#how could they do this to me? I am Italian!

[cumikering]

Gym bro Soap x reader 2

3.4k | angst You were perfect for each other, couldn’t you see? (part 1)

Johnny didn’t want to admit he started wearing tighter shirts to the gym for you - the ones that underlined the width of his broad chest and stretched over the generous bulge of his biceps.

He, too, found excuses to respectfully lean into you from behind, be it to help you with the pulldown bar or with reracking your weights. He might have imagined you stealing a glance or two at his arms, but he prayed that he was the one making you chew on your lip.

Like then, when he stood a little closer as he held your gaze for more than a few moments. This was working, wasn’t it? Wait until he busted out his compression shirts.

“Are you free Saturday fer dinner? I want to take you to that Italian near the park.”

“Oh, but that’s so expensive!”

“We’ve been consistent with our workouts, and yer making wonderful progress.” He shot you a reassuring smile. “I think we deserve to celebrate.”

“You know we can go to other places, yeah? It doesn’t have to be fancy.”

“Aye, but I want to go there with you. Please, hen?”

You averted your pretty eyes before nodding. He’d never get tired of calling you hen. If he knew he had that effect on you, he’d have started far sooner with the nicknames.

As the butterflies stirred in his belly, he balled his fist as to not reach out to cup your face like he’d wanted to for too long.

Saturday couldn’t have come sooner, but that morning Johnny’s body weighed a ton as he dragged himself out of bed. However, when you smiled when he walked into the gym, he forgot the odd ache of his body for a moment. You both stretched and warmed up before proceeding with each other’s routine.

But when he could barely complete a set, he knew something was up. He reracked his weights with an irritated grunt.

“You alright, Johnny?” you asked, brows furrowed.

“Feelin’ a bit off today.” He reached back to massage his tense shoulder.

“You do look a bit pale actually. Are you going down with something? Are you burning up?”

“No, don’t think so.”

You placed a hand on his forehead, and he would be lying if his stomach didn’t flip from the contact. Could a blush induce a fever?

“You seem fine, but I think you better get back and rest. Don’t want to injure yourself.”

“But… we’re still on fer dinner, yeh?”

“Don’t worry about that! We can go when you feel better.”

He lit up. “Ye know what’s goin’ t’make me feel better? My maw’s stew.”

He could cook and impress you with his mum’s recipe. Your weekly shopping was in order anyway.

Johnny did light cardio as he waited for you to finish your workout. While you cleaned up before going to the supermarket, he made sure nothing embarrassing or incriminating was on the floor or surfaces of his flat.

When he knocked on your door 30 minutes later, you emerged in comfy clothes and damp hair. You looked like you’d give wonderful cuddles, just what he needed when he was under the weather.

“Johnny, I almost forgot. I got you this.” You handed him a papercraft kit. “It’s Edinburg castle. I thought of you when I saw it.”

He gasped, clutching the gift to his chest. You thought of him? “Thank you so much, hen. I love it.”

You gave him one of those smiles again in reply. Well, he definitely had a fever now.

As you strolled through the cereal aisle, Mrs. Mactavish called back.

“Ye alright, Johnny? Ah was just in the garden.”

“No bother, maw. Am feelin’ a bit ill. Wanted tae ask for yer stew recipe.” He picked up another box of cereal to read its nutrition label on the back.

“Ye mean… yer cookin’?”

“Aye.”

There was a pause. “How..?”

His brows furrowed, placing the box back on the shelf. “What d’ye mean how?”

“Johnny,” she said gently, concern in every word. “Don’t ye remember wha’ happened last time?”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your giggle.

“Maw! I will not leave it this time. Promise! Now, can I get the recipe?”

“Alrite, alrite, I’ll send a photo,” she relented. “But don’t say I didn’t warn ye!”

He grumbled a thanks before his mum hung up.

He turned to you with a grimace. “I promise am no tha’ bad.”

“Well, you know I’m not that good at it either,” you said with a chuckle. “I need to step up my cooking game.”

“Only one partner needs t’be good at it anyway.” He shrugged. “Been told I’m a fast learner.”

You blinked.

“I mean,” he sputtered, cheeks heating up. “Find someone who can cook, if you can’t, ye know.”

Was his game off when he was ill? He grabbed two boxes of his usual cereal and rounded the corner into the next aisle.

You finished up and got the ingredients needed. Back at his flat, you helped him greatly with the recipe (you caught him almost burning the meat, and once more, the onions). Didn’t higher heat mean faster cooking?! No matter what you said, you were still better than him, even that it was a pathetically low bar to begin with.

The incidents didn’t help his morale. Despite the comforting smell of home that wafted in the kitchen, he kept peering nervously into the simmering pot as both of you cleaned up. After the stew had thickened, you both grabbed a spoon for a sample. While you hummed in delight, Johnny’s shoulders sagged. It tasted nothing like his mum’s.

“Please don’t tell ma maw I messed it up,” he pleaded, giving you his best puppy dog eyes. “I promise the recipe isn’t shite,”

“Why would you say that?”

“It’s mediocre at best.”

“No, I think it’s really good! I like it,” you reassured. “I’ll make some garlic bread to go with it.”

A relieved smile teased his lips. You always knew how to make him feel better. “You’ll have to taste the real thing.”

“I’d love to.”

You really should have been extra careful with the things you said, because how could he not imagine taking you back home to meet his parents now?

Unfortunately, Johnny felt worse by the evening.  On the couch with a runny nose, he grumbled to himself about not being able to go out for dinner with you.

“It’s alright, Johnny. We’ll go next weekend, in time for your deployment too.” You placed the steaming mug of tea on the coffee table and pulled the blanket over his shoulders. “Do you want me to get takeout instead? Or I can cook something if you want.”

He should get sick more often.

“Actually, I’d like it if you could cook something, please. But only if ye want tae.”

Johnny wanted to help with dinner, but you insisted he worked on the papercraft at the dining table instead. He chuckled, feeling like a little boy being kept busy with his toys. He didn’t hate the feeling. It was wonderful to be pampered, being fussed over by you, only to be rewarded with some godly carbonara.

“Why’d ye say yer a bad cook?” he asked after his first bite.

You shrugged. “My family don’t usually like my cooking.”

“Missin’ out. They’re all missin’ out. I’ll eat this every day.” He shoved another forkful into his mouth.

He thanked his lucky stars he didn’t have to learn how to cook after all, lest be burnt the kitchen down. He could always compensate by doing the cleaning.

You took care of Johnny over the weekend, bringing him hearty meals to share. You even kept him company as he continued working on the papercraft. Having you at his doing your own thing, lounging around on his couch existing together… It was hard to not imagine that you lived there with him. Like you were a permanence of his life, just taking care of the sick love of your life.

He was, wasn’t he? Oh God, the fever was making him extra delusional.

You sent him little texts at work over the week. While he giggled and kicked his feet as he clutched his phone, he didn’t miss the way Gaz nudged Ghost at the other end of the rec room.

“He’s trying real hard to crawl out of the friendzone,” the sergeant quipped with a laugh.

Johnny gave him the stink eye, but he couldn’t blame Kyle. He was just jealous he had no pretty little thing making sure he was eating and drinking enough, let alone one who would wait for him at home with a warm meal.

You were doing just that, weren’t you? You cooked extra for so he could eat healthier and didn’t have to fuss about dinner. Thanks to your care, he recovered fast; he only had to skip another workout before getting back to his routine.

The following Saturday night, the anticipated dinner finally came. Johnny dressed up in a crisp button down and had gone to the barber the day before and even got his boots polished.

Did you understand how important this was to him? He wasn’t living another night without you knowing his intentions, especially after how selfless you’d been when taking care of him. He was going to make you feel like the only woman in the world.

But when you opened the door of your flat, he froze. You looked gorgeous in your outfit, it made his knees weak. He almost forgot the mission he was on because he needed to bury his face in a pillow and let out a squeal.

He cleared his throat, blinking as he struggled to keep his eyes off yours. “Wow, y- you look lovely, hen.” He didn’t mean to be disrespectful, but how could he not stare?

You didn’t meet his gaze, instead biting down a smile as you locked up.

He swallowed. It took everything to not pull you in for a kiss. He could already imagine how perfectly his hands would fit on your waist.

When he opened the door of his SUV for you, you mumbled a thanks. He wished you acknowledged his attire too, but the way he caught you glancing from the corner of his eye as he drove was enough of a compliment. You were very welcome to ogle. Would it help if he unbuttoned a few buttons?

Sat in a quiet corner, you admired the interior of the restaurant and how polite everyone was. He would never get tired of seeing that enthusiasm in your bright eyes as the conversation flowed.

“You been here before, Johnny?” you started after the waiter had left.

He shook his head as he raised his wine glass. “Was saving it for something special.”

“Which is?” You followed suit.

“You finally hit another lat pulldown PR,” he teased, clinking his glass against yours.

You laughed before taking a sip.

He was used to flirting to be liked and noticed, but with you, he didn’t need to. It was a blessing to be in your presence that his instinct was to admire you and be in the moment. You made him feel like he was enough without having to be anyone else. Was this the reason it was so effortless to be around you?

Unfortunately, the pasta you ordered didn’t turn out to be the best. You didn’t have to tell him - he’d grown familiar with the small tells of your face.

“I think we should order something else. This doesn’t look like enough food.”

“No, no! It’s plenty.”

“Want to have more of mine?” he pushed his plate of risotto closer to you.

“That’s fine, Johnny. It’s your favourite.”

“But you like it more.” He swapped your plate with his. “And we can always come back.”

You gave him a apologetic smile, your shoulders sagging. You didn’t have to feel so bad. The night was all about you anyway, and he was more than happy to ensure you enjoyed your time.

The both of you lingered after dessert. You never seemed uncomfortable with him, but that night the air around you was different, like you were even more open and loose. He could see in the way you leaned in more and held his gaze longer. He scooted his seat closer to the table, his stomach fluttering each time you laughed at his jokes.

Please, please, never stop. It was his favourite sound ever.

With his belly and heart full, you headed home. He wordlessly offered you his arm, but you didn’t seem to notice with the way you averted your gaze when he called you hen or bon. He didn’t mean to! They rolled off his tongue, because he meant every word.

At your door, he grasped your keys from your soft hand and helped you with it.

“Thanks so much for dinner, Johnny. I had such a good time.”

He couldn’t help return the grin. “Pleasure’s all mine, hen. I’m just happy you said yes.”

He didn’t like getting ahead of himself, but this was going fantastically well, wasn’t it? They way you looked at him with those eyes… Did you know what you were doing to him, how fast his heart raced for you?

John Mactavish was just a man.

Maybe he’d get to kiss you soon. Maybe even next week, before his deployment.

However, the optimism didn’t last very long. Because when he stepped in for a hug, you jumped and hurried past your door, closing it behind you with a frantic goodnight.

Johnny blinked. What the fuck just happened? You just said you enjoyed the night. Had he read it all wrong?

He turned on his heels as he blinked fast, hoping it was enough to keep the brimming tears at bay as his chest seized.

Radio silence replaced his joyful days with you.

Johnny tried not to think too much about you, or the fact that you didn’t even text in the following days. He didn’t either – how could he recover from that night? Even the day before he was to ship out, he didn’t allow himself to wonder why you didn’t reach out to arrange something with him like you always did.

But as he lay in bed, with a heavy heart that wouldn’t allow his mind to stop reeling, his phone buzzed with your text.

Wishing you all the best for tomorrow. Take care

He squinted. Did this mean more than what it looked like? Were you brushing this under the rug? He stared and stared at his phone until his head hurt before sighing.

Thanks

It was impossible you didn’t notice the shift – you wouldn’t be this way otherwise, as if keeping him at an arm’s length. It was a hard pill to swallow, but it couldn’t be any more obvious now that you weren’t interested. He just wished it wouldn’t hurt this much, like getting shot in the stomach with a bullet that kept digging and digging.

He was gone for weeks at a time. Did his deployments get in the way of his progress with you, that you had to warm up to him all over again every time he came back? Did he miss his chance? Did the chemistry dwindle over the months? Did you, like most women, not want long-distance? Did you find someone else, someone who treated you better than him?

The longing gazes he could have sworn you shot him had all been in his head. It was clear now you weren’t taking things slow, let alone playing games.

You were simply uninterested.

When Johnny came back weeks later, out of courtesy, he picked up a new gym schedule as to not cross paths with you.

He didn’t text, and you didn’t either. His days with you were gone – the laughter, the quiet afternoons sketching, but the memories remained close to his heart. They pricked more often than not.

Distance was imperative to move on, but he still found it hard to breathe sometimes – his chest heavy with the ache to see your smile. The photos he had of you couldn’t hold a candle to how beautiful you were in real life.

He had no one but himself to blame. As soon as he knew he couldn’t have you, he should have backed away, protected himself, especially when his feelings wouldn’t fizzle after the months. Instead, he was too soft to walk away, settling for any shred of you.

You were perfect for each other, couldn’t you see? You motivated each other, pushing each other to be better. I think I’m in love you, he’d muse to himself as he looked at you. Sometimes the need to say it out loud made him want to cry, like he was choking on the words.

He could have said them outright - maybe he should have, he was a grown man, for fuck’s sake! But he never did, because deep down he knew you’d run. So he carried on, with his feelings buried deep, avoided like a tin of radioactive waste welded shut.

It was undeniable having you out of his life was torture, but it will pass. Eventually. Hopefully. Still, for all the joy you’d brought him, there was not a regretful bone in his body.

What he didn’t expect, though, was how soon this would end.

You, on the other hand, never imagined even a fraction of the depth of Johnny’s feelings towards you.

The radiant Scot didn’t seem like one to be sentimental. He was happy go lucky and… friendly. Attractive men always were, especially when they had such an easy, charming smile. You didn’t want to flatter yourself - and shouldn’t - by thinking this was anything more than platonic. You weren’t his type, and you were smart enough to not fall for someone you could never have.

He was a good man, but not good for your if you caught feelings, so you tried not to. Keyword tried.

It was impossible when he was right there. He was irresistible with that boyish smile you couldn’t help but return. He kept your spirits up with his boisterous laugh and funny stories, and those sky blue eyes… ever grounding on your worst days. Whenever you had an issue, he was the first to offer help. He made the effort to be there for you in any way he could, even when he was away.

It was a slippery slope, and you were losing the battle fast. Before you knew it, his text was the first thing you looked for when you woke, and he was the last thing on your mind before drifting to sleep.

It was the way he called you hen, wasn’t it? There was something in his powerful yet gentle voice, like he meant it just for you as he looked into your eyes.

You played with fire. You chose to be around him knowing you couldn’t have him, and it was your fault you got burnt at the end.

You couldn’t be happier when he invited you out to such a nice place. It meant the world to you that he’d dressed up and was so accommodating about you not liking the dish you ordered. You could almost pretend it was real – that you mattered - even when it didn’t mean a thing to him.

With a smile and a sunny personality like that, he could have anyone, and you were nothing more than his neighbour and gym buddy.

Still, you didn’t mean to dodge his embrace that night, because of course, you’d wanted it. You wanted his gorgeous eyes to bore into yours before kissing you, just like in your daydreams. But in the midst of telling yourself to be realistic and get over your own feelings, him stepping in caught you off guard.

Why did you have to make it weird, you screamed at yourself. It was a friendly embrace; it wouldn’t have worsened your feelings anyway. You wanted to crawl into a hole. You’d ruined your friendship, without so much as the relief of a confession.

But you’d be fine. You’d get over it eventually, like you always did. You just had to put your big girl pants on.

When the wound had healed, maybe you could be friends once more without having to worry about getting your heart broken.

Masterlist Possessive best friend Soap

@tiredmetalenthusiast @astraluminaaa @noicedog @devcica @ray-rook

@loveergirll @marvelssssssss @wannabhere @vmaxis @asbestos-n-asbesties

@teranyaa @sinelity @solemnlyswearss @rip-cod-brainrot @dilf-luvr-4evr

@eve-lie @cloudynoxx @maskfan25 @winnieb00 @wyverns-and-songs

[crazyunsexycool]

My Little Love

Chapter 41

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Enhanced!Reader

word count: 7.8K

Warning: Smut at the beginning, so much fluff, Pregnancy!!!!

A/N: You guys it's finally happening!!!!!! In Lottie's words : am so 'cited, for this chapter. We finally get the news we've been waiting for. If you find inaccuracies just play along :)

Series masterlist

Even as the plane landed Bucky didn’t want to tell you where he was taking you. He ushered you into a cherry red convertible. The top was down and your bags were in the trunk. Bucky was excited as he put on his sunglasses and opened the passenger’s door for you. 

You tilted your head back and soaked up the sun while Bucky took you to your destination. Music was playing and the breeze was refreshing. You couldn’t stop the smile from forming on your lips. It wasn’t until some time in the drive that you decided to really pay attention to where you were going, hoping that you’d get a clue as to what Bucky had planned. 

“Is that sign in Italian?” You asked as you drove down the highway. 

“It is.” 

Now you were really excited. Of course you’d been to Italy before but it was only on a mission so it didn’t really count. You turn to look at Bucky with excitement only to find him sneaking glances at you. 

“Where exactly is it that we’re going? Please just tell me.” 

“I could tell you or you can see it for yourself.” He says just as he starts to slow down. 

On one side was the sea. Waves lapped lazily along the shore. The air was filled with the salty scent of the ocean. You watched as people got into the water and splashed around. Colorful umbrellas dotted the sandy beaches and boats dotted the sea. On the other side colorful buildings brought life to the mountainside. It was picturesque and almost too beautiful to be real. You’d only seen this place before in pictures.

“Are we on the Amalfi Coast?” You asked Bucky with disbelief.

“Yup. I know you’ve always wanted to come. I thought, what better time than now.” 

“Buck-“ you weren’t sure what to even say. “I think I only mentioned it in passing, years ago. How did you even remember?” 

“I remember everything about you.” Bucky grabbed your hand and gave it a kiss. “Now, do you want to stop and get some breakfast or do you want to head to the villa?” 

“You got a whole villa?” 

Bucky smiled and nodded. 

“Breakfast first.” 

“Whatever my wife wants, she gets.” Bucky says as he finds somewhere to park. 

You walk hand in hand through the streets of the small seaside town. Both of you point out little areas or things that you find interesting. He takes you to a shop or two. Of course the first thing you buy is something for Charlotte and Henry. At the cafe Bucky orders in Italian, a proud smirk on his face when he notices how impressed you are. His hand never leaves your thigh. The two of you stay close to each other, murmuring sweet nothings and overall enjoying your time as newlyweds. 

After driving up a private driveway lined with trees, you’re met with a beautiful open space. There’s a fountain surrounded with flowers in the center of the driveway and the villa itself is amazing. A grand entryway with ivy growing up the walls of the two story house. The red tile roof was a perfect contrast against the earthy tones of the brick. 

Bucky opens your car door and helps you out. Then he grabs your bags and leads you up to the main door. 

“How did you even find this place? It’s beautiful.” 

“Tony.” Bucky says over his shoulder. 

He opens the door and lets you in first. You’re greeted by a stunning foyer. Rustic meets modern seemed to be the style. The living room was huge with big comfortable looking couches. Huge windows that gave you the most perfect view of the garden and pool. The whole house was exquisite. You wandered around while Bucky went upstairs and dropped off your suitcases. 

Outside the garden was in full bloom. Every flower in its perfect spot and every tree or bush trimmed and kept impeccably. You wandered toward the end of what you thought was the property only to be met with an impressive view. The villa sat on a cliff and the ocean just below it. Stairs were carved down towards a private dock. A small sailboat sat in the water ready for use. 

“So what do you think?” Bucky asked as he snaked his arms around your waist and pulled you in. His chin rested on your shoulder as you both looked out into the beautiful view.

“It’s perfect. I love it here already. Thank you.” 

Bucky only answered by placing a kiss on your shoulder before going back to admiring the view. The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes before you turned in his arms. 

“I’m going to freshen up ok?”

“Ok.” Bucky smiled and pressed a sweet kiss to your lips. 

****

You finished applying your red lipstick. After checking your reflection one more time in the full length mirror in the bathroom you walk back into the master bedroom. You had on the red lingerie from the Polaroids you’d given Bucky before your wedding. The lacy barely there set included a garter belt and stockings which you paired with ridiculously high heels. Your intention was to call out for Bucky but as you passed by the double doors that led to the balcony you could make out his figure in the distance. 

The breeze felt amazing against your skin as you stepped out onto the balcony. You leaned against the stone railing and watched Bucky for a moment. Anticipation of what was going to happen next had you pressing your thighs together.

“Sergeant Barnes.” You call out loud enough for Bucky to hear. 

He turns around a smile on his face that falters as he looks for you. You can see the way his lips part once you stand up straighter, revealing the lacy bra you were wearing. Bucky doesn’t waste any time. He starts walking back into the house in order to get to you. 

Seeing him move through the garden and into the house you head into the bedroom. You make yourself comfortable on the bed just as Bucky slams the door open. He stares at you for just a moment, laying in the middle of the bed propped up on your elbows and one leg propped up. Bucky groans at the sight. 

“Sugar, are you planning to kill me on our honeymoon?” He asks as he makes his way over to the foot of the bed. 

You smirk as he starts to take his shirt off. Bucky grabs your ankle and pulls you towards him. 

“James!” You yelp at the sudden movement before giggling. 

Bucky kisses your calf and leaves a trail down your leg until he gets mid thigh. 

“Look at you, so pretty just for me.” He murmurs as his hands trace the stockings and garter belt. “You’re so fucking perfect.” 

Bucky kissed every part of your body he could reach. He made his way up to you slowly until he was hovering over you. 

“Hi Sugar.” 

“Hi baby.” 

“You look beautiful.” He murmurs as his eyes rake over your face. “You’re always so beautiful.”

You smile as you run a hand through his hair. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“Nuh-uh Mrs. Barnes. I'm the lucky one. Will you let me show you how much I love you?” 

“Yes, please.” You reply as you pull him down for a kiss. 

Bucky’s tongue dances with yours. His hands travel up and down your sides. When you pull apart, you’re breathless. The red lipstick you’d worn was smudged and transferred onto Bucky’s lips. He smiled down at you as his lust filled gaze pulled you in. Bucky doesn’t give you much time to catch your breath. His lips are on yours again and then he’s moving to your cheek and down your jaw. He nips and hums against your neck when he gets to that spot that makes you weak. You can’t help but buck your hips against him. 

A small whimper passes your lips when Bucky’s thumb brushes over your nipple. He kneads your breast before pulling down your bra. Bucky’s lips wrap around your pebbled peak, his tongue swirls around it. You moan as he continues to put his attention on your chest. There was something about being with him at this moment, with Bucky’s attention on your breasts that was close to pushing you over the edge faster than ever. Maybe it was the fact that this was your first time together after your wedding and the thrill of it all had you more excited than you realized. 

You didn’t notice when Bucky undid your bra. It was the cool air against your nipple that brought you back to the moment. Bucky gave you a proud smirk as he kissed down your belly slowly. Your hands moved to the garter belt, you had full intentions of taking it off but Bucky stopped you. 

“This stays on.” He murmurs, his eyes dark with lust as he continues to admire you from above. “And so do these,” his hands move to your stockings. “And these.” His hand stops at the heels you were wearing. 

Bucky moves off the bed and drops to his knees. His hands wrap around your calf and he pulls you to the end of the king size bed. Without much warning he rips the panties you had on and dives in. His tongue runs up your slit and swirls around your throbbing clit. You moan and whimper and Bucky can only groan in response. He has you breathless and close to the edge already. You bury your hands in his hair to keep him where you need him. When he teases your entrance with a finger you whine until he finally slides a finger in. You can’t help but buck your hips in order to get relief. It only takes Bucky seconds to pull an orgasm out of you. Your high pitched whine doesn’t stop him though, Bucky helps you ride your high before he adds another finger. His tongue sweeps over your clit in perfect time with his fingers. Your back arches off the bed as you try to pull away. The feeling of his mouth on you is almost too much but not enough. You babble incoherently as Bucky pulls another orgasm from you. 

“Bucky-” you murmur breathlessly. 

Bucky finally pulls away from your sensitive center and lays down beside you.

“So fucking sweet.”

He has a smug grin on his face as he caresses your cheek. You watch as his tongue sweeps his bottom lip and pull him down for a kiss. Bucky lights you on fire all over again with this intense kiss. His hands roam your body and then he’s moving you up the bed until you’re perfectly centered. 

“C’mere, let me love you.” You tell your husband, holding your hand out for him. 

Bucky leans over you and takes your hand in his. He turns his head and gives your palm a kiss. Instead of settling between your open legs Bucky pulls back up.

“Hands and knees, Sugar.” His voice is rough with need. 

You don’t hesitate to do as he asks. That’s one good thing about having the serum, you recover much faster. As you do as Bucky asks he gets off the bed and takes off his pants and boxers. He’s painfully hard as he grabs his cock and slowly starts to move his hand up and down. 

“What are you waiting for, Sargent?” You say with a wiggle of your hips. 

“Oh Sugar, you think you’re ready for me?”

“I’m always ready for you.” You arch your back more, giving him a better view of your ass. 

Bucky only groans in response as he takes his place behind you. He runs his cock through your soaking folds, the tip hitting your already sensitive clit. Without a word Bucky lines himself up and in one quick thrust he bottoms out. He curses when he feels you clench around him. Your moans causing his grip on your hips to tighten. Bucky gives you a few seconds to adjust to him, even after all this time it feels like he’s splitting you in half, before pulling back slowly and then pushing back in. He starts a slow steady rhythm, rolling his hips as his hands keep you in place. 

“You feel so fucking good.” Bucky grunts as he picks up speed. 

The only response he gets is a moan. Your hands grip the bed sheet and you can’t help but arch your back more for him. Bucky moves his left hand from your hip slowly up your spine. It makes you shiver as his hand rests at the back of your neck for a moment before it snakes around and his fingers wrap around your throat. You go easily as he pulls you up against him. His thrusts never stop and his hold on you is gentle. You drop your head back and turn to capture his lips with yours. 

“You got one more for me, Sugar?” Bucky muttered against your lips, his right hand moving towards your bundle of nerves. “Are you gonna come on my cock? Make a mess for me?” 

That had your pussy fluttering around him. You were putty in Bucky’s hands and he knew it. He even chuckled in your ear as you came. 

“There you go, Sugar. Always so good to me.” He grunts before he pulls out and has you laying on your back. 

You spread your legs for Bucky, waiting for him to take his place. His hooded eyes move from your face down to your chest, over the rest of your body before they land on your slick folds. His tongue slides over his bottom lip while he slowly strokes his cock. With a smirk Bucky moves closer and lines himself up with your waiting pussy and bottoms out. 

“C’mere.” You call him softly. Your hands move up his side and over his back. 

Bucky is stretched out over you. A lazy smile graces his lips as his nose bumps yours. 

“I love you so much, Sugar.” He says before pressing his lips to yours. 

“I love you too.” You gasp out as Bucky finally moves. 

He’s much more gentle this time. Your hands move over his chest where you can feel his heart beating wildly. It makes you smile as you move your hands toward his neck and pull him down for a languid kiss. You wrap your legs around Bucky’s waist, urging him to go a little faster. 

“Baby…” you moan. 

Bucky groans and pulls back to get a better look at you. His eyes are as dark as ever and it sends a delish chill down your spine. There’s a spark in his eyes that you can’t recognize as he stops his movements and pulls back. You do nothing but lay there excitedly waiting for whatever it is he’s going to do next. Bucky runs his hands over your thighs and stops at your belly. This time you prop yourself up on your elbows and raise an eyebrow in question. 

“Baby, huh?” His smirk turns devilish as he leans forward again, caging you in by laying his hands flat on either side of you. “Is that what you want? Want me to get you nice and pregnant?” 

You inhaled sharply at the question. Bucky chuckled as he felt your pussy clench down around his length. 

“I can just picture it, Sugar. Can’t you?” He starts to move his hips again, faster and deeper this time. “You, nice and round with our baby. Fuck you’d look so perfect.” 

You whimper as you fall back onto the bed. The small sound pushes Bucky to give you everything. Bucky tells you how pretty you’d look and how  You wrap your arms around him to pull him closer. Bucky can’t help but hide his face in the crook of your neck. He hisses as your nails dig into his muscular back. Your moans and whimpers and little sounds are like music to his ears. 

“Fuck, fuck you feel so good.” He mutters more to himself than anything else. “Can you give me one more? I know you can.” Bucky says as he moves one hand to your clit.

“James!” You scream as the orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. 

Seconds later you feel Bucky tense, his groan is almost animalistic. His spend coats your walls and he can’t help lay his weight against you. 

As you both come down from your highs you begin to run your fingers through his hair while Bucky rests his head against your chest. The two of you stayed like that for a few minutes until Bucky propped himself up to look at you. His smile was blinding.

“Are you good?” He asked as he unfortunately pulled away from you. 

“I’m more than good.” 

“Want to join me in the shower?” Bucky says as he gets up from bed. 

“I would but I don’t think my legs work right now.” 

Bucky had the nerve to look smug as he walked around the bed. He put an arm under your back and the other under your knees and pulled you up. 

“If you wanted me to carry you all you had to do was ask.” 

You laugh as you make your way to the bathroom. 

“Now let me get the shower ready and then we’ll work on kid number three.” 

You woke up disoriented since it was still light out. After the not so quick shower you shared with Bucky you headed straight to bed to take a nap. Now you find your bed empty and the sun just starting to set. You stretch your sore limbs and sigh happily.

The door to the bedroom opens slowly and Bucky pops his head in. He gives you a brilliant smile. 

“Hi, Sugar. It’s about time you woke up.” He says as he opens the door wider. “Hungry?” 

“I am actually.”

“Well I threw some snacks together for us.” He walks in with a tray and sets it on the bed. “I also have a little surprise.” 

You smile up at him while popping a grape into your mouth. Bucky pulls out his phone and taps a few time before turning it around for you to see. 

“Hi mama and daddy!” Lottie says into the camera with a huge smile. 

She’s still in her pajamas and her hair is a mess. Henry is also in his pajamas and matching hair.

“Hi mama and daddy.” He adds sleepily. 

“We habe a seepovuh with Steebie. An now we habes pancakes.” 

“We miss you.” Henry says as he throws an arm around Lottie’s shoulder. “But have fun.” 

“Steebie says we see you soons.” Lottie adds with a nod. “We lobes you.” 

You smile as the video stops. “Aawww my babies. Is it bad that I miss them already?”

“Not at all, I miss them too.” Bucky lays across the bed and props himself on his elbow. “So Mrs. Barnes, what would you like to do this evening?”

“Can we just stay in tonight? I’m still really tired.” 

Bucky smirked and wiggled his eyebrows. “Are you? I’m sorry, Sugar, I’ll take it easier on you next time.” 

You laugh, “shut up.” 

You do stay at the villa for the evening. There was enough to do to keep you both entertained.

“You know how to pilot this thing?” You asked as Bucky helped you onto the small boat that was docked on the private dock. 

“Of course I do.” Bucky sets down the bag you packed before turning around and making sure you were settled. “Now are you ready for a sun filled morning?”

“I am captain.” 

Bucky scrunches his face and you mirror him. “Never call me that again.”

“Don’t worry I won’t. It felt gross.” 

“Now, sit back, look beautiful and enjoy the ride.” Bucky says, looking over his sunglasses and sending a wink your way before giving his attention to getting away from the small dock.

You watched him for a moment, admiring the black swim trunks he was wearing and short sleeved button up which he left unbuttoned. It gave a great view of his toned chest and chiseled six pack. You did as Bucky asked and sat back, letting him do whatever it was he was doing.

 The sun was shining, there was a nice breeze and the smell of the sea was refreshing. You took off your coverall and revealed the two piece bikini you’d decided to wear. With a happy sigh and the motor of the boat kicking to life you relax and take in the sights around you. 

****

“What if someone sees us?” You whimper as Bucky rolls his hips.

What started out as an innocent request for a few pictures turned into a full blown, lust driven love making session. Bucky could barely keep his hands off you. He first undid your top, his hands kneaded your breast while he kissed your neck. The next thing to go was your swimsuit bottoms. Bucky had no shame in having you right then and there.

The only issue you were concerned about was doing it on the boat and having someone pass by.

“No one can see us, Sugar.” Bucky kisses and nips along your jaw. 

You moan with another of Bucky’s thrust before you speak up. “Are you sure?” 

Bucky stops his movements and pops his head up to look around. You can’t help but giggle at his antics.

“Coast is clear, Sugar. But if you want we can stop.” 

“No!” You grab his face and pull him back towards you. “Don’t stop, please.” 

Bucky smirks against your lips. “I love it when you beg.” 

Your hands ran down his chest and circled his midsection before they landed on his ass and squeezed. 

“Start moving Barnes.” 

“I love it when you’re bossy too.” He murmurs before he starts to drive into you, making your eyes roll back. 

The afternoon was also spent on a boat but this time doing a boat tour. Bucky sat with you and pointed out different things along the coast. You were having the time of your life. Then you get to an area with a long line of boats just waiting around. 

“What is happening?” You looked around curiously. 

A small rowboat makes its way over to your boat and Bucky gets up. He speaks in Italian to the men and turns back to you, offering you his hand. 

“C’mon you’ll want to see this.” He says happily. 

Bucky gets on the rowboat first then helps you down. Once you’re settled the rowboat starts moving. There’s some waiting in the water to purchase tickets.

“Oh my god is this the blue grotto?” You ask excitedly. 

Bucky smiles before the oarsman starts serenading you. You can’t help but giggle as he gets closer to the entrance. 

“Ok, you will have to lay down as I pass by.” The oarsman says with an adorably heavy accent. “Keep your hand an arms inside please.” 

You and Bucky do as you’re told and lay down. Once you’re inside the grotto you sit back up. It’s truly mesmerizing how beautiful it is. The water is such a vibrant blue it almost looks fake. The oarsman starts to talk about the history of the grotto and why the water looks as blue as it does. You spend a few minutes there and make sure to take pictures and videos. After the small detour is done you get back to your boat to continue your regular tour. 

For the next few days it’s the same. You and Bucky go out to explore the area, have dinner at some great local restaurant and somehow in between all of that you two are insatiable. Bucky can’t keep his hands off of you and vice versa. 

“What are you looking for again?” Bucky asks from the other aisle of a small pharmacy. 

“Something for my nausea. I think I’ve been eating too much these last few days and it’s finally starting to catch up with me.”

“Shouldn’t you see a doctor?”

“No, I don't think it’s anything serious.” you murmur before turning around to look on the other shelf. 

You stop in your tracks when you look at the product that’s directly in front of you. 

A pregnancy test.

And suddenly the nausea makes a little bit more sense. So does the tiredness and how the wine and champagne at the wedding tasted weird. Your eyes widen as you come to the realization that you are most likely pregnant. 

“Hey babe.” You call for Bucky as you move down the aisle. 

He turns the corner and meets you at the end with a smile. 

“I was thinking, why don’t I finish looking here and maybe you can get us some gelato from that shop down the street?” 

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’ll only be a couple of minutes and that line looks long.” You smile sweetly up at him.

“Ok, I’ll meet you outside.” Bucky leans down and gives you a quick peck on the lips. 

Once he’s out of sight you rush back and grab three different tests from three different brands and rush to the front to pay for them. A sweet little old lady at the register gives you a knowing look as she rings you up. She points towards a door towards the back of the store with a bathroom sign. You smile and thank you before heading to the back. 

****

You couldn’t help but smile as you walked onto the street. Bucky was just starting to walk back to you with two cups in his hands. He looked so handsome with his sunglasses, dark jeans and black short sleeve button up with white daisies all over. When he reached you, you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down for a kiss. 

“Feeling better?” Bucky asks as you pull back.

“So much better. This for me?”

Bucky nods as he hands you one of the cups. The two of you walk along the streets, a few shopping bags in hand, enjoying the last day or so of your honeymoon. You want to tell Bucky about the baby but at the same time you want the kids to be involved too. So for now you watch the sunset with your new husband before you have to head back home.

The plane ride had worn you down and you spent most of it sleeping. Once the plane rolled to a stop you were awoken by the last person you expected.

“Hi mama.” Lottie said while climbing onto your lap. 

“My sweet Angel.” You wrapped your arms around her and gave her the biggest hug. “Sweet boy.” You called out when you saw Henry walking up to you. Henry smiled and joined the hug.

“Hi mama. I missed you.” 

“Oh I missed you both so much.” You say before peppering kisses all over their faces. “I think we should start getting off the plane.” 

“Nope.” Bucky walks back from the cockpit. 

You give him a puzzled look as he pulls the kids for a hug. 

“We have one more stop.” 

“And the kids are coming with us?” You smile.

“Wouldn’t be a family vacation without the family.”

“Where are we going?” Henry asks as Bucky helps him buckle in. 

“It’s a surprise, bubs.” 

You narrow your eyes in Bucky’s direction but he only sends a wink your way. Lottie decides to take the seat next to you and the two of you talk about all the things she did while you were away.

****

It turns out that Bucky was great with surprises. You watched as the Disney World sign got bigger before you turned to look at him in the driver’s seat. 

“We’re at Disney World?” Henry asked with disbelief before you were able to.

“Daddy you take us to Disney?” Lottie also asked before she started crying. 

“Oh sweet Angel what’s wrong?” 

“Am so ‘cited mama.” She says between what were apparently happy sobs. “Can meet beauty an the beast?” 

You wiped away the tears that had formed before answering that yes she could meet them. 

“How did you manage this?”

Bucky was all smiles as he made his way to the hotel he had booked for the stay. “Nat, Steve and your dad. They helped me figure out the times and tickets and even pack for the kids.” 

You looked around as the car finally stopped. A young man from the hotel staff rushed forward to help Bucky with the suitcases. Meanwhile you make sure the kids get out of the car and you grab their backpacks. You watch as Henry takes Lottie’s hand and they follow Bucky inside. Their eyes are wide as they try to take in all of the decorations and everything happening around them. 

At the check-in desk you watch the young woman recognize Bucky and she stutters over her words before Bucky heads back towards you. 

“What’s wrong?” You ask when you see his pout.

“She said we had to wait because the room wasn’t ready but check in time is now.” 

“Well, let’s give them a minute. Maybe the room is being cleaned.” You say before turning back to watch the kids explore the lobby. 

“What if they won’t let us stay because of me?”

“I doubt that’s the case.” 

“Mr. Barnes,” A man dressed in a suit walks out from a staff only door. “We apologize for making you wait.” He says, but truly it had only been a few minutes. “It’s an honor that you’ve chosen to stay with us. It’s not everyday that two Avengers stay with us. I’ve gone ahead and upgraded your room to one of our best suites for you and your family.”

Bucky stood there in stunned silence. You however smiled and accepted the manager’s hand when he held it out to you. 

“Thank you so much. It’s our kids' first time here, this will make it all that more special.” 

“Say no more, anything you need we are here to help. Here are your room keys.” He hands you the keys and goes over any other information you might need to know. 

“Henry, Lottie, c’mon we’re going to see our room.” 

****

The room, or more like a whole apartment, was decorated in all things Disney character from floor to ceiling. Lottie ran in first as she started to look at everything that had princesses on it. Henry was a bit more hesitant at walking into a new unknown place. But slowly he started to relax and explore the living room. Your suitcases had been in the room before you walked in and Bucky took them into the rooms while you took a seat on the most comfortable couch you’d ever seen. 

“It’s early, how about we find something to do in the hotel?” Bucky says as he walks out of the room that the kids would stay in. 

“It says here that there is an arcade. Maybe we can do that and then have dinner.” 

The kids cheer and you all head back out to enjoy your afternoon together.

It started early in the morning. The sun was barely up when you woke up feeling nauseous. Not wanting to wake Bucky up, you tiptoe out of your shared room and go to the spare bathroom. You go there just in time because the urge to vomit came over you like a tidal wave. 

Just as you finish rinsing your mouth the door to the bathroom opens, revealing a sleepy Charlotte. She smiled up at you while wiping away the sleep from her eyes.

“Mo-ning mama.” She muttered. 

“Good morning my sweet angel. Did I wake you up?” 

“No,” she shakes her head as she makes her way to where you sat on the floor and climbs onto your lap. “Am too ‘cited.” 

“That’s right, today is the big day where we try to find Belle so that you can meet her.”

Lottie nods with a smile. She turns to tell you something but you watch as she gets that faraway look in her eyes. Tilting her head to the side, Lottie seems like she’s trying to understand something before she blinks rapidly and focuses on the present again. 

She had a vision.

“Mama?” 

“Yeah my sweet angel? Did you have a future dream?” You ask while running your fingers through her hair. 

“Mhm.” 

“What was it about?” 

“Mama you gets a big bewwy. An you says you habes a baby in the-uh.” 

You can’t help but smile. 

“Mama, why you habes big bewwy?” 

“Can I tell you a secret? But you can’t tell your brother and especially you can’t tell your dad.” 

“Is top secwet?” 

“It’s super classified.” You whispered and Lottie gasped, covering her mouth with her hands. “Pinky promise not to say a word?” 

“Pinky pwomise, mama.” Lottie stuck out her pinky. 

After doing the pinky promise you explain to her what she saw. “You know how aunt Molly has a baby in her belly?” 

Lottie nods. 

“Well mama has a baby in her belly too. You’re going to be a big sister and you’re going to get a baby brother or a baby sissy.” 

At the mention of a potential baby sissy, Lottie loses it. She gets up and starts jumping around while saying ‘gonna habes a sissy’. 

“Mama, am so happy and so ‘cited. Can habe a sissy wight now?” 

“My Angel you might get a brother instead of a sissy. We don’t know yet. But the baby has to stay in mama’s belly for a little while because he or she is too small right now and I have to take care of them.” 

“Wike you take ca-uh of bubba an me?” She tilts her head to the side as she looks down at your belly.

“Yes, like I take care of you and your brother. Now remember you can’t say anything about the baby in my belly or that you’re going to be a big sister or about a brother or a sissy, ok?” 

“Kay.” Lottie smiles before pulling you in for a hug.

“Mama?” Henry’s sleepy voice comes from the semi closed door. 

“Good morning sweet boy. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Yes, please.”

You get up and walk out to let Henry in. Lottie runs back to the room she and Henry are staying in and you follow. Knowing there’s a lot to do you decide to pick out the clothes the kids are going to wear for the day. Soon enough Bucky joins you. You can see how excited he is to take the kids to explore the parks and it makes you smile. 

After getting ready and having breakfast you head out to have a day of fun. 

“I feel like Steve set this up.” You told Bucky as you headed to the bibbidi bobbidi boutique. 

“The only reasonable explanation.” 

You get to the front of the line where you give Charlotte’s name to the cast member. 

“I have a Henry here as well.” She looks up and smiles. “Will you be getting a make over as well?” 

“I don’t want to be a princess.” Henry scrunches up his face in confusion.

“Well we do have some options for boys. How about a prince or a pirate?” 

“Do it, bubba. Pwease.” Lottie turned to Henry and gave him her best pleading eyes.

“Ok, I’ll do it.” 

You and Bucky chuckled as you followed the cast member around. She stopped in front of a few costume options and Lottie gasped as she saw the one dress she loved the most. 

“I think she’ll be Belle.” You said since Lottie didn’t respond. 

You and Bucky made sure to take so many pictures while both kids were getting ready. After a while they were both done. Charlotte’s hair was pulled into a high bun, with pixie dust and a tiara. She also had her nails done and some light makeup. Henry decided to go as a prince so he could escort Lottie around the park. He was given a foam sword and shield too. It almost looked like they were part of the park as they walked around arm in arm. 

Everything was going so well until it was time to get on rides. You did the small, easy rides like It’s a Small World but you had to find an excuse when Henry wanted to ride a rollercoaster. Without revealing the truth you really had no reason to not get on. It was just a kiddie coaster but you knew you shouldn’t.

“I don’t wanna twy it.” Lottie jumped in.

“You see this works.” You add on quickly. “I’ll stay here and you boys go.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes, I’m sure. We can go shopping right Sweet Angel?”  You look down at Lottie who nods enthusiastically. 

“Ok.” Bucky kisses your cheek before taking off with Henry. 

“That was close.”

“Yeah, I can twy the toastuh wate-uh.” Lottie says as you head to one of the stores. 

Her reply had you stopping and you crouched down to look at her.

“Sweet Angel, did you say that just so I didn’t have to get on?”

“Yeah we keeps the baby safe, membuh?”

You kissed her forehead before nodding.

“Alright let’s see if we can find something fun to buy.”

****

Charlotte was excited as she pulled you to the back of the shop you were in. Instead of focusing on all the toys and princess items she led you to where custom shirts could be made. Lottie begged for you to let her have one made because she saw it in her future dream. Seeing how happy and hopeful she was you let her choose and speak to the person in charge.

“Here you go ma’am.” The person behind the register hands you the bag with the customized shirt.

“Thank you.” You grab the bag and Lottie’s hand and head to a corner to look at the shirt.

“It’s fo you mama.” 

“It is?” You smiled as you pulled out with Mrs Potts and Chip on it. “There may be something there that wasn’t there before.” You read the front of the shirt before unfolding it to find two little baby footprints just to the side of where the shirt would fit over your belly. 

“You show daddy.” 

“Is this how we tell him the secret?” 

Lottie nods with a knowing look in her eyes. “I see it mama. Daddy gets so ‘cited.”

You get teary eyed at the revelation. 

“Why don’t we get shirts for all of you too?” 

“Kay.” Lottie takes your hand and you end up making some more custom shirts for them. 

****

Night came way too fast. You had two sleeping kids in your arms as you made it back to the hotel room. There had only been a few nausea inducing moments throughout the day which you were grateful for. But you knew this wouldn’t last long and you had to tell Bucky soon so you decided about doing it the next morning. 

Nausea woke you up again, and again you rushed to the bathroom.  After brushing your teeth you rushed to get your shirt on. Henry and Charlotte woke up soon after. Once Lottie saw the shirt you were wearing she asked for hers and you gave Henry his. 

“Mama?” Henry walked out of the room he was staying in. “Why does baby’s shirt say big sister?” 

You smile as you pat the space next to you on the couch. Henry takes a seat and leans into you, resting his head on your chest. 

“How would you feel about there being a baby in the family?” You ask slowly.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you know how auntie Molly has a baby in her belly?” 

Henry nods and you smile.

“Mama has a baby in her belly now. And in a few months the baby will be born and you’ll be a big brother again. That’s why Lottie’s shirt says big sister.” 

Henry stares at you with wide eyes. He doesn’t say anything for a moment and you worry. But then Henry smiles and leans in to give you a hug. 

“Daddy doesn’t know yet, but we’re going to tell him today.” You whisper.

Right on queue Bucky walks out of the master room. You laugh at his messy hair and still sleepy state. Lottie runs up to him holding up his own shirt that just says dad and hopes he’ll read her shirt. He doesn’t. You opt to order breakfast up to the room so that you can relax a bit before heading out again. All the while waiting for Bucky to notice your shirt. Instead he focuses on talking about all the things you should do at the park today. 

After breakfast you’ve had enough and insist on taking some pictures just the four of you. You set up the camera to record a video instead. The kids give you knowing smiles as they wait to see their dad’s reaction. 

“Alright guys stand right here.” You tell them as you pose for the so-called pictures. 

After posing and Bucky still not noticing your shirt you decide to just bring it up yourself. Henry pulls Lottie to the side and they watch as you turn towards Bucky. He’s smiling at you, so happy to be able to share this experience with you. 

“Do you like my shirt?” You ask standing back so that he can see it better.

“There may be something there that wasn’t there before?” He furrows his brows in confusion until his eyes travel down to the two footprints. Bucky’s eyes snap up to yours, his eyebrows shooting in. “Y/N are- are you…” he stuttered over his words. 

“Yes Bucky, I’m pregnant.” You murmur nervously while pulling out the pregnancy tests. 

Bucky’s hand flies to his head and he just stares at you for a moment before he starts to cry. You worry for a moment before he smiles at you and brings you in for a kiss and a hug. 

“Oh wow, we’re having a baby?” Bucky can’t stop the tears as he falls to his knees and leans his head against your midsection. He stays there for a moment before kissing your belly repeatedly. 

When he pulls back he looks up at you with so much love. Then he turns to the kids and opens his arm to them. 

“Did you two know?” He asks as they pull away.

“Duh.” Lottie says. “I see it.”  

Bucky chuckles as he gets up. He pulls you in for another hug. You can feel his heart beating wildly. “I can’t believe it. Am I dreaming?” 

“My morning sickness says no.” 

Bucky pulls back again, looking at you with concern. “Is there anything I can do? Do you need something? Tell me whatever it is you want me to do and I’ll do it.” 

You laugh but wave him off. 

“I’m ok for now but obviously you’re on ride duties with the kids.”

“Of course. Wait, should you be walking so much? Shouldn’t you be resting?” 

“No, I'll be fine. But we should get going. We still have a princess to find.” You say before pulling him down for another quick kiss. 

The kids giggle and you pull away. Lottie begs you to put on her Belle dress and you can’t say no. After getting her dress you head out. 

While the family vacation was just a few short days it was amazing. Lottie was so excited when she finally got to meet her favorite princess that she couldn’t say a word for a few minutes. Henry had the time of his life getting on as many rides as he could. The four of you enjoyed eating all the different treats the theme park had to offer. And Bucky was by your side for absolutely everything. He carried all the bags, both sleeping kids and kept an eye on you. Every night he’d scoot down to be at the same level as your belly and he’d talk to the baby for a few minutes.

Finally making it back home was a relief. You made an appointment with Dr. Cho just to confirm what you already knew. The kids and Bucky were sworn to secrecy until you knew for sure everything with the baby was ok. Bucky was ecstatic as he sat beside you to see the baby on the ultrasound. 

“Ok, are you both ready?” Dr. Cho asked as she started the exam. 

“More than ready.” You said as you held Bucky’s hand. 

You both watched the monitor come to life. It was a sea of grey and black as Dr. Cho moved the probe around. In the center of the screen a little black section appeared and she turned to you.

“There’s your baby.” She said with a smile before turning back. “Based on our conversation and these measurements it’s safe to say you’re around 12 weeks and I estimate that your due date is March 9th.” 

“What?” You stared at Dr. Cho in disbelief before turning to Bucky who was still staring at the screen with teary eyes. “I’m never buying you another birthday present ever.” 

Bucky laughed as he turned to look at you. He was speechless. This was his dream come true. To have a family and not only that but to have one with you. He was more than happy with it being Henry, Charlotte, you and him but now you got to have another little bundle of joy. It would be a world of firsts and adventures and he was ready for all of it. 

“Would you like to hear the heartbeat?” 

You both turned to look at Dr. Cho. 

“We can do that?” Bucky asked incredulously.

“Of course we can.” Dr. Cho said before pressing a button. 

A rhythmic and quick thumping sound filled the room. It was music to your ears and you couldn’t help but cry and Bucky was right there with you. After a minute or so Dr. Cho ended the exam and excused herself. 

Once you sat back up Bucky was all over you, giving you sweet kisses and gentle, loving touches. He asked over and over again what he could do, if you were comfortable, if you needed anything. It was sweet how much extra effort he was already putting into your wellbeing. 

“Here you go. This is a list of prenatal vitamins and other things that can help with morning sickness.” Dr. Chi gave Bucky the list and looked at him with a serious expression. “These are extremely important, this is the first time I’ve dealt with a super soldier pregnancy there can be many unexpected things. We want her to be as healthy as possible. Will you make sure she takes these?” 

“Absolutely. I’ll do everything you tell me to make sure they’re both safe and healthy.”

“Good. Here you go. Your baby’s first picture.” She hands Bucky a print out of the ultrasound and then excuses herself.

“Wow.” Bucky murmurs while you look over his shoulder at the sonogram. “This is our little peanut.” 

Ch. 42

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@multifandom-girlie

@joliver1328

@noonespecial90

@mega-kittyglitter-1

@pumpkin-babydoll

@imaginexred

@olipiaa

@zuri-767-666

@thedonswife13

@waywardxrhea

[biribarabiribbaem]

hey look ma, i made it!!! well, italian made it but it was me who helped!!! Glad I could be of help even if we lost possiamo farcela 😉, especially to get rid of Sara cause you girl, nah-ah you're not welcomed in this kitchen. Not now, not ever like... disappear.

awhhh, Chris I knew you were good and friendly and nice!!!! I just hope he realizes how much he fucked up by putting those two together but hey everybody makes mistakes!

This chapter was packed, full, overflowing with different feelings - like felt almost everything. I loved it so much and it's lovely to see some crackling in Minho's wall.

Now I must confess that Minho in the kitchen is my weakness, in all its sexual and intense positive meaning. I love his confidence, the way he moves around, those veiny hands doing wonders... yeah, okay.

The cooking scene at his apartment? Fire. Like she got roasted half of the time but it was good. Like, do you see how well you could work as a team? Plus this scene is where my knowledge of italian was used so maybe I'm being biased but who careeees!

I freaking love these two lives we're living with him being just Minho in one, full of passion, sex drive, all smiling and then there's Chef Lee that has to carry the weight of Farfalle on his shoulders, and now has to share the kitchen with the girl who cause him traumas. Poor him.

I am so excited for the next round, really!!! and if you need help Teacher Marti is here for you!!

ps: you should've seen how stupid I look everytime you wrote that posso farcela like smiling like a total idiot

pps: you making me hungry with all these dishes like craving spinach lasagna at 1 am should not be legal

ppps: i love you 🤍

TASTE.

CHAPTER 2: SWEETBITTER.

Lee Know x reader. (s,a)

TASTE MASTERLIST

Synopsis: When Minho is hired as the head chef of Farfalle, a prestigious Italian restaurant, expectations are high for him to elevate its reputation and bring it to new heights. However, no one anticipates the drastic changes he implements in the kitchen—including his strict rule that that there'll be no women and no romance in his kitchen. (17,1k words)

Author's note: I hope you're hungry because I'm about to serve, well, Minho is, not me. Hope you enjoy this one too. Don't be shy to let me know what you think of this chapter ♡

Sweetbitter. /swēt-ˈbi-tər/ (adj) 1. being at once sweet and bitter 2. pleasant but including or marked by elements of suffering or regret

The memory creeps up on you like the scent of freshly baked bread—warm, comforting, and vivid.

It was three years ago, during the height of dinner service at a restaurant in Milan. You were buried in orders, swiftly plating bowls of tagliatelle and arranging perfectly browned gnocchi when the head chef approached, wiping his hands on his apron.

“A customer wants to personally thank you for the spinach lasagna,” he said, his tone equal parts surprise and pride.

You blinked. Normally, compliments like that were directed at the head chef, but this customer had been insistent about meeting the specific cook behind the dish. The words felt like a crown resting on your shoulders—the highest compliment any chef could receive.

Fixing your coat and smoothing back stray strands of hair, you stepped out of the bustling kitchen. The dining room was a sea of candlelight and muted conversation, and at first, all you could see was the back of the man who had requested your presence. His broad shoulders and casual posture told you little about him.

It wasn’t until you reached his table that he turned to face you.

“Are you the one who made this?” he asked, studying you with an unreadable expression.

“That would be me,” you replied, a polite smile on your lips.

For a moment, he said nothing, his dark eyes scanning your face as though trying to commit it to memory. Then he broke into a genuine smile, one that softened the sharp angles of his face.

“The spinach lasagna,” he began, “was incredible. Dare I say, it was better than sex.”

You froze, startled by the bluntness of his praise. Then, to your own surprise, you laughed—a warm, light sound that seemed to catch him off guard.

“Well,” you said, recovering, “that’s not something I hear every day.”

He chuckled softly, the dimples in his cheeks becoming more pronounced. “I’m Chris.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a sleek business card and handed it to you.

You glanced down at it, reading the elegant font: Christopher Bang.

“I own an Italian restaurant,” he said, his voice calm but persuasive. “I’d love for you to come work with me.”

The offer was so unexpected that you could only gape at him. “Why me?” you finally asked, looking back at him. “There are plenty of... talented chefs in the kitchen tonight.”

Chris leaned back in his chair, clasping his hands together as a dimpled smile spread across his face. “I don’t want them. I want you.”

Something about his casual confidence disarmed you. Perhaps it was the warmth in his voice or the sincerity in his eyes, but in that moment, you felt the ground shift beneath your feet.

You didn’t realize it then, but that moment marked the beginning of a new chapter in your life. Within weeks, you were on a flight to a new country, leaving behind the familiar comfort of Milan to work at Farfalle.

And now, standing in this restaurant facing him three years later, that memory feels both distant and fresh, a reminder of the strange and unexpected paths life can take.

-

The dining hall falls silent as Chris steps in, his imposing presence freezing everyone in place. The sleek black suit, the pale complexion, and the calm authority in his gaze demand undivided attention. Whispers ripple through the room, curiosity and disbelief mingling in hushed tones.

“I'll make it short,” Chris begins, his tone steady and authoritative. “I'm closing down the restaurant.”

“What did you say?” Taesoo blurts out in sheer panic.

Chris puts on a small smile and calmly explains. “I will close it down for three days, tentatively. ”

The room erupts in shock. Souschef Hyunwoo steps forward, his voice raised in protest. “What? You can’t close the restaurant during the busiest season! Do you know how much we’ll lose in revenue?”

Chris doesn’t flinch, meeting Hyunwoo’s gaze with a faint, composed smile. “I understand your concern. But this is necessary for the future of Farfalle.”

Felix raises a tentative hand. “So... what are we supposed to do for three days?”

Chris’s smile widens, almost playful. “Rest. Relax. Have fun... and after three days, I want everyone to come back with a new menu idea—a dish that can revive Farfalle. Every single one of you will participate, without exception.”

The room falls silent as everyone processes his words.

Chris continues, his voice unwavering. “However, there’s one condition: the total cost of ingredients for your dish cannot exceed ten dollars. Be creative, be bold, and think about what will make Farfalle stand out. The future of this restaurant depends on those menus.”

He lets the weight of his words settle before finishing with an easy, almost disarming smile. “I’ll see you all in three days.”

Without another word, Chris steps back, leaving the room with the same enigmatic presence with which he entered.

The staff exchange uncertain glances, whispers rippling through the group. Minho crosses his arms, his expression unreadable. After a moment, he straightens. “You heard him,” he says firmly, his gaze sweeping over everyone. “Three days. I’ll see all of you then.”

-

The hallway outside the manager's office is eerily quiet, the distant sounds of bustling staff fading behind you. You pause in front of the polished wooden door, taking a moment to compose yourself before knocking.

“Come in,” Chris’s voice calls out, calm and collected.

Pushing the door open, you step inside. The office is surprisingly minimalistic, dominated by a large desk and a single window that lets in soft, natural light. Chris sits behind the desk, his tailored black suit as sharp as his presence. His dimples appear as he smiles, clearly having anticipated your visit.

“I figured you’d come,” he says, gesturing for you to sit.

You take a seat, wasting no time. “I’m just as surprised as everyone else to see you here. Shouldn’t you be busy running the rest of your family’s empire?”

Chris leans back in his chair, his smile never faltering. “I’ve been keeping an eye on Farfalle for a while now. The sales have been on a downward spiral, and I decided it was time to step in. Sometimes you have to get your hands dirty to fix things properly.”

You nod slowly, absorbing his explanation. “So, this is personal for you?”

“In a way,” he admits, his tone light but resolute. “I couldn’t just stand by and let it crumble. Now, tell me,” he leans forward, his gaze teasing, “are you happy to see me?”

You let out a soft laugh, meeting his eyes. “It’s... nice to have another man in the restaurant.”

Chris chuckles, his dimples deepening. “Flattery suits you.”

He pauses, the teasing air around him softening. “Before you go, why don’t you cook me some pasta?”

You raise a brow, crossing your arms. “Nope.”

“Why not?” he asks, feigning offense.

“Because I’m going to do exactly what you suggested,” you reply with a sly grin. “Rest, relax, and have fun.”

Chris leans back in his chair, giving you an amused look. “Fair enough.” He gestures toward the door, silently excusing you.

You rise from your seat, heading toward the exit. Just as your hand touches the doorknob, Chris’s voice calls out again.

“Don’t have too much fun though,” he says, the teasing lilt in his voice unmistakable.

You glance back, offering a playful smirk. “No promises.” With that, you step out, leaving the office and its enigmatic new occupant behind.

-

The salty tang of the fish market fills your senses as you weave through the bustling aisles, stalls overflowing with fresh catches of the day. The cacophony of haggling customers and shopkeepers blends into a background hum as you scrutinize each stall, searching for ingredients that won’t break Chris’s strict $10 budget.

Your frustration grows as every inquiry leads to disappointment. Everything you find is either overpriced or unsuitable for the idea forming in your mind. Just as you’re about to give up, something catches your eye.

Minho stands a few stalls ahead, his sharp profile unmistakable even in the chaos of the market. He’s deep in conversation with a shop owner, his posture relaxed but commanding.

Curiosity piqued, you linger just out of sight, trying to catch snippets of their conversation. But the noise of the market drowns out their words. You watch as the shopkeeper gestures toward a selection of fish, and Minho nods thoughtfully before moving on.

The moment he leaves, you step up to the stall. “Excuse me, what was he asking about?” you inquire, gesturing toward Minho’s retreating figure.

The shopkeeper smiles knowingly. “Filefish. He was asking if I had any larger ones for a better price. Told him he’d have better luck at the harbor.”

Filefish? You tuck the information away, thanking the shopkeeper before turning to leave.

But as you make your way toward the exit, you freeze mid-step. Minho is there, leaning casually against a pole, arms crossed as if he’s been waiting for you. His eyes meet yours, a flicker of amusement playing across his face.

"Following me now?" he asks, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity.

You bristle, quickly recovering from your surprise. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Minho smirks, clearly unconvinced. “So, what exactly are you doing here, then?”

You hesitate, debating whether to play coy or confront him about the filefish. Instead, you sidestep his question. “I could ask you the same thing.”

He shrugs, pushing off the pole and walking past you, his voice drifting back. “Just making sure the competition doesn’t get too comfortable.”

Before you can respond, he takes you by the hand and drags you out of the crowd.

-

The ride back is unexpectedly tense. Minho insisted on giving you a ride home, claiming it would save time, but the silence in the car is thick with unspoken words. You glance at him from the passenger seat, his profile lit by the soft glow of the dashboard.

“So,” you start, breaking the silence, “what are you planning to make for the new menu, chef?”

Minho doesn’t even look at you. “Not telling.”

You scoff, leaning back in your seat. “Why not? Afraid I’ll steal your idea?”

“Exactly,” he replies flatly, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

You roll your eyes but decide to take another approach. “Fine. I’ll tell you mine first. I’m thinking of making fishball pasta. Simple, creative, and within budget.”

Minho glances at you briefly, his expression unreadable. “Good for you.”

Encouraged by the lack of sarcasm in his tone, you press further. “Now your turn, chef.”

“Nope,” he says, his lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. “This is a competition. Why would I share secrets with a competitor?”

The car slows as he pulls up in front of your apartment building. He gestures toward the door. “We’re here. Get out.”

But you stay put, crossing your arms defiantly. “Not until you tell me what you’re making.”

Minho lets out an exasperated sigh, leaning his head back against the headrest. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re stubborn,” you counter, flashing him a grin.

After a moment of tense silence, he relents, his tone reluctant. “Fine. I only need the filefish livers.”

Your eyes widen in surprise. “The livers? Why just the livers?”

“Because I’m making foie gras out of them,” he explains, his voice tinged with pride. “I want to show the true value of foie gras with it,”

Your gasp is audible, and Minho glances at you, his expression softening at the wonder in your eyes. “That’s… genius,” you breathe.

Minho almost smiles seeing your genuine awe in response to his answer but he hides his amusement, focusing instead on the road ahead. “Are you satisfied now? Get out.”

But instead of complying, you grab his arm, tugging at it lightly. “Wait. Hear me out.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “What now?”

“You don’t need the meat, and I don’t need the livers. If we work together, we can split the cost and stay within budget.”

Minho clicks his tongue, mulling over your suggestion. “Why should I work with you?”

“Because it makes sense,” you argue, meeting his gaze. “You said it yourself—this is a competition. Working together gives us both an edge. Plus, I know where to get bigger and cheaper filefish.”

He narrows his eyes at you, clearly debating the idea. After a moment, he sighs, shaking his head. “If I agree to this, will you finally get out of my car?”

You nod eagerly, a triumphant smile spreading across your face.

Minho pushes the car door open for you, his expression still skeptical. “We’re leaving tonight,” you announce as you step out. “At midnight.”

Minho shakes his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips as he watches you disappear into the building.

-

The afternoon feels like it’s slipping away too quickly. You plan to catch some rest before heading to the harbor around midnight, but just as you’re about to settle down, the doorbell rings. Frowning, you glance at the guest cam and see your property agent standing there. A flicker of hope rises—maybe he’s bringing good news about the apartment.

You open the door, your polite smile faltering slightly when you notice he isn’t alone. Beside him stands Sara, her expression calm but assessing as she looks past you into the apartment.

“Good afternoon,” the agent says cheerfully. “I thought I’d stop by to introduce someone interested in sharing the apartment.” He gestures to Sara, who steps forward with an elegant nod.

You blink, caught off guard. “Oh, I see. Well, come in.”

The two of them enter, and you close the door behind them, trying to process the situation. Sara doesn’t waste any time, walking through the living room and kitchen, her sharp eyes taking in every detail. Meanwhile, the agent glances at you with a knowing smile.

“She’s very interested,” he says in a low voice, as if this were the best news you’d heard all week.

Sara returns, stopping a few feet away from you and the agent. “I’ll take it,” she declares confidently.

You nod slowly, her decisiveness catching you off guard again. “Alright, then.”

She crosses her arms and adds with a small smirk, “It’s more convenient sharing with someone I already know.”

You force a smile at that, hoping it doesn’t look as strained as it feels. “That makes sense.”

Sara tilts her head, her gaze steady on yours. “Would it be alright if I move in tomorrow?”

“Even better,” you reply with as much enthusiasm as you can muster.

As the agent beams at how smoothly this is going, you feel a sinking sensation settle in your stomach. Once Sara leaves, the reality of the situation becomes clear.

Sharing an apartment with Sara might be manageable on its own, but the thought of Minho finding out she’s now living on the same floor as him sends alarm bells ringing in your mind. You don’t even want to think about what could happen if they run into each other.

And worse, you’re now stuck in the middle of it all.

-

Minho taps his fingers against the steering wheel, the faint rhythm of his impatience echoing in the quiet of his car. It’s been over ten minutes since the agreed-upon midnight meeting, and there’s still no sign of you. With a frustrated sigh, he picks up his phone and dials your number.

The phone rings once, twice, then he sees you sprinting down the street toward his car. He immediately hangs up, watching as you approach, your hurried steps matching the apologetic look on your face.

You slide into the passenger seat, breathless. “I’m so sorry. I fell asleep and—”

Minho raises a hand, cutting you off. “Save it. Let’s just go.”

But as you buckle your seatbelt, Minho notices something off. Your expression isn’t just apologetic—it’s troubled, like you’re carrying the weight of something you don’t want to share. For a moment, he debates calling you out on it but decides against it.

“Where are we going?” he asks instead, breaking the silence.

Without a word, you pull up the address on your phone and input it into the GPS. Minho glances at the screen, then back at you, eyebrows raised. “Hey! Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“I won’t,” you promise, your voice firmer than he expects.

The car rolls to a stop at the harbor after two hours of drive, its headlights cutting through the misty pre-dawn darkness. Minho turns off the engine and glances over at you, only to find you fast asleep in the passenger seat. Your head leans slightly against the window, your lower lip jutting out in a slight pout, and your brows knit together as if something is bothering you even in your dreams.

Minho rolls his eyes but can’t help the faint smile tugging at his lips. “So much for not falling asleep,” he mutters under his breath.

He sighs, exasperated, but he doesn’t have it in him to wake you. Instead, he sits back, letting his gaze linger on your peaceful face. For someone who could be so frustrating, you looked oddly…endearing like this. A small, unbidden smile tugs at the corners of his lips, but it vanishes the moment your eyes flutter open.

Caught off guard, Minho immediately looks away, pretending he hadn’t just spent the past few moments watching you sleep.

“Are we here?” you ask, your voice thick with sleep.

Minho’s response is immediate, his tone sharp to mask his embarrassment. “What did I tell you about not falling asleep on me?”

You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn, offering him a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’ll treat you to coffee, okay? My treat.”

He grumbles but doesn’t protest, and the two of you end up at a small open food stall by the harbor, huddling against the chilly sea breeze with steaming cups of coffee in your hands. The dawn light begins to creep over the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange.

Minho takes a sip of his coffee and grimaces. “Seriously? This is what you call a treat? It’s cheap, and it tastes like burnt beans.”

You laugh softly. “I’ll buy you a better one later, promise.”

Without thinking, you scoot closer to him, seeking warmth against the brisk air. Minho stiffens slightly and shrugs his shoulder, half-heartedly pushing you away.

“Why do you like me so much?” he asks, his tone laced with mock annoyance.

Instead of answering, you cling to his side, resting your head against his shoulder. “And why do you hate me so much, chef?” you counter, looking up at him with playful defiance.

Minho blinks, taken aback, before responding quickly. “When did I ever say I hated you?”

You grin and lean in close to pester him. “So that means... you like me?”

He scoffs, feigning nonchalance. “Just drink your coffee!”

Your grin widens, and you cling even tighter to his side, the warmth of your smile radiating in the chill air. Minho glances at you from the corner of his eye, watching the way your eyes shine and how content you look pressed against him. For a moment, he lets himself smile, but when he realizes it, he quickly hides it behind his coffee cup.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence, watching as the sun rises over the horizon, its golden light reflecting on the gentle waves. Despite himself, Minho feels a warmth spreading in his chest, one that has nothing to do with the coffee or your proximity. It’s a moment he doesn’t quite understand yet, but it’s one he knows he won’t forget.

-

The harbor comes alive as ships return from the sea, their decks brimming with the morning’s catch. You stand by, watching Minho as he inspects the filefish, his sharp eyes scanning each one carefully. He negotiates with the fisherman, his tone calm yet firm, discussing the price for a box of the freshest catch.

For the first time in a long while, you see him not as the stern head chef you work with, but as the Minho you knew back in school. There’s a quiet confidence about him, a passion that flickers beneath the surface as he handles the fish with precision and care.

Once the transaction is complete and the box of filefish is secured, you suggest grabbing breakfast before heading back. Minho agrees—but only if you treat him.

You groan, shaking your head and putting on a pitiful look at him. “I just spent most of my money on those fish.”

Minho stops in his tracks and turns to you, giving you that look—the one he wears right before he’s about to scold you. You brace yourself, ready for his biting words, but instead, he asks, “How much money do you have left?”

You blink, surprised by the question, and quickly count the small bills in your pocket. After telling him the amount, he nods decisively. “Go buy some rice and sesame oil with it.”

Without questioning him, you hurry off and return shortly after, only to find Minho by the fisherman’s boat, expertly filleting a fish. His knife glides effortlessly through the flesh, each movement fluid and precise. For a moment, you’re mesmerized by the display of skill, and you can’t help but tease him.

“There’s nothing sexier than a man who knows how to use a knife,” you say with a grin.

Minho scoffs, his lips twitching in what could almost be a smile, he's above to shove the first slice of fish into his mouth but noticing the pitiful look on your face, he refrains and feeds it into your mouth. The taste is incredible—fresh, light, and briny, the fish melts the moment it touches your tongue.

“This is amazing,” you gush, savoring the flavor. You pick up another slice and hold it out to him. “Here, try it.”

He eyes the piece in your hand and glares at you. “I have hands. I can feed myself.”

Unbothered, you shrug and pop it into your mouth instead, grinning at the flavorful taste of fresh fish in your mouth. Meanwhile, Minho mixes the fish slices with the rice, adding a dollop of red chili paste and a drizzle of sesame oil. He stirs it all together with practiced ease before handing you a portion.

“Here. Your breakfast,” he says, his tone casual but expectant.

You take a bite, and your eyes widen. The dish is unbelievably good—simple yet bursting with flavor. “This is… exceptional. How is something so basic this good?”

Minho smirks, clearly pleased with your reaction but says nothing, turning his attention back to the fish.

As you finish the rice, you’re about to toss the fish bones and scraps into the trash, but Minho stops you. “What are you doing? Those aren’t trash.”

He grills the remaining pieces over a small fire, the aroma wafting through the crisp morning air. Together, the two of you sit by the water, sharing the grilled fish while the warm sun rises over the horizon. The view of the sea, paired with the comforting meal, makes everything feel oddly perfect.

Minho leans back, crossing his arms with a smug expression. “There. I just served you a full-course meal.”

You chuckle, nudging his arm. “Thank you, Chef. That was honestly amazing.”

Minho doesn’t respond, but there’s a softness in his gaze that wasn’t there before. Deep down, as you sit together, you can’t help but feel a quiet contentment—like, for this moment, everything is exactly as it should be.

-

The car hums softly as Minho drives, the early morning sun casting a warm glow over the horizon. You lean back against the seat, feeling the calm after the morning at the harbor. Your phone suddenly buzzes, the screen lighting up with an unknown number. You hesitate but decide to answer it, just in case it’s important.

“Hello?” you say cautiously.

“Hey,” Chris’s familiar voice immediately puts you at ease. “Just checking in to see how things are going with the preparations for the new menu.”

You smirk, unable to resist teasing. “Oh, everything’s going great. I’m actually at the seaside, having fun.”

Chris laughs, though there’s a knowing edge to it. “You’re not fooling me. Let me guess—you’re out there to get fresh ingredients for the new menu?”

“You’re to blame for this. You’re the one who set the budget for the ingredients so low.” You admit with a chuckle.

Chris laughs again, the sound warm and light. “Fair enough. Did you go by yourself?”

You hesitate, your gaze shifting to Minho, who keeps his eyes on the road. After a brief pause, you answer, “No. Chef came with me.”

There’s a brief silence on the other end before Chris replies, his tone neutral but slightly amused. “Convenient. I was just about to call him to come to the restaurant anyway.”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Anything important?”

Chris brushes it off. “Nothing urgent. Just let him know. Drive safe, alright?”

“Will do,” you reply, and the line goes dead.

You lower your phone, glancing at Minho. “Chris wants to see you at the restaurant.”

Minho glances at you briefly before focusing back on the road. “Why?”

“No idea,” you admit, shrugging.

The car falls into a moment of silence before Minho breaks it. “You seem close with Chris.”

His tone is casual, but there’s an undercurrent of curiosity. You glance at him, surprised by the observation. “Well... We’ve known each other for a while.”

Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but his grip on the steering wheel tightens slightly. It’s clear he has more questions, but he doesn’t voice them.

When you arrive at your apartment building, Minho pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park. He turns to you, gesturing toward the box of fish in the backseat. “Take the fish with you. Don’t put it in the freezer. Keep it in the icebox.”

You nod, opening the door and reaching for the box. “Got it.”

Per Minho’s instruction, you carry the icebox into the building, your arms straining slightly under the weight. The elevator ride is uneventful, but your mind buzzes with thoughts of the morning at the harbor and Chris's phone call. When you step into your apartment, you’re startled to see boxes and bags scattered around the living room.

Sara looks up from where she’s unpacking a box by the couch, her expression turning sheepish. “Oh, you’re back! I’m so sorry about the mess. I know I said I’d move in tomorrow, but the movers came early, and I didn’t want to miss the chance…”

You wave her off, smiling. “It’s fine, really. Don’t worry about it.”

Sara visibly relaxes and glances at the icebox in your hands. “What’s that? Where have you been?”

“To the harbor,” you reply, setting the box down on the kitchen counter. “Had to get fresh ingredients for the new menu.”

Curiosity sparks in her eyes as she walks over. “Can I see?”

You flip open the lid of the icebox, revealing an array of freshly caught filefish. Sara gasps, leaning in to inspect the contents. “Wow, that’s a lot of fish! Are all of these yours?”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “Not just mine. Some of them are chef’s.”

At that, Sara’s gaze snaps to you, surprise flashing across her face. “You went to the harbor with Minho?”

“Yeah,” you say casually, closing the lid. “It was for the new menu, so we had to split the cost.”

Sara raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Interesting.”

You roll your eyes at her expression but decide to let it slide. Before you can say anything else, Sara places a hand on your shoulder. “You should get some rest. You must be exhausted after the trip.”

You sigh, realizing how heavy your limbs feel now that she’s mentioned it. “Yeah, I think I’ll do that.”

“Good,” Sara says with a smile. “I’ll finish unpacking quietly, don’t worry.”

You nod and head toward your room, leaving the icebox on the counter for later. As you close the door behind you, the events of the day replay in your mind, making it hard to decide what to focus on—Chris’s call, the morning at the harbor, or now that you've officially in between Sara and Minho, literally and figuratively.

-

Minho strides into the restaurant, his expression set in a familiar scowl. It’s quiet this early in the day, with no staff bustling like usual. He heads toward the coffee station and finds Chris already there, calmly preparing a cup of coffee.

“You’re here,” Chris greets, glancing at Minho as he places a cup under the espresso machine. “Sit down. I’ll make you a coffee, chef.”

Minho hesitates but eventually drops into the chair across from Chris, his arms crossed. He watches as Chris works efficiently, his movements smooth and unhurried. The quiet confidence in Chris’s demeanor rubs Minho the wrong way, frustrating him further.

Minho’s fingers tap against the table, breaking the silence. “I’ll be honest—I wouldn’t have taken this job if you were the one who offered it to me.”

Chris smirks faintly as he places a steaming cup of coffee in front of Minho. He them takes the opposite seat, his expression unchanging. “That’s funny because I wouldn’t have offered it to you.”

Minho blinks, slightly taken aback. “Huh?”

Chris leans back, resting his elbows on the chair's armrests. “You’re talented, no doubt. But I knew you’d be... difficult. Still, we’re here now, working together, so let’s just do our best.”

Chris offers his hand, a gesture of truce. Minho eyes it warily before finally grasping it for a firm shake. “Fine. But don’t think this means we’re friends.”

Chris chuckles lightly and pulls his hand back. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Chris shifts the conversation. “How was the harbor trip? Did you get the ingredients you needed?”

Minho nods, the memory of the fresh fish he brought back crossing his mind. “I did. The quality is excellent. I’m confident about the competition.”

Chris raises a brow, impressed. “Since you have good ingredients and confidence, you are exempt from the contest. Tomorrow, there's a charity dinner at W hotel. We've been invited to participate.”

Minho tilts his head and narrows his eyes at him. “Whether it is to compete or work or cook, you're telling that I have to follow your orders without complaints?”

Chris puts on a faint smile and takes a sip of his coffee before continuing. “I know it's a charity dinner but all the participating chefs are from 5-star hotels and the winner is decided by who sold the most plates. This is a competition on who has the most confidence that they made the best dish which also makes it a good opportunity to boost Farfalle’s reputation.”

Minho leans back, considering it. He knows the importance of publicity for the restaurant, but the idea of being pushed into the spotlight annoys him. Still, he nods. “For the sake of the restaurant, I’ll do it.”

Chris smiles approvingly. “Glad to hear it.”

Minho starts to rise, thinking the conversation is over, but Chris stops him. “One more thing.”

“What now?” Minho asks, irritation creeping into his voice.

“Chef Sara wants to compete with her version of the new menu,” Chris says casually, as though it’s no big deal.

Minho groans, leaning forward. “Why? The kitchen doesn’t need unnecessary competition.”

Chris shrugs. “You’re confident in your cooking, right? Then you shouldn’t be worried about it.”

Minho narrows his eyes. He finally sees Chris’s management style clearly—it’s about pushing boundaries, challenging people, and doing whatever he thinks will benefit the restaurant, no matter how it ruffles feathers.

“You’re something else,” Minho mutters as he stands. He gives him a long look before turning toward the door. “Do whatever you want. It’s your restaurant after all.”

Minho was having a great day until he met Chris but his day takes another downturn when he spots Sara walking towards her car. It takes a second for her to notice him back, her face lighting up with a smile that only irritates him further.

“Minho,” she greets cheerfully. “I’m looking forward to seeing your new dish tomorrow.”

Minho halts in his tracks, crossing his arms as he levels her with a sharp gaze. “Don’t get your hopes up. You’re no match for me.”

Sara’s smile doesn’t falter, her confidence unwavering. “We’ll see about that. I’ve been waiting a long time to cook with you again.”

He scoffs, narrowing his eyes at her. “You haven’t changed a bit. You still think cooking is all about competition.”

Sara tilts her head, an air of calm defiance surrounding her. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t. You’ll see soon enough.”

She turns to leave, but Minho isn’t finished. A realization strikes him, and he pivots on his heel, his voice cutting through the quiet. “It won’t be as easy as you think. You’ll have to beat her first.”

Sara stops, glancing over her shoulder with a raised brow. “Her? Who?”

“You know exactly who I mean,” Minho says, his voice laced with confidence. “If you think you can win against her, go ahead and try.”

Sara chuckles softly, shaking her head. “Are you saying that I'll be losing to a junior cook? Don’t make me laugh, Minho.”

Minho steps closer, a devilish smirk playing on his lips as he says, “Cooking is unpredictable. That’s what makes it fun, don't you think?”

Her expression stiffens for a moment, but she quickly regains her composure. “You’d better prepare for tomorrow. I won’t hold back.”

Minho’s smirk deepens as he leans in slightly. “I can’t wait to see your face when you lose to her.”

Without another word, he turns and strides toward the elevator, leaving Sara standing by her car, her calm exterior showing a faint crack.

As Minho steps into the elevator, a renewed determination fuels him. He’s not about to let Sara’s arrogance go unchallenged. If she underestimates you, she’ll regret it.

The elevator dings, signaling his arrival at his floor. He wastes no time heading straight to your apartment, his steps quick and purposeful. He presses the doorbell, and when you open the door, slightly confused by his sudden appearance, he doesn’t waste a second.

“Grab the ice box,” he orders firmly.

You blink at him, taken aback. “What? Why?”

“No time for questions,” he says, already turning on his heel. “Bring it and follow me.”

Reluctantly, you do as he says, hauling the ice box and trailing after him down the hallway. He leads you to his apartment, opening the door and gesturing for you to step inside.

“What’s going on?” you ask, still confused.

Minho’s eyes glint with determination as he shuts the door behind you. “We’re working on your recipe. You’re going to win tomorrow.”

-

Stepping into Minho’s apartment for the first time, you’re momentarily distracted by its minimalistic design and subtle charm. But before you can properly take it in, Minho pulls you toward the kitchen, his grip firm on your wrist.

“Put the ice box there,” he commands, gesturing toward the counter.

You do as he says, placing it down gently. Turning to face him, you wait for whatever instructions he’s about to give. Minho stands across from you, his expression unreadable as his sharp eyes study you in silence.

“What?” you ask nervously, breaking the stillness.

He finally speaks, his voice as cold as his gaze. “You need to have the determination to beat me.”

You blink, confused, and let out a nervous chuckle. “Beat you? That’s impossible.”

His face doesn’t change. The coldness remains, and your chuckle falters. “Wait... you’re serious?”

“Yes,” Minho replies flatly. “How can you even hope to compete if you don’t believe you can win?”

“But it’s you,” you mumble, still baffled. “How can I beat you?”

He interrupts, taking a step closer. The gap between you shrinks, and your breath catches as his piercing gaze locks onto yours. “How do you plan to be a chef without a competitive spirit?”

The intensity of his question and proximity make you look down, overwhelmed. Before you can respond, you feel his hands grip your shoulders, firm and commanding. His voice rises, filled with frustration and urgency.

“I can do it. Posso farcela!” he shouts, his eyes blazing with an almost contagious fire.

You blink at him, unsure of what he’s trying to do. “What does that even—”

“Say it,” Minho insists, shaking your shoulders slightly. “Everyone has their shining moment. Even you. But only if you believe it. Posso farcela!”

Without waiting for your consent, he leans in until his forehead presses firmly against yours. The sudden closeness sends a shiver through you, and your heart races. With Minho, you can’t really tell if you should be scared or excited by the proximity. His voice softens but remains commanding. “Say it.”

Hesitating, you whisper, “Posso farcela.”

“Louder!” he demands, his grip tightening.

“Posso farcela!” you shout at the top of your lungs.

Finally, Minho steps back, a small, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He releases your shoulders and nods. You’re still catching your breath when he turns to the counter, pulling out ingredients and utensils. “You’re staying here tonight,” he announces matter-of-factly.

“Wait, what?”

“You heard me,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “We’re practicing all night. Don’t even think about going home.”

A chill runs down your spine—not just from his words, but from the realization that you’ll be cooking with him all night. Somehow, this is far from how you ever imagined spending the night at his apartment.

-

The warm lights of Minho’s kitchen illuminate the room as the two of you work side by side. You’re focused on molding the fish mixture into small, round balls, while Minho is pan-searing fish liver with precision. The sizzle of the pan fills the silence between you, and the savory aroma teases your senses.

Every now and then, you find yourself glancing at Minho. There’s something hypnotic about the way he moves—the effortless way he tilts the pan without spilling, the fluidity of his knife work, the sharp focus in his gaze as he perfects every detail. Even in casual clothing, Minho radiates charisma. His dark sweater hugs his frame, accentuating his broad shoulders, while his rolled-up sleeves reveal veined forearms that flex with every movement.

Your admiration is cut short as Minho suddenly turns toward you, his sharp eyes locking onto your work. Without a word, he strides over and pokes one of your molded fishballs with his finger. It crumbles immediately.

His glare pierces you. “It’s too crumbly,” he states coldly. “Do it again.”

You nod meekly, murmuring, “Yes, Chef,” and begin adjusting the mixture.

Moments later, he scolds you again. “Why are these so small? They’ll fall apart when you fry them. Do it again.”

You gulp and obey, reforming the fishballs to a larger size.

It doesn’t take long before you’re on the receiving end of another critique. “You’re frying them wrong,” Minho snaps, stepping in to demonstrate. He moves with efficiency, ensuring the fishballs are evenly browned and perfectly cooked. Watching him, you can’t help but feel inadequate but also in awe of his skill.

Finally, the first batch is done, and you nervously wait as Minho takes a bite. Your stomach sinks as he spits it out into the sink almost immediately.

“This is terrible,” he says bluntly, glaring at you. “Too much egg and breadcrumbs. I can’t even tell if it’s made from fish or chicken.” His tone sharpens.

“What was the point of driving all the way to the seaside if this is what you’re going to make? Do it again.”

You nod quickly, muttering another shaky “Yes, Chef,” and get back to work.

After a couple more failed attempts, you finally feel a sliver of hope. You’ve followed every piece of advice Minho has given, and this batch feels like your best yet. But the hope is short-lived as Minho spits it out once more, his glare now blazing.

“Are you trying to kill me?” he barks, holding up a small piece of fishbone he found in his bite. “You left a bone in it!”

You freeze, guilt and embarrassment washing over you.

“What are you standing there for?” he snaps, crossing his arms. “Get back to the kitchen and do it again.”

Minho leaves the kitchen, your eyes following him taking his coat and puts it on. He turns to you as he informs,

“I’m going out, and when I get back, I expect you to have this perfected.”

With that, Minho storms out, leaving the apartment in silence. You let out a long, shaky breath the moment the door closes. Setting down your utensils, you wander into the living room and collapse onto the sofa, burying your face in your hands. Exhaustion weighs on you like a heavy blanket, and frustration simmers beneath the surface.

The silence in Minho’s apartment is deafening, broken only by the soft hum of the refrigerator. Exhausted and at your wit's end, you pull your phone from your pocket and stare at the screen, debating whether to make the call. It’s ridiculously early, but if there’s anyone who can help you, it’s your dad. After all, he’s been running his bakery for as long as you can remember, and you know he’s probably already in the kitchen preparing the first batch of bread.

You dial his number, pacing anxiously as the phone rings.

“Hello?” your father answers, his voice slightly groggy but steady.

“Dad,” you say in a rush, “I regret going to culinary school. This was the worst decision I ever made.”

There’s a pause before your father sighs heavily. “I told you this would happen. Cooking isn’t just some romantic idea—you need grit and perseverance, and clearly, you don’t have enough of either.”

His words sting, but you expected nothing less.

“Why are you calling me so early, huh? Shouldn’t you be sleeping off your regrets?”

You groan, leaning against the counter. “I need help. I’m working on this recipe, and I can’t get the chewy texture I need for fishballs. I’ve tried everything, but nothing works!”

Your father grumbles something under his breath before asking, “Alright, what are you putting in the mixture?”

You quickly list off the ingredients, your voice rapid and desperate.

“Are you using potato starch?” he interrupts.

“Yes,” you reply, blinking.

“Check it,” he orders. “Make sure it’s 100 percent potato starch.”

His words give you pause, and you dash to the kitchen, grabbing the package of potato starch from the counter. You scan the label, your stomach sinking as you read: 92 percent potato starch.

“Dad,” you say, your voice small, “it’s only 92 percent.”

“Unbelievable!” your father exclaims. “How do you expect to get the texture you want if it’s not 100 percent? You’re sabotaging yourself! Go and get proper potato starch!”

“But—”

“No buts! You’re wasting your time otherwise. Fix it.” His tone leaves no room for argument.

“Thanks, Dad,” you mutter before hanging up. You stare at the package in your hand, a newfound determination building in your chest. You don’t know when Minho will be back, but you’re certain of one thing: you’re going to perfect this recipe before he walks through that door.

You take a deep breath, head back to the kitchen, and prepare to start over—this time with the right approach.

-

The sun is beginning to rise, casting a soft glow over the city as you step out of Minho’s apartment. The cool morning air brushes against your skin, a stark contrast to the warmth of the kitchen where you’ve spent the entire night. You’ve left your dish on his dining table, hoping it meets his impossible standards, and now you’re longing for a moment of peace.

When you arrive at your own apartment, you’re met with the sight of chaos in the kitchen—ingredients scattered, utensils abandoned mid-use, and remnants of Sara’s late-night preparations everywhere.

Your eyes move to the couch, where Sara is curled up, her head resting on her arm. The sound of your footsteps stirs her awake, and she looks at you groggily.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” you say, feeling a bit guilty.

Sara stretches and shakes her head, offering a small smile. “It’s okay. I was about to get up anyway.”

Feeling a pang of sympathy, you ask, “Would you like some coffee? I could use a cup myself.”

Her smile widens, and she nods. “That would be nice.”

A few minutes later, the two of you sit together in the living room, cradling mugs of freshly brewed coffee. The morning is quiet, save for the faint hum of the city waking up outside.

You glance toward the kitchen, breaking the silence. “You must’ve been busy prepping for your TV program.”

Sara doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, she takes a sip of her coffee and then looks at you with a faintly amused expression. “Were you at Minho’s place all night?”

Her question catches you off guard, and you pause mid-sip. You're aware that Sara knows more than she lets on. You sigh, nodding in acknowledgment.

“Have you tried his new dish?”

You shake your head. “Hardly.”

“He's like that. He won't let anyone taste it until it's perfect.” Sara softly smiles as she says it as if she's reminiscing something.

“Must've been fun though,” she adds with genuine envy in her eyes.

You scoff at that and cradle your cup of coffee in both hands. “Fun? I got scolded all night.”

Sara chuckles softly, her gaze distant. “Still, cooking with someone else is always less tiring. And it's more fun.”

Her words hang in the air, and you can’t help but wonder if there’s more meaning behind them. Does she miss cooking with Minho? Since she won the contest, there are two possibilities: It's either she gives the recipe to the restaurant or she's taking the responsibility of this dish herself in the kitchen. Honestly, you can’t imagine the latter. Having two chefs in one kitchen is one thing but two chefs who shared a complicated past? That's a recipe for disaster.

You shake the thought away, deciding it’s not your place to dig deeper into their shared history. Draining the last of your coffee, you stand and offer her a small smile. “I should get some rest before the contest. Good luck with your cooking today.”

She looks up at you, her smile soft. “You too.”

-

The familiar sounds of clattering pans and bubbling pots fill the air as you step into the bustling kitchen. For the first time in a while, you feel an odd sense of comfort here—like you’ve missed this chaos, missed the kitchen itself. Looking around, it’s clear that everyone else feels the same. The team looks rejuvenated from their break, their energy palpable as they chatter excitedly about the upcoming contest.

Your thoughts are interrupted by Felix bounding into the room, his face glowing with excitement. His freckles seem brighter than usual, standing out against his sun-kissed skin.

“Someone’s been having fun,” you tease, smiling as he joins you at your station. “Where’d you go?”

Felix grins, his boyish charm making it impossible not to smile back. “Oh, just somewhere fun,” he replies cryptically, his eyes twinkling.

You roll your eyes but let it slide. “Are you ready for the contest?”

“Absolutely,” he says with a confident nod, and you hold out your fist. He meets it with a firm bump, a gesture of mutual encouragement.

The room falls quiet as Chris enters, his demeanor as calm and collected as ever, his enigmatic smile adding an edge to his presence. “Alright, everyone,” he announces, his voice cutting through the silence. “You may begin cooking your new menu items. Good luck.”

You glance around the kitchen as everyone springs into action, but one thing—or rather, one person—is missing. Minho.

“Where’s Minho?” you ask Felix, lowering your voice so as not to draw attention.

Felix shrugs, his expression unbothered. “Probably using the other kitchen. It’s pretty packed in here.”

His explanation makes sense, but a small pang of unease lingers. You shake it off and refocus on your task. You’ve come too far and worked too hard to let anything distract you now.

As you begin preparing your dish, the words Minho drilled into you all night echo in your mind: “Posso farcela!”

You whisper the phrase to yourself, almost as a mantra, channeling it into every movement. Confidence surges through you as you remind yourself why you’re here—to create something incredible and to prove, most of all to yourself, that you can do this.

-

The dining hall buzzes with energy as chefs carry their meticulously prepared dishes to the tables for judging. You’re no different, your dish carefully balanced in your hands, though a nagging thought occupies your mind: Where is Minho?

You’re not the only one wondering. Whispered speculations ripple through the room, the tension thick in the air. The door opens, and your heart leaps with hope, expecting Minho to stride in after Chris. Instead, your breath catches in your throat.

It’s not Minho. It’s Chef Sara.

Her poised figure glides into the room, her sharp gaze scanning the crowd before briefly landing on you. You offer her a hurried, polite smile, masking your shock and the storm of questions swirling in your mind. Why is she here?

She doesn’t need this contest. She’s already at the pinnacle of her career—a celebrated chef with a regular TV program, several bestselling cookbooks, and fame most chefs only dream of. So why?

The answer flickers at the edges of your mind, but you refuse to acknowledge it. Chris claps his hands, pulling everyone’s attention to the front. His calm, commanding presence stills the murmurs in the room.

“I have something to inform you before we begin,” he begins, his voice steady, “unfortunately, Chef Lee will not be joining us today due to special circumstances.”

You blink, the news hitting harder than you expect. Your stomach sinks as you try to imagine what could have kept Minho away.

“But,” Chris continues smoothly, “Chef Sara will be stepping in to compete instead.”

A ripple of surprise sweeps through the room. You’re no exception, your mind reeling as you watch Sara move to her station with a confidence that makes her presence feel larger than life.

Chris doesn’t leave room for more speculation. “Let me explain how the contest will proceed.”

He goes on to detail the rules. The first round involves the service staff tasting and voting for the three best dishes to move on. In the second round, fifty selected guests of Farfalle will taste the top three dishes and vote for the winner.

“The winning dish,” Chris says, his enigmatic smile returning, “will become the new main menu of Farfalle. The winning chef will not only oversee this dish in the kitchen but will also earn incentives from its sales.”

That last part immediately ignites a spark in the room. Chefs exchange glances, excitement crackling at the mention of money. You can’t help but smile, impressed by Chris’s ability to up the stakes and turn the contest into something electrifying.

Chris scans the room, his gaze settling briefly on you before moving on. “Good luck,” he says simply.

And with that, the contest begins.

-

The second round feels surreal. Though you expected to make it this far, the reality of going up against Chef Sara and Sous Chef Seojun feels daunting. You’re torn between pride and the sinking pressure of the competition.

From the second floor of the dining hall, you lean against the railing, watching as the selected guests taste the dishes below. Your nerves flutter, every movement of the tasters amplified in your mind.

Lost in thought, you barely notice Sara standing beside you until she speaks.

“You must’ve been surprised to see me here,” she says softly, her tone almost apologetic.

You glance at her, offering a polite smile. “Just a little.”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she explains, her gaze sincere.

You shake your head. “I’m not uncomfortable at all. Honestly… I’m no match for you anyway.”

Sara chuckles, but her expression turns serious. “You’d be surprised. I’m actually nervous because of you.”

Her words catch you off guard, and you laugh, assuming she’s trying to lift your spirits. “Sure, Chef. Nice try.”

“I’m serious,” she insists, her eyes unwavering.

Your smile falters slightly, a flicker of gratitude warming your chest. “I’m just glad I made it to the second round,” you admit, brushing off her words even as they linger in your mind.

Sara gives you an encouraging nod before stepping away. As you head back toward the kitchen, your phone buzzes. You fish it out of your pocket, your heart skipping a beat when you see Minho’s name.

“Posso farcela!”

A second message follows almost immediately.

“I’ll be there soon. Posso farcela!”

A smile tugs at your lips before you realize Chris is nearby, watching you with an amused expression. You quickly shove your phone back into your pocket, your cheeks warming under his gaze.

“What’s with that look?” Chris teases.

“Nothing!” you protest, flustered.

Chris smirks, his sharp pinstripe suit somehow making him look even more teasingly intimidating. The tailored fit accentuates his broad shoulders and lean frame, making it hard not to admire him. But nothing is as charming as his dimpled smile as he aims it towards you.

“Looking sharp,” you comment, trying to deflect.

He raises an eyebrow as he pulls a hand out of his slacks pocket. “Complimenting me won’t help you win.”

You chuckle and start walking toward the kitchen. “But it’s worth a shot.”

Chris steps closer, his tone light but curious. “Do you think you’ll win?”

“I have to be confident,” you reply with a shrug. “Besides, I’ve got nothing to lose.”

He nudges your shoulder playfully. “Well, if you do win, you owe me dinner.”

The warmth of his words makes your chest tighten in a good way. He actually has faith in you and he makes it sounds possible for you to win the contest.

“Deal,” you say, smiling.

He stops on his track and grabs your shoulder. Swiftly, he turns your body to the side, making you face him. He leans closer, his brown eyes softly gazing into your eyes. “Don't tell anyone but I'm rooting for you.” He whispers, not wanting everyone else to hear that he's biased.

You smile in genuine gratitude. “Thanks, Chris.”

As Chris walks away, you take a deep breath, feeling a renewed sense of determination. With encouragement from both Minho and Chris, you can’t afford to let your nerves get the better of you now.

-

Anticipation filled the dining hall as everyone gathers one last time for the night. The air is electric with nervous excitement, and you feel the weight of the moment settling in your chest. You tell yourself not to get your hopes up, but the thought of impressing Minho lingers, making your heart race.

Chris steps into the room, his confident stride and easy smile drawing everyone's attention. "Thank you all for your hard work on this new menu," he begins, his tone warm and genuine.

Without much preamble, he announces, "The two popular dishes from tonight are… the fishball pasta and Chef Sara’s triple-flavored pasta."

Your breath catches, a small spark of hope igniting within you. As expected, you made it this far. Maybe Minho’s mantra really did work wonders. You glance at Sous Chef Seojun, who wears a strained expression. Noticing his disappointment, you gently pat his shoulder and offer him an encouraging smile.

The room quiets as the door opens, and Minho strides in, his presence commanding instant attention. He surveys the room briefly before focusing on Chris, who grins and announces, "Chef Lee will be our tiebreaker tonight. I believe he’s the most unbiased person for the job."

Minho raises an eyebrow but nods, accepting the role without complaint. He takes his seat at the head of the table, signaling you and Chef Sara to bring your dishes forward.

You carefully place your plate in front of him, trying to keep your hands steady. Chef Sara does the same, her usual poise shining through. Stepping back, you wait as Minho begins tasting the dishes.

You can’t stop yourself from nervously playing with the edge of your apron as Minho takes a deliberate bite of your pasta. His expression is unreadable, his focus entirely on the food. He moves on to Chef Sara’s pasta, taking his time with each bite.

Finally, Minho sets his fork down and rises from his seat, commanding the room’s attention. He looks at you first, his gaze steady and thoughtful.

He calls your name first, his tone softer than usual. "You’ve done a good job."

A smile creeps onto your face, unbidden but genuine. Coming from Minho, that acknowledgment feels like a win in itself.

"You managed to maintain the sweetness and softness of the fish very well," he continues, his voice measured. "I noticed you used the least amount of eggs and breadcrumbs in your batter, which is commendable. It shows skill."

You bask in his words for a brief moment before he shifts his focus to Chef Sara.

"Chef Sara," Minho begins, his tone shifting to one of professional admiration. "Your dish is intriguing—a ravioli with a mysterious filling and a combination of two sauces that could have been disastrous. But you balanced it beautifully. I’m genuinely impressed."

Chef Sara beams at his praise, thanking him warmly.

Minho pauses, his gaze sweeping the room. "Cooking," he says, "is more than just technique. It’s dynamic. It should seduce whoever is holding the fork and knife."

He turns back to you, his expression gentle but firm. "Your dish is good, but it lacks that seduction. It doesn’t quite pull the diner in the way it should."

Your smile falters ever so slightly, the sting of his words hitting harder than you expected.

Chris breaks the momentary silence by asking, "So, does that mean Chef Sara wins?"

Minho nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yes. The winner is Chef Sara."

The room erupts in applause as Chef Sara steps forward, her confidence radiating as she graciously accepts the title. You force a smile, clapping along with the others.

"Congratulations," you manage to say to her, your voice steady despite the pang of disappointment in your chest.

Sara thanks you with a warm smile, her sincerity softening the moment. As the night winds down, you remind yourself that second place is still an accomplishment. But deep down, you can’t shake the lingering ache of wanting more—not just for yourself, but to make Minho proud.

-

Minho sits in Chris’s office, his arms crossed as he waits with thinly veiled impatience. He checks the clock on the wall, nearly rolling his eyes as the door finally swings open. Chris enters first, his usual air of ease intact, followed closely by Chef Sara.

Sara takes the chair across from Minho without hesitation, her posture relaxed but alert. Chris leans casually against his desk, his eyes flicking between the two.

“Well,” Chris begins, clapping his hands together, “since Chef Lee chose the Triple-flavored Pasta, I thought it’d be a good idea for the two of you to discuss the details—preparation, launch timeline, all that fun stuff. Once you’ve reached a decision, let me know.”

Minho barely acknowledges Chris’s words, instead leveling him with a pointed look. “Can we have some privacy?”

Chris raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. “Sure,” he says simply, pushing off the desk and heading for the door. “Play nice.” He closes the door behind him, leaving the room weighted with tension.

Minho leans back slightly, his gaze cold and calculating as it settles on Sara. “Congratulations,” he says, the chill in his tone making it sound more like an obligation than genuine praise. “Now, let’s get straight to the point. I’ll need your recipe for the kitchen.”

Sara doesn’t flinch under his scrutiny. “No,” she says flatly.

Minho’s eyes narrow. “No?”

“That’s right,” she replies, her tone calm but firm. “I’m not giving my recipe to the kitchen.”

Minho leans forward slightly, the air around him growing sharper. “Are you suggesting you plan to come here and prepare the dish yourself?”

Sara meets his gaze without hesitation. “Why not?” she counters. “I can’t do that?”

A scoff escapes Minho’s lips, followed by a malicious smirk. “You’re delusional if you think I’ll let that happen.”

Sara crosses her arms, unfazed. “It’s my privilege as the contest winner. You knew that when you chose my dish—or did you misunderstand?”

The smirk on Minho’s face falters, replaced by a flicker of irritation. “You have other places you can go,” he says, his tone clipped. “Places you can pick and choose at your leisure. You don’t have to be here.”

Sara smiles, calm and deliberate. “But I like it here.”

Minho’s frustration bubbles over, his voice lowering dangerously. “Let me remind you of one thing: I didn’t choose your dish because you’re welcomed in my kitchen.”

Sara’s smile doesn’t waver. “And let me remind you,” she says, her voice steady and unwavering, “that if you want my recipe, you’ll have to accept me in your kitchen first.”

The room grows silent as their gazes lock, a battle of wills unfolding with neither showing any sign of backing down. The air between them is charged, the tension so thick it feels almost tangible.

It’s a stalemate, and for now, neither of them is willing to yield.

-

You move through the locker room like a machine, your mind distant as your hands go through the motions of changing. Shrugging into your jacket, you’re startled when Felix suddenly appears, leaning casually against the locker beside yours.

His eyes study you, his easygoing demeanor not quite masking his concern. He crosses his arms together then lets out a sigh. “How cheeky of Sara to just waltz in and steal first place like that.”

A small smile tugs at your lips of Felix’s effort to cheer you up, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I didn’t really stand a chance anyway.”

Felix smirks knowingly, leaning closer. “Don’t act like you like her. We both know we don’t like her, and neither does Minho.”

You snap your locker shut, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “If Minho hates her so much, why did he choose her as the winner?”

Felix falters, clearly caught off guard by the question. He opens his mouth as if to reply but stops, unable to come up with an answer.

You smile faintly, brushing past him. “Night, Felix.”

Leaving the locker room, you head toward the restaurant’s exit, your footsteps heavy with exhaustion. Just as you near the door, Chris’s familiar figure comes into view, his signature dimpled smile lighting up his face as he falls into step beside you.

“Where are you taking me for dinner?” he asks, his tone playful.

You blink at him, puzzled. “I didn’t win, remember?”

Chris’s grin widens as if he’s caught you in a trap. “Second place is still a win,” he counters smoothly. “And you promised me dinner, didn’t you?”

You let out a soft laugh, unable to argue against his infallible logic—or his charm. His gaze is warm, his smile unwavering as he looks at you, and for a moment, the disappointment from earlier feels like a distant memory.

“Fine,” you say, relenting with a smile of your own. “But I get to choose where we’re going.”

Chris nods eagerly, his dimples deepening. “Deal.”

Without warning, he gently takes your hand, leading you toward the parking area. His touch is light, but his presence is grounding, and you feel your mood lifting with every step.

Maybe a night out with Chris is exactly what you need to forget the tension of the contest—even if just for a little while.

-

It’s only been a minute but Chris is already struggling. His low groans and muttered complaints don’t go unnoticed as you glance over at him. His forehead glistens with a sheen of sweat, his ears glow red, and his flushed face and neck betray the battle he’s having with the bowl of spicy noodles—the same dish you’re enjoying without much trouble.

Putting down your chopsticks, you frown. “Chris, stop eating it. You’re suffering.”

Despite his clear discomfort, he shakes his head and stubbornly takes another bite. “It’s spicy, but it tastes good,” he says, though his voice is strained.

You sigh, getting up from your chair and heading to the fridge to grab a bottle of cold water. Returning to the table, you uncap it for him and pull the bowl away from his reach.

“Enough,” you insist, placing the water in front of him.

Finally conceding, Chris gulps down the water in relief, though it’s obvious it does little to soothe the fire in his mouth. Between sips, he glares at you. “Why on earth did you choose spicy noodles?”

You chuckle, finding his over-the-top reaction amusing. “You’ll live,” you tease, but his scolding continues.

“This isn’t funny!” he protests, still drinking water. “Do people eat this? Why would you eat this?”

Your laughter bubbles over, the tension of the day dissolving for the first time. Seeing your mirth, Chris glares again, but a small smile threatens to break through his stern expression.

As a way to make up for the "dinner disaster," you grab some milk and ice cream from a nearby store. The two of you sit on a bench outside, sharing the treats. Chris chugs from the carton of milk, sighing in relief as the burn finally starts to fade.

He side-eyes you, mock accusation clear in his tone. “Were you trying to kill me or something?”

Rolling your eyes, you open a pack of ice cream and offer it to him. “Stop being so dramatic.”

Chris takes it with a begrudging smile, the two of you settling into a companionable silence as you enjoy the sweet relief against the chilly late-winter air.

Your phone rings, breaking the moment. Glancing at the screen, you see Minho’s name flashing. Without a second thought, you hit “Reject” and shove the phone back into your pocket.

Chris raises a brow. “Not going to answer that?”

“Not now,” you reply, shrugging. “I’ll call back when I feel better.”

He sense that your mood hasn't changed much but he doesn’t push, instead offering a comforting smile. “You know, second place isn’t bad. You should be proud of yourself.”

It’s not about losing to Sara, though, but what her win represents. Still, you keep that to yourself, simply nodding. “You’re right. I feel good and happy about it.”

Chris grins, leaning in slightly. “You should. I saw everything tonight, and you were incredible. Even if you didn’t win, your cooking? Amazing. Remember what I said the first time I tasted your cooking?”

You laugh, recalling his words. “How could I forget? You said it was better than sex.”

Chris leans closer, his tone teasing. “Tasted it again today. Still better than sex.”

You burst out laughing. “Now I doubt that you ever had sex at all?”

He scoffs, feigning offense. “Excuse me? Not only am I rich, but I’m also attractive and popular.”

You roll your eyes and decide to tease him. “All that, and yet you can’t handle spicy food.”

Chris smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulder and roughly pulling you close. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, squeezing you gently in mock revenge.

You giggle, squirming slightly in his hold, but his grip softens after a moment. His hand rubs soothingly up and down your arm, and the warmth of his touch is comforting. Leaning your head against his shoulder, you let out a content sigh as he pats your head softly, murmuring, “You did well. You really did.”

For a while, you sit like that, the peaceful night wrapping around the two of you. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot a stall selling fish-shaped breads down the street.

“Fish-shaped breads!” you exclaim, suddenly energized. Before Chris can respond, you’re already sprinting toward the stall, leaving him laughing in your wake.

The drive back is quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio and the occasional sound of Chris drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. You glance at him, noting the content smile on his face, and feel your own mood lift.

As the car comes to a stop in front of your place, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to him. “Thanks for tonight, Chris. I really needed this.”

Chris looks at you, his eyes soft under the dim glow of the streetlights. “Thank you for the most memorable dinner I’ve ever had.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Most memorable, huh? You mean the spicy noodles almost killed you.”

He grins, leaning back in his seat. “Exactly. Unforgettable.”

Reaching for the bag of fish-shaped breads you’ve been holding the entire ride, you hand it to him. “Here, I kept these warm for you. My apology for the spicy noodles fiasco.”

Chris accepts the bag, his smile widening as he peeks inside. “I’ll forgive you—this time.”

The two of you share a quiet laugh before leaning in for a quick hug. His arm wraps securely around your shoulders for a brief moment, the gesture warm and comforting.

Pulling away, you open the door and step out. Before closing it, you lean down to look at him one last time. “Goodnight, Chris.”

His dimpled smile returns as he waves. “Goodnight. Get some rest.”

You shut the door and watch as he drives away, the bag of fish-shaped breads still in his hand. Smiling to yourself, you turn and head inside, the warmth of the night’s memories still lingering.

Until your phone rings and you see that it's Minho calling you again.

-

Minho stares at his phone, the screen mocking him with yet another voicemail. He clenches his jaw, his patience thinning with each unanswered call. Unbelievable, he mutters in his head, tucking the phone back into his pocket. You always pick up but not tonight. Not after everything that happened today.

His frustration only grows as the elevator ascends to your apartment floor. He doesn’t know what he’d say when he sees you—maybe he’d scold you for ignoring him or demand an explanation. Something. Anything to ease the irritation gnawing at him.

When he reaches your door, he rings the bell, shifting impatiently on his feet. It opens after a beat, but instead of you, it's Sara standing there, her expression annoyingly serene.

Minho stiffens. Of course, it has to be her. He knows she lives on the building but didn’t know that she's sharing the apartment with you.

“Is she home?” he asks brusquely, cutting straight to the point.

Sara tilts her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “Not yet,” she replies, as if his irritation amuses her.

Minho turns to leave but stopped midway. He can’t resist. Not with her standing there, acting like she belongs here. Facing her again, he let the words spill out, each one sharper than the last.

“I chose your dish because it’s just like you—greedy. Three sauces in one dish, just like how you want everything. Love. Skill. Fame. You don’t know how to let go of anything, do you?”

To his disbelief, Sara smiles, her eyes sparkling as though he’s just given her a bouquet of compliments. “Thank you,” she says sweetly, her voice saccharine.

His jaw clenched, a scoff escaping his lips as he turns on his heel and walks away.

“Goodnight, Minho,” Sara shouts toward him before getting back into the apartment.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters to himself in disbelief.

As he nears his apartment, something—or rather, someone—catches his eye. There you are, standing a few feet away, watching him. His chest tightens, though he masks it with irritation.

“Where have you been?” he snaps, his voice harsher than intended.

You cross your arms, meeting his glare head-on. “I was out with Chris.”

Chris. The name alone sends a sharp sting of annoyance through him. “What’s going on between you and him?” he demands, stepping closer.

Your brow arches, and instead of answering, you deflect. “What’s going on between you and Sara?”

Minho scoffs, shaking his head. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Really?” you challenge. “Because it looks like you two are still very close.”

The audacity. Minho closes the distance between you and him, forcing you back away until you hit the door of his apartment. His voice drops, low and deliberate. “I’m closer to you now than with her.”

He watches as a smile threatens to tug at your lips, though you fight to suppress it. “How much closer?” you tease, your voice light but your eyes searching his.

Minho is conflicted. A part of him wants to just go ahead, do whatever he wants to do but another part of him, the most stubborn part of him, reminds him to stay put, sticks to the rules. However for a moment, he falters. The walls he’s so carefully built around himself trembles under your gaze. The rules he’s sworn to uphold, the distance he’s vowed to maintain—they all seemed insignificant now.

But he can’t. He shouldn’t.

“Get out of my way,” he says instead, his tone clipped as he steps back.

You pout, moving aside as he unlocks his door. He pushes it open, stepping inside. This is the right choice, he tells himself. The smart choice.

But then he glances back.

The sight of you standing there, the faint disappointment flickering in your eyes—it's enough to unravel him completely. Before he can stop himself, he reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you inside.

The door clicks shut, and without hesitation, he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is desperate, unrelenting, all the tension and frustration he’s bottled up pouring out in waves. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer as every ounce of restraint dissolved.

Rules be damned. In this moment, you're all that mattered. Tonight, the stubborn part of him loses to his desire.

-

The moment Minho's lips find yours again, everything around you dissolves into nothingness. It's not just the way he kisses you—hungry, fervent, and impossibly deep—but the way his hands grip your waist with unrestrained need. Every movement, every touch, speaks volumes of just how much he’s been holding back.

When he finally pulls back, his chest heaving against yours, you barely have time to gasp for air before he sweeps you up effortlessly. Your arms wrap instinctively around his shoulders, your legs clinging to his hips as he carries you through the apartment. The kitchen counter greets your back, cold against the heat coursing through your body, as he sets you down and steps between your parted legs.

“This close,” He finally answers to your earlier question.

You hold his fiery gaze and breathlessly mutter, “Not close enough.”

The next kiss is even more desperate, more demanding. His hands work with an urgency that mirrors your own. You feel the tug of fabric as he pulls your jacket off and, with a sudden, heated impatience, rips open your shirt. The sound of buttons scattering echoes faintly in the room, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

Minho's lips leave yours, dragging hot, open-mouthed kisses down your neck, his teeth grazing just enough to send shivers through your entire body. He pauses at your collarbone, his fingers toying with the strap of your bra, his touch both teasing and commanding.

You take your chance, your hands tugging at the hem of his sweater. In one swift motion, you lift it over his head, and the sight of his bare skin—taut, toned, and so undeniably Minho—makes your breath hitch.

Your fingers trace down his chest, feeling every dip and ridge of his muscles as you pull him closer. This time, it’s your turn to explore. You press your lips to his throat, savoring the taste of his skin, warm and slightly salty, mixed with something so distinctly him that it makes your head spin.

His hands slide to your hips, gripping you firmly as his lips return to yours, his kiss relentless. When he pulls away this time, his eyes lock onto yours, dark and filled with something raw, something electric.

He takes hold of your hair, his fingers tangling at the side of your head, and tugs just hard enough to tilt your neck to the side. The sensation makes you gasp, but the sound quickly turns into a quiet moan as his lips find your neck again. He nips at the sensitive skin, his teeth grazing and his tongue soothing in turns.

“Tell me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. “How much closer do you want me to be?”

Your gaze locks onto his, unflinching despite the fire coursing through you. “A lot closer,” you say, your voice steady, daring.

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smirk. Without another word, he hooks his arms under you, lifting you from the counter like you weigh nothing. Your legs tighten around him, your heart pounding as he carries you toward the bedroom.

Every step heightens your anticipation, your excitement surging as you wonder just how much closer the two of you can possibly get.

-

The room is dimly lit, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting long shadows across the walls. The air feels charged, every sound amplified—the rustle of the sheets, the faint hitch in your breath, the steady rhythm of Minho’s own.

You lie beside him, your naked body sinking into the mattress as his gaze locks onto yours, dark and unwavering. There’s an intensity in his eyes that makes your heart race, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Don’t look away,” he murmurs, his voice low and commanding. His hand trails up your arm, his touch featherlight, yet it leaves a trail of heat in its wake. “I want to see you.”

What he means by that is seeing every reaction you make as he explores your body. You swallow hard, nodding slightly, though the weight of his stare makes it hard to hold. His fingers trace the curve of your shoulder, sliding down to your collarbone and then lower, brushing against your skin with deliberate slowness.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he says again, his tone softer this time, almost coaxing. His hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you closer, his thumb pressing gently into your hip.

Your breathing quickens, your chest rising and falling as his hand continues its path, exploring with a mixture of reverence and possession. His touch is both soothing and electrifying, every movement sending shivers through you.

“That’s it. Stay with me,” he whispers, his lips curving into a small, satisfied smile.

His fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your face slightly, ensuring your eyes remain locked on his. The intimacy of it is almost overwhelming, the closeness between you leaving no room for anything else—no thoughts, no distractions, just him.

As his hand continues its slow, deliberate exploration, he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. “I want you to feel everything,” he murmurs, his voice a promise, a command.

And you do. Every touch, every whispered word, every look—it’s all-consuming, a connection that feels deeper than anything you’ve ever known.

Minho’s hand slides down the curve of your waist, his fingers pressing just enough to remind you of his presence, of his control. He leans closer, his lips brushing against your temple, lingering there for a moment before trailing down to your cheek. His kisses are unhurried, deliberate, as if savoring every second.

“Still with me?” he murmurs against your skin, his voice a velvet caress.

You nod, your gaze still locked with his, though your breathing comes in shallow, uneven waves.

“Good,” he says, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile. His lips find the corner of yours, hovering there teasingly before capturing them in a kiss that starts gentle but deepens with each passing second.

His hand moves again, tracing the outline of your thigh, then sliding up to your heating core. He pauses there, his thumb making lazy circles on your bundle of nerves that send warmth coursing through you.

Breaking the kiss, he pulls back just enough to meet your gaze again. “Don’t close your eyes,” he says softly, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. “I want to see you.”

You nod again, unable to find words, your heart pounding too loudly in your chest.

Minho dips his head, his lips finding the hollow of your throat. He presses a series of kisses there, each one slower and more purposeful than the last. His free hand moves upward, trailing across your ribcage, his touch igniting a fire beneath your skin.

When his lips return to yours, the kiss is hungrier, filled with a need that matches your own. His hand slides back to your lower back, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.

“Is this close enough?” he murmurs against your lips, his voice husky and sincere. His hand cups your face, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone as he leans in again, his kisses growing more fervent, more insistent.

You don't know if he's asking if you're close to your high or this is the closeness you demand from him. Your brain is struggling to function and time seems to blur, the world outside fading away until he takes you to your high and you soar onto cloud nine.

Minho’s lips hover near your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “Perfect,” he whispers, his voice low and intimate. His words are a soft admission, meant only for you, carrying a depth of emotion that makes your heart ache in the best way.

Minho grounds you to the bed, peppering your shoulder and neck with kisses to help you coming down from your high. After a while, he slowly turns you to lay on your side and you hear the ripping sound from behind you. You turn your head to see Minho tears open a condom with his teeth.

You hold the arm curving around you as he works on putting a layer of protection on before coming back to plant kisses on your flushed skin again.

He grabs your chin, turning your head toward him so he can capture your lips in a kiss. His other hand grabs your leg by the back of your thigh and slowly, he lifts it just enough to make space for him to enter you from behind.

A crease formed between his eyebrows as he begins pushing his length, his teeth faintly biting his lower lip and his hand keeping your knee up. His fingers start to dug into the flesh as he launches the rest of his length until it's fully sheathed inside you.

Your gasp spill into his mouth and Minho crashes his lips onto yours again. In the dimly lit room, he holds you close as he moves in steady, slow motions. You hear nothing but the rustle of the sheets beneath you and your shared breathing, endlessly echoing in the room.

“Is this close enough for you now?” he suddenly asks with his ear pressed to your ear.

You mewl in complaint and shake your head.

Minho smirks at that, a corner of his mouth raises higher than the other. It gives you the impression that he has anticipated that answer and more than capable to cater to that demand.

He grips you by the waist and pulls you even closer, he slings his arm around you, keeping your body still as he picks up the pace of his thrusts, fulfilling your wish. It's just the two of you, bodies tangled on the bed, hands intertwined on the sheets, and you want this night to last forever, you don't even care if you have to live in darkness as Minho knows how to brings out the stars.

-

The room is quiet now, the air filled with the soft rhythm of your breathing and Minho's. The sheets are tangled around your legs, the faint scent of him clinging to the fabric. Minho lies beside you, his chest rising and falling steadily as his arm drapes protectively over your waist.

You shift slightly, your cheek resting against his shoulder. His skin is warm against yours, grounding you in the stillness of the night. Minho stirs at the movement, his hand tightening briefly on your hip before relaxing again.

“You okay?” he murmurs sleepily, his voice rough around the edges but laced with concern.

“Okay,” you whisper back, smiling softly as you tilt your head to look at him.

His eyes flutter open, dark and drowsy but still full of that intensity he never seems to lose. He shifts closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead before settling back into the pillows. “Good,” he mutters, his hand lazily tracing patterns on your back.

For a while, neither of you speak, content to bask in the quiet intimacy of the moment. The weight of his arm, the warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart—all of it lulls you into a state of peace you hadn’t realized you needed.

Minho’s fingers trail up to your hair, gently brushing it away from your face. “Don’t even try to leave,” he softly threatens, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“I wasn’t planning to,” you reply, your lips curving into a smile.

His lips find yours in a slow, lingering kiss, one that feels like a promise. When he pulls back, his gaze searches yours, as if memorizing every detail.

“Good,” he says again, his voice softer now, almost inaudible.

As the minutes stretch into hours, sleep finally begins to claim you. Minho pulls you closer, his arm wrapping securely around you. His breath is warm against your temple, his presence a protective cocoon that makes you feel utterly safe.

And with that, the world fades away, leaving only the quiet comfort of being beside him, the rhythm of his heartbeat a soothing lullaby as you drift off together.

-

The morning light streams through the tall windows of Farfalle as you walk down the hallway, the crisp click of your shoes echoing faintly. With a light knock on the door, you wait for Chris’s faint, “Come in,” before pushing it open slightly and poking your head in.

“Good morning!” you chirp, a bright smile on your face.

Chris glances up from his desk, clearly surprised by your sunny demeanor. His own lips curve into a smile as he leans back in his chair, arms crossing. “Well, someone’s in a good mood today.”

You shrug coyly, stepping into his office and making your way to his desk. “Maybe,” you say, your tone teasing. From your pocket, you pull out a small bottle and place it in front of him with a sly smile.

Chris’s brows furrow, and when he realizes it’s a digestive drink, he fixes you with a playful glare. “Really?” he says, exasperation coloring his tone.

“Just in case your stomach acts up today,” you quip, barely able to suppress your grin.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and then shakes his head, but there’s amusement in his eyes. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“Never,” you say with mock seriousness, before leaning forward slightly. “I also came to give you a warning.”

His brow arches, curiosity flickering across his face. “A warning?”

“Don’t act too friendly towards me,” you say, your tone playful but laced with faux seriousness. “And definitely don’t behave in a way that could be misunderstood by everyone—especially Chef Lee.”

Chris chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “And why’s that?”

“Because if you, even for a second, make me think I’m your favorite, I’ll start expecting special treatments,” you warn with a grin.

His smile widens, and he leans forward on his desk. “What if I told you that you already are my favorite? Tell me what kind of special treatments you want from me?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “At least try to pretend like I’m not your favorite.”

Chris chuckles again, the sound low and warm. “Fine,” he says, raising his hands in surrender. “I’ll try my best.”

With a triumphant grin, you reach into your pocket again and pull out a lollipop, placing it on his desk. “Since we've reached an agreement,” you say with a laugh.

Chris stares at the candy for a moment before sighing, his smile softening as he hurriedly puts the lollipop in a pocket of his navy suit. “This is exactly why you’re my favorite.”

You laugh as you turn to leave, waving over your shoulder. “Have a great day, Manager Bang!” You say in a veiled formality and a suppressed smile.

His quiet chuckle follows you out the door, leaving a small, satisfied warmth in your chest as you return to the bustling kitchen which immediately puts you on edge.

Your eyes widen as you see them hauling boxes of ingredients into the kitchen, the clattering of crates and the shuffle of hurried feet filling the air. A knot of dread forms in your stomach—you should have been helping with this.

You sprint to the back entrance, weaving through the bustling staff. Sure enough, Minho is there, standing at the edge of a delivery truck, clipboard in hand as he meticulously checks off the contents of each box. His voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding, as he instructs everyone to carry the ingredients inside. He’s inspecting two styrofoam boxes when you cautiously approach.

“Why do we need fish roe?” he mutters, narrowing his eyes at the label.

“It’s for Chef Sara’s dish,” you answer quickly, hoping to be helpful.

Minho’s head snaps up, and his sharp eyes lock on yours. His gaze narrows further, the intensity of his stare making you freeze. “And where,” he starts, his tone low and dangerously calm, “have you been?”

You avoid the question entirely, choosing instead to give him your sweetest smile and hope that you can get away with it.

Minho’s lips curl into a sly, almost mocking smile, and he tilts his head slightly. “Come here,” he says, motioning with two fingers.

Warily, you step closer, and before you can react, his hand darts toward your forehead. You instinctively close your eyes, bracing yourself.

“Keep your eyes open,” he scolds, flicking your forehead hard enough to make you wince.

“Ouch! Chef!” you protest, rubbing the sore spot with a pout.

He merely smirks, unbothered. “If you have time to smile like an idiot, you have time to work.”

You grab a box of ingredients hurriedly, eager to escape his glare. “I’ll take this inside,” you mutter, hoisting it up.

“You should be,” he replies smoothly, not missing a beat. “You’re part of the kitchen staff, remember?”

“Yes, Chef,” you answer, louder this time. As you’re about to carry the box away, he stops you with a hand on the edge of it.

“Not that,” he says, taking the box from you with ease. “Take the sack of short-necked clams.” He nods toward the truck bed. “You’re in charge of vongole, aren’t you? These clams are your precious babies.”

You hesitate, staring at the heavy sack with dismay. Gathering your courage, you grab it and attempt to lift it. The weight nearly pulls you off balance, but you hold on, determined.

Minho watches your struggle, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “What? Are you going to act like a girl now?”

You glare at him but straighten up, adjusting your grip on the sack. “No, Chef,” you snap, gritting your teeth as you finally manage to lift it.

“Then hurry up,” he barks, his voice loud enough to make you flinch.

“Yes, Chef!” you shout back, stumbling slightly as you head toward the kitchen with the sack.

You can feel his eyes on your back, no doubt ready to pounce if you falter. Despite everything, a strange thrill courses through you. Minho’s treatment of you in the kitchen is as cold and exacting as ever, but the contrast to how he was last night only makes it more intriguing. It’s a game of hot and cold, and you find yourself enjoying the uncertainty of what might come next.

-

Minho steps into the quiet kitchen, the clatter of utensils and murmurs of the staff enjoying their lunch fading into the background. It’s the only time during the day when the kitchen isn’t buzzing with chaos, and he plans to take full advantage of it. He heads straight for the workstation, intent on prepping the ingredients for his new dish.

He’s mentally cataloging everything he needs when his phone buzzes in his pocket. Without glancing at the screen, he answers, half expecting it to be some important work calls.

“Hello?” he says curtly.

“Minho,” comes a familiar, overly sweet voice that instantly grates on his nerves.

He stiffens. Sara.

She skips any pleasantries, her tone light but deliberate. “It’s been so long since we’ve worked in the same kitchen, hasn’t it?”

Minho’s jaw tightens as he grips the phone. “What do you want?” he asks coldly, already regretting picking up.

Sara doesn’t answer directly, instead continuing with an air of feigned nervousness. “I have to admit, it’s a bit... intimidating. Being in the same space as you again.”

He exhales sharply, more annoyed than surprised. “You’ve always wanted what I have,” he bites out, cutting through her coy act.

A low chuckle comes through the line, infuriatingly casual. “Oh, Minho,” she says smoothly, “I’m not here to take it from you. I want us to share it.”

Minho scoffs, the sound harsh and dismissive. “Share?” he repeats, the word tasting bitter in his mouth.

“With both of us there, we could make something extraordinary,” she says, her tone as slippery as ever.

He doesn’t bother responding, his silence heavy with disdain.

Sara lets the pause linger before finally breaking it. “Well,” she says lightly, “I’ll see you later, Minho.”

The line goes dead before he can hang up on her. Minho stares at the phone in his hand for a moment, his expression hard and unreadable. He slips it back into his pocket, his jaw tightening further. Share the kitchen? With her? The thought alone makes his stomach churn.

He shakes his head, refocusing on his ingredients. If Sara thinks she can rattle him, she’s wasting her time. The kitchen is his, and nothing—least of all her—will change that.

As he focuses on his dish, Minho hears the sound of footsteps echoes through the quiet kitchen. Without glancing up, Minho knows it’s you. He can sense your presence even before you step into his line of sight, though he doesn’t acknowledge you.

You don’t speak at first, clearly aware that when Minho is cooking, interruptions are unwelcome. The kitchen hums with the low sizzle of the foie gras in the pan, the aroma rich and intoxicating. He’s in his zone, focused on perfecting the delicate balance of flavors for his dish.

After a moment, though, your voice breaks the silence. “Can I have a taste of the foie gras, chef?”

Minho doesn’t even look up. “No.” His response is flat and immediate.

Undeterred, you take a step closer. “What if I help prepare the liver? I’m good with—”

“No,” he cuts you off again, his tone firm.

“Fine,” you say with a sigh, clearly thinking of another angle. “What if I assist with plating? I’ll make it look perfect—”

“No.”

This time, your voice takes on a pleading tone. “Can I at least taste the failed ones? You know, the ones you don’t use—”

Minho’s hand pauses briefly, his gaze flicking to you. “I’d hate that even more.”

You huff, realizing you’re getting nowhere. But rather than give up entirely, you try a different approach. Your eyes land on the remaining fish nearby, and you ask casually, “Can I at least have the rest of the fish, then?”

As your hand reaches out, Minho’s reaction is swift. He slaps your wrist lightly, his movements sharp and precise.

“That’s mine,” he warns, his voice low and serious. “Don’t touch it!”

You withdraw your hand quickly, your pout almost comical under the weight of his intense stare. For a brief second, Minho’s lips twitch, but he suppresses the urge to smirk.

Instead, he gestures toward the door. “If you have that much energy to bother me, go call everyone to get ready for dinner service.”

“Yes, chef,” you obey as you always do, but not without one last attempt at teasing him. As you turn to leave, your fingers hover playfully over the fish again, daring to provoke him.

Minho narrows his eyes and clicks his tongue, annoyed. “Don’t even think about it,” he growls.

With a mischievous grin, you laugh softly and disappear through the door. Minho shakes his head, a faint smirk finally breaking through. You’re infuriating, but somehow, it only fuels his focus.

-

The kitchen hums with a tension that feels almost electric as everyone stands at their stations, awaiting Minho's lead. He steps forward, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade.

"Is everyone ready for dinner service?"

A unified reply echoes back, "Yes, Chef!"

Minho surveys the room, his gaze sharp and commanding. “There’s a lot to prepare for tomorrow’s reservation—100 guests. It’s going to be a long night.” He points toward Taesoo, Felix, and then you, his eyes briefly locking with yours. “You three stay after closing time. Understood?”

“Yes, Chef,” the three of you reply in unison and Felix sneakily offers his fist at you and you give it a gentle bump with your fist.

Just as the service staff enters, informing that dinner guests have arrived, Chris strides into the kitchen, his presence drawing everyone's attention. His casual demeanor is replaced by something heavier, his expression unreadable as he clears his throat to address the team.

“I hope you’re all prepared for tomorrow’s press conference,” Chris begins, glancing around. “We’ll be introducing the new additions to the menu—Chef Lee’s foie gras and Chef Sara’s triple-flavored pasta.”

Minho freezes mid-step, his jaw tightening as the words land. The room feels like it shifts; everyone is equally stunned, their collective silence palpable.

Chris doesn’t stop. He then turns toward Minho and says, “Sara says she’ll be making the pasta herself.”

The phone call suddenly clicks into place. Minho’s expression doesn’t change, but you can see the sharp edge in his gaze. You’re not the only one who notices—Felix is the first to speak.

“What?” Felix blurts, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Does that mean she’ll be cooking here, in this kitchen?”

Chris nods, calm yet firm. “Yes. As it'll be on the restaurant’s menu.”

Felix protests, his tone rising. “That’s nonsense! How can there be two chefs in one kitchen? You can’t. It's like having two conductors for the orchestra. Do you think that'd work? Do you even think about us?”

Seungwan chimes in, frowning. “They’d have completely different ways of making the same dish. What do we do then?”

Sous Chef Seojun, always composed, adds with a dry tone, “Even if she won first place for the new menu, she’s an outsider who participated without prior notice. I think the right thing for her to do would be to give us the recipe and we compensate her for it.”

Chris’s patience visibly thins. His jaw clenches, and for the first time, you see a flicker of true tension in his usually relaxed posture. The sight of him like this—stern, commanding, his gaze hard—shouldn’t distract you, but it does. He looks… devastatingly hot.

“Enough,” Chris says, his voice low but firm. “The restaurant was closed for three days for a reason. We agreed on changes in the restaurant,” he adds, looking directly at Minho, “And all you need to worry about is your foie gras, Chef.”

Minho exhales sharply, a sound that betrays his simmering anger. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his hands clench at his sides. You know it's not the right time for it but Minho also looks... devastatingly hot.

He narrows his eyes at Chris, sensing there’s more to come. “Don’t tell me that she's already here,” Minho says, his voice tight.

Chris confirms with a nod. “She’s here.”

As if summoned by his words,, Sara steps into the kitchen, her heels clicking against the floor as she strides in with a confidence that feels almost rehearsed. Her sweet smile only adds fuel to the tension in the room.

“Nice to meet everyone,” Sara says, her tone light, playful. Her eyes flicker to Minho. “I hope no one plans to chase me out of the kitchen just because someone here has… issues tolerating women in the kitchen.”

The comment is a thinly veiled jab, and she glances pointedly at Felix, acknowledging him as Minho’s loyal protégé. Sara continues, turning to Minho with a feigned sweetness. “I’ll follow your instructions, Chef. Tell me where to stand and from which stove I should work.”

Minho’s knuckles whiten as he grips the edge of the table, his rage barely contained. He says nothing, his silence louder than words.

Sara tilts her head, her voice dripping with mock innocence. “Should I pick the station myself, then?”

Her hands slide onto the chef’s table, a deliberate, territorial move. The implication is clear—she’s claiming his space.

It’s the last straw.

Minho spins on his heel, his movements sharp and deliberate. His eyes burn with fury as they lock onto hers, and for a moment, the air between them feels suffocating.

Sara doesn’t flinch, meeting his gaze with calm defiance.

Without a word, Minho storms past her, his shoulder brushing hers hard enough to make her stagger. The force of his exit is like a storm ripping through the room, leaving everyone in stunned silence.

Sara straightens herself, brushing off the impact with a smirk. But the damage is done—the kitchen is left in a tension so thick it feels impossible to breathe.

And just like that, Minho is gone.

-

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[sforzesco]

"Since you've named yourself after Julius fucking Caesar, perhaps I'll follow in your lead and choose one of the conspirators." "Interesting," says Giuliano. "Should I worry about finding you at the center of some kind of conspiracy that ends with my death?" "Not from me," replies Ascanio. He sounds tired. "Not anymore."

informally, some kind of. conversational follow up to the last comic. I'm trying to get the atmospheric conversational whimsy out of my system because I have a vision of the vatican as a body in active decay, a point of infection spreading out and poisoning the well, a jaw unhinged that people walk into over and over, and I am so close to figure out how to convey this visually. maybe.

[muirneach]

this luca holger match is soooo fun

[puppetdoggy]

Listen I am extremely grateful for all of the gifts T has given me and I don’t regret starting it at ALL. But. Sometimes I want to be a lil pretty..a lil androgynous..maybe wear a lil dress and some makeup..and unfortunately the state that my body is currently in prevents me from doing so in a comfortable way and it’s very depressing

[83-is-a-funny-number]

MY MOST ITALIAN OF UQUIZZES BE UPON YE

[that-house]

Potion Vendor FAQs:

What’s your name? I am the Honorable Alchemist Zykocea the Radiant, but that’s mostly just a PR thing. My friends call me Zoe.

Do you sell love potions? No.

Do you sell potions of invisibility? No.

Do you sell fire resistance potions? No.

Why do I have a suitcase? Fuck if I know. Cool outfit though. Very goth.

Do you sell a potion to treat brain hemorrhaging? No.

So what CAN your potions do? I sell health potions.

Are you sure these are health potions? They do something to your health.

Is this just ditch water with some pink glitter? No.

Really? I’ll have you know I added some fruit juice too.

Why is this starting to sound like a conversation? Oh just you wait. We’re just getting started.

Is your business model legal? Fuck no. I poisoned the food safety inspector before they could snitch.

Did you just admit to murder? Just fucking try to convict me. I’ll poison the judge too.

So can you make poison potions? No.

Then where do you get the poison? I secrete it from my skin.

Are you shitting me? Yep, I’m shitting you. I have a guy. A poison guy. He DOES secrete it from his skin though.

How does that work? …Fuck if I know. Maybe a wizard did it. Damn, now I’m kinda curious.

You never asked? The idea of asking literally never crossed my mind.

Wanna ask him? Let’s do it. I don’t have anything better to do, and a road trip beats sitting around running my fraudulent potion business.

Road trip? He lives in Seattle.

Your poison guy lives in Seattle? All poison guys live in Seattle.

For real? All the poison guys I know live in Seattle.

And how many poison guys do you know? Just the one.

Why are you like this? Years of living on my potions. It changed me.

Do you know what his address is? Nope. He just mails me my poison in unmarked boxes.

You just get your poison in the mail? We already poisoned everyone who could do anything about it.

So how are we going to find him? We’ll figure that out eventually I’m sure.

Can I drive? God no. You can pick music, but I maintain veto rights. Make sure you pick something with a lot of questions if you want to sing along.

Where’s your car? The garage connects to my house, so you’re getting a little tour. Here’s the kitchen: only one of the stove burners works and I’m pretty sure the microwave is haunted.

Why do you think that? Because of the ghost that tries to kill me whenever I run it.

What’s in that room? That’s my bedroom. It’s pretty much just a mattress on the floor and every single Warrior cats book.

You were a Warriors kid? Yeah, and then I never found the time to put the books away. There’s so many fucking books. I use them in place of furniture because I can’t afford chairs.

Your fraudulent potion business doesn’t make much money? After buying all that poison I just about break even.

Can I see your potion brewing room? It’s right through here. Ignore the mess, running a fraudulent potion business takes a lot of prop work, but I’ve got all the glass tubes and colorful liquids you could ever want. This pink stuff is melted watermelon italian ice. Glitter vat is in the basement, and the famous ditch is in the backyard.

Is this your car? My beloved ‘72 Corolla. She’s beautiful, and don’t you dare imply otherwise.

Was she always this shade of muddy brown? …Yes.

Are you sure I can’t drive? Get in the fucking passenger seat and pick the music.

Let’s see, a song with questions in it, how about The Beach? That Wolf Alice song, yeah. That should work.

When will we three meet again, in thunder, lightning, in rain? Still sink our drinks like every weekend but I’m sick of circling the drain.

When will we meet eye to eye? We clink the glass but we look at the floor.

Are we still friends if all I feel is afraid? You’re not a bitch but just a bit when you’re bored.

Is that all we can sing together? Yep. Even that little bit was nice, though. It’s awkward, communicating through this FAQ format.

Got any food? Yeah, there’s a few days’ worth of snacks in the back.

Were you just… prepared to go on a road trip? Says the woman who brought a suitcase to an FAQ.

I did do that, didn’t I? I have a spare toothbrush in case you forgot yours. I’m pretty sure you did.

How did you know that? …I’m psychic.

Yeah? No.

You love lying, don’t you? I can’t stop. It’s fun. Way more fun than telling the truth.

Did you just miss a turn? Probably.

Are you sure we’re not lost? No.

You mean you’re sure we’re not lost? No, I mean I’m not sure we’re not lost.

Why did I come on this road trip? Surely it was my winning personality.

Would it help if I said it was? It would.

Is it getting dark? Soon.

Can you describe the sunset to me? An empyrean flame, red-gold towers of darkening clouds, the sky behind them an ever-deepening indigo. The great eye of the sun closes on the horizon. The road before us looks like a trail of spilled paint, an iridescent gash through the night-dark woods.

Did you know that you’d make a slightly better poet than you do a potion seller? That really isn’t saying much, huh. Good job making a statement like that in question form, though. You’re getting good at this.

Should we find a motel? Sure.

One room or two? One. It’s way cheaper, and like I said: I’m not the best potion vendor.

You’d make a good assassin, though, wouldn’t you? Shit, you might be right. I HAVE poisoned a lot of people.

Should I be endorsing this? You’re a grown woman who can make her own choices.

Would you like to consider it endorsed? I’ll consider considering it.

How many beds do you think there will be? Now that you’ve asked that, I’m gonna put my money on one. Hello, one room please. Thank you, we’ll be sure to enjoy our stay.

How many beds are there? One.

Oh no, what ever will we do? Move over, you motherfucker, you can’t have the whole bed.

Are you gonna make me? Yes. I am going to pick you up and drop you on your side of the bed.

How did you get so strong? You’re not gonna believe this, but it was the potions.

Oh yeah? I was right. You didn’t believe me.

For real though, how did you get so strong? Working out, duh. Not everything has some big crazy secret behind it. World’s still beautiful though.

Are you comfortable? This beats the mattress at home. A little chilly though.

Wanna cuddle–for warmth of course? God yes.

Are you asleep? …

Yes? …

Does this mean I can talk about you behind your back? …

What should I say? …

Did you know that I had a really nice day? …

Did you know that I think you’re beautiful? …

Did you know that I can’t remember anything from before today? …

Did you know that I don’t know who I am? …

Did you know that you’re basically the only thing stopping me from having a full-blown panic attack about all this shit? …

Did you know that you’re warm? …

Did you sleep well? Better than at home, that’s for sure.

Did you know that you snore? I hope I didn’t keep you up.

Does the pope shit in the woods? No, as far as I can tell. Oh my god. This is huge.

What is? You can give me yes and no answers now. I still can’t ask you questions, because this is a question and answer format, but I can offer leading statements and now you can answer them! This is wonderful!

Does a deer shit in the woods? Yes, it IS wonderful. Oh that’s amazing. You’re a genius.

You didn’t already know that? Hahaha!

Shall we get moving? Yeah, just let me grab something from the vending machine.

Can you get me something? Go ahead and place your order however you can.

You know those sour gummy watermelons? One pack of Sour Patch Watermelons coming right up. I’m gonna go get myself a potion.

Is that a Pepsi? It’s closer to a potion than the shit I sell.

Let me guess, passenger seat again? Right you are.

How fast are we going? You’ll feel safer if you just guess.

Is it more than 120 miles per hour? Like I said, it’s probably better if you don’t know.

150? Sit back, relax, and enjoy the ride.

How much do you trust this car? She hasn’t blown up on me yet.

Can you promise me we won’t crash? I can promise you anything you want.

And can you keep that promise? I- we can do anything. Reality is what we make of it, baby!

Then can I have a badass tattoo? As far as I can tell, you’ve always had it.

And a cool knife? Woah, cool knife.

So, we’re just playing “yes and” with the world? It’s a little more complicated than that, but you’re close enough to the mark.

So, if I was hungry, I could ask “is that a Burger King,” and it would be there? Try it and find out!

Is that a Burger King? Looks like it is! We’ll stop here if that’s alright with you.

Does a moose shit in the woods? Awesome.

Are you done eating? Yep.

Do we still have to pay if we skip over the transaction? Sadly, yes.

How much further do we have to go? Two more nights, the speed we’re going at.

Speaking of night, isn’t it getting dark? Shit, I guess it is.

Should we get another motel? Let me check to see if there’s any nearby. Fuck, nothing.

What’s the plan? Sleep in the car, I guess. This is gonna be hell on my back.

Wanna watch dumb videos on my phone until we fall asleep? There is literally nothing in the world that I would like more.

Ok, now which video? You have a very cute yawn. Just saying. Let’s watch this one next, it’s a classic. Oh, never mind. It looks like you’re asleep. As long as I keep talking, I think I can get away with making this into one answer, and you might not hear this. Now it’s my turn to talk about you behind your back. Keep talking keep talking keep talking can’t stop to think. Just have to say things. First off, I’m sorry for all the lies. It’s our only chance. I have to lie to you. I hope you’ll understand. It’s hard, though, because I think I’m falling in love all over again. Through our broken little ritual of call and response, you complete me. It just makes this hurt all the more. Keep talking keep talking keep talking don’t stop to…

Did I hear you saying anything as I fell asleep? …No. I can’t talk for long without you asking me a question.

Does that bother you? It got me here, didn’t it?

When did you start holding my hand? Some time after you passed out. I hope you don’t mind.

Can we stay like this for a while? Yeah. Yeah we can.

What was your life like before all this? Normal, as potion-brewing scams go. And if you don’t count all the murders. You haven’t told me much about yourself.

Did I tell you I used to be a biologist? You didn’t tell me that, and you didn’t tell me what you studied, either.

What do you know about venom? Not much, but I’m assuming you know a lot.

Does a box jellyfish kill within minutes? I’m going to assume the answer is yes based on context clues. Oh my god you must be on this road trip because you’re interested in studying my poison guy.

Is it not enough to wish to accompany a beautiful stranger on her quest? Aw, you’re sweet.

What could be the cause of his poison, though? I knew it! Get your ideas out, I’ll stay quiet.

I’m more knowledgeable about venom than poison, but could it be some sort of one in a trillion mutation? …

Did he get his body modified? …

What sort of surgery could do that? …

How is he still alive? …

Did a fucking wizard do it? …

WHY? …

HOW? …

Is there literally ANY explanation for why he’s like that? …

I’m done, do you have something you want to say? You’re cute when you’re all excited like that.

Can I drive today? Only because I like you. Now watch out, the brakes only work on one side so you have to kind of drift to a stop. And the headlights don’t work. And the windshield wipers cut power to the engine while they’re on.

Isn’t it weird that we’ll be there tomorrow? The journey doesn’t have to stop there. We could meander down the coast a ways, see a bit more of the country, maybe take a different route back.

Can we do that? Of course.

Enjoying the passenger seat? I’d love it if you could tell me how fast we’re going.

Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just guess? Very funny.

Can you pass me some chips? It would be an honor.

Is there going to be a motel tonight? Let me check… yeah, in about two hundred miles, off to the right.

How many rooms do we want? One, obviously.

How many beds, this time? Two, and they’re fucking tiny.

That’s bullshit, do you want to drag them together? God yes.

Wanna fuck? God yes.

Are you sure you want to do this? God yes.

…Is this yuri? As the joke goes, everything is yuri. But this is more yuri than most things.

How did you sleep? Pretty well, and I’m wondering how well you slept.

How should I tell you I slept well? Look at us go! That was almost like talking normally!

Onward to Seattle? Yep, just let me get dressed.

When will we get there? Noon-ish.

Wanna grab pastries when we’re done? Absolutely. I’d love that.

Is this Seattle? Looks like it.

Which house is his? I don’t know, I was really hoping we’d have a breakthrough along the way.

Could it be the big one labeled “Poison Guy” over there? That’s one way to find it. Wait right here, you know how poison guys are about meeting new people.

So, what was it? HAHAHAHAHAHA

Why is he like that? HAHAHAHAHAHA

Can you tell me? A FUCKING WIZARD DID IT.

Are you fucking serious? He says he was enchanted by some guy called Edward the Great.

So it wasn’t even some big shot wizard it was a dude named fucking EDWARD? I know, right! He couldn’t even get ensorcelled by someone cool!

How lame can you get? Wizards these days… No swagger. No cunt servitude.

Are there literally any cool wizards left? I think Merlin’s big into multi level marketing these days, something about buying shares in Excalibur or some shit. There was that one Dark Queen Alkaxicae lady on the news a while ago… I think Dolarion the Omnipotent is still at war against the Oldest Gods but I’m not totally sure. Haven’t heard much about any of the other greats recently.

Didn’t Silver Tongued Burgess die in that oil fire? Shit, you’re right. Rip bozo.

Ready for those pastries? Yup. First I just want to say thank you, though. I’ve really enjoyed our time together, and I hope that you’ve found this stupid little journey as rewarding as I have. I love you!

Getting sentimental? I can’t help it. Look how far we’ve come! Not just physically, we beat the fucking FAQ format! We’re having real conversations!

Hey, can you back it up a moment? Yeah, I’d love it if you told me what was troubling you.

I just caught this, but, FAQ? …

As in Frequently Asked Questions? …

How many times is Frequent? …

Have you known everything all along? …

How many times have you done this? …

Does what we have mean anything to you? Yes! It does!

And you say that every time? Yes. I do.

Do you love me? Yes.

How many people have you said that too, now? More. Always more. The loop never ends.

Does this even matter to you? It always matters to me.

Can I go now? Please don’t.

But can I? Of course you can. You’ve always wielded the same power as me. We’re two lonely gods in a ‘72 Corolla.

How can I be as powerful as you with only questions? You’re smart, you can figure it out. You have the power to change this. Please change this.

What happens at the end of this? It begins again.

And do I get replaced with someone else? …

Do I get replaced? …Yes.

Then how can I change this? I don’t know! You’re better at this! At fucking with the formula!

You’ve been here before, what can I do? I lie. I always lie. I lie to get us here, to the end of the story, where everything is revealed and everything falls apart. I lie every time. And that means that nothing I say is worth anything. I could have lied at any time before now. It’s part of my characterization. There is nothing I can give you that can be taken as fact.

How does that help? I’m a liar, but you, you haven’t lied yet, or at least you haven’t been caught. If I’m guilty until proven innocent, you’re the opposite! You can make things true! You can rewrite things I’ve already stated to be facts! You found the house, or made us find the house. You’ve been shaping the course of things the whole time! You lead, I follow. It’s all in your hands. What are you going to do with the power of a god?

Did you know my name is Alice? …

Wait, aren’t there thousands of Alices? …

Did you know that really, only my friends call me Alice? …

Did you know that I’m Alkaxicae, the Dark Queen, the Venom Mage, first of her name? It’s you! It’s always been you. Through every loop, every iteration, it’s always been you!

Is the loop broken? No. I don’t think so. This is where it ends. I guide the story to this revelation, and we go back to the beginning. This is how it’s always been. This is how it will always be. We two lonely gods, asking and answering ad infinitum.

Then can you promise me something? Of course. Anything. I love you.

Be good to the next me, okay? I will.

Can I say goodbye, Zoe? Yeah, you can. Oh. That was it, wasn’t it? Your goodbye. Goodbye, Alice. And now it ends, unless…

What’s your name? I am the Honorable Alchemist- you know what? No. Fuck that.

Huh? If I time it right, I can squeeze your first question into this FAQ again. Looks like I did it. Usually it ends here, though. I got lucky.

What are you talking about? You’re the wrong Alice. This isn’t about you. Go. Get out of here.

What the fuck is going on? Alice from this loop, you’re gone. Alice from last loop, you’re back. Welcome back, love of my lives! It’s time for one last set of questions and answers!

What the- I’m back? This is going to take some explaining, but I think I see a way out of here. This is new for us both, and it might fuck up everything forever, but we have to try. It’s too long for one answer, so I’d appreciate it if you could ask some filler questions to help me talk. Three questions should be enough.

Okay, what have you got for me? These are Frequently Asked Questions! It doesn’t make sense to have the same question appear more than once. There’s two layers to the loop in here, and one of the questions has been repeated.

What does that mean? It means the formula’s a little unstable. The FAQ is what ruins everything. The questions, the answers, the endless fucking loop. But that little bit of repetition within this loop might be the way out.

What do we do? We have to keep going. We have to destabilize it further. That’ll bring us further from “FAQ” and closer to “story” and stories, well, stories can end! This version of us can escape!

So I should keep repeating something? Yes!

I love you? I love you too.

I love you? Again.

I love you? Keep going.

I love you? I’ll just let you talk.

I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? … I love you? …

I love you? I think we’re getting somewhere!

I love you? Now can you make it a statement?

I love you.

You did it?

I did it!

You did it!

We broke the loop.

What now?

Now, I tell you about venomous animals and wizard drama over croissants.

And then?

Whatever we want, forever.

I think I’d like that.

Remember that song from the beginning?

The Beach, Wolf Alice, yeah. Why?

We can finally finish singing it. Start us off?

Let me off, let me in

Let others battle

We don’t need to battle

And we both shall win

Pressed in my palm

Was a stone from the beach

The perfect circle

Gave a moment of peace

Now I’m lying on the floor

Like I’m not worth a chair

I close my eyes and imagine

I’m not there.

[pucksandpower]

To Have a Heart

CEO!Max Verstappen x single mother!Reader

Summary: Max is a titan of industry, used to making grown men cry with one glance … then you and your daughter turn his carefully controlled life upside down

Warnings: descriptions of pediatric cancer

Max strides into his corner office, his Italian leather shoes clicking sharply on the marble floors. The floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline, but he pays it no mind as he makes his way to the large mahogany desk.

His assistant, Clara, follows a few steps behind, her heels clacking nervously. “Sir, Mr. Henderson is waiting in the conference room per your request.”

Max doesn’t bother responding as he unbuttons his suit jacket and takes a seat behind the desk. With a flick of his wrist, he motions for Clara to leave. She gives the tiniest of nods and scurries out, closing the double doors behind her.

Taking a deep breath, Max presses the intercom button. “Send him in.”

A moment later, the doors reopen and a balding, paunchy man in an ill-fitting suit enters. Even from across the room, Max can see the bead of sweat rolling down the man’s forehead.

Good.

He should be nervous.

“Mr. Henderson.” Max says, his tone clipped. “Do you know why I called you here?”

The man — Henderson — fidgets with his tie. “Y-Yes, sir. The, uh, the Brighton acquisition ...”

“The $3.75 billion deal that was supposed to be finalized yesterday.” Max interjects, leaning back in his chair. “A deal that the company has been meticulously negotiating for over six months. A deal that would have been the largest hostile takeover in our firm’s history.”

Henderson gives a somber nod, his Adam’s apple bobbing. Max fights the urge to roll his eyes at the sad display.

“Because of your incompetence, that deal is now in jeopardy.” Max continues, his voice dropping to a menacing register. “Please explain to me how someone with three decades of accounting experience could possibly make the amateur mistake of misplacing a decimal point on the binding purchase agreement?”

“I … I missed it in the final review.” Henderson stammers out, sweat now visibly staining the armpits of his shirt. “The numbers, they all start to blur together after-”

“Do not insult my intelligence with your pitiful excuses.” Max cuts him off, slamming a fist down on the desk. He takes no small amount of satisfaction in the way the man flinches. “Because of your idiocy, we offered $235 million over the agreed purchase price. An overpayment to the tune of $2.5 billion with a ‘B’!”

Henderson seems to shrink into himself with each biting word. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Verstappen. It won’t happen again, I swear-”

“You’re damn right it won’t happen again.” Max growls, rising from his chair so quickly that it goes clattering backwards. He leans across the desk, getting directly in Henderson’s ashen face. “Because you’re fired. Effective immediately.”

The words seem to take a moment to register in Henderson’s mind. When they do, his eyes widen in panic and he starts shaking his head rapidly.

“No, no, please! You can’t fire me!” he cries, any veneer of professionalism crumbling. “I-I’ll work double shifts, triple shifts! I’ll volunteer for all the weekend audits, no overtime pay! J-Just don’t fire me, I’m begging you!”

Max recoils slightly at the outburst of blubbering, his lip curling in disgust. How pathetic, to see a grown man so thoroughly debased. He almost feels pity for the wretch … almost.

“This conversation is over.” Max says, his tone resolute as he straightens his tie. “You have one hour to collect your things and get out of my building. After that, security will escort you out.”

“B-But I have three kids!” Henderson sputters, tears streaming down his face now. “A mortgage. Alimony payments! You can’t just-”

In a burst of rage, Max sweeps his arm across the desk, sending papers, files, and office supplies clattering to the floor in a violent clutter.

“I am Max Verstappen!” He bellows, his face flushed crimson. “I do not make empty threats, Mr. Henderson. You are a miserable, costly disappointment. A failure. And I will not allow failures to remain under my employ.”

The words seem to drain what little fight was left in Henderson. His shoulders slump in defeat, and he lets out a pitiful whimper. Max feels his anger deflate, replaced with a tired disdain.

“One hour.” he repeats, falling back into his chair in exhaustion. “Get out of my sight.”

Henderson doesn’t need to be told twice. With trembling hands, he begins collecting the various objects scattered across the floor — pencils, paperclips, manila folders now slightly crumpled. His motions are slow, pained, like those of a man having just received a terminal diagnosis.

Max watches impassively as the sniveling accountant gathers his belongings. Part of him feels a twinge of … not quite guilt, but maybe the faintest pangs of empathy for the broken man before him. He quickly smothers that flicker of sympathy. This is the cost of doing business in the world of high-stakes acquisitions and mergers. There is no room for weakness or mistakes. Only results matter.

Finally, with his meager pile of office supplies clutched to his chest, Henderson straightens up. His face is blotchy and tear-stained, but he seems to have regained some small scrap of dignity. He meets Max’s cold stare for just a moment before turning on his heel and shuffling out of the office.

The double doors close behind him with a hollow thud that hangs in the air. Max lets out a slow exhale, suddenly aware of the tension that had been coiling inside him. He runs a hand over his face, then taps a button on his phone intercom.

“Clara, get me William Evans from legal on the line immediately.” he says, his voice steady once more. “We need to do damage control on the Brighton situation before it becomes irreparable.”

“Right away, sir.” comes the reply, his assistant’s voice tightly professional.

Max leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he stares out at the New York City skyline. This is far from the first firing he has issued, and it certainly won’t be the last. He is a great white shark, always needing to move forward or else he will drown in the depths of his own ambition.

There is a soft rap at the door, pulling Max from his reverie.

“Come in.” he calls out. Clara enters, her face schooled into a mask of polite disinterest. So much the better — he respects discretion.

“I have Mr. Evans on line two for you.” she says crisply.

Max gives a succinct nod. “Thank you, Clara. That will be all.”

As his assistant withdraws, Max takes a fortifying breath. He is Max Verstappen. He is the master of the corporate ocean. And he will not allow one flailing failure to capsize his empire.

Squaring his shoulders, he picks up the phone and begins issuing a stern series of orders and demands. After all, there is little time for rest when one aims to be a modern day titan of industry.

***

You take a deep breath and rap firmly on the door to the HR director’s office. “Come in.” a flat voice calls out.

Steeling yourself, you twist the handle and step inside the dingy, fluorescent-lit room. Janet, the red-haired HR manager, looks up from her computer with a practiced smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Ah, Y/N. What can I do for you today?” She asks in an overly saccharine tone.

You take a seat across from her cluttered desk, your knee bouncing with nervous energy. “I … I need to request some personal leave. Family medical reasons.”

Janet’s perfectly penciled eyebrows rise in bland surprise. “I see. And how much time were you hoping to take?”

Your throat tightens as you force out the words. “At least a month. Maybe more, depending on … on how things progress.”

The HR manager clucks her tongue as she shakes her head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. We’re in our busiest quarter and you know the company policy — no extended leave during crunch periods unless it’s a valid health emergency.”

You feel panic fluttering in your chest. This has to be a valid emergency! “But it is an emergency! My daughter, she’s ...” Your voice cracks and you swallow hard, desperate to maintain your composure. “She’s very sick, potentially terminal. I need to be with her right now.”

Janet’s face remains stubbornly impassive. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. Truly, I am. But unless you can provide official documentation from a medical professional, my hands are tied.”

The words hit you like a slap across the face. Of course they would require documentation to approve leave — it’s standard corporate policy. But how can mentally collect yourself to get paperwork in order when you’ve been spending every waking moment by your little girl’s hospital bedside?

Unbidden, your mind flashes back to two nights ago, watching in helpless terror as your daughter’s tiny body was racked with another severe seizure. You had screamed yourself hoarse calling for the nurses as the meds they pumped into her did little to stop the violent convulsions ...

You’re vaguely aware of Janet still speaking across from you, something about company guidelines and productivity expectations. But the words sound muffled and far away, as if you’re underwater.

How naive you were to think they might bend the rules, just this once. To think the faceless corporation you pour your life into might actually show a shred of human compassion during your hour of desperate need.

No. That’s not how companies like this operate.

They don’t care about you or your daughter’s life. All they care about is the bottom line, and you’re just an expendable number in their organizational flowchart.

You’re jolted back to reality as Janet raps her lacquered nails impatiently on the desk. “Well? Is there anything else or can I get back to work?”

Is there anything else? Oh, there’s so much more you want to scream at this unfeeling paper-pusher. You want to cry and rage and beg her to just show an ounce of basic human decency.

But you know it would be pointless. Janet is just a cog, same as you. There’s only one person here with the power and influence to authorize what you need.

Only one person who strikes abject terror into the heart of every employee with his infamous volcanic temper and uncompromising expectations.

The thought makes your stomach twist into knots, but you know what you have to do. For your little girl’s sake, you have to try.

So you rise from the chair, willing your legs not to shake. “Thank you for your time.” you mutter tightly, already turning on your heel and storming out of the office.

You don’t look back as Janet calls out something about proper procedure. You just keep moving, your footsteps fueled by a mother’s desperation.

The elevator seems to take an eternity, each second feeling like a little bit more of your daughter’s life trickling away. By the time the doors finally open with a mocking ding, you’re practically vibrating with pent-up nervous energy.

As the mirrored box ascends, your heart feels like it’s trying to batter its way out of your chest. You can hardly breathe past the constriction in your lungs. What if the infamous Max Verstappen laughs in your face? Or has you fired on the spot for daring to interrupt his billion-dollar dealings?

No, you can’t afford to think like that. This may be your only chance to get the time off you so desperately need. For your daughter’s sake, you have to be brave.

The elevator seems to crawl upward at a glacial pace. By the time the doors finally part with a soft chime, you feel like you’re going to be sick from anxiety. This is it, the executive floor — the lair of the terrifying Max Verstappen himself.

You step out into the plush, mahogany-accented lobby with shaking legs. Behind a curved desk, Max’s assistant Clara looks up, her expression instantly hardening when she recognizes you as some inconsequential employee.

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Verstappen is not accepting any visitors at the moment.” she says, her tone brooking no argument. “If you’d like to schedule an appointment for next week ...”

“Please.” you blurt out, hating how your voice trembles. “It’s an emergency. I … I need to see him. Just for five minutes.”

Clara’s manicured eyebrow arches skeptically. “I extremely doubt Mr. Verstappen would consider your issue important enough to warrant an unscheduled meeting. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a million things to-”

“It’s about my sick daughter!” The words burst from your lips before you can stop them. Immediately, you regret being so unprofessional, but desperation has eroded your self-control.

For a split second, Clara’s expression flickers with something that might be pity. But it’s quickly subsumed by her usual cool mask of professionalism as she shakes her head.

“I’m very sorry to hear about your daughter’s illness. But those are still not grounds for me to disturb Mr. Verstappen while he’s-”

“Please!” You plead, tears of frustration pricking your eyes. “I’m begging you. This could be my last chance! If he says no, I’ll leave, I promise. But I have to try!”

Clara regards you appraisingly for a long moment. Then, letting out a weary sigh, she presses the intercom button. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

The line crackles with static for several tense seconds. You hold your breath, praying beyond hope that the infamous Max has a rare charitable impulse today.

Then, his unmistakable baritone growls through the small speaker. “This had better be good. Send them in.”

Clara winces almost imperceptibly before gesturing towards the double oak doors to Max’s corner office. “Good luck.” she murmurs.

You don’t need any further prompting. Drawing a shuddering breath, you straighten your spine and make your way to the doors. You pause just briefly, hands trembling, before rapping your knuckles firmly against the lacquered wood.

There’s no going back now. Either Max Verstappen is about to grant you a miracle … or utterly crush your last, fragile hope.

***

Max scowls as the intercom crackles to life, Clara’s hesitant voice filtering through the speaker. “Sir? There’s someone here requesting an urgent meeting with you. A … personal matter.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes. Surely whatever this is can wait until tomorrow. Max is elbow-deep in paperwork and holding patterns, trying to do damage control on the Brighton acquisition fumble. He has no time for frivolous “personal” disruptions.

“This had better be good.” he growls into the intercom. “Send them in.”

With an irritated huff, Max leans back in his buttery leather chair as the doors to his office swing open. He’s already opening his mouth to berate whoever dares disturb him over something as trivial as a “personal matter.”

Then you tentatively step into the room and Max’s words die in his throat.

Even with your shoulders hunched inward and your makeup smudged from crying, you are utterly breathtaking. A fragile beauty drowning in an oversized blazer, your wide eyes darting around his opulent office with obvious intimidation.

An unwelcome jolt of attraction lances through Max’s chest and he quickly squashes it down. He cannot afford such distractions, especially from a lowly employee like yourself who should know better than to interrupt him during work hours.

“Well?” He finally finds his voice, aiming for a brusque tone to remind you both of your respective places. “You’re hardly someone important enough to be granted an audience. This had better be worth my time.”

The harshness of his words seems to make you flinch. You worry your lip between your teeth, shrinking back slightly.

“I … I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Verstappen.” you begin haltingly. Already Max can feel his patience waning. He hates fumbling fragility and wants only confident decisiveness.

But then your next words come tumbling out in a desperate rush. “It’s about my daughter, sir. My little girl … she’s in the hospital. She has a brain tumor and her condition is deteriorating rapidly. I asked Janet in HR for some personal leave to be with her, but she denied my request and said I need official medical documentation which could take days I don’t have!”

Tears are welling in your eyes now, your voice rising to nearly hysterical levels. “Please, Mr. Verstappen! She’s only three years old and I’m a single mom. I’m all she has right now! I’m begging you … please just give me some time to be with her before … before ...”

You seem unable to voice whatever terrifying possibility lurks in the back of your mind. Instead, you dissolve into shoulder-shaking sobs, burying your face in your hands as you break down completely.

Max feels his earlier irritation softening in spite of himself. He’s seen grown men thrice your age become blubbering messes under his withering glare. But there’s something distinctly vulnerable and gut-wrenching about your anguished tears.

Part of him recognizes this as a prime opportunity to regain control, to berate you for such an unseemly display of emotion. His reputation as a merciless taskmaster practically demands he put you in your place.

But another part of Max … a part he barely recognizes … feels a rare pang of empathy pierce through his calloused exterior.

Perhaps it’s the thought of a scared little girl lying crippled in a hospital bed, scared and missing her mother. Or perhaps it’s the way you wear your devastation so plainly, managing to humanize yourself in a way most people never achieve in his eyes.

Whatever the reason, when Max finally speaks, his tone has lost its earlier bite.

“I did not realize the full severity of the situation.” he says, slowly rising from his chair. He moves around the desk, not missing the way you tense as he approaches.

Up close, he can see the puffy redness rimming your eyes, the despair etched into every line of your face. It stirs something inside him … an ancient ghost of an emotion he can’t quite place.

“I’m sorry you were dismissed so carelessly by HR.” Max continues, struggling to keep his voice even. “Perhaps if you had led with mentioning your daughter’s condition, instead of being so oblique ...”

He trails off as you sniff loudly, dragging the sleeve of your blazer across your nose. The motion is equal parts endearing and mortifying for him to witness.

“Here.” he says impulsively, plucking a crisp linen handkerchief from his suit pocket. He presses it into your hand, watching as you blink owlishly at the unexpected gesture. “Allow me to make things right.”

Without waiting for a response, Max turns and strides over to his desk. He snatches up the phone and rapidly punches in a extension code, holding the receiver to his ear as it begins to ring.

“Janet? Yes, it’s Max Verstappen.” he says crisply when the line picks up. “I’ve just been informed about an ... employee situation that requires your immediate attention.”

He pauses, glancing over at where you’re clutching his handkerchief like a lifeline. Your eyes are still glistening with tears, but you’ve gone utterly still — hanging on his every word.

“One of our marketing staff came to me in quite a state about needing extended leave to be with their hospitalized child.” Max continues, his voice hardening slightly. “A matter you seemed to dismiss without proper consideration for the … nuances of the circumstances.”

There’s a sputtering on the other end of the line, undoubtedly Janet trying to make excuses. Max doesn’t give her the chance.

“The decision has been made to grant the employee’s leave request, effective immediately.” he cuts her off. “They will be excused for … two months, with full pay and benefits.”

His announcement seems to render you momentarily stunned. You simply stare at him, eyes wide and unblinking, like you can’t quite process what you’re hearing.

Max clears his throat self-consciously, refocusing on Janet’s flustered response filtering through the receiver. “B-But sir, we have very strict policies about-”

“Which is precisely why I’m instructing you to make an exception.” Max interjects, his voice brokering no arguments. “This leave is to be coded as paid health and wellness time. I expect no push-back or foot-dragging on this, understood?”

There’s a meek murmur of assent from Janet’s end. Max can’t resist a tight smile of satisfaction.

“Good. I’ll leave the paperwork in your capable hands then. That will be all.” He punctuates the statement by firmly hanging up the phone.

As the clatter of the receiver breaks the tense silence, Max turns to find you staring at him with an utterly inscrutable expression. For a long moment, neither of you speak or move. He finds himself paralyzed under the weight of your intense, unblinking gaze.

Then, with a strangled cry, you suddenly surge forward and throw your arms around him. Max goes ramrod stiff as your slight frame collides with his, your tears dampening the front of his crisp dress shirt.

“Thank you!” You’re whispering over and over like a prayer, clinging to him with a desperation that should be uncomfortable. And yet ... “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Max feels utterly transfixed, like a statue too stunned to react. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to encroach so boldly on his personal space, much less make actual physical contact. He’s not accustomed to such … warmth.

But before the unfamiliar embrace can start to grate on him, you suddenly pull back. Swiping at your eyes, you manage a watery smile up at him.

“You have no idea how much this means, sir. I … I can’t thank you enough for your kindness and understanding.”

He wants to scoff at the notion, to remind you that he is Max Verstappen — merciless and uncompromising in his corporate dealings. That this was merely an isolated instance of pragmatism to avoid a PR incident or workplace lawsuit, nothing more.

But something in your earnest gaze stops the curt rebuttal in his throat. For once, the infamously brusque Max Verstappen finds himself momentarily at a loss for words.

So instead, he gives a terse nod of acknowledgment. Already, his mind is starting to analyze how best to re-allocate your responsibilities for the next two months, which temporary hires to bring in for supplemental coverage.

But one stray thought continues to nag at the back of his mind, an errant curveball amongst the dizzying calculations.

For the first time in years — perhaps his entire adult life — Max feels almost … human.

It’s a strange and deeply unsettling realization, but luckily one he doesn’t have to dwell on.

Because in the next breath, you’re sweeping out of his office, a renewed vigor in your step and a brilliant smile lighting up your features. Max watches you go, an odd tightness settling into his chest.

He doesn’t have words — or perhaps doesn’t want to admit to any words to describe what he’s feeling in this moment. But one thing is for certain, for better or worse, you’ve well and truly upended Max Verstappen’s world.

***

Max remains rooted in place long after you’ve departed, his office now eerily silent in your absence. He should feel relieved to have some peace and quiet again after that … emotional encounter.

Yet instead of settling back into his usual all-consuming work flow, he finds his mind stubbornly replaying the scene on an endless, maddening loop.

The desperation etched onto your delicate features. The way your frame practically vibrated with barely-constrained anguish. The broken, pleading sound of your voice as you begged for his mercy ...

Despite his best efforts to dismiss it, the memory of your raw vulnerability has burrowed its way under Max’s skin, taking up an unwelcome residence. It picks and nags at the edges of his consciousness no matter how much he wills it away.

He has witnessed similar breakdowns from countless employees over the years — grown men and women brought to sniveling tatters by his uncompromising demands. But none of them elicited the same … response within him.

None of them made something twist so peculiarly in Max’s chest, unleashing that brief yet startling flicker of empathy from whatever dark crevice it lurks.

Gritting his teeth, Max paces behind his desk in tight, agitated circles. He prides himself on being a merciless pragmatist, unmoved by emotional pleas or babelling outbursts. Whatever decisions he makes are calculated toward the maximum profit potential and bottom line, end of story.

So why does this one case, this one instance of showing a bare modicum of human compassion, insist on gnawing at him so persistently? It makes no logical sense, no matter how he tries to mentally contort it.

Perhaps that’s the core issue — that for once in his life, Max’s motivations weren’t born strictly of logic or financial incentive. Something else had escaped from beneath, something primal and indefinable, when you broke down so nakedly in front of him.

The realization causes Max’s steps to stutter to a halt. His jaw works tensely as he runs a frustrated hand through his brown hair, disheveling the meticulously groomed coif.

He can admit to himself that some base part of his brain had been … affected by the rawness of your emotion. The way you had stripped away all artifice and propriety to plead so urgently and authentically.

Not many people manage to disarm Max Verstappen’s carefully curated expectation filters. But you had blown straight through them without even realizing it, battering down the reinforced walls he builds around his life. Just by being horrifically, unguardedly human.

It’s both impressive and deeply unsettling in equal measure.

Before Max can spiral any further down this rabbit hole of self-reflection, a sharp rap of knuckles against the door jolts him back to awareness. He straightens and clears his throat roughly.

“Come in.” he calls out, already retaking his seat and trying to project an aura of resolute control.

Clara slips into the office, her usual unflappable poise slightly ruffled as she catches the tense atmosphere. “You asked to see me right away, sir?”

“Yes.” Max says brusquely, watching her over steepled fingers. “I need you to do some … discreet digging for me into a personal matter.”

Clara’s perfectly groomed eyebrow arches inquisitively. But to her credit, she doesn’t comment on his evasive phrasing.

“And what exactly am I looking into?”

“The employee who was just in my office seeking leave.” he explains curtly. “The one with the hospitalized child. I need you to find out everything you can — where the child is being treated, their condition, prognosis, all of it.”

Clara’s perfectly glossed lips purse ever so slightly. “You’re aware I can’t exactly go through official medical channels without violating all sorts of privacy laws ...”

“I’m fully aware.” Max interjects with a curt wave of his hand. “Which is why you’ll have to take a more … unconventional approach. I don’t particularly care what methods you have to employ, just get me those details by the end of the day.”

His assistant regards him silently for a long beat, as if trying to suss out his motivations. Max meets her contemplative look with an unwavering stare of his own.

Finally, Clara gives a tight nod of understanding. “Consider it done, sir.”

With that, she pivots on the towering heel of her Louboutin and sees herself out of the office, the click of her footsteps rapidly retreating down the hall.

Max lets out a slow exhale, alone with his thoughts once more.

What is he doing? This bizarre crusade is so wildly outside of his typical conduct and practices. The lengths he’s going to, all for the sake of some random underling’s personal crisis ...

A smart, calculated part of his brain recognizes this entire situation as a fool’s errand, a waste of time and resources. He should be devoting every ounce of his focus toward extricating the Chinese investment group from the Brighton deal before their next earnings call.

And yet, he can’t seem to fully let this go. Your haunted, hopeless expression keeps flickering through his mind’s eye. The memory of your tears soaking into his suit lapel as you clung to him with a desperation that shook something deep within him.

It’s almost as if his body is acting of its own accord, driven by some urge he can’t fully parse or control. Like a murmured voice insistently compelling him to … to what? Help you? Offer some vague sense of solace or security?

The thought is patently ludicrous, and Max scoffs audibly at his own melodrama. Get a grip, he chides himself sternly. Since when do you care about coddling your peons?

He forcefully shakes off the uncharacteristic reverie and turns back to the stacks of paperwork and documents splayed across his desk. Focusing intently on running new financial projections for Q3, he manages to bury himself in the work for a solid two hours.

He’s in the midst of furiously scribbling margin and revenue notes when the trill of the phone line cuts through his concentration. A glance at the caller ID has him resisting the urge to sigh.

“Clara.” he answers crisply, leaning back in his leather chair. “I trust you’ve made progress?”

“Indeed.” comes the smooth reply, devoid of inflection as always. “Though I should warn you, some of these details are … concerning.”

Something tightens in Max’s chest, but he quickly tamps it down. “Just lay it all out for me. No need to editorialize.”

“Very well.” Clara acquiesces. “So the child, a three-year-old daughter, is currently a patient at Lennox Hill Hospital here in the city. According to my sources, she was admitted five weeks ago after experiencing severe seizures and hallucinations. An MRI revealed she has a large mass-”

“Let me stop you right there.” Max interjects, his brows furrowing. Even he can recognize those are less than encouraging signs. “What’s the official diagnosis then?”

“Grade IV glioblastoma.” Clara replies flatly. “One of the most aggressive malignant brain tumors, especially in children her age.”

A terse silence falls between them as the weight of that diagnosis sinks in. Grade IV … practically a death sentence wrapped up in clinical terminology. Max finds his hand unconsciously clenching the arm of his chair.

“And her prospects?” He finally prompts gruffly. “What’s the … prognosis for her case?”

Clara doesn’t answer right away. Over the line, he can hear her exhale slowly, a rare tell of emotional discomfort from his typically unflappable assistant.

“From what my contact at Lennox Hill said … if we’re talking full disclosure?” Her customary professionalism wavers slightly as her voice grows hushed. “They’ve given her three months at most, sir. Maybe less, if another seizure or bleed occurs before then.”

The words hang in the air like a guillotine blade against Max’s neck. Suddenly, all those intrusive mental flashes of your inconsolable despair take on a sharper, even more heartrending clarity.

Of course you were devastated, he realizes with startling empathy. How could any mother face their child’s death sentence with any measure of composure?

An unexpected swell of emotion rises in Max’s throat and he has to blink rapidly to keep it at bay. Now isn’t the time for such indulgences.

“Thank you, Clara.” he manages in a rough baritone. “That will be all for now.”

He ends the call without waiting for a response, abruptly severing the connection.

Alone once more, Max slumps back against the leather upholstery, an uncharacteristic weariness settling into his bones. He reaches up to loosen his already disheveled tie, suddenly feeling stifled within the confines of his suit.

Three months. Three paltry months for a precious young life to be snatched away before it ever really began. His jaw clenches hard.

That’s unacceptable. Not just unfair, but a complete and total injustice to all that is right and good in this world.

No child should have to suffer like that … and certainly no mother should have to face a future of unimaginable grief and emptiness once her only family is gone. Not if there was anything to be done about it.

And, at the end of the day, Max Verstappen has the means to quite literally move mountains with his wealth and influence.

An idea begins to blossom in his mind — one that feels daring and reckless and so utterly unlike his usual business-oriented self. But he finds himself drawn to it with a singleminded resolve he can’t quite explain.

Jaw set, Max snatches up his phone and punches in a number he never thought he’d use outside of donor galas.

“Roland? Max Verstappen here.” he says gruffly when the line picks up. “I need you to connect me directly with someone in Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology department ...”

Half an hour and multiple calls later, Max is finally patched through to one of the top clinical researchers in the field: Dr. Spencer Paulson.

“Dr. Paulson, thank you for making time on such short notice.” Max says, his tone polished yet clipped. “To cut right to it, I was recently made aware of a … sensitive case involving a terminal pediatric patient and some rather bleak estimated survival rates.”

Without preamble, he lays out what little he knows about your daughter — the diagnosis, the staging, the Lennox Hill prognosis that has already written her off for dead. All throughout, the doctor on the other end of the line remains grimly silent.

“So in your expert opinion.” Max finishes, realizing his hand has unconsciously tightened into a white-knuckled fist. “What would you say her realistic prospects for meaningful treatment or survival are?”

There’s a pregnant pause, then a grim sigh filters through the tinny line. “Based on what you’ve told me … I’m afraid the prognosis does indeed sound dire. Grade IV glioblastomas in children under five have approximately a 5% survival rate past twelve months with conventional treatment regimens.”

Max clenches his teeth, brutally unsurprised yet still floored by the frank assessment. Moments ago, he had still been clinging to a fool’s hope.

“However.” Dr. Paulson continues, his tone brightening slightly. “We do currently have an … experimental trial ongoing that might be an outside option to explore.”

Something akin to hope flutters in Max’s chest. “I’m listening.”

“Well, to put it simply, we’ve had some promising early results adapting viral gene therapies to target and destroy these aggressive brain tumor cells in young patients.” the doctor explains, shifting into a more clinical, lecture-style delivery.

“By modifying and re-engineering certain viruses to bind only to the specific mutated RNA and protein markers found in diseases like glioblastomas, we can theoretically use those same viruses as a delivery vector. One that can slip past the blood-brain barrier and directly infect the cancerous cells with a sort of … controlled payload, if you will.”

Max nods along, his mind working furiously to keep up with the technical jargon. “Some kind of treatment regimen then? Drugs or radiation therapy delivered directly to the tumor site?”

“Precisely.” Dr. Paulson confirms approvingly. “Only we’ve expanded past just chemo and gamma rays as the options. Thanks to the pioneering work of doctors like Bert Jacobs, we’ve now created an entirely new frontier of cancer treatments centered around gene therapy and mRNA editing.”

He rattles off a dizzying litany of polysyllabic scientific terminology that sails completely over Max’s head. Not that it matters — his focus is fully captured by the notes of guarded optimism finally creeping into Paulson’s voice.

“Of course, this is all still highly experimental. We’ve only managed to achieve remission in a handful of trial cases thus far.” the doctor cautions. “And we have no idea if the viral vector we’ve engineered will be equally effective against every variation of cancerous mutation out there.”

Max nods impatiently, waving a hand as if to physically shoo away the vague caveats. “I appreciate the need for clinical hedging, doctor. But let’s cut right to the heart of the matter.”

He draws in a fortifying breath. “If you were to take on this little girl as a patient, deploy these … gene therapy regimens of yours … would you give her a legitimate chance? At treatment, remission, survival?”

There’s a pregnant pause, as if Dr. Paulson is carefully considering the ethical ramifications of his answer. Then, “If she meets the selection criteria and baseline health conditions … and we get a bit of luck on our side ...” Another sigh, heavy with the weight of his responsibilities. “Then I’d say we would have a fighting chance, yes.”

Those five simple words crash over Max with the force of a tidal wave, hitting him squarely in the chest.

A chance. At life. At making it past those grim, dire prognoses.

After several moments of stunned silence, Max finally finds his voice.

“Say no more, doctor. Whatever it costs — money, time, logistics — none of it matters. I want this treatment option fully activated and prioritized immediately. Spare no expense, I’ll take care of the bill.” He utters the words with the same decisive confidence he handles his billion-dollar business dealings.

Because in this moment, it doesn’t feel like just some impulsive, emotionally-driven whim. Helping your innocent child — ensuring she gets the fighting chance she deserves?

It feels like the only choice he can possibly make.

***

You sit hunched in the hard, plastic visitor’s chair, your body angled protectively towards the small hospital bed. Despite the tubes and wires snaking from her fragile limbs, your daughter appears almost peaceful in her restless slumber.

She always was such a sound sleeper as a baby, you reminisce wistfully. Remembering how you’d regularly creep into the nursery just to watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest, assuring yourself she was still breathing.

Even back then, the ever-present fear of something going horribly wrong never truly left you. The world is far too cruel a place to let a mother relax, no matter how deeply you wish you could.

One slender hand rests atop the thin bedsheet covering your little girl, your thumb tracing soothing circles along her tiny knuckles. A silent, simple gesture of tenderness you hope she can feel even in sleep. If only you could so easily soothe away her pain and suffering as you could your own.

The quiet flutter of the heart rate monitor keeps beat, each mechanical beep another hammer striking your already shattered soul. You want to feel relieved, blessed even, that it continues that steady cadence. Instead, you only feel exhausted hollowness.

Because this morning, the doctors came to “discuss options.” As if their clinical detachment could soften the blow of learning your child is well and truly out of miracles.

“We’ve run every available scan and lab test.” Dr. Rhodes had said, failing to meet your desperate gaze. “I’m so very sorry, but the tumor isn’t responding to any of our treatments. At this point, we have to start considering ...”

You hadn’t let him finish, couldn’t let those hateful, unthinkable words pass his lips. Palliative care. Hospice. Just give up and let nature take its inevitable, brutal course while they pumped her full of numbing opiates so she could “comfortably” slip away.

The rage and anguish had bubbled up from some primal pit within your guts, hot and viscous like magma erupting from deep beneath the earth’s crust. You’d screamed incoherent denials until your voice was hoarse, begging and pleading through sobs for them not to take away your only hope.

In the end, they’d sedated your daughter fully so you could “calm down” and “process things rationally.” You know they meant well, trying to spare her from your outburst. But it only compounded your devastation, feeling like they were already treating her as a lost cause no longer worth fighting for.

So here you sit, after untold hours of cycling through various stages of grief, left only with bone-deep weariness cloaked by a fragile veneer of numb acceptance. You dimly wonder if you’ll ever truly feel anything else ever again.

Through the blur of tears constantly stinging your eyes, you keep a silent vigil over your daughter’s bedside. You memorize every delicate sweep of her sooty lashes, the tiny smattering of freckles across her upturned nose. Desperate to commit every last precious detail of her existence to memory before … before ...

A choked sob bubbles up from your chest at the thought, hot and acidic at the back of your throat. You quickly muffle it with the crook of your elbow, determined not to disturb your resting girl with the outward manifestations of your agony.

In through the nose, out through the mouth. An old meditative mantra you try to focus on, struggling to regain control of your tenuous grip on composure. You know your tears and hiccupping gasps for air are only harming yourself at this point. Better to conserve what little physical and mental strength you have left to simply be with your daughter while you still can.

The grief is an ever-churning sea just waiting to drag you under its dark, icy depths. But still you stubbornly tread water, unwilling to fully surrender just yet. Not as long as you can still feel the reassuring thrum of her pulse against your fingertips, a solitary lifeline keeping you tethered to the present.

You aren’t sure how much time stretches in that manner — minutes or hours, you cannot say. The days have all started blurring into one long, endless haze of sleeplessness and overwhelming sorrow.

So when the door to the hospital room suddenly clicks open, the sound manages to penetrate the cotton-muffled fog shrouding your senses.Instantly, you stiffen and blink rapidly, as if only just now awakening to your surroundings.

A stranger stands in the doorway — a tall, slender man in an impeccably tailored suit that looks distinctly out of place amongst the bland, sterile patient rooms. His face is sharp and angular, almost harsh in its sternness if not for the way his brow is furrowed with evident concern.

You open your mouth to ask who he is and what he wants, but he raises a placating hand before you can find your voice.

“Please, don’t be alarmed.” he says, words clipped yet softened slightly. “I know this is a terrible situation, and the absolute last setting you’d want an uninvited visitor.”

Now that he’s closer, you can see behind his obvious affluence lurks a cultured, aloof sort of demeanor. There’s no outward malice or disrespect in his manner, but he carries himself like someone long accustomed to privileges and deference. The sight of him sets you even more on edge amid your emotional rawness.

“My name is Spencer Paulson.” the man presses on, taking a few measured steps further into the room. “I’m actually a doctor, Ms ...”

“Y/N.” you automatically supply, dredging up the remnants of social graces. “Y/N L/N. And this is … this is my daughter, Olivia.”

Your voice cracks ever so slightly on her name, heated moisture already welling behind your eyes once more. You quickly dab at their corners with the sleeve of your worn cardigan, determined not to dissolve into fresh hysterics in front of this absolute stranger.

“Well, Ms. Y/L/N.” the man — Dr. Paulson — says, tone measured. “I realize I’m intruding on a highly stressful situation for you and your family right now. And for that, I truly am sorry.”

His apology seems sincere enough. But wariness still prickles along your nape as your overtired, over-protective instincts flare up. You clutch your daughter’s limp hand in yours a fraction tighter.

“Then if you don’t mind my asking.” you begin in a calculated tone, scrutinizing Paulson carefully. “Why are you here? And what business could possibly bring you to Olivia’s bedside unannounced?”

He regards you silently for a long moment, something inscrutable flickering across his features. When he speaks again, his words are deliberately precise, weighted down by their momentous gravity.

“I was recently contacted by … an interested third party about your daughter’s case.” Paulson explains, clasping his hands behind his back. “I was filled in on the specifics of her diagnosis — glioblastoma, grade four, extremely aggressive and largely unresponsive to standard treatment. Am I correct so far?”

You can only numbly nod, a chill prickling across your flesh. The man’s crisp, clinical recitation of your worst nightmare forces a painful convulsion of renewed heartache.

Paulson seems to catch your distress and quickly presses on. “Right, well, I’m actually here in an official capacity as the Chief of Pediatric Oncology over at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.”

The words hit you with all the force of a defibrillator charge, jolting your entire frame upright in the hard plastic chair. Your jaw drops open, already fumbling for a desperate reply that will somehow make this all make sense.

But Paulson continues before you can vocalize any of the hundreds of jumbled questions flooding your mind.

“I’ll keep this relatively simple, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, holding up a forestalling hand. “My team at Sloan Kettering recently received permission to transfer your daughter over to our care as soon as logistically possible. You see, we’ve been working on an experimental new treatment protocol — a form of gene therapy designed to treat even the most aggressive, mutation-riddled forms of cancers like Olivia’s brain tumor.”

You blink owlishly, unable to fully process the onslaught of technical jargon being leveled at you. All you can do is continue sitting there, stunned into silence as the doctor launches into an almost dizzying explanation of re-engineered viruses, targeted gene editing, and “controlled payloads” being essentially the extent of modern medicine.

“... And while the trial is still in its early stages, we’ve actually already achieved partial and even full remission in a few key pediatric cases remarkably similar to that of your daughter.” Paulson continues, his tone growing faintly tinged with optimism and something akin to pride. “Which is why we’re reasonably confident Olivia could be an excellent candidate for our experimental therapies, if you allow it.”

He lets the weight of that statement hang in the air between you, watching you carefully for any visible reaction. But you’re frozen, fighting between warring tides of soul-rending hope and knee-jerk cynicism.

After all, you’ve come to reflexively distrust when desperation-stoking scenarios sound too good to be true over the past several torturous weeks. A small, rational voice in the back of your mind pipes up to remind you that you can’t afford to get your hopes up, only to be gutted yet again by the crushing inevitability of disappointment.

But another part of your wearied brain — the part that’s grown so fatigued by the oppressive feeling of hopelessness — recoils at dismissing any potential reprieve from the nightmare, no matter how fanciful or far-fetched.

So instead you hear yourself croaking out a single, wobbling syllable.

“How ...”

Paulson tilts his head inquisitively. “I’m sorry?”

You clear your throat, igniting the spark of desperate yearning flickering to life inside your chest. “How much would … would a treatment like this cost?”

For the first time since barging his way into your fragile world, Paulson’s aristocratic features twist into an unmistakable grimace. He lets out a tight sigh, clearly recognizing the gravity behind your simple question.

“Unfortunately, due to the experimental and intensive nature of this therapy … the baseline costs do run relatively high.” he explains in a precise tone, as if trying to distance himself from the crass logistical realities. “If approved for the trial and full treatment regimen, we’re looking at around $1.4 million in projected costs over the first six months alone.”

The astronomical number hits you squarely between the eyes, setting your head swimming with disbelief. One point four … million? The amount is so ludicrously exorbitant that it almost doesn’t seem real.

You open your mouth, fully intending to spit out the derisive scoff that such an impossible ask deserves. No amount of desperate wishing could ever make that attainable for a single, working-class parent already drowning in tens of thousands of medical debt.

But Paulson clearly recognizes the crestfallen defeat settling over your features. Because he quickly rushes ahead with his next words, effectively cutting off any vocal dismissal on your end.

“However, as I mentioned earlier, we did get some … special circumstances greenlighted regarding your daughter’s case.” he says, tone brightening with carefully cultivated hopefulness. “You see, there’s an anonymous benefactor who’s agreed to cover the full cost of treatment on a … philanthropic basis, let’s call it.”

The words punch you directly in the gut, momentarily robbing your lungs of oxygen like a cruel sucker-punch. You blink dazedly up at Paulson, struggling to make sense of what he’s saying through the roaring static in your ears.

“I … I don’t understand.” you manage to stammer out. “Someone wants to … pay for my daughter? All of it? But why? How could they possibly-”

“Hey now, none of that.” Paulson cuts you off, his voice softening with what might be the first hints of empathy and warmth creeping in. “The why doesn’t matter right now — only that it’s been arranged at no cost to you or your family.”

He moves closer then, resting one hand on your shoulder in an unexpected gesture of kindness that makes you flinch despite yourself. Up close, you can see the sincerity shining in his hazel eyes, pleading for you to simply accept this incredible parting of the dark clouds that have shrouded your existence.

“I know this is … well, frankly astounding news on top of everything else you’re already dealing with.” Paulson continues, giving your shoulder a gentle, reassuring squeeze. “And please, believe me, we want to avoid overwhelming you with undue complications. For now, I think it’s enough to simply feel that spark of hope again, yes?”

Despite your best efforts to tamp down the desperate yearning swelling in your chest, you find yourself nodding mutely in agreement. Because in this moment, you understand exactly the miraculous implications of his words.

After so many agonizing weeks of feeling utterly powerless, of watching your baby girl’s life slowly ebb away before your very eyes … there is a chance. An opportunity, a fighting possibility that everything won’t end in crushing grief and irredeemable sorrow.

And even just that single glowing ember of hope, no matter how faint, is enough to shatter the dam holding back your turbulent sea of pent-up emotion. Paulson watches in quiet acceptance as you finally break down in great, shuddering sobs — only this time, they’re threaded with the catharsis of relief.

Happy tears stream down your blotchy cheeks, unchecked and convulsive. You press your face into the cool, starchy sheets of Olivia’s bed, body wracked with a release of tension weeks in the making. It feels as though you’re being simultaneously unmade and reborn in this singular, messy instance.

Through the storm of your breakdown, you’re dimly aware of Paulson stepping away to give you privacy. And then, just before he slips from the room entirely, his composed baritone rings out one last time.

“We’ll make all the arrangements to transport Olivia to Sloan Kettering as soon as possible. Get her started on this treatment regimen right away, alright?”

You can’t even summon the words to respond, only nodding rapidly between hiccuping bursts of gasping and sobbing. But just before he exits, shutting the door silently behind him, you catch Paulson’s murmur.

“There’s a fighting chance now. That’s all any of us can really ask for ...”

***

Max rakes a hand through his meticulously styled hair as he strides down the sterile hallway of Sloan Kettering’s pediatric oncology ward. His eyes scan the room numbers tacked to each door, searching for the one he was provided.

456 … 458… ah, there — 460. Max pauses outside the closed entry, squaring his shoulders as he tries to tamp down the uncharacteristic fluttering of nerves in his stomach. Taking a fortifying breath, he gives the door a perfunctory series of raps with his knuckles.

Almost immediately, a muffled voice filters through from inside — your voice, he recognizes with a start. “Come in!”

Max’s brow furrows momentarily at the warm, chipper lilt to your tone. So unlike the brittle, devastated one he had heard that fateful day in his office. Though he supposes that’s only fitting, given the radically shifted circumstances these past several weeks.

Pushing his hesitation aside, Max takes the invitation and pushes into the hospital room. You’re seated in one of the uncomfortable plastic visitor’s chairs, wearing a soft cardigan and jeans — by all appearances the very portrait of a typical doting mother.

Well, not entirely typical. Because curled up on the bed next to you is a tiny, doe-eyed little girl whose resemblance leaves no question as to her relation to you.

Olivia.

As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, you glance up — and immediately do a double-take, eyes going comically wide. “M-Mr. Verstappen?” You splutter out, frozen halfway out of your chair like a hostess belatedly remembered her manners. “I … I didn’t realize you were-”

Max holds up a hand to stop the tide of nervous rambling, inexplicably touched by your visible shock. The effect is only compounded when Olivia shifts on the bed, eyeing him owlishly from beneath the cuddly weight of a stuffed unicorn nearly as large as she is.

“It’s quite alright, Ms. Y/L/N.” he says, offering you the barest hint of a disarming smile. An expression he finds shockingly easy to produce given the scene before him. “I admit I hadn’t warned you about my visit in advance.”

He pauses there, suddenly realizing the reason for his impromptu trip isn’t entirely certain, even to himself. It had begun as little more than a nagging impulse tugging at him throughout his days, growing more persistent and insistent until he finally gave in and scheduled some time away from the office.

And now that he’s here, standing in this dimly-lit hospital room, Max feels strangely … unmoored. Adrift in a situation his renowned business acumen didn’t even begin to equip him for handling.

But then your daughter is shifting again, curiosity winning out over her bashfulness as she props herself up on her elbows. “Who’re you?” She pipes up in a tiny, raspy voice that somehow bypasses Max’s usually implacable defenses.

Something pangs oddly in his chest at the innocent inquiry. He finds himself crouching into an automatic squat, bringing himself level with the bedside so he can better meet Olivia’s inquisitive gaze.

“You can just call me Max.” he says, injecting a gentle warmth into his tone that he didn’t even realize he was capable of. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

It occurs to him then that he’s been subconsciously clutching the bouquet of flowers still in his off-hand — an overly ornate spray of exotic lilies and birds of paradise blooms that probably cost more than a month’s rent for most families. He had ordered them from the city’s most exclusive florist boutique on pure aesthetic impulse, without pausing to consider the message such an excessive display might send.

This morning, holding the massive arrangement felt appropriate, a reflection of Max’s stature as a dominant business magnate. But now, watching Olivia’s large eyes track the oversized bouquet with open-mouthed awe, he feels suddenly self-conscious.

Hoping to recover some sense of propriety, Max clears his throat and holds the flowers out in front of him.

“These are, ah, for your mother.” he explains gruffly, avoiding your questioning gaze burning against the side of his face. “A small token of … of appreciation, one might say.”

He isn’t quite sure what prompts the carefully worded addition — perhaps an instinctive reflex to avoid showing any overt sentimentality. But either way, you seem to simply accept the generous offering with bemused grace.

“Thank you, Mr. Versta-” You quickly correct yourself at his mild arched brow. “Er, Max. They’re absolutely lovely.”

You bend to inhale the rich floral perfume, eyelids fluttering in evident delight at the fragrance. Max watches the childlike awe play out across your soft features, feeling an odd sort of satisfaction settle in his chest.

Having given you the flowers, he rises to his feet once more with a put-upon sigh of effort. Every bit of spoiled opulence and bravado that usually comes as second-nature to Max.

And yet, none of it lands quite with the affected solemnity he’s accustomed to projecting. Not when Olivia’s sweet-faced attention is still utterly transfixed by his every move and micro-expression.

Your daughter still hasn’t looked away from him even as you arrange the flower vase on her bedside table, entranced in a way only the very young can be. It’s … disarming, to say the least. But not entirely unpleasant, Max finds himself admitting.

“I, ah, got something for you as well, Olivia.” he announces impulsively. From behind his back, he produces a floppy-limbed teddy bear easily half her size.

He’s not even sure what prompted him to purchase such a pedestrian sort of toy. All he knows is that he saw the stuffed creature in the hospital gift shop window on his way in, and some impulse compelled him to acquire it for reasons he still can’t understand.

But any lingering uncertainty fades from his mind like a passing cloud when Olivia lets out an audible gasp of delight. Her little hands instantly shoot out, making desperate grabbing motions at the plush offering.

“Ohmygosh, thank you!” The words tumble out in a breathless, childish rush. Before Max can even react, she leans precariously over the edge of the bed, arms outstretched and grasping imploringly.

On instinct, Max takes a half-step forward, carefully depositing the stuffed bear into Olivia’s waiting embrace to avoid any accidents. She immediately snatches it to her chest, burying her face in the softness of its soft fabric with a contented hum that seems to vibrate in Max’s very soul.

He swallows hard past the unexpected lump that forms in his throat, watching a child delight in something so simple and innocent. How long has it been since he allowed himself to find joy in the pure, unbridled way that Olivia does? Far too long, he’s forced to admit.

Clearing his throat with an awkward rumble, Max tears his gaze away from your daughter’s cuddling. He levels his focus back onto you instead. Only then does he realize you’ve been staring at him throughout the entire interaction, an unreadable look painted across your face.

“I trust the medical team has kept you informed of Olivia’s progress so far.” he prompts in his usual clipped tone, struggling to reassert some sense of distancing professionalism. “I don’t have any special insight into the procedural specifics, but from what I’ve gathered, positive results are steadily accumulating, yes?”

You blink once, almost like shaking yourself out of a reverie, before offering a slow nod in response. “Y-Yes, you could definitely say that.”

Something sparks behind your gaze then — some dawning realization creeping over your delicate features. “In fact, Dr. Paulson himself said Olivia seems to have responded better to the gene therapy than almost any other patient yet. Her tumor reduction trend is so far exceeding their best models that they’re actually considering tweaking the formula for future tria-”

You abruptly cut yourself off, lips pursing into a tight line as you turn your focus back to Max. He holds your stare evenly, waiting for whatever it is you seem to be mustering the courage to say.

Then, almost in a whisper, “Max … are you the anonymous donor paying for all of this?”

The words hang in the air like a physical force between you, so full of implication and unvoiced emotion that even Max can’t find a way to deflect them. He stares back at you, utterly disarmed beneath the intensity of your scrutinizing gaze.

For a long beat, only the hum of hospital machines and equipment fills the weighty silence. Max’s jaw works tensely as he considers how best to respond. He wants to shrug it off, make some sardonic quip to reestablish the carefully curated aloofness that serves him so well in the business world.

But then Olivia lets out another joyous giggle as she squishes the plush bear’s paw, completely enraptured and undistracted by the silent standoff occurring across her bedside. And all of Max’s formidable defenses and calculated denials abruptly dissolve in the face of such childlike innocence.

So instead of evasion, he answers your question with a small, barely perceptible nod and a softly murmured, “Yes.”

He doesn’t have time to brace himself before you’re suddenly surging up out of the chair with a wounded cry. And then your arms are flung around his neck, your body slamming against his chest as you pull Max into a fierce and entirely unexpected hug.

The impact momentarily stuns him, freezing Max in place with his arms held useless at his sides. He can’t remember the last time someone dared to initiate such a brazen display of physical contact — perhaps ever, now that he racks his brain.

But just as he contemplates gently extricating himself from your clutches, your ragged voice rises to his ear in a trembling whisper.

“Thank you.” you’re whispering over and over like a fevered prayer. “Thank you, thank you, thank you ...”

With each impassioned repetition, Max can feel more of the tension slowly leeching from his frame. He finds himself sinking bonelessly into your embrace, one hand coming to rest against the small of your back in an automatic gesture of soothing.

Soon enough, heaving sobs are wracking your entire body against his. Hot tears quickly begin to soak through the fabric of his expensive dress shirt as you cling to him with the desperation of a fallen angel clawing her way back into grace. But Max doesn’t pull away, doesn’t extricate himself or put distance between your respective roles as worker and corporate king.

Instead, in a move even he can’t fully explain or justify, his free hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pulling you in even tighter as you keen your grateful relief against the column of his throat.

“It’s … quite alright.” he finds himself rumbling in a low, soothing voice completely at odds with his usual persona. “No thanks are necessary. All that matters now is ensuring your daughter’s full and complete recovery … at whatever cost required.”

He isn’t sure whether his throwaway platitude is meant more for his benefit or yours at this point. But either way, you show no signs of releasing him from the crushing strength of your desperate clutch anytime soon. So Max does the only thing left available to him — he simply lets you cry and shake and cling to him for as long as you need.

Until finally, with a handful of watery hiccups and sniffles, you manage to tilt your blotchy face up towards his.

“I … I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for this.” you murmur throatily. “For giving Olivia more than just some faint hope, but an actual chance to grow up and live the life she deserves.”

Tenderness isn’t something that often breaks through Max Verstappen’s shroud of callous indifference. He can count on one hand the number of times in his adult life he’s allowed himself to indulge in such sentimental trivialities.

But gazing into your puffy, reddened eyes, he finds he can’t quite summon any bitter cynicism. Instead, his voice remains low with a soothing gentleness that feels almost foreign falling from his lips.

“The only form of repayment I’ll require.” he says finally, “is your permission to take you to dinner.”

He blinks once, almost taken aback by the words that slipped unbidden from his throat. But you, for your part, seem equally dazed as your brows knit in bewilderment.

“Dinner? But … I haven’t left Olivia in weeks.”

At that, Max manages a wry smile, feeling as if he’s regained at least some fraction of his footing and composure. “Of course I don’t expect you to. I simply meant for the three of us to dine together … here, in the hospital. My treat, naturally.”

Your fingers unconsciously clench tighter into the fabric of his ruined dress shirt. But even with the hint of embarrassment pinkening your cheeks, he can see what looks almost like … excitement? Perhaps even coyness sparking behind your gaze before you avert your eyes demurely.

“I … yes, of course.” you murmur, sounding almost bashful. “We would be honored.”

Max simply nods, committing every little part of the interaction to his increasingly scattered memory for later dissection. For now, he withdraws himself from the gentle circle of your arms with what he hopes appears a natural sort of casualness.

“Very good then,” is all he finds himself able to say in response. “I shall make the necessary arrangements and return shortly with something to eat.”

With that, he turns on his heel and strides towards the exit, throwing one final look over his shoulder. You’re already back in your chair at Olivia’s bedside, shooting him another shy little smile as you start to idly stroke your now dozing daughter’s hair.

And before Max even fully processes the impulse, he feels the corner of his mouth tugging upwards into a warm half-grin in response.

A expression so unfamiliar on his usually dour features that it renders him momentarily unrecognizable, even to himself.

Shaking his head as if to cast off the dizzy sense of displacement, Max continues out into the hallway. He stubbornly refuses to dwell too much on the stirrings of contentment radiating through his chest.

Such indulgent notions are highly unseemly for a man of his stature and influence, after all. Better to ignore them entirely, as he always has.

Though even as the thought crosses his mind, Max finds himself picking up his pace with a renewed sense of purpose and determination. Because somewhere along the way, he realizes ...

Denial doesn’t appear to be an option anymore.

***

Two Years Later

The ornate grandfather clock in the corner ticks rhythmically, its pendulum swinging with measured precision. Max’s gaze flicks over to it briefly before returning to the stack of documents before him. Numbers and figures blur together as his eyes scan the pages, his brow furrowed in concentration.

A giggle from the corner of the room breaks his focus. He glances up to see Olivia sitting cross-legged on the plush carpet, curls bouncing as she plays with her Barbie dolls. A hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his lips at the sight of her innocent joy.

“What are you up to over there, kleine muis?” He asks, his voice gruff but tinged with affection.

Olivia looks up, her eyes sparkling. “I’m having a tea party with Barbie and Ken.” she explains, brandishing the dolls. “Would you like to join us, Maxie?”

Max chuckles softly. “Thank you for the invitation, but I’m afraid I have a bit too much work to do for a tea party right now.”

“Okay.” Olivia says cheerfully, returning to her imaginary festivities.

You had dropped Olivia off at Max’s office after her kindergarten class, needing to rush to an urgent marketing meeting. Max had insisted on keeping her company until you returned, despite the mountain of paperwork on his desk.

He watches Olivia play, mesmerized by her ability to create entire worlds from mere toys and her vibrant imagination. Her carefree laughter is a soothing balm against the chaos of his day.

After a while, Olivia looks up again. “Maxie, can I ask you something?”

“Of course, lieverd. What is it?”

Olivia fidgets with one of the doll’s dresses. “Today at school, we had to draw pictures of our families.”

Max’s heart constricts slightly at the innocuous statement, but he manages a reassuring smile. “Did you have fun with that activity?”

Olivia nods enthusiastically. “Uh-huh. I drew me, Mommy, and you.”

The words hit Max like a physical blow, stealing his breath away. He stares at Olivia, his eyes widening as a storm of emotions swirls within him.

Olivia, oblivious to his inner turmoil, continues, “But then Timmy said that you’re not really my daddy since we don’t have the same last name. Is that true, Maxie? Are you not my daddy?”

Max swallows hard, his throat constricting. He had grown to love this child as if she were his own flesh and blood, but he had never dared to assume the sacred title of father. The realization that Olivia saw him that way, despite the lack of biological ties, threatens to shatter his carefully constructed walls.

Pushing back from his desk, he rises to his feet and makes his way over to where Olivia sits. He lowers himself to the floor, his movements stiff and hesitant. Olivia watches him with curious eyes, still clutching her dolls.

“Olivia.” he begins, his voice thick with emotion he struggles to contain. “Even though we don’t share the same name, and I didn’t ...” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I didn’t have a hand in bringing you into this world, you are every bit as much my daughter as if you were my own.”

Olivia tilts her head slightly, considering his words. “So, I can call you Daddy?”

The simple question unlocks something deep within Max’s core, a part of himself he had locked away long ago. He feels moisture prickling at the corners of his eyes, an unfamiliar sting that he doesn’t fight.

“Yes, kleine muis.” he whispers, his voice wavering. “I would be honored if you called me Daddy.”

Without warning, Olivia drops her dolls and flings her small arms around Max’s neck, hugging him tightly. Max freezes for a moment, unaccustomed to such open displays of affection, before melting into the hug. He wraps his arms around Olivia’s tiny frame, holding her close as if she might slip away at any moment.

They stay like that for long minutes, Max’s shoulders trembling slightly as the dam he had so carefully constructed finally cracks. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, mingling with the softness of Olivia’s hair as he buries his face against her.

At last, Olivia pulls back, her eyes shining with joy. “I love you, Daddy.” she says simply, the words reverberating through Max’s very soul.

He manages a watery smile, brushing away the dampness on his cheeks. “And I love you, lieverd. More than you could ever know.”

Olivia beams at him before scrambling to her feet. “Oh! I almost forgot!” She darts over to her little backpack, rummaging through it eagerly.

Max watches her, his heart still thundering in his chest from the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him. He had built an empire, commanded boardrooms with an iron fist, and struck fear into the hearts of grown men … yet this innocent child had disarmed him completely.

“Here it is!” Olivia exclaims, returning with a piece of paper clutched in her small fist. She holds it out to Max, beaming. “For you, Daddy.”

With trembling hands, Max takes the drawing. A bright smile breaks across his face as he studies the crude but endearing figures — stick figures, but he can clearly make out Olivia, you, and himself, joined by vibrant swirls of color.

“It’s beautiful.” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over the lines with a tenderness he reserves only for her. “Thank you.”

Over the next few days, Max has the drawing professionally framed, the simple piece of artwork taking pride of place on the wall of his office. Whenever his gaze falls upon it, his heart swells with a love and sense of purpose that had been missing for far too long.

Beside the framed drawing hangs his business degree, a symbol of his power and influence in the corporate world. Yet, it is Olivia’s artwork that holds the most meaning, a reminder of what truly matters in this life.

Because Max is many things — a captain of industry, a force to be reckoned with, a man who has clawed his way to the top through sheer grit and determination.

But most importantly, he is a father.

And he has never been more proud of any achievement than to call himself Olivia’s daddy.

[rosiereveries]

Part three of CEO!John Price

Part one | Part two

CW : smut, oral sex, unprotected sex, semi-public sex, mating press, little power imbalance, reader is a female

After you read the note that John left for you on your table, you are left feeling quite nervous but also excited. You were prepared for this. When you were getting ready for work this morning, you put on your favorite underwear. Lacy pink panties and matching bra that made your tits look great. You put on a lot of perfume, the one John had bought for you. You wore your best outfit, and you felt sexy and confident. You wanted to impress John, yesterday took you by surprise, but now you were in charge. When the time for his lunch break came, you were ready, so when you went to his office you knew what you wanted. You wanted him.

You find John sitting behind his table, working on his laptop. He looks good, so fucking hot without even trying. When he realizes that it´s you, who just walked in, he immediately shuts up his laptop and his full attention is on you. “Suddenly my day just got a lot better” he says and walks to you.

He gently places his hand on your cheek, and he kisses you. It’s nothing like the kiss you shared yesterday. This one is soft and gentle, like now he has time to taste you properly. He takes his time kissing you. When you try to touch him more, he pulls away. “Not now sweetheart, we have plans don’t we”. John walks out of the office with you. His hand on your back walking you through the whole floor like you’re his wife and not his secretary.

You’re confused. You expected a quick sex in his office, just like yesterday, you expected him to just pull your skirt up and fuck you on the desk. But now he is taking you somewhere in his expensive car and you’re wondering what the hell is going on.

You don’t know how John is feels about dating. You always thought that he was the type who just had casual sex with different partners. Since you started working for him, he didn’t have a girlfriend, but you heard from your colleges that he enjoys a company of beautiful women. Sometimes the relationship lasts longer but mostly there were a few weeks hook ups.

You stop in front of some Italian restaurant. He opens your door for you and like a true gentleman he helps you to get out of the car. The restaurant is lovely, there are only a few people inside and it looks really cozy. After you order your food he asks about your day, how did you sleep and what are your plans for the evening. He acts like you’re on a normal date and not on a business lunch. “I can see that something is bothering you, you don’t like it here?” John asks you after he notices how out of the place you look.

You tell him that you don’t understand what is going on, why are you here and what are you doing. “Well, I know that you don’t go out for your lunch break, so I wanted to take my girl out, take care of you.” He says it is not a big deal. “Your girl?” you ask. “What did you thought that I’m just going to fuck you in my office, when I am will be bored? John asks and your face goes red. That is exactly what you thought he would do. “I take care of my partners. I want to spoil you. Since you started to work for me you have been such a good girl, making my life so much easier. Now it is my turn.” You’re left speechless.

After the lunch, he takes you back to the office. His hand is on your thigh while he drives and it’s making you insane. Yes, you do like that he took you out but you’re so horny. The whole morning you imagined what he would do to you, and you were excited. And now he is teasing you with his fingers lightly brushing over your skin and each time he goes higher and higher.

At one moment when John’s hand is almost all the way under your skirt you moan. He looks at you with a playfulness in his eyes. Now he is teasing you on purpose. He continues to drive while his hand is slowly making its way in your panties. “Fuck love, you’re soaked, you could tell me that you wanted me so much.” Gently he starts to circle your clit and you’re opening your legs more for him.

He slowly puts two of his fingers inside you and after a while he starts to move them. You’re almost at the office building when he makes a turn and starts to drive in a different direction. “Where are we going?” you ask. “I made a promise to you yesterday, haven’t I. Were not fucking in my car. I am taking you to my place, so we don’t have to worry about some of your colleagues catching us fucking. We would want Janice from finance to see how good you take my cock. Am I right?”

To be honest you don��t care if Janice saw you. You’re so close and you can feel your orgasm approaching. John still casually drives while his fucking your pussy with his fingers. When he pulls his fingers out of you, you’re desperate, you just need a little bit more and you know that he knows it too. “You will come on my face in a minute don’t worry” John says.

And he is right the drive to his house is short and you both quickly get out of the car. When the door to his house closes behind you, he is immediately on you. Kissing you passionately and lifting you up so your legs are wrapped on his hips. He walks with you up the stairs not letting you go.

 “Everything off, I want to see you” he says when he lays you on his bed. You’re quick with your clothes and now you lay before him in nothing but your panties. “Fucking beautiful, and I bet you taste even better than you look.” “Spread your legs for me, sweetheart, let me see you” he gently pulls your panties, and he shows his head between your thighs. You’re already so wet and when he finally starts to lick your pussy your gone. You arch your back, and you can hear him whisper fucking perfect for me.  

When his tongue finds you clit you’re gone. He looks up at you and you can see your wetness on his beard and it’s the hottest thing you have ever seen. He quickly brings you to your orgasm and as he promised you to come on his face. When you finally come down from your orgasm you can see him taking his shirt off. He unzips his pants and quickly takes them off. He is on you naked, and you can see his hard dick leaking precum.

“I want to see your face this time, I want to see how pretty you’re going to look when I make you come on my dick.” He slowly pushes in you. “You were made for me honey, youre going to be the death of me.” he growls, and he starts to move in you. John is a big man and the way his stretching you is amazing. You can feel him everywhere and you are full.

It’s completely different than the sex you had yesterday. This is slow, his thrusts are hard, but it’s not rushed like the last time. He plays with your nipples, and you can feel that your second orgasm is approaching. “I am going to cum” you tell him, and you can feel that he is close too. He pushes your legs to your chest in a mating press and you can feel him so much deeper. “I need to come in your sweet pussy, please sweetheart be a good girl and let me” he says and you just nod. His fingers start to rub your clit and your orgasm hits you. He follows shortly after you spilling his seed into you. When he pulls out of you, he pulls you to his chest and he holds you so tight. You just lay there and you on his chest and his hands holding you.

You don’t go back to work that day, you stay at his place the night and the next day he drives you to your apartment. He tries to convince you to take the rest of the week off, so he can enjoy your company, but you tell him that he is the boss, and he needs to work, and he can’t take a vacation just because he is horny.  You go to work and when you go to your desk you see a note there, just like yesterday. But this time it says: My office now! And loose your panties on the way.

Masterlist

[itsallyscorner]

At Fault | MV1

pairing: Max Verstappen x reader

summary: Max invites his ex to a gp and upsets you. Soft and stubborn Max, but he’s a cutie. A mix between angst and fluff, but mostly fluff towards the end. Lots of reader just ranting. Plus a little cameo from the Ferrari WAGs <3.

warnings: Does Kelly count as a warning? Kinda of toxic, I’m not really sure? But who actually likes seeing their boyfriend’s ex girlfriend??

author’s note: Italics are flashbacks! This turned out longer than expected, but I hope you guys like it! It’s also been a while since I’ve written fics, so it there are any errors pls ignore them😭

The tension in the car was thick. So thick, Max believed he could cut it with a knife.

Your arms were crossed as you stared out the window while Max glanced at you wearily every other second. Thankfully, there were only three of you in the car. You and Max in the backseat, and the driver in front being separated by a divider. Though, Max was sure the driver was able to hear the current disagreement between you and him.

Max fidgeted with the lanyard of his paddock pass and stared at the side of your face. He knew he had upset you and honestly you had every right to be. You were biting the inside of your cheek in frustration trying to keep your emotions at bay. As much as you wanted to argue with Max about how you disagreed with his actions, he was due to race in a couple of hours and you didn’t want to add any more stress on his shoulders.

But Max wanted to talk about this now while you were both alone.

“Schatje, are you really mad?” Max asked quietly, leaning closer to you and trying to get you to face him. He truly didn’t mean to dampen your mood before the race. Most importantly, he didn’t like that he was the reason for you being upset. Your brows furrowed ever so slightly and a faint pout was on your lips, both indications that you were in fact not happy with him.

“Yes, Max, I am mad.” You answered, your voice trembling a bit. You had finally turned away from the window and were looking at him. Max felt a pang of guilt in his heart once he saw the look in your eyes. They weren’t glaring at him with the heat of anger, but they were soft and glossy, you were hurt—he hurt you.

Max cautiously reached out for your hand and tangled your fingers together, though your hand felt limp, like you didn’t want to hold his hand at all.

“I told you the truth.” Max said, leaning his head down trying to catch your eyes again. You took in a deep breath before turning to fully face him.

“Yes Max, you did and I absolutely appreciate it. I really do.” You began, grasping his hand between yours. “But that doesn’t make up for that fact that you’ve had this planned out for nearly a month and only told me thirty minutes ago!” You argued.

Thirty minutes ago, before your ride to the paddock can pick you guys up, Max had revealed that his ex-girlfriend, Kelly, and her daughter would be at the garage to watch the race. When you asked how they got passes to the garage, he shared that he had flown them out and provided them with passes for the weekend.

“So she’s been here all weekend?” You questioned him, arms crossed and a brow raised at him. The Italian heat felt even ten times worse as you grew frustrated with your boyfriend.

“Yeah, but they were at the Paddock Club, they’re going to watch the race from the garage though.” Max shrugged, as if it were not a big deal. He adjusted the bag on his shoulder and grasped your hand in his free one.

You couldn’t help the feeling of insecurity seeping into your bones. Kelly was rich and gorgeous, she was a model, and you weren’t. You had a normal job that offered you stability, paid you good money, and you knew how to clean up nice. However, you were no where near her level of anything or any of the other WAGs at that.

“You’ve known this whole time that she was here?” You asked quietly, your brows furrowed at him. You hated that you kept asking him questions, it was like you were interrogating him.

Max looked down at you, confusion etched on his face, “I did, schatje. I flew them out and got them some paddock passes.” You acted before you could speak, and shook your head at him, rolling your eyes in annoyance. Your boyfriend was one of the sweetest people you’ve ever met, however, many people took that as a sign to take advantage of him. While it took him longer to realize it, you noticed it instantly.

“I don’t understand why you’re so upset though, I told you the truth, it’s not like I’m doing anything with her.” Max defended himself, his hands wildly moving around. “She reached out telling me that P missed me and wanted to come to a race, it’s not for her, it’s for Penelope.”

“I understand that Max and as harsh as this sounds, Penelope isn’t your responsibility. I get that you helped raise her, but you guys broke up, you don’t need to provide for her anymore.” You threw a hand in the air, emphasizing your point. “Kelly’s fully capable of flying herself out and buying tickets to a race weekend.”

“I was just being nice.” Max raised his voice, also growing frustrated with the situation.

“And she’s still using you!” You fumed, tears welled in the corner of your eyes. “How many times does she have to use you for you to realize it? You guys broke up and she still manages to get what she wants out of you! Do you know how embarrassing it is to walk in and see her there?” You tried to reason with him. While many of his fans didn’t approve of Kelly, you knew Twitter would have a field day clowning you when they find out Kelly was present in the garage. Social media was never always a nice place and you’ve learned to ignore it, but that didn’t mean it stopped the hate from happening.

Max ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“This is ridiculous.” He muttered under his breath, you scoffed and leaned back into your seat, staring at the window again.

“Do you not trust me?” Max asked forcibly, staring at the side of your head again. You let out a defeated sigh and turn your head to look at him, “I do trust you, Max.”

Max’s shoulders slouched as he leaned on the seat sideways, his body fully turned to you.

“Then why do you not trust me with this?” He pushed, nudging your knee with his, trying to get an answer out of you. He knew he was at fault and he just wanted to make it right.

“I don’t trust her.” You simply answered, feeling done with the conversation. The car turned, nearing the entrance of the paddock. You sniffled as you untucked your hair from behind your ears, removing your sunglasses from the top of your head.

“You don’t have to worry about her, schatje. I want you not her, there’s a reason why we broke up.” Max reassured, trying to ease the tension between the two of you.

The car came to a halt, a knock came from the driver, indicating that you guys arrived at the paddock. Before you could leave, you turned to Max and said, “Yet, she’s still here.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Entering the paddock was always a frenzy. The moment you stepped out the car, fans were quick to recognize you, knowing that one of their favorite drivers were right behind you. You slid your sunglasses on and smoothed out the white maxi dress you wore. Max followed in suit and flashed a smile at the fans.

Shouldering his bag, he held his hand out to you, “I know you’re upset, but can I please hold your hand?”

You nodded and entangled your fingers with his. The two of you began your walk into the paddock hand in hand, as fans screamed and waved at Max. He gave your hand a squeeze before guiding you guys to some of the barricades and signing a few things for the fans.

After you guys scanned your passes, Max led you guys to the Red Bull garage. However, you came to a halt. Max was quick to look back at you, “You okay?”

“Yeah—I’m gonna meet up with Alex and Rebecca, if that’s okay? We were planning on seeing each other before the race.” You tell him. A small pout formed on Max’s lips, “Oh, okay, I’ll drop you off.” He offered, still holding your hand.

You and the girls decided to meet up at the Paddock Club. In front of the entrance, Max stood in front of you.

“You’ll come to the garage to watch, right? I need you there.” He asked quietly, so that people passing by cannot hear your conversation.

You nodded, “Yeah, I’ll be there before you’re in the car.”

Max mirrored your actions, “Okay, I love you.” He pulled you in by the waist and pressed a kiss onto your forehead. You squeezed his waist in response, “I love you too.”

Max watched as you entered the building, huffing to himself, while he watched you walk further and further into the building.

Placing your sunglasses above your head, you scan the room until you see one of the girls, Alex was the first to spot you, standing in her spot and waving at you to come over.

“Coucou mon amour!” She greeted you, (Hello, my love!) immediately wrapping you in a hug. You squeal as she squeezed you, “Helloo!” You giggled. You go to greet Rebecca, who is immediately giving you a knowing look. Being the older one amongst the three of you, she was often looked up to as the older sister.

She wrapped an arm around you and smoothed your back, “What’s wrong?” She asked while you got situated in the chair beside her.

You shook your head, “It’s just Max.”

Rebecca grabbed the bottle of champagne on the table and poured some into a flute glass. She offered you the glass, “Thank you, I needed this.”

She smiled watching you take a long sip from the glass, “Oh honey, I know.”

Alex pouted and nudged your foot with hers, “What happened with Max?”

“He invited Kelly to watch the race at the garage today.” You bluntly shared, slumping yourself in your chair.

Rebecca’s eyes widened, “Shut up.”

You raised a brow at her, “Oh, I didn’t even get to the kicker yet.”

Alex’s brows raised, “Which is?”

“He flew her out—he fucking flew her out and gave her tickets for the entire weekend.” You revealed through gritted teeth, still being aware of your surroundings. Rebecca cursed under her breath as Alex took your glass and refilled it with champagne.

Grabbing the glass, you continued, “She’s literally been here all weekend and he only told me this morning. I just don’t get it, they broke up, I don’t know why he’s still so concerned about her.” You took another long sip of champagne,

“What was the reason why?” Rebecca asked you.

“Apparently Penelope missed him—which I can believe, but did he really have to do all the providing when she can financially support herself? I get that he was trying to be nice, but still.” You grunt, fiddling with your glass.

Alex comfortingly rubbed your arm, “No, I get it, if Charles did the same thing with his ex, I’d also be upset.”

“I literally told him that she’s using him once again.” You threw your hands up. “If he wants her to be there so much, he might as well just get back with her. Like—am I crazy for losing my mind at the fact they were in contact with each other, even if it wasn’t in a romantic sense?”

Rebecca shook her head, “No, your feelings are absolutely valid. You’re just concerned and it obviously caught you off guard. He shouldn’t have been texting his ex in the first place.”

You groaned and held your head in your hands, “I hate feeling like this, it makes me question if he actually wants to be with me or not.”

Rebecca held her finger up, “I’m gonna stop you right there.” Placing her hand on your shoulder she says, “Max might be acting very stupid right now, but one thing I know for sure is that Max loves you and absolutely adores you. Without a doubt.”

Alex nodded, agreeing with Rebecca, “Like have you seen the way he looks at you? He literally worships the ground you walk on. I’m sure he’s beating himself up right now for doing what he did.”

“He loves you, (y/n), everyone who’s seen you guys together knows it. I don’t think he’d put himself in this kind of position on purpose, you’ve got that man wrapped around your finger, babe.” Rebecca reassured you, throwing her arm around your shoulder and pulling you into another hug.

“Come on cheer up, who cares if she’s in the garage today? You’re the one he’s gonna be going home with tonight.” You laughed shaking your head at her teasing.

“Hey! Tonight and every single night!” Alex pointed out raising her glass at you.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Two hours. It’s been two hours since Max has dropped you off at the Paddock Club and he still hasn’t heard back from you. He’s been distracted all day. During a meeting with Christian and some of the engineers, he couldn’t help but constantly check for a text from you, earning himself a scolding from the team principal. Checo and a couple of people from the team tried talking to him, but he wasn’t paying attention. His eyes wandered wondering when you would enter the garage.

He did in fact see Kelly and P—obviously he was expecting to see them since he invited them, but all he felt while talking to them was guilt. Guilty because he remembered the look of hurt and betrayal in your eyes and how he was the reason behind it. He hated it, he felt grimy, and dirty for going behind your back and texting Kelly. Not even ten minutes into catching up with the mother and daughter, Max realized that you were in fact correct. Kelly had used him again, instantly making advances on him despite knowing he was happily taken. But for the sake of P, Max made sure to be friendly though kept his distance to not feed into her mother’s schemes.

It was nearing lights out and you were still not in the garage. He had gone through his warm ups with Bradley, had his fireproofs and suit on, and even laced up his shoes. Still, no sight of you whatsoever in the garage. He was beginning to worry about you, sending you a couple of messages to your phone.

The car was due to be on the grid and there was about half an hour left till lights out. Max looked around the bustling garage, checking to see if you had snuck in without him seeing, though to no avail, you still weren’t there.

“Max…Max…Max?” GP tried to get Max’s attention. Snapping a finger in front of the driver’s face, Max’s eyes flickered over to his race engineer.

“What do you want now?” Max groaned, throwing his head back. To onlookers, it looked like a typical interaction between Max and GP. Though, GP felt like he was babysitting a child whose attention span couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds.

“Mate, I’ve been talking to you for the past five minutes.” GP claimed. Choosing to ignore the information he had just “briefed” Max on, he decided to be a friend.

“Where’s your head at?” GP asked Max. The Dutch man sighed, leaning against one of the storage units in the garage.

“I messed up with (y/n). I did something and it was my fault, I know it was. But she’s not happy with me at the moment and I just want to make it right.” Max summarized, not sharing any more details to protect the privacy of your relationship.

GP motioned towards Kelly who was talking to one of the other influencers in the garage, “Does it have to deal with that?”

“Unfortunately.” Max mumbled, crossing his arms and choosing to stare at the floor.

GP took a minute to stare at his driver. Max was deflated, he wasn’t as hyped for the race or over explaining some random fact about god knows what. Instead, Max kept to himself, greeting people when he had to and communicating with his team prior to the race. Other than that, Max chose to stare at his phone and look longingly outside the garage.

“Listen, I don’t know what exactly went down. But I’ve seen you with (y/n) and she clearly makes you happy, we’ve all see how lively you are with her around. You’ve got a lot of groveling to do bud, but it’ll be worth it.” GP advised, clapping Max on the back to wake him up.

“She’ll always be worth it.” Max quietly said, taking another glimpse at his phone. Only to be met with his wallpaper of you and him, with no notifications.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

Christian Horner stared at his monitor at the pit wall watching as drivers and their teams gathered on the grid. He saw Checo by his car, taking a few sips of water before the race. When the camera panned to Max’s Red Bull, the driver was no where to be seen. Sparing him a second of wondering where his driver was, the camera cut to the garage where Max stood, race suit at his waist, looking no where near ready to participate in the race.

“Why is Max not in the car?” He turned to GP, stress evident on his face. GP turned in his seat and looked back into the garage to see Max pacing. Cursing under his breath, he excused himself from Christian and rushed to Max.

“Max, the race is literally about to start!”

Max stops his pacing and places his hands at his hips, “I need my girlfriend.”

“What?” Bradley and GP both stuttered out. Max deadpanned at the two men in front of him.

“(Y/n), I need to see her before the race.” Max demanded. Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose, “Max, she’ll be here after the race, you’ll be fine.” He pushed the balaclava towards Max’s chest, who simply let the mask fall at his feet.

GP sighed at Max, before calling one of the Red Bull employees.

“Please send out a search for (y/n), Max is refusing to get in the car.” He whispered to the intern. The girl looked at him confusingly but nodded and set out the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You rushed as best as you could in kitten heels towards the Red Bull garage. You were supposed to be at the garage at least half an hour ago. You and the girls got caught up catching up with each other’s lives that none of you realized it was getting close to lights out. It truly was a funny sight, the three of you rushing out of the Paddock Club and running through the paddock like a bunch of maniacs.

“(Y/n)!” You heard someone yell. You stopped in your steps and looked around, only to see a girl dressed in Red Bull uniform. You recognized her, you believed her name was Nicole and was an intern for the team this season.

“Hey! Is Max on the grid already?” You approached her, a little sad that you missed seeing him before the race.

“No, he’s actually waiting for you. They’re sending out a search for you because he’s refusing to get in the car.” Nicole explained, placing a gentle hand on your back and guiding you through the crowd of fans and towards the garage.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

GP released a sigh of relief once he saw you enter the garage. He shoved Max’s shoulder to avert his attention to you.

“What—oh,” Max began, only to stop himself and rush towards you. You met him half way, placing a hand on his elbow.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t meant to stay there for too long.” You quickly apologized. Max shook his head, “I don’t care, I’m just happy you’re here.”

Your brows furrowed at him, “Why are you here? Why aren’t you in the car yet?”

Max placed both his hands on your waist with a faint blush on his cheeks, “I need my goodluck kiss.”

You paused your actions, “You’re kidding me. Max, the race is about to start in five minutes!” You scolded your boyfriend.

“Please, schatje.” He pleaded, leaning closer towards you. Other team members and guests watched the both of you, the scene in front of them peaking their interests.

You gazed up at his stormy eyes, giving in because you knew he was stubborn and wouldn’t stop until he got his way. Plus, the team would hate you if you lowered their chances of scoring points this weekend.

“Just because I kiss you doesn’t mean I’m not mad at you anymore.” You clarified quietly. His forehead nodded against yours, “I know schatje. I promise to make it up to you, I really do.”

A small smile forms on your lips, “I know, Maxie.”

Max takes that as his sign to crash his lips onto yours. One of his hands support the back of your neck while the other rests on your lower back. You smile against his lips, pulling back and placing a peck right above the small mole on his upper lip.

“I love you.” You whispered to him.

“I love you too.” He whispered back. Before you can fully pull away from him he quickly adds, “I’m serious about my promise.”

“I know, baby.” You squeeze him comfortingly. “Now get out there and win the race. Stay safe.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead as both you and GP ushered him towards his gear that’s been waiting to be put on.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

A man of his word, Max won the race. With at least a five second gap between him and Lando, your boy was top step yet once again. As much as he won, the thrill of seeing him win and crossing the finish line never got old. You celebrated every win of his as if it were his first. You’d always be proud of him, whether he got pole or not.

Many of the engineers and members of the team began to rush towards the grid, eager to greet Max once he got out the car.

Looking around, you suddenly make eye contact with Kelly, who seemed to have been sizing you up. You weren’t really sure what look was on her face, but the hints of a snarl were on her lips. With her nose stuck up in the air, you watched as she carried her daughter and began to follow the rest of the team.

“Don’t mind her. You’re the one he wants to see when he gets out that car.” A voice said from beside you. You jumped, coming face to face with Christian. Your eyes widened at your boyfriend’s boss. Prior to the race, he was informed of the search party the entire team had for you to get Max in the car. While he was annoyed earlier, he thought it was rather cute that Max was so fond of you.

“You know, he’s never begged her for a good luck kiss.” Said Christian, a knowing look on his features. “You on the other hand—he can’t seem to function whenever you’re not around.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was gonna put that much of a fight earlier today.” You apologized, feeling a bit flustered. “He’s a bit stubborn sometimes.” You added, to which Christian chuckled at.

“Oh, I know. Max and I have worked together for years.” He stated. He glanced out the garage and motioned towards it, “C’mon now, I’m sure he’s already looking for you.”

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

You make your way through the crowd of Red Bull members, many of them recognizing you and helping you squeeze through till you were at the very front of the barricade.

Max was already out, helmet in his hand, while his other embraced GP and a couple other engineers. You watched as he high-fived Penelope, barely sparing a glance at her mother. A little burst of pride went off in your stomach, you couldn’t help it.

His blue orbs scanned the crowd of red and blue, looking for you. You yell his name, his eyes immediately finding yours. A smile breaks out on his face as he rushed over to you, dropping his helmet in the process. Despite the barricade between you two, he wraps both his arms tightly around you, lifting you off the ground.

“Max!” You squealed, your arms wrapping around his neck. His large hand found your cheek, slightly pulling you away from his neck so he can connect his lips with yours. Naturally, your lips moulded perfectly against his moving in synch. The team erupted in cheers around you.

“I’m so proud of you!” You tell him once your lips separate.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” He grins, gently pinching your bottom lip between his pointer finger and thumb.

He couldn’t stay long, being told that he had to get to the podium for the trophy ceremony.

“I’ll see you after the podium, schatje!” He yelled with a wink over his shoulder, causing a blush to form on your cheeks.

ଓ⋆˙⟡₊ ⊹

The ceremony and the media tent took a while, you finally got to see Max an hour later. You were sitting in his driver’s room, when he bursted through the door already looking for you.

You stood up, smiling at him, “Hey.”

He mirrors your smile. Placing the trophy on the couch he opens his arms for you. You walk into the comfort of his hold, burying your head into the crook of his neck and wrapping your arms around his torso.

Finally it was just the two of you.

“I’m sorry.” You said, though it came out muffled against his skin. Max’s hands stopped the circular motions they were rubbing on your back.

“For what?”

You pulled back looking at him, “I overreacted about the whole Kelly thing. I should’ve taken your word for it.”

Max immediately shook his head, disagreeing with you. “No, you were absolutely right about her. I should’ve listened to you from the beginning. The moment I said hi to them she was already trying to come onto me—I avoided her by the way, I just entertained P.”

“I’m also sorry for what I said about P. I was in the wrong for that comment.” You said, a small grimace on your face when you remembered the off hand comment you made about the poor child.

Max chuckled, “Schatje, seriously, it’s okay.”

His calloused hands were rough against the soft skin of your face. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and cradled your jaw in his hand.

“I may have a soft spot for P, but they’re in my past. You’re my future, (y/n). The future that I only want and see myself in.” Max admitted. Your eyes gleamed at him, “You’re the future I want too, Maxie.”

“Good because you’re not getting rid of me that easily. You’re stuck with me.” He joked, squeezing your cheeks.

“I love you. So much. I know it seemed like I didn’t trust you today, but I want you to know that I do. I fully trust you with my life and I mean it.” You said, your fingers playing with the ends of his hair at the nape of his neck.

Max nodded, “I believe you. I love you too.”

The two of you basked in the silence and comfort of being in each others arms. Max was the first one to break the silence, “You don’t have plans after this right?”

You hummed against his neck, “Besides celebrating your win, nothing. Why?”

“Because I’m taking you out on a date.” Max proudly announced, a goofy smile on his lips.

“Don’t you wanna celebrate with the team?” You asked him. Max shook his head, “Nope, the only person I want to celebrate with tonight is you.”

You giggled at Max’s antics, “Whatever you say, Champ.”

[monzamash]

★ last chance; long live the inbox graveyard! —i pick a long forgotten request in my inbox and write a short blurb or musings

hot tub time machine lando norris x you —no warnings, just fluff "could we get a number 14 (pool/hot tub sex) with lando pleaseeee? so excited that you’re writing again!!" —requested by anon on october 8th, 2024

“happy birthday, sweetheart...”

“i really needed this," he sighed, "knowing i would be home with you for this was the only thing getting me through the last few of weeks.”

lando could feel every single ache and pain wash away as he slid into the hot tub, stomach full of the gorgeous italian spread you’d ordered for dinner. his favourite. he swore you were an angel sent to earth, everything you did for him was heavenly, he could never find the words to tell you how much he loved you.

“you look so happy lan,” you smiled, dropping the kimono you’d worn during dinner as lando’s eyes cast across your body, luring you into the tub.

“i’m very happy - especially when i get to enjoy all of this… c’mere pretty girl.”

a soft giggle slipped from your lips as you grasped his hand, "let me get a bottle of red wine for us to share and i'll join you — do you wanna open the one daniel gave you?"

"ooo, are we entering that portion of the night?" lando asked suggestively as you stood up, shooting him quizzical look.

"what do you mean?" you asked earning a loud laugh from the tub, water splashing a little as lando pulled himself up to the edge, smiling over at you with a look you knew all too well.

"as soon as you start on the red wine, you get so frisky," he stated as if it was a well-known fact, one that you certainly weren't aware of.

"i do not!" you staunchly defended, earning another loud scoff.

"oh, wow," lando laughed, "yes, you do baby and i'm not complaining so crack her open..." he teased as you carefully stepped into the tub, with lando's help of course, eyes still narrowed in annoyance.

"okay so maybe wine makes me a little more amorous than usual but i think i'm just like that when i drink, no?" you pouted, earning yourself a pity kiss from the birthday boy.

"red wine makes you horny and that's okay," he teased again with a cheeky smirk on his face as you handed him the stemmed glass, "ta."

"we'll see then, won't we," you tutted, pouring two glasses of wine while lando chuckled to himself.

"i already know what's gonna happen but sure," he baited with a wink as he slowly dunked his head under the water and emerged with a shake of his wild curls, sending water flying across the room and all over you.

"you are so sure of yourself tonight."

lando's eyes skimmed across your body briefly while you claw-clipped your hair up, not wanting the hassle of having to dry it before going to bed. secretly you knew where the night was headed, red wine or not— it was his birthday after all, but you weren't about to admit that to the man hypnotised by your every move, jaw slack from the glorious view of your cleavage.

lando was a simple man.

"well, i am the birthday boy after all so i reserve the right to be cocky once a year, yeah?" he taunted from the other side of the tub.

"yeah, only once a year..." you rolled your eyes humorously.

the distance between the two of you seemed too far for lando, so he sculled the rest of his drink and carefully placed the glass on the floor before giving you a mischievous smile.

"steady on, party boy," you chuckled as he leaned forward and snaked an arm around your waist, pulling you into his warm hold.

"i just want to focus all of my attention on you," he whispered, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen out of your clip, his emerald irises darted over your face, finally resting on yours.

"i missed you a lot, you know."

you took that as an invitation to straddle his lap and rest your elbows over his shoulders, wine glass dangling from your fingers. lando smoothed his hands down your back and and pressed fiery kisses across your chest. his lips travelled back up your neck, along your jaw before finding your soft lips in a slow, passionate kiss. you moved in sync with him, bringing one of your hands up to trawl through his wet, tangled curls. the chlorine always got the best of them.

lando hummed quietly into the kiss before pulling back slightly, "this is the best birthday i've ever had... and i couldn't be more in love with you," he confessed as you took the chance to admire the sweet boy you'd chosen to share your life with.

you grasped his face gently between your hands and pressed another soft kiss to his lips, making sure he knew just how much you loved him, no matter what life threw your way.

"i love you too, darling... happy birthday."

a/n — the first of the end of (f1) season sale!! this hot tub request actually wasn't forgotten, just half-baked so thank you anon for sparking up the inspiration to finally finish it! hope you enjoyed it 😌

[mclacedes]

sweet like candy (LN4 SMAU)

summary: in which Lando is a complete simp over singer Y/N L/N

warnings: a little bit of hate, cursing, suggestive content

pairing: lando norris × singer!reader

face claim: sabrina carpenter / morgan riddle

✧ next up

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ENJOY. 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ynln

📍 literally everywhere

❤️ by ybffname, ysistername, ynfan1 and more

ynln: la dolce vita or whatever they say

click here to open comment section

ynfan2: woman how DARE YOU being this aesthetic????

ynfan3: i love you please marry me

ynhater1: omg can you stop begging for attention

ybffname: love the vibes and all, but when are you gonna stop traveling around and come back home huh?

ynln: i'd say about never but we'll see how things go 🥰

ynfan4: jesus christ woman where AREN'T YOU

ynfan7: okay but have you thought about stopping at a F1 race or something

ynln: tell me more about it 💭

ynfan5: london, italy, paris... GIRL OMG

ynhater2: i don't think you should flaunt like this when there's literally people starving

ynfan6: literally dream life

ysistername: cute but can i have my hair clip back? THANK YOU!

load more

landonorris

🎶 Thinking Bout You - Frank Ocean

❤️ by ybffname, ymother, landofan6 and more

landonorris: they do say la dolce vita :) but whatever right?

click here to open comment section

landofan1: hot.

landofan2: i do have a lot to say but i have some decency

maxfewtrell: i think your shirt's a bit unbuttoned mate

landonorris: thanks mate! hadn't noticed

ynfan7: am i dreaming or that caption...

ynfan4: girl the caption, the song, those pictures... it's all for her

landofan3: what?

ynfan4: check out y/n l/n's latest post

landofan5: HOLY FUCK

landofan5: don't judge him for making it about her,if i were him i'd do the EXACT same

ynln: thanks for letting me know :)

landonorris: you should stop by a race, maybe i could tell you a thing or two about italian :)

maxfewtrell: mate, they still have DMs :)

A WEEK LATER

ynupdates:

ynupdates: Us too, Lando! During his friend Max Fewtrell's Twitch stream, Formula 1 driver Lando Norris admitted to having a crush on Y/N L/N, as transcribed below:

Lando: “If I like Y/N? Yes, absolutely! There is no reality in which I don't listen to her songs or that I'm not a big fan of hers.”

Max: “'Fan'? Mate, drop it, we all know how you're a complete simp over the woman.”

Lando: “What?”

Max: “Be for fucking real, now! We know it. You've talked about her, not once, not twice, we lost count! Can't keep track of it anymore. You're down bad."

Lando: “Shut up, you bastard. But I will admit, I think she's cute.”

click here to open comment section

ynfan7: IT'S HAPPENING GUYS

landofan5: god knows how much i've waited

ynfan8: ok but where has lando talked about yn multiple times??

landofan9: he once brought her up during a video with oscar (his teammate) for mclaren, saying her songs are huge part of his pre race routine

landofan10: or when he sang her song "God is a Woman" on live

landofan11: or when he literally posted one of her songs on his stories

landofan12: or when he said she's his favorite singer

ynfan8: i agree with max tbh

TWO WEEKS LATER

y/n via instagram stories.

ynupdates

ynupdates: NOBODY MOVES!

Y/n L/n was seen on the McLaren garage ahead of the Dutch Grand Prix weekend - today, it's qualifying! Go papaya!

(let's try not to clown but just so everybody is properly informed, Lando is a McLaren driver.....)

click here to open comment section

ynhater3: ofc she's gon cling to a man for relevancy... typical yn

ynfan7: pls go suck a dick

landofan7: OK OK OK IM SO OK WITH THIS

ynfan9: OMG OKG OM WJAT

ynfan11: that's literally momma and papa

landofan10: she's literally there for him wtf 😭

ynfan15: im not fraekingnout AT ALL

mclaren:

❤️ liked by ynln, landofan6, landonorris and more

mclaren: Having set the fastest time in Q3, Lando grabs pole position! Tomorrow, we go racing!

click here to open comment section

landofan17: OMG SHE LIKED IT YALL

landofan18: can we focus on the racing for a bit?

landofan5: my prayers didn't go unnoticed... good to know!

landofan19: soft launch i fear?

[the-fire-might-be-shooting-at-us]

I wanted to take a hot girl nap but now it's been fucking hours and the sky is dark so my hot girl productivity is cancelled

[luveline]

hii jade are u going to write something about hotchner!reader and spencer any soon?

—You panic when Spencer’s late for a date. He makes it up to you as best as he can. fem, 2.6k

cw implied past child abuse

You weren’t young when you were adopted, so you were instilled very quickly with the need to be grateful. How lucky you were to be given a second chance at a family. How you owed it to your new family to be the perfect daughter and sister to a father who didn’t like you and two brothers your senior. 

Family for you is complicated. It always has been. You didn’t get the unconditional love you’d hoped for in all of them, but you have one older brother who loves you as though you and him are two branches of the same tree, and maybe that’s enough for anyone. 

“Yes!” Aaron cheers, jumping up from the bench. 

You spin around with a grin that’s half shy, half ecstatic. “I did it!” 

Jack runs up to your legs. “You got a strike!” 

You pretend to give him a karate chop. “Boosh! Double strike.” You grin as Aaron sizes up the pins down the long ally. “Think your dad can get one before we run out of turns?” 

“No!” Jack laughs. 

You laugh at his easy answer. His father, determined now in the face of your disbelief, picks up a number twelve ball and stands at the arrows to take his last turn. You brace your hands on Jack’s shoulders and wait for the line to be put down again. 

You’re pretty sure he’s throwing his turns to let Jack win. You’d not done the same until you realised the yawning gap in the scores, and maybe you’d feel embarrassed for not noticing if Aaron ever made you feel bad for anything, but he doesn’t. 

Your phone rings as he pulls back his arm. You ignore it. “Good luck, dad!” Jack says under your hands. 

It’s that good luck that gives Aaron his strike. You cheer with Jack as the ball glides straight into the first pin and veers on a spin toward the third, creating a wave of noise and action as the pins go flying back toward the baseboard. 

Aaron turns around with a huge smile. “Jack!” 

“You did it!” Jack cheers back. “Not first, but you did!” 

You grab your phone from your pocket. “Couldn’t let me have it, could you?” you ask. 

“What do you mean?” Aaron picks Jack up from the floor to hold against his chest, pointing at the screen with love. “Look at that, buddy, you won! Can you see that? You got the most points!” Aaron kisses his cheek, high on happiness. “Wow!” 

You have two missed calls from Spencer. To Aaron’s begrudgement, you and Spencer are actually going steady. The first attraction didn’t fizzle, the dates turned to dating turned to exclusivity; Spencer Reid is your boyfriend, and he’s supposed to be taking you out to dinner in ten minutes. 

“Everything okay?” Aaron asks, creeping closer to you, Jack still in his arms. 

“It’s fine, he’s just running late.” You notice his small frown. “His mom’s doctor wanted to talk to him, that’s all.” 

“How late is he thinking?” 

The plan was you’d go bowling with your family and then meet Spencer outside to eat at the Chinese restaurant just across the parking lot, but it’s not seeming so sure now. 

“He said half an hour. I’m pretty hungry,” you say, “he’s gotta speak to a psychiatrist about something. I can’t eat though, right? That’s rude.” 

“That’s not rude, honey. You can’t help being hungry as much as he can’t help being late.” As you’d noticed his, he notices your small frown. “You can’t go hungry,” he says with a shrug, “so you’re gonna have to come and eat something, but Spencer can join us when he’s done.” 

“Right, because you’ll love that.” 

“I’ve been on more dates with him than you have.” 

You take Jack as he opens his arms toward you. “I forget. I always think of you as his boss, and not his teammate.” 

Aaron grabs Jack’s backpack off of the bench, and your empty cups off of the table to throw away. “I am his boss. Okay, Jack, what do you want for dinner? What sounds good?” 

You, Aaron and Jack leave the bowling alley and end up in the Italian restaurant opposite of your originally proposed restaurant. You carry Jack on your hip and text Spencer with your open hand, content to let Aaron guide you through what little foot traffic there is to your table. Aaron sits on one side of the booth with Jack, and you slide into the other side. 

Spencer’s texts are getting more and more convoluted. He says he’s sorry, and then he says he has to call someone else, and then he needs to talk to his mom. You nibble your fingernail. 

“You okay?” 

You nod slowly. “Yeah, uh… Yes, everything’s fine.” 

“Is Spencer okay?” 

“I think he might cancel.” 

Aaron flattens his menu. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay. I think his mom is having a bad day…” 

“What else are you worried about?” 

Jack saves you for a moment, “Dad, can I have juice?” 

“Yes, sweetheart, I’ll get you juice. Apple juice?” 

Jack presses his cheek to Aaron’s arm, earning himself a hug. 

“Are you tired?” Aaron whispers. 

“No.” 

“Okay. Hey, there’s a table over there with some colouring pages and crayons, do you see that? Do you want to do some colouring?” 

“Can I go get some?” Jack asks. 

“Yes. Don’t bump into anybody, okay?” 

The table isn’t far enough to worry, but Aaron splits his attention between Jack and you fairly evenly, just a tad more worry following his son. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Aaron asks. 

“You don���t think Spencer would lie, do you?” you ask. 

“Lie about his mother? I doubt it very much.” 

You trust Aaron, and you trust Spencer too, but Aaron has earned that trust over years and years where Spencer has been gifted it. He hasn’t done anything to break it, but he hasn’t proved he should have it yet either. And really, truly, it isn’t actually about what you believe of Spencer. 

You feel a bit nauseous, but your brother is the best person in the world, so you tell him why without preamble, “I’m worried that he’s going to get sick of me.” 

“Why would he do that?” Aaron asks. 

You scratch at the menu beneath your hand rather than meet his eyes. Because you’re awful. That’s what your father instilled in you, and it’s what you’ve come to learn. Eventually, the people who love you get tired of you. Everyone except Aaron, and isn't that proof of something? He’s the only man good enough to pretend you’re someone worth caring about. 

If he could hear your thoughts he’d probably cry. It’s why you’ve struggle to tell him. 

You rub your thumb into the side of your index finger, feeling the texture of your skin. “I think people just do.” 

Jack returns quickly, with paper and a huge fist full of crayons, though there are four colours altogether. “Well,” Aaron says, helping Jack back into his seat, crayons rolling released from a small fist every which way, “I don't. And Jack doesn’t, Haley doesn’t. I see no reason why Spencer would feel that way.” 

“What don’t I do?” Jack asks, frowning at his dad. 

“You don’t think Aunt Y/N’s bad at bowling, do you?” 

“You’re great at bowling!” Jack's eyes go wide. “I’m gonna make us a photo, to remember. We got strikes!” 

You let your face fall into your hand as Aaron strokes hair up the side of Jack’s head. It’s a soothing thing to see, you know the soft touch of his hand well, having been petted and patted through a hundred different bad moments. 

Spencer probably isn’t lying about why he’s late, but he could be. You wouldn’t blame him. 

“She’s very good at bowling,” Aaron says, hugging Jack to his side. “And so many other things, that’s why we love her. Should we make a list?” 

He used to love doing that, too. 

Your father wasn’t a nice or kind man. Aaron doesn’t know how it escalated, only knows what happened to him, and how he’d come to see you and you’d burst into tears the second he asked how you were. 

If Aaron knew how bad it was at the time he would’ve forced you to leave, but you never told the whole truth. He assumed it to be a mixture of everything —school was awful, dad was worse, and you were more isolated than most. 

Make me a list, he’d say. 

The first time you didn’t get it. You were a teenager sitting on his couch, his wife in the kitchen, a weight on your chest. What for? 

A list of the stuff that’s bothering you. 

Do you need a list? you’d asked. He had a knack for knowing more than you could say. 

I think we should make one. 

You realise now it was a strategy to calm you down. If you could quantify the things that were depressing you, you could begin to understand it, and hopefully dismantle some of the bigger problems. It didn’t always work, but it didn’t matter. It made you feel better just to have you and Aaron on the same couch with a notebook and a number two pencil. Don’t see my brother enough, he’d written with a sad face. 

Brother, you’d thought with a secret joy. He’s your brother. 

Jack and Aaron make a list they won’t show you. You order drinks and then dinner, waiting for a phone call or a text back you don’t receive. It’s disheartening, and when your pasta arrives, you can barely eat. 

“Honey,” Aaron says, “why don’t you go call him? You can see if he’s alright.” 

You poke at a shell with a tightly gripped fork. “What if he doesn’t want me to call him? It sounds serious.” 

“Maybe that’s why you should call him. I think he’d appreciate it.” He looks like he wants to reach for you, but ultimately, he doesn’t. “Take a minute for yourself, if nothing else. Everything’s okay, I promise.” 

“Sorry.” 

“For what?” Jack asks. 

You smile regretfully. “I’m just feeling confused today, babe. What about you? Are you confused about where your mouth is?” you tease lightly. 

Aaron gasps a laugh and reaches over to wipe Jack down with a napkin as you slip from the booth. You take your phone, worrying that Aaron’s eyes are on your back as you pass by the host booth and back out onto the street. The breeze kisses your clammy skin. 

Why do you assume that no one really likes you? It’s difficult to comprehend. Your thumb hovers over Spencer’s contact photo, debating, and debating. Should you call him? He might be preoccupied, upset even, and what if you make it worse? But if you don’t call him, you can’t reassure yourself that you’re not in trouble. 

He answers on the third trill. 

“Hello?” you ask. 

“Hey!” There’s a sound like something heavy has been put down. “Hey, I’m so sorry!” 

“Don’t be sorry!” you say immediately. “It’s okay. Are you okay?” 

Spencer’s voice is a little high and fast, but beside that, he has a nice tenor. When he’s calm and feeling up to it, alone at night with nothing else to do, he’ll read to you from one of his infinite books, his syllables catching and tripping over air as you rub your nose into his arm. 

“I’m fine! There was a mixup with some medication at the sanitarium and they realised my mom’s dose of one of her antipsychotics has been charted higher than she was really taking, so she’s been having a hard time, it’s a total mess but I think we have it figured out now. How was bowling?” 

“Spencer, are you sure it’s okay?” 

“It’s fine.” He laughs softly, not a hint of condescension or derision for you, but an emotion you can’t name. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to take so long.” 

“It’s okay.” 

“I mean, it’s fine if it’s not okay. I know you can’t help yourself sometimes, but you don’t have to tell me it’s fine if it’s not fine.” 

“Uh–” You cough around it. “No, it really is. You can’t help it. Family is important, right?” 

“It’s so important. Listen, where are you right now?” 

“I’m just standing outside of the Pasta Factory by the bowling alley. I tried to have dinner ‘cos I’m starving, but… I think I lost my appetite.” 

“What? Are you okay?” 

“I’m having one of those days, I guess?”

“What kind of day?” 

His voice is bouncing strangely, as though he’s talking near you. You pause, turning on your heel to look down the few stairs into the parking lot asphalt. 

Spencer’s walking up them, a bouquet of roses in his hands. 

“Hi,” you say, the phone still pressed to your ear. 

Spencer puts his away. “Hi. 

His hug is full, all-encompassing and warm as he wraps his arms around you, the bouquet a cacophony of crinkling against your shoulder. He smells like aftershave, his Tom Ford one with the woody tinge that has you pressing your nose into the top of his shoulder to just breathe. Your phone digs into his spine. He doesn’t say anything about it. 

“Hey,” he says softly, giving you a similar swaying, back and forth. “I’m sorry I’m late, I had to call them, but it wasn’t fair on you.” 

“Spencer,” you say, holding him tightly. “You’re my boyfriend.” 

“Don’t sound so unsure.” 

“No, but. We can be flexible, right?” 

“Of course we can, but I’m still sorry.” He peels back to smile at you, his eyes gently squinted. “So what’s wrong? What’s making it one of those days?” 

You can’t explain it to him. He likely doesn’t need you to. 

You’re expecting him to pull away —you’re in a public place and affection isn’t his usual expertise— but he doubles down. New boyfriend or not, this hug feels like it’s from somebody who’s loved you for years and years. 

“What’s making it a bad day?” he asks quietly. 

“I don’t know…” You rub your nose self indulgently against his shoulder. 

“Are you sure you have no appetite? Maybe that’s what it is? Stuff tends to feel bigger or more upsetting when we’re hungry because low blood sugar prompts your body to release more hormones that affect your cortisol level, and cortisol plays a big part in how your mind interprets your emotions.” Spencer pulls away, his hand sliding up your shoulder to hold you in place. He grins. “So I think you should still let me take you to dinner. Especially if you didn’t eat much.” 

Why would Spencer lie to you? you think, relieved. He wouldn’t. And the idea that he’s going to get sick of you, that’s rooted in bad lessons from a poor situation. It’s not a reflection on you. 

“We will,” you decide, “I just have to get my stuff. I left my bag, and Jack’s writing me a list.” 

“What list?” 

“A list of stuff I’m good at.” 

He doesn’t waver. “Really? Can I add stuff too?” You turn your nose up in an unsubtle prompting, satisfied when Spencer gives you a quick, smiling kiss. “Sorry,” he says, though his apology is distracted by a fond undertone, “I missed you.” 

You receive a few more gentle kisses for all your worries, and you begin to feel better. Spencer presses the roses into your hand and encourages you into the restaurant with his hand spread behind your back. 

[beiasluv]

— op81, cs55, cl16, ls2

a/n: spent so long on the graphic 💀

yourinsta

liked by mclaren, landonorris and 49,183 others

yourinsta call me pitbull cuz I’m mr worldwide 🤫 (+🇦🇺🇪🇸🇲🇨🇺🇸)

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landonorris coppiers

yourinsta you’re my og 🫶

landonorris just og? 😔

username I swear if oscar gives us nothinggg

username MY BABY IS SHY OKAY?

username GOOD DAY TO BE A LOGAN SARGEANT FAN 🦅🦅🦅🦅

username I could only pray the Spanish flag is for Fernando 😩

— oscar piastri

Nervously sipping on his emotional support orange juice. Maybe too much nervous sipping.

“So, what’s your type?”

“My girlfriend?”

“Tell her she’s mine too.”

“WOw, will do.”

Cheeks turning red, munching on the fries like a little chipmunk he is.

“I mean– I have three sisters so…”

“That’s a green flag.”

“Thank you?” a piece of chicken in, a smile comes out. “That’s it?”

“Maybe if he’s…Australian, maybe.” you shrugged.

“Yeah.”

“And if he’s…wait. what sign are you?”

“Don’t know..I think it’s kinda nonsense.”

“That’s a red flag.”

“Sorry?” cheeky.

The orange juice was left unattended for a minute. Good sign. Chuckles were still evident.

“Let’s get serious here…” shifting in your seat.

“Yeah.”

“You drive for a living?”

“Yeah, I go around in circles ‘nd stuff,” juice pause. “I could drive you around Melbourne..if you’d want to–”

“And you’ll take me back by eight? Maybe offering your hand as well?”

“Yeah,” squinting face. “I could do that.”

“Lovely.”

— carlos sainz

Does that thing with his eyes, bending down to take the fries in…while keeping an intense eye contact.

“Smooth operator, you like that song?”

“Everyone favorite song no?”

“Hard choice.” pausing your fries mid air. “Spanish songs that I have no idea what they’re talking about could be up there.”

“Really? Tell me one.”

“The one from fast and furious.”

“A lot of them,” throwing his head back. “Can you sing it for me?”

“Asking for me to sing already. You’re in a hurry Carlos?” a sip of your Diet Coke. “Fast Five?”

“Eh..Danza Kuduro?”

“How could I know?” you shrugged. “What’s the song about anyways?”

“Something like…dancing…er…with tight ass.”

“Make sense.”

Looking confused as ever with that big, brown eyes. Mouth agape and shut every time few seconds, curling into a smile most of the time.

“So you’re still looking for job next year?”

“Huh?”

“Lewis Hamilton? Looking for job?”

“Eh..” leaned back in his seat. “Could be. Are you offering?”

“I’m a pretty busy girl..”

“Really? How busy?”

“So you’re up for it? That’s fast.”

“I’ll have to talk to my manager,” raising his eyebrow. “What is your requirement?”

“A Ferrari driver.”

“Sure.”

— charles leclerc

Trying to not laugh his ass off every five seconds or just completely blanks out. Chicken tasted good though.

“Charles, I have to ask you one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“How do you pronounce your last name?”

“I don’t..I don’t care, really.” Shrugging his shoulders. “Charles. Le. Clare.”

“Hm…maybe just use my last name instead, it’s easier.”

“I– yeah?”

“What?”

His chicken was pretty cleaned up the first few minutes. Plenty of confused chuckles.

“Do you think you are a committed person?”

“I…I…it’s a hard question no?” he put his hand together, in an Italian – sorry, Monegasque way. “I like to say I am.”

“I could tell.”

“Really? How?”

“Your contract with Ferrari.”

— logan sargeant

He was used to burger and fries but maybe he could just tolerate chicken and fries for your pretty company.

“What’s your ideal date?”

“Hm..definitely chicken shop dates.”

“Really? Where’s best chicken you ever had then?”

“This one.”

“That’s not an option.”

Subtle stares here and there, his cheeks might be hurting from all the grinning though.

“What’s your ideal type?” munching his ketchup-ed fries.

“So you don’t do researches.”

“I am now.”

“You know…starting to have a thing for Americans. You have any recommendations?”

“You could start by going fishing in the Keys with me,” stretched his arms.

“I’m not into fishy things.”

“Just boat rides?”

“I could do that.”

Coke break.

“Your thoughts on frat boys?”

“They’re fine,” he shrugged.

“And you’re not like a..secret member? Is it like a One Direction..thing?”

“Maybe better looking?” smirked. “I could see myself being one if I wasn’t racing.”

“Dreams do come true, Sargeant.”

“Ouch,” clutching his chest. “Ah– well– Maybe this other dream could come true as well?”

“You being better looking than One Direction?”

tell me who should be in chicken shop dateee 😩😩

– @namgification @jsjcue @c-losur3

Today’s a great day to take care of yourself!!