lungs unclenched for the first time in hours.

Then his eyes registered the rest of the room.

Arthur in the armchair, leaning back with his hands laced over his stomach. Lorenzo standing at the counter, cinnamon rolls on a plate he clearly hadn’t touched. And Charles — sitting on the coffee table, just a little too close to Belle, watching her with that stunned, protective expression Max hadn’t seen from him in years.

All three of them looked up the moment Max stepped inside.

The tension in the air shifted like a current.

No one said a word.

Max crossed the room in three strides and dropped to his knees in front of Belle — hands hovering, unsure for the first time in a long time. His voice was barely a whisper.

“Can I touch you?”

Belle nodded.

His hands moved gently, reverently — one over her knee, the other over the swell of her bump. Then, with visible relief, he pressed his forehead to her stomach and let out a breath like it had been held since morning.

“You’re really okay?” he asked, not looking up.

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “He’s okay. Just bruises.”

His hands moved up to her waist, and then he leaned in, finally cupping her face and kissing her temple — long and careful and completely unrushed.

Only then did he glance over his shoulder at her brothers.

His voice didn’t rise, but it carried.

“Thank you,” he said. “For being here.”

Arthur gave a quiet nod. Lorenzo offered a small, surprised smile.

Charles looked like he wasn’t sure whether to stay seated or stand. Max didn’t make him decide.

Instead, Max looked back at Belle.

“You should’ve called me.”

“I didn’t want you to crash a GT3 car over a bruised knee,” she murmured.

He exhaled sharply, a laugh made of panic and adoration. “You think that’s the part I care about?”

“You’re here now,” she said.

He pressed his forehead to hers. “I’ll always be here.”

The brothers gave them space after that — drifting toward the kitchen, murmuring about tea and leftovers and whether or not Arthur remembered how to use Belle’s espresso machine.

Max didn’t move from the floor.

He just held her hand, his thumb brushing the edge of the wrap on her wrist. He hated the bandage. Hated that it was real. That she had needed anyone but him.

But she was okay.

And the baby was okay.

And for now, that was enough.

***

The apartment was quiet again.

Arthur had grumbled something about work. Lorenzo had packed the untouched cinnamon rolls with a guilty look. Charles had lingered, awkward and earnest, before Belle kissed his cheek and told him to stop looking like she was made of glass.

Now it was just her and Max.

She was back on the couch, propped up with pillows and a blanket across her lap. Max sat beside her, one leg bent on the cushion, his body angled toward hers like he was trying to physically shield her from the memory of the morning.

Neither of them had spoken much since the door clicked shut behind Charles.

Now that it was over — the hospital, the retelling, the waiting — she was finally tired. Really, truly tired in the way that settled deep into her bones. The adrenaline had faded, and with it went her deflection, her careful calm.

Max reached for her hand — her uninjured one — and pulled it gently into his lap, rubbing slow circles over her knuckles.

“You scared me,” he said, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I scared myself,” Belle admitted quietly.

He looked down at her knees, still bruised and swollen beneath the blanket. Then his eyes drifted to the wrist brace. “You’re sure nothing’s broken?”

“The scan said no fractures. Just a bad sprain. Some inflammation. The doctor said I should be good as new in a couple weeks if I rest.”

Max nodded, then tilted his head slightly. “And you’re going to rest, right? Not sneak off to your office and Studio B to ‘just review a sketch’ or organize the linen closet or…”

Belle gave him a half-smile. “You say that like I’ve ever been good at resting.”

“I’m saying it like I will hide your laptop, your phone, and maybe your entire bag if I have to.”

She laughed softly — but it faded quickly.

Max’s voice gentled. “What happened, schatje?”

Belle exhaled. “I slipped. That’s it. I wasn’t even rushing. I just… lost my balance. And it wasn’t like a movie fall, you know? It was quiet. Fast. My knees hit first. Then my wrist when I tried to catch myself.”

Max swallowed hard, his jaw twitching.

“I laid there for a while,” she added, voice barely above a whisper. “Not because I was hurt badly — but because I didn’t know who to call.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “You call me.”

“You were on track. Testing. No signal.”

“You still call me.”

Belle didn’t reply right away.

Then, softer: “I didn’t want to be the reason you lost focus. Or got hurt. Or crashed.”

Max shifted closer, cupping her face gently with one hand.

“Listen to me,” he said. “You will never be the reason I fall apart. But if you don’t tell me you’re hurting—if you ever think you have to go through something like this alone—that is what will wreck me.”

She blinked fast. “I wasn’t alone.”

“I know,” he said, brushing his thumb along her cheek. “But it should’ve been me.”

Belle leaned into his touch. “It is now.”

He kissed her forehead. Then her temple. Then the tip of her nose.

“Next time,” he murmured, “we’re putting a non-slip mat in that shower. And rubber ducks with grip soles.”

Belle let out a soft laugh, eyes fluttering closed. “So romantic.”

“Only the best for you.”

His hand slid down to her bump, and Belle covered it with her own.

“He kicked after,” she said quietly. “Right there in the hospital. Like he was saying, ‘Don’t worry, Mama, I’m still here.’”

Max didn’t speak — just rested his forehead against hers, holding their son between them with the reverence of someone who’d nearly lost everything in a heartbeat.

And in that quiet, with the fading sunlight spilling across the floor and the ache slowly retreating from her bones, Belle finally let herself feel safe again.

Because Max was here.

And he wasn’t going anywhere.

***

Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Max Verstappen

Jos: Raymond told me what happened. Is she alright?

Max: She’s okay now. Sprained wrist. Bruised knees. Baby’s fine. I’m with her.

Jos: Good. That kind of fall could have been worse. You must have been out of your mind.

Max: Still am.

Jos: I’m glad you’re there. I know what it feels like—when they get hurt and you’re not there.

Max: I didn’t know who she’d called. It wasn’t me. That was the worst part.

Jos: She didn’t want to scare you. Women do that. Try to be strong for us even when they’re the ones bleeding.

Max: She shouldn’t have to. She’s not just strong. She’s mine.

Jos: Then protect her. Not with fists or anger. With patience. With time. With the parts of yourself I didn’t teach you how to use.

Max: I’m trying.

Jos: You’re already doing better than I ever did. Tell her I’m glad she’s okay.

Max: I will.

***

They didn’t go home right away.

After leaving Belle’s apartment, the three brothers ended up walking without saying much. First toward the marina. Then past the café Charles used to swear had the best espresso in Monaco — even though none of them had gone there in over a year.

Eventually they sat on a low bench near the water, the kind that always seemed slightly too cold, facing out toward a sky smeared in gold and soft grey.

Lorenzo leaned back, arms stretched over the back of the bench like he needed more room to think. Arthur sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees. Charles stared straight ahead.

No one said anything for a while.

Then Arthur cleared his throat. “She looked small today.”

Charles didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to.

“Not weak,” Arthur added quickly. “Just… I forgot she could get hurt like that. I forgot she was carrying someone else too now.”

Lorenzo exhaled slowly. “It’s not that I forgot. It’s that I didn’t let myself think about it.”

Charles nodded once, almost absently.

“I didn’t even remember she had a cinnamon allergy,” Lorenzo said after a pause. “And she’s been baking those cookies since we were teenagers.”

“I thought she liked doing it,” Charles said. “I thought it made her happy.”

“She made us happy,” Arthur murmured.

Silence again. Heavier this time.

“I keep thinking about the cookies,” Arthur said suddenly. “She didn’t think she was part of the tradition. She thought she was serving it.”

That landed like a rock in Charles’ chest.

He thought of the hospital earlier that day. The bruises on Belle’s knees. The way she’d looked at him when he asked why she hadn’t called. Calm. Not cold — just used to it.

He thought of Max — dropping to his knees beside her, hands trembling, forehead pressed to her stomach like it was sacred ground.

“I don’t want to be the kind of brother she has to survive around,” Charles said.

Lorenzo gave a slow nod. “Then let’s stop being that.”

“And start noticing,” Arthur added.

Charles looked out toward the water, letting the silence sit for a beat before saying, “Do you think she’ll ever trust us again?”

Lorenzo didn’t look at him. Just said quietly, “She let us in the apartment, didn’t she?”

Arthur stood first. “That’s a start.”

And Charles — baby brother turned golden son turned witness to everything he missed — stood too.

He didn’t know how to fix it yet.

But for the first time in years, he wasn’t pretending it didn’t need fixing.

***

Text Messages: Charles Leclerc & Lewis Hamilton

Charles: I just wanted to say thank you. For being there that night. With Belle. When she had the car accident. 

Lewis:

I wasn’t going to leave her. She looked like she’d been through hell. And that car was a complete wreck. She didn’t want me to call you. When it happened. 

Charles: …what?

Lewis:

When I said I was going to call your phone, she grabbed my arm. Begged me not to.

Charles:

I didn’t… I didn’t know it was like that.

Lewis:

No. You didn’t. And I get it — families are complicated. But she didn’t trust you to see her hurt.

She didn’t believe she’d be safe if you saw her vulnerable.

Charles:

That’s not how I meant to make her feel.

Lewis:

Then change it. She didn’t need someone to fix the crash. She needed someone who wouldn’t look away from the wreckage.

Charles:

Do you think she still sees me like that?

Lewis:

I think she wants to see something else. But that’s on you. Not her.

Charles:

I’m going to fix it. I’m not going to be the person she’s scared of anymore.

Lewis:

Good. Then show up. Not just when she’s bleeding. But when she’s quiet.

That’s when she needs someone most.

***

Group Chat: HELP ME

(Members: Daniel Ricciardo, Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Carlos Sainz Jr., George Russell, Alex Albon, Nico Hülkenberg, Nico Rosberg, Sebastian Vettel, Mark Webber, David Coulthard, Sergio Pérez, Fernando Alonso, Kimi Räikkönen, Zhou Guanyu, Logan Sargeant, Esteban Ocon, Lance Stroll, Valtteri Bottas, Pierre Gasly and Yuki Tsunoda)

Lewis: I think Charles might actually be learning. Like… real emotional growth. Apologizing. Listening. Not centering himself.

Daniel: 👏 Character 👏 Development 👏 😮‍💨 Took him fucking long enough.

Sebastian: Growth. Late, but welcome.

George: Did he cry? That’s when you know it’s real. I want misty eyes and a cracking voice.

Carlos: Crying is the bare minimum at this point. He let Belle plan his birthdays for a decade and forgot hers.

Lando: okay WHO is this Charles and what did you do with the emotionally constipated one?

Alex: Honestly though… Good for him.

Fernando: Took him long enough.

Oscar: Should we make a certificate? “Congratulations, you’re no longer a liability to your sister’s mental health.”

Logan: We should throw him a party. One he doesn’t make Belle organize.

Valtteri: I’ll bring the emotional support coffee.

David: Someone check if Charles is running a fever.

Mark: I’m just glad someone else is parenting the grid’s feelings for once.

Daniel: Progress, boys. It’s happening. Everyone hydrate and emotionally prepare.

Lewis:

He’s trying. For once, I believe him. Let’s see if he follows through.

Oscar: If he doesn’t, I vote Belle gets to slap him. On camera. For science.

Lando: I’ll bring popcorn.

[n1daehodefender]

Their reactions of you telling them you want to start trying for a baby!

Contains: Kang dae-ho, Nam gyu, thanos

A/N: This is inspired by @svetamillss post about their headcanons of you telling them you want a baby so creditis to them!!!

Warnings: Discussions about starting a family, emotional vulnerability, mentions of trauma, and varying reactions to the concept of having children.

Kang Dae-ho

Golden Retriever Boyfriend Energy: Kang Dae-ho is the type of boyfriend who radiates warmth, kindness, and endless patience. He grew up in a household with four sisters, so he’s very attuned to emotional cues and naturally supportive. He adores you, always making sure you feel loved and safe, and he frequently daydreams about your future together.

Initial Reaction to You Asking About a Baby: When you bring up the idea of starting a family, Dae-ho freezes mid-bite of his food (because you’re probably asking during a casual, comfortable moment at home). His first instinct is to make sure he heard you correctly.

“Wait… like a baby? As in… a mini-you or me running around the house?” His voice wavers slightly, caught between surprise and excitement.

Once he processes what you’re asking, his face lights up with a mixture of joy and nervousness. He’s wanted this, but he never wanted to pressure you.

Vulnerability and Deep Conversations: That evening, he sits you down for a heartfelt talk. Dae-ho takes the idea seriously, wanting to ensure that you’re both ready for the challenges and joys of parenthood.

“You know I’d love nothing more than to be a dad… but I need to know how you’re feeling about it. Are you scared? Excited? Both?” He wants to make sure you’ve thought about every angle, not because he doubts you, but because he cares so deeply.

He also opens up about his past, talking about how his sisters shaped his view of family. “Growing up, I always thought about what kind of parent I’d want to be. And my dad-,… I don’t ever want to be that kind of dad.”

Planning and Reassurance: Dae-ho is the type to throw himself wholeheartedly into the idea once he knows you’re on the same page. He starts researching baby books, looks into parenting classes, and even asks his sisters for advice.

He’s also incredibly tender and protective of you, ensuring you feel supported every step of the way. “You know I’m here, right? Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

Moments of Humor and Excitement: He’s already imagining what your child might look like, joking about how he hopes they get your eyes or your laugh. He gets especially sentimental at night, cuddling you close and whispering, “Can you imagine how much we’re going to love them?”

Nam Gyu

Nam Gyu is thoughtful and introspective, the kind of partner who expresses his love through actions more than words. He’s fiercely protective of you, always ensuring your needs are met, and though he isn’t outwardly affectionate, his love for you runs deep.

When you bring it up, Nam Gyu’s face remains stoic, but his hands clench slightly on the table. He’s taken aback—not because he doesn’t want children, but because the idea forces him to confront his own fears and insecurities.

“You want… a child? With me?” His voice is low, almost hesitant. He’s struggling to process what this means for both of you.

Nam Gyu worries about the world you’d bring a child into, especially given his experiences. He’s seen how cruel life can be, and the thought of exposing a child to that terrifies him.

“I don’t want them to grow up feeling… helpless,” he confesses later that night. “I’ve seen too much. What if I can’t protect them? What if I fail them?”

Despite his fears, he can’t help but picture a future where your child inherits your strength and his quiet resilience.

Nam Gyu takes time to process the idea, but he eventually comes to you with a clear decision.

“If this is what you want, I’ll do everything in my power to be the best father I can be. I just… need you to be patient with me.”

He’s cautious but willing, showing his commitment through small actions: building a crib, researching schools, and learning how to cook meals for a growing family.

Nam Gyu becomes even more attentive and protective of you, always keeping a hand on your back when you’re out together and ensuring you’re never overexerting yourself. His love deepens in ways he didn’t think were possible

Thanos (Su-bong)

Thanos is the life of the party, always cracking jokes and keeping the mood light. But beneath his humor is a man who has endured pain and loss, which makes him cherish you all the more. He’s your biggest cheerleader, constantly reminding you how amazing you are.

When you bring up the idea, Thanos immediately bursts into laughter—not because he’s mocking you, but because he’s genuinely shocked and unsure how to process his emotions.

“You’re serious? Like… you want a little Thanos running around? Or maybe a mini-you with your brains and my charm?”

Emotional Vulnerability: Later, when the reality sinks in, he becomes more serious. Thanos isn’t afraid to admit his fears, and he opens up about his past struggles.

“I’ve lost so much, you know? The idea of having something—someone—so precious… it scares the hell out of me. But you… you make me believe it’s possible.”

He confesses his deepest fear: losing you or the child. “I don’t know what I’d do if something went wrong, but if this is what you want… I’m in. No questions asked.”

Thanos approaches the idea of parenthood with his signature humor, making you laugh during otherwise emotional moments.

“Do you think they’ll inherit my good looks or your stubbornness? Or maybe both—poor kid’s doomed either way.”

He starts brainstorming ridiculous baby names and jokingly practices “dad jokes” to prepare for the role.

Beneath his playful exterior, Thanos shows a side of himself that’s deeply emotional and committed. He talks to your belly long before you’re even pregnant, promising the baby a life filled with love, laughter, and bad jokes.

“They’re going to have the best life because they’ll have you as a mom. And I’ll do everything I can to make sure they know how much they’re loved.”

[makis-eyebrows]

Hidden Treasure

Charles shows much of his life on social media and so on. But what happens when fans find out that for the past four years, he's been a father?

For Charles Leclerc, Monaco Was Home — and Home Meant Family.

But not the family the public knew about.

Very few people knew that Charles had a daughter, a bright-eyed, sweet-spirited little girl named Y/n, who was now four years old.

His teammates knew. Some of the paddock knew.

But beyond that?

It was one of the best-kept secrets in Formula 1.

And that’s exactly how Charles wanted it.

He had promised himself — and Y/n’s mom — Alexandra — their daughter would grow up normal. No flashing cameras in her face. No strangers yelling her name. No pressure, no judgment, no world constantly watching her every move like they did with him.

To the public, Charles was just a young driver, dating a beautiful girl, chasing world championships.

The truth was much deeper, much more precious.

Until One Afternoon in Monaco.

It was supposed to be a normal Sunday.

A walk along the harbor. Ice cream. Laughing at the ducks.

Charles carried Y/n on his shoulders, her tiny hands curled tightly into his hair. Alexandra strolled beside them, laughing at something silly Y/n had said.

But somewhere in the busy Monaco streets, a fan with a sharp eye and a quicker phone caught them.

One photo.

Posted online.

"Is that a kid?? Charles has a DAUGHTER??"

Within hours, it spread like wildfire across Twitter, Instagram, Reddit — everywhere.

Speculation. Theories. Wild guesses about her name, her age, her mother.

Some were kind.

Some were not.

Charles only found out because Pierre Gasly texted him a screenshot.

Pierre:

Mate… you might wanna check Twitter. Like, NOW.

Charles’s heart dropped. He immediately checked — and sure enough, his worst fear was unfolding.

Fans were digging. Some were trying to find Y/n’s school. Others were asking about his girlfriend.

It was spiraling — fast.

The Next Day, Charles Took Control.

He sat in front of his phone, started a livestream, and spoke calmly, but firmly:

"Bonjour, everyone... I normally don’t address things like this, but today I have to."

"Yes, the little girl in the photo is my daughter, Y/n."

"I made the choice to keep her private because... she deserves a childhood without cameras in her face, without strangers knowing her every move. She is the most important thing in my life — but she is not a public figure. She’s a child. My child."

He paused, emotion flickering behind his eyes.

"I’m asking — no, I'm begging — for her privacy to be respected. Please. She's innocent in all this."

"I share my racing, my career, even a part of my personal life with you all. But Y/n deserves a world that is safe and small, where she can grow up making mistakes, playing in the park, going to school, without being watched."

"Thank you to those who have supported me quietly all these years. Thank you for understanding."

He ended it there — no drama, no room for debate.

Just a father protecting his daughter.

In the Background

Drivers sent their support privately:

Lewis Hamilton:

Proud of you, man. Protect her at all costs.

Carlos Sainz:

Always here for you. She’s lucky to have you.

Sebastian Vettel (even though he had retired):

Family first, always. You're doing the right thing, Charles.

George Russell:

Well said. She doesn’t need a world full of cameras, just a dad who loves her. And she has that.

Meanwhile, at Home

Y/n didn’t understand the full situation.

All she knew was that Papa was a little sad today.

She padded into the living room in her tiny socks, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny.

“Papa?” she said quietly. “Why are you sad?”

Charles smiled softly, kneeling down to her level.

“Because I love you so much, mon amour. And sometimes... the world is a little noisy.”

Y/n tilted her head in that curious way she always did.

“Do we need to wear earmuffs?” she asked seriously.

Charles laughed — real, full, heart-mending laughter — and scooped her into his arms.

“Maybe we do,” he whispered into her hair.

“But no matter how noisy the world gets, I'll always be right here.”

Because to Charles Leclerc, there was no trophy, no pole position, no crowd that mattered more... than his little girl.

I just wanted to post this cuz why not? It's cute though.

I was really thinking of making my first story a series but I'm not really sure as yet so... I don't know. Ideas?

Also, I want to start doing so F1 SMAUs and it doesn't even have to be one of the drivers being a father. They can be a partner, brother, you name it. So you can request if you want, their always open :)

That's Gang Gang out!!!!♡

[sunderwight]

AU where there's no system (or a decidedly less restrictive one) and Shen Yuan transmigrates into an OC rogue cultivator before the start of the novel, and decides he's gonna steal the protagonist before Luo Binghe even gets to Cang Qiong.

The logic is sound -- he'll keep Luo Binghe from experiencing neglect and abuse at Shen Qingqiu's hands, raise him away from the pressure of the sects and the likelihood that anyone else might find out about his heritage and try to harm him over it, keep him fully away from the Immortal Alliance Conference, and then Luo Binghe's course will change trajectory because he'll have no reason to want revenge against the world and no access to Xin Mo. Shen Yuan will be able to spare Luo Binghe some suffering and possibly survive in a world less subject to the harrowing whims of a half-mad tyrannical overlord. Win-win!

However, the tricky bit is that he's not sure exactly how far ahead of the novel he is, and also Airplane didn't specify where Luo Binghe grew up. This means that Luo Binghe could be any age younger than twelve and in any number of places along or near to the Luo river.

Shen Yuan decides he's going to approach this by pretending he is looking for the long-lost son of his sister, traveling through the likeliest areas, asking after abandoned children who might fit the protagonist's description. It's a long shot, he knows, and he's mostly relying on the existence of Narrative Destiny. But eventually he is directed by several people towards a particular city, which is not as close to the river as he'd have expected Luo Binghe to grow up, but then again he only knows that was where baby Binghe was found, not where the washerwoman who took him in ultimately lived.

It becomes clear to him, though, that he's been sent to the wrong target. But also why he's been sent astray is apparent in nearly the same breath, because among the slave children living in this area is a little boy who could be his much younger clone.

Seriously, this kid looks just like him! Or, well, close enough. He looks a lot like Shen Yuan's actual nieces and nephews from his past life. It's uncanny.

Also, because of his search, the slave kids get wind of what he's looking for (his long-lost nephew) pretty quick. The boy with the obvious resemblance to him greets Shen Yuan's own assessment with wary cynicism, but he's just a little boy. So it's not difficult to notice the way he's also practically vibrating with hopefulness, half-hiding behind a protective older kid and looking at Shen Yuan with big dark eyes like he expects to be rescued or destroyed with whatever he has to say next.

Shen Yuan has a big problem now. He just knows that if he says something like "actually no this boy is too old to be my nephew" or whatever other excuse, no one will believe him, and also this poor kid is going to be permanently scarred by it. He's going to think Shen Yuan is lying just so that he can reject him. On top of that, he's not in a good situation here. None of these children are even remotely well cared-for.

Shen Yuan's rogue cultivator self isn't rich on the level of being like a wealthy sect leader or anything, but he's made some money since transmigrating by doing random cultivator jobs and quests along the way here. He uses it all to purchase two little slave boys (Do Not Separate), then takes another job and uses that coin to acquire a somewhat rundown manor which used to belong to the local gentry. The Qiu family (rings some bells but that's not exactly an uncommon name) kept it up for a while in case a branch family sprung up in need of a residence, but they've been in decline and the place is downright decrepit, so they had been looking to sell it instead. It's too big for a wandering bachelor like SY to ever need on his own account, but that's sort of the idea. He makes more money taking on cultivator work, at first taking his boys along with him for lack of any alternative. Nerve-wrackingly dangerous! Eventually he hires workers to start restoring the manor, particularly setting up a yard to be a school area, and then starts taking on any freelance jobs he can get in order to steadily buy out the contracts on all the other kids. He gets it nice enough to house and care for as many orphans as he can acquire.

Not because he's a big old softie though!

His story of looking for his nephew is a bust now, since he's apparently "found" the kid. So he's got to change tactics! If he can't find baby Binghe and the washerwoman, the next best approach is to create an opportunity for them to come to him. So once he's got his new household established, he starts offering free lessons to all the local kids. Not just the ones he's taken in, but also any who come by and want to learn some things. It's a tempting setup for anyone who wants their child to get education but can't afford a tutor, and Luo Binghe's mother had been entirely the sort of person who would have packed up and left her situation if there had been an opportunity for it.

On that note, SY also starts hiring single mothers to help look after his new gaggle of children and do the work he doesn't know how to do in these times, like keeping house, laundry, cooking, actually raising kids, etc.

His "little school" is not universally popular. A few groups try and ruin him, because the poverty in the region provides a basis of business for them. The ringleaders of the human traffickers in the area don't want their trade to dry up, even if it means selling all of their merchandise for this round, so when they find out that their underlings let Shen Yuan buy off all the kids they try and intimidate him into returning them (it doesn't go well for them). The Qiu family also isn't thrilled after it becomes clear what he's doing, and get him investigated by the local authorities (read: use their bribed officials and local goons to try and interfere.)

When that doesn't work either the sects get involved, because the Qiu go crying to Huan Hua Palace that Shen Yuan is sketchy and is trying to establish his own sect. So Shen Yuan talks his way around the matter, and frankly the Qiu are small fish even if they're the biggest ones in the local pond, so HHP doesn't care to pursue things much further. (Read: SY could mop the floor with the disciples they sent to investigate him, and it's not worth it to piss off someone this mysterious and powerful just to bully some impoverished children.)

Shen Yuan is appalled by all this bullshit though. Trust the world of PIDW to make it so hard just for a guy to teach some poor kids how to read and do math!

It makes him dig in his heels about it, because he is at heart a stubborn bastard. The fires that once fueled a thousand angry screeds on zhongdian literature site is now aimed at the local magistrate. One of the women he's hired on has some dirt on the Qiu family, which leads SY to dig up some more until he eventually has enough to turn the tables on them. Local officials won't investigate because they've all been bought, but that in and of itself is of some interest to their superiors closer to the palace, and so SY arranges an investigation of his own that goes way further than he thought? Turns out there are some ugly skeletons in the Qiu closets, and the imperial investigator comes down on them hard.

Well, he can't say they didn't have it coming? Though he does feel bad for the children in the family, especially the oldest son, who gets hauled off to jail along with his father. At least the girl is sent to live with relatives. Maybe he should have done more to shield the minors in the situation...?

His kids tell him not to worry about it, though, that apparently young master Qiu was known to run people down in the streets and beat his servants and do other cartoonishly awful things. SY's not sure how much of it is true and how much of it is his little flock of fluffy sheep trying to ease his conscience, though they do all seem to take a lot of vindictive delight in the whole affair. Especially Nephew, who clings to his sleeves and loudly declares that the investigator should have publicly flogged the discredited nobles so that everyone could go watch, and then begs him for sweets as if that wasn't a creepy thing to hear come out of an eight-year-old's mouth. SY just sighs and tells him he can have something good when he finishes his calligraphy practice.

Of course, it's not exactly easy running what is basically an orphanage-slash-school (and maybe a budding sect...?), especially when pretty much all of the kids have been traumatized and faced stuff like rampant dehumanization, food insecurity, abuse, and neglect. Hiring single mothers soon becomes not only a plan to try and lure in Luo Binghe's mom, but an absolute godsend of an idea because SY has no clue WHAT he would do on his own about the discipline issues or emotional breakdowns or acting out that some of the kids get up to once it registers that they're in a safe enough place to unpack their baggage.

Apart from Nephew, SY's favorite kid is the one who came with him, the oldest of the flock of former slave children. He's the big brother of the group, the one who tries his best to look after the others and to not make any trouble himself. But even poor Little Yue is still just a kid who has been through too much, and he also eventually starts having some meltdowns and struggles with processing everything that has happened to him as a vulnerable child in an unkind world.

SY really didn't mean to start a trauma center for mistreated children!

Though, that's still not necessarily a bad thing for Luo Binghe to one day come across, provided he ever actually shows up...

Eventually, Shen Yuan does figure out that he must be ahead even of Luo Binghe's birth, though he still doesn't put together that he's interfered in the scum villain's backstory. Probably something even more amusingly obscure, like the creation year of some random artifact Luo Binghe used in some wife plot or other, tips him off and he mentally throws his hands up in the air. He's got to wait DECADES? Maybe he ought to try and find Luo Binghe's biological parents and just follow them around at this point!

Not that he can, now, though, because he has to make sure no negative IQ villains (who will probably just be cannon fodder for a subplot one day) decide to send goons to literally burn down his orphanage. Also if he's gone for too long his kids get upset. Probably because no one else is as weak to their puppy dog eyes and pleas for treats and toys as he is.

At least it gives him time to shore up his position, and train Nephew and Little Yue more extensively in cultivation. Despite his initial assurances to HHP that he was but a humble orphan wrangler who was only incidentally a cultivator, Shen Yuan does also teach the other kids some basic cultivation exercises. There are a few reasons for that.

One is just the principle of the thing. No, these kids don't all have the potential to become great immortals or anything, but they can still learn some of it and it's good for their health if they do. The only trouble is if they try and push too hard or attempt things beyond their range, and that's a risk with everyone who cultivates. Or even just exercises!

Another reason is that it helps stave off the jealousy that some of the kids have towards those with more cultivation potential. Teaching a lot of the basics all around makes it into just another topic at school. Some kids might not be as good at it as others, but those kids might also be better at math, or memorization, or board games, and while cultivation can open more doors to people as adults, for the children this is generally enough to satisfy their sense of fairness. Or at least reduce outbursts and fights.

Finally, the impression that any of SY's kids might be a cultivator also makes wicked people more reluctant to try and abduct or interfere with them. Cultivators are revered and nearly mythological figures in the public consciousness. It isn't difficult to see why, if even a rogue cultivator NPC like SY* can mop the floor with most random muggers (*Shen Yuan is not a normal rogue cultivator). Not many people want to risk bringing SY's ire down on them, but of those who might chance it if he wasn't around to immediately react, even fewer want to risk that the kids themselves could kick their asses.

Not knowing that only two of the orphans probably could in fact mop the floor with them helps keep all the rest safer, and is more believable when all of them can conduct themselves enough like disciples to fool anyone who doesn't know what to really look for.

Developments that surprise Shen Yuan but wouldn't surprise anyone else who is paying attention:

People start leaving unwanted babies and younger children on his doorstep. Not all the time, but more than once has he had to frantically find wet nurses and worry that he's changed things enough that some fishermen might just randomly drop the protagonist outside his gate, and he wouldn't even know because Binghe would be a literal infant??

Nephew (SJ) and Little Yue (Yue Qi -- only Shen Yuan calls him "Little", especially when he gets taller than SY by the time he's sixteen) are prodigies who get really good at cultivation, really fast, and between that and Shen Yuan's OP skills they completely warp Shen Yuan's ideas for what normal cultivation potential looks like. This would probably cause more problems if he wasn't teaching all the kids how to cultivate anyway, but means his students actually do kinda run the usual range of skills for a small sect.

SJ and YQ swiftly reach the point where they need more advanced equipment than just SY's teaching can provide, if they're going to keep building their skills. Gaining access to certain tools, aids, and materials (like spiritual swords) is a real hurdle though, and usually is for rogue cultivators (one of the major disadvantages of no sect affiliation.) Shen Yuan is hesitant to use stuff from the plot, since it's For Binghe, but he eventually caves and starts going after some things that he doesn't think the future protagonist will miss much. He also ends up buying stuff from HHP, since they're willing to sell things like spiritual tools and weapons if the price is right, whereas most other sects like Cang Qiong reserve them for members only.

They get an invitation to the Immortal Alliance Conference. Not the one where the Abyss opens up, obviously, the one where (originally) Shen Jiu reunited with Yue Qi and killed Wu Yanzi. Shen Yuan debates on going but the boys really want to, and things have calmed down enough that no one's trying to burn down the school whenever he leaves these days, so eventually he figures it'll be interesting to see some of the Cang Qiong characters and should be safe enough if he keeps his disciples close.

They don't run into young Yue Qingyuan or Shen Qingqiu on the trip, but Wu Yanzi does show up and get killed, and SY only hears about it and assumes they just missed all that action. (WYZ just got caught by some senior cultivators who recognized him and killed him to avenge some disciples he murdered.) Nephew and Little Yue do meet young Liu Qingge, Shang Qinghua, Mu Qingfang, and Su Xiyan though! Which gives Shen Yuan the opportunity to tell them all (mostly Su Xiyan) that if they're ever in trouble near his school, they can come to him for help. Hint hint.

This open invitation ends up being accepted broadly by a lot of traveling cultivators after the conference, who from then on treat Shen Yuan's school like a free motel whenever they're passing through. Plenty aren't even people SY met, but it seems his statement was taken as a general one to fellow righteous cultivators all around! Luckily, this has some advantages. Shen Yuan has no qualms running off anyone who tries to take unfair advantage of him or especially his kids or staff, and no shame in conscripting anyone who is decent enough to help teach his students, even if it's nothing to do with cultivating, and somehow word gets around and people start bringing school supplies, medicine, food, or other useful things along with them as gifts to help repay the hospitality. Young Liu Qingge comes by a lot on his way to and from various quests, or even seems to just turn up randomly sometimes (he comes to challenge YQ and SJ to fights), and SY's just like "I guess this is happening now" and teaches him to recognize the early signs of qi deviation and advises strongly against meditating in caves.

At one point a young Shang Qinghua turns up in one of the spare rooms, very obviously hiding an ice demon. Shen Yuan again is just like "I guess this is happening now" and shelters them until Mobei Jun has recovered, and sends a message to Cang Qiong that one of their An Ding caravans was attacked and their disciple is recovering under his roof but isn't well enough to travel yet. Much less stressful situation for Airplane (who is desperately trying to figure out what he did to manifest SJ's benevolent uncle from somewhere???)

Su Xiyan seems like the only person they met at the Immortal Alliance Conference who doesn't turn up at their door in a state of emergency at some point.

A few years later, there is a big scandal involving her and the demon emperor. Su Xiyan disappears, Huan Hua Palace accuses Tianlang Jun of plotting against the righteous sects, and Shen Yuan is even invited to the meeting where they try and rally everyone to go kill Binghe's dad. Naturally, he declines to participate in the witch hunt, but the major sects agree to it. By luck (or narrative fortune) Shen Yuan comes across Zhuzhi Lang on his trip back home, and mentions the ambush and his distaste for it (not knowing who ZZL is). ZZL warns Tianlang Jun and the confrontation goes very differently, especially since there's no Yue Qingyuan wielding Xuan Su.

It doesn't go well for the sects involved. Huan Hua Palace gets decimated. The Old Palace Master gets killed. Shen Yuan is like uhhhh that's... whoops? Didn't Luo Binghe need that in the future?? Fuck.

But the sect isn't wiped out completely, they just take a massive beating. Some of their younger disciples end up leaving and turning up on Shen Yuan's doorstep, for some reason. The manor house is becoming too small to account for all of these foundlings! They have to expand. Though the expansions would be a stretch to term a "palace" they end up occupying a much larger chunk of territory, and even investing in farmland and some storehouses to help support the sect. That's still not really a sect, of course. Even if a lot of the business that would have normally gone to Huan Hua Palace starts coming to them instead. Once HHP is back on its feet the stream will probably dry out. Probably?

Zhuzhi Lang starts hanging around. He's actually looking for Su Xiyan or their baby, dead or alive and per Tianlang Jun's instructions, but he uses Shen Yuan's school as base camp for his kind of hopeless efforts to find any traces of them, while also looking for ways to try and repay Shen Yuan. All the kids are just like "oh great, another weird man has fallen in love with Shizun -- someone go run interference" about it.

Some years later, an older woman and her young son turn up. Shen Yuan's off on a quest at the time, so SJ receives them. As is standard procedure he gives the woman a job and places the boy in classes, after giving him the aptitude tests. The kid is cute and precocious, so SJ uses him to distract YQ while he himself sneaks out to go join LQG on a monster hunt (and claim the valuable parts of the beast's remains for himself), and neither SY nor ZZL notice anything until SY's going over the paperwork for stuff he missed while he was gone. Since he procrastinated, it takes him like a week to find out that Luo Binghe is finally under his roof. He's going over the admission form right when SJ arrives with The New Adorable Child to try and distract SY enough that SY will let him go on a solo hunt -- as far as being distracted goes, it is way more effective than even SJ anticipated.

Then he has to figure out how to let ZZL know, so that ZZL can let Tianlang Jun know, so that Luo Binghe will have more family than just his mom and more resources than just a shabby little not-sect! But even once he figures it out and sets up the dramatic reveal, TLJ is just like "great! so can he just stay with you? he's probably fine there" which... irritates SY.

SJ fully conscripts Luo Binghe as a minion in his many cons. He never lost his street kid conman tactics, although he now uses them less as a ruthless survival tool or weapon and more to just get things to go his own way. LBH has the face and disposition of a little angel, which SJ no longer can pull off as a full grown adult, so he fills a gap. LBH also knows full well what's going, especially since a lot of SJ's tactics involve throwing LBH at SY like a smoke bomb.

Luo Binghe inevitably still develops a big fat crush on SY, so this is fine by him. Especially when he gets older, he starts bringing SY tea and making him breakfast and running his errands until even SJ is like "wait a minute, this little brat's stealing my job!" and by then it's too late. Luo Binghe is SY's personal assistant, the disciple at conman puppydog eyes has surpassed the master! While SJ was busy being like "I'm going to trick this idiot into doing my chores" LBH was going "I'm going to trick this idiot into giving me his job".

SY takes too long to officially name his school so everyone calls it the Shen Sect, much to his embarrassment.

[zyhkoo]

☆ everything i know about love

dick grayson and jason todd x fem!reader (separate)

they drunkenly propose

a/n: i was inspired by this fic my friend showed me, i hope you guys like this one!

Jason todd

Jason never understood the fuss about marriage. Just a piece of jewelry and some vows, and you're suddenly yoked to someone for life. No thanks. He had more important things to worry about than tying the knot. Besides, he enjoyed his freedom far too much to be tied down like that.

Why commit to one person when the world is full of interesting people to meet and adventures to be had? Jason preferred to live life on his own terms, without the constraints of a ring on his finger.

His secret identity as Red Hood only added to the list of reasons why marriage didn't fit into Jason's plans. His life was dangerous and unpredictable, and he couldn't risk the safety of a loved one by involving them in his shadowy world. Plus, balancing a marriage and a secret life as a crime-fighter would be nearly impossible. It was better for everyone involved if Jason continued his nocturnal escapades alone.

Surprisingly enough, Jason found himself softening his stance while dating you. It wasn’t like he suddenly became a relationship enthusiast overnight, but he couldn’t deny the subtle change in his perspective.

Though marriage still seemed like a far-off possibility, Jason realized that a fulfilling relationship didn't necessarily require a ring. He was content with the way things were, cherishing the connection he had with you and the moments they shared. The idea of a wedding might still make him a bit nervous, but he knew what mattered most was the happiness you shared in the present.

As the buzz about your relationship grew, the questions about when you were getting married started to come up more frequently. Your friends would throw subtle hints during conversations, or nosy family members would outright ask, expecting a firm timeline. Jason felt the pressure, too. The constant reminders of marriage were like a nagging voice in the back of his mind, pushing him to make a decision he wasn’t ready for. The pressure was mounting, but Jason stubbornly held onto his reservations.

Then, it hit him. Wedding fever.

The last wedding the two of you attended was your best friend’s. You couldn't believe it when you accidentally caught the bouquet at your best friend's wedding. It was just a silly tradition, nothing more. At least, that's what you thought. Little did you know, the effect of the bouquet would hit someone unexpected: Jason.

Suddenly, the mere touch of that bouquet ignited a strange fervor within him. A fever for the idea of marriage, something he had vehemently opposed in the past. Jason watched as your friends and family playfully teased you about catching the bouquet, but his mind was elsewhere. He stood there, dumbfounded, as if the sight of you with that bouquet had somehow changed everything.

His thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and newfound desire. How could a simple bouquet have such an impact on him? He was the guy who never wanted to get married, and now he was practically salivating at the thought. What was happening to him?

When he had too much to drink, you dragged him back to the hotel room.

You gently pulled Jason into the hotel room, his body leaning heavily against yours as the alcohol dulled his senses. You decided to undress him so he'd be more comfortable, unbuttoning his polo shirt while his breath tickled your neck. But as you reached the last button, Jason suddenly leaned forward and pressed a desperate, hungry kiss against your lips.

You were caught off guard by his sudden move, but you couldn't resist the passion behind the kiss. You returned his kiss, your lips responding tenderly and gently meeting him. As he pulled away, your heart skipped a beat as Jason looked into your eyes, his words slurred but his gaze steady. "Marry me," he said.

Here he was, the man who had once been so skeptical about marriage, proposing to you in the midst of a drunken stupor. You couldn't believe what you were hearing, you were absolutely baffled. You stammered, trying to find the right words to say. “What?” you muttered.

"I said, marry me," he repeated as he gripped your wrist. “M’ serious," he insisted, as if trying to convince himself just as much as he was trying to convince you.

You couldn't help but stand there with your mouth open, in disbelief at the words that were coming out of his mouth. This was the same man who had been adamantly against the idea of marriage just a few hours ago, and now he was drunkenly proposing to you! Jason's lips grazed against your fingers, his breath warm and words slurred but still filled with a sweet intensity. "Come on," he muttered, clinging to your hand. "Just say yes."

You could feel the nerves in your voice as you struggled to find the right words. "Wow, uh...I'd love to say yes, but maybe we should call it a day first. Let's talk about it in the morning, okay?"

Jason's eyes softened as he looked at you, his drunken state making it difficult for him to comprehend your words. But he nodded, albeit reluctantly. "In the morning," he repeated, his voice slurring. "But m’ serious, I do want to marry you." You gave him a small, reassuring smile. "I know you're serious," you said softly, gently stroking his hair. "We'll talk about it in the morning, when you're sober, okay?"

Dick Grayson

It all began with a simple birthday surprise from Dick– a beautiful white cake that bore an uncanny resemblance to a wedding dress. Unintentionally, it planted the seed of wedding fever in Dick's mind. Slowly, the realization dawned upon him, sparking a subtle yet determined desire to make his love for you official.

Dick found himself wrestling with how to broach the subject. While you had occasionally mentioned a future together, marriage had never explicitly entered the picture in your conversations. He pondered how to bring up the idea without catching you off guard.

Late one night, after an evening of bonding with his siblings over a few drinks, Dick returned to the cozy abode he shared with you. In his grip, he clutched a single daisy, its delicate white petals gently swayed with each movement. As he stepped inside, he revealed a paper ring resting on his palm, its simplicity belying the depth of emotion he wanted to convey.

You looked down at the paper ring in Dick's hand with puzzlement in your eyes. "What is this?" you asked. His heart thumped in his chest as he saw your confused eyes. He took a step closer, the petals of the flower trailing across your skin. A gentle smile played on his lips as he slurred, “It’s a ring, f’ course.”

He held the ring up, offering it to you. “I want to…” he trails his words. “You want to..?” you continued his sentence. He looks into your eyes, the paper ring still offered in his hand. He’s taking in the sight of you, wearing nothing more than a pair of sleep shorts and one of his old t-shirts, with your hair messy on your head.

“I… I want to marry you,” he says quietly.

You replied quickly, “Sure.” you said casually. A hint of surprise flickered in Dick's eyes. He had braced himself for a range of potential reactions, but this one had caught him off guard. Dick's mouth hung open for a moment, and for a split second he was at a loss for words. "Sure?" he repeated, his voice laced with a mixture of disbelief and a touch of confusion. He looked at you in slight surprise, his mind processing the unexpected simplicity of your response.

“Yeah,” you replied as you held his hand. “Let’s get married.”

His mind raced, trying to process the unexpected simplicity of your response. He’d been expecting a little bit more discussion, maybe even some tears, yet here you were, casually agreeing to his impromptu proposal. He stared down at you, a mix of surprise and elation flooding his expression. He looked at your hand holding his thumb running against the back of your hand.

“Just like that?” he chuckled, a bit breathlessly. You only smiled softly, “Why wouldn’t I marry someone like you?” you told him. “Let’s get you to bed, you’re gonna have a massive hangover tomorrow.”

He looked down at the paper ring on his hand, then back at you. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, as he took your hand in his, and placed the ring upon your finger. “Now it’s official,” he chuckled, looking down at the simple paper ring on your finger.

💍 discord server please like and reblog!

[slutforvoldy]

“ IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT. ” ( ollie bearman ! )

SUMMARY: wherein a secret relationship between the reader and ollie unexpectedly unfolds

word count: 1.4k

warnings: secret relationship, forbidden love, getting caught, mentions of y/n

pairing: ollie bearman x wolff!reader

YOU WERE RAISED in the world of Formula 1.

The roar of engines, the scent of burnt rubber, the flashing cameras in the paddock—these were the sights and sounds of your childhood. Your father, Toto Wolff, had built a dynasty within Mercedes, and by extension, you had spent your whole life at the heart of it. Strategy meetings were as familiar as family dinners, and race weekends were your version of holidays. But while you were surrounded by the best of the best, young drivers with all the potential in the world, your heart had settled on someone else.

Ollie Bearman.

He wasn’t part of the Mercedes team. His team was one of the weaker outfits in Formula 1, struggling to climb out of the midfield, and that alone made him a rival in your father’s eyes. To Toto, Ollie was nothing more than another driver with little chance of breaking through. But that wasn’t the real issue. Your father had already set his sights on another driver—someone he believed was perfect for you: Kimi Antonelli.

Kimi was a prodigy, talented and promising. He was everything your father saw in a potential suitor. A good influence. A future champion. And in his mind, he was the right choice for you, although you barely even considered him more than a friend. Your father believed he was the one you should be with.

But Ollie was different. Ollie wasn’t perfect in the eyes of your father. He wasn’t the one who’d be a champion on the track, at least not in the way Kimi might be. But in your heart, Ollie was all you wanted, and the last thing you wanted was for Toto to find out about the secret you were keeping.

It was always at night when you met Ollie.

You both had agreed upon this. It's much easier without all the media frenzy, people's prying eyes, and the paparazzi's camera flashes.

The moments between you two were fleeting, always stolen under the veil of darkness. The hotel rooms, the rooftops, and the quiet corners of the paddock were where you found solace. The real world, the one full of expectations, paparazzi, and race strategies, stayed outside. Here, there was just you and Ollie, with no eyes watching, no judgments waiting. Only fleeting moments where you could just be.

Tonight was no different.

You slipped past the hotel lobby under the cover of darkness, hood pulled over your head and eyes on the floor. You had gotten good at this—the sneaking, the hiding. It was second nature now. But even as you pushed open the door to Ollie’s hotel room, you could feel the familiar rush of exhilaration hit you.

“Thought you might back out tonight,” Ollie grinned, already sitting on the bed, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you. “Good to know I’m still your favorite.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hide your smile. "I don’t think I’m supposed to be sneaking around at this hour."

“You say that every time,” Ollie laughed, standing up to greet you. His hands found their way to your waist, pulling you closer. “But you keep doing it anyway.”

“Of course... I want to see you,” you admitted, your voice soft.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to his, letting the soft pressure melt away the tension of the day. The thrill of it was undeniable—the secrecy, the forbidden nature of it. It was your own secret little world where nothing else mattered, even if you knew the moment daylight arrived, you would have to slip away again.

The rule was simple: leave before dawn.

That was the only way to keep your secret safe. Once the cameras came out, once the press woke up, everything would unravel. So when the first light of dawn started to creep into the room, you knew it was time to go.

You pulled away, looking back at Ollie with a sigh. “I should get going. Sun’s almost up.”

“No, you’re not allowed to go,” Ollie teased, grabbing your wrist and pulling you closer again. “Not without one more kiss.”

You laughed softly, pressing your lips to his one last time before reluctantly pulling away. You stepped toward the door, adjusting the hood on your jacket to make yourself look as inconspicuous as possible.

You slipped out of Ollie’s room, your heart racing in your chest as you tried to stay quiet.

You both made your way down the hallway, walking fast but not fast enough to attract attention. You could feel the weight of the night in your bones, the lingering sense of danger, and you couldn’t shake the feeling that someone might be around the corner at any moment.

But then you heard it—footsteps.

Ollie tensed beside you, and your body instinctively froze. You could hear the faint echoes growing closer, the sound of footsteps coming toward you down the hallway.

“What do we do?” You whispered urgently, panic bubbling up in your chest.

“I don’t know! We can’t just stand here!” Ollie’s voice was filled with anxiety now. “We can’t let them see us, especially not you! You can’t—”

“I don’t know! What if it’s someone from the team?” You whispered-shouted back. “Or worse, a paparazzi!”

“Shh!” Ollie hissed, looking down the hallway. “They’ll hear us! Just stay quiet. Stay hidden.”

Ollie stiffened beside you, his hand instinctively grabbing yours. You held your breath as the footsteps grew louder, echoing down the hallway. There was no mistaking it—someone was coming.

“Y/N,” a voice called out.

You stiffened in panic. It was your father.

Toto Wolff.

You felt Ollie’s hand tighten around yours, but neither of you dared to move.

You turned slowly, your heart sinking into your stomach as you saw him standing in the hallway, arms crossed, looking at you with an expression that was part disbelief, part concern. His gaze flicked to Ollie, then back to you. There was no hiding it now.

“What are you doing up at this hour?” Toto asked flatly.

“I—uh, I was just heading back to my room, Dad." You swallowed. "You’re up late,” you added, trying to distract him from the fact that he had caught you red-handed.

Toto didn’t miss a beat. “So are you.” His gaze flicks from you to Ollie. There was no mistaking the recognition in his eyes, and your heart plummeted in your chest.

Your stomach twisted, but you didn’t know what else to say. The silence stretched out, thick and suffocating.

You quickly glanced at Ollie, and he met your eyes, panic written all over his face. You both exchanged a look, desperate to come up with a plan to make it seem like this is not what it looks like even though it definitely is.

“Get back to your room,” Toto continued, his voice calm but firm.

You hesitated for a moment, but his gaze never wavered. You knew better than to argue. Slowly, you nodded.

“Goodnight, sir,” Ollie said quietly, his voice respectful but also carrying the weight of their unspoken rivalry. He nodded at Toto before glancing at you one last time.

You watched Ollie leave, the door clicking softly behind him. Your father’s gaze didn’t leave him, and for a moment, it was like there was a silent exchange happening between the two men. A moment of understanding.

“I told you not to get involved with him,” your father finally said, his tone still impassive.

“I’m not a child anymore, Dad,” you replied, your voice quiet but steady. “I can make my own choices.”

Toto exhaled, but the tension seemed to ease in his features just a little. “We’ll talk about this later.”

You nodded, turning to head back to your room. You couldn’t look back.

The next day, you waited for the inevitable. You knew your father wasn’t one to brush things off. But when he found you again in the hotel lobby, he surprised you with his approach.

“You want your relationship to remain private?” Toto asked, his voice steady but carrying an edge of finality. “Then make it better. No more sneaking around, no more late-night rendezvous. I can’t support something that’s all secrets.”

You stared at him, unsure of how to respond.

“But if you’re willing to face the consequences,” Toto continued, “if you’re willing to stand by it and make it right, then I can support it. You’re not a child anymore. You don’t need to hide.”

Your heart fluttered in your chest, a mixture of relief and anxiety.

“So... you approve?” You asked cautiously.

Toto gave a small nod, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly. “Just make sure you’re ready for what comes with it.”

You let out a shaky breath. “I am. I’m ready.”

And just like that, the weight of the world seemed to lift off your shoulders. You no longer had to hide.

[theonottsbxtch]

MAX VERSTAPPEN MASTERLIST | MV1

codes: ✦ angst

SMAU:

long way 'round | cowboy!max summary: after she comes back from the city to tend her father's ranch, it seems that the boys he once went to school with is adamant to make his presence known

ONE SHOTS:

miss you baby | gf!reader summary: while max may be an aggressive on track, there is one thing that most don't know and that's how much of a love sick sap he is for his girlfriend. his whole world revolves around her. and when she's not around, he feels it a lot. so when she couldn't make it to brazil, the only thing he could do was pout, until...

mi novio, max verstappen | mexican!reader summary: how crazy of a thing would it be to introduce your long term boyfriend to your mexican family during christmas out of all times?

baby, baby | fiance!reader summary: max's performance is waivering a tiny bit, and people are confused at how the 3x world champion is struggling. but little do they know. it's because of a little one.

forever and always | military!max summary: if max had to count how many people had stuck with him his whole life, he'd only have to lift a pinky. there was only her, always her who stuck beside him, even when he went off to the military.

don't wanna be saved | mob boss!max summary: she'd gotten good at escaping her past, at covering up her tracks. but when a good looking single father with enough money to end her problems comes for dressage sessions for his daughter, she struggles to hide her secrets. and one thing she doesn't want, it to be saved.

my peace | bestfriend!max summary: growing up, max wasn't allowed friends. but she had managed to sneak into his life. no matter how many times jos told him he didn't deserve her. when he wanted the world to go quiet, only one person could do that, and that was his best friend.

my birthday, my love | gf!reader summary: it's understandable to forget a birthday, especially when you're a formula one driver. but next never would. he's too good for that.

marne la vallee | war deserter!max summary: the war took so much out of people and it took so much out of max, that's why he fled. fled south to france, where he met her. the woman of his dreams. but not everything is fair in love and war.

teen idle | stranger!reader summary: the pressure of being a driver and becoming generational talent wasn't easy, which is why max liked the idea of going incognito sometimes, meeting people who didn't know his name, or recognise his accent. he liked it when life was quiet.

serve | tennis player!reader summary: she'd heard it all by now, how max was nothing but a distraction. and while she was good at shutting out the noise, sometimes it was good to shut them up for good.

the station down the road | police officer!max summary: she was too young to be taken seriously. he’d spent his whole life holding the world at arm’s length. they found home in each other, slowly, quietly, completely. not a love story with fireworks. just one that stayed.

SERIES:

the princess and the driver | princess!reader summary: her whole life all she's known is duty and how to be the perfect princess, but sometimes she yearns for freedom. and to her, that freedom came in the form of a boy by the karting track with a twinkle in his eye and a soft accent.

part one | part two | part three | part four | completed

whats left behind | barrell racer!reader x bull rider!max summary: when max had the chance to make it big, he took off and left his small town and girlfriend behind in the rearview mirror of his truck. he made a name for himself but now he's not quite sure he's happy with that so he comes back. but if there is one thing the town doesn't forget, it's their grudges.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | completed

preacher’s daughter | catholic!reader summary: her family was the perfect picture of what a catholic family should look like, everyone but her family knew what happened behind closed doors, until max found out. until max did something about it.

part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | final part | completed

99 problems | single dad!reader summary: max, multi wdc owner, multi millionaire, mul- father? that wasn't supposed to happen. nor was having an 18 year old dumped on his door step. max isn't used to this, he doesn't know how it works, so is it bad if he lets him live a little? part one | part two - completed

foggy memories | spy!max summary: all his life, all max can remember is working as a spy for this agency. he's one of the best in his field. he goes in, extracts the information and gets out. until he finds himself compromised, by a girl who feels all too familiar, who tells him that maybe his life he'd constructed in his head wasn't real.

part one | part two | in progress

match made in hell | driver!reader summary: she had everything, wins, championships, a fiancee. but one text message makes that all crumble. and suddenly the man she thought loved her his whole life is her sworn enemy? and now her track enemy is her lover? what was going on.

part one | part two | part three | completed

[starmocha]

from osmanthus to snowdrop

[Zayne/Reader ★ 16.2K words ★ Masterlist ★ Snowdrop Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] “Might already be carrying my baby,” he continued, “You like this thought, don’t you?” chapters ★ one | two | three | four | five tag list: beneath cut 【 request to be added 】

A/N: Sometimes you let your intrusive thoughts win and casually mention, "hey, what if sweet little baby Snowdrop from my toddler series was conceived from Zayne and MC's brat taming and breeding session" and your followers enabled you....... THIS IS THEIR FAULT (I love you guys, pls keep enabling me and my shenanigans 🥺💖) Inspired by two past blurbs I had written: “Afternoon Lessons” and “Lesson Learned (?)”. You can also follow the madness that is the Snowdrop Conception Fic to see how far down the rabbit hole I was yeeted into. Anyway. Chapter 1 of 5. Updated whenever I fancy. Bye. 💖

You almost wished the honeymoon period would never end, feeling like this time alone with Zayne was truly special. The wedding had been five months earlier, and as expected, many people were surprised that there was no immediate baby announcement.

You had heard some hushed whispers, seen the curious looks in their eyes, but of course, it would be so rude of them to walk straight up to you or Zayne and start asking questions. It wasn’t any of their business, really.

Truthfully, the topic of family had come up between you and Zayne prior to the marriage. Zayne, as always, wanted to be prepared, to make sure there was no miscommunications or misconception between the two of you. It was so long ago, so you couldn’t quite remember who had initiated the conversation first.

It was probably during one of those late nights in bed together. The world was quiet and a comforting stillness settled, and you had laid with him, enjoying each other’s warmth. Even in the worst calamity ever, Zayne’s presence always seemed to ground you, bringing you peace and comfort. You had hoped you were the same for him, wanting to offer him the same serenity he had always brought to you and be the sanctuary he needed when the world wore him down.

Now after marriage came the baby carriage, but it didn’t mean it had to happen immediately, you had thought, or even at all. Babies were still the furthest things from your mind, as there were other important matters in your life you had valued more. You had your career, your youth and time, and also your new husband. You wanted to enjoy these first few months as newlyweds with your husband, keeping this fleeting precious private time to just the two of you.

It didn’t mean you did not occasionally enjoy indulging in the idea of having a baby with him. In fact, you knew Zayne was particularly turned on by the notion of impregnating you with his baby. You had seen it in the way he would sometimes caress your flat belly, and over time, you were the one who experimented with treading that fine line, learning for yourself just how much this aroused him.

As it turned out, you also enjoyed this, too. You loved the very idea of him leaving you with a part of him to carry, something permanent to bind you and him together for life. The idea of being pregnant with his child would also be, in a way, an open display of not only his love for you, but a possessive hold he had.

Of course, sweet as he was, Zayne would never pressure you into having a baby if you weren’t ready yet. Thankfully, you were on birth control, so at the very least, you were able to indulge in his fantasy a little, keep him satiated in a way only you could.

The sweet honeymoon period seemed so endless, like it could last forever and ever as you both basked in marital bliss together. You enjoyed this intimate period alone with Zayne, waking up in bed with him, catching a late lunch together from time to time, or getting whisked away for a last-minute weekend getaway. You enjoyed moments like those, getting lost together with him in new cities, gorging on delicious meals and pastries with him, and curled up in bed with him, enjoying each other’s company, whispering sweet nothings, and lazing away together as if all of the time in the world was yours and yours alone.

Alone with him. Together with him.

Everything about this time with him was so romantic and exhilarating, feeling like your own private movie where you two starred in the leading roles of your very own love story. You couldn’t imagine wanting any of this to end, or anything to disrupt this time between you and him.

Everything was perfect as is.

Then, one day, as you and Zayne sat eating Sunday brunch together at a bistro in downtown Linkon City, you noticed a baby at the next table. She still seemed fairly young, though you weren’t familiar enough with such young children to even guess how old she was. The baby’s parents, however, were about the same age as you and Zayne, you noted. They looked like new parents taking their little one out for the first time since she was born.

They looked so overjoyed. You couldn’t help but admired the beautiful couple and their baby. There was something charming about this new family. The couple seemed so enthralled and enamored with their little one, delighting in every movement and every expression shown no matter how miniscule or innocuous they seemed to other bystanders. To them, she was their whole universe.

You vaguely wondered if such parental love was common, an instinctive nature that would come along in time. To love someone this young so immensely, you wondered if later in life when you and Zayne had your own little family, would this same love come so naturally to you?

Unknowingly, you were smiling along, startling only when the baby appeared to notice you and gurgled happily, her little arm reaching out for you from a table away.

Unconsciously, you smiled back as sweet as you could, and gave a little wave.

“Who are you waving at?” Zayne’s voice broke your trance.

“Ah—” You blushed in embarrassment at being caught, and lowered your arm, redirecting your attention to your perplexed husband. His brows furrowed in confusion, head tilted a little, as he waited for your response. You picked up your fork and poked at the soft-boiled egg on your plate, breaking its yolk and watching it smeared over your arugula salad. Shrugging, you took a bite of your meal, answering him after swallowing, “That baby at the next table was smiling at me.”

He discreetly peered at the table behind him, catching a glimpse of the couple getting ready to leave after paying for their meal. The baby also appeared to notice him over her father’s shoulder, and she reached out for Zayne, giggling and gurgling happily at him.

He chuckled and gave her a soft smile, also instinctively waving at her with just his fingers. He turned back to you with gentle eyes, commenting, “She’s cute.”

You beamed at him. “Did you see that adorable little dress she was wearing? She has such chubby little legs, I want to bite—why are you laughing at me?”

Zayne covered his mouth, suppressing his chuckles, but you could still see the twinkle of amusement in his beautiful hazel eyes. He apologized with a smile, reaching across the table for your hand. You felt his thumb brushing over your fingers as he responded to you, “You’ve never spoken about children in such a way.”

“What way? What do you mean?” You frowned in confusion.

“That is…” He seemed to hesitate with his explanation, causing you to urge him to finish his thought. With a sigh, he resumed, speaking carefully, “One might… assume you were interested.”

“Interested?”

“Having a baby.”

“O-Oh…” Your cheeks pinked in embarrassment. Suddenly, this bistro seemed so much warmer than it was earlier. With Zayne’s steady gaze still on you, you tried to maintain your composure, though the words he had just planted in your head made you more flustered than you realized. “I mean… that is going to happen eventually. We’ve talked about it before.”

He nodded in understanding. “I hope you don’t think I am seizing this as an opportunity to bring this discussion back into the picture?”

“No, no, of course not,” you reassured him. “It just… hit me suddenly.”

“Hm?”

You averted your gaze with him, shifting your sight back down to your plate of food, but suddenly you weren’t that interested in the meal anymore. Your free hand held a fork as you poked at the avocado on your plate. Zayne didn’t rush your response, but you couldn’t help but still felt a pressure looming over you, and you pondered over your words before you gathered your courage to speak more openly with him, “What if… we do circle back to this topic?”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“Zayne, I—I think I’m ready to try for a baby,” you said quickly in one breath, your cheeks getting even hotter now. You could hear him breathed in quickly, his hand still holding yours tightened, his thumb brushing over your fingers faster.

When Zayne didn’t say anything, you mustered up your courage and glanced up, your heart beating faster when you saw the smile on his face. There was a dark gleam in his eyes, and you could practically see the wheels spinning in his head.

“We should… discuss this more at home tonight,” he said, voice lowered. You could almost hear a rasp in his voice, his suggestive tone nearly made you tremble in anticipation for the night, sensing there would actually be very little words exchanged between you both.

During the mostly silent drive home, there was a tension not quite different from when you and Zayne had first dated a few years ago. After leaving the bistro earlier in the day, you could hardly remember what you and Zayne did during your city outing, having been distracted all day by the conversation you both were planning on having later tonight.

Likewise, it felt like Zayne was just as distracted as you were. Throughout the day, he had responded with only monosyllable words, or sometimes he had just made a short noise either affirming or otherwise. Normally so quick-witted and sharp-tongued, today his mind appeared to be elsewhere as he went through the motions of the afternoon. The most shocking behavior change that you recalled from your husband, however, was his refusal to stop by a dessert shop for a treat or to buy something to bring home.

There was a sweeter treat Zayne had his eyes on. It had occupied his mind from the moment you had told him you were ready to have a baby. The dream future he had been waiting on was just within reach, and knowing you were ready to head down this path with him had him more elated than he would have ever thought possible.

With his eyes on the road, Zayne kept one hand on your thigh while the other gripped the steering wheel. You felt the way Zayne was rubbing along your thigh, occasionally squeezing, not even noticing his own actions until he heard your soft surprised gasp.

He apologized immediately, ears tinging red, almost unnoticeable with the sky darkening as the sun set.

“It’s alright,” you told him, though your heart was picking up speed and there was a coil forming in your belly. You placed your hand over his restless one, squeezing him back in reassurance.

As you silently consoled him, you felt your own nerves going haywire. You had opened a gate today, and though you knew Zayne would always let you have the final say whenever you wanted, always giving you room to back out if ultimately you changed your mind, you wondered if that was even something you needed to consider.

You loved Zayne. You wanted a family with him someday. That much you were sure of, so maybe, you wondered, that ‘someday’ had perhaps arrived today.

You peeked at his side profile, admiring his handsome sharp features. Unwittingly, you pictured a little mini-him. A mini-Zayne.

Without realizing it, you started to smile, delighting in the image forming in your mind. Zayne was so good with children. The children at Akso Hospital adored him. He may seem cold to most people at first, but to those willing to approach him, they would see how truly warm and caring he was, always prioritizing others before himself.

You knew in your heart the depths of his love would know no bounds for his child.

Along with the smooth drive home, the anxiety you were feeling earlier ebbed away the more you pondered over this. You still felt a sense of nervousness, knowing that he and you were going to embark down a path that would change the course of your lives forever. It would no longer be just the two of you, but perhaps, there was a different kind of joy, a new adventure awaiting you both in the future.

You and him and your little one.

You smiled softly, letting your mind drift further away as you watched the scenery passed by outside the car window.

The sun disappeared over the horizon, the last streaks of purple and orange giving way to twinkling stars as the car made a turn into your neighborhood. Streetlamps lit up one by one, lighting the way home down the quiet, near vacant road.

Once Zayne pulled into the driveway, you both exited the car, entering the dark house silently. Before you could even turn on the lights, Zayne grabbed your wrist, twirling you around and pinning you to the nearest wall. Your eyes widened in surprise when he gripped both of your wrists with one hand, holding them above your head as he leaned forward, his head bent lower to meet your gaze.

“Zayne—”

His lips crashed upon yours, swallowing your voice as he kissed you feverishly with only a few words slipping out in between.

“My baby…” he husked, breaking away just long enough to look at you, to search for any lingering doubts in your eyes, “Are you sure… you’re ready?”

Your heart beat faster again, cheeks flushed from his earlier intense kisses. You didn’t think he was going to be this impatient with circling back to this topic, having expected a more composed conversation on the couch or perhaps seated across one another at the dining table. Instead, whatever thoughts Zayne had been mulling over during the silent drive home had reached its peak and he was no longer willing to drag out this conversation another second.

“Yes… Yes,” you responded.

Your words didn’t seem to reassure him. He looked hesitant, as if he was afraid that this could just be a spur of the moment thought. You knew he prioritized your wellbeing above his own desires, and you also knew that he was aware of your impulsive nature. Of the two of you, he had taken on the role to be the one to hold onto any semblance of rationality, and in this moment, that was still true with how admirably he still managed to maintain that thinning hold of self-control.

You wriggled against Zayne, silently urging him to remove his hand from your wrists. He obliged, and just as quickly, you threw your arms around his neck, returning his earlier intense kisses tenfold.

Zayne stumbled back in surprise, one arm instantly around your waist to steady you.

“I’m not being flighty,” you told him firmly. “I’m serious this time.”

“You—”

“I’m not messing with you this time,” you insisted, feeling your emotions were heightening suddenly. You pleaded with him, “Zayne…”

He reached down, cupping your face in his hands, keeping his sight on you. He breathed in deeply, taking in the sincere tears brimming at the corners of your eyes.

“I want a baby,” you told him resolutely, emphasizing strongly, “your baby.”

Zayne breathed in sharply, feeling like time had just stopped. The words you had just spoken replayed in his mind, your earnest expression all he could see in this moment. Slowly, he smiled, letting his forehead pressed against yours.

“For real this time?”

“Uh huh,” you answered with a smile, feeling like you could drown in his beautiful green eyes. “Are you ready to fuck a baby into me?”

He laughed at your bold, outrageous question. With his tone a strange mix between amusement and exasperation, he chided you, “You’re ruining the moment.”

“I don’t care,” you answered back cheekily, leaning up to peck his nose with a kiss. “What do you say?”

“Once you are no longer on your birth control,” he started, ignoring your instant eyeroll at his sudden proper mannerism. He continued, the delight shining in his eyes revealed his true feelings on the matter in that instance before he could even finish his thought: “Absolutely.”

You almost threw your arms around his neck again, stopping only when he continued to speak, his tone suddenly stern.

“You better be ready,” he warned, a familiar smirk graced his handsome face.

You nearly trembled with anticipation, quite certain you could see a pleased, calculating glint in his eye.

Zayne was meticulous.

He did everything well.

And this…

This will be no different, you realized.

For the next several weeks, your sex life with Zayne felt more intense than past instances, since this time, you both were no longer playing out a fantasy or indulging in each other’s whims. All of those lecherous words you had exchanged before now held more truth than ever, and you answered his desires with your own, both of you having never been more in sync than during this period.

You wanted a baby, and so did Zayne.

You were no longer role-playing a secret shared fantasy.

Zayne was now actively trying to impregnate you, breeding you every chance he could. In the morning before work, or late at night when he came home, his stamina unheard of as he was always prepared to stuff your willing wet pussy with his cock, pumping you full of his virile seed until he had you crying from the intensity.

“Soon, soon,” he murmured against your ear as your legs locked around his waist, keeping him firmly to you.

“Yes… yes…” you sobbed back, “Don’t stop, don’t stop, Zaynie! I need your cum inside me. All of it. Inside me.”

His beathing grew erratic before he laughed into the crook of your neck. “You’re too much…” he said, nearly in disbelief by how uninhibited you were. He sighed heavily against you, “I’m going to lose my mind because of you.”

“You will keep me full like this, won’t you, Zayne? Please, Zaynie…”

He kissed your temple. “You’re so unfair,” he whispered, “You know I could never deny you anything.”

You cupped his face, your lips meeting his soundly, so sweetly he was pressing his weight onto you, trapping you within his hold.

“We’re not stopping,” he breathed heavily, his eyes darkened with desires, “Not until you are pregnant, my love.”

He kissed you again, ravaging your lips until you were sure they would bruise. His voice was soft, but the weight of his words stoked the growing flames of passion between you both. “Not until my baby is in your womb.”

And you knew Zayne was a man of his words.

You had thought you knew what you were expecting when you had decided to stop using protection, determined to get pregnant as soon as possible. You had expected that it would all happen immediately, but when you saw that first sign of bleeding signaling your period, you let your disappointment showed.

Zayne, as always, remained the most level-headed of the two of you.

As you curled up on the couch, under a warm blanket, hugging Mr. Seal close to your stomach, you watched as your husband approached from the kitchen with a cup of red date tea, such as he had done monthly for several years now. He sat down next to you and passed the cup over.

“Drink this,” he said, “It will help with your cramps.”

You reluctantly accepted it, taking little sips of the hot beverage. You felt a comforting warmth in your belly. You peered into the mug, your mind drifting back to linger further in your disappointments.

“Hey.”

You looked up, meeting Zayne’s gaze. His expression remained gentle and understanding, already having read you like a book, knowing full well the reason—or rather, reasons—for your current agitated state.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked, taking the cup of tea back when you handed it to him. He placed it on a coaster on the coffee table and settled more comfortably on the couch, watching as you shifted over to rest against him. Instinctively, his arms were around you as he comforted you.

“No,” you whispered into his chest, feeling your eyes watering up. You quickly blinked them away.

“Alright,” he answered affably, his hand rubbing the back of your head soothingly.

You looked up, frowning. “‘Alright’?” you repeated in astonishment. “You’re not going to keep pressing?”

“You said ‘no,’” he reminded you with an insufferable, teasing smile. “Would you have also gotten upset if I had kept pursuing this discussion?”

Hearing his response, you hesitated for a moment before begrudgingly nodded in agreement.

“Ah,” he said with an exaggerated lilt in his voice, “So I take it this would have been a lose-lose situation no matter what from my position?”

You humph’d at him before burying your face back into his chest. “I think I’m allowed to be upset.”

“You are,” he agreed, smiling at your petulant attitude. He reached down, his hand holding your chin gently up so your eyes met his. Softly, he said, “It’s alright.”

From just hearing those two words spoken in his soothing tone, you felt the wall you had tried to put up breaking down and the tears you had attempted to hold back started trickling down your cheeks. Just as quickly, Zayne was cupping your face with his hands and his thumbs were already working to wipe away your tears. His voice remained calm as he comforted you while you cried silently.

You were sure you had been crying for a few minutes before you were able to compose yourself enough to speak. Suddenly, you felt a little insecure, feeling like you couldn’t fully look at him in the eyes. Reluctantly, you started to speak again, “I know I’m being silly…”

“You are allowed to feel the way you do,” he reassured you.

“But…”

“Yes?”

You looked down, feeling embarrassed. The feeling didn’t remain long, because suddenly you found yourself crying out in surprise when Zayne gathered you into his lap. You looked up shocked, eyes shutting when his warm lips met your forehead. You opened your eyes again and looked at him in confusion.

“Let’s talk.”

“I thought you said I didn’t have to…”

“None of that attitude anymore,” he chided you. “You are clearly more upset than you let on, so let’s talk. You will feel better and I will also feel better.”

You tilted your head to the side in confusion at the latter part of his comment. Seeing your expression, he clarified, “I don’t like seeing you this troubled and feeling like I can’t help alleviate your frustrations or anxiety.”

His arms wrapped around you again, pulling you into a warm hug with his chin resting lightly atop your head. “Let’s help each other out,” he said, “I want to know what’s exactly on your mind and I want you to ease my own concerns.”

“Okay,” you said quietly, your hand touching his arm. You contemplated for a moment, unsure of how to put your feelings into words at first. After a few seconds, you admitted to him openly, “I’m sad I didn’t get pregnant immediately.”

He kissed the side of your head. “I understand,” he said, “Is there more to this than simply sadness?”

“I’m… worried that I might not be able to get pregnant,” you added, your voice getting softer, as if you yourself were afraid of hearing your secret inner fear spoken aloud. This was a different kind of vulnerability than you were used to sharing with Zayne, so you didn’t dare look at him in spite of knowing full well that he would never judge you for your feelings and fears.

You heard a soft sigh before Zayne spoke again. “We’ve only started trying recently,” he said, “There is nothing abnormal about not conceiving immediately.”

“I know…”

“Do you feel like I am pressuring you to get pregnant quickly?”

You shook your head and Zayne smiled. “Good,” he said, “Because I am not. I do want a baby with you, but not at the risk of your own wellbeing—and that includes your emotional wellbeing as well.”

You looked at him quizzically.

“Let’s take it slowly,” he said, his hand under your chin again. He tilted your chin up, his lips approaching yours, and his voice remaining that soft, even tone, “When it happens, it will happen.”

“Ah—but—”

“And if a year from now,” he interrupted you, “we are still unsuccessful, then we can begin looking into our fertility.”

He kissed you quickly, and you blinked in surprise. He smiled at you helplessly, saying, “I do believe you might be overreacting a little. It hadn’t been long—”

This time you were the one who surprised him, catching him off-guard when you suddenly leaned up to kiss him and stopped him from speaking further. He didn’t even try to resist, letting you take charge. You felt his hands on your hips, holding you steady while your hands rested on the plane of his chest. You broke away first, breathing a little heavier than earlier.

“Goddamn you, Zayne,” you said breathily.

He quirked his eyebrow up, his own breathing also a little unsteady. He wasn’t expecting you to curse at him.

You smiled. “Why do you always have to be so level-headed?”

He rolled his eyes. “I do not believe the two of us spiraling together would be beneficial in the slightest.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” you conceded lightheartedly. You hugged him back. “Thank you for letting me be the insane one in the relationship.”

He chuckled and returned your hug. “I have never once said you were insane…”

You hummed against his chest, your mood feeling brighter now. Mulling over his earlier words, you knew Zayne was right about what he had said, feeling like you were overreacting a little. Now that everything was out in the open, you even felt a little silly, wondering why you were in such a rush to get pregnant all of a sudden when your recent bout of baby fever came not so long ago.

“Okay!”

Zayne startled, unprepared for your sudden outburst. He peered down at you, waiting, wondering what was going through your head in this moment.

“I’m done moping,” you declared, smiling at him. “I wasn’t stressed about this before, so why should I stress now?”

He nodded in agreement.

“And like you said… when it happens, it will happen.”

He nodded again with a smile, pleased to see you returning to your usual bright demeanor again.

“Zayne?”

“Hm?”

“When you said ‘take it slowly’… you weren’t thinking of taking a break, did you?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “Not unless you tell me to—”

“I’m not,” you interrupted, grinning, “I want things to keep staying the same.”

You leaned forward, resting your head on his chest as his strong arms held you against him. You winced suddenly and Zayne looked down in concern.

“My cramps…”

He smiled helplessly again and kissed your forehead. “Why don’t I take you back to our bed and I’ll massage your stomach and you rest?”

“Sounds wonderful,” you agreed. You pouted at him. “Carry me?”

“Darling, you didn’t even need to ask,” he responded, kissing you again before he lifted you into his arms and headed for the bedroom.

It seemed like life fell back into its old routine after you and Zayne had discussed your current situation again. As it turned out, time together quickly became fleeting as both of your careers monopolized the majority of your time.

There were still moments together, but it was mostly exchanging text messages, or meeting for a quick meal once in a while, or simply just catching one another in passing. Time spent together—particularly intimately—were sparser than either of you would have liked, but it couldn’t be helped.

Zayne had numerous surgeries lined up for weeks and you yourself also had missions that required your full attention.

“Just look on the bright side,” Zayne told you over a video call one night. You were currently away in another town for a disaster relief mission while Zayne had to remain back in Linkon because of his own work schedule. He smiled at you through the screen in an attempt to reassure you, though your persistent pout proved to him that he was not doing an exemplary job at the moment. In any case, he continued, “At least both of our busy schedules aligned together, so neither one of us has to feel lonely.”

“I guess so,” you mumbled at him as you paced your hotel room. “I still miss you… and not because I am in another town.”

“I know,” he responded, “I miss you, too.”

You gave him a small smile, feeling somewhat placated by his own admission and mutual feelings.

“It won’t be long,” Zayne reassured you. “By the end of this month, I won’t have as many surgeries lined up for a while and I’m sure your own workload will lighten as well.”

Your smile widened.

Next month, you remembered, would be September.

As in, Zayne’s birthday month.

Instantly giddy, your brain started working in overdrive to plan a birthday surprise for Zayne, feeling like it would be the perfect opportunity for you both to rekindle your relationship after this recent spell of busyness that had been keeping you both apart from one another.

“Alright, I’m glad to see you smiling again,” Zayne said, seemingly unaware of the true reason behind your sudden mood change.

You decided it was best to let him believe otherwise so you could maintain the element of surprise for his birthday. You simply nodded and tried to redirect the conversation to him instead.

It worked. You smiled along as Zayne described his days, picturing in your mind the image of him going around the hospital and after work walking home, passing by a dessert shop he wanted to try out with you when you returned from your mission. After a few more minutes of speaking, your eyes felt heavier, but you still tried to keep the conversation going since after all, this was the first lengthy conversation you and Zayne had together in a while.

“It’s late,” Zayne said suddenly, catching on to your attempts to stay awake. He smiled and continued, “Say good night to me.”

You instantly perked up at his words and tone. You frowned a little, asking, “Why do you always do that?”

“Hm?”

“Don’t ‘hm?’ me!” you said, vexed, “You know what you just did.”

“I didn’t do anything,” he answered evenly, though you could have sworn there was a mischievous smirk on his face. You stiffened up a little when he continued in that same authoritative tone again, “Say good night to me.”

You waited a few seconds.

He also remained patient as well.

Your lips twitched.

Zayne smirked.

“…Good night, Zaynie…”

He smiled, pleased. “Good night, my love,” he answered, “Sweet dreams.”

Zayne was right.

He was pretty much always right, you realized, feeling both pride and annoyance by the fact.

As August neared its end, you felt like you could breathe again at work as the tasks you had to perform lessened and the increased number of hunters available meant that there was no need for you to cover as many areas as you have been doing these last few weeks.

Since returning home from your previous mission, you had also managed to find ways to sneak in some alone time with Zayne whether it was surprising him in his office or waiting for him after his late shifts. In time, he even returned the gestures, stealing moments with you when he could.

It wasn’t uncommon to see him dropping you off at work, or meeting him for a quick milk tea break. You still missed the long hours alone with him, but for now, the little moments together were still more welcomed than not seeing him at all.

In some way, you began treating this temporary period like when you two had first started dating and was struggling to find that balance of work and meeting one another. You smiled at the memory.

“What’s making you smile so much?” Zayne asked when he approached your waiting spot on a park bench. He held up a paper bag. “A croissant breakfast sandwich or a honey castella?”

You smiled wryly, noting the obvious choice of savory versus sweet. While Zayne would not be disappointed if you did take the sweet treat instead, you liked the small smile he would wear on his face when you let him have the sweeter choice. “The breakfast sandwich.”

He chuckled and passed the paper bag of food to you. You reached inside and pulled out the breakfast sandwich. Wrapped in a beige parchment paper, the croissant sandwich was still warm and smelled of egg and sausage. Your stomach grumbled a little.

“Now,” he continued with a playful smile on his face, his other hand holding up a paper tray containing two cups of coffee, “a cinnamon maple latte or salted caramel mocha?”

You licked your lips a little. “They both sound good,” you said, still pondering.

He smiled and sat down next to you on the bench, setting the drinks to the side. “Then we’ll share both.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, smiling in delight. “I’m glad you can have breakfast with me today.”

He peered down at his watch. “I’m afraid it won’t be long though,” he answered. “I need to return to the hospital by ten.”

“I understand,” you responded, a little disappointed, “I can’t take a long break either. We have a team meeting at eleven today.”

You bit into your sandwich, enjoying the instant savory flavor dancing on your tongue. “Okay, no more talks about work! We can’t waste our precious time together with things like that.”

Zayne nodded in agreement, amused by your bright personality. “Okay, then you still haven’t answered my earlier question.”

“Hm?”

“Why were you smiling so much earlier?”

You pondered over his words before remembering. Your cheeks turned a little rosy, feeling somewhat embarrassed. “It’s silly…”

“Tell me,” He urged, taking a sip of his drink. He appeared surprised by the flavor.

Noticing this, you tried to use it as a way to deflect the conversation from you. “Which flavor is that?”

“The latte,” he said, clarifying, “The cinnamon maple latte.”

“Do you not like it?”

He took another sip. “They overdid it on the cinnamon,” he said after taking three more sips.

You laughed. “Then why are you still drinking it?”

You stole the cup from him and took a sip yourself, grimacing at the overpowering scent of cinnamon. You decided to chase the drink with the salted caramel mocha, preferring the latter over the former. You held up your half-eaten sandwich to your husband. “Want a bite?”

He shook his head.

“Have a bite,” you demanded.

“When did this offer turn into a demand, Miss Hunter?”

“Right now,” you said, grinning as you pushed the sandwich closer to his mouth. He eyed you with a look of amusement, feigning exasperation before he bit into the croissant. You watched him chewed and swallowed the food, your voice exclaiming suddenly, “Oh, you got something on your mouth—"

Before Zayne could react, you already leaned up and kissed him, playfully nipping and licking his mouth clean. When you pulled away, he pretended to glare at you, though the smile on his face gave away his true feelings. He kissed you briefly again before poking your nose with his finger.

“I see Miss Hunter has resorted to trickery to get what she wants.”

“It was just a—”

He kissed you again, a bit longer and a bit deeper than earlier, feeling like he was making up for the long absence and all of those times apart. When he finally paused, his lips just mere centimeters from your own, you heard him murmured, “You never need to trick me to get what you want. I would give you everything you ask for.”

Your cheeks tinged pink, your mind dizzied by the kisses, by his words, by him. Your food was left on the bench, now forgotten as your entire attention was on him. You cupped his face, feeling like it had been a while since you were this close to him—both physically and emotionally. A smile crept onto your face as you relearned his features, noticing he appeared slimmer than you remembered.

“I know you’ve been busy, but you need to eat on time,” you chided him.

He smiled at your scolding and nodded.

Your eyes glanced at the faint bags under his eyes. “And sleep when you can,” you added. You reached up, your thumb brushing under one of his eyes. “Even a doctor needs to rest and follow his own advices.”

He chuckled. “How did this breakfast together turned into my wife scolding me?”

“You don’t like having a naggy wife?”

He laughed. “I did not say that,” he protested. He kissed you again, and murmured to you, “I know why you’re doing this.”

“Hm? Doing what?” you feigned obliviousness.

“I’ve missed you, too,” he said instead. “I’ve missed you a lot. So, so much…”

“Ah—our…our coffee is getting cold…”

He huffed in amusement. “I do not care,” he said, “Do you?”

“No…”

Just as Zayne was about to lean in for another kiss, you both heard the sound of a timer going off. Glancing down, you saw that it was your phone, signaling the end of your breaktime with him. You both sighed in disappointment.

“You better head back to the hospital or you’ll be late,” you said, voice tinged with clear disappointment. Unconsciously, you had grabbed onto his hand, holding tight in spite of your words. He noticed the gesture, but did not say anything.

Suddenly, you felt Zayne cupping your cheek, and you looked to him, seeing that same disappointment in his smile. He reassured you gently, “Just a few more weeks. I don’t have that many surgeries left this month, and my schedule should lighten by next month as well.”

You tried to smile and nodded. Suddenly, you remembered the birthday plans you had secretly made. There was so much to look forward to and preparations you still needed to do, so you began to forget about the current situation.

“You know…”

“What is it?” Zayne asked.

“This feels like when we first started dating,” you said, seeing the immediate confusion on his face.

“Hm?”

You laughed at his puzzled expression. “Don’t you remember?” you asked, poking his cheek in jest. “We were always so busy with our jobs, so it was a task just trying to find time to meet up.”

As if a lightbulb had gone off in his head, Zayne’s eyes brightened in understanding. He chuckled and nodded.

“There was something you said once that stayed with me for a while…”

“Something I said?”

“I remember telling you how if we’re seeing each other on Sunday, then I would start getting ready on Saturday. And you said—”

“‘If I’m able to see you Sunday… I’ll start getting excited Thursday.’”

“You remembered…”

He smiled and leaned forward, closing the small gap between you both. “How could I forget anything when it comes to you?”

“Zayne…”

He brushed his lips over yours, whispering softly, “But thankfully now whenever I want to see you, I just need to come home.”

You smiled. “You are going to be late heading back,” you reminded him.

“Right,” he said, brushing his lips against yours once more before standing up.

Nodding again, you saw him off as you made your own trip back to your workplace, smiling brighter as you still felt Zayne’s lingering kisses on your lips.

As Zayne had said previously, his own schedule was becoming less hectic in the coming weeks, which meant soon, you would have him all to yourself.

Or so you had thought.

“Wait a minute,” you said one morning, startled by a seemingly innocuous comment your husband had just made. You furrowed your brows in confusion before asking softly, “So you are going to be working on your birthday again?”

Zayne turned to look at you, already knowing all of the thoughts racing through your head. It also didn’t help that you couldn’t maintain a poker face, your true feelings seen clearly in your disappointed expression. He walked over and cupped your face, his lips pressed to your forehead in reassurance.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he said. “It had slipped my mind that it was going to be on a weekday, and besides, we can always celebrate the weekend before or after.”

You mumbled in agreement, though it remained obvious to your husband that you were still not appeased by his rational reasoning. You yelped in surprise when he suddenly pinched your cheeks. “Ah—quit it, Zayne!”

He chuckled and apologized immediately, though you couldn’t help but noticed the lack of sincerity, feeling like his smile was just a tad wider than it should be. You lightly glared at him and he apologized again. “Come now,” he said, “Wipe that glare off your face. You’re acting like it was your birthday I had ruined.”

“It’s just…”

“Just what? Tell me.”

You sighed in defeat before relaying to him the plans you had made. You were planning on taking him out for breakfast at a nice café before spending the morning wandering through an art museum with him. There was even a new bistro in town you wanted to try out with him, and later you thought of taking him to a bookstore and for ten whole minutes, you were going to let him pick out as many books as he wanted and you were going to pay for everything. Afterwards, you had even planned on an afternoon break at a bakery, letting him indulge in as much sweets as he would like.

Just before you could continue onto the next phase in your birthday plan for him, Zayne stopped you, his hands resting on your shoulders and his eyes a little wider than normal, completely surprised by the level of planning you had already made. To your confusion, he suddenly laughed, appearing delighted.

“Thank you,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It sounds like it would have been a wonderfully… packed day.”

You pouted in spite of his laughter. “It would have… I even scheduled a day off to be with you,” you told him, adding accusatorily, “I thought you would have done the same…”

He apologized again. “I’m sorry. The meeting came up suddenly, and I can’t back out of it on short notice.”

You continued to sulk.

“Hey,” he said softly, his hand gripping your chin. He lifted it so your eyes met his. “How about a raincheck then? We can do a makeup day the next weekend.”

“It won’t be the same,” you said softly, realizing you were also behaving like a petulant child right now, but you couldn’t help this immense feeling of disappointment you felt.

You gasped when Zayne’s arms suddenly wrapped around you tightly, your face now pressed to his chest. You peered up just as he leaned down to meet your lips. You started to smile again, feeling the warmth of his lips on yours.

“Thank you,” he said suddenly.

“For what?” you stared back quizzically. “I haven’t done anything.”

“Just for remembering my birthday—better than me, even—and for…” he kissed you again before his forehead pressed to yours. “Just for caring about me this much.”

As you gazed into his kind, loving eyes, a thought popped into your head. A new idea had sprouted, already making you forget your earlier disappointment. Zayne said you were bad at hiding your feelings, but in this moment, he hadn’t seemed to notice that telltale mischievous glint in your eye. You feigned disappointment again, hoping he wouldn’t catch on.

“I just wanted you to have a nice birthday, Zayne.”

He laughed. “I know you do, and you always make them memorable.”

You almost wanted to laugh along with him, but you maintained your despondent demeanor. You continued to act stiff with him. “Just remember it’s your fault if this year is not as nice as everything I’ve planned previously.”

“Yes, yes,” he sighed as you scolded him, holding you more firmly to him again. “I think I can survive dealing with the occasional underwhelming birthdays.”

“Just remember, this is your fault.”

“Yes, yes, it’s my fault I will have such an unmemorable birthday.”

You snuggled into his embrace, hiding your mischievous smile from view.

Unmemorable? Ha! We’ll see about that, Zaynie…

On the morning of Zayne’s birthday, you woke up to an empty bed, surprised that he had already left for work without saying anything to you. You sighed and stayed lounging in bed for a while, your eyes occasionally darting to the clock to check the time every few minutes.

It was just about eight, and you surmised that Zayne would probably be settling into his office by now going through reports and the likes before his meeting at ten. Had it been any other day, you would also be at your own job either writing up a report or being out in the field, but since September 5th was such a special day to you, you had planned a month in advance to have this day off for your husband’s birthday.

You realized it was a tiny bit of your own fault for not at least reminding him to schedule the day off as well. You huffed, mildly annoyed. Well, you thought, after several birthdays together, one would think he would be more in tune with your yearly plans.

Apparently not.

Forget it, you thought, tossing the bed cover to the side. You rolled out of your bed and went to freshen up in the bathroom. In your shared master closet with Zayne, your hand skimmed across the array of neatly hung dress shirts before settling on a simple white one. The fabric felt so soft, and you smiled as you stripped down to just your underwear. It was a very risqué black rose lace panty that left very little to the imagination. You slipped on his dress shirt, the length of it reaching down all the way to your thighs. You intentionally left the first four buttons undone, revealing more than enough of your cleavage for him to witness later.

After doing your hair and makeup, you grabbed your phone, smirking as you realized you had one hour before Zayne would be out of his meeting.

Perfect.

The moment Zayne turned his phone back on, he saw a notification for a message from his wife. Unsurprised, he figured you wanted to greet him a happy birthday, but the moment he opened the message he realized how wrong he was.

There was a birthday message—of sorts—but it was not delivered in a way he had thought you would send it.

Thankfully, he was in the privacy of his office.

“This girl…”

You had sent him one message: For the birthday boy. 💋

And afterwards he saw a series of photos taken in provocative positions of you wearing what appeared to be nothing but just a shirt of his. He swallowed slowly as he scrolled down the conversation, seeing photos of you on your knees and leaning forward enough to show off your cleavage. Some had you on your back, your legs tucked close to your chest, while a few had your legs spread apart while you stared at the camera all doe-eyed and sweet.

Zayne gasped, suddenly startled when another attachment was received.

You were straddling his pillow.

His breathing grew a little unsteady, his eyes taking in what appeared to be—

He immediately turned his phone off again and raced out of his office. On the way out, he asked Greyson to cover him for the rest of the day, giving little explanations other than “something came up.” Had he been paying attention, Zayne might have caught Greyson exchanging a knowing smile with Yvonne, forgetting that they both were previous attendants to his past birthday parties.

As Zayne drove home, he knew he should have been wary of how his wife had seemed to be so compliant after the earlier disappointments. In the days leading up to his birthday, he hadn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. On the contrary, you had seemed very cheerful, no longer upset that he was working on his birthday.

He hadn’t thought that you would have a Plan B, or perhaps, he should call it Plan XXX considering the nature of it all. The moment he arrived home, with his phone in hand still pinging every so often with new messages, he found his darling wife lounging on the couch, appearing proud of yourself as you had just finished taking the latest photo.

There was a sudden buzzing noise.

You froze.

Zayne opened the text message he had just received and smirked.

“My love, are these my so-called birthday presents from you?”

Slowly, you turned around, unprepared to see Zayne had actually come home early from work.

“We-welcome home, Zaynie,” you managed to squeak out.

“Hm,” he responded in acknowledgement and in just a few short strides, he made his way over to the couch, sitting down next to you. Before you could say another word, he grabbed your wrist, startling you when he dragged you to lay over his lap and suddenly you felt a coolness, feeling your panties had been pulled down to expose your bare ass.

“Za-Zayne—ah!"

He had loosened his tie, removing it, and with expert quickness, Zayne had your wrists bounded together. You attempted to struggle, but found that he had tied it secured enough that it would not undo while still loose enough that it wouldn’t harm your wrists. Before you could question him, you felt that first sudden strike on your bare bottom, the rough feel of his calloused hand making contact with your ass had you crying out in both surprise and pain.

He instantly rubbed soothing circles where he had struck. There was nothing apologetic about his tone, his words firm and domineering. “One slap for every photo you had sent me today.”

You gasped in surprise.

You had sent him thirteen photos.

His hand struck your ass again. “Now count,” he commanded sternly.

“T-two…”

“Louder.”

Another strike.

“Three!”

He hummed in approval, his large hand smoothed over your reddened cheek. “Good girl,” he praised, and from just those two words alone you felt butterflies beginning to flutter in your belly, a sudden innate desire to please him was awakened within you.

He gave you a moment of reprieve, eyeing you with amusement. When you attempted to squirm again, another slap landed on your sore bottom without warning and you cried into the couch cushion.

“Did I say you could move?” he asked tauntingly. “How many was that?”

“F-four…”

He continued, experimenting with the strength each time and not leaving any hint to the pattern of his actions for you to discern or prepare for, although with the current state he had you in, all rational thoughts had left your head the moment he had tied your wrists together and laid you over his lap.

You winced and gasped, not expecting such strength from the normally gentle doctor. Every so often, your fingers dug into the couch cushion, nails scraping along the fabric whenever the pain was stronger than you could handle.

While a part of you knew you shouldn’t be feeling anything other than fear and shame, your body was having a completely different reaction to his mean treatment. You wondered when he would notice the growing wetness between your legs. His tone and this persona he had taken on were arousing you more than usual.

A part of you instantly wanted to submit to him, to act and behave in a way to earn more of his sweet praises, but there was also another side of you that was so aroused by seeing the once gentle doctor take control, asserting his dominance in a way that left you so breathless and shaken, you wanted to rile and provoke him more, needing to see just how far you could push him before he retaliated.

He didn’t give you long to gather your thoughts to think further. His hand was once more circling your smooth bottom. You glanced up at him, breathing heavier as you took in the way his gentle eyes had darkened with desires.

Another forceful slap.

You gasped again, crying out his name, nearly mewling whenever he quickly switched from his rough treatment to soothing you with gentle words and touches. “Z-Zayne…”

“How many?”

“T-ten…”

“Almost done,” he said. “Just a little longer.”

You panted quietly, almost feeling ashamed that you were disappointed he was going to be done soon. You wondered about other ways to push his buttons, to keep this side of him out for a bit longer. The thought left your mind when you felt the next slap, the sharp sound of his hand meeting your bottom was louder than the previous instances.

The immediate sting was so painful, but oh-so good.

“E-eleven!”

You cried into the couch, feeling that wetness between your legs worsened. You squirmed a little, needing relief from this growing ache.

Another strike.

“Twel-twelve… Zayne… Zayne, please…” You could barely speak, feeling overwhelmed by his punishment and your growing arousal.

It didn’t appear he had caught on yet as to why you were pleading with him, mistaking your cries for pain instead of arousal. The last strike was the gentlest, barely felt after everything you had endured.

“Thirteen…”

He leaned down and kissed your neck, his voice gentle again as he whispered apologies to you. “Was I too rough just now?”

Before you could respond to him, Zayne was chuckling as he chastised you once more, “You’re not supposed to enjoy your punishment.”

There was no anger or annoyance in his voice, just amusement tinged his tone, but before you could even utter a response, he had you crying out in both shock and pleasure when his fingers slipped into your wet folds, thrusting in and out a few times experimentally to see just how wet you were. You were moaning his name, begging and pleading for more than just this simple stimulation, but in that moment, he had decided to pull out, leaving you empty and throbbing with a need to be filled. You cried out in shock and frustration, looking behind to see his fingers coated in your essence.

You didn’t have time to be upset with him, your mind blanking the instance you watched those beautiful fingers slipped into his mouth, seeing him sucked long and slow those digits clean before he removed them, his tongue running over his lips before he smirked at you, whether in amusement or tauntingly, you weren’t entirely sure, too dumbstruck to fully think straight and too captivated by how handsome he was.

It felt like you had stopped breathing. You could feel your heartbeat growing erratic, getting caught in this moment of excitement as you ached for more of him.

He had no business looking so sexy doing that, and that simple act alone shouldn’t have had such an effect on you, but it did. Suddenly, you startled when you registered that he was pulling your panties back up, and now you were whining at him, begging for him to relieve you of this growing ache inside of you.

“N-no, Zaynie, please…”

He peered down at you with that same provoking smirk, one eyebrow raised in question, though it was clear he was very amused by the state of frustration you were in. “Please? Please what?” he asked mischievously, adding sternly, “Use your words, my love, or I won’t know what you want.”

You wanted to snap back at his taunt. Perhaps during any other instances, you would have countered his teasing with your own, but by this point, you were in no state to be so sassy with him. The wetness between your legs had worsened so much, the need to be filled by him was all you could think about, knowing just how full and satisfied you would feel with his beautiful cock buried deep inside you.

Zayne continued to gaze at you with such a haughty smile, as if he was pleased to see how frustrated you were because of him. Perhaps, he might have even considered this a fitting punishment for how you behaved earlier today with sending him those risqué photos while he was working.

Practically sulking, you complied with him. You twisted your body on the couch to peer up at him, your bounded wrists pressed close to your chest, and you said softly with tears brimming in your eyes, “Please… fuck me.”

He breathed in quickly, unprepared for your brazen obedience.

As if a dam had broken and all of your feelings and inner desires were rushing out in torrents, you continued your shameless pleas, ready now to beg him to satisfy you in ways only he could. “Please, Zaynie… I need your… your cock… inside… inside me.”

He laughed softly, amazed by your bold plea. He settled down on the couch, laying on his side behind you, and pulled you flushed to him. Your back pressed to his toned chest, your sudden squirming stilled the moment Zayne wrapped his arm around your middle to trap you to him.

His hand reached around to tug his tie free from around your wrists, releasing you from your silk shackle. His fingers soothingly glided across your wrists, appearing to appraise you for any lingering marks. They were faint, but nothing too harmful. He was always mindful that way, wanting to discipline your petulant behavior, but never wishing to harm you. He pressed a kiss to your cheek.

“Such lewd words,” he murmured, his tone more amused than disappointed. “Now when did my lovely wife learn to say such obscene things?”

You grinded back against him, feeling his bulge against your ass and hearing his instant hiss before his hand grabbed your hip, holding you in place again. Suddenly, you heard the sound of his pants zippers, and you were whining now, feeling his fingers dragging your panties to the side. The needy whines turned into long, slow moans the moment he eased into you and you felt that massive intrusion stretching you just deliciously as you clenched around him.

“F-fuck,” he gasped, those rare curses he would say somehow the most erotic thing you had ever heard. He gripped your leg, lifting enough so he could have an easier access before he started rocking into you with a steady pace. With every shallow thrust, his pants and your moans intermingled in tandem to the lewd sounds. He peered down at you, taking in the sight of your flushed face buried in the couch cushion as you gasped and moaned to the feeling of him penetrating you so perfectly. His breathing grew unsteady as he husked softly, sounding almost amazed by the fact, “So fucking wet… it’s like you’re swallowing me.”

Every stroke you felt was heavenly, this mounting pleasure practically sinful. You gasped into the cushions, your nails dragging along the fabric of the couch again, feeling like he was drowning you in this intense pleasure. Zayne’s arm slipped under your head to rest, and instantly you grabbed his hand, his thumb slipping into your eager mouth. Immediately, he groaned, the feeling of your warm mouth around his thumb and the sight of you so shameless and pretty like this made him want to fuck you harder, reduce you to an even more helpless mess than you already were. He dragged his shirt on you to the side, his lips finding your shoulder to kiss, branding you with his marks.

Everything he did, his entire being, was overwhelming your senses, your mind lost to this intense haze of pleasure. You continued to suckle his thumb, your hands grasping his firmly, not wanting to part from him, feeling his heat so close to yours. Distantly, you heard him groaned, “Say my name.”

There was a warm tightening in your belly, and you answered him with a sweet gasp, “Za-Zayne…”

He roughly pulled his hand away, and you protested and whined from the abrupt loss.

“Louder,” he hissed, driving into you harder.

“Z-Zayne!”

The same hand he had pulled away reached lower, grasping your breast, fondling and squeezing tightly as his hips continued to move steadily faster. Sweats dripped along the sides of his face, his hair sticking to his skin, and his expression flushed with heavy arousal at the sight of how beautifully you were taking him, your own cheeks red and hot, eyes squeezed tightly shut as you felt him thrusting deeper inside you.

“My pretty wife,” he murmured, his lips pressing into the crook of your neck as he continued to praise you, “My love, let me hear more of your sweet voice.”

“Za-Zayne… ah… ah… you feel so, so good…”

He hummed in approval, his hand kneading your breast harder, his thumb swirling over your sensitive nipple before pinching them, making you squealed in surprise. He showed no sign of stopping any of his ministrations, wanting to lure out more of your sweet moans and whines, your heavenly voice making him dizzy with desires.

His arm suddenly wrapped tightly around your chest, pulling you back firmly against his own as his movements quickened to a brutal pacing. Your hands reached up to grasp at his arm, nails digging into his skin as you cried harder, your squeals growing in pitch as a familiar pleasure crested, reaching closer and closer to its peak.

“Za-Zayne! …Gonna… gonna cum… oh, god… I’m gonna cum!”

“Good girl,” he praised, kissing your neck soundly as he groaned softly, “I’m close, too…”

You panted, your breathing even more unsteady after hearing his words. The overstimulation was too much, your mind barely able to focus on anything other than the feeling of him bringing you closer and closer to the edge.

Your walls tightened around him and he groaned again, his face burying into your neck.

“In-inside me! Please, Zayne, please…!”

“Bu—”

“I want you to knock me up, Zayne!”

His breath hitched. His hand reached lower, resting over your flat belly. He almost wanted to chuckle, both amused and delighted by your exclamation. You both had been fucking so recklessly lately, all precautions abandoned, submitting to your primitive desires completely, he wouldn’t be surprised if you were already pregnant at this moment, already carrying his baby in your body.

His hand circled your belly, his mind drifting away to a secret fantasy of his, already imagining a small swell forming, his baby resting in your womb, growing day by day bigger. You would need new clothes, he realized with a small smile. He would delight in choosing the prettiest dresses that would be comfortable for you, but still snug enough that the fabric stretched around your round belly, letting you show off the cute swell, the very evidence that he was the one who had impregnated you.

People would congratulate the doctor and his wife for their growing family, not knowing that he had been actively breeding you every chance he could, but most importantly, when he knew for certain that you were ovulating, your body just begging for him to impregnate you with his child.

If people even knew the number of times he had stayed buried inside of you, letting you milk him completely dry and making sure not a single drop of his cum would go to waste, they would surely be scandalized that such a respectful, revered, and well-mannered young man could harbor such a perverse side that he kept well hidden behind closed doors. If they only knew the extent of his fantasies, of his desires and need to make sure all of his virile seed stayed inside of you, needing just one to take. He knew you were fertile, your womb just begging to carry his child. He was going to make this fantasy a reality.

You were already the prettiest little wife for him, so sweet and charming, he was completely smitten by you entirely, but Zayne knew he would be even more enamored when you carry his baby. The proof of his love for you, a baby who would be the perfect blend of you both.

“My baby…” he husked, giving your flat belly another rub, “You want my baby in your belly?”

“Ye-yes… please…”

He huffed, almost laughing breathlessly. He was going delirious. Your willingness and pleas were only fueling his desires. Suddenly, he pulled out completely and you cried in frustration at the sudden loss of him, but just as quickly he had flipped you onto your back and you stared up in wide-eyed confusion as he parted your legs before driving into you deeply.

You nearly choked on your cries, unprepared for his sudden brute force. Your nails dug into the fabric of the cushion again as he spread you more, pushing in deeper and harder, his every movement had your breasts bouncing as you gasped out his name in desperation over and over again.

“C-cumming… Zayne, I’m cumming…”

“Yes, yes, cum. Cum for me, darling,” he murmured, his own pants nearly matching yours. He was smirking as he drank in the sight of you, completely cock-drunk by him, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, mouth opened in silent euphoria. His words sounded more frenzied. “You might already be pregnant.”

You whimpered, and your nails dug even deeper into the cushion.

“Might already be carrying my baby,” he continued, “You like this thought, don’t you?”

“Yes! Yes, yes, Zayne!”

“Oh, fuck,” he sighed, “But it wouldn’t hurt to keep filling you up until we’re sure…”

His hand found yours, gripping it tightly as he pressed it into the cushion. He rocked into you deeply, his sweat-slicked forehead pressing against yours briefly before his lips found your own. As he ravaged your lips, leaving no room for you to breathe, he continued to taunt you with his tantalizing words in between every searing kiss: “Want my baby so badly, you’ve been begging for it every time, haven’t you?”

You nodded helplessly, eyes brimming with tears as you felt your climax was approaching faster now. He was practically bruising your lips with his relentless kisses. You could barely think straight, having completely succumbed to him, letting his soft but firm voice hypnotize you, lead you to the edge.

“Have you thought about the changes that will happen?”

You broke free from his kiss and buried your face into the crook of his neck. He pressed your legs further back and you squealed as he plumbed deeply into you, hitting that same sweet spot over and over again as he continued to pant such deliciously sinful words.

“You’re going to be even more beautiful… carrying my baby… have you… have you wearing only clothes that would show off your adorable round belly—” He was growing feverish, his own words having more of an effect on him than he realized. He was already imagining the changes. “Everyone will know it’s my baby in you.”

He chuckled suddenly, as if amused by a joke only he knew. “I don’t think I will be able to keep my hands off of you,” he confessed, “I’m going to want to touch you more, feel you more, need to be buried in your sweet pussy and fuck you again and again and again while you’re pregnant.”

“Ah… Za—”

You felt Zayne’s hands grabbed at your buttocks, lifting you up as your legs locked around his waist. You moaned into his shoulder, your arms wrapped around his neck tightly, holding onto him as he took you past the point of no return, his thrusts rushing more frantically as you both neared your releases.

“You’ll let me, won’t you?” he smirked, already knowing the answer himself, panting even harder as he felt your approaching climax, “Let me have you, let me feel you when you’re so round and heavy with our child. Let me fuck you, claim you over and over again—”

“Oh, fuck, yes!”

Zayne’s eyes widened suddenly at your euphoric cry, your hold on him tightening, submitting to the intense climax that had steadily been building since his earlier punishment. Your nails sank into his back, dragging across his skin and leaving deep marks on him. He gasped, hissing in pleasure, as he thrusted more erratically, yielding to his own need for his release. With a few more hurried strokes, Zayne groaned deeply as he emptied into you, feeling your pussy squeezed his cock and milking him dry.

“Ah… Za-Zayne… ah, so—ohhh!”

You rested against him, whimpering into his shoulder, feeling the heavy spurts before he started to soften inside of you, but he didn’t appear to be ready to leave your warmth just yet. Your mind still clouded by the intense pleasure just now, you didn’t realize he pulled you away from his neck, only aware of him when his fingers rested under your chin and gently tilting up so his lips could claim yours, so light and fleeting, just a gentle brush before he asked softly with his warm hazel eyes watching you with genuine concern, “Are you sore? Was I too rough with you just now?”

You smiled at him with lazy bliss and shook your head.

“Won’t speak to me?” he teased, giving you a quick peck on the tip of your nose, his smile widening at the sound of your gentle giggles.

“Happy birthday, Zaynie,” you said instead, making him chuckled in amusement.

“Thank you,” he laughed. “It turned out more… memorable than I originally thought it would be.”

You blinked at him confused and said not-so-innocently, “You’re speaking as if this is all you are getting for your birthday.”

He eyed you with suspicion. “What are you up to now?”

“Nothing,” you said with a cheeky smile. You wrapped your arms around his neck again and said with a pout, “Zaynie, I’m tired, can you carry me to the kitchen please?”

He chuckled. “Are you asking me to serve you on my own birthday, Miss?”

“Please?”

He pulled out of you with a groan, your damped panties readjusted. Sighing, Zayne kissed your cheek before his arms slipped under you. “Very well,” he said, “Hold on tight.”

As you held onto him, you gasped into his shoulder again, feeling some of his seed dripping into your soaked panties.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, confused by your behavior change.

“N-nothing,” you fibbed, keeping you face buried against him. You hummed happily, and reminded him, “Kitchen please.”

You giggled when he stood up and shifted, his arms were holding you securely to him as your legs wrapped around his waist tightly before he headed to the kitchen. With your guidance, he walked to the fridge, watching in confusion when you reached for the handle and opened the door. On one of the door shelves, you grabbed a can of whipped cream, making Zayne lift his eyebrow, even more baffled by your actions.

“Whipped cream?” he questioned.

“I couldn’t get you a birthday cake since you had said you would be working all day today,” you explained.

He chuckled and shook his head in amusement. He readjusted his hold on you, shifting the weight more comfortably against him. He gazed at you with so much warmth in his eyes as he spoke lightheartedly, “Ah, so it’s my fault I only get whipped cream instead of a birthday cake then?”

You made a face at him, puffing your cheeks up in annoyance. “What do you mean ‘only whipped cream?’”

“Hm?” He was about to question you, but you stopped him.

“Bedroom first,” you commanded.

“Ordering me around on my birthday?” he questioned with mock offense, but his feet were already moving to the next location. He chuckled when you yelped in surprise when his large hand rubbed over your bottom that was still a little sore from his earlier ‘punishment’. He continued in the same light-hearted tone, “I see my earlier… lesson didn’t have the expected effect on you. I should have known better.”

“I’m sorry, Zaynie,” you said unapologetically, “I’m a bit of a slow learner. Could you discipline me again—I mean teach me agai—ah!”

He had entered the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him and made his way to the large king-sized bed at the center of the room. Without any warning, he had tossed you onto the bed midsentence. Once you were able to recover from the shock, you were about to demand an explanation for his behavior, but you paused, startled when he started to unbutton his shirt.

“Zayne?”

“Hm?” He smiled down at you as he loosened the cuffs of his sleeves, revealing a glimpse of the faint scars on his arms. He tilted his head to the side, pretending like he was disappointed in you. Your gaze followed his fingers, watching him unbutton his shirt with intentional slowness. Once the shirt was completely unbuttoned, he walked to the bed, crawling on top until he was hovering above you while you leaned back, caught beneath him like a captured prey. You eyed him with surprise, wondering what was going through his head in this moment.

You glanced appreciatively downward, catching sight of Zayne’s toned abdomen beneath his unbuttoned shirt, but he didn’t let you look for long, his hand grasping your chin and lifting it up, directing your gaze back to him.

“Eyes on me,” he commanded.

“Technically, I was—”

“Behave,” he interrupted firmly and you clammed up under his stern look. He smirked in amusement at your immediate obedience before he lowered his glance. Wordlessly, his fingers brushed over the waistband of your panties.

“Za-Zayne?”

He huffed in amusement. “They’re completely soaked,” he murmured. He pulled them down, taking them off of you. He breathed in sharply before letting out a slow exhale. “I’m going to have to buy you some new lingerie it seems.”

You readjusted his shirt on you, covering your sudden exposed body from his view with lightly pinked cheeks. Noticing your not-so subtle actions, he pulled your hands away with a knowing smirk, and guided the shirt off, tossing it to the side, letting you sit completely nude to him.

“Suddenly shy now?” he teased, “What happened to that boldness you displayed earlier, my love?”

“I-I’m cold,” you fibbed with faux annoyance.

He nodded in understanding, humoring your defiance. “Then I should warm you up, shouldn’t I?”

You breathed in quickly, watching as one by one, all article of his clothing was removed until he was also completely nude in your presence. Even though as his wife, you had seen him completely naked numerous times before, it never stopped you from appreciating his beautiful physique, much the same way he also always adored seeing you completely exposed to him—only for him.

“We should both warm each other up,” he rephrased with a mischievous smirk. Zayne leaned forward and you lost your balance, your back hitting the mattress as he loomed above you, keeping you trapped beneath him. Perhaps it was because of the sudden heightened sexually-charged atmosphere, but you could feel your heart was beating faster than normal again, practically pounding within your chest.

You were excited. Excited by the feeling of anticipation for what could happen next tonight. Excited by the way Zayne was behaving, roguishly domineering as he took control of the situation. And excited by the prospect that whatever had happened and was going to happen could also lead to you and him expecting—

“Come here,” he whispered, his body pressing down closer to yours.

Caught under his beautiful hazel gaze, you didn’t notice Zayne had grabbed the can of whipped cream that had rolled to the side on the bed. He leaned down and kissed you deeply, distracting you as he shook the can a few times. When he pulled away, you whined softly from the loss of his sweet lips, making him chuckled.

“This can of whipped cream,” he murmured, though you barely registered his words, still intoxicated by his kisses. “What were your intentions with bringing this into our bedroom?”

“Hm?” You peered up at him doe-eyed, and he laughed again at your coyness. Suddenly, you yelped in surprise, brought back to the present when Zayne squirted a small dollop of the cold whipped cream above your chest. “Za-Zayne!”

“You said you didn’t get me a birthday cake, but you also insisted on bringing this can of whipped cream into our bedroom,” he continued in his soft tone thoughtfully. “One might surmise you were planning something… deviant with this, am I correct?”

You huffed, sighing, “You’re such a smart boy, Zaynie.”

He smiled in amusement at your vexed expression. “Then, as the… birthday boy, am I allowed to decorate my… treat?”

You felt a fluttering in your belly, an excited anticipation from hearing the heavy implication in his words. You nodded slowly, eyes following him as he shook the can again. You inhaled quickly, holding your breath when he squirted enough whipped cream to cover both your nipples before he set the can aside on the bed.

“Hm, I won’t be able to make a wish, will I?” he pretended to sound disappointed before he made eye contact with you. “Unless Miss Fairy here can also grant me my birthday wish?”

“What is your wish then, birthday boy?” You smiled at his playfulness.

“Will it come true if I say it aloud?” he wondered, leaning lower, letting the warmth of his breath brushed against your breast, a welcoming contrast to the cold cream that covered you.

Your breathing grew shaky, watching him with half-hooded eyes. “Te-tell me and we’ll find out together…”

“My love,” he whispered, his warm breath fanned against you once more, “I think you already know what I truly want…”

Zayne didn’t leave you any time to respond, his tongue already beginning to lick away the whipped cream from one breast. You squirmed from the stimulation, feeling his tongue brushed over your sensitive nipple.

His hands found your hips, gripping you tightly to keep you grounded beneath him. “Stay still,” he ordered, “I’m not finished with you yet.”

You felt that ever familiar coil tightening in your belly, conditioned to always listen to him when he used that particular stern tone with you. You whined again, feeling his tongue licked around your nipple thoroughly before he showed the same meticulous attention to your other breast.

Your cheeks felt warm again, face flushed with renewed arousal as you peered down at him.

“Za-Zayne, the whipped cream is already all gone,” you said feebly before your hand suddenly covered your mouth, suppressing your startled cry when he sucked on your nipple hard before parting and staring up at you with a pleased smirk.

“It’s my birthday,” he reminded you, “Am I not allowed to indulge?”

“Y-You—”

He stopped you before you could protest. “Whose idea was all of this?”

He grabbed your soaked panties, fingering the stained fabric with a look of amusement. “Those photos you’ve sent earlier today.”

“We-well, they were just…”

“Just…?”

“Just… a preview,” you attempted to explain, “I didn’t think you would come hom—”

“Mmhmm,” he hummed dismissively, grabbing the can of whipped cream again, “And this?”

“I didn’t have time to get you a cake, so I thought we could…”

One of Zayne’s eyebrows lifted up. He pretended to be puzzled, but you knew he saw through your flimsy act long ago. He interrupted you again, his tone sounding over-exaggeratedly thoughtful, “Ah, you thought we could have just the whipped cream in lieu of a birthday cake, is that correct, my love?” 

There was a stiff, noticeable silence after his question. You stared at him, lips twitching in annoyance briefly before you answered insolently, “Yes, just the whipped cream. You had said you would be working all da—”

“Open your mouth,” he interrupted once more, his tone commanding.

Confused, you obeyed him, opening your mouth a little.

“Wider,” he demanded.

Startled, you complied, unsure of what was going on in his head. You almost gasped when he squirted a decent-sized dollop of whipped cream into your mouth.

“Close,” he said with an amused smile.

You complied, tasting the lightly sweetened cream before it melted away on your tongue. Unconsciously, you licked your lips clean, almost wanting another taste of that cold sweet treat.

“This brand is delicious,” he said lightly, amused by the different expressions you had displayed in less than a minute because of this current situation. “We should buy another can tomorrow.”

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “Why tomorrow—"

“Now lay back down,” he ordered, pointedly ignoring your question.

You did as you were told, gazing up at him with utter confusion, having never seen him act so terse and dismissive with you like this before. It was… intriguing, and perhaps admittedly, even… arousing.

Your eyes followed Zayne’s movements, watching curiously as he shook the can several times, his own eyes never leaving yours. You wondered where he was planning on squirting the cream next, but as it turned out, you didn’t have to wait too long for an answer, because in the next instance, your body jolted on instinct when it felt that cold whipped cream squirted between your legs.

Instinctively, you wanted to close your legs, but Zayne kept them nudged apart. “Stay still,” he ordered again. He tossed the empty can of whipped cream off the bed before settling between your legs. He gripped your thighs, holding them apart as he leaned forward, his tongue running over the small mound of white cream in front of him.

Reflexively, your hand clamped over your mouth again, cry muffled when his tongue brushed against your sensitive lips.

“Don’t hide your voice,” he ordered, peering up long enough to see your flushed, aroused face, your trembling hand barely covering your face as you breathed shakily. He leaned forward, his tongue diving forward again, mouth pressed closer, tasting you as his hands gripped your trembling thighs tighter.

“Za-Zayne, it’s too much—”

He hummed back in response, showing no sign of slowing. Shakily, one of your hands pressed deeply into the mattress in an attempt to steady your balance while the other one found their way into Zayne’s hair, fingers wrapping around thick dark strands, tugging hard whenever he sucked deeply. Unwittingly, you thrusted your hips forward against his mouth.

“Zayne!"

He continued to only hum his replies, the only other noise besides the lewd sounds of him eating you out, hungrily tasting your slick essence. You threw your head back moaning, your entire body wracked with pleasure. “Ah… ah…”

“I will never get enough of you,” he mumbled. “I could spend my whole life devouring you and my appetite would never be fully satisfied—”

You could hear him groaning, his own voice sounding shakier than before. You peered down through half-opened eyes, your mouth opening wider in shock at seeing his right hand wrapped around his cock as he stroked himself urgently while he indulged in you.

Oh, god… Zayne…!

You could see the precum on the tip of his cock, the sight had you trembling with need. You struggled to find your voice before you were able to beg him hurriedly, “F-fuck me, fuck me, Zayne.”

He paused and looked at you, appearing to also be catching his breath now. Seeing the desperateness in your eyes, he smiled and leaned toward you, taking your lips for himself. You moaned in between his kisses, the weight of his body pressed you down into the mattress, keeping you trapped beneath him.

“Want my cock inside you?” He teased, his lips finding your neck.

Your hands steadied themselves on his strong, broad shoulders as he planted deep kisses along your neck, leaving his mark on you. You could feel yourself completely dripping, aching to have his cock inside you once more.

“Y-yes,” you said breathily.

“You were so close to coming just now,” he murmured almost thoughtfully, “Why did you stop me from making you cum?”

You moaned at how sweet his voice sounded. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, nudging your hips up closer to him, hearing his instant hiss of pleasure as you brushed against his erection. “In-inside me,” you gasped, “I want your cock inside me again. Want you to cum inside me again.”

“Is-is that so?” he asked breathlessly. He pressed a kiss to your temple.

You whined at him, feeling yourself clenching around nothing, needing him so much in this moment. The building desperation in you had robbed you of any inhibitions, your words were rushing out shamelessly as you voiced your desires to him: “Yes! Want your cock inside me, want to cum on your cock, want you to cum inside me—with me, please, Zaynie, please, want you to fuck your baby into me, please, Zayne!”

Zayne’s breathing grew erratic, feeling like he was getting dizzy by how sweetly obscene your tantalizing words and pleas were.

He wanted this as well, he realized. He wanted everything you were begging him for. Wanted so much and more.

“What a good girl you are,” he breathed, almost laughing in astonishment at what his ears were hearing. His fingers dove inside you again, delighting in the way you instantly moaned at the feeling before he pulled out, his fingers dripping again with your wetness. With that same hand, he let it wrapped around his cock again, stroking it leisurely as he covered himself with your essence before he guided himself to your waiting, willing entrance.

You squealed, feeling the tip pressing in and then more and more of him started to ease forward, dragging out a long, low moan from you as he filled you so deliciously full.

“Still this needy,” he groaned, “Still wanting to be stuffed full…”

You whined, eyes rolling to the back of your head as he pulled out slowly and thrusted back in. He continued this languid pacing, letting you stretch around him again before he started to build a faster rhythm.

“You didn’t want to cum by yourself earlier, did you, my love?”

“N-no…” you whimpered at him, meeting his own aroused gaze. “Want to cum with you, want us to cum together.”

He seized your lips, kissing you deeply before he groaned softly, his breath feeling so hot against your mouth. “So sweet…”

You leaned forward and kissed him back, wanting to taste him again. With your arms wrapped around him, holding tight, needing to feel the weight of him on you, you felt Zayne holding your legs apart, keeping you spread for him as he drove deeper and harder into you.

“Want me to cum in you again?” he asked, sounding like he was close.

You could feel your own climax was also approaching again. “Inside me,” you urged him with a gasp, “Want you to fuck your baby into me, please Zayne!”

He shuddered at your words, his pacing growing more brutal by the seconds. “I want this, too,” he panted. “Want to see your belly growing round with my baby.”

You smiled at him deliriously. “M-more… tell me more,” you pleaded, his words having a euphoric effect on you as you felt that familiar feeling of your approaching climax.

He smiled back, nearly laughing at your eagerness. “You like that, darling? Want to feel your body changing for me?”

“Oh, yes… yes!”

“Good girl,” he groaned when he felt you pulsing around him. “You are going to be even more beautiful when you are pregnant.”

“Ye-yeah?”

“Of course,” he breathed, “Seeing you carry my baby will be the most beautiful sight I will have ever seen.”

“Oh… oh, Zayne, h-hurry, almost—”

He was no longer thinking straight. Hearing the way your voice pleaded with him, feeling your climax was fast approaching and knowing he was just as close, he hurried with his words, his movements rushing, pounding into you harder and deeper.

“I need to see you in tight clothing,” he said, gasping, “Want to see how big and round your belly can get.”

You moaned in agreement. “Yes… yes, I want you to see what you did to me—”

Fuck. Zayne nearly gasped again, his hips stuttering as it seemed you were the one edging him now. His hands grabbed your hips, tightening his hold as he continued to pound into you at that same rushed pacing. “What I did to you?” he almost laughed in disbelief at how you could still manage to be this audacious with him even when you were also about to come undone because of him. He laughed again, this time in agreement. “Yes, you’re right. What I’m going to do to you.”

You whined as you felt the intensity of his movements. “Za-Zayne!”

“I’m going to give you everything you want. Everything that I want,” he said, letting his inhibitions go as he succumbed to his desires and to you, “I’m going to keep breeding you like this, like how I’ve been doing for weeks now. You like being bred like this, don’t you?”

“Yes, Zayne, yes!”

“Want me to fill your womb, want me to fuck my baby into you, is that it?”

You nodded at him.

“Say it.”

You cried, your walls pulsing around him had him groaning deeply. “Yes! Yes, yes, yes, Zayne! I want a baby. I want to have your baby! Please, please, cum inside me, breed me, don’t stop until you’ve knocked me up. I need you. I need you, Zaynie. Zayne—”

You screamed, his rushed movements suddenly stopping as he groaned deeply and came inside you right as your orgasm coursed through your body, leaving you crying in pure pleasure. He was gasping as he felt you milking him completely, your belly bulging enough to give the illusion that you had a small bump. He swallowed dry, the sight had him so lightheaded, he thought he was going to pass out.

He didn’t dare close his eyes, wanting the lascivious image of you spread out like this, taking all of his seed to be ingrained into his memory. It was such a beautiful sight, he thought, seeing how your body always reacting so euphorically to him.

In time, you felt the last aftershocks of your shared orgasms fading, felt him softening inside you, but Zayne continued to remain in your warmth, not wanting to part just yet. He cupped your cheek and you looked up, meeting his gentle smile.

“Are you alright?” he asked softly, his thumb brushing along your cheek in comfort.

You smiled back and nodded. As he pulled out, you gasped quietly, already missing the feeling of him buried inside you.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Zayne said softly, already prepared to leave the bed, but he stopped when you reached for his wrist. He peered down with a soft smile, his eyebrow quirking up in puzzlement.

“Later,” you told him, tugging him back to the bed with you. “I want to cuddle with you right now.”

“It’s my birthday, but why do I feel like I’ve been the one to indulge in your whims?” he teased, though he allowed you to drag him into bed with you again. He laid down, smirking in amusement when you squirmed your way back into his arms, nestling comfortably in his warm, loving embrace.

You peered up at him, grinning as you matched his playfulness. “You better get used to it.”

He raised a brow in question, waiting for you to elaborate.

“When I’m pregnant,” you clarified with a wider grin, “You will cater to my whims, won’t you, Zaynie?”

He sighed and shook his head in disbelief. “You act like I don’t do that already on a day-to-day basis.”

Before you could make a retort, Zayne pressed a kiss to your temple, smiling kindly as he spoke, “I will be at your beck and call, Miss.”

You gasped and squirmed when he walked two fingers across your abdomen. Your cheeks turned rosy as you struggled to maintain composure. “Z-Zaynie…”

“Hm?”

“I… might not be pregnant yet…”

“We don’t know that you’re not either,” he countered with a smirk, delighting in your sudden coyness. He continued, “Let me pretend tonight. It’s still my birthday, is it not?”

You peeked at the clock on the nightstand. “Four more hours until midnight. So…”

You smiled with rosy cheeks when he leaned down and nuzzled his face against your flat stomach. Instinctively, you threaded your fingers through his hair. As you indulged in his whim, a sudden thought snuck its way into your mind, and you couldn’t help but pondered aloud, “What if…”

“What if what?” Zayne peered up at you, noticing your thoughtful tone and the way you seemed to trail off with your words.

“What if… we had conceived today?”

He looked at you in wonder.

“What if…” you continued, steadily growing bolder with your words, seeing the gleam of interest in Zayne’s eyes. “…we had conceived our baby… on your birthday?”

He laughed, seemingly tickled by the very idea. He sat up and leaned over to kiss you briefly. It was his turn to brush your hair aside as he gazed down at you fondly. “Wouldn’t that be a story in and of itself?”

“Surely, you are not planning on telling—”

“Our little secret, if that was the case,” he interrupted.

“Our dirty little secret?” you amended with a smile.

He sighed helplessly. “I wouldn’t put it that way…”

“I would,” you declared proudly.

“Of course, you would,” he said, deadpanned. Suddenly, Zayne blinked in surprise when you grabbed his wrist, laying his palm face up. He jerked from the tickling sensation when you glided the pad of your index finger across his palm. He furrowed his brows in confusion, asking, “What are you doing?”

“Sending you a message,” you said, beaming proudly. You giggled at his perplexed expression. “Here, I’ll start over.”

You dragged your finger down his palm, smiling when he reacted again to the tickling sensation. You held his hand tighter and made two short parallel strokes.

“‘I,’” Zayne said.

“Good job,” you praised brightly.

You continued with the next word, occasionally peeking up to catch Zayne’s reaction, seeing a knowing smile forming on his handsome face as he answered confidently:

“‘Love.’”

“Uh huh,” you said with a smile. You made a few more strokes for the last word.

“‘You,’” he finished happily, repeating, “‘I love you.’”

“You are such a smart boy, Zaynie,” you praised again with a wider grin.

“I love you,” he said once more, leaning toward you with one hand cradling your cheek. He sighed again, his smile unwavering and infectious. “I love you.”

He was overwhelming you, drowning you with his sweet love confession, repeating over and over again that one sentence until it seemed like his heartfelt words and devotion were seared into your very soul.

You returned his affections, kissing him back and savoring this sweet intimate moment with him, a treasured memory for you to selfishly lock away in a keepsake box just for yourself. Likewise, you knew this was also a night he would never forget, another moment with you for him to add to his unending collection of cherished memories.

Sweet nothings were exchanged, along with laughter and giggles, and passing kisses in between. Time seemed to move so much faster when you were with him, you realized with despondency, wishing you could slow this moment down, to linger in this afterglow, in this quiet world of you and him.

You kissed him slowly, kissed him sweetly, letting yourself fall deeper under his spell, whisked away by a love so tender and true. You let the passion between you both guided you through the night, let your body welcomed him back in, sinking down on his length, feeling every glorious inch filled you again as he peered up at you with vibrant green eyes.

To have and to hold, you answered his moans with soft sighs, moving with him with practiced ease, feeling every stroke as he guided you up and down, his hold on your hips tightening more and more as you both neared your release.

“Z-Zayne—!”

His lips found yours, and you embraced him once more, relishing in feeling his heat so close to your own. As the night carried on, before the stroke of midnight announced the arrival of a brand-new day, you whispered back, your lips to his and your heart forever his:

“Happy birthday, my love.”

Tag list: @lavlynyan @rainbowsnowflake @jasmines-greentea @notisekais @solifloris @natimiles @callilypso @likewhyareyousoobsessedwithme @littleapplle @alfredosaws @nezuswritingdesk @valkyyriia @yourlocalcatscammer @qyuin @ladsarchivee 【 request to be added 】

[mandoalorian]

where you end, i begin [bucky barnes x f!reader]

pairing: new avenger!bucky x f!reader

synopsis: you didn’t expect sam wilson to be the one to pull you off the street, or to offer you a place to stay when you had nowhere else to go. but what you least expected was to come face-to-face with the leader of the new avengers — bucky barnes. you didn’t trust him. he didn’t trust you. but when sam sent you both on an errand together, something shifted. not enough to fix the past. just enough to start the fire.

word count: 7000

warnings: 18+ for eventual smut, enemies to lovers, thunderbolts* spoilers, sam/bucky are fighting, mention of family member death, details of physical and emotional abuse, grumpy!bucky, avengers tower fic

masterlist

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It had been fourteen months since the bar. Fourteen months since Shane broke a glass against your wrist, since a stranger in sunglasses asked if you were okay, and since the world met its new set of so-called heroes.

You still thought about that night sometimes—the way your heart raced not from fear, but from certainty. You’d seen it in Shane’s aura before it happened: the pressure rising, the colour deepening to that dangerous red you now knew too well. You’d seen it coming, just like you always did. And you still hadn’t stopped it.

Not really.

Now, you moved through your days like a ghost. A few bar shifts here, a couch to crash on there. Shane always came back around. He always had just enough charm, just enough regret, to get the door open again. And you always gave in—because it was either that or sleep in the cold.

What you didn’t know was that someone else had been watching, too.

Sam Wilson wasn’t a shadowy man by nature, but he had grown good at disappearing when he needed to. He didn’t make noise when he followed you out of the bar late at night, checking that you made it home. He didn’t flinch when he saw you stumble out of Shane’s apartment with a fresh bruise blooming along your collarbone.

He just kept notes. Kept watching.

He told himself it was because he saw something in you—something bright beneath the ache, something sharp. Power wrapped in grief, hidden behind cracked lips and tired eyes.

He told himself it wasn’t pity.

It wasn’t until the alley fight that he was sure.

You’d only meant to get your phone back. That was it. Shane had taken it—again—and you were done playing the patient game. But when you walked into that alley behind the bar, he was already drunk. Already yelling. Already grabbing for your wrist.

You felt it before he touched you: the spike in his chest, the tangle in his thoughts. His aura snapped like a live wire—violent, chaotic, erratic. You saw the shape of the blow before it came.

So you moved.

For once, you didn’t hesitate.

You caught his wrist, twisted, stepped into his chest with your palm flat over his heart. You didn’t know how you did it—but when you pushed, something surged from you. His body slammed into the dumpster with a crack loud enough to make the rats scatter.

You stared at your hands like they didn’t belong to you.

And Sam, across the street behind the windshield of his parked car, finally made the call he’d been putting off for over a year.

You didn’t go back to Shane after that. You didn’t have a choice. The door was slammed shut, your clothes thrown into the gutter. No phone, no money. You wandered all night. By morning, you were curled on the curb outside the bar, your hoodie soaked through from a burst of April rain.

That was where Sam found you again.

And this time, he didn’t keep walking.

You didn’t hear him approach.

Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the ache in your body or the way your hands were still shaking from everything you’d finally escaped. Or maybe it was because part of you had stopped expecting kindness. Kindness never walked up without a catch.

You hadn’t cried yet. Not since the fight.

Not when Shane shattered your phone against the apartment wall. Not when he screamed loud enough to wake your neighbours and you had to run barefoot with your backpack half-zipped and nothing but a crumpled twenty-dollar bill in your coat pocket. Not even when the woman at the shelter said there were no open beds, no space, no time.

You sat on the stoop of the corner store across from your old block, your coat soaked through at the shoulders and a plastic bag of your remaining things resting by your feet. You hadn't eaten since the night before. Maybe longer. The sky above had turned a familiar kind of gray—the kind that made the city feel quieter than it actually was. Like something was holding its breath.

Then, a voice.

“You always sit out here in the rain, or just when you’ve got nowhere else to go?”

You looked up sharply, instinct sparking under your skin. The man stood just out of reach, hands half-raised in a non-threatening gesture. Worn jacket. Scuffed boots. Cap pulled low over his eyes, sunglasses despite the storm clouds overhead. A paper bag dangled from one hand like a peace offering.

You narrowed your eyes. “You got a habit of bothering women who are clearly not in the mood?”

He cracked a faint smile. “Only when they look like they need a sandwich.”

Your stomach twisted at the word. A memory of warmth. Of feeling full. He stepped forward slowly and extended the bag.

“Double sausage, egg, extra cheese. They gave me two. You want it?”

You hesitated. But then the wind picked up, and you felt yourself flinch, thin fabric clinging to your soaked arms. Pride didn’t warm you. Hunger didn’t wait.

You reached out and took the bag without saying thank you. He sat down next to you, close enough to be companionable but not so close you’d mistake it for intimacy. Just a quiet presence.

You peeled the sandwich open and took a cautious bite.

He didn’t speak again until you were halfway through it.

“I’ve seen you fight.”

That stopped you cold.

You turned your head, chewing slowly. “Excuse me?”

He adjusted his sunglasses slightly but didn’t meet your eyes. “About a week ago. The alley behind McCready’s. That guy tried to grab your arm. You moved before he could. Like you felt it coming.”

You didn’t say anything. Just stared at him, tense and still.

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you. Not in a weird way,” he added quickly, as if realising how it sounded. “More like… a protective one.”

You snorted. “Yeah, ‘cause that doesn’t sound weird at all. And I don’t need protecting.”

“Yeah, I figured that much,” he muttered. “I saw you in that bar. Fourteen months ago.”

You blinked. “What?”

“The night that guy smashed the glass. Screamed at you like he wanted to break something more than the tumbler. You handled yourself. Scared him off before anyone else could even move.”

You stared at him. Memory unspooling. A man at the bar, alone in a booth. Cap, sunglasses. You hadn’t looked twice.

But how could you forget meeting Captain America.

“I thought you looked familiar,” you muttered.

“I wanted to check in that night. Say something. But I figured you didn’t need another man in your face. Especially not one you didn’t ask for.”

You frowned. “So why now?”

“Because I don’t think you’ve got anyone else.”

There it was. Brutal. True.

You looked down at your bag. Damp. Pathetic. Full of useless things like books and makeup and a single cracked hairbrush. The shelter turned you away. Your phone was in pieces. You had no money. No room to go back to. No friends.

No plan.

And yet still… “You could be a creep.”

“I could,” he said honestly. “But I’m not.”

You looked at him again. Studied his posture, the way he sat steady and relaxed, unthreatening. Something in your gut told you he was telling the truth. That soft, rare little voice that hadn’t failed you yet.

“…You’re really him?”

He smiled.

Then, he pulled off his sunglasses.

The recognition came in slow, like fog rolling off a lake.

Sam Wilson.

You’d seen his face on screens. Back when there were still screens in your life. The man who took the shield. The man who walked away from it. The one who didn’t ask for the spotlight but carried the weight anyway.

“Why would someone like you help someone like me?”

He shrugged. “Because someone once told me power doesn’t always look like flight suits and laser beams. Sometimes it’s the kind of power you can’t explain—but you feel it. When I saw you fight… I saw something real.”

You exhaled, long and slow.

“I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“I know.”

You looked away, then back.

“…Couch or floor?”

He grinned. “Guest bedroom. I’ll even throw in a working shower and some clean towels.”

You smirked, even though your heart was racing. “That’s a bold offer.”

“I’m a bold guy.”

You stood, slowly, and gathered your bag. “So what are you now? A social worker?”

“Nope,” he said, standing beside you. “Just a guy trying to build something better. And maybe… recruit a few misfits along the way.”

You eyed him. “I didn’t know you were part of the Avengers again.”

He looked toward the clouds, thoughtful. “It’s a work in progress.”

────✪────

Sam’s apartment was warm. Too warm. Or maybe it just felt that way because you hadn’t been inside a home that didn’t scream danger in every corner.

The floors were wood, worn but clean. A stack of mail sat on the counter. The living room had a strange mix of modern and hand-me-down furniture. A dark leather couch. A navy throw blanket. The kind of space someone tried to make liveable without giving too much of themselves away.

You stood near the doorway with your damp bag clutched in both hands while Sam disappeared into the kitchen. You heard a fridge open, something fizz, and then his voice: “You want water, soda, beer?”

You hesitated. “…Water’s fine.”

He returned, handed you a bottle, then nodded for you to follow. “Come on, I’ll show you around.”

You didn’t move right away. Not until he added, “It’s just us for now. My roommate’s out — his name’s Joaquin. Works late sometimes.”

You followed, wary but quiet. He pointed to a room down the hall. “That’ll be yours. The bed’s clean. Closet’s empty. You can stay as long as you need.”

You blinked at him. “Why are you being so… nice?”

He didn’t stop walking, but his voice lowered just a touch. “Because I’ve seen too many people fall through cracks no one’s willing to patch. If I can offer you a few bricks and some glue, I will.”

You didn’t have a response for that.

The bathroom was spotless. The cabinet had backup toothbrushes and unopened soaps. The bedroom wasn’t big, but it was safe. You stared at the freshly made bed like it might vanish if you blinked too hard.

“I can take you shopping tomorrow,” Sam said gently. “Clothes, food. You can make a list of what you like. We usually cook in, unless Joaquin tries to microwave fish again.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Sam grinned.

“See? You’re already fitting in.”

You looked down, the smile fading. “I’m not used to people doing this. Being… decent.”

“You’ll get used to it.”

There was a knock at the door.

Sam’s entire energy shifted.

He gave you a quick glance — nothing panicked, just measured — and stepped toward the door.

“I’ve got it,” he said over his shoulder. “Sorry, he said he was coming later.”

You stood awkwardly in the hallway, unsure whether to retreat or wait. Then the door opened, and a voice drifted in.

Low. Familiar. Tightly controlled.

“You called.”

You couldn’t see him from where you stood, but something in your chest twisted anyway.

Sam sighed. “Come in, Barnes. Take your boots off. I just got this floor waxed.”

Boots thudded on the mat. Footsteps crossed the living room.

Then—he was there.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The Winter Soldier.

You knew his face. Had seen it splashed across news reports, dossiers, nightmares. His hair was longer now, thick and wavy. Honestly, he might have blow dried it. But the eyes were the same—steel blue, tired, sharp.

You froze.

He didn’t notice you at first. He was too busy handing Sam something—a file, maybe. Paper clipped, sealed tight.

“It’s a peace offering,” Bucky muttered. “Figured you’d want it before the next press conference.”

Sam looked unimpressed. “You mean the one where your girlfriend Val tries to trademark the term ‘heroic vigilante’?”

“I don’t even like her,” Bucky snapped. “You think I asked to be part of that PR stunt?”

Sam scoffed and turned away, muttering something under his breath about damage control.

And that’s when Bucky saw you.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

But his eyes locked on you like he’d sensed something.

Like your name was written in the air.

Sam noticed the shift and turned, his tone lighter now. “Right. Uh, Bucky, this is—”

You cut in. “You don’t have to.”

He raised a brow and introduced you anyway.

Sam stepped between you slightly. “She’s staying here. Guest room.”

Bucky tilted his head. “She your new protégé or something?”

Sam smiled, calm but pointed. “Let’s just say she’s got potential.”

There was silence, thick as oil.

Then Bucky gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

“Nice to meet you,” he said, voice unreadable.

You didn’t say it back.

You barely heard them after that. Something buzzed in your ears—sharp and thick like static. You felt Bucky’s presence in the room even after he stepped out of it, like the imprint of something heavy and permanent.

You didn’t remember walking to the guest room. Didn’t remember closing the door.

But suddenly you were inside it, alone, your fingers clutching the edge of the desk like it might anchor you to the floor. Your breath came in short, shallow bursts.

He’s here. He’s here. He’s in this house.

Your skin felt too tight, like your body wasn’t built to contain what was happening inside it. You closed your eyes, trying to will your powers still, but it was no use.

The room lit up in invisible colours—his aura had followed you.

It was like burnt silver wrapped in thunderclouds. Regret. Guilt. A pressure that scraped like glass beneath the ribs.

You couldn’t tell if it was his or yours.

The memories flooded in too quickly—your brother’s laugh, your mother’s scream, the news report, the blood. You couldn’t catch your breath. You couldn’t see without seeing him. That metal arm. That gun. That empty stare.

Your knees gave out.

You sank to the floor, hands over your ears as your powers bloomed wild and brutal. The light behind your eyes fractured like mirrors breaking underfoot. You felt the energy of the house—Sam’s steadiness, Bucky’s conflict, your own panic—a cacophony of emotion clawing to be named.

You bit your tongue hard enough to taste metal.

Then you screamed into your palms. Not loudly. Just enough to bleed something out of yourself.

And then—you shut it down.

You focused on the floor beneath you, the air in your lungs, the silence between heartbeats. You counted.

One. Two. Three.

Again.

One. Two. Three.

Eventually, the trembling stopped. Your aura dimmed. You forced yourself to crawl onto the bed, blanket pulled up to your chin like a child trying to disappear.

Outside the room, muffled voices.

Bucky stood just inside the doorway of the apartment, the air thick with unspoken things. He hadn’t seen Sam in over a year, and somehow this hallway—this ordinary patch of tile and light—felt heavier than any battlefield.

“I didn’t come here to fight,” Bucky said first, voice low, rough with dust and memory.

Sam gave a quiet laugh, though there was no humour in it. He leaned a shoulder against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed. “That so? Funny. Last I heard, you were naming teams after yourself and making a mess of the cleanup.”

Bucky frowned. “You think I wanted this?”

“I think you wanted control.” Sam’s tone was measured, but the bite beneath it was sharp. “Wanted to be something that didn’t belong to Steve.”

That landed like a punch, and they both felt it.

Bucky didn’t flinch, but he looked away.

Sam pressed on. “You disappeared, man. Fourteen months. No calls. No check-ins. Just… vanished.”

Bucky’s jaw ticked. “You think I had the luxury of checking in? I was doing damage control. You don’t know the shit Valentina’s been pulling—”

“You were my friend, Bucky,” Sam snapped, stepping forward now, heat rising in his voice. “I’ve been here. On the ground. Watching what’s happening, watching people get twisted into weapons again—”

“I was one of those weapons,” Bucky shot back. “Don’t preach to me about it.”

The room held its breath.

Bucky exhaled, ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t come to dig all this up. I came to talk.”

“About what?” Sam asked, voice flatter now. “About making peace? Mending fences? About maybe being on the same side again?”

“Something like that.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed, gaze cutting straight through him. “You show up with your tail tucked, looking to ‘talk,’ and you don’t even know what kind of shitstorm you walked into.”

Bucky raised a brow. “What storm?”

Sam hesitated. Just for a moment.

“…Never mind,” he said finally, pushing away from the doorframe. “Doesn’t matter. You want peace, you’ll have to earn it.”

“I’m not looking for forgiveness,” Bucky muttered.

“Good,” Sam said, turning toward the fridge. “Because I’m not giving it.”

The silence between them lingered even after the heat of the argument cooled. Sam busied himself with pouring water, the clink of glass the only sound for a long stretch. Bucky just stood there—arms crossed, steel-eyed, jaw tight. But something about his stillness looked more like guilt than anger.

Finally, Bucky exhaled. “What can I do to make things better?”

Sam didn’t look at him right away. Instead, he turned to the window, watching the late afternoon sun stretch shadows across the floor.

“You can start by showing up when it matters,” Sam said quietly. “Start by taking responsibility without hiding behind guilt.”

“I am taking responsibility.”

“No, you’re doing what you’ve always done, Buck. You’re trying to fix everything without facing it.”

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly bristling. But before he could fire back, Sam cut in again—calmer this time.

“She needs clothes. Shoes. A damn toothbrush.” He glanced back at Bucky. “Take her to the mall. Walk beside someone again. Start there.”

Bucky groaned under his breath. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. You want a way back in? You earn it.” Sam gestured toward the hallway. “Start with her.”

Bucky muttered something under his breath, then reluctantly trudged down the hall. Sam followed, but it was he who knocked—twice, gently—on your door.

Inside, you were curled under your blanket, aura flickering dimly like a bruise trying to fade. Your eyes were puffy, but alert, scanning the shape of Sam’s shadow beneath the door.

“Hey,” he said, soft but clear. “I know today’s been… a lot. But I was thinking maybe you could get out for a bit. There’s someone here who can take you shopping. Just for essentials.”

You stiffened. “I don’t want to go. You said you’d take me tomorrow.”

“He’s not—he’s not Shane,” Sam said gently, misunderstanding the tightness in your voice. “I wouldn’t let anyone near you if I thought they’d hurt you. This guy… I trust him with my life. I mean that.”

You didn’t answer. The silence grew teeth.

Eventually, Sam added in a hush, “He’s not a monster.”

But he was.

You stood slowly, your hand grazing the wood of the door. Through the thin barrier, you could sense it: the man standing just behind Sam. The storm in his aura, the tension in his breath. His presence buzzed against your nerves like static before lightning.

James Buchanan Barnes.

The man who killed your brother.

You pressed your forehead gently to the door. Sam thought you were scared of men. That you'd been broken by Shane, fragile and flinching.

But that wasn’t it.

You were finally close. Closer than you ever expected. You’d seen the headlines, watched the broadcasts—but nothing could compare to the sheer proximity of him. His heartbeat, his shadow.

You took a slow breath and opened the door.

Bucky was standing there, arms crossed, leaning on one hip like this was the last place he wanted to be.

His eyes flicked over you and then away, like you were another problem to solve. Maybe you were.

Sam smiled, clearly relieved. “Good. Just a quick trip. Get what you need.”

You gave the former Winter Soldier a long, measured look.

This was where your plan began.

“Fine,” you said.

And you stepped past the threshold.

────✪────

You hadn’t spoken since leaving Sam’s apartment. The silence in the car was thick, choked with unsaid things. Bucky drove like he wanted it over with—hands tight on the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes fixed straight ahead.

You didn’t thank him. He didn’t offer small talk.

By the time you stepped into the fluorescent haze of the mall, the air between you was already crackling.

“So,” Bucky muttered, holding the door open with the flat of his vibranium hand, “what exactly do you need?”

You stepped past him without looking. “I dunno. Soap. Clothes. Dignity.”

He huffed a quiet laugh under his breath. “That last one might be out of stock.”

You paused, turned, arms folded across your chest. “Was that supposed to be funny?”

He gave a shrug that might’ve meant anything. “You’re the one who said it.”

You narrowed your eyes, studying him—his posture, his expression, his aura. That storm inside him hadn’t lessened. If anything, it swirled darker now. A tension in his gut. Something like guilt. Or resentment. Maybe both.

You turned and walked faster, weaving into the crowd of shoppers.

“You always this pleasant?” he asked, trailing behind.

“Only when I’m with charming company.”

His voice stayed low, a little amused despite himself. “Is this because you don’t like me, or because you don’t like anyone?”

“I don’t know you,” you said sharply. “And let’s keep it that way.”

“Sure,” he said, falling into step beside you, “except I’m the guy stuck helping you pick out deodorant.”

You stopped abruptly in front of a store.

“Let’s get one thing straight.” You turned toward him. “I didn’t ask for your help. I didn’t want this. I had a life. I was getting by. And now I’m stuck here—with you.”

“You were getting by?” Bucky quirked an eyebrow. You froze, unsure of how much Sam had told him about your situation. Never the less, it wasn’t his business.

“I was getting by.” you lied through your teeth.

His brow furrowed slightly, annoyed but... curious. “And… Stuck?”

“Yes. Stuck. With some half-retired war hero babysitting me like I’m some charity case.”

Bucky crossed his arms. “You think Sam’s doing this out of pity?”

“I think you don’t want to be here.”

“That’s true,” he said without missing a beat.

You scoffed and turned toward the nearest clothing rack, shoving through the hangers harder than necessary.

“Then why come?” you asked after a beat, your voice quieter now. “Why agree?”

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, it was flat and honest. “Because I owe Sam.”

You glanced over your shoulder at him. “That’s all this is?”

He held your gaze for just a second too long. “What else would it be?”

You didn’t have an answer.

So you grabbed a few shirts off the rack and stormed toward the fitting rooms. When you emerged ten minutes later, arms full of items, Bucky was exactly where you’d left him—leaning on a bench, arms crossed, looking like he'd rather be in a war zone.

“I need sneakers,” you muttered, brushing past him.

“Lead the way,” he said with a sigh.

The shoe store was quieter. You sat down on the little bench, trying on a pair of black high-tops, when Bucky finally said something that caught you off guard.

“So what do you like to do? When you’re not yelling at me, I mean.”

You glanced up at him with a sharp look. “You’re joking like you’re part of the circus— Not an Avenger. Although…”

He was too unbothered. “You’ve got a lot of sharp words for someone who can’t decide between a pair of shoes.”

You shifted on the bench, adjusting your stance as you reached down for the other shoe. But before you could slip it on, a cry pierced the air.

You froze. The sound of a baby wailing echoed through the store, followed by frantic footsteps as a mother rushed to comfort the child.

Bucky’s head snapped toward the noise. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at you.

You didn’t move. You barely breathed, your pulse quickening as the panic in the child’s aura swirled like an impending storm. The baby was in distress—too much of it, too quickly.

“Everything okay?” Bucky’s voice broke through your concentration, but you didn’t look at him. You couldn’t, not yet.

The crying grew louder, escalating, and before you knew it, you were standing, your body tight with an involuntary urge to do something about it.

You took a deep breath, eyes squeezed shut. You felt the pressure in your chest. The emotions of the baby bleeding into the atmosphere. You reached out, not physically, but with your senses, and tried to calm the child.

It was only for a second, but in that moment, the energy shifted. The crying stopped abruptly, as if the child’s distress had been soothed. The air seemed to calm with it.

When you opened your eyes, you saw Bucky watching you, expression unreadable.

“You... you felt that, didn’t you?” His voice was low, quiet. “Before it even happened.”

You didn’t answer right away, lowering your gaze to the shoes in your hands. “Black or blue?”

Bucky stared at you for a long beat, his gaze flickering over you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He could tell there was more to you than what met the eye. And though he didn’t fully understand it, the way you had handled that... there was something almost unnatural about it.

But he didn’t press. He was still trying to understand everything about you—the quiet walls you put up, the sharpness in your words. And yet, he could see past all of it.

“Black,” he said after a moment, his tone less tense than before.

You shrugged, deliberately ignoring his suggestion and putting the black sneakers back on the shelf. You took the blue pair to pay at the cashier.

Bucky didn’t say anything else for a while. He just kept walking beside you through the store, quiet, observant.

Finally, after a few more minutes, you turned to him with a look that could’ve cut glass.

“You can’t always just fix everything.”

He looked down at you, his lips quirking into a half-smile. “Who says I’m trying to fix anything?”

You opened your mouth to argue, but instead just let out a frustrated huff.

He watched you with a growing curiosity.

And for the first time since you’d gotten in the car, you both felt like maybe—just maybe—the quiet was starting to break.

The drive back to Sam’s was nearly as awkward as the drive to the mall.

Rain drizzled against the windshield, thin and cold, painting the world outside in gray streaks. You sat pressed against the passenger door, your eyes on the window but your senses—your aura—locked on him.

Bucky didn’t speak. Not at first. He just gripped the steering wheel like it might splinter in his hands if he eased up.

“You moved before that kid even started crying.”

His voice broke the silence like a stone in still water.

You blinked, feigning confusion. “What?”

“At the shoe store,” he said, glancing sideways. “The baby. You stood up before it happened. Like you knew.”

Your pulse ticked in your throat. “Lucky guess.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. You could feel the flicker of his suspicion—quiet but sharp, like a blade being unsheathed slowly.

“You’re not normal,” he said.

Your head snapped toward him, heart pounding. “That’s rude.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he muttered, keeping his eyes on the road. “I’m not normal either. Neither’s Sam. Or anyone trying to do what we’re doing now.”

“What you’re doing?” You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Please don’t lump me in with your little project.”

He arched a brow. “It’s not my project.”

“Right. You’re just the face of it.”

“Val’s the one in charge,” Bucky said carefully, testing the waters. “And Sam? He’s just as much part of it as anyone else. He just doesn’t realise it yet. He brought you in. Hey, maybe you can get him to sign—“

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you snapped. “Sam gave me a place to sleep, that’s all. I’m not here to be anyone’s weapon.”

The word hung between you, heavy and unspoken.

Weapon.

Bucky stiffened. You felt it. A ripple in his aura—like regret twisted with something darker. Guilt, maybe.

“The Avenger’s aren’t weapons.” Bucky said straightforwardly but solemnly.

“That’s all you are.” you bit back, narrowing your eyes.

“We’re peacekeepers.” Bucky mellowed.

“You’re liars.”

“Sam been putting those thoughts in your head?” he asked, too calm.

You scoffed. “No. Sam’s the only one who hasn’t lied to me.”

A tense silence passed.

Then you said, quietly, “The only Avengers that ever mattered were the first six. Bruce Banner. Natasha Romanoff. Clint Barton. Thor. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. That’s what my brother used to say.”

You didn’t know why you told him that. Maybe because the car felt too quiet again. Maybe because your throat ached with words that never got said.

“Steve Rogers was his hero,” you murmured. “Wanted to be just like him. Told everyone he’d join the Avengers one day, even when the world stopped believing in them.”

Bucky’s grip tightened on the wheel. But he said nothing.

You glanced at him. “So no offence, but you don’t get to walk around calling yourself an Avenger like it means something.”

You didn’t mean to cut so deep.

But you meant every word.

When he finally pulled up to the curb outside Sam’s apartment, he turned off the engine, but didn’t move.

“You know,” he said slowly, “Your brother wasn’t wrong. About Steve.”

Your breath caught.

“But Steve believed in people. He believed in me. Doesn’t that count for something?”

You didn’t answer.

Not because you had nothing to say—but because you didn’t trust your voice.

If Bucky hadn’t murdered your brother in cold blood, you figured your brother might have actually liked the man.

Bucky opened the door without looking at you. “Let’s go. You’ve got clothes to unpack.”

You didn’t speak when you walked in. Just kicked off your shoes, dropped the shopping bags by the door, and beelined for the hallway without glancing back.

“Hey—” Sam started from the kitchen, but your footsteps were already retreating down the hall.

Your bedroom door shut with a soft click. Not a slam.

You didn’t have the strength to slam it.

The lights were off. That was good. You needed quiet. Dark. Stillness.

But it didn’t help.

Not really.

You pressed your back to the door, sinking slowly down until you were sitting on the floor, knees pulled to your chest. Your breathing was shallow, erratic. That thing in your chest—the one that always knew more than you wanted it to—was pounding like a second heartbeat.

Your skin pulsed with it. Like a wave just beneath your flesh.

Aura sensitivity.

You couldn’t switch it off. Couldn’t silence the pull of emotions around you. Couldn’t stop your body from picking up on the tension bleeding from the living room, the faint echo of Bucky’s anger still clinging to the hallway like smoke.

The mention of Steve clearly struck a chord. Good.

The room dimmed at the edges. Or maybe it was just your vision faltering, warping with the tremble that started in your fingers.

He knew.

Not everything. Not why you hated him. Not who he’d taken from you.

But he’d seen something.

That wasn’t part of the plan.

Your hands curled into fists, fingers trembling. You tried to regulate your breath, slow it down. In for four. Hold. Out for six.

But your lungs didn’t want to listen. They fluttered, panicked.

And then it started.

Soft at first. The glow beneath your skin. Pale and golden and sickly-sweet like syrup. It traced your veins, pulsing like fireflies trapped just beneath the surface.

You were spilling.

No one could see it. Not yet.

But if they did—

You scrambled off the floor and into the en suite bathroom, flicked the cold water on and splashed your face, hands, neck. Anything to shock your body back into focus. The chill bit at your skin. You welcomed it.

And behind you, barely audible through the wall, you heard the low hum of voices.

Sam.

And Bucky.

“She slammed the door?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow as he leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

Bucky shrugged, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge and twisting the cap. “Didn’t slam it. Just… walked off.”

Sam watched him.

“She said something about the OG Avengers,” Bucky added quietly, gaze fixed on the bottle label. “Her brother was one of those kids. Worshipped Steve. Thought he’d wear the suit one day.”

A long pause.

“She told you that?” Sam asked, eyes narrowing.

Bucky nodded once. “Slipped out. Didn’t mean to.”

Sam’s brow furrowed.

“You do realise,” Sam said slowly, “she doesn’t trust you. At all.”

Bucky looked up. “I figured that out around the part where she said I don’t get to call myself an Avenger.”

Sam didn’t laugh.

He just exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate. “Then earn it. Show her she’s safe here. That this isn’t just some recruitment stunt.”

Bucky leaned back against the counter, jaw flexing. “What if I can’t?”

Sam looked toward the hallway, where your door stayed closed and the air felt just a little too heavy.

“You can. You just need to start being better.”

────✪────

The apartment was quiet, but you couldn’t sleep.

Too much noise in your head. Too much you didn’t understand.

You found Sam on the balcony, sitting in one of the cheap plastic chairs, staring out at the skyline like it owed him answers.

You hesitated in the doorway.

He glanced back once and patted the chair beside him. “Can’t sleep?”

You shook your head and stepped out.

It was cooler out here. Wind in your hair, city alive beneath you, but far enough away that it felt like someone else’s problem.

You sat. Pulled your knees up to your chest, arms wrapped around them. “Thanks. For earlier.”

Sam just nodded. “You did fine. Held your own.”

“I mean for letting me stay.”

He shrugged, eyes still on the horizon. “You needed a place. I had one.”

You glanced sideways at him. “You always do that? Help strays off the street?”

His lips twitched at that. “Only the special ones.”

That earned a quiet laugh from you. Barely.

Then came the pause.

The one you weren’t sure how to fill, until the words came out before you could pull them back.

“What’s his deal?”

Sam turned to you. “Who?”

You didn’t answer. Just gave him a look.

Sam sighed and leaned back, rubbing a hand over his face. “You don’t wanna get into that.”

“I kind of do.”

He was quiet a long moment, considering.

“Bucky’s… complicated,” Sam said eventually. “He’s trying. Has been. But he’s got a long shadow behind him. Not everyone sees past that.”

“Do you?”

“I try,” Sam said softly. “We’ve been through a lot together. Doesn’t mean I excuse everything. But I know what it’s like to be rewritten.”

You nodded slowly, heart twisting.

“I’m not afraid of him,” you murmured.

Sam gave you a long look. “Good. But you should know—he’s not like the man you see in headlines.”

You considered his words only briefly.

Your throat tightened. “Why me?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted honestly. “But when I saw what you could do, I knew you didn’t belong where you were. And I don’t think you want to be there again.”

You swallowed hard.

“I don’t.”

The apartment was dim and still. Only the occasional whir of the refrigerator broke the silence, but it wasn’t enough to quiet your thoughts.

Trying to go back to sleep had been impossible.

You’d really tried to go back to bed when Sam did, after your conversation on the balcony. You figured you might sleep better knowing that everyone else was sleeping too. But none of this felt right.

Too much noise behind your eyelids. Too much weight on your chest. The bed felt foreign, like if you stayed in it too long, you’d vanish into the sheets and never come back.

So, again, you padded quietly through the apartment, wrapped in a hoodie two sizes too big and thick socks that muted your steps.

You didn’t expect anyone else to be awake.

But there he was.

Barnes.

Sitting at the kitchen table, elbows on the wood, long fingers curled around the neck of a bottle. He looked like he’d been carved out of the dark itself — broad shoulders hunched, tired eyes fixed on the manila folder splayed open in front of him. His jaw tensed as he read something over again, and again, like the words were mocking him.

The soft creak of the floor made him glance up.

You froze.

He didn’t speak.

Neither did you.

Finally, you shifted your weight. “Do you live here or something?”

His brow lifted faintly. “No.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

He sighed. Rubbed a hand over his jaw and looked back at the papers. “Just overstaying my welcome.”

You hesitated in the doorway before stepping inside. Opened the cupboard for a glass, filled it with water from the tap. His eyes tracked you once before settling back on the folder.

Your curiosity gnawed at you.

“What is that?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at it like it personally offended him.

“A file,” he said at last. “A peace offering.”

You leaned against the counter, arms folded. “For Sam?”

Bucky nodded once. “Proposal. Co-leadership. New Avengers. Shared responsibility.”

Your brows rose. “That sounds… mature.”

He huffed a bitter laugh. “Apparently not mature enough to be taken seriously.”

You watched him for a long beat.

“So instead of signing it, Sam sends you shopping with me.”

He didn’t laugh at that. Just let his head tip back, eyes on the ceiling like he was praying for patience. “He’s testing me,” Bucky muttered. “Seeing if I’ll break. If I’ve changed. I don’t blame him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I did a lot of things,” he said. “Things that don’t go away just because I want to do better now. Sam thinks I betrayed him.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the glass. You didn’t know what to say to that.

Then he looked at you.

“I just want to fix things.”

Something in his voice made your chest pull tight. It wasn’t desperation. Not quite. It was quieter than that. Lonelier.

You crossed the space and sat at the edge of the table, far from him, but close enough to feel the tremor in the air.

“Maybe,” you said carefully, “you should stop trying to be a hero.”

That caught him off guard. His eyes narrowed, a frown tugging at his lips. “I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” you murmured. “You’re just not very good at it.”

He blinked. “Wow. Thanks.”

But you weren’t teasing.

You were looking at him too closely now, and he could feel it.

You didn’t see the Winter Soldier.

You saw something else. Something broken.

“I see sadness,” you said softly. “Big, heavy grief. Not loud. But deep. You carry it like it belongs to you.”

He tensed. “You reading my energy?”

This time, you tensed. Oh, he knew.

“No. Just your face.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t look away.

You held his gaze, and something passed between you. Unspoken. Uneasy. Familiar.

You looked down. Swirled your glass.

“Heroes don’t always look like the people we loved,” you said, almost to yourself.

Then you pushed back your chair and stood.

Bucky didn’t stop you. But he watched you go, with something tired and heavy etched into every line of his face.

And when you glanced back before disappearing down the hallway, he was still staring at that folder, like if he read it enough times, the words might finally save him.

────✪────

Sebastian Stan taglist: @notreallythatlost @houseofaegon @bunnyfella @sunday-bug @wintrsoldrluvr @maryevm @mcira @monsteraddicts-world

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Want to be added to a taglist? Let me know which one!

[thewitchblue]

"Are you... reading Twilight?"

You had asked Jason, who broke into your apartment while you were gone grocery shopping. He only gave you a hum and continued reading as you set your grocery bags on your kitchen table.

You watched him turn the page and felt a sense of dread. It was your copy from when you were 13 years old. It had notes and doodles in the margins. Did he read your notes? Of course he would. He reads the annotated versions of Jane Austen he has for fun. Why wouldn't he read your notes? The world seemed to be against you this day.

You were so mortified you didn't even hear him laugh at a doodle you had of Edward biting a dog with the word "nom" next to it. He was almost done with the book.

You've only been dating for a handful of months. Would the notes break up your relationship? You don't remember the majority of them.

You haven't touched the trilogy since school, and you originally didn't even want to read it. The social pressure from your friends became to be too much, and it felt like a religious experience at the time.

You had forgotten about the book entirely in the years you've had it crammed in a bookcase next to the rest of the series, which, with great horror, you saw he also pulled out to read.

"Don't tell me you're enjoying the book."

You said in disbelief. The memories run through your head of your blushing cheeks at simple words on pages while the girls ganged up on you to ask which team your on. What team is Jason on? Or has he read this before behind closed doors? He shrugged and simply replied,

"I am."

You wanted to bolt out the door, but you had melting limited addition candy cane ice cream in your grocery bag.

Instead of running away, you bravely start putting away your groceries with your eyes trained on Jason. He seemed to genuinely enjoy your trashy romance book that's so incredibly dated. This is so bizarre to you. He's a fan of the classics and loves books that he can revisit without cringing.

The book appeared partially destroyed by the abyss of your backpack with a torn cover and a broken spine, but it drew Jason's attention. Of course, it would draw his attention. He always said a well loved book is one you take everywhere. A book with a broken spine and torn cover is going to make him curious.

He never had the normal teenage phase, so he's never read the book. He was curious, and he was rewarded so far. He understands now why teenagers like the trilogy so far.

You decided to break into the ice cream. You tensed at every page turned. What did you write in there? You tried to remember. You vaguely remember writing "yummy muscles" on a page. You cringed. Oh, the horrors of a horny teen.

The ice cream was as delicious as you expected it to be. How could you look him in the eyes ever again? Will he tell the whole family? You were stress eating.

Jason finished the book and went to pick up the next one, but you plucked it out of his hands before he could open it and grabbed the final book as well.

"I'm seriously going to throw these in the shredder."

Jason smirked at you. He enjoyed your little doodles and notes. It was as if he was meeting you when you were kids. He pointed out,

"I think they are too big to shred, pipsqueak."

You pouted, which only made him more amused. He pulled you into his lap and kissed your cheek. You huffed,

"I can still try."

He laughed. You were so adorable. He might have to embarrass you more. He murmured to you,

"I especially enjoyed your note of 'delicious dog meat.'"

You groaned and held your face in your hands, making the books fall to the floor. You hated your past self in this moment. Why did you keep those books? For Jason to show up and read them?

The feeling of dread eventually went away the more he kissed you. You filed away the fact you can know for a fact Jason read Twilight now, and part of you wondered if he'll spiral into the hellscape of fanfiction as a result. You are going to burn those books.

You like to think you ended up with a better love story than Twilght. Sure, you may be dating a zombie instead of a vampire or werewolf like teen you had wanted (if we can have Superman, we can have a sexy vampire or werewolf), but your zombie is perfect in his own ways.

[monzabee]

run for the hills – lh44 (+18)

masterlist ||

Summary: The one where fate decides to bring you back into Lewis’ life, making him question his belief in fate.  

Pairing: lewis hamilton x rosberg!reader

Word Count: 9.3k 

Warnings: cursing, crying, drinking and mentions of alcohol, mentions of brocedes (rip), kissing, unprotected sex (you shouldn’t be surprised at this point), oral (m receiving), hand kink, praise kink, minors dni!!

Request: “hey, Merry Christmas 🫶🏽 I was hoping I could request a Lewis smut fic where the reader is Nico Rosberg's sister (with a age gap of around 6-8 years with him and Lewis) and before 2016 they were just really close friends who just kissed once but chose to pretend it didn't happen. after years, they run into each other at a club or a party and they're pretty snappy at each other but there's a lot of tension too and they end up having sex where Lewis is really cocky and also the reader has a hand kink and praise kink? I'm so sorry if I made it too long, i love your writing <33” + “oooo please could i request something w lewis?! something gut wrenchingly angsty? sorry i don’t really have a plot in mind hhhh thank you heheh”

Author’s Note: hi, hey, hello!! HAPPY NEW YEAR, i started this fic last week and i honestly didn't think I'd finish it this quickly but here we are. don't let my words fool you, i got the request last christmas but if you know me then you know that i am not quick when it comes to working on requests (i'm working on this i promise), not that this fic is even remotely christmassy, but let’s just appreciate that it is supposed to be set during the holiday period lol. this was supposed to be a shorter one but here we are, lol, i'm not even surprised at my inability to keep things short at this point. i posted this fic and realised i forgot to copy and paste a big chunk of it so oh well. as always, feedback is appreciated, and i hope you guys enjoy! good morning, noon or night wherever you are, xoxobee 

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Lewis decided he doesn’t like cold a long time ago. That’s why, being the ever-decisive person he is, he chooses to spend his winter vacationing in places like the Maldives or Bali. His decisiveness is an important part of him, given what he does for a living. When he is on the track, in his car, there is no room for hesitation – he needs to be able to make split-second decisions under intense pressure, what’s not to love about that? So, once he decided he’d rather spend his time off basking in the sun rather than freezing to death somewhere else, he never looked back. He enjoys spending his time off in someplace tropical with his family, or without his family; most of the times away from the prying eyes and camera lenses of the media. 

But this time, it’s different – he's alone. 

Or rather, he thought he would be alone. The villa he rented out for the duration of the month is isolated, just how he likes it. He wakes up to the sound of waves crashing against the shore right outside his windows, and the distant chirping of tropical birds to accompany him as he lounges on the large deck, overlooking the infinite expanse of blue. There are no spectators around to gauge his reaction, try to get him to speak out about his plans for the next year when he moves to Ferrari, or what he’s going to do when he eventually retires one day. He hasn’t seen anyone from the racing world for weeks, and it’s been a much-needed break. He’d usually love to spend Christmas with his family, the only time he would ever tolerate the cold being when he is with his family, but this year he just wanted to get away on his own. 

There is no one around that expect anything from him. Just peace. 

He’s not a hermit, of course, but he enjoys spending his time by himself mostly isolated from all the other guests of the touristic area he’s staying in. The chef that works at the villa is on call for when Lewis decides that he wants to stay in for the night, the housekeeping staff come every morning to clean up around the house, then promptly leave, providing Lewis with the privacy he so desperately needs. But other than that, and a few nights spent outside in a restaurant or a club? He is all alone, and he is not complaining about it. Another thing about Lewis Hamilton is that he doesn’t believe in fate. He believes in setting and achieving goals; after all, that’s what he’s done all his life. His success isn’t some cosmic coincidence. It’s years of sacrifice by his parents, relentless effort, and unwavering determination. So, when things happen that feel serendipitous, like running into someone from his past, he doesn’t chalk it up to destiny. He chalks it up to the sheer unpredictability of life. 

And yet, as he steps out of the villa to head to a nearby beach club after dinner, he doesn’t expect to run into you, especially not after how the things ended last time, but there you are. His eyes find you at the bar with some guy next to you – he has to do a double take. Just to make sure, he tells himself. But no matter how many times his attention reverts to you, he knows it’s you. Of course, it’s you. Though he’s not a believer in fate or destiny, or whatever you might want to call it, there you are – dressed in a flowy linen dress. His first instinct is to ask the server to seat him somewhere else so that he wouldn’t have stare at you and your ‘date’ for the night. His grip on the glass in his hand tightens momentarily, and he exhales slowly, forcing himself to look away. This is not the moment, he tells himself. It’s not his business, not anymore. But still, his gaze drifts back to you. You’re laughing at something the guy says, your head tilted slightly as you sip from your drink. He can’t hear your laughter, no – but what a sound that would be to hear, he thinks for a moment. 

He knows he shouldn’t care who you’re with or what you’re doing; it’s been years since the two of you shared anything beyond... well anything, really. But something about seeing you here, in this place he thought was his private retreat from the world, feels like a twist of fate – or the kind of cosmic joke he claims not to believe in. But his eyes watch you as you throw you head back in a laugh and he can practically hear the sound in his head, his mind taking him to years ago when he used to be one of the people who got to hear it first hand; when he joined your family on karting days, or when you celebrated with him when he won a race, or even back to that one time when him and Nico were trying to drive those unicycles and you kept doubling over in laughter when they fell down – something your brother did not appreciate, but Lewis couldn’t help the smile that crept on his face as he watched you from the ground.  

Somethings never change, he thinks, as he notices the smallest of smiles that has crept its way onto his face, quickly disappearing the moment he catches himself. He knows it shouldn’t matter to him – let alone bother him. But old habits die hard, and the sight of your smile, that easy laugh, stirs something in him that feels like both longing and a pang of annoyance. You’ve always had a way of getting under his skin. Back then, it was teasing remarks that somehow felt more genuine than any praise he received elsewhere. He catches himself glancing your way again, his jaw tightening when the guy beside you leans in a little too close. It’s irrational, this surge of jealousy that claws at his chest. He knows he has no right to feel this way, but that doesn’t stop it from burning through him. He looks down at his drink, willing himself to focus on anything but you. But memories have a way of sneaking up on him, unbidden. The days spent at karting tracks, the shared dinners with your family, the quiet moments when it was just the two of you, talking about everything and nothing at all. Back then, it was easy. Natural. Like you were two pieces of a puzzle that fit together perfectly, until you didn’t. 

Just then, you glance over, your eyes scanning the room before they land on him. For a moment, everything stills. The laughter fades from your face, replaced by something unreadable. Surprise, maybe. Or recognition. His breath catches in his throat, and he curses himself for the way his chest tightens under your gaze. He watches as you excuse yourself, heading towards the restrooms, and he swears he has never gotten up so fast and walked so fast in his life. He doesn’t think, he just moves until he spots you in the hallway, queued behind some people waiting for the bathroom line. What kind of a club only has one bathroom? He thinks, but that’s not the point. 

He clears his throat. 

You turn, eyes widening in that familiar, guarded way. “Lewis.” Your lips open in shock as you glance behind him and then focus on him again, “Did- did you follow me here?”  

“Were you on a date with that guy?” The words come out of his mouth before he can stop himself, his voice colder than he expects. 

You blink, taken aback by the question. “Excuse me?” 

He stands there, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth, but that doesn’t stop the irritation from creeping up his spine. His gaze flickers to the bar behind him, where the guy you were with is still talking to the bartender, oblivious to what’s going on. “I asked if you were on a date,” he repeats, a little sharper this time as he emphasises the last word. 

You raise an eyebrow, the surprise on your face melting into something more guarded, a mix of disbelief and annoyance. “What if I was?” You cross your arms, your eyes narrowing. “Maybe I’m just out enjoying my night. Ever think of that?” 

He feels a rush of heat in his chest. “It’s not like I care,” he mutters, though it’s clear from the edge in his voice that he does. “Just curious.” 

You scoff, your lips curling into a sarcastic smile. “Sure, Lewis.” 

“So?” He inquires, “Are you? On a date with that guy, I mean.” 

You raise an eyebrow, clearly not amused. “Are you serious right now?” you snap, your arms tightening across your chest. “You’re standing here, in the middle of a hallway, asking me about my love life? What is this, high school?” 

Lewis feels the heat rise in his neck, irritation mixing with a sense of frustration he doesn’t quite understand. “I’m not asking for your life story, just... just an answer. Is it that hard?” His voice is tight, but he doesn’t back down. 

You scoff again, your lips curling into something between a smirk and a sneer. “You really think you can just waltz back in and start demanding answers like we’re still... You know what? Yes, Lewis, I’m on a date.” You throw a glance over your shoulder at the guy still sitting at the bar. “We met on the beach at the hotel I’m staying at, and I thought I’d let him treat me to a dinner and a couple of drinks before I’d let him fuck me six ways to Sunday.” You roll your eyes at someone on the queue gasping at your choice of words. “Not that it’s any of your business. Are you happy now?” 

Lewis’s hand grips your wrist, a little too tight, and without warning, he’s tugging you away from the bar, his jaw clenched. “Come on,” he mutters, his tone low and urgent, as he steers you towards the back exit. You’re caught off guard, stumbling to keep up with his forceful pace, your heart hammering in your chest. 

“What the hell, Lewis? Let go of me!” you snap, yanking your arm free once you're outside in the chill night air. The chill hits you like a slap, the heat of the club’s atmosphere fading behind you as the door slams shut. 

“Seriously?” he spits, his eyes flashing with a mix of anger and frustration. “You’re gonna play it like that?” 

You take a step back, crossing your arms over your chest. “I don’t know what game you're playing at, but I’m not interested. What the hell was that back there? Dragging me out like I’m some kind of... of property?” 

He glares at you, his fists clenched at his sides. “You’re unbelievable.” His voice rises, sharp and cutting. “I ask you a simple question, and you throw that crap at me? What the hell did you think I was supposed to do? Just stand there and pretend like I didn’t care?” 

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Pretend like you don’t care? That’s rich coming from you. You don’t get to just waltz in, after all this time, and act like you can demand answers, Lewis. Like you have any right to know what’s going on in my life.” 

“Your brother would be so disappointed in you right now.” His words hit you like a punch to the gut, and for a moment, the air between you two freezes. The breeze picks up, but the sudden silence makes the world feel too loud.  

“You don’t get to talk about my brother,” you seethe, as Lewis's face hardens, his jaw tensing, but it’s the look in his eyes that hits hardest — it’s a mixture of hurt and fury, both so raw, you almost feel sorry for what you’ve just unleashed. 

“What did you just say?” His voice is low, almost dangerously so, the words slipping through clenched teeth. 

You swallow, but it doesn’t help the sharp edge in your voice. “You heard me. You don’t get to talk about him, you don’t get to fuck up my life and you don’t get to come back here acting like you still have any claim on me or my life.” You’re breathing heavily now, the anger and hurt mixing into a bitter cocktail that you can’t quite swallow – funnily enough, Lewis can smell the cocktail you had earlier. “You left. You made your choice, Lewis. And now you don’t get to barge back in and pretend like I owe you anything.” 

Lewis stands in front of you, his chest rising and falling with each breath. His eyes are dark, his jaw tight as he processes your words. He doesn’t know when the two of you got closer together, he can practically feel the anger radiating off you, “You think I don’t know that?” he spits, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “You think I don’t know what I did?” His voice cracks slightly, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. “I fucked up, alright? I fucked up more than you’ll ever understand. We all did – me, Nico, you.” 

“You don’t get to make me feel guilty about this, Lewis. You don’t get to act like I’m the one who fucked everything up.” Your voice shakes, but you keep going, the words coming faster, more bitter. “You kissed me and called it an ‘accident’, a fluke. You fought with Nico every chance you got. I had to pick up the pieces on my own.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, but his anger doesn’t dissipate—if anything, it only sharpens. His hands remain balled into fists at his sides, but there’s something else behind his eyes now, something raw, something almost desperate. “We wouldn’t have worked out,” he mutters, it’s something that he said to himself time and time again to convince himself of it, “I am– was your brother’s friend, you–” 

“You were my friend, too!” You exclaim, your hands swatting at his arms, chest – anywhere you can reach. “You left me, as if I meant nothing to you! You stole my first kiss and shattered my life to pieces on the same day!” You manage to get in some good hits despite Lewis’ attempts to calm you down, and the lump in your throat makes it harder for you to continue talking, “Do you know how many times I wondered if you kissed me just to piss Nico off? Do you know how that feels?” 

“What?” He asks, his voice low. Each hit, each accusation, it stings. But nothing hits harder than the raw emotion in your eyes – hurt, betrayal, and the weight of everything he left behind. He opens his mouth to speak, but the words catch in his throat. “You think I kissed you to get at Nico?” he says finally, his voice quieter now but no less intense. There’s an edge of disbelief, of hurt, as if the idea itself cuts deeper than your accusations. “Do you really think so little of me?” 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, holding yourself together in the face of his raw honesty. “I don’t know what to think, Lewis. What was I supposed to think back then? You shut me out. You made me feel like it never happened – like I never happened.” 

“You were twenty-three years old,” he points out, “our age difference–” 

“Oh please,” you scoff, pushing at his chest one last time, “you’ve fucked girls younger than that.” 

Lewis flinches at your words, as if they’ve struck a nerve he didn’t even know was exposed. His jaw tightens, and for a moment, he doesn’t say anything. “You don’t get to throw that in my face,” he finally says, his voice low and clipped, tinged with a kind of frustration that feels different from before. 

“Why?” You ask, head cocked to the side. “I can’t comment on you fucking other people, but you can question my actions because I want to fuck–” 

“Say ‘fuck’ one more time and I swear I’ll–” 

“—what, Lewis?” you snap, cutting him off before he can finish his threat. “You’ll what? Walk away again? Pretend this conversation never happened, just like you did last time?” 

His jaw clenches, the muscles in his face tightening as he tries to rein in his emotions. “Don’t push me,” he warns, his voice low and taut, but there’s no real menace in it—only desperation. 

“Oh, I’m pushing?” You laugh bitterly, throwing your hands up. “I’m the one pushing? You’re the one who showed up here, dredging up every memory I’ve spent years trying to bury. Don’t you dare put this on me, Lewis.” 

“You think this is easy for me?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “You think I don’t hate myself for what I did? For what I didn’t do? I’ve lived with this every single day, and you—” 

“Fuck you!” you shout, stepping closer, your finger jabbing into his chest. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck–” 

His hands shoot up, grabbing your wrists – not harshly, but firmly enough to stop your movements. You don’t even fully register how quickly he pushes you against the wall, “You think I ran off and lived some perfect life?” he hisses, his face inches from yours as he inhales deeply. “You think I didn’t miss you every goddamn day? You think I didn’t lie awake at night, wishing I’d had the guts to ask you to stay?” 

His words hit you like a tidal wave, the rawness in his voice leaving you momentarily speechless. For a moment, the anger in his eyes softens, replaced by something else – something that feels far too close to the hope you’ve been trying to suppress. “Well... yeah.” You inwardly cringe how your voice sounds so weak, but Lewis tilts your chin back to make you look at him.  

“Is that so?” He mumbles, thumb caressing your chin as his eyes hungrily take in how your chest moves with each deep breath your inhale and exhale.  

Your breath hitches as his thumb lingers, his gaze dropping to your lips like he’s fighting every instinct to close the distance between you. “Lewis...” you start, but his name comes out softer than you intend, more of a plea than the warning you meant it to be. 

“What?” he murmurs, his voice low and dangerous, but there’s a softness to it, an undercurrent of vulnerability that sends your heart racing. “What do you want me to do, huh? Walk away again? Because I can’t. Not this time.” 

You shake your head slightly, but his grip on your chin keeps you from fully looking away. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t even know how to feel about you anymore.” 

His eyes darken, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he leans in, his forehead almost brushing yours. “Then let me remind you,” he says, his voice a low rasp. 

Your pulse quickens, every nerve in your body screaming at you to push him away – or pull him closer and he tension between you is suffocating. “Don’t,” you whisper, but your voice wavers, betraying the battle waging inside you. 

“Don’t what?” he asks, his lips hovering dangerously close to yours. “Don’t do this?” You don’t answer, your throat too tight, your mind too clouded with memories, anger, and something else you’re not ready to name. He waits, his breath mingling with yours, his patience stretching thin. “Say the word,” he whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “Tell me to stop, and I will. I will let you go back and take him back to your room and do whatever you want.” 

But you don’t say it. You can’t. Because as much as you hate him, as much as you want to scream at him, cry, and push him away... you also want this. Want him. 

And Lewis knows it. 

His hand releases your wrist, sliding down to your waist as his other hand stays on your chin, tilting your face toward him. The kiss that follows isn’t soft, isn’t sweet – it’s desperate, raw, and filled with years of unspoken words. It’s anger and longing, heartbreak, and desire, all crashing together in a way that steals your breath and sends your heart into overdrive. A softer kiss might have been what you wanted, but Lewis knows this is what you need. His body presses against yours, and your hands instinctively find his shoulders, clinging to him as if letting go would leave you falling apart. His lips are warm and insistent, the taste of him intoxicating. Every move, every touch, feels like he’s trying to make up for everything he never said, everything he left behind. 

The kiss deepens, each second unravelling more of the carefully constructed armour you’ve built around your heart. His fingers grip your waist tighter, grounding you even as everything else feels like it’s spinning. You can feel the heat radiating off him with every press of his body against yours. Your mind screams at you to stop, to think, to pull away before you lose yourself completely – but your body betrays you. The years of hurt, anger, and confusion dissolve into the fire burning between you, ignited by a kiss that’s as much a battle as it is a surrender. 

Lewis pulls back just enough to let you breathe, his lips still hovering close, his forehead resting against yours. His breath is hot against your skin, his voice low and rough when he finally speaks. “You still want to go back and fuck your little lover boy?”  

“Who?” You mumble, breathless as a result of the kiss as your eyes become heavy with something you can’t quite describe. 

Lewis smirks, a glint of triumph flashing in his dark eyes. "Exactly," he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your waist in slow, deliberate circles. His confidence is maddening, but the heat between you makes it impossible to summon the indignation you’d usually feel. 

You try to muster a response, something sharp and cutting to put him back in his place, but the way his gaze drops to your lips again makes the words dissolve before they even form. “Don’t do that,” you manage, though your voice lacks the conviction you intended. 

“Do what?” he asks innocently, though the rasp in his tone betrays his intent. 

“Act like this changes everything.” 

His smirk falters, replaced by a seriousness that roots you in place. “It doesn’t change everything,” he admits, his voice quieter now, almost tender. “But it changes something. Doesn’t it?” 

Your heart pounds against your ribs as his words sink in. You hate how easily he disarms you, how effortlessly he pulls you back into his orbit no matter how much you’ve tried to escape it. But deep down, you know he’s right. “I hate you,” you whisper, though even you can hear the weakness in your words. 

“I know,” he replies, his hand moving to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your skin like he’s memorizing every inch of you. “And I hate myself for making you feel that way.” 

The sincerity in his voice cuts through the haze, making your chest tighten. But before you can think about it, you find yourself tugging on the collar of his unbuttoned shirt, pulling him closer to yourself as you mumble, “Kiss me again.” 

Your hands, which moments ago were pushing him away, now find their way into his hair, pulling him closer, as if to anchor yourself in the storm he’s unleashed within you. Lewis doesn’t hold back. His grip tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, the wall at your back the only thing keeping you steady. The kiss deepens, his lips moving against yours with an intensity that borders on desperation, as though he’s afraid this moment might slip through his fingers if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. When the need for air becomes undeniable, he pulls back just enough to look at you, his forehead resting against yours. Both of you are breathing heavily, the space between you charged with everything unsaid. “Tell me you didn’t feel that,” he says, his voice hoarse, his thumb brushing against your cheek. 

You can’t answer right away, your heart hammering so loudly in your chest it drowns out any coherent thought. But eventually, you manage to find your voice. “I hate you,” you whisper, but there’s no conviction behind the words. They sound hollow, even to your own ears. 

He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “No, you don’t.” 

“Don’t tell me how I feel,” you snap, but the edge in your voice falters. 

“I’m not,” he murmurs, his gaze unwavering. “I’m telling you what I see. And I see you... still here. Still looking at me like that.” His hand trails down to your hip, his touch light but grounding. “If you hated me, you would’ve walked away by now.” 

You close your eyes, willing yourself to regain some semblance of control, but it’s impossible with him standing this close, his presence overwhelming. “This doesn’t change anything,” you say, though it feels more like you’re trying to convince yourself than him. 

“Maybe not,” he concedes, his voice softer now. “But it’s a start.” You don’t say anything to agree or refute his statement, and after a brief pause, he straightens, fixies your dress and tries to fix your hair as well. “Come on,” he says, “I’ll take you back.” 

“But, my bag,” you mutter, pushing out your lower lip in a pout when you realise your bag is on the floor. Lewis has to restrain himself when he sees your lips all puffed up because of him. Your voice is whiny, and he realises you’re slurring your words a little bit when you tug on his shirt, “I don’t wanna leave my bag here.” 

Lewis looks at you for a moment, his expression softening as he reaches up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing against your skin with the same tenderness he’s shown all night despite all your fighting. With a soft exhale, Lewis bends down to pick up your bag, holding it out to you with the same quiet care. “Don’t make that face,” he murmurs, his voice teasing but laced with something tender. “You really wanna go back to that room, after everything that just happened?” 

You look at him, a mix of confusion and desire swirling inside you. “I don’t know what I want,” you admit, the honesty slipping out before you can stop it. The words feel raw, vulnerable, but there’s something about his presence, the way he’s here, still so close, that makes you feel safe enough to say it. 

Lewis doesn’t say anything right away. Instead, his eyes soften, his thumb grazing the strap of your bag as he watches you closely, as though he’s searching for something in your expression. Finally, he steps closer again, the space between you narrowing once more. “I get it,” he says quietly. “But I’m not letting you go home alone tonight.” 

The words send a shiver down your spine. You want to protest, to push him away, but there’s something in his gaze, the way he’s looking at you now, that makes you second-guess everything you thought you wanted. You hesitate for a moment longer, the weight of your thoughts heavy in the air, but the pull between you is undeniable. It’s the kind of pull that’s magnetic, that doesn’t let you escape even when you try to resist. 

Finally, you nod, the decision feeling both like a surrender and a choice you can’t take back. “Okay,” you murmur, your voice barely audible. “Take me back, then.” 

You don’t even remember getting into his car, but you do remember the smug look he shot at your date – Carl, you think – when he helped you through the club with a firm hand on your back. The villa Lewis rented for his little getaway is entirely what you expect it to be – modern, grand, and secluded enough so no one uninvited would know he is there and bother him. The couch in the living room looks way too inviting and you make a mental note to avoid it for now. Sitting on it might make this whole situation feel too real, too comfortable, and you’re not ready for that. You glance around the space instead, taking in the clean lines of the modern furniture, the polished wood floors, and the sprawling windows that offer an unobstructed view of the moonlit ocean. You walk towards the windows, eyes taking in the view from inside the villa. The ocean stretches out endlessly before you, its surface shimmering under the moonlight. The soft sound of the waves crashing against the shore is faintly audible even through the glass, a gentle hum that seems to echo the turmoil in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to steady your nerves and partly to shield yourself from the vulnerability creeping up on you. The view is breathtaking, but it does little to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside you. You faintly hear Lewis calling out your name, but as if you are in a trance, you can’t take your eyes off the view in front of you. His voice calls out to you again, softer this time, closer. “Hey,” he says, and you feel the warmth of his presence before you even see him. Lewis’s reflection appears in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on you as he stands just behind you. 

You finally tear your gaze away from the ocean and turn to face him, your arms still wrapped protectively around yourself. “It’s beautiful,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile moment. 

Lewis nods, his expression unreadable as he follows your gaze back to the window. “It is,” he agrees, but there’s a weight to his tone, as if he’s not just talking about the view. His eyes flicker back to you, searching your face. “But it doesn’t seem like it’s helping much.” 

You let out a shaky laugh, more to fill the silence than anything else. “It’s not that simple, Lewis.” 

“Nothing ever is,” he replies, stepping closer until there’s only a breath of space between you. “But I’m here. You don’t have to deal with whatever this is alone.” 

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into it. “I don’t know what to do with you,” you admit, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “With... us.” 

He exhales deeply, his hand lifting as though he wants to touch you but hesitates. “You don’t have to figure that out right now,” he says, his voice steady. “I just want to make sure you’re okay tonight. That’s all that matters to me.” 

Something about his words, his presence, eases the knot in your chest, if only slightly. “I don’t even know where to start,” you murmur, more to yourself than him. 

“Then don’t,” he says simply, his voice carrying a quiet reassurance. “Just be here. With me.” 

You look up at him, your eyes searching his face for any sign of pretense or ulterior motives, but all you see is the same man who’s managed to undo you with a single glance. “Show me your room.”  

“We don’t have to do that.” His eyebrows furrow as he reaches for your cheek, “That not why I brought you here.” 

“Isn’t it?” You try to joke, but his deep sigh is a sign of his disapproval. “I know that’s not why you brought me here, but it can be one of the reasons you brought me here.” 

“Can it?” He drawls, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.  

“For God’s sake, Lewis.” You sigh, turning your body towards the man standing next to you. “Do I need to beg you for you to fuck me?”  

Lewis’s smirk falters, his expression shifting into something deeper, darker, but undeniably tender. “Don’t,” he murmurs, his voice low and edged with restraint as he steps closer. His hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You don’t need to beg me for anything. Not now, not ever.” 

The intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch, and for a moment, the air between you feels electric. “Then fuck me,” you whisper, your voice trembling with equal parts frustration and desire. “If you want me, show me.” 

He closes his eyes briefly, like he’s steadying himself, and when he opens them again, the resolve in his expression takes your breath away. “You think I don’t want you?” he asks, his tone low but firm. “You don’t know how hard it is to hold back, to stop myself from–” He cuts himself off, his jaw tightening as if even admitting it is too much. He reaches for one of your hands, freeing from your hold and places it on his crotch. “See what you do to me?” 

The crude act manages to steal a gasp from you, your eyes widening at how hard he already is. “Lewis,” you mutter, he responds with an affirmative hum, “show me your bedroom.” 

He takes your hand, his grip firm but careful, and leads you down a sleek hallway. The sound of your heels clicking against the polished wood floor echoes softly, a counterpoint to the pounding of your heart. When he pushes open the door to his bedroom, you’re momentarily distracted by how much the space reflects him. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft, ethereal light. The massive bed dominates the room, its crisp white sheets and plush pillows inviting. Floor-to-ceiling windows let in the silver glow of the moon, casting the room in a soft light.  

You walk towards the centre of the room, the corner of your lip trapped between your teeth as you glance at Lewis over your shoulder before you run towards the bed and throw yourself onto the soft bedding. Lewis watches you with an amused smirk as you sprawl across the bed, your carefree motion starkly contrasting the simmering tension in the air. “Comfortable, baby?” he asks, his tone teasing, but the heat in his eyes betrays his calm façade. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows, giving him a challenging look. “Very.” Then you narrow your eyes at him, “But don’t call me baby, I am not your baby.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty, as he steps closer, loosening the top button of his shirt with a deliberate slowness that sends a shiver down your spine. “No?” he muses, stopping at the edge of the bed. His eyes roam over you, drinking in every detail as if committing you to memory. 

Your breath hitches when he leans over, placing a hand on either side of your body, effectively caging you in. His face is so close to yours now that you can feel the warmth of his breath. “I like seeing you like this,” he admits, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “Relaxed, it suits you.” 

A flush creeps up your neck at his words, but you refuse to let him have the upper hand completely. Your fingers trail up his chest, over the defined planes of his torso, and then slide beneath the open collar of his shirt. “I could say the same about you,” you reply, your voice soft but loaded with meaning. 

His response is immediate. His lips crash against yours with a fervour that steals your breath, his hands gripping your waist as he pulls you flush against him. The kiss is raw and consuming, years of tension and unspoken words pouring into the connection. When he pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing ragged, he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. 

You smile, your hands slipping down to the waistband of his pants. “Why don’t you show me?” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. In one smooth motion, he lifts you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carries you to the centre of the bed. He chuckles at the sound of your giggling, as he carefully lays you back down on the soft bed. His fingers work diligently to get you out of your dress, pulling the linen garment over your head as Lewis lets his eyes hungrily take you in. When your dress finally falls away, leaving you in nothing but lace and skin, Lewis takes a slow breath, his eyes scanning over your body with a mixture of awe and hunger. “You’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice thick with admiration. His fingers trace the curve of your waist, his touch sending shivers of desire through your body. 

You arch slightly into his touch, your breath coming faster, and you meet his gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “Are you going to just gawk at me, or are you going to actually do something?” 

He smirks, a flash of cockiness in his eyes. “Patience,” he teases, but there’s no mistaking the hunger in his voice as he lowers himself over you. With one hand bracing himself above you, his other hand slides down between your bodies, his fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His touch is slow, almost teasing, and you can’t help the soft moan that escapes your lips as his fingers inch closer to where you need him most. “You like this?” he asks, his voice low and gravelly, his lips just inches from yours. His fingers find the lace of your underwear, his touch deliberate as he pulls it aside and slips a finger inside you, making you gasp. “You’re fucking perfect,” he groans, his lips crashing against yours as he deepens the kiss, his finger working inside you with a slow, steady rhythm. You can feel the heat building between you, the tension in the room thickening with every passing second. 

“Don- don’t say ‘fuck’, Lewis,” you tease him with a small smirk as your breathing becomes deeper, “it’s unbecoming.” 

“You’ll see who will be coming in a few minutes, baby.” He chuckles at the way your expression changes at the mention of the word, his fingers moving in deeper as your let out a disapproving moan, “What? You don’t like it when I call you that?” 

With another dissenting hum and a raise of your hips to meet his hand, you let out a long exhale. “I’m not your baby Lewis, stop calling me that.” With the patience that only he can tolerate, he continues the leisurely movements of his fingers. “I want more, please.” 

Lewis tuts at your words softly, chuckling as he takes in your reactions. “I think you have a very important decision to make here,” he murmurs, his eyes suddenly painted with something more serious, “because once I fuck you, I’m not letting you go.”  

“I’ll believe it when I see it.” The words come out choppy as your breathing gets more erratic, his fingers stubbornly keeping to the slow rhythm he’s set.  

Lewis's gaze sharpens, the challenge in your tone sparking a flame in his dark eyes. “Oh, you’ll see it, alright,” he murmurs, his voice a velvety promise as his hand withdraws briefly, leaving you breathless and aching. Before you can protest, he moves with deliberate precision, tugging his shirt over his head and revealing the expanse of his chest – sculpted, strong, and utterly captivating. “Get on your hands and knees.” 

The command leaves no room for debate, his voice firm but laden with heat. Your heart skips a beat as you meet his gaze, a mixture of defiance and curiosity flickering in your expression. “Bold of you to assume I'll listen,” you quip, though the slight tremor in your voice betrays your anticipation. 

Lewis smirks, leaning down until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Oh, you'll listen,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your skin. “Because you know exactly how patient I can be, but the same can’t be said for you.” 

A shiver runs through you at his words, and before you realize it, you’ve complied, shifting onto your hands and knees in the centre of the bed. You can practically feel his gaze on you, then all of a sudden, you can actually feel him behind you, the bed dipping slightly under his weight as he moves closer. “Good girl,” he says softly, his voice rich with approval, and the way your body reacts to the praise is almost embarrassing. “Oh, my beautiful darling.” His hands skim over your back, tracing the curve of your spine before settling on your hips. The grip is firm, possessive, sending a thrill through you.  

The sounds of him taking himself out of his trousers and pumping cock in his hand is pure debauchery, yet you find yourself pushing your hips back against his thighs. Lewis's low chuckle reverberates through you, a sound full of confidence and desire. His hand tightens on your hips, steadying you as he leans in, his chest brushing against your back. The heat of his skin against yours makes you arch into him instinctively, earning another throaty laugh from him. “You're eager,” he teases, his voice dark and dripping with amusement. “I like you like this.” 

You bite your lip to suppress the needy sound threatening to escape, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “Maybe you're just slow,” you retort breathlessly, glancing back at him over your shoulder, a challenging look in your eyes. 

Lewis growls low in his throat, his hands sliding across your back. “Careful,” he warns, though there's a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “Push me too far, and I won't be nice.” Your breath catches at his words, but before you can form a response, you feel him guiding himself to your entrance, teasingly dragging against you. The deliberate slowness makes your frustration peak, and you push your hips back, a wordless plea for him to stop teasing. 

“Patience, darling,” he murmurs, his voice a husky promise. But even as he says it, he shifts forward, entering you with a deliberate motion that steals the breath from your lungs. 

The sensation is overwhelming, every nerve in your body alight as he holds still for a moment, letting you adjust. “Lewis,” you breathe, your voice shaky with need.  

His hands gently caress over the skin of your back and hips, soothing over the sharp feeling of Lewis easing himself into you in small movements of his hips. “You’re doing so well,” he shushes your whiny moans, his hands tracing your sides, grounding you. “You feel perfect, we’re almost there, darling.”  

“A-almost?” Your voice cuts his words off, voice shaky with need, “It’s not going to fit, Lewis, I can’t-” 

He leans over you, his lips pressing tender kisses along your spine, each one sending a ripple of warmth through you. His voice is a soothing murmur in your ear. “Relax for me, darling. Let me take care of you.” Your breathing steadies under his touch, the initial sting giving way to a fullness that leaves you breathless as he pushes himself fully into you. You arch your back slightly, pressing into him as his hands continue their gentle exploration of your body. The tenderness in his actions contrasts with the raw desire in his voice, creating a heady mix that leaves you yearning for more. “That's it,” he praises, his tone soft but laced with heat. “You’re incredible. See? We made it fit.” 

“I feel so full.” You manage to let out, voice whiny as the moan is ripped from the back of your throat. “It feels so good, Lewis.” 

He begins to move, a slow, steady rhythm that builds gradually, allowing you to feel every inch of him. The friction ignites a fire within you, and you can’t help the soft moans that escape your lips, each sound spurring him on. His grip on your hips tightens, his pace increasing as he finds the perfect rhythm, each thrust sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. “You feel so good,” he groans, his voice low and thick with desire. His hand slides up your spine, tangling in your hair as he pulls you back slightly, his lips brushing against your ear. “You’re mine, you know that? Only mine.”  

The moan that comes from you is dissenting, causing Lewis to slide his hand down your throat to use the leverage to pull you up on your knees, pressed against his chest. “No,” you say, hands extending backwards to keep holding onto him in an attempt to keep up with the rhythm in which he is fucking you now. 

His words send a shiver down your spine, the possessiveness in his tone igniting something primal within you. “Say it,” he commands, his voice rough as his movements grow more urgent. “Say you're mine.” 

Your breaths are shallow, punctuated by soft whimpers as you cling to him, trying to keep pace with his movements. The way he pulls you against him, his hand firm on your throat, sends a jolt of heat through your core. His hand is firm around your throat, but not uncomfortable to the point that you can’t breathe. 

“I’m not yours,” you gasp defiantly, your voice trembling with every move he makes.  

Lewis growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your back as his hand tightens slightly around your neck—not enough to hurt, but enough to keep you in place. “We’ll see about that,” he says darkly. 

His hips snap against you harder now, his rhythm relentless as if determined to prove you wrong. The overwhelming sensation leaves you gasping, your fingers clutching at his forearm for balance. His free hand slides down your body, gripping your waist to hold you steady as he drives deeper, each thrust sending shockwaves of pleasure through you. 

“Still not mine?” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. His tone is equal parts teasing and commanding, daring you to resist him. “Still think someone else can fuck you better than I can?” You bite your lip, trying to stifle the moans spilling from you, but the way he moves, the way he claims you, has you crumbling. “Say it,” he repeats, his voice a low growl that echoes through your very core. 

Torn between defiance and surrender, you meet his challenge with a shaky breath. “I’m-” you begin, but he cuts you off with a particularly deep thrust that has you crying out his name instead. 

“Hmm?” Lewis chuckles darkly, clearly enjoying your struggle. His grip on your neck softens slightly as his fingers trace the column of your throat in a soothing gesture. “Come on, baby, just say it.” 

“I’m-” The word catches in your throat as he shifts slightly, the angle of his hips hitting a spot that sends a jolt of pleasure through you. A broken moan escapes your lips instead, and Lewis smirks against your ear, clearly revelling in your unravelling. 

“Say it,” he demands again, his voice low and demanding. His hand slides from your throat to your jaw, turning your face just enough that his lips can brush against the corner of your mouth. The gentleness of the gesture is at odds with the raw intensity of his movements, leaving you breathless. 

“I’m yours,” you finally gasp, the words tumbling out in a mix of desperation and surrender. 

Lewis freezes for a heartbeat, his chest heaving against your back as the admission settles between you. Then, with a triumphant growl, he resumes his pace, his grip on you tightening as if he intends to imprint himself into every fibber of your being. 

“That’s my girl,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. His lips trail along your shoulder, leaving a path of heat in their wake. “Say it again.” 

“Yours,” you whisper, the word coming easier this time, though the weight of it still sends a shiver through you. 

His rhythm grows more urgent, his body moving with a single-minded purpose as he pushes you both toward the edge. “Never forget it,” he groans, his voice rough and ragged, “now come for me.” You blame the singular cocktail you had three or so hours ago for your compliance to his words, as you feel the wave of pleasure crash over you, obliterating any coherent thought. Your body trembles uncontrollably in his arms, your cries of release echoing in the room as he whispers sweet words of praise in your ear.  

There are a million other things Lewis expects you to say, but you surprise him with a, “I wanna taste you.”  

Lewis's movements still, his breath catching at your unexpected words. He pulls back slightly, his dark eyes locking with yours, filled with surprise and a flicker of intrigue. A slow, mischievous grin spreads across his face. “Oh, is that so?” he murmurs, his voice tinged with amusement and undeniable heat. 

You nod, your cheeks flushing under his intense gaze, but there’s a spark of confidence in your eyes. “I really do,” you say softly, the tremble in your voice betraying both your boldness and your eagerness. 

He studies you for a moment longer, his expression shifting to one of reverence laced with desire. "Well," he says, his voice low and gravelly, "who am I to deny you, darling?" With a gentleness that contrasts the fervour of moments ago, Lewis guides you to sit up, his hands warm and steady as they support you. He shifts to the edge of the bed, leaning back slightly, giving you room and letting you take control. His gaze never leaves you, his dark eyes glinting with anticipation. You settle between his thighs, your hands skimming over his skin, marvelling at the way his muscles tense under your touch. There's a sense of power in the way his body responds to you, in the way his breathing hitches when your lips brush against him. You look up at him, meeting his gaze with a small smile before leaning in. The moment your mouth closes around him, Lewis groans low in his throat, his head falling back as his control begins to slip. His hands find their way to your hair, his touch gentle but firm as he guides you, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Just like that,” he praises, his voice rough with pleasure. “You’re perfect, baby.” 

The sound of his voice, the way he says your name like it’s the only thing that matters, spurs you on, and you lose yourself in the moment, intent on unravelling him the way he did you. Your lips move with deliberate intent, your tongue tracing teasing paths that have him groaning your name like a prayer. His fingers tighten in your hair, a gentle tug that makes you glance up at him through your lashes. The sight of him – head tilted back, his lips parted as he struggles for breath, sends a thrill through you. 

“God, you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice ragged and filled with awe. His eyes find yours, and the intensity of his gaze makes your pulse quicken. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Encouraged by his reaction, you take him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself. The sound he makes is primal, his control slipping further as his hips jerk involuntarily. He tries to hold himself back, but you can tell he’s close to losing himself completely. “Baby,” Lewis rasps, his voice thick with need, “you keep that up, and I won’t last.” You hum around him in response, the vibration pulling another groan from his lips. His hand slips from your hair to cup your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek in a tender contrast to the raw passion between you. “Look at me,” he whispers, his tone almost pleading. 

You meet his gaze, and the connection between you feels electric. His chest heaves as his breaths come in quick, shallow bursts, his control hanging by a thread. “I’m so close,” he warns, his voice a low growl. “Do you want me to stop?” The shake of your head is all the answer he needs. With a curse under his breath, he lets go, his body shuddering as he gives himself over to the waves of pleasure crashing through him. He holds your gaze the entire time, his grip on you tightening as if anchoring himself to the moment. 

When he calms down, he collapses back against the bed, his chest rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths. You sit back after swallowing, a triumphant smile playing on your lips as you take in the sight of him, utterly undone. “That was fun,” you rasp as you take in the sight in front of you. 

Lewis chuckles softly, the sound low and breathless, as he drapes an arm over his face, trying to regain his composure. “Fun?” he repeats, his voice laced with amusement and lingering satisfaction. He peeks at you from under his arm, his dark eyes glinting with a mixture of adoration and disbelief. “You’ve got no idea what you just did to me.” 

You tilt your head, feigning innocence as you crawl up the bed to lie beside him. “I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” you tease, your voice light but with a hint of pride. 

He turns toward you, propping himself up on one elbow, his free hand reaching out to trace lazy circles along your arm. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs, his tone soft yet filled with a reverence that makes your cheeks flush. “And I’m completely at your mercy.” 

You laugh, the sound light and genuine, as you nuzzle into his touch. “I think you like it that way,” you reply, your fingers grazing over his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch. 

“More than you know,” he admits, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to your temple. The tender gesture contrasts with the raw intensity you’d just shared, and it sends a warm flutter through your chest. 

For a moment, silence falls between you, the only sound the soft rustling of the sheets and the slowing rhythm of his breathing. Then Lewis shifts, his arm slipping around your waist to pull you closer. “You know,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your hair, “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of you.” 

The weight of his words settles over you, and you glance up at him, your heart skipping a beat at the sincerity in his gaze. “Good,” you whisper, a small smile tugging at your lips.  

He smiles back, a look of pure contentment spreading across his face as he tightens his hold on you. “That’s all I get?” 

“We’ll see how you feel after we get home,” you mumble as you run a finger along the curve of his jaw, “you might be bored of me by then.” 

“Home,” Lewis muses quietly, breaking the silence and ignoring your words. His voice is softer now, contemplative. “I like the sound of that.” 

You glance up at him, his face so close that you can see the faintest hint of vulnerability in his expression. It stirs something deep within you – a mix of tenderness and longing that takes you by surprise. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, leaning in to brush your lips against his. “Me too.”