#drew’s catty corner

[bradshawed]

hehehe omfg i’m giggling rn! the plot, your writing, everything about this fic is a fucking masterpiece and i cannot wait to see what comes next for them. so so so excited and literally blushing bc why is he so smooth 🤭 adored every word of that!

RAFE CAMERON ⟢ not so cocky

F1!driver!rafe cameron x FEM!reader ⟢ MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: based on this request

WORD COUNT: +4.9k

GENRE: fluff

CONTENT WARNING: i couldn't help myself and made him drive for ferrari since thats the team i support :P

it’s a tuesday afternoon, and you’re in your pajamas—baggy sweats and an oversized t-shirt you probably shouldn’t still own. you’re curled up on your couch, a blanket cocooned around you as some random show plays in the background. the ice cream in your lap is half-melted, but you don’t care.

then the knock comes. a sharp sound that instantly makes you groan.

you don’t move at first, hoping whoever it is will just go away, but then your phone buzzes: “we know you’re home. open the door.”

you shuffle to the door and open it, blinking into the daylight like a mole emerging from its hole. standing there, arms crossed and looking unimpressed, are your two best friends.

“it’s literally two p.m.,” abby says, squinting past you into your dimly lit apartment.

“yeah? so?” you reply, scratching your head. “it’s only two p.m.”

“on a tuesday.”

you shrug. “time’s a social construct.”

they both push past you into the apartment, already on a mission. jen opens the blinds, flooding your space with light, while abby heads straight to the kitchen. “when’s the last time you ate something that wasn’t ice cream?”

“last night?” you lie.

“we’re ordering pizza,” jen announces. “and don’t even think about arguing.”

you don’t argue. honestly, it’s kind of nice having them here. soon enough, the pizza arrives, and the smell of melted cheese and pepperoni fills your apartment. they bring out sodas, too, and one of them starts rifling through your collection of formula one merch—t-shirts, mugs, even the throw pillow you bought on a whim last year.

“okay, since you’re clearly still in your pity era,” abby says, rolling her eyes dramatically

“never say that again,” jen gapes at her.

abby rolled her eyes at her, “anyway, we’re doing a mid-week f1 sleepover. you’re not getting rid of us.”

you don’t even try to fight it. this has become a weekly-ish ritual at this point—your friends invading your space, throwing on a highlight reel from last weekend’s race, and forcing you to laugh at their awful commentary. by the time the sun sets, the couch is littered with pizza crusts and soda cans, and for the first time in days, you feel something close to normal.

the three of you are sprawled across your living room, pizza boxes open on the coffee table, the tv blaring the sound of engines as the formula one race unfolds. abby is clutching a throw pillow like it’s a steering wheel, yelling at the screen.

“i’m telling you, charles is going to take it this time!” abby declares, pointing wildly at the screen as charles leclerc manoeuvres through the track.

“please,” jen scoffs, leaning back with a slice of pizza. “verstappen has this in the bag, like always. he’s unstoppable.”

“unstoppable until he gets cocky and screws up his pit stop,” abby fires back.

you chuckle, keeping your eyes on the screen. “you two have had this exact argument every single week. neither of you is changing your mind.”

“because she’s wrong,” jen says, pointing at abby with a pizza piece.

“and she’s delusional,” abby fires back, throwing a pillow.

“oh my gosh, both of you, can we just watch without fighting?” you groan, though there’s a faint smile tugging at your lips. this bickering is as much a part of your race nights as the pizza.

jen smirks, not missing a beat. “oh, and you’re one to talk? we all know you’re obsessed with rafe cameron.”

you nearly choke on your drink. “i am not.”

“you literally blush every time his name comes up,” abby teases, nudging your shoulder.

“do not,” you mutter, sinking lower into the couch.

jen sits up suddenly, her face lighting up with an idea. “wait, speaking of him—did you guys hear about that competition? the one where you can win a seat next to him for a day? he drives you around in his race car, and it’s for charity or something.”

“stop.” you wave her off, your voice flat. “just stop.”

“no, seriously!” jen presses, pulling her phone out to look it up. “it’s legit. they posted it on the f1 page. all you have to do is enter, and they pick a winner. imagine sitting next to rafe cameron while he drives at, like, two hundred miles an hour!”

“jennifer, no,” you say, glaring at her. “that’s insane. why would anyone want to do that?”

“why wouldn’t you?” abby jumps in, grinning. “you get to sit in a race car, with rafe cameron. i mean, if i could, i’d already be entering.”

“don’t lie, you’d only go if it was charles doing it,” jen shook her head.

“you guys are ridiculous,” you mutter, shaking your head. “as if we’d actually made a chance.”

“besides” she says innocently. “i’m just saying. you love formula one, and you obviously love rafe. i’ve seen the way you look at the screen when he’s on.”

you groan, tossing a pillow in her direction. “shut up.”

“yeah,” abby chimes in, smirking. “all heart-eyes and ‘oh, rafe is such a good driver.’”

you scoff, though your face is heating up. “i don’t sound like that.”

“you do,” they say in unison, and you hate how much they’re enjoying this.

it’s friday morning when jen and abby show up at your door, both of them practically vibrating with excitement.

“open up!” jen yells, banging on the door.

you groan, dragging yourself out of bed and to the door, still in your pajamas. when you open it, jen is already halfway inside, holding up a bright pink duffel bag. abby’s standing behind her, an equally mischievous grin on her face.

“get dressed,” jen says, brushing past you into your living room. her dark curls are pulled back into a curly bun, and she’s rocking a pastel tracksuit that looks effortless on her. “we’re going out.”

“and not to the grocery store,” abby adds, following closely behind. her straight, glossy black hair is tied in a high ponytail. “but, maybe we should, just in case.”

“what is going on?” you mumble, yawning.

“spa day!” jen announces, setting the duffel down on your couch. “and before you say anything, no, you don’t get a choice.”

“why?” you ask, blinking at them. “i’m good here. i don’t need to go out.”

jen sets her bag down with a dramatic gesture. “girl, no. you’ve been ‘good here’ for three months, and we’re not letting you wallow anymore.”

“we’re going all out,” abby adds, stepping inside. her sleek ponytail swings as she gestures toward the bag. “nails, hair, brows, lashes—everything.”

you blink at them. “why do i need a spa day?”

“because you need to get ready for spa weekend,” jen says, emphasizing the word with a grin.

you stare at her blankly. “what are you talking about?”

abby rolls her eyes and flops onto your couch, crossing her legs. “the belgian grand prix. at spa-francorchamps. your favorite track. we’re going.”

your jaw drops. “you’re kidding.”

“we are not,” jen says, pulling out her phone and waving the email confirmation in your face. “two nights in a cute little airbnb, paddock passes for the race, and the works.”

“we saved for this forever,” abby says. “and let’s be honest, you need this.”

“and you just… decided to surprise me?” you ask, trying to keep calm and collected whilst wrapping your head around the idea of going to a fomula 1 race.

jen smirks. “well, we didn’t think you’d agree if we told you ahead of time. and now, you can’t back out.”

“besides,” abby adds, “you’ve been talking about spa for years. ‘oh, it’s so historic, it’s the best track, the corners are iconic.’ you’re gonna lose your mind when we’re there.”

you can feel your heart racing, the excitement bubbling under your skin despite yourself. you’ve dreamed of going to spa-francorchamps for as long as you can remember.

“so,” jen says, crossing her arms. “are you coming, or are you gonna sit here in your sad little cocoon and regret it forever?”

“obviously i’m coming,” you squeal with delight, a big grin painting your face.

“great,” abby says, hopping up and clapping her hands together. “then let’s get you race-weekend ready.”

the drive to spa-francorchamps is electric. you, jen, and abby are packed into a rental car, your bags crammed into the trunk, the radio blasting a mix of pop music and sing-along songs. every few minutes, one of you squeals about something—whether it’s the scenery, the fact that you’re actually going to spa, or the vip paddock passes tucked safely in jen’s bag.

“can you believe this?” you ask, practically bouncing in your seat. “we’re going to spa. i mean, eau rouge, blanchimont, la source—it’s iconic.”

“we know,” abby says with a grin. “you’ve been talking about it nonstop since we booked this trip.”

“you’re gonna cry when you see it,” jen teases from the driver’s seat. “i swear, you’re worse than those drivers who kiss the track.”

you laugh, but deep down, you know she’s right.

the airbnb is a cozy, modern expensive cottage just outside the circuit. the three of you walk in, and you’re immediately blown away. sleek wood paneling, a spacious living area, and a kitchen stocked with snacks and, most importantly, champagne.

“this is perfect,” abby says, dropping her bag on the floor and kicking off her shoes. “i feel like a celebrity already.”

jen pops open a bottle of champagne while you and abby explore the place, claiming bedrooms and marveling at the view of the surrounding hills. by the time you all settle in the living room, glasses in hand, the excitement is palpable.

“to spa,” jen says, raising her glass.

“to the best trip ever,” abby adds.

“to eau rouge,” you say with a grin.

you all clink glasses and take a sip, the bubbles fizzing on your tongue. for the first time in months, you feel light. happy. like yourself again.

“okay, okay,” jen says, pulling her phone out of her pocket. “before we get too tipsy, there’s one more thing we need to do.”

“what now?” you ask, sinking into the couch.

jen exchanges a look with abby, who’s barely containing her grin.

“we have a surprise,” abby says, pulling her laptop out of her bag. she opens it up and types something in while you watch, confused.

“guys,” you say. “what’s going on?”

jen leans over and taps a key, turning the screen toward you. “read this.”

you blink at the email in front of you. the subject line reads: “Congratulations! You’ve won the Scuderia Ferrari F1 Experience!”

“what is this?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“it’s that competition we entered,” jen says, smirking. “you know, the one to sit beside rafe cameron while he drives you around in his f1 car? yeah, you won.”

your jaw drops. “you’re joking.”

“nope,” abby says, grinning. “you’re meeting him. this weekend. in spa. we didn’t tell you earlier because we knew you’d freak out.”

“i’m already freaking out!” you yell, scrambling to reread the email. “how—when—why didn’t you text me?”

jen laughs, sipping her champagne. “because this reaction is way better in person.”

“plus, we knew you’d try to back out,” abby says. “and there’s no way we’re letting that happen.”

you stare at the email, your heart pounding. rafe cameron. the golden boy of formula one. the guy whose posters are still taped to your bedroom wall. the one you’ve lowkey crushed on for years. and now, you’re going to meet him.

“oh my gosh,” you whisper, looking up at them. “what am i supposed to say to him? what am i supposed to wear?”

“don’t worry,” jen says, smirking. “we’ve got you covered. now drink your champagne and start practicing your ‘hi, i’m not a complete disaster’ speech.”

abby laughs. “yeah, maybe skip the part where you cried during the monza race last year.”

“shut up!” you say, throwing a pillow at her, but you can’t stop the grin spreading across your face. because for the first time in forever, you’re genuinely, wildly excited.

monday morning feels surreal. the entire weekend at spa-francorchamps had been a dream—a whirlwind of roaring engines, flashing cameras, and the electric buzz of formula one. the race had been the highlight: the screams of the crowd as rafe crossed the line in p3, a hard-fought podium for scuderia ferrari. you’d cheered so loud you thought you might lose your voice, jumping up and down with jen and abby as the tifosi flags waved around you.

now, the reality of what’s about to happen is hitting you like a freight train. you’re sitting at the little dining table in your airbnb, staring at a perfectly brewed cup of coffee you haven’t touched. the sunlight filters through the windows, but it does nothing to calm the swarm of butterflies in your stomach.

“you good?” abby asks, leaning against the kitchen counter as she scrolls through her phone. she’s already dressed for the day, her outfit chic and effortless.

“define ‘good,’” you mumble, tapping your fingers nervously on the table. “because I think I’m having a heart attack.”

jen, who’s been rifling through her makeup bag, snorts. “you’re not having a heart attack. you’re just meeting rafe cameron. no big deal, right?”

“yeah, just the literal guy whose career you’ve followed for years,” abby says, smirking.

“the one you’re constantly defending on twitter,” jen adds with a teasing grin. “you’re basically his unofficial PR rep.”

“you’re both the worst,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat in your voice. you know they’re right.

abby sets her phone down and walks over to you, resting her hands on your shoulders. “listen, you’ve got this. he’s just a guy. a really, really attractive guy who drives at, like, 200 miles per hour for a living. no pressure.”

“you’re not helping,” you groan, burying your face in your hands.

jen laughs, zipping up her makeup bag and tossing it onto the couch. “ignore her. just remember: be cool, don’t fangirl too hard, and for your sake, don’t mention that you cried when he won monza last year.”

“i’m never telling you anything again,” you grumble, but the corners of your mouth twitch upward despite yourself.

after going to the ferrari hospitality room the three of you waited until—a knock at the door makes you freeze. all three of you exchange a look.

“it’s time,” abby says, her voice dripping with mock seriousness.

“go get him, tiger,” jen says, giving you a little shove toward the door.

your heart pounds as you open it, and standing there, in all his post-race glory, is rafe cameron. he’s in a casual scuderia ferrari polo, his signature blond hair slightly tousled, and those piercing blue eyes that seem even more intense in person.

“hi,” you manage to squeak out, which is honestly an achievement considering rafe cameron is standing two feet away from you, looking like he just stepped out of a Ferrari promo shoot.

“hi,” he says again, and the way his voice sounds—low, smooth, a little gravelly—sends your brain spiraling. “i’m rafe… uh, cameron. rafe cameron.”

your heart swells, you were sure your face was heating up. hearing his voice in real life was so much different then in screen. you give him a nod as you replied, “i’m y/n.”

“you ready?”

ready? absolutely not. but you nod anyway, because there’s no way you’re backing out now. “yeah, totally. let’s do this.”

rafe chuckles, his smile growing a little wider, and he gestures toward the bright red Ferrari waiting in the driveway. it’s the sleekest, shiniest car you’ve ever seen, and your heart skips a beat just looking at it.

“after you,” he says, stepping aside to let you pass.

you move toward the car, hyper-aware of every step you take, and slide into the passenger seat. the leather feels buttery-soft beneath you, and the interior smells faintly of something expensive and clean. you fumble with the seatbelt, trying to act casual, but the buckle refuses to click into place.

“uh,” you mumble, feeling your cheeks heat up as you wrestle with it. “this is fine. totally fine.”

“need some help?” rafe asks, already leaning over before you can say no.

your breath hitches as he moves closer, his arm brushing against yours. he smells like a mix of cologne and engine oil, and the proximity is almost too much to handle. his fingers brush yours as he takes the buckle, and you swear you forget how to breathe.

“here,” he says softly, sliding the buckle into place with a satisfying click. “got it.”

“thanks,” you mumble, your voice barely above a whisper. you’re hyper-aware of how close he is, his face just inches from yours, his blue eyes catching the light in a way that’s downright distracting.

“no problem,” he says, his gaze lingering on yours for just a second longer than necessary before he pulls back. “safety first, right?”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding, forcing yourself to focus on something—anything—other than the way your heart is pounding.

“right. safety first,” you echo, trying to sound normal, which is nearly impossible when rafe cameron is looking at you like that.

he starts the car, and the engine roars to life, the sound sending a thrill through you. “ready?” he asks again, glancing at you with a small, knowing smile.

“ready,” you say, gripping the edge of your seat like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the earth.

but deep down, you know you’re not ready. not for the car, not for the speed, and definitely not for rafe cameron.

the roar of the engine vibrates through the car as rafe pulls out onto the private track, the red Ferrari handling like a dream under his control. you’re gripping the seat, trying to act chill, but the sheer power of the car is making your heart race. or maybe it’s rafe. hard to say.

“so,” he says, his eyes flicking toward you briefly, a small smirk tugging at his lips, “have you ever been in a car like this before?”

“not even close,” you admit, trying not to sound too breathless.

“figured,” he teases lightly, his smirk deepening. “most people don’t have ‘f1 passenger seat’ on their bucket list. you’re kind of unique that way.”

you raise an eyebrow at him, feeling a spark of courage. “unique? is that your way of saying I’m a little weird?”

he laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and it makes you feel oddly triumphant. “no, it’s my way of saying you’ve got good taste. not everyone appreciates what these cars can really do.”

before you can respond, he presses the accelerator, and the car launches forward with a force that presses you back into your seat. a surprised laugh escapes you as the world outside becomes a blur of colors.

“whoa!” you exclaim, gripping the door handle.

“you good?” he asks, glancing at you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“i think so,” you manage, your voice tinged with nervous laughter. “just wasn’t expecting that.”

“you’ve gotta trust me,” he says, his tone softening a little. “i’ve done this a couple of times before, you know.”

“oh, really? i had no idea,” you say dryly, earning another laugh from him.

he takes the first corner with surgical precision, the car hugging the curve effortlessly. you can’t help but admire how smooth and controlled his movements are, even at this speed.

“you’re good at this,” you say, half-teasing, half-serious.

“thanks,” he says, shooting you a quick grin. “i try.”

he slows down just enough to let you catch your breath before speeding up again. “so,” he starts, his voice casual, “do you have a favorite driver? besides me, of course.”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t help smiling. “oh, obviously you’re the best,” you say, playing along. “but charles and lewis are up there too.”

“charles, huh?” he says, raising an eyebrow. “i should’ve known you’d be a ferrari loyalist.”

“what can i say?” you reply with a shrug. “i love the drama.”

“well, we’ve got plenty of that,” he says with a chuckle. “but if i ever see you in a lewis hat, it’s over.”

you laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little. “noted. no lewis merch around you.”

he takes another corner, and you feel the g-force push you sideways. he’s watching you out of the corner of his eye, clearly amused by your reaction.

“you’re handling this pretty well,” he says. “most people scream.”

“i might start,” you say, gripping the seatbelt as he picks up speed again.

he grins, his eyes sparkling. “don’t worry. i’ll slow down if you ask.”

“don’t you dare,” you shoot back, surprising yourself with the boldness in your tone.

his laugh echoes through the car, and for a moment, you forget about the speed, the track, and everything else. it’s just you and rafe, the easy banter between you making the world outside seem far away.

after the ride, your nerves are still humming, but it’s not just from the speed—it’s from him. rafe parks the car back in the paddock with the smooth precision of someone who’s done this a thousand times, then turns to you with that trademark grin that’s equal parts cocky and boyish charm.

“so,” he says, resting an arm on the steering wheel as he looks over at you. “what’d you think? am i as good as the commentators say?”

you let out a laugh, shaking your head. “you’re fishing for compliments already?”

“just curious,” he says, leaning slightly closer. “it’s not every day i drive someone who actually knows the sport. figured you’d have some… constructive criticism.”

you meet his gaze, trying to hold your ground despite the way his blue eyes seem to see right through you. “okay, fine. you’re good. but don’t let it go to your head.”

“too late,” he quips, winking as he steps out of the car and rounds to your side, opening your door before you can do it yourself.

“chivalry?” you ask, raising an eyebrow as you step out.

“what can i say? i’m full of surprises,” he replies, and you can’t help the small laugh that escapes you.

stepping out of the car, you’re greeted by the crew from ferrari, their cameras pointed in your direction. you can see the bright red of the team logo on their shirts, and the reality of the situation hits you again—this isn’t just a dream. this is real. and rafe cameron is standing right next to you, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“so,” rafe says, leaning casually against the car, his arms crossed as he looks at you. “what’d you think? was i as good as you imagined?”

you roll your eyes, but the heat creeping up your neck betrays you. “you were fine. nothing i couldn’t handle.”

he laughs, the sound low and warm. “fine? come on, i saw you gripping that seat like your life depended on it.”

“it was a fast car!” you defend, crossing your arms. “anyone would’ve been nervous.”

“i think my soul left my body at least twice.”

he laughs, leaning casually against the car. “you didn’t scream, though. i’ll give you that.”

“oh, i wanted to,” you say, crossing your arms. “but i figured i’d try to keep a shred of dignity.”

“impressive,” he says, his grin widening. “most people lose it after the first corner.”

“what can i say?” you reply, your confidence bolstered by his teasing. “i’m just unique like that.”

his eyebrows lift with a teasing smirk. “oh, really? i should take those words back considering you couldn’t figure out their seatbelt.”

you groan, covering your face with your hands as the crew chuckles behind their cameras. “you’re not going to let that go, are you?”

“not a chance,” he says, his voice full of playful arrogance. “it’s going in the highlight reel for sure.”

“the highlight reel?” you ask, peeking at him through your fingers.

he nods, clearly loving the way he’s flustering you. “yeah, this is all for ferrari’s youtube channel. fans are going to love it. you’re a natural in front of the camera, by the way.”

the ferrari crew exchanges amused looks, clearly loving every second of the interaction. one of them steps forward, holding a mic. “so, what’s the verdict? would you ride with rafe again?”

you glance at rafe, who’s watching you with a smug smile, and decide to play along. “only if he promises not to tease me about the seatbelt ever again.”

“deal,” rafe says immediately, holding out his hand like it’s a serious negotiation.

you shake it, his grip warm and firm, and for a moment, it feels like the rest of the world fades away.

“all right, that’s a wrap for now,” one of the crew members says, lowering the camera. “great job, both of you.”

“so,” he says, his eyes locked on yours, “any chance you’re sticking around? i owe you a proper debrief. you know, off-camera.”

you laugh nervously, your heart pounding again. “i don’t think i’m qualified for that.”

“sure you are,” he says, that cocky grin firmly in place. “besides, it’s not every day i meet someone who keeps me on my toes.”

you bite your lip, trying to play it cool even as your pulse races. “i’ll think about it.”

“good,” he says, straightening up. “but don’t think too hard. you might miss out.”

as he walks away, the faint smell of cologne and burnt rubber lingering in the air, you realize you’re smiling like an idiot. living in the moment, you remind yourself, and for once, it feels pretty damn good.

you’re pacing the airbnb living room, recounting every detail of your post-drive conversation with rafe to jen and abby. well, trying to, anyway. your thoughts are still jumbled, the memory of his smile and the way he said, “you might miss out” playing on a loop in your head like a song you can’t stop humming.

“wait, wait, wait,” jen interrupts, holding up a hand as she sits cross-legged on the couch, her expression equal parts amused and incredulous. “you’re telling me rafe cameron invited you to hang out after the drive, and you didn’t say yes?”

you stop pacing, throwing your hands up. “i was stressed! it caught me off guard! do you know how many things were going through my head? i literally blanked.”

“girl.” jen’s voice is dripping with disbelief. “how do you blank on that? it’s rafe cameron.” she says his name like it’s your earth’s purpose, as if she can’t believe you’re even capable of such an oversight.

“i know, okay?” you groan, collapsing onto the armchair across from her. “but the cameras were there, and everyone was looking at me, and he was being all… rafe about it!”

abby, who’s been lounging on the other end of the couch scrolling through her phone, looks up with a sympathetic smile. “it’s fine. you’re overthinking it. and, like, you might want to stop, because…” she trails off, her smile growing into something mischievous.

“because what?” you ask, sitting up straight.

“look at your phone,” abby says, her tone light, teasing.

you hesitate, your heart already speeding up. “why?”

“just do it!” jen says, practically bouncing now, her curiosity piqued.

with a sinking feeling in your stomach—and a spark of hope you’re trying to ignore—you grab your phone from the coffee table. as soon as you unlock it, the notification stares back at you, big and bold and impossible to miss.

rafe cameron is following you.

your jaw drops, and for a moment, you can’t even form words.

“well?” jen demands, leaning forward. “what does it say?”

you hold up the screen, and both of them erupt into chaos. jen is practically shrieking, while abby claps her hands together like this is the greatest thing that’s ever happened.

“oh my gosh, oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” jen yells, grabbing your arm and shaking you. “he followed you? this is huge. this is, like, life-changing!”

“it’s just a follow, right?” you mumble, though your face is burning, and you can’t stop the big smile creeping onto your lips. you were scared you were reaching too far.

“just a follow?” abby repeats, her eyebrows shooting up. “girl, this is rafe cameron. this isn’t just a follow; this is game on.”

“okay, but what do i do now?” you ask, your voice edging on panic. “do i follow him back? do i message him? do i do nothing?”

“you follow him back, duh,” jen says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “but don’t message him. play it cool.”

abby shakes her head. “no, you definitely message him. something casual, like, ‘thanks for the drive, it was fun.’ or maybe something flirty, like—”

“no flirty messages,” you interrupt, groaning. “i can’t. i’ll mess it up.”

“you can’t mess it up,” abby says confidently. “trust me, he’s already interested. the ball’s in your court.”

you stare at the notification again, your mind spinning. it’s surreal, like something out of a dream. jen and abby are still debating the best approach, but all you can think about is rafe’s smile, his voice, and the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world.

finally, you take a deep breath and follow him back.

“there,” you say, holding up the phone like you’ve just defused a bomb. “step one: complete.”

“and now we wait,” jen says, grinning. “but don’t worry. he’s definitely going to make the first move.”

abby smirks, raising an eyebrow. “oh, he’s already made the move.”

[bradshawed]

nine five albums that got me through 2024 (and some extras)!

this is so cool omg, thank you so much to my wife (@vampteeths) for the tag, i had sm fun! sorry for the essay and i think you'll find a slight recurring theme of indie, pop and indie-pop (with one or two surprises)!

1. the secret of us by gracie abrams, fav song: risk! released at the perfect moment & was exactly what i needed. makes u really realise that you're not alone and that so many others are going through similar experiences. this album to me, is perfection (don't get me started on how much i love the deluxe version)!

2. emails i can't send fwd: by sabrina carpenter, fav song: bet u wanna x i know u might be sick of hearing about sab but this album gave me so much confidence. it's sexy and emotionally validating at the same time. listening to this when ur overthinking about a boy and realising "wait a minute.. fuck him" is the best feeling, only second to listening to it as ur getting ready to go out

3. glass half empty by voilà, fav song: ballerina (with the word alive) indie rock ml, i've missed u! not a fan of all the songs on this album but of the ones i do like, i could listen to on repeat for hours. it's super energetic, great to have a song or two on any playlist to switch up the vibe and their lyrics really tell a story.

4. boy by luke hemmings, fav song: benny moving to something a little slower, calmer, great for a change of pace. really helped me through those moments when i needed to feel a little peace.

5. dreamers by charles leclerc and sofiane pamart, fav song: focus! you wouldn't expect to see me listening to a classical piano album but here we are. honestly fell in love with it sm so that it made it to my most listened to in 2024. incredibly composed, really emotional and grounding at the same time (also makes great background music).

6. MICO, fav song: tears in your eyes! it's not an album but an artist whose 2/3 songs i listened to religiously on repeat towards the end of 2024. honestly don't remember how i found him but i listened to one song and got hooked (if you hadn't realised i'm not a massive album person, i find a song, listen to it on repeat and find another, i rarely like full albums). i think i've been listening to homesick since july!

7. maneater by daryl hall & john oates and honey by coastal club struggled to think of a no. 7 but i can't believe i forgot this song duo that got me through late summer! i listened to a lot of my "trust fall" playlist (made for @sematarygirls) & my retro playlist and that song duo played on repeat for hours! (you can probs see that this year was big on confidence and maneater is the song).

8. beach weather, fav song: seth cohen another artist that i liked a few of their songs. hottest summer on record was great, even if we had the rainiest summer on record (but it was nice to dream). def one of my summer staples! idk why but it's just something about their beat that really has me relaxed, imaging my own obx summer (or maybe the name has something to do with it idk). pineapple sunrise (came out in 2023) was such a good album, i remember listening to sex, drugs, etc and hard feelings for ages!

9. what love is by zimmer90 does anyone else remember this song from 2023 that got really popular as an audio for those yearly wrapped reels? well, it's been on my liked songs since 2023 and got me through the start of 2024 so i believe that's a good reason as any to put it on the list (even if i never seem to remember what i listened to at the start of the year)!

...

tagging, @bruisedboys, @sematarygirls, @zya8tracks, @lilithblackkk, @dixonsbrat, @edwardslvrr, @fallininlust, @thyme-in-a-bubble and anyone else who would like to join x

[bradshawed]

"Cuff him!"

summary — the one in which franco steals more than your grapes

warnings — fem!reader, use of y/n, pinterest images, stolen grapes, and flirty franco!

note — i have the biggest crush on this man, he's so pretty and for what?! so naturally, i couldn't resist writing my first f1 smau about him. please lmk what you think and if you'd like a new year's mini series or a part 2. happy holidays xo

drew's masterlist !

...

liked by francolapinto, alexandrasaintmleux and others

yourusername has anyone seen my grapes?

alexandrasaintmleux amour, who has stolen your grapes? ⤷ yourusername a thief i fear but who needs a man at midnight when i have you! ⤷ alexandrasaintmleux my thoughts exactly ⤷ charles_leclerc 🤨

user1 who cares about the grapes, is that a new tattoo??

user2 more importantly, what's franco doing in the likes ⤷ user3 fr he got here before me ⤷ alexandrasaintmleux and me 🤨 ⤷ charles_leclerc what are you up to francolapinto?? liked by francolapinto

user2 sending franco thoughts and prayers ⤷ aussiegrit he'll need it ⤷ user2 ahahah he's fucked

user4 why is everyone talking about franco on the queen's post?? like happy new year everyone but this is mark webber's daughter we're talking about and you're all talking about a man?? liked by aussiegrit, alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri, lilymhe, lewishamilton, landonorris, desireinglander, fernandoalo_oficial, scuderiaferrari, mclaren, and more

user5 not the whole grid being here-

user6 attention seeking bitch user6 blocked by francolapinto, aussiegrit, fernandoalo_oficial, lewishamilton and more

user7 all i'm asking is for a chance with yourusername liked by francolapinto

...

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri and others

francolapinto these yours? yourusername

aussiegrit how can i dislike a post?

user1 oh he bold bold ⤷ aussiegrit no, none of this. i don't like this

user2 an f1 driver that can cook you dinner, bag him yourusername! ⤷ charles_leclerc what's that supposed to mean? ⤷ landonorris yeah, what do you mean by that user2? ⤷ user2 well uh you see.. ⤷ francolapinto stop ganging up on my fans

user3 grape thief, cuff him!! ⤷ yourusername kinky

yourusername so you're the one who's been stealing my grapes? ⤷ francolapinto indeed mi princesa, you want them back? ⤷ yourusername do you come attached? ⤷ francolapinto i can make certain arrangements

user4 i would've folded ⤷ alexandrasainmleux she did

[bradshawed]

Merry Christmas Ya Filthy Animals

summary — a somewhat chaotic grid dinner

warnings — fem!reader, fluff, grid!parents, inaccuracies, lando erasure (jk), rudy and elaine erasure (real), slight (franco) chaos

note — short one this time to thank you for all the love on "cuff him!" x

…

yourusername ♫ Frank Sinatra · Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas

liked by drewstarkey, brooke_starkey, alexandrasaintmleux and more

yourusername merry christmas ya filthy animals, love from the starkey’s xo

view all comments ...

user1 oh what i'd give for a christmas with the starkey's

lilymhe had the best time, we need to do it again (without the boys) ⤷ yourusername absolutely, name a time and place x ⤷ user2 note how none of their partners complained, very cutsey, very mindful, very demure ⤷ alex_albon we're just used to it

user3 pls adopt me ⤷ user4 or if you need a third ⤷ user5 or a maid? ⤷ user6 i can bark too!

charles_leclerc thank you for the beautiful dinner and for the monégasque dishes, it felt like home 🥰 ⤷ yourusername it was my pleasure to have you and your family (especially leo) ⤷ user5 family?! can't believe we didn't get to witness a leclerc reunion

user7 need to know who was at that dinner!! ⤷ user8 from what i can tell, some of the grid, their partners and some of the obx cast members, and daniel ⤷user7 craig?? ⤷ user8 they're good friends and y/n invited him as a guest to a race

alexandrasainmleux thank you for having us mon ange ⤷ yourusername thank you for coming beautiful, the kids missed their aunty alex x

user9 drew wearing rafe's ring with his wedding band healed something in me

landonorris and where was my invite? ⤷ francolapinto lost in the mail ⤷ yourusername be nice querido, and if i remember correctly landonorris, you were too busy

user10 who in their right mind would be busy for the get together of a lifetime ⤷ francolapinto that's what i said!

user7 so i've counted drew's siblings, charles, arthur, alexandra and leo, madelyn, chase, jonathan, madison, carlacia, logan, franco, oscar and lily, ollie and kimi, and alex and lily ⤷ yourusername don't forget lewis, mark, daniel, jense and seb popped by to say hi and oooo mick and laila stayed for a bit x ⤷ user8 holy- ⤷ yourusername yuki and mama starkey helped with the food x

user11 why has no one mentioned the personalised plates, they're so cute ⤷ user12 or the tablecloth with doodles ⤷user11 straight out of my pinterest feed fr liked by yourusername

lewishamilton thank you for having me and for the delicious vegan dinner. much love to you and your family for the new year

user13 this is like something out of a wattpad fic

drewstarkey babe come back, the kids miss you (i miss you) ⤷ yourusername sorry darling (i miss you too)

user1 i want this, where's my man??

landonorris let me guess, they're sitting next to each other ⤷ carlaciagrant boo hater!

...

francolapinto added to his story

slide 1: my parents are better than yours slide 4: (y/n laughing in the background) i think she likes it, no?

[bradshawed]

with all the mirrors oml (thinking of ballerina!reader & rafe with the studio all to themselves)

okay but like imagine you being on your knees for him, right there right nowwww

[ldrfanatic]

and now i'm covered in you

theodore nott x fem!hufflepuff!reader

"You know, you can stay if you want to." + "I think I'm in trouble." + "Damned if I do, damned if I don't."

synopsis - theo finds himself crushing on hogwarts' resident ball of sunshine hufflepuff but tries to force himself to stay away.

don't question the mechanics, go with it. do we want more down bad theo?

warnings - cursing, over-used amortentia love confession trope, theo is treacherously in love

slytherin boys works

"hnnnnggghhh."

mattheo looked up from doodling in the margins of the potions assignment he'd begrudgingly been blackmailed into working on by theo. said boy had his chin perked up onto his hand and was staring across the library at y/n, hogwarts' resident happy huffle.

in all honesty, theo didn't really give two shits if mattheo did his homework or not. he just needed someone to come with him to spy on you during your weekly wednesday study session. and while mattheo seemed like the last person who'd ever be in a library (all too true assumption), he was the only slytherin that theo had any blackmail material on.

so the pair of them sat at a table in the far corner, secluded in darkness that made it relatively difficult to pick them out from the leatherbound books of the ancient history section. theo had a clear view of you, but you'd have to strain your eyes to see him, which is what made this the perfect hiding spot.

theo let out another sigh, this one so dramatic that mattheo had begun to worry that his friend's testicles had simply fallen off.

"what the hell, man?"

"look at her."

mattheo's eyebrows immediately drew together in a look that was nothing short of incredulous.

"are you obsessing over that little puff in the corner?"

theo's hand shot up to grab the other boys' hand which was gestured lazily in the direction towards your figure. you were huddled up in a tutoring session with a pair of firsties in catty-corner to them. while theo was most certain you couldn't see him, he still didn't want to chance this buffoon giving him away.

the smile you gave them was so bright that theo found himself wishing that you were even slightly aware of his existence so that maybe, you might smile at him that way. his thoughts began to wander as he thought of all of the ways that he wanted you to smile at him. a large portion of them were decidedly not friend-like.

lost in his thoughts, theo hadn't caught your approach until you stood in front of them in your bright white sneakers. though they were a little beat up from your regular trips to the gardens, theo found them undeniably adorable. maybe because they had cute little yellow flowers embroidered on the sides of the heels. or maybe he just loved them because he loved you.

"hi matty!"

the moment the endearment was out of your mouth, theo's lovesick stare turned into a glare. he had no idea that you were even acquainted with mattheo, let alone that you had a nickname for him.

"hey there, y/n." mattheo, the cocky bastard, had a shit eating grin on his face that told theo that he knew exactly why your sudden arrival had irked him. "have you met theodore yet?"

your face twisted a little and a redness crept up your neck, settling on your cheeks. you muttered a quick no, clearly embarrassed about something.

"hi theodore. i'm y/n." you extended your hand towards him and theo was certain he'd explode if he didn't get the chance to touch your skin. so, with more eagerness than was probably necessary, theo took your small hand in his own.

now would've been the perfect time to do something flirty like compliment you or press a gentle kiss to your fingers. but when theo opened his mouth, something else entirely came out.

"don't call me that."

your face fell and you snatched your hand back to pull nervously along the ends of your hair. shit, shit, shit. that came out completely wrong.

don't call me that?? what kind of asshole said stuff like that to a girl he liked? honestly, you could call him whatever you want so long as you said it in that sweet voice of yours.

"oh. sorry."

"i just mean-- theo. i'm theo... to you..." theo's tongue felt too large for his mouth as he stumbled to get his thoughts to come out of his stupid mouth correctly. "you can call me theo. if you want."

mattheo was trying, and failing, to hide his snicker as he watched his best friend make a complete fool of himself. it wasn't very often that theodore the womanizer became so flustered for a piece of ass. of course, that was the catalyst here. you were clearly far more to theodore than just another piece of ass. that much was abundantly clear to mattheo based just off this interaction alone.

"well, good night, matty... and theo." you said his name hesitantly, almost as if you were worried the boy might spaz out again. with another breathtaking smile, you turned on your back heel and fluttered out of the library.

only after he watched the heavy oak doors close behind you did theo finally allow his head to thud against the desk.

mattheo had given up on hiding his laughter and was inches away from crying actual tears of amusement. he caught his breath momentarily, if only to mock theo's earlier fumble.

"don't call me that?" another fit of giggles stopped him mid-thought. "merlin, theodore, do you like this girl or not?"

theo waved his arms out in front of him in a gesture that was surely meant to be interpreted as "clearly i fucking do". mattheo was inclined to agree with the sentiment. he was most certainly down bad for this little hufflepuff.

"don't worry theo, daphne and i will help you out."

theo really should've known better than to accept help from his crazy best friend, and, if possible, his crazier girlfriend. but after what could only be described as a pathetic first meeting, he would try anything.

"fine."

"oh, c'mon y/n!"

you were uncharacteristically unamused by daphne's antics at the moment. you weren't really sure what she was playing at, but you did know for certain that her plan would land you an awful potions grade.

professor slughorn had been gracious enough to allow you to choose your own partners for today's assignment. the catch was that you weren't sure what you'd be brewing until after you were paired up. this shouldn't have been too much of a problem except, you were abysmal at potions.

daphne had insisted on being your partner, which you didn't understand the benefit of since your friend was equally as awful as you were. "daph, if we partner together, we'll fail."

daphne faced you with a pleading puppy-eyed look that you hadn't known any slytherin capable of producing.

"please. you're my only option to not get stuck with enzo."

as if on cue, the dark haired boy's robes caught on fire as he attempted to light the flame under his cauldron a few stations back. a rather girly yelp left him as he shoved his robe off and onto the floor before stomping on it a few good times to suffocate the fire.

you winced in sympathy towards daphne, still silently scanning the room to see who else might rescue you from a failing grade.

hermione would normally be your first choice, but draco had unfortunately decided not to skip today and snagged his girlfriend before anyone else could. you noticed theo sat next to a grinning mattheo two rows behind you.

you'd only just met the boy yesterday, but you could tell by the disbelieving frown on his face that he was unhappy with his partner. theo was amazing at potions and you were certain he normally paired with blaise, who was the most semi-competent slytherin of the lot when it came to potions. but for some reason, blaise was paired with pansy today. neither of them looked upset by the arrangement, so you tried to put it out of your head and focus on your own situation.

which brought you back to now. the amortentia that you were supposed to be brewing was notably lacking in both luster and pink-ness. it smelled like moldy old socks, which you knew by the mouthwatering aroma in the air that it was not supposed to smell like that.

after nearly 45 minutes of torture, slughorn finally called an end to the brewing and made his rounds about the room. surprisingly, only three potions were made correctly.

hermione's, which you knew would happen after you saw her smacking draco away from the ingredients and cauldron the whole time. pansy and blaise, who despite having succeeded, looked thoroughly worn out from the endeavor. and theo's. it was more shocking than anything that he'd managed to accomplish anything with mattheo as his partner.

"wonderful, class! now, i want everyone to gather around one of the three successful cauldrons around the room. go on." slughorn waited patiently until the class had split itself somewhat evenly into three groups all huddled around each workstation. theo was the closest to you, so you and daphne joined their group.

"now, with your classmates, take turns and tell each other what you smell."

unsurprised when daphne and mattheo smelled each other, you leaned forward hesitantly for your turn. you didn't really know what you'd smell. on your first whiff, two smells in particular hit you hard. "i smell books and wildflowers. and... something else. something... fainter."

slughorn leaned into your small group with a delighted smile. "amazing, miss y/l/n. it's common to smell faint hints of something in amortentia when either the brewer has not acknowlegded a love of something or when a love for that thins is still developing. go on. tell us what it is my dear girl."

"i think it's... fresh cut grass? i can't place where from, though."

"that's alright."

slughorn slinked away without any further explanation. two girls you didn't recognize went next, not at all caught off guard by their smells. then, it was theo's turn and you found yourself more interested in what he smelled than you cared to admit out loud.

"i smell my nonna's fettucine, the grass on the quidditch field, and... some kind of flower."

always quick on the upswing, your face reddened as you realized that the grass you caught wind of earlier was in fact, quidditch field grass. and based off the knowing smirk from mattheo paired with his not so subtle glances between you a theodore, you smelled each other.

the class dispersed shortly afterward, thankfully with no new revelations for your already flimsy love-life.

what you hadn't expected, was for theo to be waiting for you outside the classroom door.

"oh, hi theo. i thought you might've left already."

"i tried. but mattheo threatened to die my hair green, so."

you tried not to be disappointed that he hadn't wanted to stay and talk to you. a long huff from theo had you looking up from the stonework of the floor.

he said something to himself under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "merlin i'm awful at this". before you could ask him to clarify, he'd taken your hand in his and brought it up to his mouth for a soft kiss.

"let me start over. hi, i'm theodore and i've been unashamedly in love with you for the past forever. join me in hogsmeade this weekend?"

[bradshawed]

“Happy New Year sweetheart”

summary — if you’d known the dress you’d chosen for the new year’s party had gotten him like this… you would’ve done worse

warnings — suggestive content, 18+, degrading terms e.g. “slut”, dark!rafe, gun play, bondage, female reader

masterlist! && christmas celly (open)

…

“5…”

His fingers curled inside of you causing your back to arch, drawing out your third orgasm of the night. “Rafe, please” you begged. He ignored you, speeding up his pace.

“4…”

Your legs shook as he replaced his fingers with his mouth, placing kisses everywhere except where you needed him most. “My needy needy slut.” He commented as you whined from the loss of his touch, clenching around the cool air drifting in from the open window. He hadn’t even been inside you yet.

“3…”

You watched curiously as he opened the second drawer of his bedside table, your pussy pulsing in anticipation as he placed the cool metal inside your wet cunt without warning, watching greedily as you swallowed him in. Your body squirmed as you moaned from the change in temperature from the gun inside your hot cunt.

Rafe’s free hand snaked up between the valley of your heaving beasts, closing around your throat in warning. “Such a dirty little slut aren’t you,” you moaned in reply “you move and you know what happens”.

Click.

Rafe’s veiny hand tightened around your throat as he pulled the trigger. The gun was empty but you didn’t know that, your hips jumping in fear and pleasure. “You liked that didn’t you?”

The band in your stomach snapped for the 5th time that night as he fucked you hard with his gun. There would be bruises tomorrow but you didn’t care, it was his way of marking you. You were his and he was yours.

“2…”

Rafe teased your tits with the gun dripping with your cum. You needed him, needed him to touch you, to use you. Rafe smirked, slowly dragging the gun higher. He knew what you wanted. He tapped your lips, causing your mouth to obediently open. You could feel Rafe’s dick growing harder as you tasted yourself, sucking the gun dry.

“1…”

“You’ve been such a good girl for me, taking your punishment like the slut you are for teasing me with that dress. Now look what you’ve done, making me miss the party, dirtying up my suit with your cum.”

You moaned, bucking your hips.

Rafe smirked, tying your hands behind your head with his belt. Slowly unbuttoning his trousers in response. “And still you want more,” he tutted, tugging on the “R” charm on the silver chain around your neck, a matching “R” tattoo on your pussy, “I want everyone to hear who owns this pussy so you’re gonna have to be louder than these fireworks..”

“Can you do that for me?” He gripped your thigh pulling them wider apart, teasing your entrance with his cock leaking with precum.

“Happy New Year sweetheart.”

note — happy belated birthday @sematarygirls, i hope you like it. apologies if it’s not great, it’s my first time writing smut. hope you had the best day and that all your birthday wishes come true. sorry that this is a little late, i’ve been planning on writing something for your birthday for a while. love u loads and take care sunshine xx

[dinoshi64]

More old UTDR fanart dump

Time to repost more of my old utdr fanart lol, first off is everyone's favorite academic duo! When I first read Jockington's dialogue about how he and Catti first met in gym class during hula hoop day, and how Catti used him as a hula hoop substitute, I found it incredibly adorable, so I drew it. Looking back, I'm not really proud of this design I drew for Catti, it's just not super accurate to how she's supposed to look (ei short hair instead of long, missing eyeliner and grey ear insides??), thankfully I've given her a better and more accurate redesign for my newer drawings, which y'all will get to see soon-ish lol.

Next is the vessel! I personally think that the vessel will return in later chapters of Deltarune, possibly in either 5, 6 or 7, and will either be our new vessel to control if Kris abandons us, or will be our antagonist. The only thing I'm not a super big fan of here is the background, I think it looks too simplistic and wish I worked on it more. Don't question why Gaster's face is at a corner I have no idea why he is there.

And finally is the Spade King actually trying to be a good dad to Lancer! I had some small dialogue written for this that I included in the original twitter caption cuz was too lazy to put it in the drawing:

Spade King: "Do you forgive me, my son? Even after all that I've done?"

Lancer: "Of course I do, Dad! Now let me give you a hug!"

I also made a version with Queen in it cuz someone on twitter requested it (thx @azzxel) so now it's a family group hug ig

i also made versions without the text:

And that's all for today! Sorry I didn't upload for 2 days straight I just didn't feel super great X(

[raspberry-and-friends]

“Sorry if there’s a little blue paint behind my ear; that’s where I keep my brushes.”

“Carving pumpkins really helps with stress, but I really don’t advise you use the ‘stabbing’ technique on all your problems.”

Names: Pound Cake and Pumpkin Cake

Nickname(s): Artsy (Pumpkin to Pound), Sweetheart (Flurry Heart to Pumpkin)

Species: Pegasus and unicorn

Genders: Cisgender male (he/him) and cisgender female (she/her)

Sexualities: Heterosexual and lesbian

Age: 27

Parents: Chiffon Swirl Cake and Carrot Cake

Sibling(s): Pinkamena Diane Pie* (older sister)

Partner(s): Princess Flurry Heart Cake (Pumpkin)

Children: Princess Bedazzled Buttercream Cake (Pumpkin)

Headcanons and disclaimers below the cut 👇👇

Personality:

Pound: Creative, intelligent, imaginative, self-managing (every project of his was crafted intricately by his own two hooves, no help needed whatsoever), and loves trying new things.

Pumpkin: Spunky, honest, intuitive, highly opinionated, and prefers to show her affection through words rather than actions (usually through 14-year-old-sounding poetry she wrote at two in the morning).

Flaws:

Pound: Messy, frivolous, irresponsible, introverted (believes the only friends he needs are the cakes he decorates), and disorderly (“organized chaos” doesn’t even apply here, he literally can’t find his brushes if they slapped him in the face).

Pumpkin: Catty, moody, a perfectionist, confrontational (unlike her brother, Pumpkin isn’t afraid to throw hooves if anypony dares insult her family), and probably went through a pyromaniac phase in her teen years.

Special Talents: Cake decorating and pumpkin carving

Cutie Mark Stories:

Pound: Pound Cake never had the urge to follow in his parents hoofsteps as a baker—rather, he spent most of his days isolated in his room painting instead.

One day, the elder Cakes asked Pound and Pumpkin to watch over the shop while they were away, but advised strictly against touching any of their half-decorated confections. Since when did history ever get made by sitting on the sidelines or following the rules? Never!

As soon as they exited the premises, Pound spotted a large, triple-layer plain white wedding cake towards the back of the kitchen. The perfect canvas. Painting on fondant had to be the same as a regular canvas, right? Once he’d finished, the foal quickly threw a large baking sheet over his creation and zipped off to bed for the night.

Coincidentally, that cake was made for none other than Pinkie Pie and Rainbow Dash’s wedding, and it ended up becoming an instant sensation at the reception. Pound already assumed it went over well, judging by the looks of his brand new cutie mark.

Pumpkin: As Nightmare Night drew ever closer, Ponyville sprung into high-gear as hoards of cobwebs, bats, and apple-bobbing barrels filled the bustling streets.

The Cakes would take turns transforming Sugarcube Corner into a specific theme they’d chosen earlier in the year (yes, they are extra enough to begin their preparations for next Nightmare Night starting the day after). They decided to hand over the preparations to the twins one autumn, and Pumpkin Cake was quick to lead the charge ahead of schedule.

Ironically enough, the theme this time around was... a pumpkin patch. After weeks of careful planning and intricate blueprints, the storefront began its transformation into a hauntingly morbid wonderland. Knowing the young filly’s… unconventional interests, the seemingly innocent prompt was taken a little out of control. Now, all that was needed were a few large carved pumpkins to adorn the front porch. Ten jack-o-lanterns later, Pumpkin noticed how naturally the process came to her, and her cutie mark followed suit.

*Read Pinkie’s bio to learn more about her relation to the Cakes.

Bases by SelenaEde

***DISCLAIMER: In this AU, The princesses DIDN’T hand off their powers to Twilight, and still remain the primary rulers of Equestria during the course of this story. The illustrations and writing (the latter of which has since been revised to fix previously missed grammatical errors and to more closely align with my current headcanons) were done back in 2020-2021 and posted to my now-inactive DeviantArt account. The signature ‘Hun’ reflects the name I went by at the time, Hunter.***

[thefreakydeaky]

Entrapment

Part Two: The Man In Love With You

During your double date that evening, your phone rang for the third time in fifteen minutes. Unable to help yourself, you took it out of your purse and looked at the screen. Three missed calls from a phone number you recognized but hadn't had the guts to save as a contact. Shane's smile froze as it began to ring again. He grabbed your phone out of your hands, rejected the call and switched it to silent mode. Rather than return it, he slipped it into his pocket.

You tried to hide your angst behind a mask of neutrality and failed.

"You okay, Y/n?" Lori asked lightly.

You looked up at her.

"Yeah, I'm okay."

You returned her concerned smile with a tight upturn of your lips.

Shane reached over and put his arm around you.

A nerve on your cheek twitched as his palm brushed your bare shoulder.

Thankfully, Rick's return with a long neck bottle for each of you, distracted from the uneasy tension.

"What did I miss?"

"Nothin', man." Shane was quick to answer.

As the conversation returned to sports talk, your mind turned to Negan. Despite the insinuation you made to Shane, having an affair was never your intention. His mistreatment of you had left you feeling betrayed and alone. What you felt for Negan was too new to be love, but too intense to brush off as attraction. While his ruggedly handsome features had turned your head, it was his warm smile and deep hypnotic voice that drew you in. Then, the genuine conversations you had over coffee in the break room and how he often went out of his way to coax a smile or a laugh from you. You enjoyed being around him, but over all you became addicted to the attention he gave you. He told you he loved the sound of your laugh. He also told you, in that panty droppingly low voice of his, how he couldn't stop thinking of you, that he would treat you like the precious diamond you were, that if you ever wanted to give him a shot at making you happy all you had to do was leave your asshole husband. A nice romantic offer to fantasize about, but he didn't know Shane's temper. Didn't know what he was capable of, the power he had.

"Come on, Baby."

Shane's hot breath in your ear jolted you back to the present.

You nodded.

Shane helped you to your feet and took you to the dance floor.

The bittersweet tune that played as he led you in a sweetheart's two step did nothing to ease your anxiety.

And he must do something

That I didn't do

The smell of his cologne was making your stomach churn.

Whatever he's doing

It looks good on you

Being held close in his arms you felt trapped.

You look so good in love

You want him

It's easy to see

Your hands were shaking. You knew he could feel it and yet he leaned in and placed a kiss at your temple.

You look so good in love

I wish you still wanted me

Shane set you up and you spun slowly before gliding back into his arms.

He leaned in, holding you even closer than before.

"I can change."

You winced internally at the obvious lie.

"It'll be different this time, Baby. Just you wait and see."

A shiver went through you. The thought of how much worse your troubles with Shane could get had your stomach in knots. As the song finished, your tears began to fall.

"Let's go home." You said desperately. "Please, I wanna go home."

"We'll go when I'm ready to go." Shane tipped your face upward and kissed you.

•••

Something didn't feel right. Negan was not the anxious type, but after you had left he'd begun to worry. He didn't know what exactly had him worried, but the feeling nagged at him to get up and go to you. He pulled up in front of the house catty corner to yours. His eyes searched the front of the house for any sign that you were in trouble. Not finding anything didn't ease his intuition. He reached for the handle and started to open the door.

Wait a fucking second.. What in the hell was he doing? Apart from an ominous queasyness in his stomach he had no good reason to think you were in any danger. Yeah, your dickhead cop husband was, well ...a fucking dickhead, but you told him the man hadn't laid a finger on you. And if he had hit you so much as once in the last five months, Negan would know. He'd had the privilege of seeing every inch of your luscious bare body regularly in that time and he'd seen no proof of you being abused. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes.. Fuck. You were married. For Christ sake. He shouldn't be here. If the asshole found out he'd lose his shit and probably start a fight that Negan would have to finish. Your whole life could explode and over what? A gut feeling? No. He wouldn't do that to you.

The garage opened then, interrupting the bent of his thoughts. Out you walked in blue jeans and a sleeveless top. You looked amazing. Then again to Negan, you looked amazing in everything. He frowned at the sight of your meat head husband. So that was the piece of shit cop. Negan watched as you got into the car. Dissatisfied with the glimpse of your unhappy expression, he decided to follow you.

•••

Shane kissed you hard.

A hand closed on your shoulder. You turned to face the man standing behind you.

Shane glared at the intruder.

"Y/n?"

You gasped, relieved by the comforting sound of his voice.

"Negan." Your eyes were filled with tears.

His arms were around you in an instant. You ducked your head into his chest and began crying in earnest.

"Get your fuckin' hands off her." Shane demanded.

You trembled.

Negan ignored him entirely.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you?" His hand cradled your face as you looked up at him.

"I meant what I fuckin' said Y/n." Shane snarled.

"Don't you worry about him, Babydoll. I'm right here."

You took a short breath trying to steel your nerves.

Negan reached into his pocket and fished out his keys. He held them out to you.

"You go and wait in the truck. I've got this."

You moved to stand beside him.

"I'm not leaving without you."

Shane laughed dryly.

"Thought you said you weren't in love with him."

"You're not in love with me!" You cried out exasperated by his territorial machismo.

"I never said that."

"And yet you haven't fuckin' denied it." Negan cut in.

"What the fuck do you know about it? This is between me an' her."

"Not anymore. You have bullied, threatened and manipulated her into submitting to you. Only a truly piss poor excuse for a man would treat his woman like that. As of this second You have lost the privilege of being her man."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Negan's lips curled slowly into a grin.

"Do you really want to find out?"

"Nah, Who you are don't matter. Not when I know she'll come crawling back to me." Shane sneered.

Negan laughed a hearty almost giddy sound.

Your brow creased in confusion.

Negan's fist collided with Shane's jaw.

[bradshawed]

absolutely bawling, i don’t remember the last time i cried so many times reading anything. the way you write is beautiful and i don’t have the words to describe how precious this fic is to me. thank you for writing this and i hope you have a lovely weekend x

Love Again

Charles Leclerc x widow!Reader

Summary: you never thought you would be able to let someone else into your heart after your husband passed away, but when a bucket list your husband left you to fulfill inadvertently leads you straight into Charles’ path, you learn exactly what it means to love again

Warnings: death of significant other

The funeral is everything you expected it to be and nothing like you imagined. The church is suffocatingly full, every pew occupied, and the walls themselves seem to press in on you.

You sit in the front row, your hands clasped tightly in your lap, knuckles white against the black fabric of your dress. You haven’t said a word since you walked into the church, since you caught sight of the casket at the front, draped in a flag. You can’t speak because if you open your mouth, you’re certain you’ll break apart.

You focus on the details instead. The way the flowers — lilies, his favorite — are arranged with too much precision. The way the air smells faintly of old wood and incense. The way the murmur of the crowd sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Your head is spinning, but your body is still, a statue carved out of grief and shock.

You hear the scrape of a chair being moved and look up just in time to see the man taking the pulpit. You recognize him, vaguely, as someone from the organization — Doctors Without Borders. He was there when it happened. He was there with him.

He clears his throat, glances down at a piece of paper in his hand, then up at the crowd. “I’m not sure I have the right words for this,” he begins, his voice low and trembling just enough to be noticeable. “But I’ll try.”

You hate him a little for that — for having to try. You don’t want him to try. You want him to fail, to stumble over his words, to not be able to get them out. But he doesn’t. He takes a deep breath and continues.

“James was ... the best of us. You all know that. He was selfless, tireless. He didn’t just want to save lives — he did it. Every day. In the most dangerous places, under the most terrifying conditions. He was a healer in the truest sense of the word.” The man’s voice catches for a second, but he pushes through it. “And he was my friend.”

You flinch at that, a sharp pain slicing through your chest.

“He saved us that day,” the man says. “He saved all of us.”

The church is so quiet now, you could hear a pin drop. You can’t take your eyes off the man at the pulpit. You want him to stop talking. You want him to stop telling you things you can’t bear to hear. But he doesn’t stop.

“We were in the middle of the compound when the shelling started. It came out of nowhere. One minute we were patching up a kid who’d been hit by shrapnel, and the next, the whole world was exploding around us. We were trapped. There was no way out.” The man’s voice lowers, almost like he’s talking to himself now. “But James ... James didn’t hesitate. He ran toward the blast, toward the fire. He pulled people out, dragged them to safety.”

A tear slips down your cheek, and you swipe it away angrily.

“He was hit by the last shell,” the man continues, his voice trembling now. “He was trying to get one of the nurses out. She was trapped under some debris. He managed to free her, but then the shell hit, and ...” The man’s voice falters, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “He didn’t make it.”

There’s a collective gasp from the crowd, a ripple of shock that moves through the room like a wave. You feel it crash over you, pulling you under. You can’t breathe. You can’t think. You can’t do anything but sit there and listen as the man finishes his eulogy.

“He died a hero,” the man says, his voice breaking. “He died saving lives, the way he always wanted to. And I ... I don’t know how to make sense of it. I don’t know how to make it okay.”

He steps back from the pulpit, his head bowed, and there’s a moment of silence so thick, it’s suffocating. You feel like you’re drowning, like the walls of the church are closing in on you. You need to get out, but you can’t move. You’re frozen in place, trapped in your grief.

Finally, you manage to take a breath, and it feels like your lungs are on fire. You get to your feet, unsteady, and start to make your way down the aisle. You can feel the eyes of everyone in the church on you, but you don’t care. You need to get out. You need air.

You push through the heavy wooden doors and stumble out into the daylight, gasping for breath like you’ve been underwater for hours. The sky is too blue, the sun too bright. Everything is too much.

You lean against the wall of the church, pressing your forehead to the cool stone, trying to steady yourself. But the tears come anyway, hard and fast, and you can’t stop them. You don’t even try.

You don’t know how long you stand there, sobbing into the wall, but eventually, you hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is — your husband’s best friend.

“Hey.” His voice is soft, hesitant.

You don’t respond. You can’t. You just keep crying.

“I ... I’m so sorry,” he says. He steps closer, and you can feel the warmth of his presence beside you. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to say,” you manage to choke out, your voice raw.

He’s silent for a moment, and then he takes a deep breath. “James ... he gave me something. To give to you. In case ... in case something happened.”

You turn to look at him, your vision blurred by tears. He’s holding an envelope, white and plain, with your name on it in James’ handwriting. Your heart stutters in your chest.

“He asked me to give it to you,” he says, holding the envelope out to you. “But only when you’re ready.”

You stare at the envelope like it’s a bomb about to go off. You don’t want to take it. You don’t want to know what’s inside. But you reach for it anyway, your hand shaking.

“Take your time,” he says softly. “There’s no rush.”

You nod, clutching the envelope to your chest like it’s a lifeline. You can’t bring yourself to open it, not yet. You don’t even know if you ever will.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

He nods, his eyes full of sympathy and something else — something you can’t quite place. “I’m here if you need anything,” he says. “Anything at all.”

You nod again, not trusting yourself to speak. He lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something more, but then he just gives you a small, sad smile and walks away.

You watch him go, the envelope still clutched tightly in your hand, and you feel the weight of it like a stone in your chest. You know that whatever’s inside is going to change everything, and you’re not sure you’re ready for that.

But you don’t have a choice.

***

The envelope sits in the top drawer of your nightstand, hidden beneath an old notebook and a stack of receipts you keep meaning to throw away. It’s been there for over a year, untouched.

Some days, you forget about it entirely, letting the routine of work and lonely dinners numb the ache in your chest. But most days, it lingers in the back of your mind, a quiet hum of guilt and grief that you can’t quite shake.

You know you’re supposed to open it — James left it for you, after all. But every time you reach for the drawer, your hand hovers just above the handle, frozen. Because what if the letter makes it worse? What if the words on the paper bring everything crashing back down on you, when you’ve spent so long trying to build yourself back up?

So you leave it. Days turn into weeks, and then months, until a whole year has passed. Friends have stopped asking how you’re doing, their well-meaning calls and texts fading away into awkward silence. You don’t blame them. It’s not like you’ve been much of a person to be around.

But today, for some reason, you can’t ignore it any longer.

It’s raining outside, the kind of steady drizzle that makes the world feel smaller, quieter. You sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the drawer like it’s going to open itself. The house is still, too still, and the sound of the rain against the window only amplifies the silence.

Your hand trembles as you pull the drawer open. The envelope is right where you left it, the edges slightly yellowed now, but the ink still bold and clear: your name, in James’ handwriting. Seeing it sends a pang through your chest, like someone’s reached inside and squeezed your heart.

You sit there for a long time, just holding it. It’s ridiculous, really. It’s just paper. But it feels heavier than anything you’ve ever held.

“Just open it,” you whisper to yourself, but the words feel hollow, like they belong to someone else.

Finally, with a shaky breath, you tear the seal.

Inside, there’s a folded letter. Beneath it, another piece of paper — something thicker. You hesitate, then unfold the letter first. The handwriting is familiar, the slant of the letters uniquely his. You read it slowly, your eyes scanning the words with a mix of dread and longing.

My love,

If you’re reading this, then I’m not there with you. And I’m so, so sorry for that.

I wish I could tell you how much I wanted to come home. How much I needed to come home to you. But I know that wherever I am now, I’m still with you in some way. I have to believe that. Otherwise, I think I’d lose my mind.

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you to be strong, to keep living your life. And you will. I know you will. But it’s okay to fall apart first. It’s okay to break, to cry, to scream at the universe for being so damn unfair. I would.

There are so many things I wish we could’ve done together, so many things we talked about but never got the chance to do. So I’m leaving you with something. A list. It’s not a list of things you have to do — it’s a list of things I wish we could’ve experienced together. But more than that, it’s a list of things I want you to experience. For both of us.

The first one’s a bit selfish. But the last one ... that one’s for you.

I love you more than words can ever say. And if there’s any way for me to still be with you, to still be a part of your life, then I hope this is it.

Yours always,

Jamie

By the time you finish reading, tears blur your vision, dripping silently onto the letter. You wipe at your face, but the tears just keep coming. His words cut through you, raw and tender, like a wound that’s never fully healed.

You sit there for what feels like hours, the rain outside matching the rhythm of your sobs. It’s only after you’ve cried yourself out that you remember the second piece of paper, still folded in the envelope.

With a shaky breath, you unfold it.

It’s a bucket list. Five items, written in James’ scrawled handwriting. Your heart clenches as you read them, one by one.

1. Go to an F1 race. You know how much I wanted to see one in person. Do this for me. I want you to feel the rush, the excitement. It’s something I never got to experience, and I want you to feel it for both of us.

2. Visit that little café in Paris we always talked about. The one by the Seine with the red awning. We were supposed to go there on our honeymoon, remember? Have a coffee, eat too many croissants. Just sit there and watch the world go by.

3. Take a road trip with no destination in mind. Just drive. Don’t plan anything. Turn down random roads, get lost, stay in tiny motels, and eat at diners where they don’t know your name. I always wanted to do that with you.

4. Dance in the rain. We talked about doing it, but we never did. Just let go and do it. Don’t care if people are watching. Don’t worry about looking silly. Just feel the rain and think of me.

5. Find love again. I know this one is hard, and I know you might not want to think about it right now. But promise me that one day, when you’re ready, you’ll open your heart again. It doesn’t have to be soon. It doesn’t have to be anyone like me. But don’t close yourself off to it. You deserve that kind of happiness.

You sit there, staring at the list, your chest tight and your hands trembling. It’s so ... James. The way he could be both lighthearted and deeply thoughtful, the way he always wanted you to live fully, even if he couldn’t anymore.

But how can you? How can you even think about doing these things without him?

You read the list again, and this time it feels different. Less like a burden, and more like a challenge. A promise, almost. To live. To try.

But the last item — that’s the one that breaks you. Find love again. The words echo in your mind, and you can barely breathe through the weight of them. It feels impossible, inconceivable. And yet, it’s the one thing James wanted most for you.

A knock at the door pulls you out of your thoughts. You quickly wipe your eyes, folding the letter and the list back into the envelope before shoving it into the drawer again. You stand up, trying to compose yourself.

When you open the door, you find his best friend, the one who gave you the letter in the first place, standing there. His expression softens the moment he sees your face.

“You finally opened it,” he says gently.

You nod, unable to speak for a moment.

He steps inside, closing the door behind him. “I’ve been wondering when you would.”

“I ... I couldn’t,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Not until today.”

He sits down on the couch, and you join him, the silence between you heavy but not uncomfortable.

“What did he say?” He asks softly.

You hand him the list, unable to find the words yourself. He reads it, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reaches the last item.

“That’s James,” he says, shaking his head. “Always thinking about everyone else.”

You laugh, but it comes out as more of a sob. “How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to just ... live my life without him?”

“You’re not,” he says, his voice gentle. “You’re supposed to live your life with him. By doing these things, you’re keeping him with you.”

You stare at the list again, your heart aching. “But the last one ...”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then, quietly, he asks, “Do you think he’d want you to be alone forever?”

You shake your head, tears spilling over again. “No. But I don’t know how to ... move on.”

“You don’t have to move on,” he says. “You just have to keep moving. One step at a time.”

You nod, even though it feels impossible. But maybe that’s the point. Maybe this list isn’t just about James’ dreams. Maybe it’s about helping you find your way back to yourself.

“I guess I’d better start with number one,” you say, your voice shaky but determined.

He smiles, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe — just maybe — you can do this.

***

The roar of engines echoes through the air as you step out of the taxi, your heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. The circuit sprawls out before you, a sea of red, blue, and green flags waving in the hands of thousands of fans, all buzzing with excitement. You clutch your ticket tightly, the edges crumpled from your nervous grip.

It took everything in you to get here. The flight, the hotel, the whole ordeal of buying a ticket from some sketchy reseller online — all of it felt like a test of your resolve.

But this is for James. You repeat that to yourself like a mantra. He would’ve loved this, you think, as you look up at the towering grandstands. The hum of the engines, the electricity in the air, the sheer intensity of it all — it’s exactly the kind of thing he would have dragged you to, his enthusiasm infectious.

But now, you’re here alone. And that thought twists in your chest, a painful reminder of why you’re doing this in the first place.

You make your way to the entrance, the ticket clenched in your hand. The queue moves quickly, fans eager to get to their seats, their conversations a mix of English, French, Italian, and other languages you can’t quite place.

You try to blend in, keep your head down, and avoid drawing attention to yourself. Just scan the ticket and get inside. That’s all you have to do.

When it’s finally your turn, you hand your ticket to the attendant, offering a small, nervous smile. He takes it without much thought, scanning the barcode with the device strapped to his wrist. But instead of the usual beep, there’s nothing — just a blank screen.

The attendant frowns, tries again. Still nothing.

“Uh, let me just check something,” he says, his tone suddenly cautious.

You feel a cold knot forming in your stomach. “Is there a problem?”

He doesn’t answer right away, fiddling with the scanner, trying different angles. The queue behind you is growing restless, and you can feel eyes on your back. Finally, he looks up at you, sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m really sorry,” he says quietly, “but this ticket isn’t valid.”

You blink, not understanding. “What do you mean? I bought it online ...”

“It’s a fake,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “You must’ve been scammed. It happens sometimes with resellers.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You feel the color drain from your face, your mind reeling. Fake. Scammed. The ticket crumples in your hand as you step aside, trying to make sense of it. How could this happen? You did everything right — or at least, you thought you did.

“But ... I paid a lot for this,” you stammer, the reality of it sinking in. “I-I don’t understand.”

“I’m really sorry,” the attendant repeats, glancing over your shoulder at the impatient crowd behind you. “There’s nothing I can do. You’ll have to contact whoever you bought it from.”

You nod numbly, stepping away from the gate. The world around you seems to blur, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. You feel like you’re suffocating, your chest tight with a mixture of humiliation and despair. This was supposed to be the first thing you did for James, and you can’t even get that right.

You don’t know where you’re going, just that you need to get away from the entrance, away from the people. Your legs carry you to the far side of the parking lot, where the crowds thin out and the noise dulls to a low hum. You lean against a concrete pillar, your breath coming in shaky gasps.

It’s too much. The weight of it all — the grief, the loneliness, the pressure you’ve put on yourself to make this trip meaningful — it’s crushing you. You slide down to sit on the curb, burying your face in your hands as tears spill over.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words meant for James, though you know he can’t hear you. “I’m so sorry ...”

You’re so caught up in your tears that you don’t notice the figure approaching until he’s right in front of you. When you finally look up, your vision is blurry from the tears, but you can make out the silhouette of a man standing there, watching you with concern etched on his face.

“Hey, are you okay?” His voice is soft, with a lilting accent you can’t quite place, but it’s gentle enough to cut through the fog of your despair.

You quickly wipe at your eyes, trying to compose yourself, but it’s a losing battle. “I’m fine,” you manage to choke out, though it’s clear to both of you that you’re anything but.

He doesn’t move, just crouches down in front of you, his brow furrowed. “You don’t look fine. What happened?”

You shake your head, embarrassed by the whole situation. “It’s stupid ... I just — I bought a ticket, and it’s fake, and I ... I just don’t know what to do.”

The words tumble out between hiccups and sniffles, and you feel ridiculous for crying in front of a stranger. But he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, his expression grows even more sympathetic.

“That’s not stupid at all,” he says gently. “You came all this way for the race, didn’t you?”

You nod, biting your lip to keep from crying again. “Yeah. But now I can’t even get in. I feel like such an idiot.”

“You’re not an idiot,” he reassures you, his tone firm but kind. “People get scammed all the time. It’s not your fault.”

You look up at him then, really look at him. He’s young, probably around your age, with messy brown hair and striking green eyes that seem to radiate warmth. He’s wearing a plain black T-shirt and jeans, nothing that would make him stand out in a crowd, but there’s something about him — maybe the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the only person in the world that matters right now — that makes you feel a little less alone.

“I don’t even know why I’m here,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not really a fan. It’s just ... something I had to do.”

He tilts his head, curiosity in his eyes. “For someone else?”

You nod again, fresh tears welling up. “My husband. He ... he passed away, and this was on a list of things he wanted me to do. I thought ... I thought I could at least get this right.”

The man’s expression softens even more, if that’s possible. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just sits there with you, letting the weight of your words settle between you.

“I’m really sorry,” he says finally, and you can tell he means it. “That must be so hard.”

You shrug, wiping at your face again. “It is. But I wanted to do it anyway. For him.”

He nods, and then, after a brief pause, he says, “What if I told you I could help?”

You look at him, confusion and hope warring in your chest. “What do you mean?”

He smiles, and it’s a kind, genuine smile that makes you feel like maybe things aren’t as hopeless as they seem. “I might be able to get you into the race. If you’re okay with that.”

Your heart skips a beat, a flicker of hope sparking to life. “How? Are you some kind of VIP or something?”

He laughs, a soft, melodic sound that eases some of the tension in your chest. “Something like that. Just trust me, okay?”

You don’t know why, but you do. Maybe it’s because he’s the first person who’s really listened to you in a long time, or maybe it’s because you’re so desperate to make this work. Either way, you nod.

“Okay,” you say, your voice a little stronger now.

He pulls out his phone and dials a number, glancing back at you as he waits for the call to connect. “This might take a minute,” he says with a reassuring smile.

You watch him, your heart pounding as you wonder just who this man is and how he plans to help you. But as you sit there, your tears drying and the noise of the race humming in the background, you can’t help but feel a glimmer of something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

***

Charles doesn’t leave your side while he waits for the call to go through, his green eyes focused on you as if making sure you’re still okay. The sincerity in his gaze is almost unnerving, and for a brief moment, you forget about the pitiful mess you’ve become, losing yourself in the quiet strength he radiates.

Whoever he is, it’s clear he’s not just a fan — there’s something about him that feels different, like he’s used to handling situations like this with a calm confidence that most people can only fake.

He speaks briefly into the phone, in a language you don’t understand, and within minutes — faster than you would’ve thought possible — a Ferrari team member rushes toward you both, holding a shiny red VIP pass. The emblem glints in the sunlight, and as he hands it over to Charles, your brain starts to catch up. Your eyes flicker between the pass, the Ferrari logo, and Charles, who’s now holding the pass out to you with that same reassuring smile.

“Here,” he says gently, placing the pass into your trembling hand. “This will get you into the paddock, and pretty much anywhere else you want to go.”

You stare at the pass, then at him, the realization dawning on you slowly. Ferrari. VIP. Charles. It suddenly clicks into place, and you feel your cheeks flush with embarrassment. He’s not just a concerned fan. He’s someone important.

You swallow hard, looking up at him with wide eyes. “Who ... who are you?”

He chuckles, but it’s soft, not mocking, more like he finds the situation endearing. “I’m Charles. Charles Leclerc. I drive for Ferrari.”

Your mouth opens, then closes, the words you want to say sticking in your throat. You’re mortified that you didn’t recognize him, that you didn’t put it together sooner. You’ve heard the name before, of course — who hasn’t? But you’ve never been into F1, and you hadn’t expected to meet someone famous today.

“I-I’m sorry,” you stammer, looking down at your feet. “I didn’t realize ...”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Charles interrupts, waving off your apology. “You’ve had a rough day. The last thing you need to worry about is recognizing some racing driver.”

“But I should’ve known ...” you begin, but he cuts you off again, this time with a playful smile.

“Now, why would you know that? You already told me you’re not a fan,” he teases lightly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And I’d much rather be remembered as the guy who helped you out than as that Ferrari driver you didn’t recognize.”

You can’t help but laugh, albeit weakly. His charm is disarming, and it’s hard to feel embarrassed when he’s making it so clear that he doesn’t care about your mistake.

“Thank you,” you say, meaning it. “For all of this. I don’t know how to repay you.”

Charles shakes his head, his expression turning serious again. “You don’t need to repay me. Just enjoy the day. Experience everything to the fullest — in honor of your husband.”

You blink at him, the mention of James sending a fresh wave of emotion through you. But instead of the sharp pain you’ve grown accustomed to, it’s more of a gentle ache this time, softened by the kindness of the stranger-turned-friend standing before you.

“I know what it’s like to lose people you love,” Charles continues, his voice low and sincere. “And I know how important it is to keep their memory alive by doing things they would’ve loved. It’s not easy, but ... it’s worth it.”

You don’t know what to say to that. The depth of his words, the understanding in his eyes — it’s like he’s speaking directly to the part of you that’s been hurting the most. And suddenly, you feel a connection to him that goes beyond the superficial. He gets it. He understands.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “Really, thank you.”

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a long moment before he stands, offering you his hand. “Come on. Let me show you around.”

You take his hand, letting him pull you to your feet. His grip is warm and steady, grounding you in a way you hadn’t expected. You let him lead you through the bustling parking lot, your heart still pounding but now for a different reason.

There’s something surreal about walking next to Charles Leclerc, knowing he’s one of the biggest names in the sport and yet treating you like you’re the important one.

As you approach the entrance to the paddock, the atmosphere shifts. It’s a different world in here, a world of precision, speed, and power. Team members rush about, focused and intense, the hum of engines a constant background noise. But as you pass by, more than a few heads turn, eyes widening as they take in the sight of you walking with Charles. He doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t care.

“Here we are,” he says as you reach the Ferrari hospitality area, gesturing to the sleek red building with the prancing horse logo proudly displayed. “You’re my guest today, so feel free to make yourself at home. The team will take good care of you.”

You look up at the building, feeling a little overwhelmed. “I don’t know what to say. This is ... it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much,” Charles insists, his tone gentle but firm. “It’s exactly what you deserve today. I want you to enjoy yourself.”

You open your mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes stops you. He’s serious. He really wants this for you, and the sincerity in his voice makes it clear that this isn’t just about being nice. It’s about giving you something good in a time when good things have been hard to come by.

“Okay,” you say finally, your voice soft. “I’ll try.”

Charles smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, everything will be okay. “That’s all I ask.”

He leads you inside, where the air is cool and the decor is modern and sleek, all polished surfaces and red accents. A few team members glance your way, but Charles waves them off, his focus entirely on you.

“I have to get prepped for the race,” he says, stopping just inside the entrance. “But I’ll come see you afterward, okay?”

You blink, taken aback by his offer. “You don’t have to do that,” you stutter. “You’ve already done more than enough. I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

Charles just shakes his head, that same determined look in his eyes. “I want to. Besides, I’ll probably be in a better mood if I know you’re here cheering me on.”

The thought of actually cheering for him, of being invested in the race, is a foreign one. But the way he says it, so casual and confident, makes it seem almost natural.

“I don’t really know much about racing,” you admit, feeling a little silly.

He grins. “Don’t worry, you’ll pick it up quickly. And if you have any questions, there’ll be plenty of people around who can help. Just relax and enjoy it.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of your depth but also oddly comforted by his words. He makes it sound so simple, so easy, like all you have to do is show up and everything else will fall into place.

“Okay,” you agree. “I’ll try my best.”

“That’s all I can ask for,” Charles says, his smile widening. “I’ll see you after the race.”

He gives you a small wave before turning and heading off, his stride confident and unhurried. You watch him go, still trying to process everything that’s happened in the last hour.

It’s almost too much to take in — the ticket fiasco, meeting Charles, the VIP pass, and now being his personal guest for the day. It feels like you’ve stepped into someone else’s life, one filled with glamor and excitement, so different from the quiet, grief-stricken world you’ve been living in.

But as you take a deep breath and look around at the world Charles has invited you into, you can’t help but feel a spark of something you haven’t felt in a long time — hope. Maybe, just maybe, today will be a good day.

***

You sit in the Ferrari hospitality suite, watching the festivities from a distance. The energy in the room is electric, everyone buzzing with excitement over Charles’ win.

His face is plastered on every screen, grinning as he holds up the trophy, spraying champagne with the other drivers on the podium. The cheers echo in your ears, but there’s a strange numbness in your chest, a disconnect between the celebration and what you’re feeling.

You’re happy for him, of course you are. But the fact that Charles just won a race feels surreal, like something out of a dream. And you’re not sure where you fit in the dream — or if you fit in at all.

The hospitality suite is more crowded now, filled with people congratulating one another, toasting with glasses of champagne and sparkling water. The clinking of glasses and bursts of laughter fill the air, making the room feel smaller, more enclosed.

You keep to the side, clutching your phone and fiddling with the VIP pass Charles gave you earlier. The weight of it around your neck is a constant reminder that this isn’t your world.

The minutes tick by, each one stretching longer than the last. You tell yourself it’s okay to leave, that Charles won’t mind if you slip out quietly. After all, he’s got plenty of people to celebrate with. People who belong here, who know him well, who are part of his world. You’re just a stranger he happened to help.

But something keeps you in your seat, a small flicker of hope that he might actually come back. It’s silly, really — he’s a race winner, he should be out there celebrating, soaking in the victory. Still, you find yourself glancing at the door every few minutes, wondering if maybe, just maybe, he’ll keep his promise.

Nearly an hour and a half after the race ends, just as you’re convincing yourself to leave, you spot him. Charles enters the suite, now changed into a Ferrari branded polo, hair damp from what you assume was a quick shower. He’s scanning the room, and when his eyes land on you, they light up in recognition.

Your breath catches in your throat as he makes his way over, weaving through the crowd with a purposeful stride. He looks different out of the car, more relaxed, though there’s a tiredness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“Hey,” he says, slightly breathless when he finally reaches you. “Sorry it took me so long. There were media duties, and then a debrief with the team after the podium ceremony.”

You blink up at him, stunned that he actually came. “You — You came back.”

“Of course I did,” he replies, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I told you I would.”

You shake your head, still in disbelief. “But you should be out there celebrating. You just won a race, Charles. You didn’t have to come just to see me.”

Charles waves away your concerns, his smile widening. “I came because I wanted to. Celebrations can wait.”

There’s a sincerity in his tone that takes you off guard. He’s not just saying it to be polite or to make you feel better. He actually means it. You search his eyes for a sign that he’s just being nice, but all you find is that same genuine warmth that he’s shown you from the start.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” you murmur, suddenly feeling self-conscious. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from anything.”

“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Charles reassures you, his voice gentle. “I’m glad you stayed.”

You nod, still feeling a little out of place, but his words soothe some of your anxiety. “Congratulations, by the way. I’m really happy for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, and there’s a softness in his expression that makes your heart skip a beat. “It was a good race.”

There’s a brief silence, the noise of the room fading into the background as you stand there, just the two of you. You’re not sure what to say next, the weight of the moment making it hard to think straight. But Charles doesn’t seem to mind the quiet, his presence calm and unhurried.

After a few moments, Charles clears his throat, his voice hesitant. “Are you staying nearby?”

The question catches you off guard, and you blink up at him, not quite sure where he’s going with this. “Um, yes, I’m staying at a hotel downtown.”

His eyes brighten at that, and he gives you a small, almost shy smile. “I’m staying in the same area. There’s a great restaurant nearby. Would you like to join me for dinner?”

You’re taken aback by the offer, and for a moment, you’re not sure how to respond. Dinner? With Charles Leclerc? It feels like too much, like something you shouldn’t accept. You don’t want to intrude on his life any more than you already have.

“Charles, you don’t have to spend time with me,” you start, shaking your head. “You’ve already done so much-”

He interrupts you gently, his voice firm but kind. “I want to spend time with you.”

The way he says it, so straightforward and sincere, leaves no room for doubt. He’s not asking out of obligation or pity — he genuinely wants your company. And the thought of having dinner with him, of spending more time with someone who actually seems to care, is suddenly more appealing than anything else.

“Okay,” you say softly, meeting his gaze. “I’d like that.”

His smile widens, and you can see the relief in his eyes. “Great. Let’s get out of here, then.”

You follow him as he leads the way out of the suite, the noise of the celebrations fading behind you. The cool evening air greets you as you step outside, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink as the sun sets. Charles is quiet as he walks beside you, his presence comforting in its steadiness.

As you reach the paddock parking lot, you spot the familiar red of a Ferrari, and you can’t help but smile at the sight. It’s fitting, in a way, like everything about this day is part of some surreal, unexpected adventure.

Charles opens the passenger door for you, waiting until you’re settled before rounding the car to get in himself. The engine purrs to life with a smooth growl, and you feel a thrill of excitement as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the open road.

You glance over at him, taking in the relaxed set of his shoulders, the easy way he handles the car. It’s strange how comfortable you feel with him already, like you’ve known him for longer than just a few hours. Maybe it’s the way he’s treated you from the start — with kindness and understanding — or maybe it’s just the way he carries himself, with a quiet confidence that makes you feel safe.

As you drive through the city, the lights of downtown reflecting off the car’s polished surface, you can’t help but wonder what this evening will bring. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt this way — hopeful, curious, maybe even a little excited. And as Charles navigates the streets with practiced ease, you start to think that maybe, just maybe, you’re finally ready to start living again.

***

The restaurant is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. Tucked away in a quiet corner of the city, it’s all exposed brick, warm lighting, and rustic charm. The kind of place that feels both intimate and alive with history, where every detail seems to whisper stories of countless other dinners, other nights, other lives.

You follow Charles to a corner table, noticing the way the candlelight flickers across his features, softening the angles of his face. There’s a natural ease about him, a kind of unspoken confidence that makes you feel a little more at home in this unfamiliar setting. He holds out a chair for you, and as you sit down, you can’t help but feel like you’ve stepped into a scene from someone else’s life.

“This place is incredible,” you say, glancing around at the cozy surroundings. “How did you find it?”

Charles smiles, settling into the chair across from you. “It’s one of my favorites. A friend introduced me to it a few years ago. I come here whenever I’m in town.”

You nod, taking in the atmosphere, the scent of fresh bread and herbs mingling with the low hum of conversation. It’s the kind of place that feels special, even if you didn’t know anything about it.

The waiter appears to take your order, and before you know it, the table is filled with plates of beautifully arranged dishes, each one more enticing than the last. Charles gestures for you to start, and you pick up your fork, feeling a little more at ease with each bite.

“This is amazing,” you say between mouthfuls, savoring the flavors. “I don’t think I’ve ever had anything like this.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Charles replies, watching you with a soft smile. “It’s one of the things I miss most when I’m traveling — good, simple food.”

There’s a comfortable silence as you both enjoy the meal, the clinking of silverware and the quiet murmur of the other diners providing a gentle backdrop. You’re grateful for the peace, for the way Charles doesn’t push you to talk, doesn’t ask any questions that feel too invasive.

But as the meal draws to a close, you sense a shift in the atmosphere. Charles seems to be choosing his words carefully, his expression thoughtful as he looks across the table at you.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking,” he begins, his tone gentle, “but ... would you like to talk about your husband?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if you can answer it. It’s been so long since anyone asked, since anyone cared enough to ask, and you’re not sure if you’re ready to go back to that place, to open up the wound that’s still so raw.

But there’s something in Charles’ eyes, a quiet understanding, that makes you feel like it’s okay to share this part of yourself with him. Like maybe he can handle it, even if you’re not sure you can.

“He was on a mission in ... well, it doesn’t really matter where. There was an attack — one of those random, senseless things that happen in places like that. He was helping a patient when it happened. They said he died a hero, but ... it doesn’t feel like that to me. It just feels like he’s gone.”

The tears that you’ve been holding back all evening finally spill over, and you don’t even try to stop them. You’re tired of pretending to be strong, tired of keeping it all inside. And somehow, with Charles sitting there, listening so intently, it feels okay to let it out.

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that must be like.”

You wipe at your eyes, trying to pull yourself together. “It’s been over a year, but ... it still feels like it was yesterday, you know? Like I’m still waiting for him to walk through the door, to tell me it was all some terrible mistake.”

Charles reaches across the table, his hand covering yours in a gesture that’s as comforting as it is unexpected. “You don’t have to go through this alone,” he says softly. “And you don’t have to rush through it either. Grief doesn’t have a timeline.”

His words are like a balm, soothing some of the raw ache that’s been sitting in your chest. You nod, unable to speak, afraid that if you do, the tears will start again and won’t stop.

There’s a brief silence, and then you continue, feeling the need to explain, to make him understand. “He left me a letter ... and a list. A bucket list, of things he wanted us to do together, but he didn’t get the chance. He asked me to do them for him, to ... to live the life he didn’t get to.”

Charles leans forward slightly, his eyes locked on yours. “What’s on the list?”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you reach into your purse, pulling out the folded piece of paper that’s become a permanent fixture in your life. You unfold it carefully, smoothing out the creases before passing it across the table to him.

He takes the list from you, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment before he begins to read. You watch his face as he scans the items, his expression shifting from curiosity to something deeper, something almost reverent.

He’s quiet for a long time, and you wonder what he’s thinking, if he’s judging you for carrying out such a personal task, for holding on to a life that’s no longer yours.

But when he looks up at you again, there’s no judgment in his eyes — only empathy, and maybe even a touch of admiration.

“Have you done any of these yet?��� He asks, his voice soft.

You nod your head. “I’ve only just started. The first item was to go to an F1 race ... that’s why I’m here.”

Charles’ gaze softens even more, and he nods slowly, as if understanding the weight of what you’ve shared. “And Paris?” He asks, his tone careful.

You can’t help but laugh a little, despite the heaviness in your chest. “Paris ... I mean, who doesn’t want to go to Paris? But I don’t know when I’ll have the chance to tick that one off the list.”

Charles is quiet for a moment, then he hesitates, as if he’s debating something in his mind. Finally, he speaks, his voice low and tentative. “You know ... the summer break has officially started. I don’t have another race for a month, and I don’t have anything I have to do for over two weeks.”

You blink at him, not quite understanding where he’s going with this. “Okay ...”

“I’ve always loved Paris,” he says, his gaze steady on yours. “And ... I know we’ve only just met, but I would love to help you tick off the second item on your list.”

You stare at him, your mind reeling from what he’s suggesting. Go to Paris? With him? It’s crazy — it’s absolutely insane. You don’t know him, not really, and the idea of going on such a personal trip with someone you’ve just met feels like stepping into a world that doesn’t belong to you.

But there’s something in the way he’s looking at you, something in his voice, that makes you think that maybe, just maybe, it’s not as crazy as it seems. Maybe it’s exactly what you need.

“Are you serious?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles nods, his expression earnest. “Sometimes the best things in life are crazy and spontaneous. And ... I know it’s a lot to ask, but I really would love to help you with this. I want to be there for you.”

You feel a lump forming in your throat, a mix of emotions swirling inside you — fear, excitement, uncertainty, and something else you can’t quite name. It’s terrifying, the idea of letting someone new into your life, of opening yourself up to the possibility of connection, of loss.

But at the same time, it feels like a lifeline, like a chance to finally start living again.

“I ... I don’t know,” you stammer, unsure of how to respond. “It just seems so ...”

“Crazy?” Charles finishes for you, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Yeah,” you admit, feeling a little overwhelmed. “Crazy.”

He leans back in his chair, studying you with those steady, kind eyes. “Maybe it is. But sometimes the craziest things turn out to be the most important.”

You stare at him, your heart pounding in your chest as you weigh the decision. It would be so easy to say no, to stay in your safe, controlled world where nothing ever changes. But where has that gotten you? Nowhere.

And then, almost without realizing it, you find yourself nodding, your voice small but determined. “Okay.”

Charles’ eyes light up with something close to relief, and he smiles at you — a genuine, warm smile that makes you feel like maybe, just maybe, this is the right choice.

“Okay?” He repeats, as if needing to hear it again.

“Okay,” you say again, a little more certain this time. “Let’s go to Paris.”

You both sit there for a moment, the reality of what you’ve just agreed to sinking in. It feels like the beginning of something — something that scares you as much as it excites you.

Charles reaches across the table, gently taking your hand in his. “Thank you,” he says, his voice sincere.

You look at him, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like maybe, just maybe, you’re not alone in this.

***

You’re still reeling from the decision when the check arrives at the table. Charles grabs it before you can reach for your purse, waving away your protests with an easy smile.

“Trust me,” he says, his tone light but firm, “this one’s on me.”

You thank him, still half-convinced that this is all some surreal dream you’ll wake up from any minute. As you step outside, the cool evening air brushes against your skin, grounding you in the reality of what just happened.

You’re going to Paris. With Charles Leclerc. You glance at him, wondering how he can be so calm when your world has just been flipped upside down.

“Okay, so ... what’s the plan?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steady as your mind races with all the logistics you need to sort out.

He turns to you with that relaxed smile, as if planning a spontaneous trip to Paris is the most natural thing in the world. “Plan? We drive back to the hotel, grab our things, and head to the airport.”

“The airport?” You blink at him, thrown by the suddenness of it all. “I haven’t even booked a flight yet. Or a hotel. Or anything.”

Charles chuckles softly, shaking his head. “You don’t need to worry about any of that. I’ve got it covered.”

You open your mouth to argue, to tell him that you can’t possibly let him do this, but he cuts you off before you can say a word.

“Really,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “It’s no trouble at all. I’m an F1 driver, remember? I’ve got more than enough resources, and I want to do this for you.”

You stare at him, at the easy confidence in his tone, at the sincerity in his eyes. You know he means it, but it still feels like too much. “Charles, I ... I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not.” He steps closer, his expression softening. “This is something I want to do. For you. For your husband. Please, let me help you.”

There’s a quiet intensity in his voice that makes it impossible to argue. You nod slowly, feeling a mix of gratitude and disbelief. “Okay ... thank you. I just — I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he assures you. “Just pack your things and meet me back here in a few minutes. We’ll take care of the rest.”

And just like that, you find yourself heading back to your hotel, your heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and anxiety. You pack quickly, throwing your essentials into your suitcase with trembling hands. The reality of what’s happening starts to sink in, and for a moment, you’re overwhelmed by the sheer craziness of it all.

You pause, standing in the middle of the room with your half-packed suitcase, wondering if you’re really doing this. Paris. With a man you’ve just met. It’s all too surreal, too spontaneous, too-

There’s a knock on your door, and you nearly jump out of your skin. You open it to find Charles standing there, his expression calm and reassuring.

“Ready?” He asks, as if this is the most normal thing in the world.

You take a deep breath, nodding. “Yeah ... I think so.”

“Good.” He smiles, and somehow, that simple gesture is enough to steady you. “Let’s go.”

You follow him downstairs, your heart racing as he drives you both back to his hotel. He parks the car, and you watch as he disappears inside, returning a few minutes later with a small duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

“That’s it?” You ask, surprised at how little he’s carrying.

He nods, tossing the bag into the back seat. “The team will pack up the rest of my stuff and have it sent home later.”

You don’t have time to process the implications of that before he’s back in the driver’s seat, navigating the streets with the kind of ease that comes from years of traveling. You try to keep up with the conversation, but your mind keeps drifting to what lies ahead, to the sheer audacity of what you’re about to do.

It’s only when you pull up to a private airstrip that the full reality of the situation hits you. You step out of the car, staring in awe at the sleek, chartered jet waiting on the tarmac. The sight of it leaves you breathless, the sheer scale of what Charles is doing for you almost too much to comprehend.

“Charles ...” you begin, your voice catching in your throat.

He turns to you, his expression soft. “Yes?”

“This is ... I mean, I don’t know what to say. This is more than I could have ever imagined. Are you sure-”

“I’m sure.” His tone leaves no room for doubt, and he reaches for your hand, squeezing it gently. “Come on. We’ve got a flight to catch.”

He leads you up the steps, and before you know it, you’re inside the luxurious cabin, sinking into a plush leather seat. Everything about the jet screams opulence — the polished wood accents, the soft ambient lighting, the quiet hum of the engines in the background. It’s the kind of luxury you’ve only ever seen in movies, and you can’t quite believe that it’s real, that you’re really here.

Charles takes the seat across from you, his expression relaxed as he buckles his seatbelt. “Comfortable?”

You nod, still too stunned to form a coherent response. He smiles at your wide-eyed wonder, and you realize that this kind of thing must be second nature to him. For you, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. For him, it’s just another day in the life of an F1 driver.

“Just sit back and relax,” he says, as if sensing your thoughts. “We’ll be in Paris before you know it.”

The flight itself is smooth and uneventful, the hours passing in a blur of disbelief and quiet conversation. Charles keeps things light, sharing stories from his racing career, and you find yourself relaxing more with each passing minute. It’s easy to forget about your worries when you’re with him, easy to get lost in the charm of his stories and the warmth of his smile.

Before you know it, the plane begins its descent, and the lights of Paris come into view below, twinkling like a sea of stars. The sight of the city leaves you breathless, the sheer beauty of it almost too much to take in. You press your face to the window, unable to tear your eyes away from the breathtaking panorama of the City of Light.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Charles’ voice is soft, and when you turn to look at him, there’s a wistfulness in his eyes that tugs at your heart.

“Yes,” you whisper, feeling a surge of emotion welling up inside you. “It’s ... it’s perfect.”

The plane touches down smoothly, and within minutes, you’re whisked away in a sleek black car, driving through the streets of Paris as the city comes alive around you. The streets are bustling with life, the cafes and bistros glowing with warm light, the air filled with the sound of laughter and music.

It’s everything you’ve ever imagined and more, and you can’t believe you’re really here, experiencing it all with Charles by your side.

The car pulls up in front of an exclusive, centrally located hotel, and you step out onto the cobblestone street, your heart pounding in your chest. The hotel is grand, its facade illuminated by golden lights, and as you step inside, you’re greeted by a world of elegance and sophistication.

You barely have time to take it all in before you’re being led to a two-bedroom suite with the most stunning views of the Eiffel Tower you’ve ever seen. You stand by the window, staring out at the iconic landmark as it sparkles against the night sky, the reality of your situation hitting you all over again.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Charles steps up beside you, his gaze focused on the view outside. “Believe it,” he says softly, his tone filled with quiet conviction. “You’re here. We’re here. And tomorrow, we’ll start checking off that list.”

You turn to look at him, your eyes filled with gratitude and something else — something you’re not quite ready to name. “Thank you. For everything. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you.”

He smiles, a warm, genuine smile that lights up his face. “You don’t have to thank me. I’m just glad I can be here for you.”

You feel a surge of emotion welling up inside you, and before you can stop yourself, you reach out and pull him into a hug. It’s a long, lingering embrace, filled with all the gratitude, all the emotion you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, his arms wrapped around you in a way that makes you feel safe, comforted, understood.

When you finally pull back, there are tears in your eyes, but they’re tears of relief, of something like hope. “Good night, Charles,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion.

“Good night,” he replies, his voice just as soft. “Sleep well. We’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

You watch as he heads to his own room, and then you turn back to the window, staring out at the glittering Eiffel Tower. It feels like a dream, but for the first time in a long time, it’s a dream you’re ready to embrace.

***

The sun is already high in the sky when you finally open your eyes, the weight of the past few days still pressing down on you like a heavy blanket. The exhaustion is bone-deep, the kind that makes every movement feel like wading through thick syrup.

You stretch out in the luxurious hotel bed, the cool sheets tangling around your legs as you blink against the soft light filtering through the curtains. Paris. You’re in Paris. The thought slips through your mind, almost unreal, as if you might wake up any second to find yourself back in the monotony of the past year.

You sit up slowly, taking in the spacious room with its elegant furniture and the faint sounds of the city outside. It’s almost noon, you realize, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. Just as you’re about to contemplate the day ahead, there’s a gentle knock on the door connecting your room to Charles’. You almost forgot about him for a second — almost.

“Good morning,” you call out, your voice still thick with sleep.

The door opens, and Charles steps in, a smile lighting up his face as he sees you. “Good afternoon, you mean,” he teases lightly, leaning against the doorframe. “I was beginning to think you might sleep through the whole day.”

You rub your eyes, shaking your head as you try to fully wake up. “I guess I was more tired than I thought.”

He nods, his expression softening. “No rush. We’ve got all the time in the world.”

It’s that statement that hits you more than it should. All the time in the world. You used to believe that too. You push the thought away quickly, not wanting to drown in it.

“What’s the plan?” You ask, forcing yourself to focus on the present, on this strange, wonderful day that’s somehow yours.

Charles grins, his eyes sparking with something mischievous. “How do you feel about lunch at a little café by the Seine?”

Your heart skips a beat. The café. The red awning. It’s what your husband wanted, what he wrote down on that list. You swallow, trying to keep your emotions in check. “That sounds perfect.”

Charles seems to sense the shift in your mood, his smile softening into something more understanding. He doesn’t push, just nods and steps back, giving you space to get ready. “I’ll wait for you in the lobby.”

When he’s gone, you take a deep breath and head to the bathroom, the reality of where you are and what you’re doing starting to sink in. You can’t help but think of the letter, the list. Of the man who should be here with you instead of buried under the earth. You splash cold water on your face, trying to shake off the melancholy that clings to you like a second skin.

By the time you join Charles downstairs, you’ve managed to put on a smile, though it feels fragile, like it might shatter at any moment. He greets you with a warm, reassuring look, his eyes scanning your face as if to check that you’re really okay. You nod, and he leads you outside, where a car is waiting.

The ride to the café is quiet, filled with the soft hum of the engine and the occasional sound of the city. Charles doesn’t try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter, and you’re grateful for that. Instead, he lets you stare out the window, watching as the streets of Paris unfold before you like a storybook.

When the car finally pulls up in front of the café, your heart clenches. There it is, just like your husband described it: the small tables lined up outside, the red awning casting a warm glow over everything, the view of the Seine just beyond. It’s almost too much. You hesitate, feeling a lump in your throat, but Charles is already out of the car, holding the door open for you.

“You okay?” He asks quietly, his gaze steady on yours.

You nod, though you’re not sure if you believe it. “Yeah. Just ... it’s exactly like he said.”

Charles doesn’t say anything, just offers his arm in a gentle, old-fashioned gesture. You take it, letting him lead you to a table by the water. The waiter greets you with a smile, and Charles orders for both of you without hesitation — coffee and croissants, just like on the list.

The sun reflects off the Seine, making the water shimmer like it’s made of liquid gold. You sip your coffee slowly, savoring the rich taste, though your thoughts are a million miles away. You can almost see your husband sitting across from you, that goofy grin on his face as he tries to explain something in broken French to the waiter. You smile at the memory, even as it twists something painful deep inside you.

Charles doesn’t interrupt your thoughts, just lets you have this moment. You’re grateful for that. The croissants arrive, warm and flaky, and you find yourself laughing softly as you break off a piece, thinking of how your husband always complained that they never made them right back home. Here, though ... here they’re perfect.

“This was his favorite place,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “He talked about it all the time. Said it was the best spot in Paris, hands down.”

Charles listens, his eyes never leaving your face. “He had good taste.”

You smile, though it wobbles a bit. “He did.”

There’s a pause, a comfortable one, where you both just sit there, watching the world go by. It’s everything your husband wanted, everything he put on that list. And yet, it feels different — like you’re living a dream that isn’t entirely yours.

After a while, Charles speaks up, his tone gentle. “Have you thought about what you want to do next?”

You blink, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “Next?”

“With the list,” he clarifies, his eyes searching yours. “I mean, you don’t have to ... but if you want to keep going, I’d like to help.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Charles holds up a hand, cutting you off before you can start. “I know what you’re going to say,” he continues, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “And I’m telling you right now, you’re not bothering me. I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”

You look at him, really look at him, and see nothing but sincerity in his eyes. It’s overwhelming, this kindness he’s showing you, this willingness to be a part of something so deeply personal. You don’t know what to say, how to express the jumble of emotions swirling inside you.

“Charles, I-” You falter, trying to find the right words. “This isn’t your responsibility. You’ve already done so much ...”

He shakes his head, cutting you off again. “It’s not about responsibility. It’s about doing something that feels right. And this — being here with you, helping you through this — it feels right.”

The tears well up before you can stop them, spilling over as you look away, embarrassed by how easily they come. Charles doesn’t say anything, just reaches across the table to take your hand in his, his touch warm and reassuring.

“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice breaking on the words.

He squeezes your hand gently. “You don’t have to thank me.”

You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want you to feel obligated ...”

“I don’t,” he assures you, his voice firm but kind. “I promise you, I don’t.”

You nod, blinking away the last of your tears. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He echoes, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You smile back, a real one this time. “Okay.”

There’s a quiet moment where everything feels ... settled, like a weight has been lifted from your chest. It’s not gone — not by a long shot — but it’s lighter, more manageable. You can breathe a little easier, see a little clearer.

Charles leans back in his chair, his eyes twinkling with that familiar mischief. “So, what do you say we finish this coffee, eat a few more croissants than is probably advisable, and then figure out what our next adventure is?”

You laugh, a real laugh that surprises you with its brightness. “I think I’d like that.”

And so you do just that. You sit there with Charles, sipping coffee and eating too many croissants, watching the world go by as the sun moves slowly across the sky. It’s peaceful, almost idyllic, and for the first time in a long time, you feel a flicker of something that might be happiness.

As the afternoon stretches into evening, Charles brings up the rest of the list again, but this time, you don’t try to wave him off. Instead, you find yourself talking about it, really talking, and it feels good to share it with someone who actually seems to care.

You tell him about the road trip with no destination in mind, about the other things your husband wanted you to experience. It’s bittersweet, but there’s a warmth to it too, a sense of connection that you didn’t expect to find.

“We’ll enjoy a few more days in Paris,” Charles says, his voice steady and reassuring, “and then we’ll hit the road. No plans, no deadlines. Just ... see where it takes us.”

You look at him, feeling that same pull, that same inexplicable draw that’s been there since the moment you met him. It’s crazy, all of this — crazy and spontaneous and completely out of your comfort zone. But maybe, just maybe, that’s exactly what you need.

“Let’s do it,” you say, your voice stronger than you expected. “Let’s do the road trip.”

Charles’ smile broadens. “Perfect. We’ll make it an adventure.”

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains of your hotel room, casting a golden glow that seems to soften the world around you. You stretch in bed, feeling a lightness in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. There’s a sense of anticipation humming through your veins as you get ready, knowing that today marks the beginning of a new adventure.

When you step into the lobby, Charles is already there, leaning casually against a pillar, dressed in a simple t-shirt and jeans. He grins when he sees you, a playful glint in his eyes.

“Ready to go?” He asks, his voice warm.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” you reply, a smile tugging at your lips despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach.

Charles nods, gesturing for you to follow him. “Come on, then.”

You step outside, and your breath catches in your throat. Parked at the curb is a sleek black Ferrari, its curves gleaming under the morning light. You glance at Charles in surprise, your eyebrows shooting up.

“Where did you get this?” You ask, your voice tinged with disbelief.

He chuckles, shrugging nonchalantly. “Let’s just say I know a guy.”

You shake your head, a laugh bubbling up despite yourself. “Of course you do.”

Charles opens the trunk, helping you load your bags inside. There’s a thrill in the air, a sense of freedom that you haven’t felt in ages. Once everything is packed, he opens the passenger door for you with a small bow, a teasing smile on his lips.

“Your chariot awaits,” he says.

You roll your eyes, but the gesture makes your heart warm. You slide into the car, sinking into the plush leather seat as Charles walks around to the driver’s side.

“Ready?” He asks, his hand resting on the gear shift.

You glance over at him, meeting his gaze. There’s something reassuring in his eyes, something that makes you feel like, for the first time in a long time, everything might just be okay.

“Ready,” you say, and with that, he starts the engine, the car roaring to life.

The two of you set off, the city of Paris fading in the rearview mirror as the open road stretches out before you. There’s no set destination, no strict itinerary — just miles of road and the promise of wherever the day might take you.

For the first hour, you drive in comfortable silence, the hum of the engine and the wind rushing past your ears. You watch as the landscape changes, the bustling city giving way to rolling fields and quaint villages. The farther you go, the more the tension in your chest eases.

Eventually, Charles turns to you with a grin. “Pick a direction. Left or right?”

You blink, looking at the fork in the road ahead. “You’re letting me decide?”

“Of course,” he replies. “This is your adventure, after all.”

You hesitate for a moment, then point to the right. “Right.”

Charles nods and turns the wheel, the Ferrari smoothly gliding down the chosen path. “Right it is.”

The day passes in a blur of laughter and easy conversation. You turn down random roads, sometimes doubling back when you realize you’re hopelessly lost, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no rush, no pressure to be anywhere but right here, right now.

You stop at a tiny roadside café for lunch, the kind of place where the menu is handwritten on a chalkboard, and the waitress knows the regulars by name. The food is simple but delicious, and you can’t help but savor every bite, feeling more alive than you have in months.

After lunch, you continue driving, the hours slipping away as you explore hidden corners of the French countryside. You pass through small towns where time seems to have stood still, with cobblestone streets and old stone houses that look like something out of a fairytale.

As evening approaches, you start to feel the weight of the day settling in your bones. You glance over at Charles, who looks just as content as you feel, his hand relaxed on the steering wheel.

“Should we start looking for a place to stay?” You ask, your voice soft.

He nods, glancing at a sign by the side of the road. “There’s a small inn a few miles ahead. We can try there.”

You hum in agreement, the idea of a cozy inn sounding perfect after a day on the road. The Ferrari winds its way through narrow streets until you arrive at the inn, a charming, ivy-covered building that looks like it’s been plucked straight out of a storybook.

Charles parks the car, and the two of you head inside. The lobby is quaint, with old wooden beams and a stone fireplace crackling in the corner. The innkeeper, a kindly older woman with a warm smile, greets you as you approach the front desk.

“Bonsoir,” she says in a lilting accent. “How can I help you?”

Charles steps forward, his voice polite as ever. “Bonsoir. We were hoping to get a room for the night.”

The innkeeper’s smile falters slightly, and she glances at the reservation book. “Ah, I’m afraid we are nearly full tonight. There is only one room left, and it has only one bed. I’m sorry.”

Your heart sinks, and you glance at Charles, unsure what to do. You don’t want to make him uncomfortable, but you also don’t relish the idea of finding another place so late in the evening.

Charles, however, seems unfazed. He turns to you with a reassuring smile. “It’s up to you. We can stay or keep looking.”

You bite your lip, weighing your options. The day has been long, and you’re both exhausted. Finally, you nod. “Let’s stay.”

The innkeeper hands Charles the key, and he leads you upstairs to the room. It’s cozy, with a low ceiling and a large, comfortable-looking bed dominating the space. There’s a small window overlooking the garden, where the last rays of sunlight are casting everything in a golden hue.

You drop your bags by the door, glancing at the bed. It’s big enough for two, but the thought of sharing it with Charles makes your heart flutter nervously.

Charles seems to pick up on your hesitation. “I can sleep on the floor,” he offers, his tone gentle. “It’s no trouble.”

You shake your head quickly. “No, don’t be ridiculous. I’m not making you sleep on the floor.”

He hesitates for a moment, then nods, his expression softening. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

You both get ready for bed, the atmosphere between you growing more relaxed. When you finally climb under the covers, you can feel the warmth radiating from Charles’ side of the bed, a comforting presence in the quiet room.

For a while, you both lie there in silence, the only sound the faint rustling of the sheets as you try to find a comfortable position. Despite your earlier nerves, you find yourself inching closer to him, drawn by the sense of safety he brings.

“Goodnight,” you whisper, your voice barely audible in the darkness.

“Goodnight,” he replies, his voice soft.

You close your eyes, letting out a slow breath. And then, almost without thinking, you shift closer, until your head is resting on his shoulder, your body curled against his side.

Charles tenses for a moment, and you almost pull away, but then his arm wraps around you, holding you gently. He doesn’t say anything, but the way he holds you is enough. It’s not romantic or suggestive — just a simple, comforting embrace that makes you feel less alone.

You relax into his warmth, feeling a sense of peace wash over you that you haven’t felt in what feels like forever. The road trip, the bucket list, everything fades into the background as you allow yourself to just be in this moment.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in the safety of Charles’ arms, you can’t help but think that maybe — just maybe — you’re starting to heal.

***

The morning sun filters through the curtains, casting a golden hue over the small inn room. You stir slightly, the warmth of the shared bed coaxing you into a slow wakefulness. Charles is still beside you, his breath even, his face relaxed in sleep. It’s almost surreal how peaceful this moment feels, as if the world outside has paused just for the two of you.

You turn onto your side, propping yourself up on an elbow, and watch him for a moment. The lines of worry that usually crease his brow are gone, replaced by a serenity that makes him seem younger, almost boyish. You wonder how he manages to carry so much weight on his shoulders and still offer you comfort, still make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

The faint clatter of dishes from downstairs pulls you out of your thoughts. You slip out of bed carefully, not wanting to wake him just yet. The cool wooden floor sends a shiver up your spine as you pad over to the small window. The view outside is a picturesque scene of rolling hills and a cobblestone street winding through the tiny village. It’s the kind of place that feels untouched by time, where life moves at a slower, more deliberate pace.

A soft knock on the door startles you. You glance back at Charles, who stirs but doesn’t wake. Quietly, you open the door to find the innkeeper, a woman in her late fifties with a kind face and a warm smile.

“Good morning,” she whispers. “Breakfast is ready whenever you and your friend are.”

You nod, offering her a smile in return. “Thank you. We’ll be down soon.”

She leaves you with a slight nod, and you close the door softly behind her. Turning back to the bed, you see Charles is awake now, blinking away sleep. He stretches lazily, his eyes finding yours, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Good morning,” he says, voice rough with sleep.

“Morning,” you reply, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “The innkeeper says breakfast is ready.”

He nods, pushing himself up into a sitting position. “I’ll be down in a minute. You go ahead.”

You hesitate for a moment, but then you nod and head downstairs. The small dining area is cozy, with a fireplace crackling softly in one corner. The smell of freshly baked bread and brewed coffee fills the air, making your stomach rumble in anticipation. You take a seat at one of the wooden tables, the innkeeper greeting you with a pot of coffee.

“Is it just the two of you?” She asks, pouring you a cup.

“Yes, just us,” you say, taking a grateful sip. The warmth of the coffee spreads through you, waking you up fully.

“Such a lovely young man,” she comments, a twinkle in her eye. “You’re lucky to have someone like him.”

You smile at that, unsure how to respond. Are you lucky? It feels strange to think of Charles in that way when the loss of your husband is still so fresh, still so raw. But you can’t deny that Charles has brought something into your life that you didn’t know you needed — comfort, companionship, and maybe even a little bit of hope.

Charles appears a few minutes later, his hair slightly tousled from sleep, but he looks more awake now. He greets the innkeeper with a polite nod before taking the seat across from you.

“Did you sleep well?” He asks, reaching for a piece of the fresh bread.

“I did,” you admit. “And you?”

“Better than I have in a while,” he says, and there’s a sincerity in his tone that makes you believe him.

The innkeeper returns with plates of food — scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, fresh fruit, and more of the bread you’ve already sampled. It’s simple, but it’s the kind of breakfast that warms you from the inside out, reminding you of the comforts of home.

As you both eat in companionable silence, Charles looks up at you, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Have you ever been to Monaco?”

You pause, caught off guard by the question. “No, I haven’t. I’ve heard it’s beautiful, though.”

“It is,” he agrees, a smile playing on his lips. “Would you like to go?”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “Of course I would, but realistically, I know I probably never will. Life has a way of getting in the way of things like that.”

Charles’ smile widens, his eyes glinting with mischief. “That’s not true at all, actually.”

You raise an eyebrow, not sure where he’s going with this. “Oh? And why’s that?”

“Because my mother is expecting us for dinner tonight,” he says casually, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

You stare at him, unsure if you heard him correctly. “Wait, what?”

He chuckles, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You heard me. We’re going to Monaco. My mother has been asking about you, actually.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times, trying to find the words. “Charles, I ... I don’t know what to say. That’s ... that’s incredibly sweet, but I don’t want to impose. And we haven’t exactly been planning on going to Monaco.”

“You’re not imposing,” Charles insists, reaching across the table to take your hand. “She’s already expecting us, and it would make her really happy to meet you.”

You look down at his hand, feeling the warmth of his touch seep into your skin. There’s something about the way he says it, so earnest and sincere, that makes it hard to say no.

“Are you sure?” You ask, your voice soft.

“Absolutely,” he says, squeezing your hand gently. “Let’s make the most of this adventure, okay?”

You take a deep breath, nodding slowly. “Okay. Let’s go to Monaco.”

The drive to Monaco is nothing short of breathtaking. The Ferrari roars to life as Charles maneuvers it expertly along the winding coastal roads, the Mediterranean Sea sparkling to your right. The windows are down, and the wind whips through your hair, carrying with it the scent of saltwater and the promise of something new.

Charles hums along to the music playing softly through the speakers, glancing over at you every so often with a contented smile. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your heart flutter, and you find yourself smiling back, unable to resist the infectious energy that seems to surround him.

When you finally cross the border into Monaco, it feels like stepping into another world. The city is a blend of old-world charm and modern luxury, with grand buildings perched on cliffs overlooking the sea and sleek yachts bobbing in the harbor. The streets are bustling with life, but there’s an air of sophistication and elegance that sets it apart from anywhere else you’ve been.

Charles navigates the narrow streets with ease, eventually pulling up in front of an apartment building that exudes quiet elegance. He cuts the engine and turns to you with a smile. “We’re here.”

You take a deep breath, your nerves suddenly kicking in. “I’m nervous,” you admit.

Charles reaches over and takes your hand, his thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You have nothing to be nervous about. She’s going to love you.”

You nod, trying to calm the butterflies in your stomach as you step out of the car. Charles comes around to your side, taking your hand once more as he leads you up the steps to the building. The door opens with a soft creak, and you find yourself in a beautifully decorated foyer, the scent of fresh flowers filling the air.

Charles leads you down a hallway, stopping in front of a door with a gold number plate. He looks at you, a reassuring smile on his face, before knocking softly.

The door opens almost immediately, and there stands a woman who can only be Pascale. She’s petite, with kind eyes and a warm smile that reaches all the way to her eyes. Her face lights up when she sees Charles, and she immediately pulls him into a hug.

“Charles, mon chéri,” she says, her voice filled with affection.

Charles hugs her back, and you can see the love between them in the way they hold each other, the way they speak without words. When they finally pull apart, Pascale turns her attention to you, her smile softening even more.

“And you must be Y/N,” she says, stepping forward to embrace you as well. Her hug is warm and comforting, the kind of hug that only a mother could give.

You hug her back, feeling a wave of emotion wash over you. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this kind of maternal warmth, and it brings tears to your eyes. But they’re good tears, the kind that remind you that maybe, just maybe, you’re starting to heal.

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you,” Pascale says, pulling back to look at you. “Charles has told me so much about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” you reply with a small smile, trying to compose yourself.

Pascale laughs softly, a musical sound that fills the hallway. “Only the best.”

Charles takes your hand again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Shall we?”

Pascale nods, stepping back to allow you both inside. As you step into the warm, inviting space, you can’t help but feel a sense of belonging. For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

Pascale’s apartment is cozy, filled with warm lighting and the comforting smell of something delicious simmering in the kitchen. You’re still standing by the door when she pulls you into a tight hug, her embrace firm yet gentle, and in that moment, you feel a wave of unexpected comfort.

“Welcome, mon ange,” Pascale murmurs in your ear, her voice soft and motherly, the kind you haven't felt in so long. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

You blink back the tears that suddenly prick at your eyes. There’s a part of you that’s still surprised to be here, in Monaco, of all places, with Charles — let alone meeting his mother. “Thank you,” you manage to say, feeling a little overwhelmed by her warmth.

Charles gives you an encouraging smile as he slips out of his shoes, motioning for you to do the same. “Come on,” he says lightly, “I told Maman we’d help with dinner.”

You glance at Pascale, who’s already moving toward the kitchen. “Oh, I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“Nonsense,” Pascale calls over her shoulder. “You’re our guest, and in this house, guests are family.”

Charles nudges you playfully. “She means it. Better get in there before she tries to do everything herself.”

You follow them into the kitchen, trying to shake off the nerves that have settled in your stomach. The space is as welcoming as the rest of the apartment, filled with the sounds of something sizzling on the stove and the scent of fresh herbs. Pascale is already at work, her hands moving deftly as she chops vegetables with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times.

Charles rolls up his sleeves and grabs a cutting board, handing you one as well. “Here,” he says with a grin, “let’s show Maman what we’ve got.”

You’re not much of a cook, but there’s something about the way Charles and Pascale move around the kitchen that makes you feel at ease. Before long, the three of you are working together, chopping and stirring and laughing as Pascale regales you with stories from Charles’ childhood.

“He was always getting into trouble,” she says with a fond smile, passing you a bowl of something that smells divine. “Climbing trees, chasing after the neighborhood cats ...”

“Maman,” Charles groans, but he’s grinning, his eyes sparkling with that same mischievous glint you’ve seen more than once.

You chuckle, picturing a younger Charles, wild and full of energy. It’s easy to see where he gets his charm — Pascale is a force of nature, and the love she has for her son is palpable in every word, every look she sends his way.

As dinner comes together, you find yourself opening up to Pascale in a way you didn’t expect. She asks about your life, your past, and though it’s hard to talk about your husband, something about her gentle demeanor makes it easier.

“I’m sorry,” you say at one point, when the conversation dips into quieter territory. “I didn’t mean to bring the mood down.”

Pascale shakes her head, her eyes full of understanding. “You didn’t, dear. It’s important to talk about the people we’ve loved and lost. It keeps them with us.”

Her words resonate with you, and for a moment, you just stand there, letting the warmth of the kitchen and the comfort of their presence wash over you.

“Your husband,” Pascale says after a beat, her voice soft. “He sounds like he was a wonderful man.”

“He was,” you whisper, your throat tightening with emotion. “He really was.”

Pascale reaches out, covering your hand with hers. “And you,” she says gently, “are an incredible woman.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just nod, swallowing back the tears that threaten to spill over. Charles catches your eye from across the kitchen, giving you a small, encouraging smile, and you feel a surge of gratitude for him — for bringing you here, for making you feel like you’re not alone.

Dinner is a simple affair, but it’s one of the best meals you’ve had in a long time. The conversation flows easily, and for a while, it feels like you’re part of something you’ve been missing for so long — a family.

At some point during the evening, you and Pascale find yourselves alone at the table. Charles has stepped out to take a call, leaving you with Pascale, who has been watching you with a thoughtful expression.

“You know,” she begins, her voice gentle, “when Charles told me about you, I could see how much he cares. He’s a good boy, my Charles, but he doesn’t let people in easily.”

You feel your cheeks warm under her scrutiny. “He’s been ... incredibly kind to me,” you say softly. “I don’t know what I would have done without him.”

Pascale nods, as if she already knows. “He’s been through a lot, just like you. Losing his father, and then Jules ... it changed him.”

There’s a sadness in her eyes, and you realize that, like you, she’s carrying her own grief. “I’m sorry,” you say, the words feeling inadequate. “I didn’t mean to bring up-”

“Don’t apologize,” Pascale interrupts, reaching across the table to take your hand. “It’s good to talk about these things, to remember. Charles ... he doesn’t talk about it much, but I know it’s there, always.”

You nod, understanding all too well. The weight of loss is something that never truly goes away; it just becomes a part of you.

“I see a lot of his father in him,” Pascale continues, her voice wistful. “That determination, that drive to be the best. But it’s more than that. He’s got a good heart, my Charles. He cares deeply, even if he doesn’t always show it.”

You smile, thinking of the way Charles has been with you — patient, understanding, always knowing just what to say to make you feel better. “He does,” you agree. “He’s ... he’s been more than I could have ever asked for.”

Pascale’s gaze softens, and for a moment, she just looks at you, as if she’s seeing something she’s been hoping to find. “I’m glad he has you,” she says finally. “I think you’re good for each other.”

You’re not sure how to respond to that, so you just nod, feeling a strange mix of emotions swirling inside you. It’s too soon to think about what all of this means, but there’s a part of you that can’t help but wonder where this is going — what it could become.

Before you can dwell on it too much, Charles returns, his usual easygoing demeanor back in place. “Everything okay?” He asks, glancing between you and Pascale.

“Perfect,” Pascale replies with a smile, but there’s something in her eyes that makes you think she knows more than she’s letting on.

The rest of the evening passes in a comfortable blur, with more stories and laughter, and by the time you’re getting ready to leave, you feel like you’ve known Pascale for much longer than just a few hours.

As you’re putting on your coat, Pascale pulls Charles aside, and you see her lean in close, whispering something to him. He nods, his expression serious, and when he glances back at you, there’s something unreadable in his eyes.

“What did she say?” You ask when you’re finally alone with Charles, walking back to the car.

He smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Just that she likes you,” he says simply. “A lot.”

You feel a warmth spread through your chest at his words, but there’s also a flicker of something else — something that feels a lot like hope.

“She’s wonderful,” you say honestly. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Charles stops walking, turning to face you. “You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly. “I’m just glad you came.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “You’re an incredible person, you know that?”

You blink, taken aback by the intensity in his gaze. “I’m just trying to get by,” you admit quietly.

He nods, his hand lingering on your cheek for just a moment longer. “Aren’t we all?”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you just give him a small smile, hoping he understands.

You reach the car, and Charles opens the door for you, his hand resting lightly on your back as you slide inside. There’s something different in the air between you, something unspoken but undeniably there, and as you drive away from Pascale’s apartment, you can’t help but wonder what it all means.

What you do know, though, is that you’re not alone anymore — not really. Charles is here, and for the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

***

The drive from Pascale’s apartment to Charles’ place is filled with comfortable silence, punctuated by the occasional hum of the engine and the soft tunes playing on the car’s stereo. You find yourself stealing glances at Charles every now and then, noticing how relaxed he seems, one hand resting casually on the steering wheel, the other is lightly to the rhythm of the music. His calmness was contagious, and you lean back in your seat, letting out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

When the car finally pulls into an underground parking garage, Charles cuts the engine and turns to you with a soft smile. “Ready to meet Leo?” He asks, his tone almost teasing.

“Leo?” You echo, raising an eyebrow.

“My dog,” Charles clarifies, his smile growing. “He’s ... enthusiastic, to say the least.”

You laugh lightly. “I think I can handle enthusiastic.”

Charles leads you to the elevator, and a few moments later, you are stepping into a sleek, modern apartment. It is tastefully decorated, with large windows that offer a stunning view of the city. Before you could take in all the details, a high-pitched bark echoes through the space, and a small beige dachshund comes skidding around the corner, his tiny legs moving at lightning speed as he raced toward Charles.

“Leo!” Charles greets the dog with a wide grin, crouching down to scoop him up. The dachshund wiggles excitedly in his arms, his tail wagging furiously. “This is Y/N,” Charles introduces, turning Leo’s attention to you. “Be nice.”

You kneel down, and Leo wasted no time leaping from Charles’ arms to yours, showering your face with a flurry of enthusiastic licks. You can’t help but laugh as you try to fend off the affectionate assault, gently rubbing the little dog’s back.

“He’s adorable,” you say, looking up at Charles with a wide smile. But when your eyes meet his, you noticed the way he was watching you — softly, intently, as if seeing you in a new light. It was the kind of look you hadn’t seen since ... since James. The thought hits you with a sudden pang, but there is no sadness in it. Just a quiet, tender acknowledgment of the past and the present.

Charles seems to catch himself, clearing his throat as he straightens up. “I’m glad you like him,” he says, his voice a touch quieter now. “He’s been good company.”

You stand, Leo still wriggling happily in your arms. “I can see why.”

Charles smiles again, that same gentle warmth in his eyes. “Come on, let me show you to your room. I had one of the guest rooms made up for you.”

You follow him down a short hallway, the soft pads of Leo’s paws following close behind. Charles pushes open a door, revealing a cozy, well-appointed room with a large bed, a dresser, and a window that looks out over the city skyline. Your bags are neatly placed at the foot of the bed.

“I hope it’s comfortable enough,” Charles says, glancing around the room as if assessing it himself.

“It’s perfect,” you assure him, setting Leo down on the floor. The little dog immediately hops onto the bed, circling a few times before settling into a comfortable spot.

Charles chuckles. “Looks like you’ve already got company.”

You smile, sitting on the edge of the bed and giving Leo another affectionate pat. “He’s a good boy.”

There’s a pause, comfortable and full of unspoken things. Charles lingers by the door, as if he wants to say something but is weighing his words.

“If you need anything,” he finally says, “my room’s just down the hall. Don’t hesitate to knock.”

You nod, appreciating the offer more than you could put into words. “Thank you, Charles. For everything.”

His gaze softens, and for a moment, it seems like he might say something more. But instead, he simply nods, giving you a small, almost bashful smile before stepping back into the hallway.

“Goodnight, Y/N,” he says, his voice warm and sincere.

“Goodnight, Charles.”

As the door closes behind him, you’re left alone in the quiet room, Leo’s soft breathing the only sound. You sit there for a moment, letting everything that had happened over the past few days wash over you. The unexpected kindness of a stranger who is becoming so much more, the gentle way he helped you navigate the grief that still lingered like a shadow ... and the way he looked at you, as if he saw something in you that you’d almost forgotten was there.

With a deep breath, you lie back on the bed, Leo curling up beside you. The city lights twinkle through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. You stare up at the ceiling, feeling a sense of peace that had eluded you for so long. Maybe, just maybe, you are beginning to heal.

And as you drift off to sleep, you find yourself thinking of the days to come, and the possibility of something new and beautiful growing from the ashes of what you’d lost.

***

The next morning, Charles is practically buzzing with excitement as he leads you out of his apartment and towards the harbor. His hand is warm and sure around yours, and you can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm.

The sky is a brilliant shade of blue, the kind of color that seems to only exist in this part of the world, with the sun glinting off the water and the scent of salt in the air. The harbor is alive with activity, the gentle hum of boats rocking in the marina, the occasional laughter of tourists, and the distant sounds of a city going about its day.

“I’m taking you to my favorite spot,” Charles says, his voice light and cheerful. “It’s a bit of a hidden gem. The tourists don’t usually find it, but the locals love it.”

You laugh softly, looking up at him as you walk side by side. “Sounds perfect. I’m always up for good food.”

Charles grins at that, his eyes twinkling with a boyish charm. “Trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”

The walk is leisurely, and as you near the harbor, you notice how Charles slows his pace, as if wanting to savor every moment. The way he talks about Monaco, you can tell how much he loves it here, how much this place means to him. It’s like seeing the city through his eyes, and you find yourself appreciating the little details more — the old stone buildings, the narrow streets, the way the sunlight reflects off the water.

The brunch spot is tucked away, a small, unassuming place with a few tables outside, shaded by a striped awning. The smell of fresh coffee and baked goods wafts through the air, and you immediately feel at home. Charles greets the owner like an old friend, exchanging a few words in rapid French before leading you to a cozy table by the window.

You sit down, and Charles orders for the both of you — pastries, fresh fruit, eggs cooked just the way you like them, and, of course, coffee.

As you sip your coffee and nibble on a flaky croissant, you take in the surroundings. The café is quaint and charming, with wooden tables and mismatched chairs, the kind of place where you could easily spend hours just watching the world go by. It’s clear that Charles has a deep connection to this place, and you feel honored that he’s sharing it with you.

“This place,” you say, setting your coffee cup down, “it’s perfect.”

Charles smiles softly, his gaze lingering on your face. “I knew you’d like it.”

For a while, the two of you talk about everything and nothing — his childhood in Monaco, your favorite books, the little things that make life sweet. There’s a comfort in the conversation, a sense of ease that comes from being with someone who understands you, who doesn’t need you to be anything other than yourself.

After brunch, Charles suggests a walk along the harbor. The day is warm, the sun high in the sky, and as you walk, you can feel the tension of the past few days begin to melt away. The conversation flows easily, laughter coming more often than not, and you realize how much you’ve missed this — missed feeling alive, missed the simple pleasure of being in the moment.

But as the afternoon wears on, the sky begins to darken. You glance up, noticing the heavy clouds gathering overhead, and before you can say anything, the first raindrop falls.

Charles looks up at the sky, a grin spreading across his face. “Looks like we’re in for a bit of rain.”

You laugh, holding out your hand as the raindrops begin to fall faster, harder. “A bit? This looks like a full-on storm.”

The rain comes quickly, turning from a light drizzle to a steady downpour in a matter of moments. The tourists around you scatter, seeking shelter under awnings and in shops, but Charles doesn’t move. Instead, he looks at you, his expression playful, his eyes daring.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand again, this time with more urgency. “Let’s do something crazy.”

You’re about to ask what he means, but then you see the look in his eyes, and you know. You know exactly what he’s thinking.

Without another word, he pulls you into the open, right into the middle of the empty street. The rain is cold against your skin, soaking through your clothes in seconds, but you don’t care. You don’t care about anything in this moment except the feeling of the rain on your face, the sound of Charles’ laughter, the way he spins you around like you’re in the middle of some grand ballroom instead of a rain-soaked street.

You let go. You let go of all the sadness, all the pain, all the fear. You let go and dance, not caring if you look silly, not caring if anyone is watching. It’s just you and Charles and the rain.

For the first time in a long time, you feel free.

And then, without even thinking, you lean in, and Charles is there, meeting you halfway. His lips are warm and soft against yours, a stark contrast to the cold rain, and you can feel the gentle pressure of his hands on your waist, holding you close, grounding you in this moment.

The kiss is slow, tender, as if Charles is trying to convey everything he’s feeling without saying a word. There’s a sense of rightness in it, like this is where you’re supposed to be, like this is what you’ve been missing.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathless, the rain still pouring down around you, but neither of you seems to care. You look up at Charles, his hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his face, and you can’t help but smile.

“I’ve never danced in the rain before,” you say, your voice barely audible over the sound of the downpour.

Charles grins, his thumb brushing gently against your cheek. “Neither have I. But I’m glad my first time was with you.”

You laugh softly, leaning your forehead against his. “You’re crazy, you know that?”

He chuckles, his arms tightening around you. “Maybe a little. But sometimes the best things in life are a little crazy.”

You close your eyes, letting the moment wash over you, feeling the weight of the past few weeks slowly lifting off your shoulders. For the first time since you lost James, you feel like you’re truly living again. And it’s because of Charles.

The rain shows no signs of stopping, but you don’t care. You could stand here forever, in this moment, with Charles’s arms around you and the rain falling like a blessing from the sky.

But eventually, the cold starts to seep into your bones, and Charles pulls back, his hands still on your waist, his eyes searching yours.

“Let’s get out of the rain,” he says softly. “We don’t want to catch a cold.”

You nod, reluctantly stepping out of his embrace, and together you make your way back towards the apartment, the rain still falling around you, but your heart feeling lighter than it has in months.

As you walk, Charles slips his hand into yours again, and you glance over at him, your heart swelling with gratitude. You’re not sure what’s happening between you and Charles, but for the first time, you’re not afraid of it. You’re not afraid to see where this might go.

When you reach the apartment, you’re both soaked to the bone, your clothes clinging uncomfortably to your skin, but you’re laughing, unable to stop the joy bubbling up inside you.

Charles unlocks the door and ushers you inside, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I think we might need to dry off a bit.”

You laugh, nodding in agreement as you look around the familiar space. Leo is waiting by the door, his tail wagging furiously as he barks excitedly, clearly not pleased that you both got caught in the rain without him.

Charles crouches down, rubbing Leo behind the ears. “Hey, baby. We didn’t mean to leave you out of the fun.”

Leo licks Charles’s face enthusiastically before trotting over to you, looking up with big, expectant eyes. You can’t help but smile as you reach down to pet him, feeling a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the rain.

Charles stands, his eyes soft as he watches you with Leo. “Let’s get you some dry clothes,” he says gently, leading you down the hall.

You follow him, feeling a sense of peace settle over you. There’s something about being here, with Charles, that feels right. Like maybe, just maybe, you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

And as Charles hands you a towel and one of his oversized shirts, you realize that maybe you’re finally ready to start letting go of the past and embracing whatever the future holds. With Charles by your side, it feels like anything is possible.

As you dry off and change into the warm, comfortable clothes Charles gave you, you can’t help but smile at the thought. Maybe this isn’t just about ticking off items on a bucket list. Maybe it’s about finding yourself again. And maybe, just maybe, it’s about finding something more.

***

You fall asleep that night, still feeling the warmth of Charles’ arms wrapped around you as he whispered a soft goodnight. His gentle kiss, tentative yet filled with an unspoken promise, lingers on your lips even as you drift into slumber.

But in your dreams, the world shifts.

You find yourself standing in a place both familiar and strange — a field of golden wheat, the sun setting in the distance, casting a warm, orange glow across the horizon. The sky is endless, blending into shades of pink and purple, as if the heavens themselves were painted with the softest brushstrokes.

And there he is. James.

He’s standing a few feet away, his back to you, hands in his pockets, the way he always used to stand when he was deep in thought. The wind rustles the wheat around him, and for a moment, you just watch him, your heart aching with the longing that never really goes away.

“James ...” Your voice is soft, trembling, almost afraid that speaking his name will shatter the dream.

He turns slowly, his familiar smile, that same one that used to make you feel like everything would be okay, spreads across his face. He’s exactly as you remember him — tousled brown hair, slightly crooked nose from that time he tried to impress you by skiing down a slope far too steep, and those eyes, those deep, warm eyes that always seemed to understand you better than you understood yourself.

“Hey, you,” he says, his voice carrying the same teasing lilt that always made you laugh, no matter how bad your day had been.

You move towards him, your feet sinking into the soft earth, but it feels as though the distance between you never changes. The closer you try to get, the farther he seems. “I miss you,” you say, and your voice cracks under the weight of the words. “I miss you so much, Jamie.”

“I know,” he says, and his voice is soft, understanding. “I miss you too, but I’m here now.”

You finally reach him, your fingers itching to touch him, to feel his warmth, but there’s a hesitance within you, a fear that touching him will break the fragile illusion. “I’m scared,” you confess, the tears that have been gathering in your eyes finally spilling over. “I’m scared of moving on, of letting go … of forgetting you.”

James takes a step closer, and suddenly, he’s right in front of you. You can feel his warmth now, the comforting presence that had always been your anchor. He lifts a hand, wiping away your tears with the pad of his thumb, just like he used to.

“You won’t forget me,” he says gently, his voice a soothing balm to your wounded heart. “You carry me with you, always. I’m a part of you, just like you’re a part of me.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his touch, memorizing the feel of him, the sound of his voice. “But it feels like I’m betraying you … with Charles.”

James chuckles softly, a sound that vibrates through you, filling you with a warmth that you hadn’t felt in so long. “Charles Leclerc, huh?” He steps back slightly, enough to meet your gaze fully. “Never knew you had a thing for fast cars and dangerous men.”

You can’t help but smile through your tears. “He’s … different. He’s kind, and patient, and he makes me feel … alive again.”

“That’s good, Y/N,” James says, his tone earnest, as if he’s trying to make you understand something crucial. “That’s what I want for you. I don’t want you to be stuck in the past, living with a ghost. I want you to live, to be happy, to love again.”

“But you-”

“I’ll always be with you,” he interrupts gently. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m here,” he says, pressing a hand over your heart. “But you need to let yourself be happy. You need to let yourself find love, even if it’s not with me.”

A sob escapes your lips, and you cover your mouth with your hand, trying to stifle the sound, but James pulls you into his arms, holding you close. “It’s okay,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s okay to love someone else. I want you to. You deserve that.”

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the scent that’s so uniquely him — earthy and warm, like freshly cut grass on a summer’s day. “I don’t know if I can,” you whisper. “It feels like losing you all over again.”

“You’re not losing me,” he reassures, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “You’re gaining something beautiful. And if you’re worried about my approval ...” He grins, that mischievous glint in his eye that you always loved. “I mean, he’s no Max Verstappen, but Charles Leclerc? I guess he’s almost good enough for you.”

A laugh bubbles up from your chest, even as tears continue to fall. It’s absurd, really, this moment, this conversation, but it’s exactly what you needed.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” you murmur, shaking your head with a small smile.

James shrugs, a carefree gesture that was so him. “What can I say? I always had a soft spot for Max. But Charles … he’s got potential. Just … give him a chance, okay? For me?”

You nod, even though the idea terrifies you. “I’ll try,” you whisper. “For you.”

James smiles, a sad, but proud smile, and he leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, the same way he used to when he wanted to comfort you without words. “That’s all I ask. And Y/N ... don’t wait too long, okay? Life is too short for that.”

“I won’t,” you promise, even though your heart is heavy with the thought of truly moving on.

James takes a step back, his form beginning to fade into the golden light of the sunset. “I love you, Y/N. I always will. But it’s time for you to live again.”

“Goodbye, Jamie,” you say, your voice trembling as he becomes more and more ethereal, like a shadow dissolving in the light. “I love you.”

He smiles one last time, his figure almost completely faded now. “And I love you. Always.”

The dream fades, and you’re left standing in that field of golden wheat alone, the sun sinking below the horizon, casting the world into twilight. But there’s a peace in your heart that you haven’t felt in a long time, a quiet acceptance that maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to start letting go.

When you wake, your cheeks are damp with tears, but there’s a soft smile on your lips. You lie there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, replaying the dream in your mind, feeling the weight of James’ words settle in your heart.

You know what he said is true. You know it’s what he would want. And you know, deep down, that it’s time to start allowing yourself to heal, to open up, and to let someone else in.

And as you think of Charles, of his patience, his kindness, his quiet understanding, you can’t help but feel a tiny spark of hope flickering in your chest — a hope that maybe, just maybe, you can find love again.

***

The morning light filtered through the curtains of Charles’ dining room, casting a soft, golden hue over the room. You sit at the table, trying to focus on the breakfast in front of you — a selection of pastries, fresh fruit, and coffee that Charles had lovingly laid out. Yet, the thoughts swirling in your mind make it hard to concentrate. Charles sits across from you, his eyes occasionally flicking up to meet yours, a small, contented smile playing on his lips.

The memories of the past few days are almost surreal: the unexpected road trip, the rain-soaked dance that ended with your first kiss, and the way Charles held you afterward, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. It’s been a whirlwind, but a beautiful one. And yet, as you take a sip of coffee, reality nudges its way back into your thoughts.

“I ... I should probably head back home soon,” you say, your voice hesitant, as if saying the words might make them less real. “I need to get back to work.”

The air in the room shifts. Charles’ smile fades just a little, replaced by a look of understanding, tinged with something you can’t quite place. Sadness? Disappointment? He sets down his coffee cup, his fingers playing with the handle as if it could offer him some guidance on what to say next.

“Of course,” he replies, his tone gentle, though you can hear the effort it takes to keep it light. “You have responsibilities, a life back home ...”

There’s a pause, the kind that stretches a moment into something heavier, more significant. The silence is thick, filled with the unspoken truth that neither of you wants to confront: this bubble of time you’ve been living in, where only the two of you exist, is about to burst.

“I like you,” you blurt out, the words tumbling out faster than you can stop them. They hang in the air, raw and vulnerable.

Charles looks up, his eyes locking onto yours. “I like you too,” he says, his voice low, steady, and filled with something that makes your heart skip a beat.

You both sit there for a moment, staring at each other, the weight of your mutual confession settling between you like a third presence at the table. It’s terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“I want to see where this goes,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly as you try to gather your thoughts. “But I don’t know how ... I mean, you’re always traveling for the races, and I-”

“Come with me,” Charles interrupts, his voice firm, almost urgent. “To the next race. And the one after that. I don’t want this to be just a beautiful memory. I want you there with me, every step of the way.”

His words hit you like a wave, washing over the fears and doubts that had been quietly gnawing at the back of your mind. The idea of uprooting your life, of stepping into his world, is daunting — but the thought of not being with him is even more unbearable.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. “Are you sure?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t want to get in the way, or make things complicated.”

Charles leans forward, his hand reaching out to cover yours. His touch is warm, grounding. “You wouldn’t be in the way. I want this. I want you. And if it gets complicated, then we’ll figure it out together.”

The sincerity in his eyes is almost overwhelming. You’ve spent so long guarding your heart, protecting yourself from the pain of losing someone again, that the idea of opening up to love, to Charles, feels both terrifying and exhilarating.

“Two and a half weeks,” he continues, a hopeful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “That’s when the next race is. Come with me. We’ll have more time to figure this out, whatever this is.”

You nod slowly, your heart pounding in your chest. “Okay,” you say, your voice firming up with the decision. “I’ll come with you.”

A bright, relieved smile breaks across Charles’ face, and in that moment, you know you’ve made the right choice. Whatever happens, you’ll face it together. The thought is both comforting and thrilling.

Charles stands up, pulling you gently to your feet. “I think we should seal this decision properly,” he says, his tone light, teasing.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep the mood from becoming too serious. “And how do you propose we do that?”

He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he steps closer, his hands coming to rest on your hips as he leans in, capturing your lips with his in a soft, lingering kiss. It’s different from the kiss you shared in the rain — this one is slower, more deliberate, filled with the promise of everything that could be. You melt into him, your hands sliding up to rest on his shoulders as you kiss him back, letting yourself get lost in the moment.

When you finally pull away, breathless and a little dizzy, Charles rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, a contented smile on his lips. “I’m really glad you’re coming with me,” he murmurs, his voice soft and full of emotion.

“So am I,” you whisper back, your heart swelling with a mixture of hope and anticipation.

For the first time in a long time, you feel like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. And as you stand there in Charles’ arms, the future doesn’t seem so scary anymore. In fact, it looks pretty damn wonderful.

***

18 Months Later

The cemetery is quiet, a solemn stillness that wraps around you and Charles as you walk down the winding path lined with weathered tombstones and ancient trees. The sky above is a muted gray, the kind that seems to reflect the heavy emotions you’ve been carrying with you.

Your hand is tightly clasped in Charles’, his grip firm and reassuring, but you can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. He’s nervous, though he tries to hide it behind a small, gentle smile.

You haven’t been here since the funeral, since that awful day when you laid James to rest. The thought of returning to this place has always felt too overwhelming, like reopening a wound that never fully healed. But now, over a year and a half later, you’re here again, and this time, you’re not alone.

You lead Charles to the spot where James is buried. It’s a modest grave, marked by a simple headstone that bears his name, his dates, and a short inscription that never fails to bring tears to your eyes: Beloved husband, healer of hearts, taken too soon.

Charles lets go of your hand as you kneel in front of the grave, gently brushing away the few leaves that have settled on the stone. You trace James’ name with your fingers, the cold granite grounding you in a way that words never could. Charles stands a few steps behind you, giving you space, but his presence is a comforting anchor in this sea of grief.

You’re not sure how long you stay like that, silent and lost in memories, before you finally speak. “Hi, James,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come back. I-I brought someone with me. I think you’d like him.” You swallow the lump in your throat, tears slipping down your cheeks. “His name is Charles. He’s ... he’s very special to me. You’d probably think he’s not good enough for me, but you were always a little biased.”

A small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips as you glance back at Charles, who’s watching you with a mixture of love and concern. “Would you ... would you mind giving us a moment?” Charles asks softly, stepping forward. “I — I’d like to talk to James, if that’s okay.”

You blink up at him, surprised by the request, but the earnestness in his eyes makes you nod. “Of course,” you murmur, rising to your feet. You lean in to kiss Charles on the cheek, squeezing his hand one last time before stepping away, giving him the privacy he’s asked for.

Charles waits until you’ve moved a respectful distance away, then turns his attention to the grave. He takes a deep breath, crouching down so he’s at eye level with the headstone. He feels awkward, talking to a man he’s never met, a man who was such a huge part of your life. But he knows this is important, that he needs to do this — for you, for James, and for himself.

“Hi, James,” Charles starts, his voice low and unsure. “I-I hope you don’t mind me talking to you like this. I’ve heard so much about you, and I know how much you mean to her.” He pauses, running a hand through his hair, trying to find the right words. “I wanted to say thank you. Thank you for loving her the way you did, for making her so happy. She deserves that, you know? She deserves all the happiness in the world.”

Charles’ throat tightens, and he has to blink back the tears threatening to spill over. He hadn’t expected this to be so hard, hadn’t expected to feel this intense connection to a man he never knew. “I’m ... I’m going to propose to her,” he finally says, his voice shaking. “And I wanted to ask for your permission, if that’s okay. I know I can’t replace you, and I wouldn’t want to. You’ll always be a part of her, and I’ll never try to take that away.”

He swallows hard, his heart pounding in his chest. “But I love her, James. I love her so much, and I promise I’ll take care of her. I’ll do everything I can to make her happy, to make sure she feels loved every single day. I know she still loves you, and I’m okay with that. There’s more than enough room in her heart for both of us.”

Charles reaches out, placing a hand on the cool stone of the headstone, as if trying to make a connection with the man resting beneath it. “We’ve been talking about her moving to Monaco with me soon,” he continues, his voice steadying. “And I promise you, she’ll have free reign of my private jet to visit you whenever she wants. I’ll make sure she never feels like she has to choose between us.”

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. “I hope that’s okay with you, James. I hope ... I hope you’re at peace, wherever you are. And I hope you know that I’m going to love her with everything I have. I’ll do my best to make her as happy as you did. Thank you for that.”

Charles stays there for a moment longer, his hand still resting on the gravestone, before he finally stands. He wipes at his eyes, surprised to find them wet with tears, and glances over at you. You’re watching him, a mix of curiosity and love in your gaze, and he gives you a small, reassuring smile.

You walk back over to him, slipping your hand into his, and he squeezes it gently. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I ... I don’t know what you said, but thank you.”

Charles just nods, pulling you into a hug, holding you close as you both stand there in the quiet cemetery, the weight of your shared love and loss settling around you. It’s not an easy moment, but it’s one that feels right, like a necessary step forward in the journey you’ve been on together.

As you stand there in Charles’ arms, you feel a sense of peace wash over you. You know that James would have approved, that he would have wanted you to find happiness again, to find love again. And now, with Charles by your side, you finally feel like you can do that.

Eventually, you both turn to leave, hand in hand, walking back down the path toward the cemetery gates. As you reach the car, you glance back one last time at James’ grave, a soft smile on your lips. “Goodbye, Jamie,” you whisper. “Thank you for everything. I love you.”

Charles opens the car door for you, and as you slide into the passenger seat, you feel a sense of closure, of new beginnings. It’s not about moving on, you realize, but about moving forward — carrying the love you’ve known with you into whatever comes next.

And as Charles drives away from the cemetery, his hand resting on your thigh, you know that whatever comes next, you won’t be facing it alone.

***

The reception hall is filled with soft, warm light, the kind that makes everyone look beautiful and the world seem perfect for just a moment. The clinking of glasses, the murmur of conversations, and the occasional burst of laughter create a background hum that feels almost comforting in its familiarity.

You stand at the edge of the room, looking out at the faces of friends and family, people who have watched you navigate the hardest years of your life and who are now here to celebrate this new chapter.

Charles is beside you, his hand resting gently on the small of your back, a touch so natural that it feels like it's always been there. When he smiles at you, there's a quiet understanding in his eyes, a love that has grown deep and steady, rooted in the soil of shared grief and the careful, tentative steps toward healing.

You know he can feel your nervousness — he’s always been able to read you so well — but there’s no rush, no pressure. Just his presence, anchoring you as you take a deep breath and step forward to the microphone.

The room gradually quiets as people realize you’re about to speak. The lump in your throat feels almost too big to swallow, and for a moment, you think you might not be able to get the words out. But then you feel Charles’ hand squeeze yours, a silent encouragement that you can do this, and suddenly, it’s easier to find your voice.

“Thank you,” you begin, and your voice wavers a little, but it’s steady enough. “Thank you all for being here today. I know that every bride says this, but it really does mean the world to us that you’re here to share this day with us.”

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with that same soft look he had when you first met Leo. His eyes are full of pride and love, and it gives you the strength to continue.

“Most of you know that today isn’t just about celebrating the love that Charles and I share, but it’s also about honoring the past that brought us here,” you say, and you can see some people nodding, their smiles tinged with understanding. “A few years ago, I lost my husband, James. He was an incredible man — kind, compassionate, and so full of life. And when he passed, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to move on, let alone find love again.”

Your voice catches, and you have to pause to take another breath. The room is silent now, everyone hanging on your words.

“James left me a letter,” you say, and there’s a faint murmur as people who don’t know the story lean in, intrigued. “In that letter, he left me a bucket list of things he wanted me to experience, things he wished we could have done together but that he wanted me to do in his memory.”

You reach into your pocket and pull out the now well-worn piece of paper, carefully unfolding it as you speak. “The last item on that list was to find love again.”

A few people gasp quietly, and you can see some wiping their eyes, moved by the weight of those words. You feel your own tears threatening to fall, but you blink them back, determined to finish what you’ve started.

“For a long time, I didn’t think I could,” you admit, your voice thick with emotion. “I didn’t think it was possible to let someone else into my heart after losing James. But then, I met Charles.”

You turn to look at him, and he smiles at you, a smile that is both gentle and reassuring. “Charles showed me that it’s okay to love again, that my heart is big enough to hold all the memories I have of James while still making room for new ones with him. He’s been patient, understanding, and so, so kind. And I know that James would have loved him just as much as I do.”

Charles’ eyes glisten with unshed tears, and when he squeezes your hand again, it’s not just to comfort you — it’s a shared moment of recognition, of understanding that this journey has been just as profound for him as it has been for you.

“I know that some people say you can only have one great love in a lifetime,” you continue, your voice growing steadier with each word. “But I think I’ve been incredibly lucky, because I’ve had two.”

The room is filled with the sound of sniffles and soft murmurs of agreement. You can see your family, who has been there through it all, nodding and smiling through their tears.

“So today, as we celebrate this new beginning, I want to take a moment to honor the man who brought us here. James, wherever you are, thank you. Thank you for loving me enough to let me go, for knowing that I needed to find happiness again. I know you’re here with us, in spirit, and I hope you’re proud.”

You pause, your heart heavy but full. “And to Charles, my Charlie … thank you for being brave enough to love me, even when it wasn’t easy. Thank you for showing me that it’s okay to hold on to the past while embracing the future. I promise to love you with all of my heart, forever and always.”

The room is silent for a long moment after you finish speaking, and then the applause begins — soft at first, then growing louder as people rise to their feet, clapping not just for you and Charles, but for the love that has brought you both here, and for the man who made it all possible.

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to your temple as the applause swells around you. “I love you,” he whispers, and you can hear the emotion in his voice. “Thank you for sharing that with everyone. It was perfect.”

“I love you too,” you whisper back, your voice thick with tears. “And thank you, Charlie. For everything.”

The rest of the night is a blur of laughter, dancing, and celebration. But the memory of your speech, of standing up in front of everyone and sharing your heart so openly, will stay with you forever. And as you and Charles step onto the dance floor for your first dance as husband and wife, you feel a sense of peace, knowing that James is watching over you both, smiling as you take this next step forward together.

The music begins to play, a soft, romantic melody that wraps around you like a warm embrace. Charles pulls you closer, his arms around your waist as you sway together, and for the first time in a long time, you feel complete. It’s not that the pain of losing James has disappeared — it never will — but it has softened, and in its place, there is a new kind of love, one that is just as strong, just as true.

As you dance, you rest your head against Charles’ chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The guests fade into the background, and it’s just the two of you, moving together in perfect harmony. You know that this moment, this dance, is the beginning of a new chapter, one that you never imagined you would have, but one that you are so grateful for.

When the song ends, Charles lifts your chin with his finger, his eyes searching yours. “You okay?” He asks softly, his voice filled with concern.

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. Instead, you press your lips to his in a tender kiss, one that says everything you can’t put into words. Charles holds you close, and as you pull back, you see the tears in his eyes, a mirror of your own.

“Thank you,” you whisper, and Charles smiles, his thumb brushing away the tear that slips down your cheek.

“No, thank you,” he says, his voice full of love and admiration. “For letting me be a part of this, for trusting me with your heart. I promise, I’ll take care of it.”

And as you stand there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you know that you’ve found what James wanted for you all along — someone who will love you just as deeply, just as fiercely, as he did. Someone who will walk with you through the good times and the bad, who will hold your hand and guide you through the darkest days, and who will celebrate the bright ones with joy and laughter.

You’ve found love again, just like James wanted, and it feels like coming home.

***

You park the car under the shade of a sprawling oak tree, the leaves rustling softly in the breeze. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you step out, Charles following behind, holding Jacques in his arms.

The baby is cooing, tiny hands grabbing at Charles’ shirt as if it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. You pause for a moment, breathing in the cool air, trying to gather the courage to walk towards the familiar grave that you’ve avoided for so long.

Charles adjusts Jacques in his arms, the baby’s chubby legs kicking slightly as he looks around, taking in the new surroundings with wide eyes. You glance at Charles, and he gives you a small, encouraging nod. But this time, there’s no pressure. He’s letting you take the lead, letting you go at your own pace.

The last time you were here, you and Charles had just gotten engaged. The memory of Charles standing by James’ grave, asking for his blessing, is still vivid in your mind. And now, two years later, everything has changed. You’re married to Charles, and you have a beautiful baby boy. But standing here, in front of the man you once loved with all your heart, the weight of everything comes crashing down.

You take a deep breath and start walking towards the grave. The headstone is simple, elegant, just the way James would have wanted it. Fresh flowers have been placed there recently — probably by James’ parents, who visit regularly. A pang of guilt twists in your chest. You should have come sooner.

When you reach the grave, you kneel down, brushing your fingers lightly over the engraved letters of his name. The silence is thick, filled with everything you want to say but can’t find the words for. Charles stays a few steps back, giving you space, though you can feel his presence like a warm anchor, grounding you.

“Hi, Jamie,” you finally whisper, your voice trembling. “It’s ... it’s been a while, I know. I’m sorry for not visiting sooner.”

The words catch in your throat, and you have to pause, blinking back tears. You thought you were prepared for this, but being here, with so much time having passed, it’s harder than you imagined.

“I wanted to come sooner, but ... everything just got so overwhelming,” you continue, your voice breaking. “I’ve missed you so much. And I know you’re watching over us, but I needed to feel like I could do this ... like I could come back here and tell you everything.”

You glance back at Charles, who is now sitting on the grass with Jacques in his lap. The baby is looking up at the sky, oblivious to the somber mood, a tiny smile playing on his lips. When you turn back to the grave, the tears you've been holding back finally spill over.

“I want you to meet someone,” you say softly. You reach back, signaling Charles to bring Jacques over. Charles carefully lifts Jacques, walking over to you, and gently hands him to you. The baby gurgles, his small hand wrapping around your finger instinctively. You hold Jacques close, your tears falling onto his soft hair.

“This is Jacques,” you whisper, looking down at your son. “He’s named after you and Jules. Charles and I wanted to honor you both in some way.”

The name had been something you and Charles had discussed at length. When you found out you were pregnant, there was no hesitation in your minds who you wanted to name your son after. It felt like the right thing to do, like a way to keep a part of James alive in your new life.

“He’s ... he’s so beautiful, James,” you continue, your voice trembling with emotion. “I wish you were here to see him grow up. To be a part of his life. But I promise, I’ll tell him all about you. About how amazing you were, and how much you loved helping others. He’ll know his name carries a legacy.”

Jacques wiggles in your arms, and you press a soft kiss to his forehead. The tears continue to fall, but now they’re mixed with a sense of bittersweet acceptance. You look up at the sky, the clouds shifting lazily, and you wonder if James is watching, if he’s smiling down at you.

You glance at Charles, who is watching you with those soft eyes that seem to hold all the love in the world. He’s been so patient, so understanding, and in this moment, you realize how incredibly lucky you are to have found love again. It’s not something you ever thought would be possible, but here you are, standing between the past and the future, with a heart big enough to hold them both.

“Charles has been amazing,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’d like him, James. He’s so kind, and he understands ... he understands everything I’ve been through. He’s been so good to me, and to Jacques. I think you’d be happy to know that we found each other.”

Charles steps closer, wrapping his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder. The warmth of his body against yours is comforting, a reminder that you’re not alone in this. Jacques babbles, his tiny fingers reaching up to touch Charles’ face, and Charles chuckles softly, nuzzling his nose against Jacques' cheek.

You close your eyes, leaning back into Charles, letting yourself feel the full weight of the moment. The grief, the love, the hope — all of it swirling inside you like a storm that’s finally starting to calm.

“I love you,” you whisper, your voice breaking. “I always will. But I’ve learned that it’s okay to move forward. To let myself be happy again. And I think ... I think you’d want that for me.”

The wind picks up slightly, rustling the leaves in the trees, and for a brief moment, you swear you can feel James’ presence — like a gentle touch on your shoulder, a whisper in your ear, telling you that it’s okay. That he’s at peace, and he wants you to be too.

You turn slightly, pressing a kiss to Charles’ cheek, then look back at the grave, feeling a sense of closure that you didn’t think was possible.

“We’ll be back to visit,” you promise, your voice steadying. “I won’t wait so long next time. And Jacques will grow up knowing who you were, what you meant to us. He’ll know his name is special.”

Charles squeezes your hand, and you nod, letting him know you’re ready to go. You stand, brushing off your pants, and take one last look at James’ grave. The flowers sway gently in the breeze, and you feel a strange sense of peace settle over you. It’s not goodbye — it’s more of a “see you later.”

As you walk back to the car, Charles keeps his arm around your waist, holding you close. Jacques is still babbling happily, completely unaware of the emotional weight of the visit. But that’s okay — he’ll understand when he’s older. For now, you’re just grateful to have this moment, to feel like you’re honoring both the past and the future.

When you reach the car, you carefully buckle Jacques into his car seat, making sure he’s secure before you get in. Charles closes the door behind you, and as he starts the engine, you glance back at the grave, giving a small nod as if to say, “Thank you.”

As the car pulls away, you lean your head against the window, watching the trees blur past. Charles reaches over, taking your hand in his, and you smile softly, squeezing his hand in return.

It’s a long drive back home, but you don’t mind. You have everything you need right here with you. And as you close your eyes, letting the gentle motion of the car lull you into a peaceful state, you realize that this is what James wanted for you — to find love again, to be happy, to live your life to the fullest.

And you will. For him, for Jacques, for Charles, and for yourself.

[the-knights-who-say-book]

Of a Witch, a Gossip, and a Library

The library on the corner of Oak and Vine was an accident. The crown didn’t bother opening libraries this far out west, so far from any of the major cities—so far that the townspeople joked to each other the king might someday forget to send his tax collectors out there, too. So Feldwidth had never had a library before.

When the local witch died a few years back, nobody quite knew what to do with her narrow corner cottage, with its living space upstairs and walls lined with shelves of witchcraft ingrediants on the single ground floor room. The witch hadn’t any children or relatives to continue living there, and nobody else claimed the space in the months after her death. The downstairs room, shelves on all four walls (even on the inside of the door!), just didn’t invite new inhabitants. No one in Feldwidth, except for the general store owner on Main, practiced a trade which required so many shelves, and no one wanted the tedious task of taking them all down.

It was Margorette Clay, who lived just outside the village and came in once a week supposedly to sell produce but mostly just to gossip, who said they ought to get themselves another witch.

“Not like you find them growing in a road ditch,” Jame Clott said irritably, because Margo was leaning against his fence. As far as he was concerned, no one who hadn’t painted that fence themselves were allowed to lean on it.

“Suppose not. Guess that’s only where you find Clotts,” Margo said, and ducked the dirty sheet that Jame had been beating out on the stone path and was about to beat out on her head. Cawing her distinctive laughter, she ran down the street, apron full of apples jostling and jumping with her loping stride.

Jame leaned over his fence to yell after her, “And they find Clays on the streets after it rains, too dumb to get back into the dirt!”

Margo’s laughter drew Catty Loose to the open doorway of her house as sure as if she’d had a ringing bell to announce new gossip. “What’s got Jame worked up?”

“Cause I said you ought to get yourselves a new witch,” Margo said, barely half-truthful as usual. “Buy an apple? They’re almost as blushing pretty as your kitling.”

Catty’s smallest daughter went red and buried herself deeper in her mother’s skirts.

Another kid, barely older, leaned against Margo’s leg and pulled her hand, nearly spilling all the apples from the apron she was holding up. “Why nother witch? What for?”

“Ah, every place ought to have one,” Margo said vaguely. “It’s the way of things. One apple for each of your kitlings, Catty, and I’ll throw two in free.”

————————

“Margo’s right,” Catty Loose said after temple that Saturday, as the townspeople gathered in the yard to mingle and eat, her arms full of children and another two playing at her feet.

With preternatural hearing, Jame Clott turned from speaking with his husband Willem across the yard to say loudly, “Margorette Clay has never been right once in her life.”

Catty ignored him. “We ought to get a new witch. Sooner or later we’ll want one.”

“That’s crap,” Jame said, coming into the circle that surrounded Catty, which seemed to be half made up of her own children. “What’ll we want a witch for? No one’s been cursed in ages.”

“Aida Macintosh,” someone put in.

“Aida Macintosh ate the red berries by the stream. That’s not a curse so much as a punishment for stupidity.”

No one could really disagree.

“Need one for love shpells,” a tiny Loose kitling named Alfed suggested.

Jame crouched down, his face softening, to look into his small, earnest face. “Love spells are a gross affront against consent and should have been outlawed years ago,” he said gently.

Little Alfed Loose sneezed in his face.

“For getting a baby when you can’t make one yourself,” Mendy Hark said, one hand squeezing her daughter’s shoulder protectively.

Jame, wiping his face, didn’t say anything.

————————

“So how’s one get a witch anyway?” Lukey Keening asked, continuing the conversation from several days ago without preamble, as he tended to do. He and his overly long teenage limbs were sprawled in the grass of the meadow where the families of Oak street gathered once a week for a community meal, conspicuously not helping.

The eldest Loose girl, siblings hoisted on either hip, made a thoughtful sound. “You don’t get one, I think, they get you.”

“I don’t wanna get gotten,” one child on her hip sniffled.

“That’s only bad witches that get you,” Lukey said.

Lettie sighed. “No, I mean, you don’t do something to get a witch, they come to you.”

“That’s right, girly,” Margo Clay said from her perch watching over a pot of stew on the open fire. She had not been invited. Like witches, Margo simply appeared without being fetched. “But I tell you what, you can make them know you want one.”

“How’s that?” Daff Keening asked, arms crossed over his comfortably large belly. His sudden and stout presence made his son scramble up and pretend to be busy helping Lettie wrangle several children, all of whom resembled her as nesting dolls resemble the one they fit inside.

“You make a place ready for her.” Margo’s brash tone, as ever, drew more people from their tasks to pay attention to her. “Like baiting a trap. Can’t expect a mouse to walk into your trap unless you make it look inviting.”

“What do you know about mice?” Sal Hark asked skeptically.

“They’re close relatives of hers,” Jame Clott said, unable to resist. “The better question is, what does she know about witches?”

————————

Margo Clay was an incorrigible gossip, but people who liked gossip liked Margo, so she was listened to anyway.

Catty Loose sent Lettie  to sweep the empty store and dust the unnecessary amount of shelves. Lukey Keening tagged along to clean the small windows and help keep three small Looses in hand. The gaggle of children in and around the shop drew Jame Clott to poke his head in and see what was going on.

“Well! It looks clean, but it doesn’t look like a witch’s shop,” he declared.

“He’s right, Mama,” Lettie told her mother that evening. “I tossed out all the shriveled up herbs she had in there when I cleaned the shelves. Some of them had crumbled near into dust. But with the shelves empty it doesn’t look much like a witch’s place.”

Catty relayed this to the Macintoshes, who were eager for a replacement witch, in case anybody got cursed like Aida had last year.

“Mmhmm,” Catty said to that.

“I think the Harks have the magic books the old witch left,” Theo Macintosh said. “We can put those in there.”

—————————

Sal Hark brought the books around the shop a few days later, squinting in the sunshine at the man who was already there. “Hey, Jame. Witch showed up yet?”

Jame Clott startled back from the window he was peering through. “Nah, no witch is coming.”

Sal let out a whistle of agreement, but his smile was amused, like he thought Jame was wrong.

“Not with the shop looking that shoddy, anyway,” Jame said with a sniff. “There isn’t even a sign.”

“Blew down in a storm a few years ago, I think,” Sal said. “We know what shop it is, anyhow. Not like we’ve got shops every which way.”

“The witch wouldn’t know, since she’s new,” Jame said testily. If the whole town was going to take up Margo’s logic, they had better be consistent.

“Tell you what, then, you ought to paint a new sign. You’re the only one here who knows which end of a paintbrush goes where.”

Jame shook his head and waved goodbye. He wasn’t making a sign for an empty shop, a shop that would remain empty.

That night he saw Willem look out their kitchen window at that empty shop, something sad and wistful in his eyes, several times during their quiet dinner. Their dinners were always quiet, though they told each other about their days in detail, and debated if Margo’s pumpkins were any good at length. It was the quiet of something missing, the kind of quiet the Loose’s house down the street, full to the brim, had never known.

“Sal Hark said I should paint a sign for the witch’s shop, to make her want to come,” Jame said, surprising himself.

Willem tore his eyes away from the window and looked at him. After a moment, he smiled. “Face it, Jame, they won’t get her to come without your help.”

————————

Jame put up the new sign next week, his back so stiff-straight that nobody dared tease him about coming round to Margo’s thinking, though several people gathered across the street to watch.

The sign was big and square and sturdy, and painted on both sides was an open tome with stylized curls of magic shooting from it. Willem held the ladder steady while he hung it up, and Jame felt almost hopeful. Through the shining little windows passersby could see the neat shop room and the witch’s small collection of spell books sitting on one of the many shelves, and it looked almost inviting.

————————

Margo, who lived outside town, was the first one to realize someone had come to town overnight.

“Your witch is here!” she crowed, all but dancing down Oak Street in the early morning. “What did I tell you? Make it nice and she’ll come!”

“Quiet your racket,” said an irritable Jame, poking his head out his door. “Witch isn’t the word I’d use for you.”

“Wheel tracks!” she yelled at him. “Fresh wheel tracks down the road before I left my farm! Who brings a cart into town except for me and the tax collector? And the tax collector wouldn’t have set up shop in there!” She pointed one victorious finger at the corner shop where Jame’s sign swayed gently in the breeze. A rickety wooden cart was collapsed on the ground below it.

Jame opened his mouth but couldn’t think of anything to say.

Down the street, Catty Loose stuck her head out the window. “Margo, what are you whooping about? Oh my—Lettie! Lettie, find my shawl!” Her head ducked back inside, and before the last copper curl had followed it out the window, she was rushing out the front door, Lettie close on her heels.

Jame snapped his mouth shut and hurried after Margo, Catty, and Lettie, following them to the corner shop. A sleepy bundle of Loose kitlings, a couple of Keenings, a herd of Macintoshes and even a Hark or two were all heading in the same direction.

Someone had moved into the witch’s shop.

There were muddy shoe prints down the stone path, a new blue-checked curtain drawn over the window, and Margo standing triumphantly in front of the house, hands on her hips. “Didn’t I tell you! Didn’t I!”

“So you did,” said Sal Hark, “but quiet, Margo, or you’ll wake her up. She must’ve come in dead of night.”

Margo ignored him. “Well, I hope you all remember this. When I’m right, I’m right!”

Behind her, the witch’s door cracked open.

The girl who opened it was no older than Lettie Loose, and probably younger. Her face was nervous, but as she took in the crowd outside her door, it broke into a shy smile. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t expect... I’m not all set up yet. But I suppose the library can be open now if you want.”

“What?” said Margo.

“Library?” said Catty.

“I knew it,” said Jame. “You didn’t catch yourself a witch. You caught a librarian.”

Margo glared at him, apparently lost for words.

The girl looked back and forth between them. “I’m sorry?”

Margo rounded on her. “A librarian! Is that what you are? Then you have to leave. We’re waiting for a witch.”

The girl’s mouth opened and shut, her eyes big, and then she looked down and sniffed.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jame snapped, a protectiveness in his voice so fierce that Margo took a step back from both him and the girl. He glared around him, making sure no one else was going to follow Margo’s lead, and then turned back to the girl. All anger dropped out of his face immediately, replaced by a gentle warmth. “Have you got family?”

“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m... I’ve just been taking my library around. That’s my family. I thought we could stay here, maybe, If that’s alright.”

“That’s just fine. We’ve never had a library before, we’re all real grateful you came. Come have breakfast.” He didn’t wait for an answer, already thinking of having a full kitchen, and Willem no longer staring out the window, and needing to find more eggs for breakfast, and who in town might have extra shoes to replace the worn-thin boots on her feet.

A layer of tension seemed to slough off her. She stepped out of her doorway and a few feet onto the path to follow Jame, then paused. Looking back at them, she said, “When you take a book, write the title and your name in the ledger, and return it in two weeks.”

Skipping to catch up with Jame, she grabbed his hand with an easy sort of trust. She turned her face up to him. “If it’s not for a library, why is it full of shelves? Why were there already books there? Why does it have a book sign?”

“Sometimes,” Jame said, “People think they’re waiting for one thing, but they’re really waiting for another.”

“Were you?” she asked.

He saw the moment Willem noticed them through the window, saw hope dawn in his eyes as he watched them come up the path; his husband, and a girl who looked like she needed a home.

“No,” he said. “We were waiting exactly for you.”

[recurring-polynya]

@trulytaka​ asked: um i’ve always dreamt about a tattoo artist!renji falling for a client AU. it’s okay if you can’t come up with anything, just a suggestion!

How is it even possible that I have never read a Tattoo Artist! Renji AU?? (If there is one, please, send it to me immediately). Anyway, I got way too enamored of this idea, this is not even remotely a drabble, it is 4400 words and it is incredibly self-indulgent, I am absolutely not sorry.

It takes place in America and everyone is Japanese-American, because I am way more comfortable writing about American tattoo culture. I have never actually read a Tattoo Artist AU, I don’t know how they are supposed to go, this is just based on my own experiences getting inked. It’s mostly a story about Rukia and Renji being incredible nerfballs, there are not nearly enough stories about Rukia being a nerfball around Renji.

Read on ao3 or ff.net

💀     🛹     💕

Izuru Kira found Renji Abarai in the break room, simultaneously trying to cram a burrito into his face and read a Hellboy comic. He was holding the comic open with his elbow in an attempt to avoid spilling guacamole on Abe Sapien.

“Your two o’clock is here,” Izuru informed his distinguished colleague.

“Oh, great!” Renji replied, creasing the foil wrapper into a spout so that he could pour the last of the salsa drippings into his mouth.

“She’s waiting in the consult room,” Izuru went on, watching Renji toss the crumpled foil ball across the room, completely missing the trash can. “Look, have you met her before? A Miss Kuchiki?”

“Just exchanged a few emails,” Renji replied, as he scrubbed his hands at the sink. “Why? Is she scary?”

“Not in the usual way of Abarai clients,” Izuru replied. “I was just… wondering if she was... in the right place.”

“Her request was very specific,” Renji replied, scooping up his comic and the manila folder underneath it. “In fact, I am quite proud of what I came up with for her.” He whipped the folder open.

Izuru stared at it for a moment. “That is so specific.”

“I honestly think this is one of the best tatts I have ever designed. I hope she’s a real weirdo, because not just anyone deserves a masterpiece of this caliber.”

“Mmm,” Izuru agreed. “Yeah. Anyway, if there’s been a, uh, miscommunication, see if you can just… redirect her. Both Momo and I are in today, okay?”

Renji scoffed and stuffed his comic in Izuru’s hand as he marched down the hall toward the consult room. A miscommunication. Renji wondered what was wrong with her. She was probably mousy and wore glasses. Izuru always assumed girls like that would rather have a sad poem about the sea or a sprig of herbs inked on her wrist (conveniently, his specialties). Plenty of mousy girls with glasses would rather rock some fangs or dripping daggers, in Renji’s professional experience.

“Knock knock!” he announced, as he slid the door open. He took one step into the room and stopped dead.

Rukia Kuchiki was not mousy. She did not wear glasses.

Renji didn’t know much about suits. He did not happen to own one himself. But he guessed that Rukia Kuchiki’s suit was expensive, in part because it fit her perfectly, despite her tiny frame. It was jet black, and didn’t have a single speck of lint or cat hair on it. Her perfectly manicured hands were folded neatly on top of her crossed legs. She was wearing very tall, very pointy heels. Their soles were bright red, which Renji had learned from television meant that they were super expensive. He realized that he probably shouldn’t be looking at her legs, even though they were very nice to look at. His eyes snapped up to her face, but that honestly wasn’t any better.

Renji wasn’t often attracted to women, but she had probably the most interesting face he had ever seen-- heart-shaped, with big, dark eyes, a sharp chin, the cutest little nose. Her make-up was subtle and professional, and her hair was swept up with a clip, although it must be fairly short, because a few pieces hung down in front of her ears, and a thick lock dangled between her eyes.

She looked like a mean lawyer from a movie, one that would drive a fancy sportscar like an act of violence. Scary, for sure. But not in the usual way of Abarai clients, who tended toward the large and beefy, not that sharp and sharklike.

That nose, though.

Suddenly, her face split into a big grin. “Hi,” she announced brightly. “I’m Rukia Kuchiki.” She had a deep voice, a very beautiful voice. “You must be Renji Abarai.” Her eyes flicked to his arms. “I mean, of course you are, who else would have those arms? They’re so cool.”

“My arms?” Renji said stupidly. “Are they… famous?”

Rukia’s cheeks flushed. “Oh, well, I follow you on Instagram, and you don’t have any pictures of your face, but your arms are in a lot of the shots and they’re, well, they’re kinda distinctive. Do you think, um, would you mind if I looked at them?”

Renji’s eyebrows shot up. It’s not like he wasn’t used to having his arms checked out, but most people were more… subtle about it. Oh, well, it was her dime. “I didn’t do them myself, obviously,” he pointed out, rolling up the sleeves of his t-shirt so she could see the baboon skull on his left shoulder. A skeletal arm traced down the rest of that arm, complete with an outline of his own hand bones. On the right side, a snake spine coiled around his bicep, ending with a hissing skull. “I mean, it was my design, but my friends-- the other three tattoo artists here-- all helped ink me up.” He plopped down in the chair that sat catty corner to the couch where Rukia was sitting, and held his arms out. “We’re sort of a full-service studio. I’m the skeletons and monsters guy. Izuru, the guy you met on desk duty today-- is good at calligraphy and watercolors and little, itty bitty tattoos. Momo is our nature girl, she specializes in flowers and animals, and she’s great with bright colors. The snake skull was all her. Shuuhei is really into classic tattoo art-- you need a hula girl or a heart with an arrow through it, he’s your man. He’s also incredibly talented at revamping old regret tattoos, there’s good money in that.”

“Mm,” Rukia agreed, finally tearing her eyes away from his forearms to look up at his face, and abruptly turned even pinker. A lot of people fantasized about getting a tattoo and then got a bad case of nerves when it was time to make the leap. Maybe all this was way out of her comfort zone. Renji was trying his best to be friendly and chatty, which usually helped, but he was not used to dealing with this class of lady. He hoped he wasn’t coming off as too familiar.

“Actually,” Rukia went on, pulling on her fingers nervously. “I picked this place specifically because of you. For your work, I mean. I’m kind of a big fan. I saw some of your paintings at an exhibition over at the Fine Arts College, and I just, you know, fell in love. I’d always thought I’d like to get a tattoo someday, and when I found out that you were a tattoo artist, I knew it had to be you. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, and I’m babbling and I’m really sorry, I’m just very excited.”

Renji blinked. “You’re not babbling,” he replied slowly. He was sort of hoping she might say some more things about how much she liked his art in her beautiful voice. “Wait, an exhibition at the art school? That must have been at least three years ago, when I was doing my MFA.”

“Er, right,” Rukia looked a little sheepish. “A friend of mine had some work in the same exhibit, you probably don’t know her. My favorite one of your paintings was the one with the Black Lagoon creatures eating hamburgers at a diner, but I also really liked the one that was like a huge monster with a big bone mask stalking through a city, the way you did the shadows was just incredible.”

That particular painting was currently wrapped in brown paper and stuffed behind Renji’s couch. His last boyfriend had told him it was “creepy.”

“Uh, glad you liked it,” Renji managed. “Who was your friend?”

“Her name is Inoue. Orihime Inoue.”

“Oh, the robot girl!” Renji exclaimed. “Er, I mean she drew robots. Constantly. For every assignment. I didn’t mean to imply she was… robotic. In any way.” Jeez, Abarai, pull it together, he chided himself. “Yeah, I remember her. I didn’t know her well, but she sure could draw some tight robots. Is, she, uh, doing well?”

“She’s doing storyboards for a stop-motion animation studio,” Rukia replied.

Renji smiled. “That sounds perfect for her.”

Rukia bit her bottom lip and Renji’s throat went dry.

“So, um, you said in your email that you would have a design for me to look at?”

Renji realized that he was gripping the folder like a doofus. “Right! I did a couple of variations,” he explained, passing it from one hand to the other. “But you explained the concept pretty clearly, and I’m really happy with how the first one came out. I mean, obviously, it’s your tattoo! Please give me any feedback you have, you won’t offend me, even if you hate it! Tattoo designs often take a few iterations, it’s very normal, don’t hold back.”

She was staring at him, those big eyes wide and sparkling. “Can I… see it?”

“Oh! Right!” He shoved the folder at her.

Rukia opened it up and gasped.

“I especially love the way you draw skeletons,” Rukia’s email had read. “Do you think you could tattoo a grim reaper doing a sick kickflip on a skateboard onto my outer bicep? I do lift, so I am pretty jacked, if that makes a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” Rukia sighed in a tiny voice.

“Um, in the first variation (that’s page 2) I added some sunglasses, and in the second one, the grim reaper is flipping the bird and also its head is on fire. I guess I thought that grim reapers should be gender neutral but now I’m wondering if you would have preferred more of a… lady grim reaper?” Renji yammered absently.

“Oh, no,” Rukia murmured softly, flipping through the pages. Renji wasn’t even sure she had listened to a word he had said. “These are amazing. I love the sunglasses, but I also like the way you put little flames in the eye sockets in the first one…” She waved a hand absently. “Oh, and don’t worry, I like a non-binary skeleton.”

A small problem had just occurred to Renji. “Hey, um, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I… may have overestimated the size of your arms.”

“Oh?” Rukia asked, and abruptly shucked off her expensive suit jacket. She was wearing a pale purple sleeveless silk blouse underneath. She held one arm out experimentally, and then flexed. The muscle definition on her bicep made Renji take an involuntary swallow, but the fact that she was wicked cut did not buy him much in the way of real estate.

“I’ll just shrink it down maybe 25%,” he reassured her. “I’ll have to simplify some of the detail on--”

“No,” Rukia frowned, her eyebrows drawing together. “Don’t do that.” She thought for a moment. “I’m not committed to having it on my arm.” She uncrossed her legs and hefted one high-heeled foot onto the coffee table in front of her. “What do you think? Is my thigh big enough?”

Renji tried to make words come out, but it just wasn’t happening.

“Er… sorry,” Rukia said slowly, tugging at her hem. “I forgot I was wearing a skirt today.”

“Huh?” Renji scrambled to recover. He needed to say something. She looked really embarrassed. Say something! Say something professional about her leg! “Sorry, I was, uh, thinking!” Good, good, now keep going. “Don’t be self-conscious, I see people’s bodies all the time. Bodies are no big deal, we all got ‘em, right?” This was true in the abstract sense, but he knew these were blatant lies as they exited his mouth. Most people’s bodies were no big deal. He had only known her for five minutes, but was certain that Rukia Kuchiki’s thighs were a very big deal. He studied her leg, stroking his chin, like he was some kind of anthropologist of thigh tattoos. Mostly he was trying to figure out what would seem like an appropriate amount of time to look at a person’s thigh, a person who was your professional client that you most definitely did not have the hots for. “There’s certainly plenty of room,” he declared. “But, you know, people are going to see it less. Which is a selling point for some people! It’s just a personal decision that you’ll have to make. It sounds like you had a big vision.”

Rukia gingerly placed her foot back on the floor. “I had actually been wondering if maybe the upper arm was too public, anyway,” she admitted. “The fact is, I just got full access to my trust fund, and this is sort of a celebration, but I may have been a little overeager to piss off my big brother. He’s very stodgy.” She contemplated the area of her leg that was covered by her pencil skirt. “But so are a lot of people in my field. I can wait until I’m running my own company before I get started on the full sleeve of my dreams, right?”

“Worked for me,” Renji replied, utterly lost by whatever she was talking about. “What… field are you in?”

“Oh, finance,” she dismissed.

Finance. Of course. Renji tried to shoo away the weight of disappointment that was settling in his stomach. He was talking to a friendly client who was clearly loaded, loved his work, and was contemplating thousands of dollars worth of future business. He should be thrilled. He should probably be trying to sell her one of his old paintings-- they were only gathering dust, anyway. Renji would never break the studio policy about hitting on clients. The fact that she would surely laugh at him if he asked her to his favorite burger joint ought to make things easier, right?

“This is so hard!” Rukia declared, and Renji was shaken from his reverie. She was just contemplating his draft designs again, though, flipping back and forth between them.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” he reassured her. “You can think about it and email me. If you’re happy enough, we can schedule your session, and we’ll work out the details between now and then. Chat it over with your pal MechaHime, she’s got good opinions.” He paused. Momo always said he was too nice during consults, they were running a business, but he couldn’t help it. “Or you can just call back when you’re ready. No pressure.”

Rukia slammed her fist down on her knee. “No! Let’s schedule it! Do I pay now?”

“20% deposit. Let’s go out front, Izuru will ring it up.”

“Perfect.” She looked longingly at the drawings again. “Can I take these with me? You’re absolutely right, Orihime will know what to do.”

Renji wrinkled his nose. “It’s actually against studio policy but…”

Rukia’s face suddenly became very serious. “Then it’s against policy.” She winked at him and smiled. “You should take care of your intellectual property, Mr. Abarai.”

“I never get over to this part of town, to be honest,” Rukia admitted as they walked back up to the front. “Is the taco place across the street any good?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s great,” Renji agreed. “Momo and I painted a huge mural on their wall, so they give us free churros.”

“Are tacos a good post-tattoo celebratory meal?” Rukia asked curiously.

“Well, you actually want to eat beforehand,” Renji pointed out. “It’s important to keep your energy up. I don’t estimate yours should take very long, I’m gonna book you a two-hour slot.”

“Ah, okay,” Rukia agreed, and Renji realized belatedly that...maybe… she had been asking him out? No. Surely not. His brain scrabbled for a response, but then he stepped into the reception area and his brain shut down entirely.

“It’s DONE!” Shuuhei bellowed. “Behold my work, ye mighty, and despair!”

Tetsuzaemon Iba, serial client, yakuza enthusiast, and assistant manager at a doggie day care, was flexing. He was not wearing a shirt.

From behind the reception desk, Kira was wearing a dour frown and shaking his head.

“It’s a masterpiece,” Renji declared. “I admit I was skeptical, but it looks fantastic, man. You happy with it?”

“It” was a massive tattoo, covering the wide landscape of Iba’s broad back. It featured a lucky cat, grinning maniacally, its paw held high. It was on fire. The kanji for “lucky charm” was incorporated somehow. It was a disaster. It was perfect.

“How could I not be?” Iba boomed.

“Whoa,” a tiny voice behind Renji said.

Iba’s face went pale when he realized that he was being Peak Iba in front of an elegant, professional woman whose shoes probably cost more than his entire net worth. “Gimme me my shirt!” he demanded of Shuuhei.

“That’s… amazing!” Rukia exclaimed, her face lighting up. “Wow, how long did that take?”

Shuuhei blinked slowly as he passed Iba his shirt. “Five sessions.”

“Well, it’s so cute!” Rukia announced. “You must love cats.”

Iba lifted at the same gym as Renji and watched Momo’s Pomeranian on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He was a regular fixture at the tattoo studio, and all four of them liked to drag him, but no one, none of them, had ever roasted him this hard. Renji cursed that no-asking-out-clients rule, because he wanted to buy Rukia Kuchiki her own body weight in tacos and then ask her to be his wife.

“He’s more of a dog person,” Shuuhei supplied.

“Great with dogs,” Izuru added.

“Shut up, you jerks, I am a lover of all animals,” Iba grumbled as he pulled his Hawaiian shirt over his shoulders. “Is this your lawyer, Abarai? Did you finally get arrested for that hairstyle?”

“I have an MBA, actually, not a JD,” Rukia replied matter-of-factly. “And I am his client. Can you show that large man my tattoo design? Is that allowed?”

Renji chuckled, and pulled out his drawing.

“That,” Iba declared, “is a wicked tatt.”

“Oh, you showed me that email!” Shuuhei recalled. “It came out great.” He regarded Rukia. “He was really excited about that one, you made his day.”

Rukia just beamed proudly.

“Are we booking a session, then?” Izuru asked hopefully.

“Yeah, two hours,” Renji nodded.

“Let me just finish ringing up Iba, and I’ll see when you’ve got an opening,” Izuru replied.

“This your first one?” Shuuhei asked Rukia conversationally.

“Mm-hmm,” Rukia nodded.

“Well, you made a good choice. Clean design, mostly black with just a few color pops, should go on quick and easy, and it’ll hold up really well, too.”

“This is Shuuhei, the one I was telling you about, who fixes a lot of bad tattoos.”

“I have never had to fix an Abarai tattoo,” Shuuhei declared. “He’s great with first timers. Very gentle. I’ve fallen asleep while he was inking me.” Shuuhei pointed to the pair of crossed scythes gracing his upper arm. “This is one of his.”

“Oooh, neat!” Rukia agreed.

“You’re being embarrassing,” Renji informed his friend.

“Always,” Shuuhei agreed. “Nice to meet you! I hope I get to see the finished product.” He waved to Iba as he headed off toward the back. “Don’t forget to moisturize!”

“Everyone’s so friendly here,” Rukia said softly to Renji. “This isn’t at all like I pictured it.”

Renji stretched his arms behind his head. “Nah, we’re just a bunch of goofballs who like drawin’ on people. Very lowkey.”

“I guess I’ve thought a lot about the getting tattooed part of getting tattooed, but I never thought of it as… a job. That people have.”

“It’s a great job,” Renji replied. “I love it. I’m just lucky that Izuru over there has enough business sense to keep the other three of us from running it into the ground.”

“That’s certainly the truth,” Izuru agreed, as Iba headed out the door. “Two hours, you said? Renji’s got a 4-6pm block open on a Wednesday, three weeks from now. The 24th, how does that work for you, Ms. Kuchiki?”

“Do you think that’s enough time to settle on a design?” Renji asked. “If you come up with changes, it should only take me a day or two to incorporate them.”

“Oh! Yes, three weeks should be fine. I thought… it might be a little sooner,” Rukia replied, sounding a tad disappointed.

“Abarai’s a busy man, three weeks is actually pretty quick,” Izuru explained.

“Right, of course!” Rukia nodded. “Yes, I’ll take the 24th!”

She then paid her deposit, a process which involved her taking approximately ten thousand items out of her purse, including a full-sized drawing pad, a single fingerless glove, and a Pez dispenser with a duck head. She was the most contradictory person Renji had ever met, and he just wanted to know everything about her. But instead, they were going to exchange a couple of emails about a grim reaper on a skateboard, he was going to spend an hour and a half two inches from her naked thigh in a state of intense, non-sexual concentration, and then he would likely never see her again.

“Okay, I guess that’s it!” Rukia said, stuffing the last of her worldly belongings back into the purse. “Three weeks, then!”

“Three weeks it is,” Renji agreed. “Unless we happen to run into each other at the taco place.”

Rukia blinked. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “Right. Ha, ha, of course!” She’d been walking backwards toward the door, an impressive feat in those heels, and she spun suddenly to pull it open.

“It’s a push,” Renji and Izuru chorused together.

“Ha, ha, of course it is!” Rukia laughed nervously, and ducked out.

Izuru stared pointedly at Renji. “Wow,” he said.

“I don’t know what you have against her,” Renji scowled. “So she’s professional. She was really nice. She’s a big fan of my work.”

Izuru cocked his head. “She’s clearly also a big fan of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Renji said.

“Look, I’m sorry I implied that a person who drives a Lotus Exige would not be interested in having your weird skeleton doodles permanently placed on her body,” Izuru held up his hands, “but did you really not notice the little hearts and singing birds floating around her head every time she gazed longingly at you?”

“Since when do you know anything about cars?” Renji snapped.

“It looked fancy and I asked Shuuhei what it was, okay!”

On cue, Shuuhei burst back into the reception area, Momo close on his tail. “Are we talking about the hot client who has a crush on Abarai?”

“Did you ask her out?” Momo asked breathlessly.

“She’s not really his type,” Izuru mused. “Very corporate.”

Renji frowned. Did he have a type? If his type excluded people like Rukia Kuchiki, he might need to get a new type.

“Who cares, she was adorable!” Momo insisted. “I woulda asked her out.”

“Renji, if you go out with her, can you get me a ride in the Exige?” Shuuhei added.

“I’m not gonna ask her out!” Renji protested. “What happened to the no-hitting-on-clients rule?”

“The rule is no creeping on clients,” Shuuhei correctly. “This is different. She’s clearly into you, big time.”

“Also, she seems non-terrible, unlike the questionable human beings you usually take up with,” Izuru pointed out. “We could relax the rule if it netted you an actually decent partner for a change.”

Renji scowled judgmentally at Izuru, as if his own dating history had been remotely better before he and Shuuhei finally hooked up.

“Oh!” Momo waved her phone. “Speaking of which, I googled her, like you told me to, Izuru--”

“Izuru!” Renji protested.

“--and you were right! She’s not just one of the Kuchikis, she’s the granddaughter!” Momo thrust her phone in Renji’s face. It was some article about some fancy charity event, complete with a picture that was clearly Rukia, dressed in a dramatic black and gold evening gown.

Renji wanted to push Momo’s hand away, but he also didn’t want to stop looking at Rukia in that dress. “The who?” he asked.

Izuru and Momo sighed dramatically in synchronized exasperation.

“Embarrassingly rich old money family? I don’t know what they actually do, but they’re always in the newspapers, donating money for something or other--”

“Billionaire philanthropists,” Shuuhei intoned in a fake deep voice.

“--I heard they’re descended from some famous clan of samurai back in Japan,” Momo ignored him. She jerked her phone back and started tapping at it frantically. “I’m sure you’ve seen pictures of the grandson-- Rukia’s brother, I guess. He always makes those lists of top ten hottest bachelors.”

“He’s dreamy,” Shuuhei seconded.

“Impossibly dreamy,” Izuru thirded.

Momo flipped her phone around again, to reveal a picture of a very serious, and very handsome man in a classic three-piece wool suit. Renji supposed “impossibly dreamy” was not an inaccurate description.

“Yeah, I think I’ve seen pictures of that guy before,” Renji shrugged. “He’s okay. Rukia has a more interesting face, I think.”

Momo and Shuuhei exchanged raised eyebrows.

“You do like her, then?” Izuru asked, his face brightening. “You’re wrong, by the way, Byakuya Kuchiki has the face of an angel.”

“Rukia says he’s stuffy,” Renji shrugged. “And fine. I like her. She’s cute and nice and had good taste in tattoos. What’s not to like?”

“Are you gonna ask her out, then?” Momo pressed.

“Absolutely not,” Renji replied. “She’s my client. Besides, as you just pointed out, she’s loaded. What’s she want with a scumbag like me?”

All three of his friends groaned.

“You have good delts and sexy hair,” Izuru pointed out.

“You give amazing hugs!” Momo declared.

“You draw fantastic skeletons,” Shuuhei added. “Which, apparently, is relevant to her interests, and not a thing you usually find on Tindr.”

“Also, we’ve already established that she does like you, regardless of whether she has a valid reason for doing so,” Izuru concluded. “So, if you’re at all interested, you really shouldn’t let that stop you.”

“I think you should go for it,” Momo encouraged.

“Me, too,” Shuuhei agreed.

Renji grimaced. She was an amazing girl, too good to be true probably. If she had any sense at all, she would certainly turn him down. But maybe… just maybe… she didn’t have any sense. “Okay,” he grudgingly agreed. “I’ll do it. But not until I’m finished the damn tattoo!”

[bradshawed]

the holiday + rafe .ᐟ   rafe is driving home to tannyhill for the holidays, but a terrible snowstorm hits, and he finds himself holed up in your little bed and breakfast until it passes !!

drew’s masterlist && christmas celly x

warnings — fem!reader, smut, kissing, cockwaming, swearing, slight fluff, Ward

…

Rafe rubbed his eyes in frustration, running his fingers through his wolf cut as he let out an exasperated sigh. “Fucking Sarah” he muttered, checking his phone for the millionth time.

The Cameron heir was driving back to his “home” in Tannyhill for his sister’s wedding. If he had it his way, he wouldn’t step a single foot on that godforsaken island, much less for her but as always, his father insisted.

Rafe took another deep breath, relaxing his hold on the steering wheel of his Jeep. He was going to need more than a few therapy sessions when he got back.

…

The snow storm raged on as the blonde weighed his options, messaging Wheezie to let her know that he was stopping in the next bed and breakfast to let the storm pass.

Lou: dad wants to know what B&B ur at ??

Rafe squinted at the chipped paint on the blue snow covered sign, smiling at the small yellow flowers drawn on with smiley faces.

Ray: Y/N’s Seaside Inn.

Lou: oooo i know where that is, the owner’s super sweet!! tell her i said hi :)

Rafe liked his sister’s message, pocketing his phone before running inside.

…

The door chimed at the sound of a new customer. “One moment!” Rafe leaned his back against the reception desk, turning around to admire the interior. It was cute, he could see why Wheezie liked this place.

“Hi, sorry for the wait. What can I do for you?” You were cute, your voice was gorgeous and fuck you looked adorable bundled up in your oversized sweater. Maybe coming back for Sarah’s wedding wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

“Hi, I was wondering if you had a room available for the night?”

“Hoping to camp it out until the storm passes?”

“Something like that.” He teased leaning on the counter, a renewed twinkle in his eyes.

“Mmhmm, cash or card Mr. Cameron?” You asked, leaning towards the handsome man.

His eyes filled with surprise as you clarified that Wheezie talked about her brother often but clearly failed to mention how handsome he was, bringing a warmth to his cheeks.

“Funny, she happened to say the same about you.”

“Oh yeah, and what else did she happen to say?”

“It’s a secret,” he whispered, zipping his lips and throwing away the key, “you’ll just have to wait to find out.”

“But I’m so impatient, you might have to show me Mr. Cameron.” You both moved towards the stairs that led to the bedrooms, his hands ghosting your hips.

“Jump.”

Your lips were on his, messy, teeth clashing as you devoured each other.

“Key,” you moaned as his mouth sucked on your sweet spot, his hand groping the back pocket of your jeans to retrieve the key to his room. You were made for him.

Once you were both inside, Rafe threw you onto the bed, locking the door behind him.

…

“I’ve missed you.” His admission hanging in the air as he tucked that one strand of hair behind your ear that never seems to listen. You leaned down from your position straddling his cock to place a sweet kiss on his lips. He was made for you.

note — so i took some creative liberties with this and it sort of turned into a smut? and maybe Rafe has been driving back to visit you and Wheezie without telling anyone else. hope you like it sunshine xx

christmas celly masterlist !

[bradshawed]

obsessed with this series, binge read it all and i cannot get enough of the the gorgeous graphics, the insane plot and ur breathtaking writing !! thank u for this masterpiece and thank you to sol for introducing me to this series xx everyone go read this rn !!

HEARTBREAK: LIVE | part twenty-nine

MASTERLIST (SMAU)

Pairing — Ex BF!Rafe x Radio Host!Female Reader

Summary — After a mysterious breakup with the university's golden couple, you went incognito. However, when your best friends drags you back into a spotlight, hosting a radio talk show, you find yourself opening up again. This time, with whole world listening (including Rafe).

Navigation — Part 28 | Part 29 | Part 30

IMPORTANT: if you want to follow my fics and updates, follow @zyafics-library and turn on notifications! however, to be added to this specific taglist, and remain tagged, you must interact with the posts.

taglist @ghostofwriting @mimibaby01 @itneverendshere @platinumblondeedition @inthelibrarybtw @psychocitylights @carrerascameron @theeternaloptimistt @frankoceanluvr11 @lilithblackkk @he6rtshaker @promiscuousg1rl @whytheylosttheirminds @harrys-housewife @maybankslover @starkeydolly @a-lovers-card @rafesgiirl @psychicnatural @rrosiitas @enthusiastms @kissrotten @doll-face222 @ilovefiction4lmen @goldsainz @starkeygirls @maybankiara @yootvi @4ria790 @httpsdrewstarkey @rafegf-real @rafeslovergirl @yuckblushin @xoxosblogsblog @logansblackgf @watchmerora @lou-la-lou @astroniii @vonhoe @congratsloserr @ilyrafe @rafesdrew @marooningmirrorball @drwstarkeys @xdeadlybansheex @ivysprophecy @fandom-addict-aesthetics @jeongintwt @evelynrayne

[thebibliomancer]

Song of the Dark Crystal liveblog pt 18

Song of the Dark Crystal by J.M. Lee because sure the book is only half over but don’t you think we should really find that flute now?

Last times on book: Kylan, Naia, and Tavra have traveled to Home-in-Shadows to find a magic firca that will help them warn all Gelfling about the Skeksis. Maudra Argot’s delightful son Amri has joined the party to lead them to the Tomb of Relics.

Chapter 18

The gang meets urLii the Storyteller! They find the cedar box of Gyr’s firca! What a fulfilling chapter!

Amri gets them all lanterns and then the gelfs split up because they’ll cover more ground that way.

... Kylan imagined Naia and Tavra were seeing the same as him: a passage lined with dusty, lichen-covered, boxed, locked, rolled, stacked, and latched items. There were so many things crammed among the shelves that it was hard to tell, especially in the lacking light, where one item ended and the next began.

I’ve been taking all of the books off of my multiple shelves to move and I feel this description very hard. My room is just stacks of books now. Floor is books and bed is books.

And yet I feel a secret forbidden library/archive inside a mountain might be my ideal dream home.

Kylan walks through the Tomb of Relics and sees lantern light and a figure down a hall. Its Tavra and she tells him to get back on task.

The first room gave him no success, though not for lack of trying. There were so many things crowded in every cubby that he was sure he hadn’t possibly looked through everything. Yet if he followed his impulse and inspected every crate and scroll he found, it would take forever. Each artifact was unique, and wonderful, and Kylan knew he could spend his entire life in the Tomb if he lost track of his goal.

In the last chamber of the row, Kylan finds that a shelf against the far wall has collapsed (possible from an earthquake... shouldn’t that be thraquake?) and spilled books and boxes and chests and artifacts and broken stuff into one jumbled pile.

And then the pile starts to move as a Mystic rises from underneath it. Huh, guess the shelf collapsed recently or he was taking a long rubble nap.

Amri and Naia show up and Amri introduces the Mystic as urLii and that he sometimes comes down from the Sanctuary to bring new stuff to the Tomb of Relics.

Heyyyy, urLii the Storyteller!

He was great in the Age of Resistance comic! In that, he sorta lived in the Tomb of Relics like a dragon with a bunch of piles of treasures. He also guarded the Dual Glaive and had named the Tomb of Relics that to make it sound spooky because he didn’t want a lot of company.

urLii the Mystic finally cleared enough of the pile to step free of it. In full view, Kylan could see he was indeed the same race as urVa, the wise archer they’d met in the Dark Wood. He had a long body, from his long face to his long, heavy tail, his skin marked where it was visible with etching-like whorls and spirals. He was clothed in a simple mantle, wrists decorated with metal cuffs and cord ties. He cleared his throat and patted his body, as if to make sure it was intact, and then drew a pair of eye-prisms from the clutter. Once they were snug on his nose, he looked at the three Gelfling more closely.

Huh! I think this is the first Mystic with glasses? Even though skekOk wears multiple glasses, his counterpart urAc wears none.

... Although I’m seeing on the wiki that skekOk wears glasses just to look smarter. Amazing.

urLii recognizes that this is Amri’s first time in the Tomb and explains he was looking for something, which he doesn’t remember now, when a shelf fell on him.

Amri decides to ask for urLii’s help in finding the firca.

While Amri described the firca to urLii, as casually as with a sibling, Kylan tried to quiet a sudden pulse of jealousy. It was a bad feeling, and he didn’t like it one bit. Not only did the Grottan have access to such a trove of ancient treasure, but they knew one of the Mystics like a family friend? He sighed and tried to wave the feeling away. There was no need to be in competition with Amri, who was only doing everything he could to help them.

If you didn’t hate being underground so much, I’d suggest asking Maudra Argot to adopt you. She seems cool. And Amri could be your brother!

But, yeah, no, it’d never work.

urLii believes he knows where the firca is. Although he’s waffling a bit on which way that is and keeps getting lost and wandering from chamber to chamber.

While they follow him, Naia asks why Amri didn’t mention that he knew a Mystic.

“Mystic? Um... I guess he is pretty mystical, now that you say it! urLii has taught the Grotan clan for ages. He’s a master song teller, and he taught us all to dream-etch. We call him the Storyteller. Our younglings travel to the Sanctuary when they come of age to learn... Is that strange? Are there others like him?”

Kylan’s heart ached. A friendship with one of the Mystics, those that were as wise as the Skeksis were shrewd! Yet in all his ancient knowledge, Amri didn’t even know how lucky he was.

Naia speculates how cool it would have been if urVa had lived with the Drenchen and taught them and mentions that urLii could probably teach Kylan a bunch of songs he’s never even heard.

Oof, kinda inadvertently putting salt on the jealousy wound there, Naia.

It’s not explicitly mentioned but I imagine that the fact that all Grottan learn dream-etching and can read has got to contribute to his feelings of inadequacy and jealousy. Dream-etching was his special skill that he brought to the group but they’re bringing Amri along and he can do it too.

urLii eventually finds a shelf that he insists is where the firca is, even though Kylan is pretty sure they’d searched that shelf twice.

The Storyteller searched the shelves with all four long-fingered hands at once, picking up small chests and shifting things aside, looking and grumbling hmm, hmm the whole while.

Oh, to have four arms and super good at sorting...

Amri asks if he’s sure that this is the right shelf, I guess having the same misgivings as Kylan. Aw dangit, Amri is even misgiving better! Poor Kylan!

But urLii insists! He’s a very organized relic keeper! Since Gyr the Song Teller was a Sifa, he put it next to the Sifan Charms of Zale, a sextant, some Nebrie hide, and charms.

Amri suggests instead that urLii moved it or maybe it fell when there was a booklanche in the other room.

The Gelfs all split up to cover more ground again but in the same room.

Kylan stayed near urLii, waiting for the courage to speak to the Mystic. They worked side by side while Amri joined Naia on the other end of the room. Kylan had questions, and he wanted to hear everything the Mystic had to share, but no matter how long he waited, the courage never came. He could not ask about Gyr, or the firca, or even whether the Mystic race knew their Skeksis counterparts had broken the Heart of Thra. Instead they looked in silence, Kylan’s lungs filling with dust as he uncovered dozens and dozens of shelves, finding nothing.

Naia eventually declares that the firca isn’t here, prompting urLii to shake his head and respond “Oh, where, then?”

Is that catty? Can Mystics be catty?

I know they can be sassy, especially urSol, but I didn’t know catty.

Oh, and then Tavra comes in with the cedar box the firca is in, which she says she found two chambers over.

Womp womp.

She also notices urLii but doesn’t really respond to a Mystic being here. Like ‘well this might as well happen.’

Instead of presenting it to Amri, who could have been said to be the owner of the box on behalf of his clan that protected the Tomb, or to Naia, who had been their unofficial leader through everything, Tavra brought the box to Kylan. He accepted it in both hands.

“Here’s your firca, Song Teller,” she said.

See, now that definitely sounds catty or perhaps spiteful.

Naia encourages Kylan to crack open the box but he takes time to savor the moment or perhaps just to examine the box in detail so as to set the scene. It really is a great box.

Etched in great detail on the lid was a drawing of a bird, standing next to a grove of trees to demonstrate its fantastical size. Its head was all beak with an eye on either side, wings half-spread over a clutch of boulder-size eggs. The only thing peculiar about the etching was a character burned into the corner of the drawing, the symbol for S. The etching still felt warm, but then again, everything in the stuffy chambers did.

You have good taste in boxes, Gyr. And/or whoever boxed it. Possibly urLii?

Hmm, I wonder if the etching on the box is etching etching or dream-etching.

And I wonder about that S.

S forrrrrr Song Teller?

Kylan imagines the firca before opening the box, something that looks so similar to the tiny instrument he learned to play but just oh so much cooler and more powerful and also capable of saving the day against the Skeksis!

Which I’m not sure about. There’s like a hundred pages left.

Though, just finding the thing isn’t the end of the story. They still get to use it to graffiti the truth absolutely everywhere.

Kylan cracks the box open and.... aw dang.

Resting in the padded box was a collection of white fragments - bone, no doubt, and some still large enough to show intricate carvings. There were just enough pieces to know what it had been, and what it could never be again. All that mattered now was what it was: Gyr’s bell-bird firca, smashed into a thousand pieces.

=(

What a shaggy fizzgig story.