#i’m so tired of my life being so up and down | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

uncuredturkeybacon · 2 days ago

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𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which she'd always wait for you

Minnesota smells like wet leaves in the fall and frozen basketball nets in the winter. You always liked that about it—the way it feels like it remembers things. People. Moments. Promises.

You were eight the first time you saw her.

Your mom had just dropped you off at the rec center playground, warning you not to get your new sneakers muddy. You promised. They were already muddy by the time you spotted her across the court.

She was loud. Blonde hair pulled up into a messy ponytail, baggy T-shirt too big for her, high socks rolled down like the boys did. She was barking plays like she was coaching a real team—telling two kids where to cut, waving her hands for the ball.

“Hey!” she yelled at a boy who missed the pass. “Eyes up, Ben! Come on!”

You leaned against the fence, half-curious, half-amused. She caught your stare and tilted her head.

“You play?”

You shrugged.

“I don’t know. Sometimes.”

“That’s a yes,” she said, already tossing the ball your way. “You’re on my team.”

You didn’t even hesitate. That was the thing with her from the beginning—Paige Bueckers said something, and the world tilted to make it true.

You stepped onto the court, pushed your sleeves up, and passed her the ball.

She grinned. “You got a name, or do I have to make one up?”

“...Y/N.”

She repeated it under her breath, then pointed at her chest. “I’m Paige. Let’s win.”

You didn’t. You lost 11–6. But she high-fived you like you’d just won a championship.

And then she said, “Wanna walk home with me?”

You blinked. “I don’t even know you.”

“Exactly. What better way to fix that?”

So you walked home with her. And then again the next day. And the next. Until it just became… a thing. Paige and Y/N. Always together.

By middle school, you were known as her shadow.

You weren’t flashy like her. You didn’t light up every room or make people laugh until their stomachs hurt. But she always turned to you first—at lunch, on the sidelines, before tip-off.

She would find you across a gym packed with screaming fans and point. Just a subtle nod. A silent thing.

That was hers.

You once heard someone whisper, “I don’t know if they’re dating or just soulmates.”

And honestly, you didn’t know either.

You were fourteen. Paige had just scored the game-winner in a weekend tournament, and her dad drove you both home with pizza in the backseat.

She crashed on your living room floor, both of you staring up at the ceiling, still sweaty and laughing.

“Hey,” she said, suddenly quiet.

You turned your head. “Yeah?”

“If we make it big one day,” she said, “like, real big… you’ll still walk me home, right?”

You smiled. “Even if it’s across the country.”

She rolled onto her side to look at you. “Promise?”

You reached out your pinky. “Promise.”

Her finger hooked yours.

And something shifted in the silence.

It wasn’t dramatic. There was no single moment where you said this is love.

It just… was.

The way she leaned into you when she was tired. The way you tied her shoes before games. The way she said “I got you” like it meant everything.

It did.

By the time high school rolled around, you were the one she trusted with the things she couldn’t say out loud. Her nerves before scouts came. Her doubts about being good enough. Her fears of leaving Minneapolis.

And she knew your fears, too. That you didn’t want a normal life. That maybe college wasn’t the only way forward.

That you were thinking of joining the military.

She said nothing at first when you told her. Just stared at her hands for a long time.

“Is it because of your dad?” she finally asked.

You nodded.

“And because… you want to do something bigger than this?”

You nodded again.

She reached across the bench and gripped your hand.

“I don’t like it,” she whispered. “But I’m proud of you.”

You didn’t know it yet, but that would be the last version of you she’d get for a long, long time.

High school felt like a countdown—though neither of you said it out loud.

Paige was on fire from the minute she walked into Hopkins. Freshman phenom. Banners with her name. Coaches from every D1 program in the country showing up with clipboards and fake smiles.

But when the gym lights went down, it was always still just you and her. Stretching side by side before practice. Sharing one AirPod on the bus. Eating postgame fries in silence because she was too tired to talk and you already knew what she was thinking anyway.

It wasn’t perfect. Not always.

Sometimes, she’d miss a movie night because she was reviewing film. You didn’t take it personally. Other times, you’d forget to text back because you were three hours deep into a military history rabbit hole and she’d pretend to be mad but she wasn’t, really.

You had this rhythm. A quiet, humming understanding. People mistook it for romance. It wasn’t. Not yet.

But it was close. So close it hurt sometimes.

You never told anyone, but your favorite part of game nights wasn’t when she scored thirty points. It was when she looked for you in the crowd before tip-off, eyes scanning until they landed on you—and then she’d relax. Just a little.

Like you were a lighthouse and she was always, always coming home.

It happened after a big win—regional finals. The gym was loud, the air thick with sweat and confetti and cheerleaders screaming. Everyone was pulling her in every direction.

But you were leaning against the back wall, hoodie up, letting her have her moment.

She found you anyway.

Grinning like she just discovered oxygen. She crashed into your chest and wrapped her arms around your waist, laughing into your hoodie.

You didn’t even think. You just kissed her. Quick, stupid, stunned.

She pulled back, wide-eyed.

And then she laughed again—brighter this time.

“Took you long enough,” she whispered.

And then kissed you back.

You didn’t label it.

You weren’t dating. You weren’t not.

You were her person. She was yours. And that was enough.

The real talk started senior year. She got her UConn letter first. You were there when she opened it—your hands shaking harder than hers. You were the one who screamed first. She tackled you to the floor, the paper crumpling between your bodies.

A week later, you told her your plan.

Military.

Silence.

“Are you sure?” she asked, after a long minute.

“No,” you admitted. “But I think it’s what I’m meant to do.”

She didn’t try to talk you out of it. She just leaned forward and pressed her forehead to yours.

“Then I’ll wait.”

The air was thick with bonfire smoke and the low buzz of future dreams.

She wore your hoodie. You wore her jersey. You both sat on the roof of her car, parked near the lake, legs dangling off the edge of the hood.

“Paige?”

“Yeah?”

“What if we’re different after this?”

She looked up at the stars.

“We will be.”

You turned to her.

She looked right at you.

“But I’ll still know how to find you.”

You didn’t cry. Not then. You just memorized her profile under moonlight and kissed her one more time.

A soft, quiet promise you’d both carry across oceans.

The first goodbye wasn’t really a goodbye. It was an airport hug.

She buried her face in your chest at the airport terminal, fingers fisting the fabric of your shirt like maybe if she held tight enough, you wouldn’t board that plane. You held her just as hard, whispering everything you couldn’t say out loud, “I’ll come back. I’ll be safe. I love you.”

Except you didn’t say that last part. You almost did.

But Paige pulled back first, tears in her eyes but trying to smile. “Text me. Every day. Even if it’s just dumb stuff.”

“Especially the dumb stuff,” you said.

Then they called final boarding.

And you kissed her temple, took one last look, and turned away.

You didn’t look back. Not because you didn’t want to—but because you knew if you did, you might never leave.

Basic training was a blur of sand and shouting. But you wrote her every week.

She didn’t write back at first. She FaceTimed.

“Why are you smiling?” you asked, sweaty and sore and exhausted.

“You look like you lost a fight with a boot camp manual,” she teased, then softened. “I missed your face.”

You missed hers too.

Letters started coming after that—hers were messier, scribbled between film sessions and plane rides. You’d read them under a flashlight, folded up in your bunk, her words the only soft thing in a place built for steel.

We won by 20 tonight. I dropped 34. But I kept looking at the bleachers like an idiot. You weren’t there. I hate that you’re not there.

I’m proud of you. I mean it. But I miss you so bad sometimes I have to put your hoodie on just to breathe.

Please don’t die, okay?

You kept her letters in the inside pocket of your uniform. Right over your heart.

Time moved like molasses and lightning.

She became a national name. Interviews. Awards. Draft projections. ESPN highlights. A household face with a smile everyone wanted a piece of.

But when you spoke on the phone, she was still just Paige. Still the girl who called you “goofball” and asked for updates about your bunkmate’s weird snoring habits. Still the one who asked, softly, “Are you eating enough?” like she was feeding you through the phone.

You sent her a video once—your squad doing push-ups in sync to the beat of one of her game highlight reels. She laughed so hard she cried.

“I’m saving this forever,” she said.

You replied, “Then save a place for me, too.”

She didn’t respond for a full minute.

“Always.”

It was mid-season, year five of your deployment. Things had gone quiet on the basketball front—you knew she was tired, sore, battling injuries. She didn’t want to say it, but you could hear it in her voice.

So you wrote her a long one.

Hey, superstar. Just wanted to say I watched your last game. You looked like you were flying. I know your ankle’s not great, but somehow you still move like you’re being chased by angels.

I think about you all the time. The way you talk when you’re excited, how your hands move when you’re nervous, the way you used to whisper “go get ‘em” before I did anything scary.

Funny how I’m not afraid of anything over here. But sometimes I think about you, and my whole chest hurts. I miss your laugh. I miss home. I miss…

That’s where it ended.

She never got the rest.

The next time Paige tried to call, your number didn’t go through.

Her texts stopped delivering. Your unit’s website stopped posting. Your mom didn’t have answers.

Three weeks passed. Then a month.

Then, the knock on her apartment door.

Your older brother. Pale, shaking.

“They don’t know what happened. Just that the team was separated. And she hasn’t been found.”

Paige didn’t speak. She just crumpled to the floor like her body forgot how to stand.

She read your last letter 103 times. Folded, unfolded. Smoothed out the crease down the middle where the words cut off.

She memorized the final line. The one that haunted her.

“I miss…”

Connecticut never got quieter.

Paige just got better at pretending.

She played through it all—training camp, press conferences, the draft. Cameras followed her like shadows. Her agent told her to smile more. Her coach told her to push harder.

So she did.

But every morning, before she laced up her sneakers, she pressed her fingers to her chest—right where your last letter lived, folded flat in a pouch inside her bag.

She never stopped carrying you.

Even when the world told her she might have to let go.

She was stretching before practice when her phone rang.

Your brother’s name lit up the screen.

“Hello?” she answered, already standing up.

There was a beat of silence on the other end. “There’s been… no contact. Three weeks. They’re calling it missing in action.”

Paige stared at the wall. Her heart didn’t beat. Her breath didn’t come.

“Paige?”

“I—I have to go.”

She hung up.

She walked off the court and into the nearest storage room and shut the door. Curled into herself on a pile of Gatorade crates. She didn’t cry.

She shook.

Then, hours later, she emerged, wiped her eyes, and played the best game of her life that night—32 points, 9 assists, 4 steals.

When asked how she did it, she said, “I was playing for someone.”

Paige never told the media. Never posted. She didn’t want your disappearance to be clickbait. Didn't want strangers speaking your name without knowing what it meant.

Only a few people knew. Her family. Her teammates. Geno. Azzi.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she admitted once, quietly, sitting in a dark gym after practice.

Azzi handed her a bottle of water and sat down next to her.

“You don’t have to know,” Azzi said. “You just have to keep waking up.”

Paige nodded. “I feel like if I stop moving, I’ll fall apart.”

“Then keep moving,” Azzi said, her voice soft. “But don’t pretend she wasn’t everything.”

That was the only time Paige cried in front of someone else.

She started wearing your dog tags during games—tied and tucked into her shoelaces.

The team didn’t ask. No one had to.

Sometimes, before tip-off, she’d whisper something to herself that the cameras couldn’t catch.

“Come back to me.”

“I’m not done loving you.”

“Please.”

She was back in Minnesota for the off-season. Alone in her childhood bedroom. Posters still on the walls. Your sweatshirt still folded in her drawer.

She pulled the shoebox of your letters from under her bed. Set them on the floor.

And she started reading.

All of them.

In order.

She read them through the night, until the sun broke through the window. Until the air felt like you’d touched it.

And when she finally reached the last one—the one that ended with I miss…—she didn’t cry.

She closed her eyes and whispered, “Me too.”

The world never knew your name.

Paige made sure of that.

To them, she was just growing up. Evolving. Hardening into the face of a franchise, into someone who could carry a team, a league, an entire sport.

But behind closed doors, her story stayed the same.

She was playing for someone they couldn’t see.

She told herself it would only be a few weeks. A month, maybe.

People go missing in combat. It’s chaos. Misinformation.

She watched every news update with a clenched jaw. She memorized the names of other recovered soldiers and felt sick when yours never came up.

She played harder.

She trained until her joints burned, iced until her skin went numb, shot free throws until her hands bled.

Every drop of sweat said your name.

She didn’t need cameras to catch it—she whispered it at the line.

Every game.

Before the buzzer.

Into her wrist.

Y/N.

Your dog tags became her talisman.

Before every game, she would take them out and kiss them once.

“For luck,” she’d tell her teammates.

But they knew better.

She didn’t pray anymore, not really. But this? This was faith.

Not in God. Not in war.

In you.

That somewhere, somehow, you could feel her playing.

That you were still out there.

It was a sold-out home game. National broadcast. Paige dropped 40 and broke the team record.

Everyone expected her to jump on the scorer’s table, to scream, to celebrate.

Instead, she looked up at the rafters, took the tags from her laces, and held them in both hands.

She mouthed something no one could hear. “That one was for you. Did you see it?”

The internet exploded.

“Who is she holding those for?” “Is it a memorial?” “Did she lose someone?”

She didn’t answer any of it.

Some stories weren’t meant for the public.

Some love deserves silence.

A month later, after a brutal loss and a postgame press conference she barely survived, Paige found herself alone on the bus, forehead pressed to the window, fingers curled around your dog tags like they were her last anchor.

Azzi slid into the seat across from her.

“You ever think about letting her go?” she asked gently.

Paige didn’t move.

“She’s been gone almost two years,” Azzi said. “You haven’t even—”

Paige turned, eyes glassy, voice like shattered glass.

“She’s not gone. You don’t get it. I’d know. If she were… if she really was…”

She broke.

Azzi reached across the seat and held her as the sobs finally tore free. The kind you choke on. The kind that only happens when you’ve waited too long to cry.

Paige gripped the dog tags so hard they left bruises on her palms.

To the fans, she was just Paige.

Focused. Unshakable. Laser-eyed and graceful.

They didn’t know that she woke up every morning and checked her phone for a text that never came.

They didn’t know she kept a post-it by her bed with one word on it, Comeback.

They didn’t know she still wrote your name in her journal every night.

She never said you were gone.

Not even once.

She just kept playing.

For you.

The silence wasn’t just quiet. It was a presence. A second shadow. It followed Paige everywhere.

She stopped listening to voicemails. She couldn’t take the static of it. Couldn’t hear your voice in her memory and not know if she’d ever hear it for real again.

Some people said you disappeared. She hated that word.

You weren’t lost.

You were somewhere.

And silence just meant you weren’t ready to come home yet.

Paige never changed it.

The room you stayed in when you visited—back in Minnesota. The navy-blue blanket. The folded hoodie. The photo of the two of you from junior year after her buzzer-beater—your arm slung over her shoulder, her hair half-falling out of a ponytail, your smile barely hiding how in love you were.

She went in there sometimes. Sat on the edge of the bed and just... stayed.

Sometimes with a letter. Sometimes with a memory.

She’d run her fingers along the edge of the desk and whisper your name under her breath.

Once, her mom found her curled up in the corner, clutching your dog tags like they were a lifeline.

“She’s not dead,” Paige said fiercely, even though no one had said a word. “She’s not gone.”

Eventually, Paige started writing you again.

In a tattered notebook, the kind you'd tease her for hoarding.

April 6th – I dreamt you were sitting court side. You had your boots on the seat in front of you like you always do, and I told you off for it, and you just grinned. I woke up crying. I wish you were there to see me win the championship.

April 14th — I got drafted to the Dallas Wings. I wish you were next to me when they called my name up. You were the first arms I wanted to be in.

May 19th – I told Azzi about the first time you kissed me. I think I needed someone else to remember it with me. Someone else besides me.

June 5th – I’m wearing your sweatshirt again. I can still smell you in it. Is that insane? It’s been years. I don’t care. It’s the only place I sleep anymore.

She filled pages. Dozens.

Each ending the same way…

Come home. Please. Just come home.

She started dodging interviews.

Not because she couldn’t answer the usual questions—WNBA schedules, stats, upcoming matchups.

But because no one ever asked the one she was begging for.

“Who are you still waiting for?” “Whose ghost are you loving?” “What did silence take from you?”

One night, Paige stayed after practice, alone in the gym.

She shot free throws in silence.

One.

Two.

Three.

She missed the fifth.

The sixth clanged off the rim. So did the seventh.

She dropped the ball and sat down, right there at the line, heart pounding like it was trying to remind her she was still alive.

And then she screamed.

A sound torn straight from her lungs—raw and shattering and full of every word she never got to say to you.

It echoed off the walls like it didn’t want to leave her, either.

After that, she went home. Took the notebook. The shoebox of your letters.

She lit a candle. Not to mourn you.

To guide you.

And then she wrote one last entry.

If you're still out there... I’ll be here. I’ll wait forever if I have to. I’ll wait until the world ends. I’ll wait until your voice breaks the quiet. Just give me something. Anything. Please.

She tore the page out, folded it, and tucked it into your last letter.

I miss…

It didn’t come with fanfare.

No parade. No advance warning.

Just a short news segment buried under election coverage and early playoff chatter.

“BREAKING: U.S. soldier previously declared MIA has been found alive after two years. Name: Y/N L/N. Location: undisclosed for recovery and debrief.”

That was it.

No footage. No interview. Just a name.

But for Paige Bueckers, it was the only name that mattered.

She’d just drained a corner three when her phone buzzed on the bench.

DiJonai was the one who saw it first—Paige’s mom had texted.

Mom: Turn on CNN right now. Sit down first.

Paige blinked, confused, wiping sweat from her forehead as she unlocked her phone.

She didn’t get past the first sentence.

The world blurred. The gym fell away. Her knees gave out.

She sank to the floor, phone still in hand, your name burning across the screen.

Nai dropped beside her. “Paige. Paige, what—”

Paige choked on a sob so violent it came from somewhere ancient. Something sacred.

“She's alive,” she whispered.

Over and over.

“She's alive.”

Practice ended early that day.

Not because Paige asked. Because the team knew.

Arike sat with her in the locker room, one arm slung around her shoulder while Paige just kept staring into space, as if blinking might make it vanish.

“She’s alive.”

“They found her.”

“She’s really alive.”

And then the silence broke, and the sobs came, and the entire locker room sat with her until her breathing steadied.

Not one person filmed. Not one word leaked.

Some moments deserved to live only in memory.

You trended within the hour.

Your name. Your story. Your face—blurred in old photos, smiling in uniform, standing next to fellow soldiers.

The world wanted to know everything.

Where you were. What happened. How you survived.

But you weren’t ready.

So the military gave you privacy. Gave you time.

You stayed in an undisclosed hospital somewhere quiet, limbs sore, mind fractured but still yours. Alive. You were alive.

But you didn’t want the cameras.

You only wanted her.

Paige didn't know if you'd get it.

Didn't know if they'd even let you see it.

But she sent it anyway.

A photo. The last one you ever took together—her in your lap on her porch swing, eyes closed, smiling.

Below it, just one sentence, “If you’re ready… I never stopped waiting.”

You were given a secure phone.

You unlocked it the second you were allowed.

There were hundreds of missed calls. Dozens of texts. Messages from family, friends, teammates.

But it was hers your eyes searched for.

You opened the photo. Stared at it for five minutes without blinking.

And then you called.

“Hi,” you said. Voice soft, hoarse, barely yourself.

There was a sharp inhale on the other end. Then silence.

“Come home.”

You agreed to it on one condition.

“She can’t know.”

The league had reached out. The team. Even the commissioner.

There were plans, whispers of tributes, military salutes, halftime ceremonies—but you only cared about one thing.

You wanted to surprise her.

You wanted the first time she saw you to feel like it stopped time.

Like no one else existed.

Just her.

Just you.

The game was nationally televised. Her team had home court. Fans were packed into the arena an hour before tip-off, buzzing with playoff energy.

And somewhere backstage, behind security lines and curtained tunnels—you waited.

Fidgeting with the cuffs of your formal uniform, your knees bouncing.

“You nervous?” a Dallas Wings rep asked you.

You didn’t answer.

Because nervous wasn’t the word.

You were holding years in your chest—letters left unfinished, nights unlived, a promise that somehow never broke even when everything else did.

You were about to see her again.

After everything.

She didn’t know.

Not at tip-off.

Not in the first quarter, when she scored ten points with her usual quiet brilliance.

Not during halftime, when she rehydrated on the bench, laughing at something NaLyssa said, her hands still steady, her heart still wrapped in that ache she never gave a name.

She didn’t know.

But she was wearing your dog tags again.

Still tied to her laces.

Like a thread connecting her to something she thought might’ve been a ghost.

End of the fourth quarter.

Something different was happening.

The arena darkened. The jumbotron flickered.

She wiped her face with a towel, confused, glancing around as the crowd fell into a low, electric hush.

The screen began to play.

Images of soldiers.

Of sacrifice.

Of silence.

“Tonight, we honor one of our own…”

She blinked.

Froze.

A childhood photo of you flashed on the screen. Then one of you in uniform. Then another—your face older, weathered, still unmistakably you.

“…who returned home after being declared missing in action for two years.”

Her towel dropped.

So did her hands.

Then came your name.

Loud.

Proud.

Spoken over the speaker system with reverence and awe.

“Please welcome home… Staff Sergeant Y/N L/N.”

From the tunnel. From the shadows.

Into the floodlights.

Your boots hitting the court like thunder. Your breath shaking.

You could barely hear the crowd over your own heartbeat. The sound was deafening—cheers, gasps, cries—but all of it blurred behind the only thing that mattered.

Her.

Paige.

Standing at center court.

Frozen. Mouth open. Eyes wide.

Her whole body trembling.

You saw the exact second her knees gave.

Arike caught her by the elbow, whispering something, but Paige was already moving.

Running.

Not walking.

Running.

Straight at you.

You barely had time to brace before she slammed into your chest—arms around your neck, tears already wetting your collar, her whole body folded into yours like a prayer finally answered.

“You’re here,” she sobbed. “You’re real. You’re—oh my god—”

You held her.

Tighter than ever before.

And whispered back, “I told you I’d come home.”

She pulled back only enough to touch your face.

To study every scar. Every line. Every part of you changed, and unchanged.

“You look like hell,” she whispered.

“You look like heaven,” you whispered back.

And then, in front of thousands—millions watching from home—

She kissed you.

The kind of kiss people write books about. The kind that rewrites history.

You could feel her whole soul in it.

Years of silence. Years of hope. Years of waiting.

All pouring out of her like she never expected to get this chance again.

Neither did you.

Phones were everywhere. The broadcast replayed it in slow motion.

Social media exploded.

“Paige Bueckers reunited with MIA childhood sweetheart—LIVE mid-game.” “She never moved on. And now she doesn’t have to.” “This… is the love story of the decade.”

But none of it mattered.

Because the only headline that lived in your bones was this.

You made it back to her.

The cheers still echoed through the arena.

Your name was still trending. Clips of the kiss were already viral. Your story was being dissected, romanticized, turned into legend by every major outlet.

But you weren’t listening.

Because Paige had your hand in hers, dragging you down a hallway with her heartbeat in her throat and your pulse pressed against her palm.

Not speaking.

Not yet.

Just walking fast.

Until she found a door. Pushed it open. Pulled you through.

And shut the world out.

It was empty.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly. The bench where she usually laced up her shoes sat undisturbed, a towel draped neatly over the backrest. Her jersey still hung in the open cubby, sweat-soaked and clinging to its shape like it knew it had just lived through something historic.

You stood near the wall, unsure if you should sit or speak or breathe.

Until she turned.

Slowly.

Eyes full of everything she'd held back for two years.

She walked straight into you again. But this time, it wasn’t frantic. Or desperate. Or breaking. It was slow. Crushed. Sacred. Her arms slid around your middle. Her head tucked under your chin. And she just… held you.

You stood there in silence, letting her remember what your body felt like. Letting yourself remember how she fit against you like muscle to bone.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered.

“I was, a little,” you murmured. “Until I remembered I had to find my way back to you.”

She let out a soft sound. A sob half-swallowed by a laugh.

“You’re such a cheeseball.”

“Still worked,” you said.

“Still works.”

Just enough to look at you.

Her hands cupped your face. Her thumbs brushed under your eyes like she couldn’t believe they were still yours.

“What happened?” she asked softly. “You don’t have to tell me everything. I just—”

“It was bad,” you said. “But not enough to make me forget you.”

That did it.

The tears came back.

She sat down on the bench, pulling you with her, your knee brushing hers as you both leaned into the impossible miracle of this moment.

“I kept your letters,” she whispered. “Read them every night. Wrote you some too.”

“I know,” you said.

She looked up, startled. “You read them?”

You nodded.

“They gave them to me once I was stabilized. Your mom saved them all.”

“All of them?”

“Even the one where you threatened to fight God if he didn’t bring me back.”

“Okay,” she muttered, cheeks flushing. “That one was private.”

You smiled. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to forget it.”

“I don’t want you to forget anything,” she said, suddenly serious. “Not a single thing. Even the bad parts. Even the waiting. I just—” Her voice cracked. “I just want you here. For real. To stay.”

You reached for her hand.

Interlocked fingers. One heartbeat.

“I’m here.”

“To stay?”

“If you’ll have me.”

She didn’t answer with words.

She answered by climbing into your lap, wrapping herself around you like she was claiming her missing piece, forehead to yours, lips brushing yours.

“Always.”

You sat together for over an hour. Just talking.

Catching up on nothing and everything. Teammates. Therapy. Her favorite shows. Your favorite food again. How your body still flinched when you heard loud noises. How her nights were filled with dreams of you showing up, just like tonight.

“I always imagined this,” she whispered. “You walking onto the court. Everyone gasping. Me running to you.”

“You looked so good I almost forgot how to walk.”

“You looked like my whole life coming back to me.”

“You are my life.”

She closed her eyes.

You kissed her forehead.

And she didn’t move for a long, long time.

The house you live in now isn’t big.

Paige didn’t want a mansion. You didn’t want a city. You picked a quiet neighborhood outside Dallas, far enough to hear birds instead of traffic. Close enough that her commute to practice isn’t a headache.

There’s a front porch with a swing you built by hand. A tiny backyard garden she insists on overwatering. A fridge full of sticky notes and protein shakes and letters you leave for each other just because.

The walls are painted in warm colors.

The rooms are full of soft things.

The whole place smells like clean laundry and cinnamon candles and home.

You wake up before her.

You always have.

The dog—Bentley, a rescue with floppy ears and too much energy—sleeps curled at the foot of the bed. Paige sleeps tangled in you.

Most mornings she doesn’t speak right away. She just buries her face in your neck and breathes.

“Still here?” she whispers, like she’s checking.

“Still here,” you answer every time.

You kiss her temple. She kisses your scar. It’s a ritual now.

Neither of you say I missed you anymore.

It’s in every touch. Every sigh. Every morning.

You coach youth basketball on the weekends. Paige comes when she can, sunglasses low, hoodie up, cheering louder than any parent.

Once, one of the kids asked if you were married.

You glanced at her across the court and said, “Not yet.”

Paige smiled like she already had the ring.

One Sunday, while cleaning the hall closet, you find it.

Folded between two shoeboxes of old photos and game-day programs.

The letter you never saw.

The one Paige wrote you during the two years you were gone but never sent.

You sit on the floor and unfold it carefully. The ink is smudged. The paper smells like her perfume and heartbreak.

Y/N,

If you ever get this, it means I found a way to speak even when you're not here to hear it.

I don’t know where you are, or if you're breathing, or if you're laughing somewhere with someone who isn’t me. But I hope you’re not in pain. I hope you know that I would’ve waited a hundred years. I still would. I just want you safe. I want you whole.

I want you to come back and walk through my door and kiss me like the world didn’t win.

But even if you don’t, I’ll still be yours.

Love always,

Paige

You sit there for a long time.

Then you find her in the kitchen, lift her onto the counter, and kiss her until she forgets how to stand.

“You did wait,” you whisper.

“You were worth it,” she answers.

It’s the anniversary of your return.

The Wings are playing a home game. You’re in the stands—front row. Paige scans for you before warmups and grins when she finds you.

She taps her chest twice, over her heart.

You do the same.

Still here.

There are fingerprints on every surface of the house.

Sticky juice cups. Crayon murals on the hallway walls. A glitter-covered soccer cleat on the kitchen table.

You used to live for silence.

Now you live for this chaos.

For the soft pitter-patter of feet running down the hall. For squeals of laughter at bath time. For the way your daughter yells, “Watch me, Mama!” every time she throws a ball six inches off the ground.

She’s five. Bright-eyed. Fearless.

Her name is Hope.

Because that’s what she gave you when she was born.

You sit on the couch with Hope in your lap while Paige makes breakfast—messy ponytail, sleepy smile, her old college hoodie falling off her shoulder.

Bentley is older now. Greyer. Still insists on sleeping under the kitchen table.

“I want braids today,” Hope declares, handing you a brush and three elastics.

“Again?” you tease. “You know I only learned how to do those for your mom, right?”

“Then you should be really good at it.”

She’s got her mother’s sass.

You pretend to groan. Paige laughs into her coffee.

“That’s my girl.”

You both retired within two years of each other—Paige with two MVPs, three championships, a career that left the sport different than when she entered it.

You left the military after receiving an award they told you couldn’t be disclosed publicly. But that wasn’t the legacy that mattered to you.

The real one lives in your home.

In the stories you tell Hope about bravery that doesn't always wear medals, about love that outlasts war.

“Did Mama really wait for you for two whole years?” she asks one night while you’re tucking her in.

You nod, heart aching at the memory, now soft around the edges.

“She never let go of me. Even when the world tried to make her.”

Hope stares at you like you’re a myth.

“I want to be brave like Mama one day.”

“Me too,” you say quietly.

That weekend, you all go to a Wings game.

Paige is honored at halftime—her jersey raised to the rafters. The crowd stands for five full minutes.

Hope clutches your hand, eyes wide.

When they call your name too—“for a life of service, for love that defied silence”—you freeze.

Paige squeezes your hand.

“This is your legacy too,” she says.

You step onto the court, Hope between you.

And together, as a family, you stand beneath the jersey that once carried her name alone.

Now it carries all of yours.

That night, Paige posts a photo.

It’s simple.

You, Paige, and Hope in front of the banner. Her arm around your waist. Hope on your hip. Everyone smiling like nothing ever broke.

Some love stories survive silence. Ours learned how to sing through it.

The comments flood in.

“You were always endgame.” “Their daughter is the living proof that love always comes home.” “Crying in a CVS right now, thanks.” “Brb telling my future wife I’d wait for her forever too.”

But none of that matters.

Because later that night, as you lie in bed with Paige curled into your chest, her fingers tracing slow circles over your wedding ring, she whispers, “We made it.”

And you whisper back, “We made forever.”

Dear Paige,

I don’t know when you’ll find this.

Maybe Hope’s off at college. Maybe you’re coming home from a coaching session, your hair pulled back the way you used to wear it when you were 17 and still trying to convince me to play H-O-R-S-E for kisses.

Maybe I’m upstairs taking a nap and you just needed to hold something that felt like us again.

Either way, if you’re reading this… hi, baby.

I’ve been meaning to write this for a while now. Not because anything’s wrong—but because love like this deserves to be documented. Carved into the page. Tucked between grocery lists and bedtime stories and all the normal things that never felt so beautiful until they were ours.

I want you to know something.

You saved me.

Not just the first time, when you waited for me. But every time after.

Every time you looked at me like I was still whole.

Every time you made pancakes in the shape of hearts and called them “accidents” even though we both knew better.

Every time you reached for me in the dark and didn’t flinch when I told you I was afraid.

You never ran.

Even when it would've been easier.

You stayed.

You loved.

And because of that, I learned how to breathe again. How to live. How to dream past the damage.

I used to think I came back for you.

But now I know the truth.

I came back because of you.

Because something in your love refused to let go of me—stretched across time and silence and ocean, stubborn and radiant, like it always knew we'd find our way back.

And we did.

We found forever.

I don’t need fairy tales. I just need you. Bent knee and tired laugh and soft hands in mine.

So when you find this letter—when you reread these words years from now—I hope you remember that there was never a moment I stopped choosing you.

Not once.

Not even when the world tried to pull us apart.

Not even when I disappeared.

I still found my way to you.

Because home was never a place.

It was always your heartbeat.

Still yours.

Forever,

Y/N

#paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers #paige buckets #paige x reader #paige bueckers fanfic #uconn women’s basketball #uconn wbb #lesbian #wlw #wuh luh wuh #dallas wings #wnba x reader

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y3sterdaysproblem · 3 days ago

Note

How does toxic!fwb Chris react if you bleed through your pants, and you didn’t know?

you and chris had been out all day despite your request to stay in bed and rot while you bled what felt like your heart out, lower back aching and tension headache persisting despite medication.

chris had tried to insist that some fresh air would make you feel better, and in the beginning it did, but now, nearly six hours into being out, you were ready to be home.

“one more store, i want to buy a new hat,” chris tells you as you walk through the mall, his hands resting in the pockets of his grey hoodie he always wore, seemingly in a great mood for once in his life.

“chris,” you groan, throwing your head back for a moment as you complained before picking it back up to glare at him. “my cramps are coming back, my head hurts and i’m tired. can you just order a hat online?”

he looks over at you and sighs, seeing how exhausted you looked. but you guys were passing the store on the way out, so in his mind, it would be a total waste not to go. “i’ll be fast, i know what i want,” he tells you, slinging an arm around your shoulder and placing an out of character kiss to your temple as he turned your bodies and rounded you into the store.

you followed, seemingly having no choice, but you parted from him to look at some of the hats on the other side of the store to distract yourself, wondering how hard it would be to convince him to buy you one. you’re about to ask him when you feel his presence behind you, hands gently wrapping around your waist.

you open your mouth to speak, thinking he’s just going to hug you from behind, but when you look down you realize he’s tying the sleeves of his hoodie at your stomach, his lips next to your ear.

“you bled through your shorts,” he says in a quiet whisper so nobody else hears, pulling away as you spin around with a horrified gasp, hand coming up to cover your mouth. “no,” you mumble against your palm in disbelief. this hasn’t happened in years.

you look down at your light wash, denim shorts, wondering to yourself why on earth you didn’t think to wear something darker on your heaviest day. “come on, i’ll get the hat another day. let’s get you to the bathroom.” chris grabs your hand from your mouth and guides you out of the store and to a family stall, opening the door for you. “wait here and i’ll go find you something, okay?”

you walk into the family bathroom and nod, still in disbelief that you’d actually bled through your fucking pants. it’s one thing to leak a little in your underwear, but this was rare.

after shutting and locking the door, you pulled the hoodie off from around your waist and hung it up, turning around in the mirror and looking over your shoulder. a shocked gasp leaves your lips when you realize how bad it actually is and it’s hard to fight off the tears that sting in your eyes. there’s no way chris was the only one that saw this.

it’s only about five minutes later when you hear a knock on the door and you rush to open it, pulling chris in who now holds a bag in his hand. he shuts the door behind him and pulls out a new pair of underwear and some black sweatpants, setting them on the counter. “here, change and put your old clothes in this bag,” he tells you, turning his attention onto you when you don’t answer.

“what’s wrong?” he asks when he sees your eyes brimming with tears, taking a tentative step closer to you. “it’s so bad,” you choke out, voice thick with emotion. god, you hated how easy it was for something to set you off like this during your period. “i’m so embarrassed.”

chris’s expression softens at your clear discomfort, hands reaching out for the button on your shorts. “it’s fine,” he says, his flat tone hiding any real displays of comfort. “nobody saw. i only noticed because i was staring at your ass.”

his words make you feel slightly better but not much, only enough to make you stop complaining and instead let out pathetic sniffles as he unzips your shorts. “c’mon, let’s get you changed so you can get in bed.”

you let him peel the denim off you but stop him when he reaches for your panties, hand grabbing his wrist gently. “i don’t want you to see it,” you tell him, looking down at where his fingers paused at the waistband.

chris sighs, tucking his fingertips in the tops of the seamless panties but not pushing them down. “i’ve eaten you out on your period before, i can handle it,” he tells you like it’s obvious. you cringe at the memory, still holding his wrist. “this is different, it’s.. it’s gross.”

he moves one of his hands up to your chin and tilts it upwards, forcing you to meet his gaze. “it’s fine. i’m a grown man, i can handle it.” you grumble in response and let go of his wrist, letting him slide your panties down your legs, instantly regretting it when you saw how much blood was actually in them. “oh my god, never mind, ew,” chris fake gags, leaning over so he can pull them off of your ankles.

“chris!” you whine in embarrassment, slapping his shoulder as he stood up straight again, not finding any amusement in the way he met your eyes again with a smirk playing on his lips. “i’m kidding,” he grins, throwing your underwear and shorts onto the counter by the sink.

you huff and head to the toilet to at least try and wipe up some of the mess, grumbling to yourself about how annoying chris was. he interrupts you by reaching out, his fingers holding something. you look up and see he’s holding a tampon, something you had forgotten to grab when you left your place. “where’d you get this?” you ask him, taking it from his hand.

“asked like four girls on the way back to the bathroom until someone had one,” he says as he shrugs his shoulders like it’s no big deal, like the thoughtful action doesn’t make your heart soar despite how miserable you are.

“thanks,” you say plainly, forcing down a disgustingly cheesy grin. he just hums in response and pulls out his phone to give you some privacy. once you flush and stand up, he hands you the brand new clothes he bought and puts your dirty ones in the now empty bag, holding onto it for you.

“ready?” he asks when you’re dressed and your hands are washed, putting his grey hoodie back on and zipping it up. you nod and walk towards the door. he lets you out and guides you through the mall with a gentle hand on your back and you can’t ignore the way his thumb rubbing over the exposed skin makes your stomach flutter.

#⤷ toxic!fwb!chris x toxic!fwb!reader ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖#⤷ toxic!fwb!chris ⊹ ࣪ ˖#⤷ toxic!fwb!reader! ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆#sturniolo triplets #chris sturniolo #matt sturniolo #nick sturniolo #sturniolo #sturniolo x reader #christopher sturniolo #chris x you

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arkaiveofurown · 2 days ago

Text

caught in the flash

characters: sanji / ace / luffy / law

prompt: he sneaks a picture of you when you’re not looking

tag: fluff

my masterlist here ♡

ace

You were lying belly-down on the Moby Dick’s deck, doodling on a crumpled bit of parchment, humming to yourself with your legs kicking in the air like a schoolgirl. Hair a mess, tank top halfway sliding off your shoulder, not a care in the world.

“Aw, that’s kinda cute,” came Ace’s voice somewhere above your head.

You didn’t look up. “Whatever you’re about to say next, don’t.”

You heard the faintest click.

You whipped around. “Did you just—?”

“NOPE,” he said way too quickly, hands very much behind his back, grinning like a guilty five-year-old.

You sat up so fast your hair fell in your face. “Portgas D. Ace, I swear to god—”

“Look,” he said, backing up a step, “it’s not even a bad picture! You’re just all—” He waved his hands vaguely. “…You.”

“That’s not a valid description!”

“Soft. And squishy.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“I MEANT EMOTIONALLY—SHIT—”

You launched your sandal at him like a missile. “DELETE IT!”

He caught it mid-air. “Never. I’m putting it in a locket.”

“A LOCKET?!”

“Romantic, right?”

You screamed into your hands. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t,” he sang, skipping away, waving your sandal like a trophy. “You love me and you wanna kiss me and it’s so embarrassing for you!”

sanji

You were half-asleep on the counter, stealing bits of chocolate off a cooling tray, hoodie sliding off one shoulder, licking your fingers like it was a sacred ritual. You were too tired to care.

Click.

You didn’t even flinch. “Don’t even try it.”

Sanji froze. “…Caught red-handed?”

“Caught being a creep.”

He grinned. “I mean, can you blame me? You’re licking chocolate off your fingers like you’re in a food commercial for sinners.”

You choked on the next bite. “SANJI?!”

“I’m just saying,” he said, already opening the picture on the snail. “If that was in a magazine, I’d buy ten copies.”

“You’re so—” you groaned. “Delete it.”

“But you looked so—” he sighed dreamily. “—biteable.”

You stared. “…Sanji.”

“Not like—well, I mean. Not not like that—”

“You wanna rethink your life choices, Romeo?”

He chuckled. “Too late. I’m fully committed to this flavor of disaster.”

You sighed, face in your hands. “You’re lucky I like disasters.”

“You’re lucky I’m a chef. I can make dessert out of this.”

“STOP.”

law

You were curled up on the bench in the Polar Tang’s observation lounge, swaddled in a blanket like a sentient dumpling, watching fish float past the glass with the dead eyes of someone who hadn’t slept in two days.

Then you heard a soft click.

Your head snapped around. “…Law?”

He didn’t even flinch. “Hm?”

“Did you just take a picture of me?”

“No.”

You blinked. “Law.”

He met your gaze. Calm. Unbothered. “Yes.”

“WHY.”

“You looked like a sad sea creature.”

“THAT’S NOT A COMPLIMENT.”

“It was kind of endearing.”

You sat up in your blanket cocoon. “Delete it.”

“No.”

“Tra-guy.”

“That’s not my name.”

“Emo fish man—”

“That’s worse.”

“Give. Me. The snail.”

“Come take it.”

You launched off the couch and he teleported out of reach like the smug little warlock he is. “You’re not supposed to be fast!” you yelled.

“I’m a surgeon,” he said, already halfway down the corridor. “We’re quick with our hands.”

You short-circuited. “That sounded so much worse—”

“I know,” he called back, completely unbothered.

luffy

You were on deck in a tank top, sweat on your brow, trying to fix a snapped rope. Your leg was up on the railing for balance, arms stretched over your head, totally focused. And totally unaware of your very specific pose.

Behind you:

Click.

You flinched, nearly dropped the rope. “LUFFY?!”

He grinned wide from behind the den den mushi. “You looked cool!”

You turned around. “Delete it. Right now.”

“But your leg was up and everything,” he said, tilting his head. “You looked like you were about to fight someone or… I dunno, climb me.”

“CLIMB YOU?!”

He blinked. “Yeah! You know. Like—grabby.”

“GRABBY?!”

“Not in a bad way!” He scratched his head. “You just looked like… really strong. And bendy. Kinda hot.”

Your soul left your body. “LUFFY.”

“Huh?”

“Say that sentence again. Slowly.”

“…You looked strong. And bendy. And hot?” He said it with total innocence—and then blinked. “Wait, was that—was that one of those weird lines Sanji says that makes people choke?”

You choked. “Yes!”

“Oh. Cool!” he grinned. “Should I say more?”

“NO?!”

“Okay, okay!” He tucked the snail away. “But I’m keeping the picture. You looked like you were gonna tackle me.”

You grabbed a nearby towel to throw at him. “I WILL IF YOU DON’T DELETE IT.”

He laughed as he ran off. “Promise?!”

“LUFFY!!”

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hyruling · 19 hours ago

Note

I've been scrolling down your blog all morning going through your drabbles and fics on my day off like you're the news channel, so if you are still accepting prompt and feel inspired by it, I'd like to submit n.21 🌞 btw your writing is incredible!!!!!

21. kissing the other’s brow & 38. stroking their leg

—

It’s late when they get home, their shift having run over by two hours thanks to a high rise fire that took the efforts of three additional houses to get under control. Buck and Eddie had scaled at least fourteen flights of stairs alone, then back down and up again when they found a few stragglers along the way, and Buck doesn’t remember ever being so tired in his life.

He shuffles into the house behind Eddie, trying to hide the way he’s limping. It’s probably no use — Eddie is too astute, and he’s sure he saw the way Buck had to grit his teeth when he took off his boots back at the station. But if he can just get into the bathtub and then into bed he’ll be fine. They have plans to take Chris and his friends to the beach tomorrow, and he doesn’t want to give Eddie any reason to think they should cancel.

Buck goes into the kitchen first to grab a bottle of water while Eddie checks in on Chris, who’s already asleep by the sounds of it. When Buck emerges, Eddie is down the hall and closing the door of the bathroom behind him. Damn.

It’s his night on the couch. He should make up his bed, but his leg is screaming and it’s all he can do to ease himself onto it without yelping in pain. He reclines and elevates it over the back of the couch with a private little wince and closes his eyes.

The next thing he’s aware of is Eddie’s hand on his shoulder, gently nudging him awake.

“Can you stand?” Eddie asks him.

Buck blinks, eyes bleary from the few minutes of sleep he must’ve nabbed. “I—yeah, sure.”

He moves too quickly, and there’s no way Eddie misses the way his face contorts in pain from it. He’s right there, helping Buck stand, and easily supports his weight when his leg threatens to give out.

“Sorry,” Buck hisses in his ear, gripping his shoulder for balance. “I’ll be okay in a sec.”

Eddie just tightens his hold on Buck’s waist. “Take your time bud.”

Buck stretches until he thinks he can reasonably put weight on it again, and when he nods Eddie helps him down the hall. So much for hiding it.

“Promise I’m still good for tomorrow,” Buck gets out through a clenched jaw.

“Don’t worry about that. C’mon.”

They pass the bedroom, and when Buck makes an inquisitive little noise Eddie just keeps walking him towards the bathroom.

The bath is full of warm water when they step in. Stream curls from the top of the water, slightly cloudy and heavenly looking.

“I put in some of those CBD bath salts,” Eddie tells him, releasing him at last to dig a clean towel out of the closet. “And I think there’s still some of the cream left we can put on after. Do you need one of your pills, or did you take one?”

Buck doesn’t answer for a minute, choking back the sudden lump in his throat. Eddie’s exhausted too — he climbed the same amount of stairs, carried the same amount of people as Buck. He can see in the droop shoulders and his half-lidded eyes that he’s tired, and he still took the time to do this for him. No one’s ever known him this way, cared for him the way Eddie does, save for Maddie, and it overwhelms him at times like this.

“Buck?”

Eddie’s voice breaks him out of his little reverie. He blinks a few times, croaks, “Y-yeah?”

“Do you need your medicine?”

Buck swallows and nods. “Uh, yeah. Probably should. They’re in my bag.”

Eddie nods. “Go ahead and get in, I’ll bring it to you.”

Buck undresses when he leaves, and gingerly lowers himself into the water. It’s perfect, and he immediately feels his muscles relax, his leg practically singing in relief.

Eddie comes back in a minute later and crouches to set Buck’s medicine and bottle of water on the edge of the tub. Buck’s not the least bit self conscious — Eddie’s seen him naked before, more than once, and it’s not like he can really see anything with the way Buck has his leg crooked. But he wouldn’t care if he could, and that feels significant in a way he doesn’t have the energy to examine.

“Need anything else?” Eddie asks.

Buck shakes his head. “No, this is perfect. Thank you Eddie.”

Eddie smiles, and leans forward to press a soft kiss to Buck’s brow as he straightens. “Soak for at least thirty minutes. Holler if you need me.”

And then he’s gone, leaving Buck staring after him like a fish out of water.

Any chance of relaxation goes out the window. He tells himself it’s no big deal; it was probably just one of Eddie’s dad reflexes. He’s seen him do the same thing when giving Chris medicine countless times. It doesn’t mean anything, it can’t, and yet Buck feels the ghost of his lips between his eyes like a sting.

He swallows the pill and soaks until the water goes cold, and his leg is somewhat better after — he can at least put weight on it when he stands. His mind buzzes while he finishes his nightly routine, and it’s almost enough to drown out the constant diatribe of Eddie kissed me Eddie kissed me Eddie kissed me racketing around his skull.

Almost.

Eddie is on the couch when he comes out, scrolling idly on his phone. He scoots over so Buck can sit next to him and pats his lap.

“Let me see.”

“It’s okay,” Buck says as he lowers himself down. “The bath helped.”

“And yet you’re still limping. C’mon, up.”

Buck sighs and swings his leg up, foot resting on Eddie’s thigh. Eddie pushes his sweats up to his knee and brushes his hand over Buck’s calf, just feeling, and Buck tries not to shiver. He knows he’s feeling for excess warmth, for evidence of a clot, and nods to himself when Buck apparently passes the test.

“Think you can handle a massage?” he asks.

Buck swallows hard. “Yeah, think so.”

Eddie nods again and reaches over to grab the bottle of CBD cream on the coffee table. He puts a generous amount in his palm and rubs his hands together, then starts massaging it gently into Buck’s calf.

It’s not the first time he’s done this for Buck, but it’s the first time since Eddie’s touch became something of a livewire; since every brush of arms at work or friendly shoulder clap made him ache for more, since he developed a somewhat unhealthy obsession with Eddie’s hands. And with the memory of Eddie’s lips on his skin still fresh, it’s all he can do not to moan as those capable hands knead at his sore leg.

“Relax,” Eddie says quietly. “You’re tense as hell bud, that’s not gonna help.”

“Sorry,” Buck says, a little more breathless than he intends.

“Lean back,” Eddie instructs, and Buck complies. He relaxes against one of the throw pillows, and Eddie pulls his leg even closer. “Close your eyes, if you want.”

He does, if only so he doesn’t have to watch Eddie be so competent and gorgeous in the soft lamplight. Slowly, he does relax, Eddie’s ministrations finally taking effect. Buck’s all but a puddle of mush on the couch by the time his leg starts to feel more normal, and Eddie’s kneading turns into gentle stroking motions up and down his shin.

“Better?”

Buck sighs and nods. “Much. Thanks.”

“Of course,” Eddie says with a small squeeze of his calf.

Eddie doesn’t stop touching him. He keeps up the soft caress of Buck’s shin until he’s half asleep, until the vulnerable knife’s edge of consciousness turn his thoughts fuzzy and precarious. He thinks, I love you, and you should know.

Instead, what he says is, “Did you mean to kiss me?”

Eddie’s hand stops, and Buck chances opening his eyes. Eddie’s are on him, dark in the low light, and Buck can’t pin down his expression. It’s not horror, or regret, or any of the things he convinced himself of in the bath, so that’s something. In fact, his lips curl into a closed-mouth smile aimed at his lap.

“I did kiss you, didn’t I?”

Buck laughs, a little self deprecating. “Yeah, kinda.”

“Hmm,” Eddie hums, and glances down at his hand on Buck’s leg. He rubs a little circle into Buck’s shin with his thumb, still smiling softly. “Not exactly how I meant to do it.”

Buck’s heart tha-thums in his chest. “Meant to?”

Eddie’s cheeks flush pink, eyes flicking up to meet his, and Buck kind of thinks he might die.

“Well, I’d hoped it’d be more romantic than while you were naked and in pain in the bathtub.”

All the blood in his body rushes to his head like he’s on a rollercoaster, world suddenly flipped on its head. He sits up, jostling Eddie’s hand on his leg, but he just trails it down to hold Buck’s ankle instead. There’s still a faint blush on Eddie’s cheeks but he’s smiling expectantly, waiting for whatever response Buck has to that.

He’s coming up empty so far. The seconds stretch on in silence, until Eddie starts to look a little unsure.

“Buck?”

“You could try it now,” Buck says in a rush, hoping for once that first thought best thought is the right move. “If—I mean, this feels pretty—pretty romantic. To me.”

“Oh does it?” Eddie teases, and scoots closer, pulling Buck’s leg fully over his knees until his thigh rests on Eddie’s lap. Eddie puts a warm hand on his knee and squeezes.

“Mhm, definitely,” Buck agrees, nodding like a bobble head. “Most romantic moment of my life. By a lot.”

Eddie laughs, and cups Buck’s face with his free hand. The leftover cream on his hands makes Buck’s cheek tingle, and he waits, hardly daring to breathe while Eddie’s eyes track over his face. And then Eddie leans in and brushes his lips between his eyebrows.

“Eddie,” Buck breathes.

Eddie moves to his birthmark, pressing gentle kisses to the pink skin above his brow and on his eyelid. He kisses Buck’s cheeks and nose and then, just when Buck thinks his heart might actually give out, his waiting mouth.

It’s brief, and sweet, and the best kiss of his life. Eddie pulls back too soon and Buck tries to follow, but Eddie kisses his forehead again instead and leans back.

“That was more how I pictured it.”

And that’s a revelation in itself, one that he’s going to need a few weeks to process. Before he can stutter out a response, Eddie gently sets Buck’s leg on the floor and stands, offering his hand.

“C’mon. You’re not sleeping out here on that leg.”

Buck takes his hand, and Eddie pulls him to his feet. His leg barely even protests, but he sways closer to Eddie all the same.

“Eddie, I—you should know, I—”

Eddie silences him with another kiss. “Tell me tomorrow, sweetheart. We’ve got time.”

—

#my fic #buddie fic #drabbles #911 abc #posting fic on the clock again queen?#anyway this is basically sickfic bucks version. if u think about it #and roommates era bc i said so #buddie can have a pride and prejudice 2005 moment as a treat #and thank you soooo much for your super sweet message angel 🥺 hope you like this!!#heartshaped-lou #i have like. half of another prompt done too but the tone is all over so i gotta work on that. prob later this week #and then i’m locking in on my hiatus fic

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formula-ghost · 3 days ago

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I know who you are, you'll be fine // FC43 x Alpine social media manager!reader

I know who you are series // Chapter 1

SUMMARY: Becoming Franco Colapinto’s social media manager could be the end of your career, or the beginning of the love story you never thought you’d have.

WARNINGS: Not 100% lore accurate (ignore the sim video that Franco did for Australia, also let’s pretend Franco was in Monza during the Japanese GP, etc.); fuckboy Franco, SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI (Fingering and loss of virginity, protected PIV), YN is a Lewis Hamilton hater for the plot. Title from At The Beach In Every Life by Gigi Perez!

WORD COUNT: 9.9k

“Franco Colapinto.”

“...what about him?”

“He’s your newest client.”

“But he’s a reserve driver.”

“Exactly. He has plenty of time for content. He’s the perfect client, really.”

You know right then and there what this was about. Franco Colapinto was your punishment.

Your boss looked away, as if she knew that you saw right through her. You balled your hands up over the fabric of your skirt, gently tensing and releasing the curves of your palm as a defense mechanism. You were a professional. You could do this.

“If this is about Lewis…”

“You know it’s about Lewis, YN,” your boss replied, a tired tone in her voice. “It was my fault for giving you too much. I set the expectations too high.”

“I can do it!” you said, your voice a bit too insistent, eager yet desperate. “I have so many ideas for the move to Ferrari—”

“And he’s not going to do them. He has made that abundantly clear. Look, I’m sorry YN, but it is what it is.”

“I don’t think this is fair.”

“It’s not. I put too much on you, expected things that you couldn’t deliver, though no fault of your own. But it’s out of my hands.”

“Yet I’m the one being punished for it?”

“A reserve driver isn’t a punishment, YN. Franco is young, charismatic, and social media audiences love him.”

“He’s a PR nightmare,” you muttered under your breath.

“Well, then good thing you’re not his PR manager,” she responded, her eyebrows raised in a cautionary glance. The conversation was all but done. “Look, just try to make the best of it. He’s the perfect guinea pig, he’ll do whatever we ask him to. Just get some good content and we can review a potential switch at the end of the season. Okay?”

You agreed, though not without a frustration that you held close to your chest, pushing it down for the sake of professionalism.

This time last year you had been on top of the moon; after a successful multi-year social media campaign with McLaren, your boss had given you a prestigious challenge of a client: Lewis Hamilton.

Everyone knew he was…difficult, to say the least. A legend of the sport, of course, but a thorn in the side of social media managers across the paddock.

He HATED his media requirements. Every year he negotiated to get as little media time as possible. His managers quit left and right. No one, truly no one, could get that man to cooperate with the social media team.

That was, he became your client. Or at least, you thought.

But after months of the merciless push and pull, promises made and abandoned, avoiding emails and tracking him down in the paddock, you had gotten little out of him, and what did come of it was just a few videos that completely flopped. The people could tell he didn’t want to do it.

For the first time in your short but brilliant career, you had failed.

The result? Getting demoted to the social media manager of a reserve driver. Someone who never got posted, never made the grid, and was hardly ever even at the paddock. A waste of your time and his, really.

Who did your boss think she was, acting like this wasn’t a slap in the face? You’d spend the next year following around a rookie, a wannabe, creating content that no one wanted to see and would never get posted anyway. Your career was effectively ruined. You weren’t sure who to be angrier at.

But also, you weren’t sure whether you had the right to be angry at all.

Back home, the homework began. Who was Franco Colapinto?

Of course, you had seen him around the paddock in his time at Williams. He was…charming. Talkative. A social media manager’s dream…if he was a full-time driver.

You clicked through articles, interviews, instagram pages—he was a handful.

It was with this mentality that you walked into the filming studio, where they were making the intro for the new season. It was chaos; employees running every which way, drivers getting made up, producers tweaking the sun-hot lights against the green screen.

But Franco was nowhere to be found. Of course he wasn’t.

You sighed, already annoyed with your new client, who you hadn’t even met yet. This wasn’t his fault—it was your failure which had led to all of this. But you couldn’t help your annoyance, especially when you walked past Lewis in the hallway, clad in his new, bright, Ferrari red race suit. He trudged past you without giving you so much of a second glance.

Did he know that he had ruined your professional life? Did he understand how deeply and irrevocably he had screwed you over?

It’s not that deep, you said to yourself. Let go of it. Make the best of all this.

You walked back into the main studio, where a few drivers were getting the finishing touches of hair and makeup ready before the filming began.

“Hey,” your coworker called to you, and you ran to the familiar voice. “YN, you’re gonna love this new camera. Come check it out!”

He handed you the camera, and you zeroed in as he walked you through the settings. He was right, it was spectacular—so spectacular that you filtered out everything going on around you.

You jumped when a face came into view.

“Hola.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ, you scared me!” you laughed, as you smoothed down your shirt in nervousness, handing the camera back to your coworker, who also laughed at your expense. “I didn’t even see you come up. You’re Franco, right?”

Asking was just a formality. You knew his face, the sound of his voice, everything that there was to know already.

He nodded, and you continued, “Oh, great, I was looking for you. I’m YN, your new social media manager for Alpine.”

“Oh, I know you,” he said. “You don’t remember me? We met last season.”

You must have made a quizzical expression, because he continued, “In the paddock, I asked about Lewis?”

Oh, yeah, you did remember.

You sighed, angrily turning off your phone. He was supposed to be here 30 minutes ago to film a tiktok. A task that would take him no more than 15 minutes… blown off. Texts unanswered. You were at your wits end.

A tap on your shoulder.

Behind you, the newest paddock sensation, a young Argentine buzzing with publicity.

“Franco,” he said, extending his hand to shake. “You’re waiting for Lewis, right? I saw you in the Mercedes garage earlier.”

“Well,” you said, sarcastically laughing to yourself, “I was. Doesn’t seem like he’s going to make it, though.”

“Ah,” Franco responded. “I was going to ask you to introduce us.”

The laugh that came out then was genuine.

“What?” Franco asked. “I’m serious.” By the look on his face, you could see his honesty.

“Well, hopefully you’ll have more luck reaching him than I do.” The comment was tame, in all respects, but you still felt that twinge of unprofessionalism that scared you. You could never be too open or honest in the paddock. You never knew who was listening, what would get back to people…especially with someone as high-profile as Lewis.

“He’s…unreliable?”

“He’s a busy man.” A perfect save. “Wish I could be of more help. But, hey, good luck out there today.”

“Wishing someone on an opposing team good luck?”

“I never claimed to be a Mercedes fan. They just sign my checks.”

“So, can I claim you as a Colapinto fan?” he said, a sly grin stretching across his face. You had heard of his playful banter before. You hadn’t heard how charming he was.

“I’m just… a racing fan.”

“No wonder you’re with Lewis, then.”

“Speaking of, I should go find him. But really, good luck,” you said, sending him a smile before you had to scurry back to the garage to find Lewis and give him a useless talking to. All in a day’s work, you supposed.

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” you said, the memory coming back to you. “You did end up meeting him, right?.”

“I did, no thanks to you,” he said, his voice light and playful. He was clearly more excited than you.

“Well, next best thing, you stole his social media manager. Now I’m your problem.” Hopefully he didn’t teach you the art of evasion, you thought.

“Well, it means Lewis and I are basically teammates then, no?” Franco said, laughing. The interaction was cut short by your coworker, one of the directors, calling him over to finally get to work.

So you assumed your place behind the cameras, getting as much behind the scenes content as you could, making yourself invisible. It’s what you were best at: being in the background, watching, observing, seeing the stories and details that others didn’t. Tiktok dances and challenge videos were fun, but the real job? You needed an eye for it. You needed to see what others overlooked.

The day flew past as your camera’s memory filled up with photos and videos of Franco. You studied them later that night, in the quiet loneliness of your hotel room, clicking through all the content you had gotten.

You zoomed in on the small details of his face: the way the light hit his curls, the reflection of his long lashes as they glanced right into the camera: it was good. As you memorized the details of his face, you couldn’t help but feel a glimmer of hope grow in your stomach.

Maybe this wasn’t the death of your career after all. And hell, spending a year with good company couldn’t hurt.

He’s not too hard on the eyes, either. The thought left just as quick as it had arrived, but even though you were alone, a blush crept up into your face.

Well…were you wrong? He was young, fit, charming, and God, how handsome.

You rolled your own eyes, unamused with the back and forth in your brain. You were a professional, not a fan. You were better than this. Besides, you weren’t exactly his type.

“I’m not anyone’s type,” you said, with a snarky laugh on your lips, as you told the whole situation to Kika over coffee.

You had grown close to Pierre’s girlfriend in your short time at Alpine, though when you looked across the table, you saw someone the exact opposite of you. Beautiful, elegant, successful…and here you were, on a glorified babysitting assignment.

“Don’t say that,” she responded. “Self-deprecation isn’t attractive.”

“It’s not self-deprecation. It’s just the truth. I mean, half the paddock just thinks social media personnel are annoying, and anyone outside the paddock just matches with me to see if I can introduce them to drivers.”

“Introduce them to Franco, then. He’ll talk their ears off until they’re begging him to be quiet” Kika laughed.

Truthfully, Franco was talkative. That was one of his best qualities.

“I bet he doesn’t have any problem getting matches,” you muttered, a twinge of jealousy in your voice. Franco was just…alluring, in a way not many others were. You had grown to know and love his playfulness, his sense of humor, and his genuine smile. He made work fun again.

“You’d be surprised,” Kika said, raising her eyebrows.

“What?”

“I’ve heard he’s on Raya,” she said, swirling her spoon on her mug. “But he’s single. You’d be cute together.”

You couldn’t help the laughter that followed, so thick and dripping with self-loathing that it choked you.

Kika looked up from her cup. “It wasn’t that funny. I’m serious.”

“Me. And Franco Colapinto. Kika, be so for real!”

“What? You wouldn’t go for it?”

“He’s my client! Besides, he’s a Formula 1 driver and I’m…his social media manager. He dates models, I… don’t date anyone.”

“So you don’t like it when he flirts with you?”

“He flirts with everyone. Hell, he flirted with you,” you snorted.

“He is charming,” she said, a small smile coming to her lips. “You’re right, it’d never work. You’re too professional, and he’s a nightmare. But it would be cute.”

You rolled your eyes as you both got up to make your way back to the paddock for the day. You and Franco had come to the first race in Australia, and you’d been like his shadow, tethered close to him, always with a camera in hand to capture candid moments. It didn’t matter, though. All the focus was on Jack Doohan and Lewis Hamilton. They even told Franco to avoid the media.

It had given you quite a bit of time to get to know him, though.

“So, they really just have you following me around, huh?” he said, raising an eyebrow as he sipped his mate.

“Well, someone has to keep you in line.”

“No, I’m good,” he said, that familiar toothy grin coming back in full force. “I’ve been a good boy.”

You blushed, involuntarily, though otherwise keeping your outward composure. “I was on social media last year. That’s absolutely not true.”

“But last year doesn’t count, no? I didn’t have a pretty personal assistant following me around keeping me in check last year.”

“Well, wherever she’s at, she needs to be paid more for putting up with your antics,” you chuckled.

“I haven’t really been that bad, have I?” he said, cocking his head to the side in genuine curiosity.

“No,” you said, taking a sip from your water bottle. “You’ve been a perfect client, actually.”

“Then why are you so grumpy?”

You furrowed your brow. Perhaps you hadn’t been hiding it all as well as you thought.

“It’s got nothing to do with you. Just…personal stuff.”

“What, is there a man I need to speak to?” You laughed, recalling your conversation with Kika earlier.

“God, no, I’m single. It’s just…” You debated telling him. Franco, of all people, would understand frustration over employment contracts. He buzzed with the typical anticipation of a reserve driver, hoping and praying for a chance on the track again. You could tell all this sitting around and avoiding the media was doing him in.

But you didn’t want to add more to his plate. After all, none of this was his fault. You sighed, continuing, “You know, behind the scenes F1 stuff. Nothing you have to worry about.”

“Behind the scenes? Do I not get security clearance?”

“Not for this, Colapinto.”

“That’s not fair. I was going to give you security clearance to see something really cool.”

“Oh?” you questioned.

He glanced to his left and right, making sure that everyone was far away enough. He learned in towards you, and his eyes met yours, and your heart skipped a beat.

He whispered, “When we get back to Enstone, I’m going to show you the sim.”

While everyone else went straight from Australia to China, you and Franco took a detour back to Enstone. He kept his word, taking you into the secluded back room where they kept the sim.

Being the social media manager for a smaller team’s reserve driver had its perks. McLaren and Mercedes would much rather give you a million dollar raise than let you see their sim, let alone film and post it.

“Wow…” you muttered, as Franco showed you all the settings and special buttons, clearly as excited about it as you were. “Are you sure I’m allowed to see this?” you asked as he slid into the seat.

“Of course,” he said. “Even better, you’re allowed to film it.”

“Just a few laps around virtual Bahrain?” you said.

“We can do more, if you want.” He pulled at the collar of his race suit. It wasn’t the real deal—that was with the team, being transported to China—but the one for filming purposes, the one that was tighter. You noticed the way it hugged the sharp curves of his body as he settled into the seat, the pink fabric sitting snugly against the round of his thigh, up into his waist and to the slope of his chest, pulled back from his neck so he could breathe easier.

Was he having trouble breathing? You certainly were.

It was moments like these where you couldn’t help but notice his beauty. While he warmed up and completed a few virtual laps, you focused your cameras, zooming in on the twitch of his feet on the pedals, the way his chest rose and fell in careful concentration, and the zooming back and forth of his eyes, fixated on the pixels mere feet from his face. The lights you had set up rested on his lashes, illuminating them in a golden glow. He looked like something otherworldly: soft yet sharp, calm and focused.

He was in his own world when he slipped into that seat. And as always, you watched, you noticed, you saw, from the outside.

“Hey guys, it’s Franco here…” he began, and his voice faded into the background as your gaze zeroed in on his pixels in your camera screen, this visage of him that wasn’t quite real.

As your eyes traced every detail of him, you felt within you a deep desire to reach out and touch him.

No. God, YN, that’s weird, you thought to yourself.

Still, as he bit his lip and rounded the last digital corner, you couldn’t help that thought creeping up: how warm his skin would be against yours, the soft touch of two bodies meeting, a sensation you’d never felt before.

“...so that’s a lap in Bahrain, ehm, racing is great here, so hopefully we have another good race this year.”

You were pulled out of your reverie as Franco looked at you. “Good?” he asked.

“Great. Perfect, actually,” you said, trying not to stutter, feeling like a kid caught in trouble. Please don’t blush, you begged yourself, but you could already feel the warmth in your cheeks that would inevitably become redness. You just hoped he didn’t notice.

“Stay there, though. I wanna get some stills,” you said, adjusting your camera lens. You zoomed in and out, but the lighting from where you were sitting off to the side wasn’t quite right. You got up, biting the inside of your cheek as you adjusted your settings, never letting your eyes leave your lens.

“Can I…get closer?” you asked. “The lighting is weird.”

“Go ahead,” he said, looking back at you. His gaze was…intense. In a way it hadn’t been before. It sent shivers down your spine.

“Look back at the screen,” you said, and he obeyed, as you closed the gap between the two of you, craning your back to move your camera in between him and the screen. But now you were a shadow, casting the light away from his frame that should have glowed.

“I can’t quite…” you said, muttering to yourself, but he disobeyed your orders, looking at you.

“Here,” he said, pushing back the steering wheel. “Just climb over me.”

That was a horrible idea. The worst idea you had ever heard. But the reflection of the screen light on his face against the dark background—he looked ethereal. You had to capture it.

So you swung one leg over his, his feet still firmly resting on the pedals, as you hovered to deny yourself the touch that you so unprofessionally felt yourself longing for.

Only inches from your face, he stared down the lens of your camera, his gaze powerful enough to send shivers down your spine, leaving little gasps choked in your throat.

You clicked the camera again and again. You had plenty of pictures. You just didn’t want to move.

Fate had other plans. You heard the snap only second before you felt it shoot into your back—the steering wheel, once pushed back, had sprung forward into you with a vengeance, throwing you off balance, and you fell into Franco, cushioning your fall by landing your palms against his chest.

You dropped your camera, a true gasp falling from your mouth, as you heard the screen crack. You didn’t look at its shattered remains on the floor, though. All you could see was the Argentine underneath you, the deep brown pools of his eyes and his perfectly rounded curls, mere centimeters from you now.

You were still for a beat too long. But you didn’t miss when his eyes quickly darted away from yours and down to your lips.

“I—I am so sorry, YN,” he said. “Are you…gonna get the camera, or…?”

You immediately moved to get up, scrambling to create as much space between you and Franco as possible. You winced as you saw the shattered glass of your camera screen littering the floor.

“I could have sworn I heard the wheel click into place. I’m so sorry YN, here, let me help.”

You ignored him, but still he leaned down next to you, his race suit sinfully tight against the curves of his body you had been so close to just seconds ago.

“I’m fine, it’s just—”

“Shit, you’re bleeding.”

In the chaos, some glass had cut into your hand. He grabbed your wrist, and you looked up, locking eyes again with him. Your face must have been redder than a Ferrari.

“Just leave it. Let’s get you bandaged up, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you said, letting him lead you away from the sim room, relishing the touch of his skin against yours, even as your blood ran between it.

“No way!” Kika said, swirling her coffee with a familiar flick of the wrist.

“And I was bleeding,” you said, holding up your hand, now bandaged from the snafu only a few days prior. “But I was so nervous he had to grab my hand, and we locked eyes and it was AWFUL!”

“Really?” she said, a smirk on her face.

“Really. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“Then why are you smiling right now?”

“I’m not,” you said, painting your face in an intentional frown.

“Yes, you were. Oh, you all would be so adorable!”

You rolled your eyes. “I can never face him again. Not after I…accidently straddled him.” You laughed sarcastically, though a flume of anxiety rose in you. You would have to face him again in…well, not even an hour.

And when that time came far too soon, the awkwardness in the air was palpable.

“So…” he droned on, looking away from you, “Another weekend of avoiding the press?”

You closed your laptop. “Let’s go talk to some fans.”

“Good idea.”

If only Franco had known the weight of your suggestion. You had hated Mercedes fans—they made demands you couldn’t fulfill, and blamed you when their darling driver refused to make any content. But Franco fans were sweet, and as devoted as any fan base could be.

Still, as you stood in the background and watched a group of Chinese fans—all women—coo at him, you felt a twinge of something deep in your chest you couldn’t quite name.

You saw them giggle and bat their eyelashes as he effortlessly wooed them, leaning up against the nearest wall, giving them sly grins and the occasional wink that would send their hearts racing. He even blushed when they collectively cooed at him when he tried on a panda headband; an adorable moment to catch on camera, but one that, deep down, disgusted you.

Were you…jealous?

No. You weren’t a fan. Of the sport, maybe. But Franco? He was a smooth-talker. A player. Eye candy.

You sighed as you packed up your camera bag—a replacement having quickly been given to you by Alpine—as the man in question made his way over to you.

“What’s got you in a bad mood?”

“Nothing,” you answered, not even bothering to look up at him.

“I can tell something’s bothering you. Is it your hand? Is it hurting?”

“A little bit,” you said, hoping your half-lie would give you an out. “Can’t believe my own client would do this to me.”

“Aw, do you want me to kiss it better?” he joked, and you laughed.

“Get back to the garage, Colapinto,” you answered, rolling your eyes.

“Come with me to Monza,” he said, looking at you over the brim of his mate cup, his eyes never leaving yours.

“You’re seriously asking me this.”

“Yes. It’s the least I can do to make it up to you. For breaking your camera.”

“So…to make up for the fact that you broke my work camera, you’re going to ask me to do more work?”

“It wouldn’t be work. Unless you wanted it to be. It’d be like a… behind the scenes pass. I already cleared it with Flavio.”

Truthfully, you had been dreading the days leading up to Franco’s long stint away from the track. He had to go test older cars in Monza, and you’d be staying back in Enstone.

Well, that’s what you had thought. Apparently, Franco had other plans.

“Don’t you think that’s a little…weird?” you asked. “I mean, you’re my client.”

“It doesn’t have to be weird if you don’t make it weird. You’re just working from home.”

“Working from home, in a hotel in Italy.”

“You can say no if you want,” he said. “But I know you won’t. You’d miss my beautiful face too much.”

Your day was full of his oh so beautiful face, though. You saw him endlessly while working—whether his real form of his digital visage—and his smile haunted you even when you went back to your lonely hotel room every night, trying to find rest in the quiet stillness. You had abandoned your dating apps. You had stopped texting back your friends.

You playfully rolled your eyes, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of realizing just how correct he was.

“C’mon,” he said, nudging you in the side with his elbow, and you sharply inhaled at the contact. “We can get real wine and pasta.”

“You can’t even eat pasta. Or drink.”

“Just go with the bit,” he said, in mock annoyance at your stubbornness. “I’m trying to do you a service here. I know you’d get so lonely without me here.”

Again, he was too right. Working with McLaren had been enjoyable, but corporately stiff. And working with Lewis had been, well, awful. But Franco? He was quickly becoming something of your professional muse.

You bit your cheek, running through the pros and cons in your head. “You really took this all the way up to Flavio?”

“Yes,” he answered.

But he was your client. A client you were, unfortunately, crushing on. Yes, you had to admit it—even you couldn’t be delusional any longer.

And the thought of it scared you. How close you were to saying yes. Yes, I’ll run away to Italy with you. Take me to your hotel room.

Where was that stone-faced professional you had always been? Where was your dignity? In the hands of Franco Colapinto, a young, charming race car driver who seemed to be a tad bit too enamoured with you, just as you were with him.

You couldn’t let your fantasies get ahead of you. This was your job, a job you’d worked far too hard at to just give it up on a whim. But Franco sat before you now, his brown doe eyes looking at you, begging you to come with him.

No one had ever wanted you.

Romantically, at least. Even friendships had been fleeting, shallow. You compensated with work. People wanted your expertise, your labor; that was enough, you told yourself.

But no one had ever really wanted you, your presence, your being.

Except, Franco did.

“I…I really can’t,” you said. “I just have too much to do at Enstone.”

Franco didn’t try to joke this time. You saw the subtle shift in the glint of his eyes, a soft disappointment he wouldn’t speak. “No worries,” he said.

But that night, back alone at your hotel room, you couldn’t sleep, replaying the scene over and over again.

If I go to Monza, I’ll regret it, you said to yourself. It’s crossing a line. He’s a client. Not your boyfriend.

He wants you there, another voice said. He wants you there.

Enstone didn’t want you. Formula 1 was indifferent. It’d replace you in an instant if you failed to perform—a reality you’d come to know too well.

Though the hour was late, you grabbed your phone, tapping his name without thinking, your mind blank as the phone rang once before he answered.

“Hello?”

“Does the Monza offer still stand?”

“For you? Of course.”

Against your better judgement, you found yourself in a hotel room in Monza a few days later—not any hotel room. Franco’s hotel room.

He had proposed that you should watch the Suzuka free practice together that day. It was one of his rare days off during testing, and you could spare an hour or two, so why not?

You hadn’t expected this, though.

Franco, in nothing but grey sweat shorts, stretched across his bed. He patted the empty space next to him, inviting you to come lay next to him.

“Really?” you asked, barely suppressing a nervous laugh.

“What?”

“This is…hardly professional.”

“I’m not on the clock.”

“Well, I am,” you said, carefully sitting down next to him, leaving a deliberate amount of space.

“What, is something bothering you?” he asked. He knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.

You glanced back at him, giving yourself a minute to take in all of him: his defined muscles, perfectly tanned skin, even the scar that ran across his collarbone. You didn’t have it in you to say anything.

“Not at all,” you answered. You looked away and a sense of shame fell over you.

He was your client. And here he was, practically naked in front of you, and you didn’t have the courage to say a word about it. Because he wanted you next to him.

It all felt so…pathetic. So even though you kicked off your shoes and stretched out next to Franco, you didn’t truly relax. He rested his arm against the headboard behind you, and it all felt too intimate. Wrong.

You just prayed for the ending of free practice, keeping your eyes glued to the screen to avoid his gaze that kept lingering when it shot you sideward glances.

When Sky Sports went to commercial, Franco got up, stretching and letting out a long sigh. You rolled your eyes. He was insufferable.

“Don’t tell my trainer,” he said, exiting the bedroom and walking into the small kitchenette in the hotel suite, “but I got stuff to make mimosas. You want one?”

“You aren’t supposed to be drinking, Franco” you said, breathing a sigh of relief now that he was out of sight.

“And that’s why you keep my secrets,” he said from the other side of the wall.

Franco’s phone, on the bed next to you, lit up. A notification from Raya, the tinder of the rich and famous.

You felt sick to your stomach. What were you doing here?

You wanted to leave. But Franco came back into the room and handed you a champagne flute, which you took a modest sip from before setting on the nightstand next to you. Franco assumed his position on the bed, this time just the slightest bit closer, and you felt your breathing stiffen.

“Your phone was going off,” you said.

He grabbed it, careful to face the screen away from you, and began typing something. You crossed your arms and stared back at the TV as free practice resumed.

You watched the car race past, the familiar sound of revving engines calming you, as Franco locked his phone and put it on his own nightstand. You watched him out of your periphery, refusing to budge. Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t, frozen in place with anxiety.

“YN…” he said, and you felt his hand reach out and touch your arm.

“Oh, shit!” you said. “Jack just crashed!”

In front of you were pixels of carnage, thousands of dollars in repair, and a damaged reputation.

Franco looked at the screen, grimacing.

“Is he okay?” you asked, to no one in particular. You sat up, focusing even more intently, watching Jack climb out of the car. You breathed a sigh of relief. Even Franco was focusing now.

“I should probably call Flavio,” he said. “They might need me.”

“This could be your chance,” you said, looking back at him, but your face turned redder than a Ferrari at what you saw.

Franco was…most definitely not focusing on free practice, evident by the outline of his grey sweatpants that showed far too much.

“And, I, um… I should go call the media team, make sure they’re good to, you know, uh… I’ll see you later, Franco.”

You got up and left without another word.

After that you were more cautious, more professional. You saw Franco less, anyway. But he didn’t leave your mind.

Another coffee date with Kika, and as always, Franco was the topic of discussion.

“Did you hear what he said in that podcast that just came out?” she asked.

“No?”

“He’s a fan of sex on the first date.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you snorted. Your mind went back to the Raya notification, the way he tilted his phone away from you. You swallowed back the jealousy.

“I still think you should go for it,” she said, smiling.

“No,” you replied, no smile on your face. “He’s for the streets. He retweeted a random girl’s ass the other day.”

Kika skillfully ignored your comment. “In that podcast, he also was talking about how hard it is in F1 to make genuine connections with people. It reminded me a lot of what you said before, about just wanting someone who wants you for you.”

“Well that’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”

“Sure. I’m just saying, I think you have more in common with Franco than you realize.”

“He’s a nice guy. He’s just…not for me.”

“How so?”

“Kika, he’s my client.”

She paused, her brows furrowing, staring into the last dregs of her tea cup. “I guess you’re right. I just hate to see you so lonely.”

“I’ll live. I mean, I’ve gotten this far.”

“But that’s no way to live. You deserve to be happy with someone.”

“We don’t always get what we deserve, though, do we?”

“I got the seat.”

“What?”

“I got the seat. Jack’s out after Miami. But you can’t tell anyone.”

“I—how do you know?”

“Flavio told me. Oliver is going to resign. Things are about to get crazy.”

Franco ran his fingers through his hair, the golden strands illuminated by the little slats of light through your hotel blinds. It was late at night, and Franco was still beautiful, even in his disheveled state.

“You can’t tell anyone. Promise me.”

“Franco, I don’t even have anyone I’d tell.” It came out a lot…sadder than you had anticipated. It had been a long, lonely day at your cubicle in Enstone while Franco was on the sim. “And why’d you tell me, anyway?”

“I didn’t know who else to go to. I just…I’m sorry, I know it’s late and you’re mad at me—”

“Mad at you? I’m not mad at you.”

“You’ve been so distant lately. Since we got back from Monza.”

“I’ve just been… busy.”

“I know,” he said, looking off into the distance, away from you. “Things are about to get a lot busier.”

“Well, I’ll be here,” you said, your voice soft. He looked back to you, and in that moment, you wanted nothing more than to kiss him.

Your eyes drifted down to the soft roundness of his lips, imagining them on your own, and you swallowed hard, as if you could rid yourself of the desire that felt strong enough to strangle you.

“Why haven’t you been around recently?” he asked. He knew you were ‘busy.’ That’s not what he was asking. But you couldn’t find the words to tell him how you really felt.

“Got tired of looking at your face, so I gave you over to PR,” you joked, reflexively using your sarcasm as a shield. “You’re their problem now.”

“Problem? I’ve been nothing short of perfect.”

“You retweeted—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“And on that podcast—”

“What was wrong with what I said on the podcast?”

“Seriously? You think there’s nothing wrong with talking about your first date sex preferences with the world?” you laughed, only half joking.

“No. I stand by what I said. Why should you wait if it feels right?”

“Because nothing is ever that simple. Feelings lie to you. You don’t really know someone that well to really know what you’re getting yourself into.”

“What, did you have a bad ex or something?”

“No. I…don’t have any exes. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Really?”

“Never.” You looked to the floor, embarrassed, though Franco’s face was shrouded in as much darkness as the rest of the room. “But still, I’d never sleep with a stranger. It’s just too important to…give yourself away like that. I think it should be something loving.”

Franco was silent; the room was quiet enough that you were sure you could hear his heartbeat.

“I don’t think it really matters that much,” he said. “People always come and go. If you wait for the perfect person, you’ll never have anyone. Soulmates, and all that…it’s just hopeless romantics. It’s never like that in real life.”

“You don’t believe in true love?”

“I don’t want to look back on my youth and realize I wasted it waiting for the one,” he said. “There is no perfect person. There’s just people. And I want to enjoy my time with people while they’re here.”

“What if you regret it? Sharing yourself with someone who doesn’t appreciate it?”

“Then you made a mistake. And life goes on.”

“I think…we’ll have to agree to disagree on this one.” You paused. “But you still shouldn’t be telling the media any of this.”

“Why not? Why should I not be honest about who I am, how I feel?”

“Because that’s not for them to know.”

“Who else is there to tell, though?” His eyes met yours. You remembered what Kika said, how Franco had spoken about wanting real connection in a world of ruthless competition.

“I get it,” you said. “I really do. Formula 1 is…lonely.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I left home at 14, came to Spain.”

“I know,” you said. “I listened to the podcast. It’s not much better on this side of the paddock. All the travel, the long nights. I…” you paused, unsure of how much to say. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t know how to be a normal person anymore.”

“Exactly. It—it becomes all of you, you know?”

“I know. I feel like I’ve missed out on so much. And you can’t complain, because this is the life I always dreamed of.” All the lonely nights, the parties and milestones missed, the strangers unkissed; you were young, alive, but not free. You had chosen this.

The room grew quiet.

“Well, if we’re telling secrets, can I share one?” you asked, and Franco nodded, his eyes almost begging. Let me in. Let me see what you hide from the others. Let me see you.

“I hate Lewis Hamilton.”

“What?” Franco said, taken aback, clearly offended.

“He was so horrible to me last year. Constantly ignoring me or leading me around, acting like he was going to cooperate and then bailing on me. I was just trying to do my job and he made it a living hell. And I can’t tell anyone because he’s the Lewis Hamilton.”

“I can’t agree with you on this, YN. He’s Lewis Hamilton. He gets a pass.”

“C’mon, I need someone on my side!” you joked, a small smile forming at the edge of your lips.

“I can’t. You’ll have to find some other poor reserve driver for that,” he said. “Besides, I won’t be a reserve driver for much longer.”

“I’m so proud of you,” you said, your voice soft, familiar.

Franco’s eyes met yours, in the simple darkness of your room. And in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to kiss you.

“We’ll all have to celebrate,” he said.

“Of course.”

“You’ll be there?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

But upon entering Franco’s AirBNB in Monaco, you started to have regrets.

The music was blasting, drinks were flowing, and your host appeared with a smile on his face and a model on each arm, quite literally. This wasn’t the kind of place you’d ever belonged in.

“YN!” he called, raising a drink-filled hand from across the room, much to the chagrin of the woman on his arm, who eyed you up and down and gave you a passive aggressive smile. He broke away, making his way over to you, wrapping you in his arms. He smelled like a deep, woody cologne mixed with fabric softener and the tell-tale sign of a drink or two.

“You made it,” he said, cocking his head and smiling at you.

“I’m a woman of my word,” you said, giving him a stiff smile. “But I think your date…or dates…is missing you over there.”

“Oh, she’s no one,” he said, waving his arm vaguely in the direction of the women, not bothering to specify which one. “I want to introduce you to someone.”

“Oh?”

He didn’t respond, instead grabbing you by the hand and weaving you through the crowd, and into the waiting embrace of an older woman.

“Mami, this is YN,” he said, as the woman reached out to hug you, and you obliged, more out of politeness in your state of confusion.

Franco was introducing you to…his mother?

Of course, he then abandoned you to go back to his woman. Or women. There were quite a few women at this party, and some familiar faces from the Alpine garage. Still, amongst the sea of models and mechanics, you, the media girl, hardly fit right in.

Besides, Franco had told you to leave all your cameras and phones at home. You truly were without a crutch.

You exchanged a few pleasantries with his mother, albeit awkward, because, well, what were either of you doing here?

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Franco,” she said. “All good things, of course.”

“I’m surprised he’d mention me. I mean, we’re just colleagues.”

“Well, I’m glad my boy is surrounded by such kind colleagues, then,” she smiled.

Thankfully, Kika came to your rescue, and you found a spot away from much of the fanfare with her and Pierre, keeping to yourselves in the corner.

Franco, though, was the life of the party, taking shot after shot, dancing his heart away. After a while, when things showed no sign of dying down, but you were exhausted, you contemplated making an Irish goodbye.

“You’re being watched,” Kika said, leaning down to whisper in your ear. You looked up and met eyes with your host, who again was arm in arm with two beautiful women (though not the same as before), yet his eyes only laid on you.

You gave him a slight smile, and he just blinked at you, his expression conveying that he had more to say that only his eyes could tell you. The woman to his right—a blonde—whispered something in his ear, smiling flirtatiously, and he made some noise in response, never looking at the woman. She shot you a dirty glance from across the room.

You were done for the night. But as you tried to leave, you felt a hand grab you, pulling you back as Kika and Pierre made their exit.

“Where are you going?” Franco asked, his eyes glossy.

“It’s late, Franco.”

“You didn’t even dance.”

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh, c’mon YN, just one dance!”

“No, Franco, I have to go.”

“YN—”

“Franco. It’s late, I’m exhausted, this music is too goddamn loud and my head is pounding. Let me go.”

He released his grip, surprised at your snapping. Truthfully, you were too.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay. You can go.”

“No, I—I can stay a while longer, I guess.”

“We can go outside?”

You nodded and let Franco lead you, hand in hand, to the roof, a secluded area with an infinity pool overlooking the Monaco skyline. You could feel the bass pumping beneath your feet, but the night was quiet enough, and there was a cool wind that waved its way through your hair, caressing you into a calmer state.

You leaned against the railing, and Franco joined you, so close that you could feel the heat of his body against yours.

“I don’t mean to steal you from your own party,” you said.

“I’m fine here,” he said. “I don’t think anyone is missing me.”

“I don’t know. You seemed like the life of the party there.”

“What if I told you I only threw this party for you?”

You paused. “Well, that would be kind of stupid. You should celebrate what you’ve achieved. I have nothing to do with it. Besides, I don’t usually come to these kinds of things.”

“But that’s exactly why. I wanted you to be able to experience it. Can’t say you don’t like it if you haven’t tried it.” He looked down, fiddling with his hands. “If you don’t usually like parties, then why’d you come?”

“Because it was important to you.”

You were both silent.

“You want to get in the pool?” he asked.

“I didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

“We can skinny dip.”

You laughed. He didn’t.

“You’ll have to come up with a better excuse if you want to get me undressed.”

“Who said I was trying to get you undressed? Maybe I’m giving you an excuse to stare at me.”

“You’re the one who’s been staring all night. Besides, I’ve already seen you without a shirt. I’m not missing out.”

“You’re cruel,” he joked.

“And you’re crueler,” you replied, as you both knelt near the pool, taking your shoes off, dipping your feet in the crystal blue water.

“How so?”

“You invite me to this party and make me stand around in the corner while you flirt with random models.”

“Are you jealous?” Franco asked, and you didn’t answer. He closed the gap between you, bringing his hand to yours. “YN, you know you’re my girl.”

“I’m your social media manager.”

“How long are we going to keep pretending?”

“Pretending what?” you said, turning to face him, seeing the genuineness in his eyes, fixated on you. You had no camera, no phone; you were alone with Franco, alone with your desire, and he wouldn’t let you escape any longer.

“Pretending like we don’t want each other.”

“What I really want is to keep my job.”

“I don’t see either of our bosses out here.”

“Franco…this is a bad decision. For both of us.”

‘Jumping into the pool right now would be a bad decision,” he said, smirking. “But this?” he interlaced his fingers with yours, kissing your hand where the cuts from the camera mishap had just started to scar over. “I’m sure of this.”

“Franco—”

“I want you.”

You pushed him into the pool. He reached out for you and dragged you down with him, ending you both cascading into the water in a fit of giggles.

And when you rose to the surface of the water, shivering from the cold and playfully pushing him away, he just pulled you in closer, wrapping his arms around your back, and finally pressing his lips to yours.

You dragged yourself out of the pool, cringing at the feeling of your wet dress fabric clinging to your curves, and you could do nothing but laugh.

Franco followed close after, grabbing you again, and kissed you once more, his lips hungry for yours. The embrace was messy, fighting through tangled strands of hair and the horrid sensation of wet clothes clinging to each other's bodies, but you laughed anyway, in a giggly euphoria at his touch.

“Franco, I’m freezing,” you said, smiling through the discomfort. “Can we stop the make-out session before we both get hypothermia?”

“You’re no fun,” he teased, though he did oblige, throwing you a towel. “I’m kicking everyone out. I can throw your clothes in the dryer if you want to take a shower.”

A warm shower sounded perfect. However, the idea of being unclothed anywhere near Franco sounded…like a reality you weren’t quite sure of.

“I’d appreciate that,” you said, truly shivering now. Franco herded you inside, away from the rest of the party, into a bedroom you assumed was his.

You locked yourself in the connected bathroom, quickly showering and changing into a thick, fluffy robe that Franco had left you, combing and blow drying your hair while you heard everyone downstairs filter out as the music and chatter got quieter and quieter.

But your heartbeat only got louder and louder as you stepped out, watching Franco laid out on the bed, again clad in those God-forsaken grey sweatshorts that fit him too perfectly, his toned chest on display.

“Your dress isn’t quite dry yet. Probably needs another 15 minutes,” he said, staring at his phone, typing away at something you couldn’t see before locking it and placing it face down on the nightstand next to him.

You nodded, sitting on the very edge of the bed nervously running your fingers through your hair, though it was already dry.

“YN,” he called, and you could hear his voice get closer and he sat up. “It’s late. You could stay here tonight.”

“I really should just go when my clothes are done.”

“You want to? Or you should?”

You turned around to look at him, his eyes full of something hungering, a sight that made you anxious to your core.

“Franco, I’m your social media manager.”

“And?”

“We already crossed a line—”

“I’m just asking you to stay the night,” he said. “Nothing more. It’s for your benefit, really.”

And somehow, a half hour or so later, you found yourself in nothing but your panties and one of his shirts, after conveniently realizing that this apartment only had one bedroom.

“This is…so unprofessional,” you said as Franco dimmed the lights and climbed in the bed next to you.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I do this with all my social media managers.”

“I could lose my job.”

“I’m not a snitch.”

Franco had laid down, but you couldn’t relax, instead sitting up and resting your back against the headboard, burying your face in your hands.

“What am I doing?” you mumbled to yourself, but he heard you, sitting up to meet you and gently pulling your arms away.

“You are going to sleep next to your client, who is going to mind his manners and be a gentleman and let you rest.”

“You’re hardly a gentleman.”

“That’s not true. I’ve been nothing but polite tonight.”

“Really?”

Franco’s eyes darkened as he pulled you down, resting one head above your head and one on your waist underneath his borrowed shirt, placing himself on top of you. You could feel his hardened length pressing against your bare leg. Your heart was beating out of your chest, your eyes widened, staring into his.

“If you want me to be impolite, I can do that.”

Your voice came out as shaky as an earthquake, though without any of the power.

“Are we really going to do this?”

“Only if you want to,” he said, his hands rubbing in gentle but firm circles around your hips, careful to not dip too high or low for comfort.

“I’m a virgin,” you blurted out. “I’m scared.”

“Don’t be,” he said, gently kissing you. “It’s just me. I’ll be gentle.”

His kisses trailed lower, down your neck, and you inhaled sharply as his lips grazed the crook between your chin and shoulder.

“Do you trust me to be your first?” he asked.

“I don’t know who else it would be.”

“YN,” he said, pulling back to look you in the eye. “I need to hear you say it.”

Looking up at him, wide-eyed and whispering, you had never wanted anything more. But you couldn’t let the words pass from your lips. Instead, you brought your hands up to his hair, roughly grabbing him and pulling him down to bridge the gap between you, bringing your lips together again.

He slipped his tongue in between your lips, and you opened your mouth for him, gently moaning into the kiss as he softly grinded himself against your clothed core under the blankets.

“Tell me what you want, YN,” he commanded, before grazing his teeth along your neck, biting down and sucking the sensitive skin to leave a mark.

“I want you,” you said, your voice breathy. “I need you.”

He brought his hand down to trace the edges of your panties, carefully dragging his fingers over where you needed him most, feeling your wetness grow as he just barely gave you any friction to buck up against.

“Close your eyes,” he said. “Relax. Let me touch you.”

You obeyed, taking a deep breath as Franco lifted your shirt above your head and gently pawed at your breasts, taking one nipple into his mouth while he squeezed the other.

The sounds he made were obscene as you tried to focus on just steadying your nervous breathing. But every touch electrified your skin, sending shivers through you, eliciting a sharp inhale or soft moan from your lips.

His hands trailed down to your panties, sliding them off and meeting your mouth again with a kiss. He kept his lips on yours as he swirled your growing wetness around your clit, slowly sliding his fingers up and down your slit and through your folds. You ached for him.

“You okay?” he asked, and you nodded, whimpering into his shoulder as he brought you closer and closer to the edge with just his fingers.

Slowly, gently, he slid a finger inside of you, then two, pumping them in and out with the soft rhythm of your breathing. He brought you closer and closer, sending little waves of pleasure throughout your body, but not quite letting you fall over the edge into pure bliss.

“You’re soaked,” he said, bringing his fingers from your pussy to your mouth, where you swirled your tongue around them, locking eyes with him once more.

“You ready?” he asked, and you couldn’t help the wave of anxiety that went through you. Still, you nodded, and he took off his shirts before reaching into the nightstand to grab a condom and put it on.

He grabbed you again, kissing you slow and deep, exhaling into the kiss. “Relax,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

You dug your nails into his back as he slowly pushed into you, overwhelming your sensations with the sweet burn of being totally taken by him, and the sound of his deep groan as he filled you to the hilt.

“You feel so fucking good,” he said, breathing heavily into your ear.

“Franco…” you moaned, unable to form any words other than his name as he slowly thrusted in and out of you, gently at first, then with more power. You wove your fingers into his hair as he moaned into your mouth, wanting more and more of you. You wrapped your legs around his back, pulling him in, eliminating even the tiniest of gaps between you. You wanted him in the deepest parts of you, mentally and physically. You wanted him in your soul.

“I’m so close,” he said. ‘So fucking close…” his voice trailed off into a string of Spanish curses as he plowed into you, chasing his own release, but still careful not to go too rough.

“I…I—” The words were lost to you. “Oh, God, Franco,” you groaned, feeling the soft pad of his thumb swirling around your clit, threatening to make you finish right then and there.

“I want us to cum at the same time,” he said. “Can you do that for me?”

You nodded, unable to form any sounds but those of pleasure that echoed through the room, your voices a cacophony of lust as he, with a final bucking of his hips, spilled inside of you, and brought you to the edge.

He laid on top of you in the aftermath, catching his own breath as you caught yours, and suddenly you felt a thick sense of shame. What had you done?

“Hey,” he cooed into your ear, setting both of you up, “you okay?”

You nodded, though it was a lie, but he could tell, pulling you into his arms to hold you and gently kiss your temple even through the sheen of sweat and smell of sex that now permeated through the room.

He grabbed a warm, wet towel to clean you up, then left to grab a snack from the kitchen, before curling up next to you and inviting you to lay your head on his chest. You obliged, listening to the steady sound of his heartbeat, gently grazing your fingertips over the surface of his scar.

The room was silent for a while, before he said, in a low, steady voice, “With me getting the seat, we won’t be able to see each other this often.”

“I don’t want to think about that right now,” you said, burrowing deeper in the covers, closer to him, and he ran his arm up and down your side.

“I just want you to know, I’m here. Even if I'm not…here. You know what I mean.”

You hummed in response. He continued, “But in the off season, I want to take you to Argentina. Show you around Buenos Aires, introduce you to my friends.”

“Yeah?” you whispered. This would normally be the time for a snarky comment. Bold of you to assume I want to spend my time away from work with you, or something to the effect.

But as you felt yourself drifting off in his arms, you couldn't muster up the will. You just wanted him to hold you. To see all your vulnerability, your unusual quietness, and find peace in it.

And he did. When you finally did drift off, he stared at your sleeping form, memorizing all the curves and edges of your body, the beauty in your stillness.

He gently got up, turned the lights fully off, and checked his phone one last time for the night, dismissing all his Raya notifications from his homepage, before falling asleep next to you.

235 notes · View notes

f1girliefics · 1 day ago

Text

Hold On to Me

Oscar Piastri x Reader

Summary: When your relationship with Oscar begins to strain under the weight of distance and silence, a harsh argument threatens to break it completely.

You don’t remember when the silence started feeling heavier than the words.

It had been creeping in slowly.

Missed calls. Short replies. Half-hearted kisses when he came home from long flights, and how he always seemed tired, too tired to talk, too tired to try. And maybe you were tired too. Of being second to the schedule. Of pretending it didn’t hurt.

Until one night, you broke.

“You forgot my call again,” you said softly, eyes on the cold dinner waiting between you.

Oscar didn’t look up from his phone. “I was in a meeting. I told you it might run late.”

You stared at him. “Do you even want to be in this anymore?”

That made him pause.

He looked up, defensive. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I feel like I’m dating a ghost, Oscar,” you snapped, heart pounding. “You’re here, but you’re not with me. I don’t need the trophies. I don’t need the glam. I just need you. And I don’t even know if you want to be needed anymore.”

He stood too fast, his chair scraping across the floor. “That’s not fair. You know what this career takes—”

“I’m not asking you to give it up,” you interrupted. “I’m asking you to see me.”

And maybe it was too much. Because he just looked at you like he didn’t know where to begin.

So you walked away.

Just for the night.

But then the next morning came. And he was already gone, on a flight, off to another city, another circuit. You didn’t say goodbye. You didn’t hear from him for days.

Until race day.

You sat alone in your apartment, watching from the couch because you couldn’t not.

Because even when you were angry, you loved him. A

nd halfway through the race, your breath caught in your throat when he spun.

A miscalculation.

A hit with the barrier. Smoke. Sirens.

And suddenly, nothing else mattered.

You were on the next flight before you even had time to pack properly.

The track, the hospital, it all blurred. He had a concussion. Some bruised ribs. Nothing life-threatening, thank God. But still, you sat by his bedside like he might disappear if you blinked.

When his eyes fluttered open, his voice rasped, “You came.”

Your throat tightened. “Of course I did.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorise the moment.

“I thought… I lost you,” he whispered.

You reached for his hand. “You almost did.”

There was a long pause. One filled with regret and something heavier.

“I’ve been stupid,” he said. “I thought the best way to handle the pressure was to shut everything else out. But you’re not everything else. You’re everything.”

Tears welled in your eyes before you could stop them. You leaned down, pressed your forehead to his.

“No more shutting me out,” you whispered. “No more doing this alone.”

He squeezed your hand, his grip just strong enough to make you believe in tomorrow again.

202 notes · View notes

stargirlygirl · 14 hours ago

Text

you walk out on him

zayne x fem!reader

⭑.ᐟ part two

summary: it's been one week since you walked out on zayne. both of you have been silent. cue your surprise when you get a knock at the door late at night from your ex-boyfriend.

contains: hurt comfort, angst, suggestive in text messages, zayne apologises and professes his love for you, 2.1k words

pt.1

One week.

It’s been one week since Zayne laid those sharp, hazel eyes on you, and he’s going insane. At first, he was feeling pretty confident. You were upset and needed some space. Surely, you would message him sometime that day, asking to discuss things.

Wrong.

The second day, Zayne was still feeling confident, albeit less confident than yesterday. Leaving the apartment that morning, he notices you forgot your favourite necklace— the necklace he bought you for your one-year anniversary. Surely, you would be around to pick it up, and he would somehow catch you in the act.

Also wrong.

When he came home around 11pm that night, your necklace was still sitting on the dresser. To Zayne, the diamond looks slightly dull, or maybe that’s his teary foggy eyes. He resolves to have it cleaned tomorrow.

By day three, Zayne’s confidence in you returning is non-existent. Still no word from you, his mind races over all of the mistakes he’s made these past few months leading to this hiccup in your relationship. Looking back, it’s so fucking obvious. Not texting you daily, not taking days off, never telling you when he would be home, and not giving you his full attention even when he was at home. And it wasn’t solely because he was busy or tired. It was because he thought you could bear it.

Being a cardiac surgeon isn’t for the weak. Choosing this profession, he’s had to put much of his personal life on the back burner, especially when his work schedule got even busier than usual. But over the years, he’s learnt to grit his teeth and bear it. He enjoys it even. But why did he expect the same of you?

For the first time in Zayne’s life, he succumbs to temptation and tries his first energy drink. It tastes like medicine, grating and sour to the tongue. But nothing can compare to the flavour of your absence. Unable to sleep for the past several nights, he treks down to his local gas station and buys the canned arsenic.

Once the cardiologist gets home, he pops the tag and takes a sip. Recoiling with disgust, he finds the willpower to finish the 200 mL of poison. And now, he can’t sleep. The caffeine keeps him up well into the early hours of the morning, fuelling his attempts to type out an apology message.

I’m so sorry, darling. I want to make things right between us—

“No,” he groans, pressing ‘backspace’ with his pointer finger so hard he could crack the phone screen.

I’m so sorry, darling. I miss you terr—

My sincerest apolog—

I know that I’ve hurt you very deeply, my love. But if you’d be willing to give me another chance, I’d like to make things right between us.

Huffing, he deletes the message and throws his phone on his bed before heading to the bathroom to get ready for work.

As it hits Friday, one week after you left, Zayne is feeling confident. Confident that he can’t go on without you anymore. The energy drink catches up to him, and he almost falls asleep mid-consult. Finishing off with the patient, he has the rest of his appointments cancelled and dozes off in his office.

When he wakes, night has fallen. Gathering his bag and coat, he books it to his car and clicks ‘Start Route’ on his Audi’s GPS to Tara’s apartment complex. Once parked, he takes the elevator up to her apartment, mentally rehearsing everything he’s been meaning to say to you this past week.

…˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚…

You’re halfway through the new episode of your show when there’s a knock at the front door. It’s just you tonight, seeing as Tara’s out on a mission for the next couple of days. Throwing off your blanket, you stalk to the front door and stand on your tippy-toes to glance through the peephole.

“Go away, Zayne,” you grumble through the door.

He shifts closer, one hand on the wood as he declares, “No. I’m not going anywhere.” Groaning, you flip the lock and swing the door half open. He’s close, towering over you with dopey, wide eyes, which rake over your figure. You’re in his shirt, the sleeves rolled back and v-neck hanging off one shoulder. His gaze darts up to yours.

You sigh, “What is it?” Zayne steps back, putting some distance between you as he clears his throat.

“I’d like to talk,” he says clinically.

“Talk?” You bite back. “About what?”

“About us.”

You scoff, “I’m surprised you have the time. Don’t you have some emergency surgery to attend to?”

He shakes his head, saying firmly, “I took the night off.”

“Wow,” you say sarcastically. “Your first night off in months, and you choose to spend it with me. How thoughtful.” You roll your eyes, the pettiness bubbling up to the surface.

“Y/n.” Looking back at your boyfriend(? ex-boyfriend?), you take note of the knot in his brow. His scent wafts over to you, a mix of sweets, sweat, and… was that a Red Bull?

He sighs, “You have every right to still be angry with me after how I neglected you. But please, will you give me the chance to fix things between us?” You stare at him, thinking over his words. You’re about to respond when you notice the resident gym rat trying to sneak past. Reaching out, you grab Zayne’s forearm and tug him closer to you.

“Sorry,” you call past him.

Your neighbour mutters, “It’s fine,” as they dash off to their apartment. Hearing the click of their door, you release Zayne’s arm.

Gazing up, you huff, “Come in.” You push the door open wider with your back, standing against it and trying to make yourself smaller as the surgeon slips past you. It’s cosy inside: soft halogens, a warm vanilla candle going, and the low hum of your tv show.

“Take a seat,” you instruct, pointing to the couch. Leaving his shoes by the door, Zayne does as he’s told. His sleepy eyes are glued to you as you sit across from him, the too-big shirt sliding further down your shoulder. You must have recently showered, he thinks. Your skin is positively radiant and looks so smooth. The urge to touch you is unbearable, but he bears it. As long as he gets to speak to you, he’ll do anything.

“My eyes are up here,” you snap.

“Right,” he says quietly, heat rising to the tips of his ears. His heart rate accelerates as you two sit in almost silence for a minute.

Finally, Zayne apologises, “I’m sorry for ignoring you, darling.” Ooo, strike one. Your brow raises, and your eyes dart up and down his frame from the pet name. Fuck, no more pet names, he reprimands himself.

“You mean everything to me, and I was— I am— an awful partner for not reminding you of that every day,” he continues. Strike two. Bold of him to assume you’re still together. Not that you aren’t. You didn’t consider the sticky situation you would create for future you by walking out on him. But you appreciate his sentiment.

“I wish that I had taken the initiative to contact you earlier, and reassure you of your importance to me despite my busy schedule.” You nod, starting to like what you’re hearing. But by no means is he off the hook.

He sighs, “I took you for granted. Not because you’re not important. But I thought we could handle it. I thought you could handle my absence.” Strike three.

“What’re you saying?” You ask, your forehead creased and mouth twisted into a pout.

Zayne mumbles beneath his breath, “Fuck.” Pushing up his glasses, he clarifies, “What I mean to say is that I was ignorant of your needs, and my duties as your partner to fulfil those needs. I was unaware that you needed me to be more present in our relationship. And I was unaware of the toll my neglect took on you.” Better.

You prompt, “And so what’re you going to do about it? When it gets really busy, how are you going to make time for us?”

“Well,” he starts. “I’m going to communicate to you around what time I’ll be getting home, and make sure that if that changes, then I let you know. I’ll take a day off once a week, and we can spend it together. When you visit me at the hospital, I’ll be attentive to you. And if I can’t be, then I’ll tell you.” You hum, approving of his answer.

Zayne sighs, “But, I need you to communicate to me when you’re feeling dissatisfied in our relationship. If I’m very busy, then I want you to do whatever it takes to make me listen to you.” You chuckle. It’s short and soft, but it reinvigorates him the way an energy drink can’t.

“Whatever it takes?” You muse, your arms crossed underneath your chest, loosening.

He nods, “Yes. Grab me by the collar and give me an earful if you have to. Whatever you have to say to me, I want to hear it.” You gaze at him for a long moment, weighing up his apology and your pain. Your heart thumps in your chest, and your hands are becoming sweaty.

You pose the final question: “Why didn’t you come after me sooner? It’s been a whole week.”

Zayne avoids your eyes as he murmurs, “I… needed time to collect my thoughts as I’m sure you did.” He pauses before meeting your gaze.

“I love you, Y/n. I will always love you,” he states like it’s a fact and not a feeling. Like the only thing he’s sure of in this lifetime is his love for you.

Sighing, you slowly rise from the sofa opposite him. Stepping around the coffee table, you stand in front of him. He stares up at you, analysing all of the emotions in your eyes. They’re much gentler now.

He breathes out shakily, “Did I pass?” You smirk and run your hands through his hair, scratching at his scalp lightly and eliciting a soft sigh from him.

Zayne raises his hands slowly and reaches out for you tentatively. You give a small nod, urging him to touch you. When his cold fingers caress the back of your thigh, you shiver. They tremble as he palms your warm flesh and presses you into the space between his legs.

You giggle, “You scraped it by only one point.” His eyes almost pop out of his skull, and his jaw slackens— utterly mortified.

“O-one point?” He stutters.

You chuckle, unable to contain yourself, “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. By two points at least.” His head dips as he nuzzles your tummy.

He murmurs into his your shirt, “That’s my worst grade yet. Don’t you think you mark too harshly?”

Ruffling his hair, you quip, “No.” Your hands slide down to his shoulders and wrap around the back of his neck. His toned arms encircle your legs as he sighs into your warmth. All of the tension accumulating this past week dissolves beneath your fingertips, and Zayne finds himself rather tired. Yawning, he tenderly kisses your navel through the cotton fabric.

“Where’s Tara?” He asks lazily.

You chirp, “She’s on a mission. Won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“Mhmm,” he hums. You two remain like that for a few minutes, content to enjoy these tender touches and each other’s presence.

Eventually, Zayne yanks you down onto his lap and cuddles with you. He murmurs sweet apologies in your ear as he strokes your thigh, twirling the hem of your shirt between his fingers. You rest your head against his shoulder and close your eyes, your hand on his heart. It beats steadily beneath your palm, a constant reminder that everything will be okay.

At some point, you doze off because when you open your eyes, you’re in Tara’s guest room. Morning sunlight streams through the curtains, and birds chirp in the distance. You stretch and turn your head to the side, eyes searching for a swathe of black hair and pale skin.

There’s no sign of Zayne. Not as you get out of bed and clean yourself up. Not even as you head to the kitchen and boil the kettle. Not until your phone pings.

You grab it, hoping that it’s him. And you grin as you pour boiling water into a mug with a tea bag in it, clicking on his message.

masterlist

a/n: here's part two as requested! hope all of you liked it. i was gonna make him like beg, but i feel like zayne doesn't grovel. i think if it was raf or caleb, they would be on their knees pleading for a second chance, but not zayne.

(almost) every one who asked for a pt.2 - @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888, @schnittled, @ciaradream8, @mystqyy, @syluslittlecrows, @mcdepressed290, @regalillegal, @crimsonsylus, @slimearchon

#★’s works #love and deepspace #zayne love and deepspace #zayne li #lads zayne #lnds zayne #zayne x reader #zayne angst

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rosalinesurvived · 5 hours ago

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So Haymitch and Louella (+Lou Lou by default) are all going to be played by white actors despite the former being from the Seam and olive skinned and the latter being from District 11. Despite the Seam being located in Appalachia and District 11 having heavy allusions to slavery experienced by brown and black people. District 12 only has one Poc and its Wyatt. The faces of the rebellion are white. Again. As usual!

And already you’ve got people on Twitter and TikTok defending it ‘ohh its because Louella had to remind Haymitch of Katniss’ despite her toughness and braids being the link between the two and despite Rue reminding Katniss of Prim despite them being different races. And you’ve got people dumbing down Wyatt now to ‘hurr durr Asian boy cast for the Number Person.’ AND you have people bitching about how Lenore haaaas to be white and redheaded bc her hair had a tint of red in it. You’ve got people saying that The Hunger Games is dystopian and rAcE dOeSn’T mAtTeR as if race, inequality, generational abuse, systematic injusticies aren’t all linked, intertwined to each other.

And I—I’m just so fucking tired. Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered getting my hopes up for white people but its 2025. This is a woman who said her inspiration for the hunger games came from a blend of the Iraq war and a game host show. Her Covey were rip offs of real life Romani people and her refusal to stand up for Poc as Katniss, Gale and Haymitch is what kickstarted this pretext of ‘ohhhhh but the film version-’. She’ll use us for a story and cash grabs, she’s all in for the pretty dresses but you know her real priorities lie in making sure her fellow white’s delicate eyes are affected too much.

Because isn’t it soooo fucking awesome that a book supposedly concerned with propoganda and the Capitol’s sucess at wiping out a rebellion attempt by POC and changing the narrative is now fine and dandy with whitewashing its main characters.

#literally fuck it all. what is even the point?#don’t fucking get me started on following louella’s casting with elle fanning as effie as damage control. literally propoganda #the hunger games #sunrise on the reaping #louella mccoy #suzanne collins #haymitch abernathy #anti sotr #anti sunrise on the reaping

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sunflowerlando · 2 days ago

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Could you do Yuki with prompt 32 👀

My life got absolutely insane after I posted my follower special almost 2 months ago, so apologies on the delay!!! I'm finally getting around to finishing/posting the requests from here

Prompt 32. "Maybe you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense.” Mature but nothing explicit. I started writing this when we found out Yuki was going to Red Bull so it's in the past on the timeline...

You were pissed.

Again.

You were absolutely going to strangle the Japanese driver this time.

You stalk through the paddock, passing familiar faces that looked at you with concern – the rage evident on your face and in your stride.

As you reach the VCARB hospitality area, you spot Isack and Yuki having a laugh with some of the mechanics around one of the tables outside.

“Tsunoda!” you practically yell as you walked up.

“Oh shit.” Isack says, “You’ve done it this time mon ami.”

“Can I speak with you, privately…” you ask, trying to keep your tone even. You do not want to chew out the driver in front of a group, and especially not out in the paddock where anyone with a VIP pass could overhear and/or take a video. An errant video was what had gotten you this heated in the first place.

“Ummm, I’d rather not.” Yuki responds, looking to Isack for help.

“Tough shit.” You say, pointing at the door. He gets up from his chair, looking sheepish as he follows you inside. You wind your way through the halls before going into an open meeting room and closing the door behind the two of you.

You try to take a few calming breaths, closing your eyes and visualizing things that make you happy before turning to him and pinning him with a biting look.

“Did we or did we not have a conversation at the last race about your media strategy and how you needed to lay low for a bit?” You ask.

“We did…” he responds.

“And what did you go out and do instead?” You groan. “You did exactly the opposite, Yuki! You went out clubbing and got papped in a compromising situation with THREE PEOPLE. I don’t give a shit what you do in private, but you were in public for god’s sake!”

“Does it help if I say I’m sorry?” He asks his brown eyes shining up at you from where he’s sitting.

“No, because I absolutely know you aren’t.” You retort.

“Okay, but I’m sorry it makes more work for you.” He says, and you pinch the bridge of your nose, closing your eyes again.

“I’m getting really tired of hearing your apologies and excuses.” You say looking at him again. He’s standing in front of you now, and he reaches a hand out to place it on your shoulder. “I am sorry. You’re upset and tense because of something I did. How can I make it right?”

“Start by not doing it again…”

“Right. No more public makeouts.”

“Just no more of any of the things we’ve already talked about 12 times. Stick to posting cute photos of you and food and cars.

“You think I’m cute?” he asks, a grin spreading across his face.

“Yuki, that's not the point.” “It could be if you wanted…” he says, trailing his hand down from your shoulder and running his fingers gently over your arm.

“Yuki…” you say, a hint of warning in your tone. The air in the room seems to crackle as his eyes bore into yours and he drops his hand back to his side. There has always been this tension between the two of you for as long as you’ve worked with the team. You wouldn’t jeopardize your job by being caught with one of the drivers. It would be a PR nightmare and your job was to try to prevent those.

“I’m going to Red Bull.” He says.

“What?” you say, your breath stuttering.

“They’re moving me to Red Bull, so you won’t have to deal with my nonsense anymore.” He says with a shrug.

"Then maybe you could use that mouth for more than just talking nonsense.” You say and he looks at you quizzically.

“What do you mean?” He asks, and you don’t know if he’s playing coy or the language gap is genuinely throwing him on this one.

“Fuck it,” you grumble before you smash your lips against his.

He’s stunned for a moment before his hands grip your waist and he’s kissing you back fervently.

“I knew you wanted me.” He says as you break apart for a moment to breathe. “Shut up, Yuki.” You say, still annoyed at him. One of his hands come up to grasp the back of your neck, pulling you back to him as his lips move over yours once again. He walks you backwards in the kiss so the back of your legs hit the meeting room table, and you sit back on it as he steps between your legs.

“I’ve wanted to do this for so long.” He murmurs before starting to kiss down your neck. His hands are roaming your sides and you let out a soft sigh. “Tell me you’ve wanted this too.” “I’ve wanted it… wanted you…” you respond, your hips rocking on the table to grind against his hardening arousal. “Good girl. You’re so pretty like this; all needy for me…” He says, tweaking one of your nipples through your shirt and bra.

“Yuki…” you moan loudly.

He pulls back from your neck and smirks at you before saying “Shhhh… you’re going to get us in trouble.”

“Then make me be quiet.” You challenge before his lips crash back into yours.

#yuki tsunoda x reader #yuki tsunoda x you #f1 x reader #f1 x you #f1 blurb #f1 fic #sunflowerlando writes #sunflowerlando creates #🌻 400 #sunflower's follower celly

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hmhas-00 · 23 hours ago

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Ch. 42

Hit Me Hard & Soft

A/N- 💐 One step closer?

Billie’s POV

We finally land in London, late at night.

The cool July breeze blows in through the open hotel window, welcoming us into the room at a chilling sixteen degrees celsius.

“I’m freezing!” She runs over to the thermostat, “Sixteen degrees? Whats that in Fahrenheit?”

I search on Google, “Uhh… sixty-two degrees.”

She spams the thermostat buttons, turning the temperature up to warm up the room.

I drop my stuff on the floor, immediately plopping on one of the two beds. Usually our room comes with one giant king sized bed, but this time we have two queen beds. One for each.

“God I’m so tired…” My muscles relax and melt into the mattress, while the scent of freshly washed linen fills my nostrils. I breathe out, so glad to be off the airplane, so glad that all this flying back and forth will soon come to an end.

The past few months flew by. Remy started freaking out about making ends meet, and having to break her lease, so I arranged for a tenant to stay in her apartment, to help pay for rent while she is away, on tour with me.

Or so she thinks.

Really, I’ve just been paying an assistant of mine to check out the apartment once a week to make sure plants are watered, surfaces are dusted, and everything is taken care of.

At the same time, I’ve been sending my assistant $1,900 each month, for her to send back to Remy as “rent.”

I feel bad for doing this behind her back, but can you blame me for trying to help? I had to do something to soothe her worries. I had to do something to keep her from leaving, from going back home in the middle of tour, to deal with the overwhelming stress all alone.

Besides, tour will be over by the end of the month now, and life in LA will go back to normal. Back to making new music in my cozy little basement, back to not constantly being on vocal rest, back to life as usual… Back to waking up when I want, sleeping in my own bed, alone…

“You get your own bed tonight.” Remy says coincidentally, almost as if we communicated telepathically, from across the room. I always fear she could read my mind.

“Mhmm.” The bed muffles my voice as I respond, not bothering to look up from my spot. I haven’t been this comfortable in eleven whole hours.

The flight here was smooth, but I got zero sleep. Remy did. She slept like a perfect angel the whole way here, and proceeded to fall asleep in the car, on the way to the hotel. I practically slept-walked through security, exhausted, both physically and mentally.

Now, it’s almost four in the morning. Remy is doing her skin care routine in the bathroom, and I can’t even get up to change into pjs.

I finally talk myself into standing, maybe just long enough to take off my clothes and climb into bed.

“Rem, can you—“ I sit up, only to see she came out holding a mint pasted toothbrush out to me. She always manages to know exactly what I need. Mind reader, I swear!

“Yes, thank you.” I force a smile, a headache forming already, as I brush my teeth.

I walk into the bathroom, where she’s already moisturizing her freshly exfoliated face. “I want to shower, but if I stand another minute longer, my feet might fall off.”

She laughs, “You look like shit. Just wash your face and go to sleep.”

I nod, spitting foam into the sink. I watch the water go down the drain as I rinse my mouth, zoning out for a few seconds, not thinking about anything in particular.

“Your face.” She reminds me, handing me the facial wash.

“Right.” I begin lathering my face as Remy walks back into the room, where I hear her rummage through her things.

I finish up, turning the light off and shutting the bathroom door. Remy is already tucked in a bed, the left side of the room already claimed by her in a lilac hoodie, which covers her head as she scrolls social media.

I change out of my clothes into something clean and warm, forcing myself into the empty bed on the right side of the room, deciding to make unpacking tomorrow’s problem.

Remy’s belongings already adorn the furniture on her side of the room. She always unpacks and organizes as soon as we enter the room. It’s a ritual for her. All that is left for her to unpack are her clothes, but this time, she also decided to make them tomorrow’s problem. Although, I could already hear her rushing me to unpack my things so we can get on with our day.

I stretch out, convincing myself that the extra space is so much better than sharing a bed with Remy. She reaches over to one of the closest lamps on the nightstand between us, turning off the light, and plugging in her phone to charge. I realize then, that I never got my charger out, but the thought of digging and fishing for it through all my bags made me want to die instead.

I leave my dying phone on the nightstand and turn off my lamp, sinking my face into the plush hotel pillow before shutting my eyes.

“Get some rest pookie.” She says, her eyes closed and her voice trailing off into dreams.

“Goodnight.” I close my eyes, my lips forming into a tiny smile.

I try to keep my eyes shut for several minutes, hoping my exhaustion takes over, but I can’t help taking a peek at her. The moonlight sneaks through the window and the satin curtains, bouncing off Remy’s cheekbones. Despite the room being so cold, the heat barely catching up, she lays peacefully, probably already fast asleep.

Curled up under the heavy comforter, my body sinks into the memory foam beneath me, my eyes betraying me and the roof of my mouth aching as a yawn fights its way through.

There is no one to throw my leg over, there is no chest to lay my head on, no feet to kick me all night, and no hands to rip the covers from me every few hours. I sigh, grabbing one of the many pillows under my neck, tucking it under the covers, throwing my leg over it and turning toward the window. It isn’t the same.

I close my eyes, too tired to keep longing for Remy’s warm body in my bed, and fall asleep after about 4 deep, deep breaths.

The following morning I wake up in an empty hotel room. The temperature is dry and cool, the window open again, swinging back and forth from the soft breeze. It is much warmer outside, the heater is no longer necessary.

I drag myself out of bed, making it a point to look in the mirror before taking a shower and changing into new clothes. A white, thrifted, graphic t-shirt and a pair of wide cargo jeans. I let my hair air dry as I run my skin care routine on auto pilot, while I overthink.

London is the last stop on our tour, and my favorite tour photographer will be no more. Having Remy attached at the hip, snapping photos, filling her phone camera roll and all the storage on each camera HD card, has been my very own personal heaven on earth. Every moment is worth it, even if I must go to hell each and every time I think about the fact that she is not mine. Not forever, not now, and not ever.

My instagram feed is mostly credited to her. I will keep these photos, and many that the world will never see, in my heart forever. I am certain this tour is like the summer vacation we will never be able to experience again. Not this close, not this together. I am forever grateful I get to spend this last month with her, before I hand her back to another job, another person, another life she doesn’t deserve.

My phone rings, my familiar ringtone bringing music to my ears.

“Hey, where did you disappear off to?” I speak into the bottom of the phone, setting it on speaker.

“The shops. Found some cute markets.” I could hear the smile in her voice, and picture the smile lines it formed on her tan, freckled face.

“Can I join?” I ask, like a drooling golden retriever, dying to trail behind her in awe.

“Obviously! I’ll send you the address.”

“I’ll meet you in a bit.” I smile until the end of our call.

I search her location on my phone, and see that it’s within walking distance. I put on some dark sunglasses and a hat, and start on my way.

The walk up to the markets isn’t very long. Only about 10 minutes. On the way to the markets, I pass by a flower shop. The smell is so strong, so fragrant, that I have to stop in and sniff around. The daisies catch my eye in all sorts of colors. White, yellow, red, pink, and purple. I look around, seeing all the different varieties of arrangements I can make for her.

“Do you care for a handful, my lovely?” A sweet, older lady, standing behind the counter, asks from across the shop.

What if I did? What if I just put together the most beautiful flowers in London and make her a bouquet? What if I give them to her, at the centre, in front of everyone, and I ask her to be my girl.

Yeah, right. As if.

“No, thank you, miss. They’re all so beautiful, though.” I lean in to smell some deep, dark roses.

“How about a free half dozen, then? On the house.” She grins, watching me enjoy the scent.

“No, I couldn’t.” I shake my head, backing away from the roses as she floats towards me with both hands on her hip.

“Well, of course you could, my love. It is only but six flowers, dear.” She puts a hand on my shoulder, gesturing towards the array of plants scattered around the store.

I smile at her, “You’re so kind, miss—“

“I’ll let you pick out your bunch, I’ll be over there.” She sashays over to the register, waiting patiently.

I end up picking two dozen flowers. All different kinds, all different colors, but all remind me of one person. The daisies remind me of how pure and genuine she is, while peonies remind me of how strong and independent she is. The roses remind me of her beauty and grace, and the chrysanthemums remind me of the warm glow of joy she spreads when she’s around. I could get lost in this shop, giving each flower a new meaning but every second spent away from her, is a second wasted.

I put out my wallet, “Two dozen, please.” I smile.

“On the house.” She grins back.

“No, it’s okay, I really appreciate—“

“Aht aht! I said half a dozen on the house, you can take it or leave it.” She rings up a dozen and a half and shows me on the screen, before turning it back around.

I laugh, “You have yourself a deal.”

I slide my card, and when I get my receipt, I see she only charged me for one dozen.

“Hey! You tricked me!” I cross my arms.

She chuckles, “Have you ever let anybody do something nice for you, sweet pea?”

I shake my head, “Thank you, miss. She’s going to love them.”

“I hope she does.” She nods her head, waving me out the door.

I walk down the pebble stone path to the markets, looking down at the giant, floral paper wrapped bouquet in my hands.

I’m going to tell her. I’m going to confess my feelings for her. She’s going to know how I feel.

Maybe not out in the open, in front of everybody, but maybe I’ll take her on a walk, to a little cafe, or the park.

Sooner than later, beyond all the wandering bodies, I spot her chatting away with a tall man. A vendor I assume.

As I get closer, I hold the bouquet behind my back, waiting patiently, watching them from the corner of the sidewalk.

I watch as she laughs at something he says, while twirling a strand of her hair in her finger. I watch as he puts on a front that he’s not melting under her gaze.

I look closer and notice they’re holding identical coffee cups, which they sip at the same time too. Then, she hands him her phone and he types something in. He hands it back to her and he waves as she walks away.

My heart feels like a crumpled piece of paper, balled up and thrown in the trash. I almost forget about the giant bouquet behind my back, as a pedestrian accidentally bumps into it, accidentally causing some petals to drop to the ground.

I look at the beautiful arrangement before me, the bright colors no longer speaking to me. I take a deep breath and swallow, trying to drown my sorrow.

“You made it!” Her red cheeks and matching glossy lips pull me out of my own head.

“I did, I made it.” I smile the fakest smile you’ve ever seen.

“Ooh! Where’d you get these?” Her glimmering eyes look up at me while pointing at the flowers. She sniffs them, taking them from my hands.

“A fan gave them to me.” I lie, watching her hold the flowers I picked out just for her. I watch as each one compliments her outfit well. She wraps her two hands around the stems as if she were walking down the aisle to me

“They’re beautiful! They must’ve cost a fortune. I wish somebody got me flowers like these.” She leans down to smell them once again.

“It was really sweet.” I try to change the subject, “Find anything cool?”

“Yeah, actually! I got you…” Remy reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a dark green and black vintage sweatshirt. She holds it up to her chest for a second, before turning it over and showing my name embroidered on the back.

“Oh, Rem, this is so dope!” I smile big, taking it from her and admiring the work.

“Isn’t it? A little shop down the street does them. I got myself one too.”

“Thank you!” I hug her, taking in her scent for the first time since she fell asleep on me yesterday, in the plane, on our way to London. Sleeping in separate beds left me craving that scent like an addict.

“I saw it and I thought of you. I knew you’d love it.” She says, my heart warming back up at the thought of her thinking about me, even during her short time away from me. Even with tall, attractive, men looming around.

“I do love it.”

She chuckles softly into my ear in our embrace, probably because I’m holding onto her still. Probably wondering why I haven’t let go.

“You got coffee too?” I pull away, remembering her little exchange.

“Yeah, this really nice guy payed for it at the cafe right across the street there.” She points. “Everyone here is so nice, right?” She gestures towards the flowers.

“Yeah, really.” I nod.

“Let’s keep exploring, come on.” She takes my arm, looping hers around, guiding me down the long pebble stone path of shops.

She gasps excitedly before we enter a clothing store. A boutique of some sorts.

We spend about an hour trying on clothes, putting on a fashion show for each other in the tiny dressing rooms. She twirls in short skirts and leather tops, and I dance around in cargo pants and oversized shorts. She looks so beautiful in everything. Everything fits her perfectly, like it was tailored to her body.

I do my best not to let her catch me staring too long. “So, someone bought you coffee today, huh?” I sit on a little bench inside the dressing room.

“Yeah.” She smiles at herself in the mirror, smoothing out the fabric at her sides.

I nod, “Tell me more…” Hoping she’ll put my mind at ease with any delusions, hoping she’ll say it was just a kind gesture. That they didn’t exchange numbers, that she was just showing him something on her phone.

“We talked and walked around for a bit. He was kinda cute, wasn’t he?” She looks at me through the reflection in the mirror.

“Yeah, totally.” I respond quickly.

“He smelled good too.” She changes back into her original outfit.

I think of how close they had to be for her to be able to smell his cologne and my insides burn.

“Yeah?” I fidget with my hands.

“Mhmm.” She pulls out her phone, “He gave me his instagram too!” She shows me his profile. This guy doesn’t have a single bad photo, which is not common amongst men.

“Nice!” I act intrigued, when really I couldn’t care less.

“He gave me his number.” She wiggles her brows at me.

“Oh, really?”

Fuck. My. Life.

“Yeah. I probably won’t text him. I’m sure he’s already forgotten about me.” She shrugs, leaving the dressing room with all the clothes.

“Yeah, probably.” I stand up and follow closely behind.

I pull out my card to pay for our shopping spree, but she stops me, handing the cashier her own. “Are you kidding? I got this.”

“Are you sure? Rem, you don’t have to!” I watch as she slides her card for her.

“Yeah, I’m the best photographer in the world, remember? These paychecks gotta go towards something, now that I don’t have to worry about rent.” She laughs, bumping into me with her shoulder, playfully.

We walk out of the store with our new outfits, content as can be.

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