#if you don’t like something—don’t read it

[koipudding]

being with kaiser means having to dissect your own heart while stitching up his.

chewing on him jn the tags and etc. don’t mind me

he’d be pretty mean at first. he’s gauging your reactions; would you run if you saw everything that haunted him? how he haunts himself? Kaiser does nothing but spit and snarl at you, like a stray cat that’s only been kicked to the curb.

but you don’t leave him alone. not like every other one-night stand he’s had—no, you’ve made him breakfast—a traditional german faire—and brushed and put oil in his hair (his favorite scent too; you tell him it’s been your favorite for a few years. something in him softens).

It’s so domestic he almost vomits after that, but on his first night away from your apartment, he can’t sleep. Practice is shit and he’s not performing well, to the point where he initiates a facetime call (kaiser hates initiating. it feels like begging for your attention, when yours should be solely on him anyway.) and you pick up instantly.

the time difference makes something shatter in him. You’re just waking up… hair messy and eyes bleary. You can hardly speak or hold up the phone…

“Mihya…? You okay?” you’re slumped in bed, wearing his sweater. He might combust (when did Michael become so attached to you? He doesn’t know, but he whispers your name like a prayer, like you’re his guiding light).

“I’m better now, dear. Let me tell you what that idiot of a striker did at practice—“ he rambled on, and watches you nod along. You him and agree with him, and a weight falls off of his shoulders. Kaiser can love you. Perhaps he already does…

[lilianne-tarot]

PICK A CARD: How Will Your future spouse express jealousy

How to Pick Your Pile: Take a deep breath, clear your mind, and look at the images above. Which one pulls you in the most? Trust your gut! Once you choose the image, The number below your chosen image is your pile. If more than one catches your eye, that just means there’s extra tea for you—go ahead and read both!

If you enjoyed this reading, get your own personalized paid reading here!😊🦋

For personalized 18+ readings, click here!

My Ko-fi link: here 🫶🏻

My Masterlist🫶🏻

── .✦ PILE I

OHHHH this pile is defination of “I’m jealous, but I will NEVER admit it.” Your future spouse is doing CRAZY STUFF to keep their jealousy under control, but you will feel it. Oh, you WILL feel it.

BABY. This is a long-game kind of love. A soulmate kind of bond. And listen, when someone sees you as their person, their one-and-only, their forever, there is no way in HELL they’re just sitting back while some random tries to get cute with you. i see that your people pile number 1, they don’t react right away. Oh no, no, no. They marinate in that jealousy in their mind. The 7 of Pentacles tells me they watch, observe, process before making a move. Like, imagine someone getting a little too friendly with you at a party. Your future spouse, Sitting there, giving a polite but stone-cold stare, studying every move of that person. They’re literally taking mental notes: Did you laugh a little too hard at that joke? Did you lean in slightly? Are they standing too close? But instead of acting on impulse, they sit there, pretending they’re totally fine (they are NOT fine). When i look at 2 of cups illustration, i feel like, they realy enjoy your company, like A LOT, and when someone else invades this space, they hate that with all their heart. 

 OH MY GOD THIS IS SO FUNNY. This is that passive-aggressive, sulking, “I’m not mad, I just think it’s funny how…” behavior. They are so in their jealousy, but will they admit it? Absolutely not. Instead, they suddenly lose interest in whatever’s happening. They’re like, “Oh, you’re talking to that person? Wow. That’s so great for you. Anyway, I’ll just be over here…..” They might even act a little distant, maybe even hit you with the classic “It’s nothing, I’m fine” while literally radiating “I am NOT fine” energy. this person is not about to lose their cool in front of you Instead, they suddenly start acting very serious, very focused on something else. They’ll be like, “Oh, I have an email to answer,” or “I need to check something on my phone”. I get the naive energy from your future spouse, like very youthful and maybe little immature because they want you to ONLY themselves. AND THEN. THE JUDGEMENT CARD. THIS IS THE CLIMAX. This is when they snap back into reality and realize, Oh wait. I’m literally in a relationship with them. They love me. What am I doing? This is where they have that internal wake-up call. They’ll come back to you, realigned, refocused, remembering that you’re their soulmate (2 of Cups energy, baby!!). And THEN, instead of being petty, they’ll drop some casual reassurance-seeking comment like, “So… you seemed to be having fun with them, huh?”—AKA making sure or you to say they had nothing to worry about.

But overall, ill definitely say that They aren’t the type to lash out in jealousy, but you WILL notice the change. The silence, the avoidance, the fake distraction tactics. It’s subtle but LOUD. But at the end of the day? The Judgment card seals the deal—they always come back to their senses, realizing that duh, you’re theirs and they’re yours. And the second you reassure them? BOOM. They’re back to their normal, confident self. These people would give their everything just to be in your company. Very sulky baby energy ngl. They’re not explosive, but they are silently suffering. And bestie, if you ever call them out on it? OH BOY. Expect a very defensive “What? I wasn’t jealous. That’s ridiculous.” … Sure, babe. Sure.

Liked the reading? get your own personalized super in-depth paid reading here!

── .✦ PILE II

Alright, so the first thing I’m catching here is contrast—we’ve got the King of Cups and Temperance trying so hard to play it cool, acting all mature, controlled, and balanced. Then we have The Devil, and that too right in the middle of the spread. The sentence i would immedtly say here is, your future spouse is going to be OBSESSED WITH YOU. It’s the internal battle of “I’m unbothered” vs. “I will die if I see you entertaining someone else.” they try to move past jealousy logically—like, “It’s fine, I trust them”—but The Devil says, “But what if they find someone better?” . And then BAM, Two of Cups swoops in and reminds them that you two are soulmates, and there’s no competition—but oh boy, they still feel it. THIS person gets so confused when it comes to you i can clearly see that by the mixed enrgies from the spread, they are hit with SOO MANY emotions all at once but one theme is prominent, they are SUPERRRRR obsessed with you. 

This is giving “jealous but won’t let it show” energy which is just like pile 1 but the energy here is more obsessed type, cause pile 1 was more on the cuter and naive side. Your FS is the type to mask their jealousy under cool composure. They are emotionally intelligent, self-restraint,. If someone flirts with you in front of them, they will not cause a scene will make things very obvious. Whenever they would see someone getting wayyy to close to you they are hit with the thought “ i need to rescue my person,” They will not act out immediately—but best believe they’ll remember it. And later? they’ll try to rationalize their emotions, convince themselves to let it go—but the Two of Cups suggests that deep down, they’ll need reassurance from you. Not that they don’t trust you, but rather, their feelings run deep and they just want to be reminded that you’re theirs.

The Devil is the obsessive thoughts creeping in at night, when they’re alone, replaying a moment over and over like, “Were they actually flirting? Was my FS enjoying it??” This isn’t toxic jealousy—it’s more of that “I don’t want to lose what’s mine” energy. I would say their super obsessive side is balanced by the presence of two of cups here so reagrless of anything, the’ll be the biggest shield of your relationship. You two have such a strong connection that even when jealousy creeps in, they ultimately trust your bond enough to not tuen into insecurity. But ohhh, they’ll find a way to remind you that you’re theirs—subtle, territorial gestures, low-key possessiveness in the most elegant way possible. These people are VERY CONDFIDENT. Expect things like a hand on your waist, pulling you closer mid-conversation, a little smirk when someone’s trying (and failing) to flirt with you. Casual dominance, bestie. (we all love that) 

The energy of this pile was super sexy ngl. good for my booktok girlies. 

Liked the reading? get your own personalized super in-depth paid reading here!

── .✦ PILE III

As soon as i looked at the spread the immediate thought hit me was, your future spouse is going to treat you like ROYALTY. So, picture this: Your future spouse? They’re so put together, they’ve got their life in check, they exude this natural confidence (like, they’re used to being the main character, okay?), and they don’t just casually do jealousy.no. this is a very secure energy. If they feel it, they feel it deep in their bones. It’s not dramatic, but it’s intensely present—not loud, but undeniable. The thing is, it’s not even about insecurity; it's about you being so precious to them that even the thought of someone else getting too close? Yeah, no, they’re not having it.

See, the Empress and the King of Wands together? That’s fire and devotion. You are the ultimate prize, the softest yet most powerful presence in their life, and they know it. And because they know it, they also know your worth, which means they see the way others see you too. Oh, and trust me—others see you. The way you glow? The way you hold yourself? The way you make even the most casual of interactions feel special? Yeah, your future spouse notices when someone starts acting just a little too friendly. And they don’t like it. The moment you get into a relationship with them, youre going to have the biggest glow up. 

This is where things get fun. So when they are jealous, They might not immediately lash out, but there’s definitely a shift—their words get a little sharper, they start inserting themselves into conversations they weren’t in before, and if they’re the more composed type, you’ll notice they suddenly have a lot to say about whoever is making them feel some type of way. But they’re so smooth with it. They’re not obvious. It’s like they play it off as if they’re just making an observation or a lighthearted joke, but there’s an edge to it. A warning. And if the other person doesn’t get the memo? Oh, honey. They will. Your person isn’t impulsive with their jealousy; they’re strategic about it. They’re the type to let people dig their own graves before stepping in. They’ll watch, wait, assess—is this just harmless interaction, or is someone really pushing it? And when they do step in? It’s game over. They’re asserting their presence, effortlessly, dominantly. It’s all in the control. They’ll make the other person feel like they’ve already lost before they even realized they were in a competition.

But bestie, the real magic? It’s in the aftermath. Because once you’re alone? OHHH. This is when their softness creeps in. The Page of Cups peeks through in the smallest ways—they won’t outright admit they were jealous (I mean, duh, pride), but suddenly they’re extra affectionate, extra attentive. And the cutest part? Deep down, they know they have nothing to worry about. You’re theirs, and they’re yours, and that’s not changing. This is such a power duo because we have the empress as well as king of cups in the spread. But bestie, the way they still can’t help but get a little possessive? ADORABLE. They’re not the type to get insecure, but they are the type to make sure that everyone—including you—knows exactly where they stand. They’re the King of Wands, after all. They own their throne, and they protect what’s theirs.

They don’t control—you’re free to do whatever you want—but ohhh, they will make sure you NEVER forget who you belong to. 😌🔥

And honestly That’s hot.

Now tell me, I need to know what divine force blessed you with this person. 💀💀

Liked the reading? get your own personalized super in-depth paid reading here!

Thank you so much for reading all the way through! I hope my reading resonated with you and that you had a lovely time going through it. If you enjoyed it, please like and reblog—it really means a lot! Let me know which pile you chose; I absolutely love hearing your thoughts and feedback on my readings! If my reading resonated you, you may consider buying my paid reading as it would really help me out financially♡

Note: tarot cards provide guidance and possible insights into what could happen based on current energies, thoughts, and actions. the cards can highlight potential paths or outcomes, but they do not fixedly predict the future. this is a general reading so take what resonates!

[pbaz7]

FINDING PEACE IN YOU: PART 1

paige x azzi

word count: 11.7k

A/N: I’m back!!! This is one of my first AU and it got me excited to write again! I don’t even know how to describe it honestly 😭 just read it and find out. Let me know what you think please 🤭

—————————————————————————

Azzi Fudd stood at the counter of the small, semi-packed café in Dallas, Texas, holding her warm cup of coffee in her hand. Normally, the café was a quiet, peaceful retreat—just the perfect place for a quick moment of solitude before heading to her office for the day. But today? The usual cozy hum of conversation and soft music turned into a buzz of chatter, and for some reason, there were more people milling about than she was used to. Some sat with their drinks, but there were others who didn’t seem to have a purpose, simply standing around, scanning the space. It felt like the usual sereneness had been replaced with a subtle restlessness in the air.

Azzi shook the thought from her mind. She’d come here for one thing: a much-needed pick me up with a cup of coffee. She took a sip, the warmth swirling in her chest, but as she turned toward an empty corner, a sudden bump jolted her from her thoughts.

She looked down to find herself toe-to-toe with a tiny figure.

The little boy stood there, almost too small to notice in the midst of all the bustling customers. He had bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle anytime the sunlight hit them, his blonde hair a soft, messy assortment of wavy curls. There was something about him—something about how his wide-eyed gaze was a mix of innocent curiosity and complete calmness.

“Oh! I’m sorry,” Azzi murmured, stepping back to avoid the awkwardness of the accidental bump. She gave him a gentle smile, but before she could ask if he was alright, the boy softly mumbled, “Sorry.” Then he turned his attention back to the cafe around him, his focus unbroken as he looked around.

Azzi tilted her head slightly. She couldn’t help but smile at how quietly composed he seemed. Kneeling down to his level, she knelt to make eye contact, her voice soft but warm to not scare him. “Do you need help, sweetie?”

The boy paused, his brows furrowing ever so slightly as if he was pondering the question carefully. “Maybe,” he said after a moment.

Azzi couldn’t help but chuckle at the response. “Maybe? That’s a first,” she teased gently. She watched him closely, noting the confidence in his small but steady posture.

The boy shifted his gaze, his blue eyes scanning the café again with all of the seriousness he could muster. Finally, he turned toward Azzi. “Ma says I’m not posed to talk to strangers,” he said. Pausing for a second before adding, “But you’re pretty.”

Azzi’s smile widened at the compliment. “Well, thank you, handsome,” she replied. “Where’s your mom?”

The boy looked around again, his small body twisting in place as he searched the area. His little shoulders sagged as he gave a shrug, his eyes lowering briefly, unsure what to do next.

Azzi’s heart melted at the sight. “What’s your name, sweetie?”

The boy’s eyes brightened at the question, a sudden surge of confidence rising in his small frame. “Lukas Drew Bueckers,” he said, puffing out his chest with a quiet pride. He then added, as though to clarify a very important piece of information, “Lukas with a K.”

Azzi laughed softly at his enthusiasm. “Well, Lukas with a K, can I help you find your mom?”

The boy studied her for a moment, his blue eyes scanning her face carefully. Weighing his options. After a second, he nodded, as if deciding she was trustworthy. “Sure,” he said simply.

Azzi smiled and without a second thought she carefully scooped him up into her arms.

She felt Lukas shift slightly in her arms, his small body twisting as he scanned the room with fresh determination. His earlier uncertainty had disappeared, replaced by a quiet confidence that Azzi couldn’t help but admire for someone his age. As she looked at him, she saw his blue eyes brighten, and before she could ask him about it, the boy’s small hand shot out.

Azzi’s gaze trailed the direction of his tiny finger. Across the cafe, standing near a group of young girls, was a tall blonde woman who immediately caught Azzi’s attention. She looked calm, almost serene, as if she had mastered the art of existing in a crowded space without ever being overwhelmed by it. Her posture was straight, her movements calculated as she offered polite smiles to the people around her giving each one of them just the right amount of attention. But there was something else in her gaze—something more intentional behind her warm expression. Azzi could see that, despite the casual grace she radiated, the woman was intentionally scanning the room in between bursts of eye contact.

The way the woman held herself reminded Azzi of the little boy she had in her arms. They both seemed to exude that same stillness, that calm poise. Like they were in their own little bubble amidst the chaos of the café.

Azzi squinted slightly, her eyes narrowing in on the blonde. There was something vaguely familiar about her, a recognition that lingered just out of reach, but Azzi couldn’t place it because she was a little too far to make out the full details of her face.

Then, Lukas’s soft voice broke her thoughts. “That’s my ma,” he said proudly, his chest puffing out with a sense of triumph.

Azzi’s eyes shifted back to the woman. Her calm demeanor was still in place as she subtly swept her gaze across the room again, her eyes eventually landing on Lukas and holding there for just a moment longer than necessary. She didn’t rush or react too visibly—she simply locked eyes with him, a small flicker of relief in her expression.

Azzi adjusted him in her arms, the little boy now content to rest against her with a gentle but firm grip. “I think we found her, huh?”

Lukas nodded, his blue eyes fixed on his mom as he let out a small sigh of relief.

Azzi’s gaze lingered on the blonde woman a little longer than she’d intended. There was something magnetic about her, something familiar yet entirely unknown. As Azzi observed her, the woman’s gaze shifted again, this time locking onto hers with an intensity that made Azzi’s heart skip a beat. It wasn’t just a casual glance—it felt like a quiet assessment. As if the blonde was calculating who this woman was with her son in her arms. Azzi’s breath caught in her chest, feeling the weight of that scrutiny, and for a brief second, she wondered what the woman was thinking.

But then, as quickly as it began, the assessment seemed to end. The blonde’s expression softened, a small smirk tugging at her lips. The moment passed, and she effortlessly shifted her attention back to the person in front of her, posing for a picture with a polite smile and signing her autograph.

Azzi gently adjusted Lukas in her arms as she began making her way over to the blonde.

As Azzi approached and the details became a little more defined it clicked in her mind who the woman was. The blonde paused mid-laugh, her attention shifting to her son who was now in front of her.

Lukas, known to be a little enthusiastic, reached his small arms toward his mother, his face lighting up when she caught him effortlessly despite him basically launching his body at her.

“Where’d you run off to, buddy?” the blonde asked with a soft laugh as she organized some of the messy waves of curls on the boy's head.

Lukas looked up at her with wide eyes, his face scrunched in concentration as he tried to explain his logic. “I was standing right there,” he began, his words spilling out in his three, almost-four-year-old cadence. “But then a girl tried to take a picture with you, and she almost ran me over! She dropped her chocolate, so I went to get her napkins.”

The blonde smiled at his story with an affectionate glint in her eyes. “Being a gentleman, huh?” she teased, clearly proud of her son’s instincts.

Lukas beamed at the praise, nodding vigorously. “Yup!”

Before Azzi could react, Lukas was off again, his little mouth running a mile a minute as he continued, “And then I bumped into this nice ma’am, but I wasn’t gonna talk to strangers ‘cause you know Ma you always say I shouldn’t, but she was really pretty, so I did anyway. And then she helped me find you!” Once he was done he shrugged casually, as if the sequence of events was a regular part of his day.

Azzi couldn’t help but smile at the way he rambled, completely unfazed by the world around him, his innocence and honesty shining through in his words. Paige, for her part, seemed entirely accustomed to this stream-of-consciousness storytelling, her eyes twinkling as she chuckled softly, the lines around her eyes deepening as she smiled at him.

“Well, alright, Casanova,” Paige said with a playful tone, her voice soft but still authoritative. “Go sit right there where I can see you and don’t move.” She pointed toward a chair directly next to where she was standing, just a few steps away, so Lukas wouldn’t be out of her sight again.

Lukas nodded, his eyes wide with excitement at the notion of getting to sit in such a grown-up chair. “Okay!” he said, already wiggling in his mom’s arms as she gently set him down.

Azzi couldn’t help but chuckle as she watched the little boy plop himself into the seat with a small flourish, trying to act like a big kid, yet still so full of that innocent wonder. She turned her gaze back to the blonde woman, who was already looking at her.

The blonde licked her lips, a subtle gesture, before she spoke. “Thank you for helping out the ladies' man over there,” she said, her voice smooth. She reached her hand out, a slight smirk forming on her lips—not one of arrogance, but a kind of self-assuredness that made it clear she knew exactly how to speak to women. “I’m Paige,” she added, her tone warm and inviting.

Azzi didn’t immediately respond with her name. Instead she simply reached out to shake Paige’s hand, a small flicker of amusement crossing her face when she felt Paige’s thumb brush against her knuckles. The touch was subtle, Azzi pulled away with a quiet confidence that Paige wasn’t used to encountering.

With a small smile, Azzi said, “I know who you are.”

Paige’s smirk deepened, her eyes flashing with curiosity. “Yeah?”

Azzi chuckled softly. “Kind of hard not to know who the face of the Wings is when you live in Dallas.”

Paige hummed in acknowledgment, not surprised but seemingly entertained. Azzi glanced around the café, her eyes noticing the small crowd still lingering near Paige and watching her conversation subtly.

“So, I take it you’re the reason my coffee run was so hectic today?”

Paige chuckled softly. “Yeah, sorry about that,” she said. “Someone posted about me being here before I could leave, and Casanova over there was taking his sweet time eating his breakfast muffin.”

Azzi laughed, the image of the little boy sitting there eating his food slowly while the world swirled around him. “I’m happy I could help,” she said, her voice warm but with a hint of finality, as though the conversation was wrapping up.

But just as Azzi turned to walk away, she felt a light, unexpected touch at her elbow. Paige’s fingers brushed against her skin, stopping her from walking away. The confident smirk never left her face, only now it seemed a little more certain.

“Lemme take you out,” Paige said smoothly, her blue eyes never leaving Azzi’s. “You know, to thank you.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow at that, clearly intrigued but also well aware of the kind of woman Paige was simply by how she carried herself. There was something about her—something that spoke volumes without her needing to say much. Azzi could tell that she was used to getting what she wanted with women, and something about that made Azzi want to make her work for it just a little more.

“Take me out, huh?” Azzi’s voice was laced with amusement, her lips curving into a slight smile.

Paige, unphased, nodded. “Yeah...you know, to properly thank you.”

Azzi hummed thoughtfully, tilting her head slightly as she gave Paige a once-over. Paige was very attractive, no denying that. Her tall frame, the way she carried herself, and that self-assured smile—it was all part of the appeal. But Azzi wasn’t about to give in that easily. She knew what Paige was implying, and while one night stands wasn’t Azzi’s thing, she found herself intrigued in a different way. She met Paige’s eyes, a spark of something unspoken passing between them.

“Coffee,” Azzi said simply.

Paige blinked, momentarily taken aback, though she hid it quickly. “Coffee?” she echoed, as if trying to process what Azzi had just suggested.

Azzi’s grin grew, a glimmer of challenge in her gaze. “Coffee,” she confirmed, her voice steady, eyes locked on Paige’s.

Paige’s lips twitched, her smirk softening into something a little more genuine, almost intrigued. She didn’t push it further. Instead, she let out a small surprised laugh.

“Alright…coffee it is,” Paige said, her voice smooth but with a quiet acknowledgment of the unusual challenge Azzi had just thrown her way.

Azzi, sensing that subtle shift in Paige’s gaze—something that told her she wasn't going to be as easy as Paige was used to—smiled to herself. She reached into her wallet, fingers grazing over the smooth surface of a business card, pulling it out. Flipping it over, she grabbed a pen from the counter and scribbled down her personal number.

Without a word, she handed the card to Paige, her fingers brushing against hers just for a moment. "You can text me," Azzi said.

Azzi turned to walk away, her body already angled toward the door when Paige’s voice called out, stopping her in her tracks.

“You never told me your name.”

Azzi paused for a brief second. A slight smirk danced on her lips, playful and a little enigmatic. She didn’t turn back to face Paige fully. Instead, with a casual motion, pointed at the card still resting in Paige’s hand. Without another word, she walked away.

Paige stood there, her brow furrowing in confusion for just a heartbeat, before she looked down at the card in her hand. Her fingers flipped it over, and her eyes scanned the text on the front.

"Azzi Fudd, DO – Private Sports Medicine Physician."

A small, amused smile spread across Paige’s face.

Azzi Fudd.

Paige’s smile deepened, a quiet breathy laugh slipping past her lips as she looked up, her gaze scanning the café for the woman who had already disappeared into the crowd. There was something about the way Azzi handled the whole situation that was a little out of Paige’s typical experience.

Shaking her head slightly, a smile still still tugging at the corners of her lips. She slipped the card into her pocket.

Paige turned back around to check on Lukas, who was sitting in the chair, deep in concentration, scribbling away at something on a piece of paper. Paige couldn’t help but laugh softly to herself, wondering just where he’d gotten that paper and pencil from.

She glanced down at his artwork, trying to make sense of it. The lines were haphazard, the shapes somewhat abstract. Paige tilted her head, her curiosity piqued as she tried to figure out what she was looking at.

“What you drawing dude?” she asked as she crouched down to get a better look.

Lukas looked up at her, his expression completely serious, like it should be clear as day what he was creating. “Ma, it’s a basketball hoop,” he said matter-of-factly, as if she should’ve known that from the start.

Paige raised an eyebrow at the drawing, her smile growing. The abstract shapes and squiggles started to make sense in her head now, and she couldn’t help but feel a little proud of his imagination. “Oooh, yeah, I see it now,” she said, playing along with a grin as she exaggerated her acknowledgment, making him laugh with pride.

She scooped him up effortlessly, his small arms wrapping around her neck immediately. He let out a yawn and buried his face in her shoulder with a soft sigh. Paige smiled down at him and kissed his head before moving toward the door.

She caught sight of her security guard sitting at one of the tables near the entrance, doing his usual routine. He never looked too imposing, but that was part of the job—he blended in. He was always calm, always steady, and knew when to step in without making anyone feel uncomfortable.

Paige had always been a little protective of her sense of independence, even after hiring a security team when she got to the league. She had always been determined to keep the control of her life in her own hands. She still drove herself around whenever she could, enjoyed the simple privacy of a quick coffee run without the constant buzz of attention, and most of all, she never wanted her security guard to be too close, hovering nearby. It was one of the things that made her feel like herself—the ability to be just another person, moving through the world without the heaviness of fame always hanging over her.

Her security guard was great at his job. He knew when to blend into the background and when to step in to get her out of situations. Paige had learned to trust him over time—he was discreet, always in the right place at the right time, without being an obvious presence.

Paige glanced over at him. “We’re heading to the gym,” Paige said. He gave a quick nod as he stood up to follow.

Paige stepped out of the café, the door closing gently behind her security as he walked towards his vehicle. The early Dallas sunlight bathed her in a warm glow. She walked toward her car, her sneakers making soft sounds against the pavement as Lukas chatted away.

She unlocked the back door of her Jeep where Lukas’s car seat was waiting. As she opened the door and sat him in his seat, she asked with a teasing tone, “You can buckle it?”

Lukas stopped in his tracks, a look of almost exaggerated offense crossing his face. His wide blue eyes narrowed slightly, as if she’d just asked him the most ridiculous question.

With a huff, he promptly reached over and started to buckle himself into his car seat—no assistance needed. The little grunt of concentration made Paige smile as she leaned against the car, arms crossed as she watched him with a mixture of admiration and amusement.

“You’re so independent,” she muttered under her breath, but Lukas was clearly on a mission and didn’t hear her. Within seconds, he had the car seat secured, sitting up proudly in his seat as he looked at his mom as if saying ‘see.’

Paige shook her head, laughing softly. “My son is so sassy,” she muttered to herself with a small, fond smile. She gave a small tug on the buckle to make sure he did it correctly before kissing his head and shutting the door and walking to the driver's seat. Paige was used to it by now—the way Lukas was quick to show off his little bits of grown-up behavior, always full of surprises, always one step ahead of her in his own way.

…

Later that night, after her day had wound down, Paige sat on the couch in the living room, the quiet hum of a random game playing on the TV in the background. Lukas was sprawled out beside her, completely fast asleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Paige took a moment to just look at him, her heart swelling with that familiar sense of calm that always followed after a long day of chaos.

Her gaze shifted to the table in front of her, where she had tossed the card earlier. Reaching for it, she flipped it over in her hands, her thumb grazing the edges before she grabbed her phone. She typed in the number on the back of the card, staring at the digits for a moment before tapping them into her messages.

She typed out a quick simple message: "So, about that coffee?"

Paige tossed her phone to the side before leaning back on the couch, eyes going back to the game on TV. Her phone buzzed a few minutes later, breaking her train of thought.

Paige scoffed when she saw the reply, and couldn’t help but grin. It read: “No introduction?”

She quickly typed back, tapping her fingers across the screen: “Didn’t think I needed one.”

The reply came almost immediately, and Paige’s grin grew. “Of course you didn’t.”

Paige chuckled and sat up a little straighter, then typed her response: “When are you free?”

She watched the screen for a moment, her fingers tapping lightly against her phone as she waited. A moment later, Azzi’s response popped up: “Thursday?”

Paige slid her thumb across her phone to open the calendar app, checking her schedule with a quick scan before going back to the message thread. She typed out: “I can do 11 Thursday.”

Azzi’s response was short and to the point: “Sounds good.”

For a moment, Paige paused. A thought struck her, and she smirked as she typed her next message: “So, what, I just gotta think about you for another day before I can thank you for helping my son?”

She hit send and set the phone down on the couch beside her, a soft laugh escaping her lips as she leaned back again. But it didn’t take long for Azzi’s response to come through, a quick and simple reply: “Seems that way.”

Paige raised an eyebrow, glancing at her phone. “Sounds kinda crazy to me,” she typed, a little smirk tugging at her lips as she sent it off.

She set the phone down again, turning her attention back to Lukas, who was still sound asleep beside her. Before she could drift too far into her thoughts, her phone buzzed once more. The message that appeared on the screen was brief and simple: “Goodnight, Paige.”

A genuine smile crossed Paige’s face at Azzi not playing into her antics. She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her lips before she tossed her phone aside, letting it land gently on the couch. She moved quietly, scooping Lukas into her arms, his small body warm against her chest.

"Come on, little man," she whispered softly, cradling him as she stood up. She carried him to his room, the quiet rhythm of his breathing the only sound that filled the quiet house. Once she’d tucked him into bed, she kissed the top of his head gently, smoothing his hair back.

Paige stood for a moment, watching him before turning to leave the room.

…

When Thursday rolled around, Paige strolled into the café at around 10:55 AM, her steps steady and relaxed as she took in the familiar setting. The soft sound of music filled the air. As she walked further inside, her eyes immediately landed on Azzi. She wasn’t expecting her to be there before her, but there she was, already sitting at a table with her legs crossed as she looked down at her phone. Paige raised an eyebrow, half impressed, half surprised. Azzi looked perfectly at ease, even in the midst of the quiet bustle around her.

Paige’s security guard, always positioned with careful subtlety, took a seat near the door, his gaze scanning the room.

Paige made her way over to Azzi, a small smile tugging at her lips as she approached the table. Azzi’s eyes flicked to the guy that walked in with Paige, a subtle look of confusion crossing her face. Paige settled into the chair across from Azzi and shrugged lightly, her grin a little teasing.

“Security,” Paige said simply.

Azzi gave a small nod. “Ahh, okay.”

For a brief moment, there was a silence between them. Neither spoke, but they both seemed to take a moment to observe each other.

Paige cleared her throat, breaking the quiet, and leaned forward a bit. “Can I get you a coffee?”

Azzi smiled softly at the gesture, standing up gracefully. “We can go up together,” she said.

Paige nodded and stood up as well, the two of them heading toward the counter.

After they ordered their drinks, Paige and Azzi made their way to a booth in the back of the café instead of a regular table. The cozy corner felt more private, offering them a bit more space. They both sat across from one another, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The soft clinking of mugs and the low hum of background chatter filled the space.

Finally, Paige couldn't help but laugh, breaking the silence. “If you can’t tell, I’m not exactly used to this whole coffee date thing.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a playful smile. “Oh, really? I couldn’t tell.” she said sarcastically, clearly a little amused by Paige’s admission.

Paige chuckled at the tone in Azzi’s voice, the subtle tension easing just a little. “Nah,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just used to…other things.”

Azzi’s eyes glinted with curiosity, she leaned forward slightly. “What do you usually do with women, Paige?”

Before Paige could answer, Azzi added, her tone light but assertive, “And I’m someone who prefers honesty.”

Paige paused for a second, a smirk curling at the corner of her lips. She liked this. Azzi wasn’t playing games. She didn’t want anything sugar-coated, and Paige appreciated that, maybe more than she expected to.

“Well,” Paige started, “usually, women aren’t all that interested in the dating aspect.”

Azzi hummed thoughtfully. She took a slow sip of her coffee, her eyes never leaving Paige’s, studying her with that cool, almost calculating gaze. She set the cup down gently on the table, her fingers brushing against the porcelain as she leaned back slightly.

“I see,” Azzi finally said, her voice soft but tinged with a hint of curiosity. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze narrowing just a touch as she added, “And what were you looking for when you asked to take me out?”

Paige studied Azzi for a moment, taking in the way she carried herself with such quiet confidence. Her brown eyes were soft and inviting, yet still calculated, and the curly hair perfectly pulled out of her face added to the allure of her composure. There was something about the way Azzi held herself—it wasn’t like anyone else Paige had ever met.

A small chuckle escaped Paige’s lips as she shrugged, her shoulders moving in a casual semi playful gesture. It was the same move Lukas had made the other day. Azzi’s eyes softened as she took in Paige’s posture, realizing with a small smile that Lukas definitely got it from her.

Paige leaned back in her seat, studying Azzi for a moment, before answering in a more casual tone. “I wanted to thank the gorgeous woman in front of me for helping my son.”

Azzi’s expression didn’t change at first, but her eyes gleamed with a mix of amusement and something else. “So you wanted to sleep with me?” she asked bluntly.

Paige met Azzi’s gaze directly, her lips curling into a slight smile. “The thought is definitely on the table,” she said, speaking honestly, without any pretense.

Azzi picked up on the way Paige worded her response. “Is?” she repeated, the single word hanging in the air between them.

Paige hummed thoughtfully at the question, leaning in a little closer. “Yeah, is,” she said softly, her voice laced with a quiet confidence that matched Azzi’s own.

Though Azzi carried herself with a poise that was different from the women Paige was used to, there was something about her that Paige couldn’t place. Azzi was calm, composed, but Paige noticed the way Azzi crossed her legs a little more tightly as the conversation shifted. The subtle movement didn’t go unnoticed, and neither did the slight tightening of her throat, a small, almost imperceptible swallow that hinted at a shift in the dynamic.

Paige couldn’t help but smirk, a quiet acknowledgment passing between them without a word being spoken.

Azzi’s lips curved into a small, genuine smile as she met Paige’s gaze again , and then, with a slight tilt of her head, she said, “You’re attractive.”

Paige’s smile only deepened, her confidence never wavering as she responded, “I’m aware.”

Azzi let out a soft laugh. She leaned back slightly in her seat. “But I’m not sleeping with you after one coffee date.”

Paige paused for a moment, considering her words. She wasn’t used to hearing that—at least not in such a direct way. But there was something about Azzi’s honesty that Paige found appealing, something real and refreshing. Finally, she hummed, acknowledging the boundary without pushing. “That’s fair.”

Azzi studied her for a moment, her gaze steady, before asking with that same confidence, “Is that something you’re okay with?”

Paige took a deep breath, her mind running through a series of thoughts before she responded. She could appreciate that Azzi wasn’t playing games, that she wasn’t trying to hide her expectations. Paige took another beat, then added, “Let’s see how this first date goes.”

“That’s fair.”

After that the conversation flowed naturally between them, not forced but easy, the kind of conversation where the gaps in speech felt comfortable rather than awkward. Paige talked about basketball, the upcoming season, and the usual pre-season jitters that came with gearing up with a slightly different roster. She joked about the pressure of always having to be at her best, but Azzi could hear the underlying seriousness in her voice, the weight of a career built on constant performance.

Azzi shared her own experiences, talking about her work with athletes and how she approached sports medicine differently. She explained what a Doctor of Osteopathic Medicine was—how she took a more holistic approach to treating injuries, focusing on the body as a whole rather than just isolating the injury. It was clear from the way she spoke that she was passionate about what she did, but Azzi wasn’t sure how much Paige would actually connect with it. After all, most athletes only cared about getting back on the court or field as quickly as possible, and they usually relied on standard physical therapy or rehab.

Much to her surprise, Paige was attentive, asking questions at just the right moments, listening intently. It wasn’t just idle small talk for her; she was engaged, processing what Azzi was saying and chiming in when something in particular piqued her interest. Azzi found herself intrigued by how naturally it came to Paige—how her curiosity and genuine interest seemed to draw out more of Azzi’s thoughts than she had expected to share.

On the other hand, Paige was pleasantly surprised at how much she didn’t mind listening to Azzi explain sports medicine. She had never considered herself the type to get into that side of things, but there was something about Azzi in general that made something that she would typically find a bore to be interesting.

In the middle of their conversation, as Paige was talking about something Azzi had asked her, she noticed movement out of the corner of her eye. A teenage girl had approached their booth hesitantly, and Paige paused mid-sentence. Her eyes softened as she caught the girl’s gaze, and a warm smile spread across her face. Azzi, still talking, didn’t notice at first, and the sudden change in Paige’s demeanor left her slightly confused.

The girl, her voice a bit shaky, asked, “Hi can I get a picture please?”

Paige stood up from the booth without hesitation, her smile never wavering. “Of course,” she said. The girl’s face lit up, and her excitement was palpable as she stepped closer to Paige. Her father, who had been standing a little off to the side, joined them, ready to take the photo.

Azzi watched the scene unfold. She saw how gentle Paige was in her interaction with the fan.

The father snapped the picture, and once he was done, he extended his hand with a grateful smile. “Thank you so much. Huge fans,” he said.

Paige shook his hand with a smile. “Thank you,” she replied, her tone warm but brief, showing how accustomed to this routine she was. As the father and daughter turned to leave, Paige’s voice caught their attention one last time.

“Sorry to ask this,” she said, sounding a little apologetic. “But if you’re planning on posting that, could you wait a few hours until I’m gone? Just wanna enjoy the afternoon, you know?”

The father nodded understandingly. “No problem at all,” he said, and Paige smiled again, grateful.

“Thank you,” she said before turning back to the booth, easing herself back into the seat in front of Azzi, a quiet sigh escaping her lips.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, a small laugh escaping her as Paige settled back into her seat. “Not used to being the center of attention, huh?” she asked with a teasing grin.

Paige shook her head, smiling back at Azzi. “I’m used to it, just...sometimes it’s nice to have a day of peace.” She glanced at Azzi. “Sorry about that.”

Azzi shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s fine. I get it. You’re a big deal.”

Paige couldn’t help but laugh at the comment, a soft chuckle escaping her as she leaned back slightly. “You should see Lukas when kids approach me,” she began, a fond smile tugging at her lips as she thought about her son. “He used to get super jealous—until he realized I was his mom and not theirs. He still gets a little jealous now, but it’s better.”

Azzi smiled, the mention of Lukas bringing something a little lighter to the conversation. “That’s the first time you’ve talked about him today,” she observed, almost surprised.

Paige’s smile deepened. “Yeah, well… kids not exactly first date material,” she said with a slight laugh, as if the idea of talking about her son had never crossed her mind for this kind of setting.

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her lips curving slightly. “I disagree,” she said.

Paige looked at her, a curious glint in her eyes. “Yeah?”

Azzi leaned in a bit, her gaze steady. “I mean, he’s a big part of your life, right?”

Paige nodded, her smile softening. “Yeah, he is.”

Azzi’s expression softened too, her voice carrying a subtle warmth. “Then he’s a part of getting to know you.”

Paige hummed thoughtfully, considering Azzi’s words for a moment. There was a quiet acknowledgment in the way her eyes flickered with a mix of emotions.

Azzi leaned in slightly, her voice inviting. “Tell me about him.”

Paige laughed lightly at the thought of him. “Oh, he’s a handful. Probably two handfuls, honestly,” she said, her smile turning a little more affectionate as she spoke about her son. “He’s smart, always getting into something but he probably gets that from me so I can’t even be upset.”

Azzi smiled. “He’s a cutie.”

This seemed to catch Paige’s attention, her smirk returning. “Hm, is that right?” she said.

Azzi rolled her eyes, recognizing exactly what Paige was implying. “I already told you I thought you were attractive,” she said.

Paige hummed in acknowledgment, a small smirk curling at the corner of her lips. She was about to reply when Azzi’s tone shifted, something more serious slipping in. “Can I ask you something?”

Paige raised an eyebrow, giving her an encouraging nod. “Go ahead.”

Azzi hesitated for a moment, choosing her words carefully. “Lukas is clearly biologically yours,” she began, her gaze steady but gentle, as if she was treading carefully.

Paige immediately caught on to the unspoken question, her expression softening. She leaned back slightly, a quiet honesty in her voice. “My ex gave birth to him using my egg.”

Azzi nodded slowly, processing the information. Paige continued, “I have sole custody of him, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

The air between them shifted, Azzi’s curiosity evident but respectful. “So you don’t have any contact with her anymore, I’m assuming?”

Paige’s eyes darkened slightly, but her response was straightforward. “No.”

Azzi nodded again, a sign of understanding, and didn’t press further as she shifted the conversation back to something lighter.

Their coffee date wrapped up a little while later, both of them glancing at the time as they realized how quickly it had flown by. Azzi had a client scheduled, and Paige had practice waiting for her, the familiar weight of their responsibilities pulling them back into their respective worlds.

As they stood up from the booth, a quiet but comfortable understanding lingered between them. Azzi reached for her bag, giving Paige a small, warm smile. “Well, I guess I’ll let you get back to your day.”

Paige nodded, returning the smile with a softness in her eyes. “Yeah, practice is calling.” She paused, then added, “But this was nice.”

Azzi’s smile widened just a bit. “It was. Maybe we should do it again sometime?”

Paige smirked at this question, “So I wasn’t too arrogant?”

Azzi laughs saying, “Just enough apparently.”

Paige huffed out a laugh saying, “I’ll text you.”

Azzi gave a soft smile. “I look forward to it.” With that she headed toward the door where her driver was waiting to take her to the clinic.

They didn’t exactly plan when or where their second date would happen, but neither of them seemed worried about it.

…

After that day the two of them hadn’t seen one another in some time. Their busy schedules made it hard for them to find time to meet up again. Still they had kept in contact. They had been texting and even had a few phone calls here and there as they got to know one another.

One evening Azzi sat at the bar, sipping on a cocktail and enjoying the women in sports gala around her. The atmosphere was lively, with people mingling, but she wasn’t as interested in the small talk as some others were. She hadn’t expected to run into anyone she knew, but when she saw Paige walking toward the complimentary bar, her attention was immediately drawn.

Azzi leaned back in her seat, observing the scene. Paige’s stride was confident as she approached the bar, her simple presence commanding attention even in a crowd of people. The bartender greeted her with an overly flirtatious smile, her body language completely different than when she served anyone else. Paige gave her a tight, polite smile in return, but it was clear she wasn’t interested.

Azzi’s lips curved into a small smile. She hadn’t expected to see Paige here, but now that she had, she found herself happy to see her again. Azzi reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, typing a message.

You clean up nice.

Azzi leaned back in her seat, watching Paige as she stood at the bar, the bartender handing her a drink. Paige glanced down at her phone, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion. Azzi watched the gears turn in her head as she scanned the room. A few moments passed before their eyes locked across the space.

A small smirk tugged at the corners of Paige’s lips as she made eye contact with Azzi and raised her eyebrow. Azzi’s pulse quickened just a little, amused by the unspoken challenge. Paige thanked the bartender, tossing a generous tip down before turning toward Azzi.

Azzi stood up from her seat. Before she could say anything, Paige closed the distance between them and leaned in for a quick hug. Azzi didn’t miss the way Paige’s eyes scanned her up and down once they pulled apart—quick, but thorough. Azzi could almost hear the assessment happening behind that sly smirk.

Paige sat down next to Azzi, adjusting her drink in her hand as she got settled.

Azzi leaned back in her seat, her smile softening. "I see you finally noticed me," she teased before she took another sip of her cocktail.

Paige’s eyes met hers as she replied, "Well, you weren't hard to miss. You look amazing.”

Azzi smiled at the compliment, her own eyes giving Paige a once over as she settled next to her. It felt like an unspoken game, both of them sizing each other up without quite saying the obvious. The tension was there. Neither of them had to try too hard to make it noticeable.

“You, enjoying the event?” Azzi asked.

Paige leaned back, looking around the venue before sighing. “Honestly? Hell no. I been bored all night. Networking, small talk, you know the drill. I’d rather be on the court.”

Azzi nodded, understanding immediately. “I get that. It’s hard to get invested in something that feels ingenuine.”

Paige’s lips quirked. “Exactly. But, I’m here, so... might as well make the best of it. Paige pauses for a second smoothly scooting closer to Azzi as she adds, “I think I can have a pretty good time now though.”

Azzi playfully rolls her eyes at this. She had gotten used to Paige’s non stop flirting in the past two weeks. Azzi mumbles, “Whatever.”

Paige chuckled lightly, swirling the ice in her drink before taking another sip. "So," she started, leaning back in her seat and eyeing Azzi with a grin. "What do you do for fun, when you're not, you know, saving athletes from ourselves and texting me at ungodly hours asking about my day?"

Azzi raised an eyebrow, at the question. "First of all, you like it. Second, If I’m being honest, I don’t really get a lot of time for ‘fun,’” she said with a soft laugh. “But when I do give myself a break, I like to get out of the city, maybe take a short trip somewhere.

“Where you like to go?”

Azzi thought about it for a second before saying, “Well you know I like nature so anywhere that doesn’t have light pollution honestly. Somewhere quiet.”

Paige hummed at Azzi’s answer, swirling the ice in her drink. “That actually sounds nice,” she admitted. “I don’t think I’ve seen real stars in years.”

Azzi tilted her head. “What, not even on the road? Some of those late-night flights gotta give you a decent view.”

Paige let out a short laugh. “Maybe, but I’m usually either knocked out or too busy watching film for the next game to notice.” She exhaled, shaking her head slightly. “Honestly, I can’t even remember the last time I went on an actual vacation. Between the WNBA season, Unrivaled, endorsement events, Lukas, and whatever else gets thrown my way… there’s barely any downtime.”

Azzi studied her for a moment, catching something in Paige’s tone that felt just a little heavier than her usual confident energy. “That sounds exhausting,” she said, voice softer. “Do you ever give yourself a chance to just… stop? Even for a second?”

Paige scoffed, leaning back in her seat. “Not really. If I’m not playing, I’m training. If I’m not training, I’m doing media. If I’m not doing media, I’m at some event pretending to care about small talk.” She motioned toward the room with a light laugh, but there was an underlying truth there—one Azzi could see past the bravado.

Azzi tapped her fingers against her glass thoughtfully. “You ever think about forcing yourself to take a break? Even just for a couple days?”

Paige raised an eyebrow at her. “And do what?”

Azzi shrugged. “I don’t know… go somewhere with no cameras, no schedule, no pressure. Just exist for a bit.”

Paige looked at her, a flicker of something in her expression before she smirked. “You offering to be my getaway guide?”

Azzi rolled her eyes, but there was a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’m just saying, if you ever decide to escape for a second, I could give you some ideas.”

Paige held her gaze for a moment before smiling. “Noted.” She took another sip of her drink, then nudged Azzi lightly with her shoulder. “Alright, next question. If you had a weekend off, no responsibilities, no distractions—what’s your ideal way to spend it?”

Azzi leaned back, considering the question. “Easy. A cabin in the mountains, a fire going, no phone, and maybe a book I’ve been meaning to read.”

Paige smirked. “No phone, huh? You’d survive without texting me at midnight?”

Azzi shot her a look, shaking her head with a laugh. “I think I’d manage.”

Paige hummed, tilting her head as if imagining it. “Sounds kinda nice. Maybe I need to consider that too..”

Azzi raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you do.”

Their eyes lingered on each other for a beat longer than necessary before Paige let out a small chuckle and looked down toward her drink.

“And what about you?” Azzi asked, tilting her head slightly. “I remember you saying Lukas is obsessed with building things.”

Paige chuckled at that, shaking her head. “Yeah, I got him his own little tool set and everything. The other day, he convinced me he needed a bigger bed just because he wanted to help build something.”

Azzi laughed, setting her drink down. “He’s got you wrapped around his finger.”

Paige sighed, taking a sip of her drink. “Unfortunately,” she mumbled, though the small smile on her face gave her away.

Azzi smirked. “But I guess this means you’re good at putting things together?”

Paige shrugged. “Yeah, I’m pretty handy around the house.”

Azzi hummed, tapping a finger against her glass. “So I know who to call when I need something built.”

Paige turned to her, raising an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware you were still in the building stage of a house you’ve lived in for years.”

Azzi shrugged, her expression carefully neutral. “I’m not. But who knows…I was thinking about getting a new entertainment system.”

Paige hummed at the insinuation, her lips twitching into a smirk as she leaned in slightly. “If you want me to come over, you can just ask.”

Azzi took a small sip of her drink before saying, “So, you're open to coming over?”

Paige huffed out a laugh, a glint in her eyes. “I thought we both knew that already.”

Azzi raised an eyebrow, her gaze steady. “I mean, you never really brought it up again after the last time we texted. I just assumed that boat sailed.”

Paige’s lips quirked as she raked her eyes over Azzi’s frame slowly. “Definitely hasn’t sailed.”

For a moment, they both seemed to consider the implications of the words they just exchanged. The air between them a little thick with unspoken tension. They held each other’s gaze, neither of them needing to say much more, as if they both knew exactly where this was heading.

Then, as if on cue, Paige’s phone buzzed in her pocket, snapping them both out of the brief spell. Paige sighed, almost reluctantly breaking eye contact as she pulled the phone out, her expression shifting as she saw Drew’s name on the screen.

She swiped to answer, and immediately, the sound of Lukas’ cries echoed through the speaker. Paige tensed, her whole demeanor changing instantly. “Drew, what the hell is going on?” she asked.

Drew’s voice was frantic, a little apologetic. “I wasn’t looking for like two seconds, and he fell off the stool at the island. His hand’s pretty bad, Paige. He’s crying his eyes out and he’s asking for you. I swear it was only two seconds, I'm sorry.”

Paige’s breath caught in her throat as she clenched her jaw, trying to stay calm. “I told you he couldn’t fucking sit there, Drew,” she muttered, her voice laced with frustration. Drew apologized profusely before asking if he should take Lukas to the ER.

“No, I'll do it. I’m on my way,” Paige said, hanging up quickly. She turned to Azzi, her face drawn with concern. “I’m sorry I have to go. Lukas hurt his wrist and I have to take him to the emergency room.”

Azzi’s eyes widened slightly with immediate concern. “I can look at it if you’d like?” she offered without hesitation.

“Really?” Paige asked, her tone softening.

Azzi nodded with a smile. “Of course.”

Azzi set the glass down on the bar with a soft clink. She turned to Paige, who had already started rising from her seat.

Paige smiled at her, though there was a subtle tension in her posture, a quiet nervous energy she hadn’t shown since they’d met. Azzi caught it immediately. "Ready?" Paige asked, glancing down at her phone again, probably hoping for an update on Lukas.

“Yeah,” Azzi replied, giving Paige a reassuring smile. As they both started walking toward the exit, Azzi noticed how Paige’s pace had quickened as they neared the valet area.

When they reached the valet stand, Paige handed over her ticket. Paige’s nerves were palpable and Azzi noticed her chewing lightly on her bottom lip.

For the first time, Azzi saw the cracks in Paige’s usual confident demeanor. It was an interesting sight, seeing the athlete, usually so poised and composed, so visibly tense. Azzi caught her eye, her voice soft but steady. “Hey.”

Paige met her gaze, blinking, and then looking away. “Hm?”

Azzi stepped closer, her voice calm. “He’ll be fine,” she reassured her. “I promise.”

Paige sighed, her breath a little shaky as she checked her phone again. “I know…I just hate when I’m not there with him when something happens,” she admitted.

Azzi gave her a small, sympathetic smile. Paige noticed how Azzi’s arms had goosebumps from the breeze, her dress not quite enough to shield her from the night chill. Without thinking, Paige slipped off her suit jacket and draped it over Azzi’s shoulders.

Azzi froze for a moment, clearly surprised by the action. She glanced at Paige, her fingers instinctively running over the fabric of the jacket. The warmth from Paige’s body lingered in the material, her scent clinging to the fabric, and Azzi couldn’t ignore the small smile that tugged at her lips. There was something comforting about the action, the quiet care behind it.

"Thanks," Azzi said softly, her voice quieter than usual as she pulled the jacket tighter around herself.

Paige smiled in return, her lips curling up at the corners. “No problem,” she replied, her voice warmer than it had been moments before.

Paige smiled in return, her lips curling up at the corners, though it was a soft, almost vulnerable smile. “No problem,” she replied, her voice warmer than it had been moments before. A second later, the valet pulled up with Paige’s car. Paige walked toward it and opened the passenger door for Azzi.

The gesture once again caught Azzi by surprise, a small but meaningful one that made her chest warm. She knew Paige was worried about her son, likely running through a million thoughts in her head, yet she still made the effort to open the door for her. It wasn’t much, but it meant something.

“Thank you,” Azzi whispered as she slid into Paige’s car. Her words were quiet, but genuine, carrying a touch of warmth that mirrored what she felt in her chest.

Paige nodded and softly shut the door, her hand lingering on the handle for a moment longer than necessary. Then, she walked around the car, giving the valet a tip as she got into the driver’s side. As the door clicked shut Paige put on her seatbelt and adjusted her grip on the wheel before pulling away from the valet stand.

…

As the car came to a stop in front of Paige’s large driveway, Azzi had very little time to process just how beautiful the house was before she and Paige were getting out of the car and heading toward the door. The space was impressive, a blend of modern elegance with a sense of warmth, but Azzi didn’t have much time to linger on the details.

As soon as they stepped inside, Azzi could hear small, almost pitiful whimpers coming from the living room.She instinctively followed Paige as she led the way down the hallway. The moment they reached the living room, Lukas' eyes locked onto Paige, and his face lit up with a mix of relief and sadness.

The boy reached up for his mom, his blue eyes welling with tears again immediately. Paige easily scooped him up into her arms, holding him close, and let him rest his head against her neck. Azzi watched the way Paige instinctively soothed Lukas, rubbing a gentle hand along his back.

Paige had rolled the sleeves of her dress shirt up on the drive over, the cuffs left undone, a casual detail that gave her an even more relaxed appearance. But now, with Lukas in her arms, Azzi couldn’t stop herself from noticing how effortless it all seemed. The way she moved, the way she was comforting her son—it was magnetic, and Azzi was acutely aware of how attracted to Paige she felt in that moment.

Paige sat down on the couch, cradling Lukas in her lap, her hands gently rubbing his back in an attempt to calm him down. The small boy whimpered slightly, still upset, his eyes swollen from the earlier tears. Paige leaned down to look at him as she spoke.

“Can you let Azzi look at your wrist, buddy?” she asked. Lukas’s eyes welled with fresh tears at the mention of someone touching his injury. He shook his head a little, clearly reluctant to have anyone near it.

Paige sighed softly, her thumb brushing against his cheek in an effort to soothe him. “Remember what I told you about being tough, even when you don’t want to?” she said, her voice steady, but full of warmth. Lukas hesitated for a moment, his pout deepening, but after a few seconds, he nodded slowly.

Paige smiled at him reassuringly. “This is one of those times, okay? But I’m going to be right here with you while she looks at it.” She made sure her voice was steady, offering him comfort in the midst of his hesitation.

Lukas sniffled but nodded again, still clinging to his mom. Azzi smiled sympathetically as she walked over to the couch, reaching for Paige’s jacket. She carefully slid it off her shoulders before draping it over the back of the couch. She then took a seat in front of Lukas and smiled at him sweetly, hoping to put him at ease.

“Hi, handsome,” Azzi said warmly.

Lukas’s face lit up for a brief moment, and Azzi caught the faintest hint of a grin forming on his lips. But before he could fully show it, he blushed shyly, quickly ducking his face into Paige’s chest, hiding from Azzi.

Paige’s jaw dropped slightly and she looked down at her son who was hiding in her chest. “No way, you just made my son blush,” she said.

Azzi laughed. “I’m pretty, what can I say?” she responded, raising an eyebrow with a confident smile.

Paige couldn't do anything but laugh as she continued to stroke Lukas’s hair.

Azzi refocused as Lukas peeked at her from behind Paige, his attention now on her. Azzi leaned forward slightly, her tone gentle. "I’m just going to take a quick look at your wrist, okay?"

Lukas nodded, though his face still held a trace of uncertainty. Azzi reached for his hand gently, unwrapping the makeshift wrap with careful hands. As she finished undoing the wrap, she set it aside before giving Lukas a soft, reassuring smile. “If anything hurts, can you tell me?” she asked.

Lukas nodded, and Azzi could see that he was trying to be brave, even if his little body still trembled here and there. She smiled at him again, her tone soft and still as patient as ever as she moved slower than usual. “You’re doing great.”

Azzi began near his elbow, gently squeezing the area there and watching for any signs of discomfort. When Lukas didn’t flinch or pull away, she continued to slowly move down his arm.

When she finally reached his wrist, she squeezed the red, portion carefully, her eyes immediately noticing the small flinch from Lukas. He whimpered, trying to pull his hand away, but Azzi was quick to adjust, maintaining a gentle hold to keep him from fully pulling away.

“Hey, Lukas,” she said softly. “Can you move your hand like this for me?” Azzi demonstrated by making a small motion with her own wrist, gesturing for him to follow.

Lukas hesitated for a second before slowly mimicking the motion with his own wrist, wincing slightly as he did so. Azzi watched carefully. “Good job,” she praised him before instructing, “Now, can you move it in the opposite direction like this?”

Lukas’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded and followed her lead, turning his wrist in the opposite direction, though more slowly this time. Azzi’s smile widened slightly as she observed how brave he was being, even if it wasn’t easy for him.

“Look at you, tough guy,” she whispered, still holding his hand gently as she kept a watchful eye on his reactions.

Azzi smiled warmly at Lukas, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “All done,” she said softly. She glanced up at Paige. “He’ll be fine. He just needs a little ice.”

Paige looked at Azzi with a hint of disbelief, as if she was searching for more confirmation. “Really?” she asked.

Azzi nodded. “Yes, really. It’s just a little sore. Nothing serious.”

Paige let out a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing as the tension drained from her body. “Thank god,” she muttered, a relieved laugh slipping from her lips. She looked down at Lukas, who had calmed down a little, his small hands still clutching her.

“Dude, you almost gave me a heart attack,” Paige teased as she gently ruffled his hair. Lukas let out a small giggle, a faint smile creeping onto his face.

Paige’s eyes softened as she looked at him. “Can you say thank you to Azzi?” she prompted, guiding Lukas’s attention back to the woman who had just helped him.

Lukas hesitated for a moment, his eyes darting up to meet Azzi’s. The instant their gazes locked, his cheeks flushed bright red. He quickly ducked his head, burying his face into Paige’s chest again.

Paige froze, staring at Lukas for a moment in shock. She’d never seen him act shy like this before. Lukas was always the confident little charmer, always trying to impress girls. But now, here he was, hiding in her chest, blushing like a little kid. It took her completely off guard.

Before she could say anything, Drew, sitting across the room with his arms crossed, raised an eyebrow and grinned. "I think Luke has a little crush."

Lukas’s head whipped around instantly, his eyes wide with shock, and he yelled, “No!” at the top of his lungs, his face now a deeper shade of red.

Drew chuckled. “Nah, it’s okay, man,” he teased, leaning back on the couch. “We all get crushes.”

Lukas was having none of it. He jumped off Paige’s lap, completely ignoring the pain in his wrist now as he rushed towards Drew, fists raised.

“Hey, hey, careful!” Drew laughed, raising his hands defensively. But Lukas was determined, throwing playful punches at his uncle, clearly more upset about the teasing than the injury.

Paige, still sitting on the couch, watched the little scuffle unfold, but when she saw Lukas’s hands flying, her tone became more serious. “What did I tell you about hitting?” she asked firmly.

Lukas froze mid-swing, his little arms still outstretched in the air, and his eyes widened as he realized he’d crossed the line.

“I’m sorry, Ma,” he mumbled, dropping his hands and looking down at the floor, a little embarrassed.

Paige sighed, but the edge in her voice softened as she gently pulled him back into her lap. “It’s okay, but you know better than that. We don’t solve problems with our fists,” she said softly, brushing a hair away from his face. “Can you apologize to Uncle Drew now?”

Lukas gave Drew a look of mild defiance but reluctantly said, “Sorry, Uncle Drew.”

Drew chuckled, his hands up in mock surrender. “No worries, buddy. Just don’t go knocking me out, alright?”

Realizing she hadn't introduced them, Paige quickly turned to Azzi, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "Oh, Azzi, this is Drew, my brother. Drew, this is Azzi," she said, gesturing between the two of them.

Drew smiled warmly. "Nice to meet you," Azzi said politely, her eyes flicking to the little boy in Paige’s lap.

Drew nodded at Azzi. "The pleasure’s mine," he said, before shifting his attention back to Lukas, who was now squirming in Paige’s lap. Without missing a beat, Drew scooped Lukas up, holding him upside down. "Alright, Imma go finish my uncle duties and get this dude ready for bed."

Lukas let out a dramatic screech, kicking his legs as Drew playfully dangled him. “No! Not bed!” Lukas whined, but Drew just chuckled, walking toward the stairs with Lukas hanging upside down in his arms.

Paige laughed at their antics, shaking her head. “Y'all are crazy,” she yelled after them.

Turning her attention back to Azzi, Paige exhaled a relieved sigh. “Thank you, really. I didn’t know what I’d do without you tonight,” she said.

Azzi gave her a soft smile, nodding. "No problem at all. I’m just glad I could help.”

Paige leaned back into the couch, her shoulders relaxing. “I owe you one,” she added, her gaze lingering on Azzi a little longer this time.

Azzi caught the look, and for a second, the playful tension between them reappeared. "I’m sure I’ll think of a way for you to make it up to me," Azzi teased, her soft smile still on her face.

Paige tilted her head, smirking in return. "Oh, yeah?" she asked.

Azzi hummed.

“Like what?”

Azzi’s gaze dropped just briefly to Paige's lips, a small spark of something passing between them. Paige noticed the subtle shift and leaned in just slightly, her eyes never leaving Azzi’s, her finger brushing lightly against Azzi's shoulder as she waited for an answer.

Azzi's breath hitched slightly, but she pulled back, her eyes still locked onto Paige's. "Like getting me home safely," she said, her voice soft.

Paige threw her head back against the couch with a soft laugh, running her hands down her face. After a beat, she sat up again, turning her attention back to Azzi with a smirk that was impossible to miss.

"Getting you home safely, huh?" Paige said, her tone a little more teasing now, her eyes gleaming with that signature confidence.

Azzi met her gaze, her lips curling into a subtle smile. "Mhm," she confirmed, the warmth in her voice matching the look in her eyes.

"I think I can handle that."

With that, Paige stood and offered Azzi a hand to help her up from the couch. Azzi took it, feeling the small jolt of energy from the touch. She started to rise, but before she could, Paige’s next words stopped her in her tracks.

"You sure I can’t give you a tour before we head out?" Paige’s question was smooth, casual, but there was an edge to it. The way Paige’s blue eyes sparkled made it clear that she wasn’t just offering a tour of the house.

Azzi was about to agree, the invitation on the tip of her tongue, but then she caught that smirk on Paige’s face—the way she was looking at her. They both knew what would happen if Paige led her into her bedroom, and Azzi wasn’t sure she was quite ready for that leap—at least, not tonight.

"I think I’ll pass on that," Azzi said, her tone light and teasing, her eyes dancing with the same playful energy.

Paige raised an eyebrow, that glint still lingering in her expression. "Mm, okay." Then she gently placed her hand on Azzi’s lower back. The contact sent a ripple of warmth through Azzi’s body, and she felt the pressure of Paige’s palm guiding her toward the door.

Without another word, Paige led her out of the house, the night air surrounding them as they walked to the car. Neither of them spoke immediately, but the silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable.

As they reached the car, Paige opened the door for Azzi, her hand lingering just a little longer than necessary on her back.

Azzi smiled softly, her heart racing a little faster than it probably should have as she sat in the passenger seat. Paige gently shut the door before she walked around to the driver's side. As Azzi waited, she couldn't help but glance out the window, her eyes landing on the two other cars in the driveway.

Paige noticed the shift in her attention, and spoke up. "I use that one," she nodded toward the blackout jeep, "when I'm taking Lukas with me. Has his car seat in it."

Azzi nodded, her gaze following Paige's hand as she gestured to the car they were in. "And this one?" Azzi asked.

Paige smirked, clearly enjoying the chance to show off a little. "This one’s got a better tint and it’s faster," she explained. "I use it for events and things like that." She paused, her eyes meeting Azzi's. "Keeps things a little more private."

Azzi raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "Private, huh?" she teased, as she considered the implications of that.

Paige's lips curved into a smile of her own. "Well," she said, her tone shifting to something a little more flirtatious, "you never know who might be watching."

Azzi couldn't help but laugh softly. There was something about the way Paige carried herself—confident, self-assured, but still a little obnoxious—that Azzi found undeniably magnetic. It was hard to ignore the chemistry between them anytime they spoke.

Azzi simply shrugged, keeping the mood light. "Guess I'll have to keep that in mind," she replied, her gaze lingering on Paige for a moment longer than she intended.

Paige chuckled softly, shaking her head as she shifted the car into drive. The drive to Azzi’s place was smooth, the low hum of the engine and the occasional soft exchange of words filling the space. The atmosphere between them felt comfortable, even with the unspoken tension lingering in the air.

When they finally pulled up to Azzi's place, Paige parked the car, and before Azzi could even reach for the door handle, Paige was already walking around to the passenger side. She opened the door for her as she extended a hand to help Azzi out.

Azzi smiled and placed her hand in Paige’s. “Thank you again,” she said softly, the sincerity in her voice clear.

Paige gave her hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it. She followed Azzi up the path to her door, her footsteps quiet beside Azzi’s heels clicking against the pavement as they approached the front steps. Once they reached the door, Paige paused, leaning back against the railing.

“Thank you for your help… again,” Paige said. There was a certain softness to her voice that made the words feel more personal than just a simple thanks.

Azzi glanced at Paige, their eyes meeting for a brief moment before she stepped a little closer, the sharp click of her heels against the pavement adding a rhythmic sound to the quiet of the night as her perfume filled Paige’s senses at the proximity.

“No problem,” Azzi replied with a small smile, her voice just as soft as before. She took a small step closer, her gaze never leaving Paige's face.

Paige felt a surge of warmth, a quiet pull between them that made her a little excited. She kept her hands in her pockets, not moving but fully aware of how close Azzi had gotten.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, just standing there, the space between them filled with something that neither could name.

Azzi's voice broke the quiet moment. "So, about that second date?" She paused, watching Paige carefully. "What's your schedule like?"

Paige pulled her phone out of her pocket, flicking through her calendar. She turned the screen toward Azzi with a half smile.

Azzi accepted the phone gently, her fingers brushing against Paige’s as she did so. She pulled out her own phone and began comparing their schedules, the two of them silent for a few moments as she browsed through the information. When she found a time that worked for both of them, she tapped in the details and then, without asking, added it to Paige's calendar.

Paige watched with an amused grin as Azzi took charge of the timing. "You didn’t even ask," Paige said playfully.

Azzi looked up, catching the glint in Paige’s eye, and shrugged with a soft smile. "I’m just being efficient," she replied, handing the phone back.

Paige glanced at her phone, noticing that Azzi had put the date for the day after tomorrow. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips as she locked the phone and slid it back into her pocket.

Azzi spoke, her voice quieter, almost grateful. "Thank you for getting me home safely."

Paige's smile softened as she met Azzi’s gaze. "Anytime," she replied, her words almost too easy, as if the offer to look out for Azzi was something she genuinely wanted to give.

Azzi bit her lip, clearly holding back something, before she leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Paige's cheek. The action was quick but warm, and it sent a small shock of heat through Paige’s chest. "Goodnight, Paige," Azzi whispered.

"Goodnight, Azzi," Paige responded, her voice lower than usual. The moment lingered between them as they hugged, Azzi’s arms wrapping around Paige’s shoulders, and Paige’s arms gently pulling Azzi closer by the waist.

Azzi watched as Paige turned to walk toward her car, her eyes following every step. Paige stopped before getting in the car and leaned over the driver’s side door slightly, her voice cutting through the night air.

"I'll pick you up on Wednesday?"

Azzi’s smile grew at the offer. "You’ll pick me up Wednesday," she said.

Paige nodded, watching as Azzi unlocked her door and stepped inside before getting in her car and driving off.

[norrisradio]

ONLY EXCEPTION

♡ PAIRING: oscar piastri x reader | ♡ WC: 3.0K ♡ GENRE: tooth-aching fluff♡ INCOMING RADIO: OSCAR PIASTRI MAIDEN POLE TO THIRD WIN YOU ARE MY GOAT!!!!!!!! THE PERFECT WEEKEND, A PERFECT DRIVER! ♡ RECOMMENDED LISTENING: only exception, paramore ● you are in love, taylor swift ● tsunami, niki ● lover, taylor swift ● fallingforyou, the 1975 ● slow dancing in a burning room, john mayer Read my co-driver's (@tsunodaradio) companion fic HERE <3

♡ SUMMARY: Oscar likes following the rules. But all rules have an exception.

Oscar Piastri doesn’t wear jewelry. Never has, never will. It’s a rule, unwritten but absolute, like the geometry of a perfect racing line, like the way his hands find the wheel before anything else. Rings, bracelets, watches—he’s never liked the feeling of something clinging to him, something that isn’t his fireproofs or the familiar weight of a steering wheel in his hands. Metal is for the car, not for him.  

But tonight, in a hotel room in Baku still thick with the scent of champagne and victory, he watches a thin silver ring glint between your fingers, and suddenly, he isn’t so sure.  

"You got this where?" His voice is edged with amusement, but his eyes don’t leave the ring.  

"Some shop in an alley in the Old City," you say, grinning. "Bit sketchy, but I think it suits you."  

It doesn’t, not really. The silver is slightly tarnished, the engraving uneven, a whisper of a pattern he can’t quite decipher in the low light. It’s not the kind of thing a man like him wears—not polished, not pristine. And yet, when you hold it out to him, something tugs at his ribs, an instinct deeper than logic.  

"You won," you remind him, quieter now. "Thought you deserved something to remember it by."  

As if he could forget. As if the day’s triumph wasn’t still humming through his bones, a quiet, electric thing. He should laugh it off, tell you it’s too much, too sentimental. Instead, he picks it up carefully, rolling it between his fingers. The metal is cool, lighter than he expected.  

He tries it on for you, because he knows you’re waiting for it—knows it’ll make you smile. It slips over his knuckle easily enough, but when he flexes his fingers, it spins too loosely, like it doesn’t quite belong.  

"Too big," he murmurs. A strange relief unfurls in his chest, something he doesn’t examine too closely.  

You watch him, eyes unreadable, and then, without a word, you pull at the thin chain around your neck. The one he’s seen you wear a thousand times, barely there against your skin. You unclasp it, thread the ring onto it, and press it into his palm.  

"Problem solved," you say, simple as anything.  

Oscar stares.  

The chain pools like liquid silver in his hand, the ring now nestled in its center. His first instinct is to refuse—he doesn’t do things like this. He doesn’t wear reminders of things, doesn’t hold onto symbols when the feeling itself is already enough.  

And yet.  

The clasp is small, fiddly between his fingers, but he gets it, slipping the chain over his head, letting it settle against his collarbones. The weight is barely there, but he feels it all the same. He catches your expression—soft, almost knowing—and something inside him tightens.  

"You’re ridiculous," he says, voice lighter than he means it to be.  

"You like it," you counter, the corner of your mouth twitching.  

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to. The ring is warm now, pressed against his skin, right over his heart.

Oscar doesn’t like public displays of affection. Cameras, prying eyes, the weight of expectation—he’s always been careful. Calculated. A hand stayed firmly by his side, a step measured just so, never giving more than necessary. Affection, in his world, is something to be rationed, held close, not paraded for the world to see.  

But then there’s you.  

You, tugging him close with a laugh, fingers curling around the fabric of his race suit like you have every right to hold him there. You, leaning in without a second thought, pressing a fleeting kiss to his cheek when you think no one’s looking. The touch barely lingers, a whisper of warmth against his skin, but it stays with him longer than it should.  

At first, his body resists, muscles tensing out of habit. A lifetime of discipline, of knowing exactly when and where to let himself feel, doesn’t just fade overnight. But then he catches the way you glance up at him after, like you’re testing the waters, waiting for his reaction. Your eyes, bright and teasing, searching for the line he’ll draw between what is allowed and what isn’t.  

And maybe, just maybe, he leans into it.  

Not much. Just a fraction of a second longer when your lips brush his skin, the way his hand lingers at the small of your back in a crowd. The way his fingers twitch at his side before finally—hesitantly—finding yours. It’s subtle, barely there, but he knows you notice. Knows it in the way your grip tightens, in the way your body slots just a little closer to his like it was always meant to be there.  

The cameras still flash. People still look. He still tells himself he’s careful. But later, much later, when the noise has faded and it’s just the two of you in the quiet of his hotel room, your head resting against his shoulder, he breathes you in and wonders why he ever thought love was something to keep hidden.  

Because here, in the soft glow of the bedside lamp, with the ring on its chain warm against his chest and your fingers tracing absent-minded patterns along his forearm, it feels so easy. Natural. Like maybe, after all this time, he’s allowed to have something for himself.

Oscar doesn’t dance. His body is made for precision, for the sharp control of a steering wheel, for knowing exactly when to push and when to hold back. Dancing—real dancing, the kind that isn’t just nodding along at a team party—is messy. Unpracticed. A loss of control he’s never been entirely comfortable with.

But then there’s you.

You, standing in the kitchen, with the fridge still open behind you, its soft light spilling across the tile. One sock on, one sock missing, your phone’s speaker crackling out a half-forgotten song that sounds like it’s from another time, another place. You, with that grin—bright and teasing—already reaching for him, your fingers curling around his wrist like you’ve already decided.

At first, he resists, just for a moment, because that’s what he does. It’s instinct, a reflex to keep everything in its place, to maintain a sense of control. But you don’t let go. You tug, and your smile is too wide, too persistent, and suddenly, his socked feet are sliding across the cold kitchen tile, the sound of his hesitation lost beneath the crackling beat from your phone.

"Come on," you say, already swaying. "Just one song."

It isn’t a song meant for dancing. The rhythm is too slow, the melody fraying at the edges, but none of that seems to matter to you. You step in closer, fitting yourself against him with easy warmth, guiding him side to side like you’ve already decided he’ll follow. And—God help him—he does.

At first, he moves like he’s thinking too much, like his body is trying to find the right sequence, the right formula for something that was never meant to be calculated. But then you twirl under his arm, laughing when you almost misstep, and something in his chest pulls loose.

He lets himself laugh when you trip over his foot. Lets himself steady you by the waist, thumbs pressing against soft fabric. Lets himself breathe you in, warm and close and here.

The song shifts, bleeding into another, and you don’t stop moving. Neither does he. He tells himself he’s just humoring you, just giving you this moment, but then your hand finds the nape of his neck, your fingers threading lazily through his hair, and—

Maybe, just maybe, he holds you a little closer.

Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

Never has. He doesn’t see the point. His life moves too quickly, each city blurring into the next, each hotel room as impersonal as the one before. What use does he have for things that only serve as reminders of places he’s already left behind? He’s never understood people who collect scraps of the past—ticket stubs, postcards, little trinkets that gather dust in bedside drawers.

If something matters, he reasons, it should stay in your head. You shouldn’t need an object to prove it was real.

But then there’s a ring around his neck.

It started as a joke. A cheap little thing you picked up in the back-alleys of Baku, pressed into his palm with a grin. For your first win here, you’d said, like it was the easiest thing in the world. And maybe it was, the way you said it—like he was always going to win, like you had no doubt. He remembers how it felt when you watched him slide it on, laughing when you realized it was just a touch too big. He could’ve left it in his hotel room, could’ve let it sit on his nightstand and forgotten it there.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let you loop it onto a chain (your chain), let the cool metal settle against his collarbone. Told himself it was practical—rings can fall off, after all—but that didn’t explain the way his fingers found it absentmindedly, rolling it between his fingertips when he was thinking of you.

Then there’s the polaroid.

The edges are soft now, frayed at the corners from being handled too many times. He doesn’t remember when exactly it was taken—only that Lando had slipped it to him with that sly, knowing smile a few nights after you’d gone home. He’s seen it enough times to know every detail: you, on his lap, laughing with the kind of brightness that makes everything feel lighter, and him, arms looped around your waist, looking at you like you hung the moon in the sky.

He catches glimpses of it whenever he opens his wallet. A flash of you, so full of life, the image almost too real for a photo, like he could reach out and hear your laughter again, feel the warmth of your presence just beyond the edges of the frame. He should take it out—he tells himself this every time he sees it. It’s just a photo, just a slip of paper, already starting to fade with time. But then he thinks about what it would feel like to throw it away, and somehow, inexplicably, that feels worse.

So he leaves it there, pressed between the folds of the leather, a small piece of you he keeps close.

And then there’s the hoodie.

It isn’t his. The sleeves are too long, the fabric too soft, smelling faintly of you—of home. He doesn’t know how it ended up in his suitcase. Maybe you left it there by accident, or maybe you knew, in that way you always seem to, that there would be nights when he’d need it. He tells himself he’ll give it back the next time he sees you, but then it’s the middle of the night in some hotel halfway across the world, and the air conditioning is too cold, and he’s pulling it over his head before he can even think about it.

So, no. Oscar doesn’t keep souvenirs.

But then there’s you, slipping into his life in ways he never saw coming. In rings and photographs and sweaters that smell like home. In moments he can hold onto, in pieces of you he carries with him without even realizing.

And suddenly—maybe he does.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

He never has. He doesn’t see the point. Things are just things—objects with no real weight beyond what people choose to give them. He’s never been the type to care about unwrapping presents or fussing over sentimental trinkets. He’d rather give you his time, his presence, the weight of his hand in yours. A quiet dinner over some half-forgotten movie, a lazy afternoon drive with no real destination, the simple certainty of being there. That, to him, has always meant more than anything that could be bought or wrapped in a ribbon.

But then there’s you.

You, with your eyes bright with mischief, pressing a poorly wrapped box into his hands like it’s the easiest thing in the world. The paper is creased at the edges, tape barely holding it together, and you’re grinning like you already know he’s going to protest.

"I don’t need—" he starts, but you cut him off with a look, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"Just open it, Piastri."

And because it’s you, because he can never quite find it in himself to say no, he does.

The gift is small, unassuming. Nothing extravagant, nothing flashy. Maybe it’s a keychain from a city you visited without him, something to keep in his pocket when you’re apart. Maybe it’s a notebook filled with little notes, inside jokes scribbled in the margins, your handwriting familiar and warm. Maybe it’s a shirt you swear would look good on him, one you know he’d never buy for himself.

It’s simple. Thoughtful. Undeniably you.

And maybe, against all logic, he feels something lodge itself in his chest—something warm, something soft, something dangerously close to forever.

He’s never been good at receiving things. Compliments, gifts, affection—he’s always been wary of taking too much, of letting himself rely on things he can’t control. But when he looks up at you, waiting expectantly, he realizes that this isn’t about the gift itself. It’s about the way you give it, the way you always give—without hesitation, without expecting anything in return.

So maybe, for the first time, he doesn’t argue.

Maybe he just shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips, and mutters, "You’re impossible," even as he tucks the gift away somewhere safe.

And suddenly, gifts aren’t just things.

They’re memories. A tangible piece of you, something to hold onto when you’re miles apart. A reminder that someone, somewhere, is always thinking of him.

Now, Oscar finds himself standing in an airport souvenir shop, staring at the rows of tacky trinkets that all look the same. 

It’s early morning, the kind of grey light that seeps through terminal windows, and Oscar’s tired from the flight, his mind already on the next race. But something about the soft hum of the airport, the chaotic lull of travelers rushing by, makes him pause. He catches sight of a little shop in the corner, tucked between a coffee stand and a news kiosk, and for reasons he doesn’t quite understand, he steps inside.

The shelves are cluttered with the usual assortment of useless things—fridge magnets, postcards, poorly made scarves in neon colors. But then, nestled in the corner, he spots something that pulls at him.

It’s a small, delicate necklace, the pendant a faded shade of turquoise, shaped like a star. Nothing special in the grand scheme of things, but something about it catches the light in a way that makes it glow.

He knows it’s not your usual taste, not the kind of jewelry you’d ever ask for. But he also knows you—knows how your eyes light up when you see something small and beautiful, how you always see things that others might overlook. And somehow, despite himself, he reaches for it.

He buys it without hesitation, not because it’s expensive or because it’s some grand gesture. But because he knows that when you see it, when your fingers graze the smooth surface of the pendant, you’ll smile. He’ll see it in the curve of your lips, in the light in your eyes, and he’ll know that, for just a moment, he’s given you something that makes your world a little brighter.

When he hands it to you a few weeks later, your reaction is everything he expected. Your hands flutter to your chest, your eyes wide with surprise and something softer, something warm. And for once, it’s not the gift itself that matters, but the simple fact that he thought of you, in the middle of a busy airport, surrounded by a thousand distractions.

Oscar doesn’t do gifts.

But maybe, for you, he does.

Oscar doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.

He’s learned, over the years, that words can be fragile things. Promises—those quiet, heavy assurances that hang between people—are often broken, twisted, or misunderstood. He’s been careful, always careful, not to say what he can’t follow through on. In his world, where nothing is ever certain and everything is fleeting, he’s made it a habit to remain grounded, to offer only what he’s certain he can give.

But then there’s you.

You, with your voice low and sleepy, the sound of it curling around the edges of the quiet room, the kind of voice that feels like comfort and calm all at once.

"You’ll always come back to me, right?"

It’s a soft question, one that you barely say out loud, as if the weight of it is more than you’re willing to admit. Your face is pressed into the pillow, your eyes closed in that delicate, half-dreaming state. There’s a vulnerability in your tone that makes his chest tighten, a crack in the armor he’s built around himself.

And before he can stop it, his lips find yours. A lazy, soft press that speaks of something far more permanent than he’s ever said aloud. Your lips are warm, gentle, and for a moment, time feels like it slows. He can taste you—something sweet, something real—and, somewhere in the quiet space between breaths, he’s pretty sure he tastes forever against your smile.

"Always," he whispers, the word slipping effortlessly from him.

It’s simple, easy, almost too easy. But it feels real in a way that’s new, something deeper than the usual assurances he’s offered, the ones that come with a hesitation in his voice, the ones that come with the understanding that promises are temporary things. This one, though—it’s a certainty that settles into his bones, a truth he knows he will carry with him.

And maybe, for the first time, he believes it.

Maybe, for the first time, he can give something that feels as unshakable as the way you trust him, the way you lean into him without hesitation. Because in your eyes, there’s no doubt—just faith, just the unspoken certainty that he will always be there, always find his way back to you, no matter where the road takes him.

And in that quiet, half-lit space between wakefulness and sleep, he knows something has shifted.

Oscar doesn’t make promises lightly. 

But this one—this one he gives you without fear, without reservation, because somehow, in the silence of your room and in the rhythm of your breaths, he knows it’s the truest thing he can say.

[throttleheart]

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

Marked by love

Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!Reader

Genre: pure fluff, crack treated seriously, very self indulgent!!!

Word Count: ~1.1k

Summary: Lando discovers a myth that moles show where a past-life lover used to kiss you, and he immediately decides it’s true for you both. Now, he won’t stop kissing every mole on your face, convinced he’s loved you before—and always will.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

It starts with Lando tracing a finger along your jaw.

You’re lying on the couch together, his head resting on your stomach, his hand idly exploring your face with lazy affection. His fingertips graze your cheekbone, then ghost over your temple, before pausing above your lip—right where one of your many moles sits.

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes flicking up to yours, “I read something the other day.”

You hum, playing with his curls absentmindedly. “That’s a first.”

Lando gasps dramatically, sitting up slightly. “Excuse me, I’m very well-read, thank you.”

You smirk. “Alright, genius. What did you read?”

He shifts so he’s propped up on one elbow, his free hand still lightly tracing over your skin. “There’s this myth,” he starts, “that moles on your face show where your lover from another life used to kiss you the most.”

You blink. “Wait, really?”

“Yup,” Lando says, tapping the mole above your lip. “And this one? Definitely my favorite.”

Your cheeks warm as you roll your eyes. “You’re just saying that because it’s the most obvious one.”

“Nooo,” he drags out, grinning. “I’m saying that because I love it.” He leans in, brushing a soft kiss right over it. “And because past-life me clearly had great taste.”

You laugh, pushing at his chest playfully, but he just shifts closer, eyes scanning your face again.

“So, if the myth is true,” he muses, fingers grazing another small mole near your jaw, “I must’ve really liked kissing you here too.” He presses a kiss to it, slow and deliberate.

“Lando…” you start, but your voice is quieter now, breath hitching slightly as he moves lower, brushing a kiss to another mole near your collarbone.

“Oh, and this one?” He smirks against your skin. “Definitely another favorite.”

You shove him lightly, trying to fight the smile pulling at your lips. “Okay, okay, I get it. You’re obsessed with me.”

Lando grins, tilting his head. “Well, yeah. That’s kind of the whole thing, isn’t it?”

You roll your eyes again, but the warmth in your chest is undeniable.

Lando hums, settling back down beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist. “Guess I’ve loved you for more than one lifetime.”

You glance at him, heart swelling. “Guess you have.”

And as he presses another soft kiss above your lip, you think—maybe the myth isn’t a myth at all.

Lando doesn’t stop there.

For the next few days, he takes his new discovery very seriously.

Any chance he gets, he’s kissing the moles on your face like he’s mapping out where past-life him must have adored you most.

You’re brushing your teeth in the bathroom mirror when he sneaks up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist. “Morning, love.”

Before you can respond, he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to the mole on your temple.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that creeps onto your face. “Really? First thing in the morning?”

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs, lips trailing toward the one above your lip again. “Past-life me is making sure I don’t forget my duties.”

You snort, shoving him lightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously in love with you.” He grins before kissing you properly this time, toothpaste and all.

⸻

Later that day, you’re both at the paddock, and Lando still isn’t over it.

You’re chatting with some of the team when he walks by, sending you a not-so-subtle wink. And then, when no one’s paying attention, he pulls you aside, tilting your chin up to plant a quick kiss right on the mole above your lip.

“Lando!” you hiss, glancing around. “Not here!”

“What?” He smirks. “I have responsibilities.”

“You have a race.”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but you’re more important.”

You groan, but your cheeks are warm, and Lando definitely notices.

⸻

By the time the weekend is over, the rest of the grid has caught on.

You’re standing with Charles and Carlos in the Ferrari hospitality when Lando comes strolling over. The second he’s within reach, he tilts your chin up and kisses the mole above your lip—because of course he does.

Carlos raises an eyebrow. “Mate, what are you doing?”

“Fulfilling my past-life duties,” Lando answers matter-of-factly.

Charles looks confused. “What?”

You groan, covering your face. “Don’t ask.”

Lando just grins. “It’s a long story.” Then, he leans down, whispering in your ear, “But I’ll tell you later. In bed. While kissing every single one of your moles.”

Your face burns.

Carlos looks between you two. “I don’t even want to know.”

Lando just smirks, throwing an arm around your shoulders like he’s the luckiest guy in every lifetime.

And maybe he is.

The mole-kissing obsession doesn’t stop. In fact, it only gets worse.

At this point, Lando is making it his entire personality.

Every morning? A kiss to your temple, then the one above your lip, then whatever other mole he feels like appreciating that day.

Every night? The same routine, except slower, softer, like he’s savoring it. Like he means it.

And during the day? He’s getting bold.

⸻

You’re at a post-race dinner with the team when Lando, sitting beside you, suddenly turns and presses a kiss to the mole on your jaw. Right in the middle of a conversation.

Mid-sentence. No warning.

Andrea, who was talking about strategy adjustments, just stops.

Zak Brown looks deeply unimpressed.

Oscar, across the table, blinks. “Mate… what?”

Lando shrugs, completely unbothered. “Sorry, had to.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples. “He thinks my moles are proof we were together in a past life.”

The entire table stares.

Oscar, deadpan: “I regret asking.”

⸻

Later that night, when you’re alone in the hotel room, you give Lando the look.

“You have to stop doing that in front of people.”

Lando grins, already walking toward you. “Why?”

“Because I am embarrassed, and Zak is considering revoking your contract.”

He laughs, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. “Nah, he’s too scared of losing me.”

You shake your head, trying to stay annoyed, but it’s hard when he’s looking at you like that—like you hung the stars in the sky.

Then, his hands cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks. His voice drops, turning soft, genuine.

“I just love you,” he murmurs. “In this life. In the last one. Probably in the next one too.”

Your breath catches.

Lando presses a kiss to the mole above your lip, slower this time. More meaningful. Then another to the one on your jaw. And another on your collarbone.

You sigh, wrapping your arms around his neck. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah,” he smirks, kissing you properly. “But you love me.”

You do. In this life and the next.

⸻ ⸻ ⸻

[lio-the-chaotic-nonbeanie-weenie]

Daily reminder to people who are new to ao3:

The back button is free.

The filter settings are free and are there so you can, y’know, filter the things you don’t like out.

And in most fics, they ask if you want to proceed to read a work with tags that might not apply to archive warnings. That is your one chance to back out if you really don’t want to read it or find the work not to your taste.

Authors will write what they want. You do not have the right to go into their comments to leave hate because they wrote something you didn’t like. Either skip the part or leave the fic. Again, the back button is free.

Authors do not also have to censor themselves or change what they write to cater to minors. Minors are responsible for what they see and read online. Especially in a place like AO3.

We’re all just writers trying to share our work and passion. It does not help us when purity people tear us down and discourage us for not catering to a specific thing. We’re part of what keeps your fandom alive and if that’s ruined, don’t ask why there’s less content for your favorite ship or character.

Ao3 does not need an algorithm, you're just lazy

Ao3 does not need a 1-5 star rating system, you just want to bring down authors writing for FREE

Ao3 does not need automatic censorship, it is an archive, therefore anything can be posted

Writing or reading about something illegal does not mean the author nor the reader condones it, if that were true, you could never read a story involving anything negative

Purity culture is ruining fan culture and you all are fucking annoying

[thoughtfulfiction]

Operation: Cover Me in Sonshine

Author’s Note: Making the Operations fics into a series!

Content warning: Pregnancy and natural delivery.

It’s still early. The quiet of the house feels almost surreal as you wake up. The air feels heavier somehow, like the morning itself is holding its breath. Sunlight creeps through the blinds in soft slants, barely brushing the edges of your room. You shift slightly, wincing as the weight of your belly tugs against your body. Your hand instinctively finds the curve of it, still firm, round, and impossibly stretched. You sigh softly, not really wanting to be awake because you can already feel how early in the day it still must be. The clock on your nightstand blinks, 5:55 AM.

Another morning.

You’ll be lucky if you ever sleep in past seven for the next few years. Right now, though, sleep seems like a distant luxury, one you haven’t had much of lately. Between the ache in your hips and the dull throb in your lower back, rest comes in fits and starts. Despite how exhausted you are, your mind refuses to quiet.

All you can think about—all anyone can think about, is that you’re still waiting. Three days have passed since your due date and yet, no contractions, no signs, no…nothing. Just this endless limbo, your body stuck in a frustrating stalled state that makes you feel like you’re teetering on the edge of something big, yet unable to tip over.

You grab at the nightstand for your phone, squinting as the bright screen flares to life. A message from Joe waits at the top.

Hey babe, just headed out for a quick workout. I’ll be back by 10:30. If you need anything or feel like today’s the day, just let me know and I’ll come home sooner. Love you.

Your lips curve slightly, warmth blooming in your chest, but there’s something else there too, something closer to frustration. Not at him, but at…all of it. This waiting game. The feeling of being stuck while everyone around you carries on.

You knew he’d get up early. Even in the offseason, Joe clings to a routine, his quiet hours in the morning when the world feels calm and focused. And he’s earned that space. He’s been incredible these past few weeks, doting without hovering, most of the time. He’s always steady and patient no matter how restless you’ve been. Every evening, he asks if you’re okay, if you need anything, sometimes twice, oftentimes more. His time off has revolved around you, learning everything there is to know about newborns: the most effective swaddle methods, how long to keep him awake so he learns the difference between night and day as well as an effective nighttime feeding schedule.

He can take a few hours to himself, you think. He deserves that.

Your fingers hover over the screen before you type out a reply.

Thanks, babe. I’ll be fine. Just make sure you don’t overdo it.

You can practically hear him chuckling through the phone, that quiet, knowing laugh, because he never seems to believe he’s overdoing anything. His stubborn confidence is part of what makes him Joe, part of why you love him.

You exhale and try to shift again, but a deep ache flares in your back, deeper this time, like a dull knife twisting low in your spine, pulling things apart that are definitely meant to stay firmly attached. You groan softly and press your fingers into the sore spot, massaging circles to ease the tension. It’s not new at all. This ache has been creeping in more and more lately, but each time it sparks, a tiny flicker of hope stirs in your chest.

Maybe this is it…

But no. The pain fades, leaving you frustrated and no closer to labor than you were yesterday, or the day before that.

The clock now reads 6:37 AM.

You close your eyes, but the knot of restlessness remains. There’s a quiet pressure building, not painful exactly, but heavy and constant, like your body is gathering itself for something important. You know it’s coming, but when?

You shift again, one hand on your belly, feeling the faintest flutter of movement beneath your skin. The tiny human you've spent all this time carefully creating is still tucked inside, still waiting.

“Take your time,” you murmur softly, your voice barely a whisper in the quiet room. “Just, maybe not too much longer? Please?”

You set the phone down and settle back into the blankets, trying to relax your shoulders. It’s been hard, lately. Waiting. It’s been a whole year of preparation, appointments, baby names, and finally, the moment feels so close, but not quite here yet.

The minutes tick by, slow and steady, but for now, you’re here, in this quiet space, waiting for the little one to arrive. Just a little longer.

You put the phone down, letting Joe’s text sink in as you try to shake off the dull ache in your bones. The unfortunate familiar pangs of discomfort from indigestion and constipation seem to be intensifying. Lately, it feels like the world’s most inconvenient ailment has decided to settle in just as you’re waiting for the baby to make its grand entrance. Of course, it’s also the one thing you didn’t expect to be this uncomfortable—being overdue should’ve been enough of a challenge without the constant bloating and awkward, painful pressure in your stomach.

You inhale deeply, trying to remind yourself it’s just the digestive struggles. The weight of the baby pressing against your insides, your body’s final stretch before it does its job. It’s annoying. Embarrassing, even.

It feels like every part of your body is letting you down. Your stomach bloats up at the smallest meal, your back aches with every step, and now, it’s like your own body is holding the baby hostage in there. And let’s not even get started on the hormone-driven emotional rollercoaster.

But, you have to admit, some of it feels comical, even in its discomfort. You’ve read enough pregnancy blogs to know that half the battle is dealing with things no one tells you about—like the indignity of trying to figure out which position on the couch will ease your gas without making you explode in a fit of awkwardness.

With a sigh, you slowly swing your legs off the bed, careful not to rush the movement. The pressure in your midsection seems to ease up slightly as you stand, though it’s still there, a little tight and definitely at max capacity. You gingerly make your way downstairs, holding onto the railing for balance, feeling the full weight of your baby drastically shifting your equilibrium. As you move, the cramping feels more like an intense knot in your gut, and you know it’s time to make your way to the exercise ball.

You head straight for the water bottle, taking a long sip, feeling the cool liquid trickle down your throat and easing the dryness that’s taken over. You don’t think it’ll help regulate whatever is going on, but hydration seems like a decent place to start.

After a few seconds, you make your way over to the corner of the living room where the exercise ball sits, your faithful companion during these last few weeks. You lower yourself slowly onto it, wincing a little as the baby shifts, and take a deep breath as you roll your hips in slow circles. The gentle movement is supposed to relieve the pressure, and although you’re skeptical, you focus on the slight relief it brings.

It’s just one of those things, isn’t it? One of the million little things people never tell you about pregnancy. How one day you’ll have to tell your husband you haven’t gone to the bathroom in days and you’re on the verge of praying about it. You can’t help but chuckle softly to yourself, even if the situation is mildly uncomfortable. But that’s pregnancy—endlessly humbling, unpredictable, and sometimes…a little bit ridiculous.

You rest your hands on your belly, feeling the baby moving around, and for a moment, the cramping fades into something more tolerable. Maybe this won’t last much longer. Maybe the baby’s just waiting for you to stop worrying about the pain, stop stressing, before finally making his move.

Until then, you’ll continue rolling on this exercise ball, a little horrified at what your body is or isn’t doing, a little tired, but still hopeful that you’ll stop having to ask for help tying your shoes and getting off the couch soon and very soon.

By the time Morgan shows up at 8 AM, you’re curled up on the couch, tucked into a corner with a throw blanket draped over your legs. The dull ache in your lower belly hasn’t really let up, and the pressure feels like someone’s wedged a brick just above your hips. You’re trying to focus on Abbott Elementary, but even your favorite sitcom isn’t helping much. The laughter from the TV feels distant, like background noise to the uncomfortable churning inside you.

Morgan’s familiar voice calls from the kitchen.

“Morning! How’re you feeling?”

You force a smile and crane your neck toward him. He’s already setting his bags on the counter, moving with the kind of ease that comes from routine. He’s been Joe’s private chef long enough to know exactly where everything is—knives, spices, meal prep containers, all without a second thought.

“I’m good,” you answer, even though you’re very much not.

He pauses, wiping his hands on a towel. “You want me to whip something up for you? Eggs? Oatmeal?” He gestures toward the fridge. “I can make that quinoa bowl you liked last week?”

You grimace at the thought. The idea of food, anything warm, rich, or even remotely flavorful, almost make you gag. You press a hand to your belly, your palm tracing flat circles to the front tryin to sooth that backed up sensation, still feeling painfully full despite barely eating since last night.

“No thanks,” you mutter. “I feel like if I eat anything, I’ll actually combust.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t push. He’s seen you in various stages of pregnancy discomfort, the bloody noses, random crying fits over commercials, even that one time you cursed Joe’s sneakers for “squeaking too loud.” He knows better than to argue with you, especially this late in the game.

“Alright,” he says easily. “But if you change your mind, let me know and I can you something small and easy on the stomach.”

You mumble your thanks and sink deeper into the couch, moving around more easily now that the back pain has dissipated just enough to focus on what's really causing issues. Another cramp bubbles low in your belly, a little dull and you instinctively close your eyes, breathing through it. It’s really nothing. Just more of this stubborn indigestion that won’t quit.

Morgan, meanwhile, quietly moves around the kitchen, chopping vegetables and portioning out Joe’s post-workout meals. Every so often, you catch him glancing your way. He’s trying to be subtle but it’s very noticeable. He can tell you’re uncomfortable and even though you said you were good, he still feels like he should do something to help.

There's something about your silence, the way you’ve barely talked or how you keep pressing your hand to your stomach just nags at him.

He steps away from the counter and pulls out his phone. After a moment of hesitation, he types out a text to Joe:

Hey man, just FYI, Y/N isn’t feeling great. Says it’s indigestion, but she looks a little off. Doesn’t want to eat. Not trying to overstep, but figured you’d want to know.

He stares at the message for a second longer before hitting send. Then he goes back to his chopping, keeping one ear tuned toward the living room…just in case.

Joe’s phone buzzes on the bench beside him just as he’s about to start his next set. He’s been pushing himself this morning, faster reps, heavier weight, trying to clear his mind. And maybe to get a few intense sessions going before the baby comes and he's too sleep deprived to put 300lbs on the bar for leg day. The further away they get to the due date, the harder it’s been for him to focus. Every morning feels like a guessing game. Will today be the day? And it’s been weighing on him more than he'd ever care to admit.

He grabs his phone, swiping away a layer of sweat on his forehead with his other hand. Seeing Morgan’s name on the screen makes his stomach tighten.

Joe doesn’t even think twice after reading the text, he’s already tapping the call button.

You pick up on the second ring, sounding tired but still calm.

“Hey,” you greet softly.

“Hey,” Joe says, his voice low with concern. “Morgan said you’re not feeling too hot?”

You let out a small sigh. “Yeah…just uncomfortable. Same stuff I’ve been dealing with, stomach feels a little dodgy, like I’m too full even though I barely ate. It’s nothing worse than what I’ve felt the last few weeks, though. I promise.”

Joe leans forward on the bench, still breathing a little hard from his workout. “You sure? I can be home in fifteen. Maybe even less than that if you need me.”

“No, no,” you insist. “Seriously, I’m fine. Take your time.”

But then you hesitate and Joe hears it.

“…Actually,” you add awkwardly, “Can you um…can you ask your assistant to grab me some prune juice? And those Olly constipation gummies?”

There’s a brief silence.

“Prune juice?” Joe echoes, biting back a grin.

“Don’t,” you warn immediately, your voice sharp with embarrassment. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

Joe can’t help himself, a quiet chuckle slips out, and you groan.

“I hate this,” you mutter. “I’m literally begging you to send someone to buy me prune juice. I might die of humiliation before this baby even comes out.”

“Hey,” Joe soothes, his voice warm now, teasing forgotten. “Don’t even worry about it. You’re carrying our baby. If you need prune juice, gummies, or whatever else, I’ll make it happen.”

“You better,” you grumble, but there’s a small smile in your voice. “You did this to me.”

“I know and I’m sorry. I’ll text her now,” Joe promises. “And I’ll finish up fast, just in case.”

“Thanks, babe.”

“Love you.”

You sigh, wanting to actually be swallowed by the couch, “love you too.”

As Joe hangs up, he’s already pulling up his assistant’s number, typing out the most ridiculous grocery request he’s ever had to send.

Hey, can you grab some prune juice and Olly constipation gummies and drop them off at the house? Don’t ask. Just trust me.

He pauses, smirks, and adds:

Maybe get some peonies too. The biggest bouquet they have. Just in case.

He sends the message, then grabs his towel and heads for the his last few sets. He’s not taking his time after all.

Joe steps through the front door less than 30 minutes after his call, tossing his keys onto the counter. The first thing he sees is the half-empty cup of prune juice and the opened bottle of laxative gummies sitting beside it. He frowns, setting his gym bag down.

“Where is she?” he asks Morgan, who’s finishing up in the kitchen.

Morgan just jerks his thumb toward the stairs. “Up there. Been a while.”

Joe mutters a quick thanks and heads for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. His heart’s racing, not from panic, exactly, but from that anxious feeling that’s been simmering under his skin all morning. He stops at the bathroom door and knocks gently.

“Babe?” His voice is soft but concerned.

“I need a minute,” you groan from the other side of the door.

Joe’s hand rests flat against the wood. “You okay?”

“No,” you huff miserably. “This is the worst day of my life.”

Joe’s chest tightens. “Aw, c’mon,” he says gently, trying to keep things light. “You’re being a little dramatic.”

“I’m not,” you snap. “I am trapped in here, sweating like I just ran a marathon, and I’m pretty sure if I push any harder I’m gonna launch this baby straight into the toilet.”

Joe winces. “That doesn’t sound great.”

“Yeah.”

He pauses, unsure how to fix this. “Do you want me to call the doctor?” he asks carefully.

“No! God no.” you say quickly. “This is already horrible enough. I don’t need the entire city knowing my body is massively betraying me right now.”

Joe stifles a laugh but instantly regrets it. This isn’t funny, you’re uncomfortable, exhausted, and miserable, and here he is, helpless on the other side of the door.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely. “I just…I hate that you’re feeling like this.”

For a moment, there’s silence. Then you sigh, voice softer now.

“I really need this baby out of my body,” you murmur, frustration and exhaustion bleeding through your words.

Joe leans his head against the door. “I know, babe.” His voice is low and steady now. “But you’re doing amazing, okay? Even if it doesn’t feel like it right now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says firmly. “Look, you’ve made it this far. You’re tough as hell. This whole prune juice situation? Just a bump in the road.”

You let out a weak laugh. “Doesn't exactly feel like it. I cannot believe this is my life right now.”

“Well…” Joe grins. “Look on the bright side, if this baby does show up today, we’ll have one heck of a story to tell at their wedding.”

Your groan echoes through the door, but this time there’s a hint of a smile behind it.

“I’m serious!” Joe teases. “We’ll be like, ‘Oh yeah, your mom went into labor right after she chugged prune juice and I gave her a pep talk while she sat in the bathroom for 45 minutes.’”

“You’re the worst,” you mutter, but you’re laughing now, really laughing, and Joe feels like that’s a win.

“And yet you chose me,” he says softly.

“And I've been contemplating all of my life decisions ever since,” you answer, still stuck in the bathroom, still uncomfortable, but maybe feeling just a little bit better.

The bathroom door creaks open, and you step out looking thoroughly defeated. Your face a little damp from sweating, and your features riddled with exhaustion.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks carefully.

You shake your head with a tired sigh. “Nothing.”

Joe frowns. “Nothing?”

“Not a thing.” You throw your hands up in frustration. “I drank prune juice, ate those stupid gummies, and sat in there forever just hoping something would happen. Now I'm just worn out.”

His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile, but he knows better than to push his luck.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he says gently. “Come on, let’s get you in bed.”

You don’t argue. Your body feels heavy, your stomach taut, not from cramps, just…pressure. Like your baby’s taking up every possible inch inside you and still isn’t satisfied. You crawl into bed with a quiet groan, tugging the blankets up over you.

Joe leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead before grabbing a fresh shirt and some shorts.

“I’m gonna shower,” he says softly. “I’ll be right back.”

You mumble something in response, something sleepy and unintelligible. Your eyes are already closing as he heads to the bathroom.

When he comes back a few minutes later, his hair still damp, Joe’s wearing one of his old workout shirts and a pair of loose shorts. He tosses his towel in the laundry basket and moves quietly to your side of the bed.

You’re half-asleep, curled on your side, breathing slow and steady. He sits beside you, shifting carefully so the mattress barely dips. His hand finds your back, fingers pressing into the curve of your spine, tracing soft circles in the exact spots he knows help you relax.

After a moment, his hand drifts lower, resting on the hard, round curve of your belly. His palm molds to it, and his brow furrows slightly.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Does this hurt?”

Your eyes barely crack open. “Not really,” you murmur. “Just feels…overstuffed. Like he’s running out of room.”

Joe hums thoughtfully, his thumb absently stroking over the stretched fabric of your shirt. He can feel the tension beneath his hand. Your stomach’s so compact, like a drum. His fingers press a little firmer, not enough to hurt, just enough to feel for movement.

And then, right beneath his palm, the baby moves, slow and heavy, like he’s just as uncomfortable as you are.

“Wow,” Joe breathes with a soft chuckle. “Yeah, he’s definitely running out of space.”

You smile sleepily, your hand sliding over his, locking your fingers together on your belly. “Feels like he’s trying to punch his way out at this point.”

“Well,” Joe grins, “I’d prefer that over prune juice doing the job.”

You snort, barely opening one eye to shoot him a look. “Don’t make me laugh. I’m too tired.”

“Alright, alright,” he whispers, pressing one more kiss to your cheek. “Get some rest.”

You’re out cold in minutes, your breathing soft and even. Joe shifts carefully, reaching for his iPad on the nightstand. He pulls up a documentary, something about space exploration. It’s the kind of background noise that won’t steal too much of his attention and settles in beside you.

He doesn’t feel comfortable leaving you alone right now. Something about the way you’ve been moving, tired, off and just not quite yourself keeps him rooted to the spot. So he stays, one arm still resting protectively across your belly, just in case.

Just in case today’s the day.

Joe barely stirs when you shift out of bed a little over an hour later. He feels the dip in the mattress, hears the quiet shuffle of your feet as you head to the bathroom, but he doesn’t think much of it. Finally, he figures, letting his eyes drift back to his iPad. The prune juice and gummies must’ve kicked in.

But then he hears it, the familiar, awful sound of you gagging, followed by the unmistakable heave of you being sick.

He’s out of bed in an instant, the iPad forgotten on the sheets.

“Hey, hey,” Joe calls as he reaches the bathroom, his voice rising with concern. The door’s cracked open, and he pushes it the rest of the way.

You’re kneeling in front of the toilet, one hand gripping the side of it for balance. Your whole body shudders as another wave hits, and Joe feels his stomach twist.

“Aw, babe…” He kneels beside you immediately, one hand steadying your back. His other hand reaches for a hair tie from the counter, carefully pulling your hair away from your face.

You’re gasping for air, eyes watery and face pale. “I’m…I’m fine,” you choke out between breaths, but Joe’s not convinced.

“Yeah, no offense, but you don’t look fine,” he says softly, his hand still rubbing soothing circles on your back.

You rest your forehead against your arm on the toilet seat, completely drained. “I think I just overdid it with the prune juice.”

“Or the gummies,” Joe adds with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood.

“Or both,” you mutter. “God, this is so embarrassing.”

“Hey,” Joe says firmly, squeezing your shoulder. “None of that. You’re growing a whole human. If anyone’s allowed to have a rough day, it’s you.”

You let out a weak, breathy laugh. “Yeah, well… my ‘rough day’ feels like a disaster movie at this point.”

Joe reaches over, grabbing a washcloth and running it under cool water. He kneels again, gently pressing it to the back of your neck.

“Better?” he asks.

“Mmhmm.” You sigh, closing your eyes as the cool cloth eases some of the heat in your face.

Joe’s quiet for a moment, but his hand never stops moving slow circles on your back, steady and calming. Then, carefully, he asks, “You sure this is just the prune juice?”

You hesitate. “I think so?” you say, but there’s doubt in your voice now. “I mean…I’ve felt weird all day. Maybe this is just my body trying to reset or something. I actually feel a little better.”

Joe’s eyes narrow slightly, but he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he leans down and kisses your temple, his hand still resting warm and steady against your back.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “Let’s get you back to bed. But if this gets worse…I’m calling the doctor and it's not really up for discussion after that.”

For once, you don’t fight him.

“Deal,” you mumble, too tired to argue.

Joe keeps a steady arm wrapped around you as he helps you back to bed, moving slow and careful like you might break. You’re shaky and exhausted, and each step feels heavier than the last.

“Almost there,” he murmurs as you reach the edge of the mattress.

But just as you’re about to sit down, that sick, awful feeling rolls through you again and twisting your stomach into knots.

“Wait,” you choke out, one hand flying to your mouth. “I’m gonna—”

You barely make it back to the bathroom before you’re on your knees again, heaving into the toilet. Joe’s right behind you, one hand supporting your waist, the other protecting your hair.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, his voice calm even though his heart’s racing. “I’ve got you.”

But then just as you’re catching your breath, something shifts inside you. A low, unsettling pressure that feels nothing like the cramping and indigestion you’ve battled all day. For a split second, you think you’ve just lost control of your bladder—but then warmth rushes down your legs, soaking your pajama pants and pooling rapidly on the tile floor beneath you.

Your heart skips a beat, and your breath catches.

“Oh my God,” you whisper. “Joe…”

He’s already looking down, eyes wide as they flick from your stunned face to the growing puddle on the floor.

“Is that…?” he starts, but you nod before he can finish.

“My water just broke.” Your voice is a shaky mix of shock, disbelief, and maybe even a little relief.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then Joe exhales a stunned breath and lets out a soft laugh. The kind that sounds part amazed, part terrified.

“Well…that explains a lot.”

You laugh too, breathless, disbelieving and suddenly the day’s chaos makes sense. The weird pressure, the nausea, the miserable discomfort…your body wasn’t betraying you. It was getting ready.

“Okay,” Joe says, snapping back into focus. “I’m gonna grab your hospital bag, and call Dr. Chen.” He presses a quick kiss to your damp forehead. “We’re having a baby today.”

“Today,” you echo, still trying to wrap your head around it.

The worst day of your life? Maybe not. Maybe it’s just the start of the best one yet.

“Babe, I really think you should just wait until we get there,” Joe says, his voice tight with worry as you pull a towel from the rack.

“Joe,” you groan, stepping carefully out of your soaked pajama pants. “I just threw up, my water broke, and I’m—I don’t even know what else is happening down there. But it’s gross. And I need a shower. Desperately, I'm literally not going anywhere like this.”

He exhales through his nose, clearly fighting the urge to argue. “I get that, but the hospital’s—”

“I just need twenty minutes,” you interrupt, your voice softer now. You press a hand to your belly, feeling a lot lighter now, mentally trying to wrap your mind around the fact that this will only get worse from here. And then you'll be a parent for the rest of your life, there's no going back now. “The next time I walk into this bathroom, there’s gonna be a baby in my arms. That’s…that’s insane. I just need a minute to...breathe.”

Joe’s face softens instantly. His shoulders relax, and he steps forward, cupping your face in his hands.

“Alright,” he says quietly. “I guess you can take a few.”

You nod, suddenly feeling a lump rise in your throat. This is happening. It’s really happening.

Joe presses a kiss to your forehead and steps back. “I'm gonna grab you some clothes but I’ll be right out here if you need anything,” he promises.

You step into the shower, letting the warm water wash over you. For the first time all day, your muscles seem to unclench. The spray rinses away the sweat, the nausea, and thankfully, the sticky amniotic fluid that had left you feeling miserable.

Your mind drifts as you stand beneath the stream, one hand resting protectively on your stomach. The idea that this is the last time you’ll shower before becoming a mom is overwhelming. Exciting, terrifying, surreal. All of it is swirling together until you can’t tell where one feeling ends and the next begins.

You take a deep breath, letting the steam calm you.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you whisper, your fingers tracing slow circles over your belly. “We’re doing this.”

When you finally turn off the water and step out, Joe’s still waiting. Your hospital bag is by the door, a fresh pair of clothes is folded neatly on the bed. He looks up, smiling softly when he sees you.

“Feel better?” he asks.

You nod, drying your face with the towel. “Yeah…a lot better.”

You step out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, steam curling behind you as Joe looks up from his spot by the bed.

“Perfect timing,” he says, standing and grabbing the clothes he set out. “I brought your comfy leggings and that big sweatshirt you like.”

“You’re the best,” you murmur, taking the pile of clothes from him.

You get dressed slowly, feeling calmer now that you’re clean and in fresh clothes. Joe’s already crouched down by the door, untying your sneakers so they’re easy to slip on.

“Alright,” he says, patting one of them. “Let’s get these on and—”

Suddenly, a deep, pulling feeling grabs at your abdomen like someone’s cinching a belt around your waist.

You freeze, one hand flying to your belly as your breath hitches.

“Whoa—hey,” Joe says, instantly alert. “You okay?”

You press your eyes shut, breathing through the wave that comes and goes thankfully much faster than you thought it would. “I think…I think that was a contraction.”

Joe’s eyes go wide. “Do you alright, like you're good now? 1-10?”

“I think so. That was like a four. Wasn't bad,” you mumble out, slowly moving to sit.

Joe’s already moving, one hand on your arm to steady you as you lower yourself carefully onto the edge of the bed.

“Alright, just breathe,” he says, his voice calm but focused. “You’re good. We’re good.”

He grabs one of your sneakers and kneels in front of you.

“Okay,” he mutters, sliding the shoe onto your foot and tying it quickly. “Nice and easy.”

You’re still catching your breath when he grabs the second shoe, his fingers working fast but gentle.

“You good?” he asks again, glancing up.

You nod, still feeling shaky but relieved the pain has passed. “Yeah…this is just. Crazy.”

Joe gives your knee a reassuring squeeze. “Hey,” he says, grinning as he grabs the hospital bag. “I know you’re feeling a lot right now…but this is kind of exciting, right?”

You let out a breathy laugh. “Terrifying, but yeah…exciting.”

“We’ve got this,” Joe promises, his hand sliding into yours.

And somehow, as you walk together toward the stairs your body still aching, your nerves buzzing, you can't help but smile at the fact that you get to do this with your best friend.

Joe steps closer, his hand sliding to your waist. “Good,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your head. “Because I’m pretty sure our kid’s on a mission to meet us ASAP.”

You smile, a genuine one that takes over your entire being and for the first time all day, you feel ready.

You and Joe make your way downstairs, his arm still firmly around your waist as he helps you down each step. Your heart’s racing now, the nerves mixing with a strange kind of excitement. The contraction has passed, but the tension in your body still lingers, reminding you that things are really happening.

As you reach the bottom, you’re greeted by the smell of something delicious—a mix of fresh herbs and sizzling veggies. Morgan’s in the kitchen, expertly preparing lunch as always, his back to you both.

He turns when he hears you walking down the final step, his eyes landing on your focused face and Joe’s tense, wide-eyed expression. His brow furrows instantly, and without missing a beat, he sets down the knife he’s holding.

“You guys heading to the hospital?” Morgan asks, his voice even but his gaze quickly scanning you for any signs of distress.

Joe doesn’t even try to hide the mix of anxiety and excitement in his voice. “Yeah…we’re on our way. Her water broke.”

Morgan doesn’t flinch, but his lips press into a thin line, his eyes flicking between you and Joe. “Alright,” he says, nodding. “Do you need me to do anything, or are you guys good?”

You shake your head. “We’ve got it. Just, uh, just wanted to let you know.”

Joe’s still holding your hand, but now his grip tightens just slightly as if grounding you both in the chaos of the moment. “You know, Morgan, I really wish you could come with us for moral support,” Joe says with a tired grin.

Morgan gives a wry smile, though there’s no humor in his eyes. “I think you guys have that covered. I’ll hold down the fort here.”

You let out a breathy laugh, but it catches in your throat. “Thanks, Morgan…you really don’t know how much we appreciate everything.”

Morgan smiles, giving you a quick, understanding nod. “Don’t mention it. Just get to that hospital and have that baby, alright? And hurry up and bring home so I can finally know his name.”

Joe gives him a thumbs up as he helps you toward the door, your heart pounding as you walk toward the car. But the truth is, it’s finally happening. The baby’s on the way, and it's full speed ahead.

Joe’s hands are steady as he helps you into the passenger seat of the car, making sure you’re comfortable despite the cramping pressure is increasing in intensity by the minute, it seems. He leans in one last time to check the car seat, his fingers lightly brushing over the straps as he double-checks everything. His heart races, it’s almost too much to wrap his mind around.

The next time he sits in this car, his son will be in that seat.

“You ready?” he asks, his voice low and calm as he looks over at you, already buckling himself into the driver’s seat.

You nod, still trying to catch your breath but feeling a little more grounded now. “Yeah, let's do this.”

Joe gives you a small, reassuring smile before pulling out his phone. He presses a few buttons, his thumb hovering over the call button as he looks over at you.

“You texted your mom earlier, right?" You nod. "I’m gonna call my parents,” he says softly, his eyes focused on the screen but his attention still split between you and the road. "I know my mom probably already has a bag packed to stay with us for a few days."

You give him a small nod, squeezing his hand once before he presses the call button.

It rings twice before his mom picks up.

“Joe? Is everything okay?” her voice is full of excitement and anticipation like she already knows what he’s about to say.

“Hey, Mom,” he says quickly, trying to keep his voice light but failing to hide the excitement underneath. “Yeah, everything’s good. Just wanted to let you know, we’re on our way to the hospital. Y/N’s water broke.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end before she responds, her voice almost breathless. “Oh my God! Oh, Joe, that’s amazing! You’re going to be a dad! A real dad!”

Joe laughs, his nerves finally starting to settle at the sound of her voice. “I know, Mom. It’s happening, right now.”

“Okay, okay, we’re on our way. We’ll be there as soon as we can.” She’s clearly already getting ready to leave, but she pauses. “Tell that sweet girl we love her and we’re so excited.”

“I will, Mom. Love you.”

As he hangs up, he slips the phone into the cupholder and lets out a slow breath.

“Everyone should now be on their way,” Joe says, his hand gently squeezing yours. “It’s happening, babe. Our little guy is on the move.”

You smile softly, your fingers curling around his as you look out the window, knowing that the next chapter of your lives is about to begin and you’re ready.

You rest your head back against the seat, feeling the dull ache in your lower belly starting to build again. With one hand on your stomach, you fumble for your phone with the other.

“Who are you calling?” Joe asks, his eyes flicking between you and the road.

“Nikki,” you mutter, already scrolling for her name. “She’ll kill me if I don’t tell her.”

The phone rings twice before she picks up.

“Hey! What’s up?” Nikki’s voice is bright and casual, like she’s got no idea you’re in the middle of the most intense moment of your life.

“Hi,” you breathe, wincing as the ache sharpens. “Sooo…we’re heading to the hospital. Baby time.”

“OH MY GOD!” Nikki practically shrieks. “I’m grabbing my stuff right now. What do you need? Snacks? Chargers? Comfort items? A playlist? Should I bring my—”

Your hand clenches tightly around the phone as the contraction surges, fiery and all-consuming. Without thinking, your other hand shoots out and grips Joe’s thigh. Hard.

“Ahhh—oh, hang on, hang on—” you groan into the phone, squeezing Joe’s leg your own personal stress ball.

Joe’s eyes widen for a second before his hand finds yours. He presses his palm over your knuckles, grounding you as he speaks softly.

“Breathe, baby. Just breathe…I’ve got you. We’re almost there. About ten minutes out.”

The pain peaks, sharp and relentless, before finally fading enough for you to catch your breath.

“Sorry,” you gasp into the phone, blinking back tears as you rub his thigh, apologizing again. “That was a bad one.”

“Don’t apologize!” Nikki cries. “I’m on my way. I’ll meet you there, I swear.”

“Okay…just hurry,” you say weakly before hanging up.

But before you can even set the phone down, another contraction slams into you. This one much stronger and faster.

“Oh no, no, no, no—” you gasp, both hands now cupping your belly.

“Babe?” Joe’s voice sharpens, one hand gripping the steering wheel and the other reaching for you again.

“Joe, just—” you gasp, your voice thin and desperate. “Just run the light.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. His foot taps the gas, and the car surges forward through the red light. Horns blare from both directions, but Joe doesn’t care. His knuckles are white on the wheel, his gaze laser-focused on the road ahead.

Joe’s arm is weighed down by the hospital bag, your overnight duffel, and a smaller tote crammed with last-minute items but still, he keeps his left hand free, reaching out for you as the elevator doors slide closed.

“Here,” he says softly, offering his hand.

You shake your head quickly, barely able to speak as another contraction tears through you. Instead, you grip the elevator railing with both hands, your fingers curling tightly around the cold metal like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

“Wow,” you grit out, your forehead dropping forward to rest against your arm. Your breathing stutters, short and sharp as you try to focus on anything but the pressure building inside you. Now that you were out of the car you could feel the shift, he was making his way down and you felt like you had could close your legs even if you wanted to.

Joe’s face tightens with concern, but he doesn’t force anything. He steps closer instead, hovering beside you, helplessly watching you fight through it.

“It’s happening so fast,” you choke out, your voice strained and shaky. “I didn’t think it would…feel like this yet.”

Joe shifts the bags higher on his shoulder and presses his palm against the small of your back, rubbing slow, firm circles.

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady. “But you’re doing so good. Just keep breathing. I’m right here.”

Another contraction swells, more forceful than the last, and your breath falters. You grip the railing even harder, your knuckles turning white as a sharp, stretching pressure radiates low in your belly and deep into your back.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, your knees threatening to buckle as you circled your hips. "I feel like I need to squat or something."

Joe’s hand freezes for a second before he quickly presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Okay, okay…we’re almost there,” he reassures you, glancing anxiously at the glowing floor numbers above the door. “Just hang on a little longer.”

The elevator feels like it’s crawling. Each second drags, and by the time the doors finally slide open, you’re trembling, overwhelmed, breathless, and bracing for whatever’s coming next.

Joe doesn’t hesitate. He grabs the bags, then steps right back to your side, curling his arm around you as you take one shaky step forward.

“You’re almost there,” he says again, his voice softer now. “We’re so close, babe…you’re almost there.”

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Just hang on, baby.”

You clench your teeth, breathing through the pain as best you can, your fingers still locked tightly with his.

“We’re almost there,” Joe repeats, glancing at you again. “I swear we’re almost there.”

The moment you step into the hospital room, you barely register Nikki and your mom standing by the bed. They’re both mid-laugh, probably swapping nervous jokes to ease the tension. But their smiles vanish when they see you.

“Oh honey,” your mom gasps, stepping forward.

“You okay?” Nikki chimes in, wide-eyed.

You barely manage a quick, shaky hug with each of them before muttering, “I need to pee. And I need my pants off right now.”

Without waiting for a response, you shuffle straight to the bathroom, tugging your leggings down as you go. The pressure is unbearable, like your body is trying to turn itself inside out.

Joe follows you to the door but stops just outside, lingering anxiously.

“You got it?” he calls softly.

“Yeah just give me a second,” you manage through gritted teeth, gripping the bathroom counter as another contraction swells.

A knock at the main door draws Joe’s attention. The midwife steps inside—calm and confident, like she’s seen this a thousand times before.

“I hear we’ve got a baby in a hurry,” she says with a warm smile.

Joe steps aside as she sets her bag down. “She’s in the bathroom,” he says, running a hand down his face. “Contractions went from nothing to…everything in no time.”

The midwife grabs a pair of gloves. “I’ll check her as soon as she’s ready,” she says, her tone soothing yet no-nonsense.

The next contraction slams into you right there in the bathroom, stealing your breath. You brace both hands on the counter, bowing your head as you ride it out.

“Fuck me, oh my God—” you whimper, feeling the pressure deepen.

Joe’s voice comes from just outside the door. “Babe? Want me to come in?”

“N-no,” you stammer. “I’ll be out in a minute.”

The moment the contraction eases, you stumble out of the bathroom, your shirt a little damp with sweat. Your mom and Nikki both look startled, but the midwife steps in like she’s been waiting for this exact moment.

“Let’s get you on the bed,” she says gently. “I’d like to check you. Sounds like things are moving fast.”

You don’t argue. You’re too exhausted, too overwhelmed to care about modesty anymore. Joe helps you to the bed, his strong hands guiding you as you climb up and awkwardly lie back.

The midwife works quickly, gloved fingers checking your progress. You barely notice her calm smile until she looks up at you.

“Well,” she says brightly, “you’re at about eight centimeters. So you're either already in transition or it's coming soon.”

Joe’s eyes widen. “Eight? Already?”

“Oh my God,” Nikki whispers, grabbing your mom’s arm.

“That’s amazing,” your mom says, her voice shaky with emotion.

You don’t feel amazing. You feel like your body’s on fire, like you’re splitting in two or you’re going to explode.

“I don't think I can do this,” you murmur, your voice thin and ragged.

Joe steps closer, pressing his forehead to yours. “Yes, you can,” he says firmly, his hand curling around yours. “You’re doing it right now.”

“And you’re so close,” the nurse adds, her voice warm and steady. “Your body’s doing exactly what it’s supposed to.”

The room feels like organized chaos. Voices murmuring, hands adjusting, your body shifting from one position to the next as you desperately try to find some relief.

Your mom is behind you now, her legs stretched out as you lean back against her, the cool fabric of her shirt pressed against your sweaty back. The exercise ball in your lap is your only comfort, something to cling to as you rock back and forth, focusing on the rhythm instead of the relentless waves of pressure.

Nikki kneels at your side, her fingers digging into your hips, deep, firm pressure that somehow cuts through the worst of the pain.

“Right there,” you gasp between breaths. “Don’t stop. Stay right there.”

“I got you,” Nikki promises, her fingers tightening like a vise.

Joe hovers nearby, pacing like a caged animal. His eyes flick anxiously between you, your mom, and Nikki, like he’s looking for some way to help, some role to play that doesn’t involve just watching you hurt.

Finally, you glance up at him, chest heaving.

“Go grab some food,” you rasp.

Joe’s brow furrows. “What? No. I’m not leaving you.”

“Babe, seriously,” you plead. “You haven’t eaten all day, and you’re about to be up all night. Just go. I promise I’ll be okay for 20 minutes.”

Joe opens his mouth to argue when the door swings open and his mom, Robin, steps inside with a bag of food in her hands

“Perfect timing,” you breathe. You hadn’t bothered to check your phone since asking her to grab whatever Morgan was cooking for Joe to have with him.

Robin gives you a soft smile and crosses the room to her son.

“I stopped by the house,” she says, handing Joe the bag. “Morgan had it all packed up, ready to go.”

Joe stares down at the food, still hesitant. “I don’t know…”

You shift uncomfortably against the ball, another contraction creeping up your spine. “Joe… please,” you whisper, voice tight. “Just eat. I need you at 100%.”

His eyes soften, and finally, he steps back toward the chair in the corner, setting the bag down and opening the container.

“Thank you,” you say softly, reaching for his hand before he sits down. Your fingers squeeze his, a silent reminder that, even in the middle of all this, you’re still thinking about him.

He leans down, pressing a kiss to your temple. “I love you so much,” he murmurs.

“Love you too,” you whisper back, just as another contraction swells, strong enough to steal your breath.

Nikki’s hands tighten on your hips again, grounding you.

“Deep breaths,” your mom murmurs, her arms wrapping around your shoulders, holding you close as you ride it out.

And across the room, Joe watches you, fork frozen halfway to his mouth, amazed at how he had no idea when he woke up this morning that this would be how the day would go.

You squeeze Nikki’s hand hard as another contraction hits, letting the exercise ball go, "I need to move, this isn't working."

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, helping you lay on your side in the bed.

The room is quieter now, the energy calmer. After hours of constant movement, noise, and coaching, it’s just you and Joe. The dim lighting makes everything feel softer, less overwhelming, but the pressure inside you is still unrelenting.

You’re perched on a birth stool, legs spread wide, elbows resting on your knees, letting out soft sounds of pain. It’s not glamorous, but it’s oddly the most comfortable you’ve felt in hours, something about the position giving your body a break from gravity’s pull.

Dignity is beyond out the window. Your sports bra is damp with sweat. The waistband of your shorts is folded low beneath your belly, your body radiating heat like a furnace.

Joe’s crouched in front of you, arms resting on his knees, watching you closely.

“You okay?” he asks softly, like he’s afraid to break the calm.

You nod, rolling your shoulders back as you take a deep breath. “Weirdly…yeah. This is…kind of nice.”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting a smile. “Can’t say I pictured it going like this, but hey, whatever works.”

You huff a weak laugh, but it quickly turns into a low groan as another contraction tightens across your belly. You shift your hips instinctively, while closing your eyes, trying to ease the pressure. Joe reaches out, rubbing slow circles on your thigh.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice steady. “Do you wanna try the shower? Might help you cool off a little.”

You drag a hand over your face, skin warm and sticky. The thought of cool water washing over you sounds like heaven.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “That actually sounds really good.”

“Okay,” Joe says immediately, standing walking over to turn the shower on, adjusting the temperature just the way you like it.

By the time he turns back, you’re already trying to peel off your shorts with shaky hands. Joe steps in to help, easing them down your legs, his touch gentle and patient.

“Couple more steps,” he murmurs softly, holding onto to you like his life depends on it. Right now, it definitely does. He has to get you through this. And he’s going to, no matter what.

When the shower’s ready, he guides you inside, one arm curled protectively around your waist. The warm spray hits your skin, and you exhale a long, shaky breath, the first moment of relief you’ve felt in what feels like hours.

Joe steps just inside the shower, still in his t-shirt and shorts, bracing one hand against the wall to keep steady as he rubs slow circles across your back.

“That better?” he asks quietly.

You nod, your forehead pressing into his chest.

“So much better,” you murmur, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong beneath your skin.

For a few precious moments, it’s just you, Joe, and the sound of the water. Everything is quiet, calm, and still.

Joe grabs the showerhead with his left hand, adjusting the spray to a steady stream. With his right hand, he reaches out for you.

“Here,” he says gently. “Squeeze if you need to.”

You eye his hand warily, knowing full well what your grip’s capable of right now.

“I’m not crushing your throwing hand,” you say through a shaky breath. “I’m not about to have Bengals fans making wanted posters of me.”

Joe huffs a quiet laugh, then switches the showerhead to his right hand and holds out his left instead.

“Alright, fine,” he says with a small laugh. “This one’s expendable.”

You let out a breathy chuckle, gripping his left hand as the next contraction rolls in. You groan low in your throat, bending forward slightly as the pressure tightens across your belly and back.

“Okaaay, okay…breathe,” Joe soothes, running the cool stream of water down your spine. The relief isn’t perfect, but it’s enough to keep you from feeling like you’re drowning in the pain.

The next sound that leaves your mouth is somewhere between a moan and a wail, guttural, raw, and absolutely unflattering.

“Oh my God,” you pant afterward. “I sound like a dying cow.”

Joe leans in, pressing a kiss to the damp side of your head. “That’s great,” he murmurs, “I love cows.”

You let out a breathless laugh, too exhausted to manage anything more.

“I’m serious,” he continues, his thumb tracing slow circles across the back of your hand. “Strong, beautiful…and a little stubborn when they’re in a mood.”

“I hate you,” you mutter, even though you’re smiling.

“No, you don’t,” Joe says softly, running the cool water down your back again. “You’re doing amazing…and I’m so proud of you.”

Your fingers squeeze his hand, hard, as another contraction tears through you. Joe doesn’t flinch. He just holds on tighter, staying steady and solid beside you.

“You’ve got this,” he whispers. “I’m right here.”

The pressure in your lower back and pelvis suddenly shifts—deeper, sharper —and a new kind of discomfort blooms, making it impossible to stay seated.

“I can’t sit anymore,” you gasp, wincing as you shift your weight. “It’s too much. My butt hurts.”

Joe’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t hesitate. He slides an arm around your waist, steadying you as you rise shakily to your feet.

The second you’re upright, it’s like gravity grabs hold. A powerful downward pressure that takes your breath away. Before you can even think to stop it, your body bears down on its own, your muscles clenching and pushing without permission.

“Hahh! Okay…okay. Oh my god.” you cry, one hand shooting between your legs on instinct.

“What? What is it?” Joe’s voice is sharp now, his eyes scanning you in panic.

You wanted to answer but you couldn't talk. You couldn't do anything but focus inward and do exactly what your body was demanding, curling in on yourself, bending your knees slightly. The sounds you were making were different, less breathing and more deep sounds, guttural...primal. Joe freezes for half a second before snapping into action.

“Babe? Oh you’re…you’re pushing." He notes, like saying it out loud would make it less daunting. "Alright, okay just…hang on.” He carefully turns off the shower, wrapping one arm securely around you. “We need to make sure you’re at 10, babe. Can you try to hold on for a second? It's hard, I know, we just gotta make sure you're ready so you don't hurt yourself."

“I can’t stop,” you pant, rocking your hips desperately, trying to breathe through the overwhelming urge to bear down. One hand grips your stomach, the other braced between your legs like you can physically hold your son inside.

Joe’s grip tightens. “I know—I know,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm. “Just…just try. I’m gonna get your mom or Nikki.”

You barely register him yelling as he helps you stagger out of the bathroom.

“Hey, I need someone to hit the call button. Right now.”

Your mom bursts into the bathroom just as you half-squat in the shower, your body pushing again with a force that steals your breath.

“I'm either shitting myself or he’s coming,” you choke out, tears springing to your eyes.

Your mom runs back to the bed and slams her hand on the call button, calling for immediate medical assistance. Joe is only focused on you, one hand bracing your back, the other gripping your hand as your fingers dig into his palm.

The reality of what’s happening hits Joe like a freight train, Kai isn’t just coming, he’s right there. His breathing stutters, but he forces himself to focus. You’re leaning heavily against him, your face twisted in pain, but you’re still fighting, still pushing.

“Just breathe,” he says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “You’re okay. You’re good. I’m right here.”

“I need…I need to move,” you gasp, your body desperate for a new position.

“Whenever you’re ready, we’ll take it slow,” he says, helping you shift onto your hands and knees. His arm stays braced beneath you, holding you steady as you adjust.

The moment your weight settles into place, another powerful contraction grips you, and you bear down hard, arching your back as you push. Your whole body shakes with the effort.

The nurse rushes in then with a few people trailing behind, her voice is calm but urgent. “Joe?” she says firmly, locking eyes with him as she kneels beside you. “I need you to stay right where you are, you’re doing great.”

Joe swallows hard and nods, his grip tightening on you as the she guides him.

“Okay, his head’s almost out,” the nurse says, motioning to one of the medical aids. She presses a cold compress into Joe’s hand. “Hold this here, help her stretch.”

Joe places the cool cloth against your skin, and you let out a shuddering sigh at the relief it brings.

“When she pushes again, I want you to support him. Don’t pull, just let him come.”

Joe’s fingers tremble slightly, but he nods again. “I’ve got him,” he says, more certain this time.

Another contraction rips through you, and you cry out, pressing your forehead into Joe’s shoulder as your body bears down.

“There you go, baby,” Joe whispers, his voice breaking. “You’re doing so good…so good.”

Suddenly, the baby’s head slips free into Joe’s waiting hands—warm, damp, and shockingly real.

“Holy shit,” Joe gasps, his voice barely a whisper. “…his head’s out.”

“Check for a cord.” The nurse cuts in.

Joe swallows hard and gently runs his fingers around the baby’s head, careful and precise. “No cord,” he says, relief flooding his voice.

You’re shaking, exhausted and overwhelmed, but Joe’s voice cuts through the noise.

“You can do this,” he whispers against your temple, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You’ve got this. I know you do.”

With the next contraction, you push hard, crying out as Kai’s shoulders slip free, followed by the rest of his tiny body. The midwife hands him a clean towel just in time to catch the warm, slippery weight of his baby boy, who enters the world with a rush of fluid and an angry, piercing cry.

“Oh my God,” Joe breathes, his voice breaking as he carefully lifts his son onto his back, cradling him in the fresh towel.

“He’s here,” Joe chokes out, pressing a kiss to your damp shoulder. “He’s here…and he’s so—oh my god. He’s actually here.”

Tears spill down your face as you reach back weakly, your fingertips brushing your son’s tiny hand.

“You did it,” Joe whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re incredible.”

And as their son’s cries echo through the room, Joe can’t stop staring. His heart full, hand still steady on your back unbelievably overwhelmed by the sight of the strongest two people he’s ever known.

The sound of your baby’s first cry fills the room —loud, raw, and impossibly perfect. You let out a shaky breath, your body sagging with exhaustion and overwhelming relief.

“He’s here,” Joe whispers again, his voice breaking as he cradles your son’s tiny body in the towel. “Little man’s got some lungs on him.”

You chuckle softly, your fingertips brushing Kai’s damp hair. He’s warm and wriggling beneath Joe’s steady hands, his cries fierce and strong.

“Kai,” you rasp, barely able to get the word out through your tears. “Took you long enough sweet boy.”

Joe’s face crumples as he leans in closer, pressing his forehead to your shoulder. His free hand finds yours, fingers lacing together tightly. “I love you,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “Both of you. So much.

Outside the bathroom door, Nikki and your mom, who had been frozen in terrified silence through those final moments, each let out a shaky sigh of relief.

“Thank God,” Nikki whispers, pressing a hand to her heart.

Your mom wipes her eyes, her breath catching. “He’s here,” she says softly, her voice full of awe.

Neither of you can believe there’s a baby in your arms. His cries soften the moment your skin meets his, his tiny fingers curling against you.

Joe leans in, his arm around both of you, his lips brushing your temple. “He’s perfect,” he whispers.

The nurses gently lift Kai from your chest, cradling him in a soft towel as they prepare to take him to be cleaned up. The rest of her team surrounds you immediately after, checking you over and checking you over.

Joe’s eyes flicker between you and Kai, a mix of joy and worry crossing his face. “Do you need me here?” he asks, his voice full of concern. “I don’t want to leave you alone…”

You reach out, your hand still shaky from the delivery, but you manage to catch his. You smile softly, trying to ease his mind.

“I’m okay, Joe,” you whisper, your voice quiet but steady. “Go with him. He needs you, too.”

Joe’s eyes soften, his thumb brushing the back of your hand. He looks at Kai one last time before meeting your gaze, his heart torn. “But—”

“Joe,” you interrupt gently, “I’ll be fine. You go with him. He’s our son. You don’t want to miss a minute of that.”

A soft smile tugs at his lips, but there’s still hesitation in his eyes. Finally, with a reluctant nod, he turns to the nurses, his voice thick.

“I’ll be right over there with my adult diaper on.”

One of the nurses smiles and nods in reassurance, carefully carrying Kai toward the warmer. Joe hesitates for a moment longer, then leans down to kiss your forehead.

“I love you,” he says, his voice full of emotion.

“I love you too,” you reply, your eyes locking with his. “Now go.”

Joe gives you one last lingering look before following the nurses toward the table, his steps slow as he watches his son being gently cleaned. His heart, still racing, finds some calm in the knowledge that his family is safe and sound.

Back by your side, the midwife helps you settle into bed, cleaning you up gently but efficiently. You take a deep breath, your body aching but content, watching as Joe gazes down at Kai from the other side of the room, his hands trembling with a kind of wonder as he meets their son for the first time.

And you know, no matter what, your world has just changed forever.

Kai is carefully swaddled in a soft, baby blue blanket, his tiny body snug and warm. The nurses hand him off to Joe, and the second he holds his son in his arms, Joe’s breath catches. His gaze softens, and a smile spreads across his face as he looks down at the tiny face peeking out from the blanket.

He takes a long, stunned moment, unable to tear his eyes away from Kai. The baby’s icy blue eyes are still a little puffy, his features soft and delicate, but the resemblance is undeniable.

“Damn,” Joe breathes, his voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “He looks like me. He looks exactly like me.”

He turns toward you, still holding Kai carefully in his arms, and you can’t help but laugh softly at the sight.

“Well,” you tease, your voice still a little raspy from the delivery, “I guess my genes didn’t even try, huh?”

Joe chuckles, his eyes still glued to his son, as he gently walks over to you. “At least the hair is all yours,” he says with a smile, his tone full of pure love. “He’s perfect.”

He settles beside you on the bed, carefully placing Kai in your arms. As soon as you cradle him, Kai’s tiny hand instinctively grabs onto your finger, and your heart melts all over again.

Joe leans in, his lips brushing your temple as he whispers, “He’s ours.”

And in that moment, you know with every fiber of your being, everything you’ve ever dreamed of has just come true.

Nikki and your mom both take turns holding Kai, their faces glowing with pure joy as they marvel at him. Nikki, teary-eyed, gently rocks him in her arms, whispering softly to him as if already promising a lifetime of friendship and love. Your mom smiles warmly, brushing a finger along his cheek as she coos, “He’s perfect. Just like his parents.”

Joe watches them with a soft smile on his face, still in awe of how everything has fallen into place. His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out, glancing at the screen. It’s his mom.

He steps into the corner of the room, his voice already trembling with emotion as he answers.

“Hey, Mom,” Joe says, a grin spreading across his face. “Kai’s here.”

Robin’s voice comes through loud and clear, excited and full of joy. “Oh my god, Joe! He’s here!”

“Yeah,” Joe laughs, his heart soaring. “He’s perfect, Mom. He looks just like me.”

Robin lets out a soft chuckle, clearly overjoyed. “I can’t wait to meet him! We’re on our way. We’ll be there in about 10 minutes.”

Joe looks over at you, his heart full, and you give him a small nod, a smile lighting up your face despite the exhaustion still lingering in your body. You reach out for Kai again, holding him close as you breathe in the scent of his soft skin, overwhelmed by the love that fills the room.

“We’ll be waiting,” Joe says into the phone, his voice thick with emotion. “Can’t wait for you to meet him.”

He hangs up and turns back to the room, his eyes softening as he takes in the sight of his son being held by your mom and Nikki.

“They’ll be here soon,” Joe says quietly, walking back to your side. “But for now, it’s just us.”

You smile, your eyes locking with his. “Just us.”

And as you both sit there, wrapped in the warmth of your new family, you can’t help but feel that, no matter how much time passes, you’ll never forget this moment, when everything finally felt complete.

A few minutes later, the door to the room opens and Robin and Jimmy walk in, their eyes immediately locking on Kai, still peacefully nestled in your arms.

Joe’s parents stop in their tracks, both of them overcome with emotion. Robin’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears as she takes a step closer, her voice trembling.

“Oh my God honey…he’s beautiful,” Robin whispers, her voice full of awe.

Jimmy, usually reserved, can’t help but smile widely as he steps forward, his eyes twinkling with pride. “Look at him,” he murmurs, his voice thick. “He’s got your eyes, Joe.”

Joe, standing next to you, watches as his parents approach. His heart swells seeing the look on their faces, pure, unfiltered love. He gently takes Kai from your arms and cradles him against his chest, carefully walking over to his parents.

Robin reaches out first, her hands trembling as she gently holds Kai for the first time. She gazes down at him, tears spilling over as she whispers, “My baby boy now has his own baby boy.”

Joe watches, his own emotions thick in his throat as he stands beside his mom, who can barely hold herself together. Robin leans in, kissing Kai’s tiny forehead, her voice breaking as she says, “I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life.”

She looks up at Joe, her eyes full of love. “You’ve made me the happiest mom in the world.”

Joe smiles, his throat tight with emotion, but he manages to speak. “I just can’t believe he’s here. And he’s real.”

Jimmy, his voice soft, adds, “You’re a dad now, kid. It’s…it’s something else.”

Robin holds Kai a little longer, her tears falling freely now as she cradles him gently, overwhelmed by the fact that her son—her only child—has started a family of his own.

Joe watches, his hand resting gently on her shoulder, his heart swelling at the sight. “We’ve got a family now,” he says quietly, looking at you. “A real one.”

On a bright sunny day in May, Kai Joseph Burrow entered the world, all 10lbs 3oz of him.

And as the room fills with quiet, overwhelming emotion, you realize just how much love surrounds you, how deeply your family has grown, and how everything, no matter how difficult or challenging it’s been? It’s all led to this perfect moment.

Life would never be the same. And after today? You can’t wait to get this next chapter started.

[himbo-kuto]

doctor!reader x doctor!zayne summary: zayne just loves u or sumn :p

“hmm.. that’s strange..” you mumbled to yourself as you looked at the chart that your husband just handed to you. zayne studied your confused expression as you flipped back and forth between pages. he came to your office with results that he couldn’t exactly connect all the dots on. you worked in orthopedics and in many instances you were able to fill in the blanks. 

“and you ran all the tests and they came back…” you looked back at his figure that was hovering over you– one hand on the back of your chair, one on your desk. 

“negative.” he confirmed. 

“mhmm…” you turned your attention back to the chart, your brows furrowing immediately as you now had to read every word on the page slowly, just to make sure you didn’t miss any important information. you took the glasses that were resting on the bridge of your nose and pushed them upward into your hair, now feeling like you were able to see the chart more clearly. 

zayne took a pause as he fully took in your appearance. your glasses perfectly pushed your hair back, giving him a clear view of your face– furrowed brows and pouty lips. he smiled unbeknownst to him as he was just filled with love and gratitude. the sun from the outside was hitting you perfectly, making you glow like an angel (his angel). 

“i think we should run a–” you looked over to find your husband with a soft expression that was oozing admiration and affection. it made you blush instantly. just how long had he been looking at you like that?

“why are you looking at me like that, dr. zayne?” he reached over and tucked a stray hair behind your ear as you tried to refocus on the task at hand, though failing miserably. 

“no reason in particular. you just look radiant, my love.” you whined as you kicked your feet under your desk, using the clipboard to hide your blushing cheeks.

“zayne, what did we say about compliments in the office!” he turned your chair around so you were fully facing him. he took said clipboard, placing it on your desk (now forgotten) and caged you into your chair. he leaned in further, now inches from your face. 

“i don’t remember anything about giving compliments, doctor. we agreed not to kiss in public and last time i checked..” you watched as his gaze flickered upward to view your empty office.

“...it was just you and me.” you bit back your smile as you shyly looked up at him, your cheeks deepening in color. he planted a kiss on your forehead before leaning down and capturing your lips. he stayed there for a moment, reveling in the feeling of your lips on his. 

“did you come in here to get a second opinion or to steal a kiss dr. zayne?” you whispered softly as he pulled back, as to not break the moment. 

“you can’t steal something that already belongs to you, dear.” in one fell swoop, he landed another kiss on your lips, grabbed the clipboard from your desk and headed toward the door. 

“i’ll run that test you suggested, thank you doctor.” and just like that he was gone from your office. you blinked a few times before shouting to his fleeting figure. 

“you didn’t even hear what test i wanted to run!” 

[meinii]

“lads boys as your classmates”

content: mentions of food, use of nicknames (pretty)

୨୧･｡｡･♡･∴･♡･｡｡･୨୧

Sylus

being Sylus’s classmate meant dealing with his cocky smirks and sharp remarks on a daily basis. he was the guy everyone either admired or avoided—top of the class without trying, always dressed like he just stepped out of some underground fashion magazine, and never one to back down from a challenge.

“you’re staring again” he’d murmur without looking at you, pen lazily twirling between his fingers. it was infuriating because you weren’t staring—at least not intentionally. but he always caught you when you did. worse, his red eyes would flick to you, that grin tugging at the corner of his lips, and your face would heat up

despite how he acted, sylus had this habit of showing up whenever you needed help. struggling with an equation? he’d lean over your desk, his cologne and warmth entirely too distracting. “seriously? even a kid could solve this” he’d tease, but his voice softened as he guided your hand to the solution. “good job” he’d add under his breath, like he didn’t mean for you to hear

he claimed group projects were a waste of his time, yet he always ended up partnered with you—whether by chance or maybe something else. sometimes he’d walk you home under the excuse of “it’s dark, and you’d probably trip over your own feet.” other times, he’d toss an energy drink onto your desk during finals “don’t pass out before the exam. it’d be boring without you.”

one afternoon, you caught him waiting outside your classroom “what are you doing here?” you asked. he shrugged, gaze flicking away “I got bored” but then he handed you a small box—inside was your favorite snack “don’t read into it,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “just… eat it.”

but the biggest giveaway was during a school festival

yet when your fingers brushed while reaching for the same trinket, he didn’t pull away. instead, his hand closed around yours, his gaze softer than you’d ever seen “don’t make me spell it out,” he murmured “just… stay by my side, yeah?”

Zayne

Zayne was the top student everyone respected but no one dared to approach. always dressed in neat, neutral-toned clothes, he seemed untouchable—glasses perched on his nose, pen moving smoothly across his notes

conversations with him were usually met with curt responses, unless you asked something related to class

even then, he’d sigh like you were inconveniencing him, though he always answered

but you noticed the small things—like how he’d pull out a chair for you without a word during group work or how he’d silently place an extra pen on your desk when yours ran out of ink

he’d claim it was “just practical” but the warmth lingering in his gaze said otherwise

“you’re hopeless with this,” he muttered one day during study hall, leaning over to correct your notes. his hair brushed your cheek, and you felt your heartbeat quicken

when you glanced at him, his face was close, brows furrowed in concentration

“focus” he said—but his ears were noticeably red.

despite his aloofness, he seemed to always be around. forgotten lunch? he’d quietly slide an extra sandwich your way

struggling to reach a book in the library? he’d grab it before you could even tiptoe “you’ll hurt yourself” he’d murmur, eyes softening just a fraction

one rainy afternoon, you forgot your umbrella. while everyone else had already left, you lingered under the awning, debating if you should run for it

that’s when Zayne appeared, holding out his umbrella

“you’re going to get sick,” he said flatly “I don’t need you missing class again. it’s… distracting”

walking home together, your shoulders brushed, and you caught him glancing at you out of the corner of his eye

after a moment, he cleared his throat “valentine’s day is coming up,” he said, gaze fixed ahead

“I don’t usually… participate in things like that, but—” he paused, clearly struggling “if you’re not busy… maybe we could go to the café near campus?”

his words were awkward, but the way his hand brushed yours—fingers lingering before slipping into your grasp—spoke volumes

Caleb

Caleb was sunshine incarnate—always grinning, always teasing. he was the guy who ruffled your hair when you did well on a test and draped his arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world

you’d known him forever, but lately… things felt different. his touches lingered longer, his smiles seemed softer when directed at you

“hey, pretty,” he greeted one morning, tossing a wrapped pastry onto your desk

“your favorite. don’t say I never do anything for you” he winked, and you rolled your eyes—but your cheeks warmed anyway

he had a habit of pulling you into his orbit—dragging you to late-night study sessions (where more laughing than studying happened), convincing you to skip cafeteria food for street snacks, or sneaking you into empty classrooms to show you something dumb but endearing

like the time he drew a ridiculous doodle of the two of you on the chalkboard

“see? us—conquering life. mostly me carrying you, though.”

but beneath the teasing, there were moments of quiet care. like when you dozed off during a movie marathon at his place and woke up with a blanket tucked around you—or when he noticed your stress and took you out for a spontaneous night drive just to see the stars.

one evening after a school event, you found yourself on the rooftop with him, city lights twinkling below

“hey,” he said, voice softer than usual

“you know how I joke around a lot? but… I’m serious about you. always have been.”

he reached out, gently tugging you closer. his grin was still there—but his eyes held something deeper

“so… wanna make this official? be my person?”

Rafayel

Rafayel was impossible to miss—tall, striking, with dusky purple hair and mismatched eyes that seemed to see right through you. his charm was effortless, his teasing relentless

“oh? blushing already? I haven’t even started yet” he’d say, flashing a grin that sent your heart into a frenzy

he often dragged you to his art studio, claiming he needed a “muse” it usually ended with you perched on a stool, cheeks burning as he sketched you with an intensity that made your breath catch

“hold still,” he’d murmur, gaze flicking between you and the canvas “every detail matters.”

sometimes he’d show up at your classroom door, leaning against the frame with a lazy smile

“come with me” he’d say, not really giving you a choice

those spontaneous adventures—sunsets at the beach, late-night walks where he’d hum tunes—became your favorite moments

but beneath the playful arrogance was a gentler side

when you mentioned liking a certain pastry, he’d show up with it days later. when you shivered in the evening breeze, he’d wordlessly drape his jacket over you.

one afternoon, you found him painting alone—colors swirling in passionate strokes. he beckoned you closer, revealing the canvas. It was you—captured in vibrant hues, surrounded by warmth

“you’re… important to me,” he admitted quietly “more than I let on.”

and when you turned to him, touched beyond words, he grinned softly

“so… how about you let me paint you forever?”

Xavier

Xavier was… different. quiet, calm—like a serene lake hiding unknown depths. he’d often be found napping in odd places: under a tree, on the library steps. sometimes you’d sit beside him, and he’d peek an eye open

“you’re warm” he’d murmur, resting his head on your shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

in class, he was sharp but never boastful. he’d pass you notes when you looked confused—neat handwriting explaining concepts better than the textbooks

“you’ll understand it,” he’d say softly, voice soothing “just take your time.”

he had this habit of appearing when you needed him most. Walking home alone? he’d suddenly be there, matching your pace.

feeling down? he’d silently offer you his favorite candy

you once asked why he was always around, and he simply said, “I like being near you.”

but the clearest sign was during a festival when you spotted a plushie you liked at a claw machine.

before you could attempt it, Xavier stepped in. “I’ll get it,” he said—and after a few tries (and an adorable furrow of his brow), he handed it to you “for you”

that night, as you walked under the stars, he quietly slipped his hand into yours

“I don’t understand a lot about… feelings,” he confessed “but I know I don’t want to be without you”

[littleredhotsridinghood]

The two of you have been fighting for as long as you can remember.

Great battles of strength and wit, taunts and jeers, wins and losses. Every time you would each retreat, nursing wounds both emotional and physical but all the while riding the high of adrenaline.

Yes, you’ve fought others – but none challenge you like he does. None make your blood buzz in your veins or leave you thinking and training on how you can be better next time.

Maybe it’s because the stakes have been lower as of late, the taunts sounding more like teasing and the hits landing lighter. Maybe it’s because you’ve walked away feeling the victor more often than not – and even then, the rare taste of defeat hasn’t been as bitter.

Still, it takes you by surprise, the hot swell of pain radiating from your chest – being impaled tends to hurt, after all. It just hadn’t happened in so long – and never anywhere important… until now.

You look up in… in what? Betrayal? Hadn’t the two of you started this whole thing trying to kill each other? When had you lost sight of that?

And why does he look just as taken aback?

For a moment, it almost looks like he is going to run to you – or maybe you’re just projecting. Maybe the blood loss is getting to you and you don’t want to die alone.

Regardless, between lengthening blinks and your body growing heavier and colder, he’s gone.

And not much later, so are you.

*

You’d never given much thought to dying and almost regret it now. What awaited you? Would it be a hellish gauntlet of everyone you’ve defeated and slain? Would it be a heavenly reunion of everyone you’ve befriended and saved? Or would it be nothing? Would all that’s left of you be your body, rotting away until it too turned to nothing? Would you just have the empty comfort of your legacy?

Yes, you would come to find.

Death is… emptiness. An endless void of nothing. An empty, yawning pit of the nothing that is you. No thoughts or emotions or sensations in an endless stretch that might be seconds or centuries. And outside the bubble of that universe of nothing is true oblivion, where the sliver of you that you still are would cease to exist entirely. You are trapped there in the very worst type of purgatory – conscious of the fact but not truly aware, like a fly caught in a spider’s web in a bubble of amber.

*

You wake with a gasp, air scorching your lungs and light searing your eyes. Your body throbs and it takes a moment to realize that it’s sore muscles and not the pulse of blood in your veins that aches.

It is many minutes before you’re able to drag your eyelids back open, and even more before they adjust to the dimmed light and land on… him?

He is holding an ornate book, older than any you’ve ever seen, and he looks… just about as bad as you feel. You can’t read the strange look on his face (in his eyes) but when you try to ask why – why he’s here, why you’re here, why he did what he so obviously must have done – all that comes out of your throat is a tired croak.

Still, he understands. “Life has been… boring without our fights,” he pauses for a moment, as though he’s going to say something else but instead turns towards the door. “I’ll give you one month to recover – use it wisely.”

*

The first few days, you can barely drag yourself from your bed, let alone train to fight again.

After a week, you tell yourself that you still need more time to redevelop your fine motor skills, if you’re to be able to fight properly.

After two weeks, you can’t put off the truth anymore – not when your hands tremble upon even looking at your armor and weapons. Not when every noise outside makes your blood run cold but the silence makes it colder and the darkness at night has your heart pounding until it feels like it’ll give out.

It has been many years since you’ve felt like prey and the thought angers you enough to grab a small blade, just a little thing but definitely an easy start – except you nick your finger and the fear that rises inside of you at the thin sliver of blood is so strong that the world goes black.

*

Three days until he promised to return, and you have come to terms with your new circumstances. You can’t fight, can barely leave the safety of your home without cowering from shadows and flinching at birdsong. More often than not you stay inside, finding comfort in cooking and knitting – you’ve certainly retrained those fine motor skills by now.

You just hope that you’ll be able to finish this blanket before he arrives. Before you have to admit that you’re no longer a worthy opponent to anyone, let alone him. Before he kills you (again) and leaves you to die alone (again). Before you have to go back to that yawning maw of nothing.

You try not to think about it all too much – it tends to leave you buried, trembling under your covers for the rest of the day and you only have so much time left to finish this blanket, after all.

*

He arrives a day early, while you’re sitting outside and knitting.

You didn’t even get to finish the border, needles clacking against each other as your hands shake. You set them down and look up at him. He’s wearing his strongest, fiercest armor, looking like some god ready to wage war. You’re wearing your softest, most comfortable clothes for the last time, looking… you don’t even want to think of how you must look to him.

“I-I’m sorry,” your voice has never shaken like this before and the shame eats away at you, “I can’t f-fight anymore.”

“No. No, I brought you back perfectly – your body should be fine by now,” he takes one step towards you and you can do nothing to hide the full-body flinch that overtakes you.

What a useless coward you are now. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, to see the disgust in his eyes as you admit in a whisper – too weak to even announce it, “I’m too afraid.”

You wait, eyes closed, for the merciless blow that will send you back to that oblivion. But it never comes.

“Then... I’ll have nothing more to do with you.”

By the time that you open your eyes, feeling gutted in an entirely different way, he is gone.

It’s not until now that you feel the tears streaming down your face – and you didn’t know to be scared of the possibility of living the rest of your life like this until this moment.

*

Time passes slowly after that, and you drift as best as you can, trying to make the most of your new life.

You finish the blanket, draping it over the couch by the fire – now you might actually be alive to use it when winter rolls around.

Try to go for a walk outside that lasts until a wolf cried in the far distance – upon returning home, you bury the pelt that a younger you had hunted with father at the bottom of the closet.

Read a book that you’d been meaning to get around to – it’s funnier than you’d expected, but there’s no one to talk about it with.

Try to go out the next day, thoughts of starting a garden in that empty bed that you’d never paid attention to until it starts pouring – a bolt of lightning flashing and thunder immediately crackling far too close to your home leaving you nearly pissing yourself and scrambling inside.

Cook up some food for yourself, wishing for someone on the other end of the table to share it with – but you’d been so comfortable with a solitary life in the past. You’d enjoyed the silence that now eats away at you.

Life is peaceful in a way that you’d never thought it could be – but is also emptier than you’d ever thought possible. Lonelier, despite the bouts of paranoia that you are being watched.

Still, anything is better than the void of death.

*

You’re back in the garden, trying again when you hear them. They’re not exactly being subtle about it, crashing through the brush and calling out for you. You know them – know of them – associates of someone you defeated when you weren’t fighting him.

They are here to kill you, having heard that you aren’t as dead as the world had thought.

You grip the shovel in your hands, the only ‘weapon’ on hand, knowing that it’ll be useless against theirs. That is, if you can even bring yourself to move, your body locking in terror at the knowledge of what is awaiting you if don’t – can’t – fight them off. It’s a vicious cycle of fear that you can’t shake as they encircle you, laughing at how far you’ve fallen.

And maybe this half of a life is pitiful, shameful compared to who you once were, but it’s still yours and if you can just get your damn muscles to unfreeze, you can go down fighting for it.

The leader swings his sword at you – sloppy, taunting – and you just barely dodge it in time, heart pounding. You try to counterattack, but it’s slow and weak and uncoordinated. Pathetic, and they know it. One of them laughs from behind you, swiping and you just know that they’re toying with you but you still jump away in panic– right into another waiting blade.

White hot pain lances into your side and it feels so terribly new now – where had your tolerance gone? – that you can’t not scream. You sound like a terrified, wounded animal, feel like one too as another blade nicks your arm causing you to drop the shovel. Another sinks into your calf and you collapse to the ground.

The leader raises his sword with a sneer, and with terribly clarity, you know that this is it, and force yourself to look anywhere else. To the sky, to the trees around you, to the soil beneath you. You were going to plant peppers here.

Once again, the blow never comes.

Instead, you hear an awful gurgling sound – you know it to be the sound of someone choking on their own blood and distantly wonder if it’s you. But then a body crashes to the ground before you. The leader is clawing at his throat, where an arrow has pierced cleanly through and blood is dripping from both the hole and his mouth.

Another man falls to your left, dead before he even hits the dirt from the arrow protruding from his eye. You recognize those arrows, the grey fletching – they are his.

Two more of your attackers are dropped before he appears, axe drawn and already descending upon those that were left standing. You’ve never seen him fight like this before – it’s nothing like the battles between the two of you, not even at the start. It’s not that he’s fighting with more skill or strength, but rather… he’s fighting like he’s furious, like he could just throw his weapon down and tear his opponents apart with his bare hands. He actually does drop it once he’s down to the last man standing and you vaguely identify him as the first to stab you. He uses the man’s own sword instead.

The silence that settles around the two of you after that isn’t the kind that fills you with dread. It’s not even the awkward kind. In fact… it’s almost comfortable, the way that he brings your into your own home and begins bandaging you without a word. He’s practically untouched, apart from a small slice on his forearm that you wrap in return.

It’s only later, when you are both eating a hastily thrown together meal that he speaks, “You know that they won’t be the only ones that come for you.”

It’s tough to swallow past the lump in your throat, “I do… but I can’t fight anymore.” If you’d had any hope of being able to push through the crippling terror before, it’s been thoroughly disillusioned now.

He reaches across the table and covers your hand with his own, “I can.”

Your heartbeat picks up, but for once it’s not from fear, “I’m not the same as I was before.”

He leans in, “Neither am I.”

You can’t help but match him, “I–”

He cuts you off with a kiss - and if you ever know that emptiness again, he's always right there to chase it away.

"came back wrong" what about Came Back Afraid. You used to be brave. Too brave maybe, defying the odds at every turn, a fighter, cocky, playing with fire, first to throw yourself at the enemy. Until one day it all caught up to you. You came back, somehow, but now you know all too intimately how it feels to lose, to die, to be destroyed. Now you flinch and freeze and cower at the slightest provocation. Who even are you now if you can't be brave? The grave may have let you go, but the mortal fear still grips you tighter than ever.

[hrrtshape]

Hello Emma! Since you’ve shifted so much, has you shifting routine changed? How do you shift now?

the shifting routine of a girl who shifts (mostly) whenever she wants, craves, or desires.

shifting is not a performance. there is no audience. i am not standing in front of a tribunal presenting my case on why i deserve to be somewhere else. i am simply going there. this is not a trial. this is muscle memory. this is knowing the way home. it’s an instinct, like finding the light switch in the dark. i don’t have to prove i can do it. i just do it.

i shift before sleep (nothing against awake methods, but i like returning back to my cr right after waking up), usually between 11pm and 1am. not because those hours are mystical or drenched in folklore, but because that's when i’m least bothered. the world is quiet, my bed is a raft, and i’m not interested in staying here.

i don’t prepare. not really. i do not count down, do not recite an essay-length affirmation, do not negotiate with the laws of physics. i simply think: what if i am already there and just forgot? what if my senses just have to catch up? i am not convincing myself. i am remembering and questioning reality.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　┊ 

some nights, there’s music in my headphones. sometimes, there’s just silence, the white noise of rain, the hum of the night. my plushies (yes. yes) are there, but not as relics or ritual objects, just soft, familiar things that happen to exist alongside me.

i do not wait for a sign, for the planets to align, for the atmosphere to give me a knowing nod. i decide, and then i go. like turning a page in a book i’ve already read. 　　i know what happens next. the key is not waiting for permission to remember.

　people ask . . 　　❛ how do you know it's working? how do you know you're going to shift? and i think, how do you know you’re going to fall asleep? you just do. you close your eyes. you stop trying to be awake. you just go. shifting is like that. you let go of this world’s grip.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　you fall. you land.

routine is something that exists but doesn’t dictate. it's not the point. the point is the knowing. the ease. the way it happens when it happens because it was always going to happen. shifting is not a thesis to be defended, it is a place to be returned to. and i return, as i please.

[hiraethvita]

Thinking about !Butcher Simon Riley with his sweet regular customer..

Simon Riley who doesn’t believe in starting over. Not really. Retired from the military, he’d traded one kind of blood for another. The butcher shop wasn’t much—small place tucked in the corner of Manchester, no fancy signage, no bright lights—but the regulars came. You came. Twice a week, Wednesdays and Fridays like clockwork.

Simon Riley—your butcher—moves with a kind of brutal grace behind the counter, sleeves rolled to his elbows, arms cut from marble and hard labor. You watch him work the cleaver like it’s an extension of his body. Focused. Calm. Every slice is deliberate, clean, respectful. There’s no waste in his motion, no hesitation in his hands.

You tell yourself it’s just the way he works—but your heart tells you otherwise. It stutters every time he glances up and catches you staring. You always look away too fast.

He’s seen things, you can tell. Something in the set of his shoulders, in the way he carries silence like a second skin. They say he was military once, but no one in the neighborhood asks. They just buy their lamb chops and brisket, nod respectfully, and leave him be.

But not you.

Sometimes you don’t even need anything. You come into his shop just to linger by the display case, pretend to think hard when he asks what you’re in the mood for, and always end up letting him choose. You like the way he speaks when he’s talking about cuts—like meat is an art form and he’s the only one who understands it. Like there’s a language in bone and fat and sinew, and he knows how to read it all.

He knows you’re into him.

You think he doesn’t notice—how your eyes linger on the flex of his forearms, how your breath catches when he tightens his grip on the knife. But he does. He knew from the first time you smiled at him over a pound of sirloin, all nervous and bright-eyed.

And he liked—more than he should’ve—how you smelled faintly of sugar and coffee when you leaned in to hand him cash.

It wasn’t anything serious. Not at first. Just a little dance. A tilt of your head, a brush of your fingers when he passed you the package. He told himself it was nothing.

But he starts saving the best cuts for you. Packs a little extra into your order. Keeps the shop open late on days when you run behind, just in case. It’s nothing. And it’s everything.

The day you tell him about your promotion, you’re practically vibrating. He can see it before you even speak. You ask—halting, hopeful—if he’d like to come over for dinner. Just dinner. Maybe.

He says yes.

Later, in your tiny kitchen, you cook with meat he cut for you himself. he watches you handle the meat. Sees the way your hands move, careful, precise, even if you’re nervous. You ask him how thin the slices should be. You ask him if he likes garlic. Ask if he likes bourbon. Fuck—darlin’, are you trying to get yourself a ring?

He’s still all knives and scars and quiet edges—but with you, he doesn’t have to be just that. So when you ask him if he wants to stay a little longer after dinner. With that soft, bright smile like you’re not afraid of what’s under his skin, something in him loosens. Maybe even heals, just a little. And he finds he doesn’t mind saying yes to that either.

═════════════════════════

[girl4music]

That’s not true with me. I don’t have NOTPs because I don’t really talk about the relationships between characters that I don’t ship together. Just the same as I don’t really ever talk about a character that I don’t like.

If I don’t talk about them all that much, you can safely assume I don’t like them all that much.

As for characters I absolutely hate.

You’ll never see me talk about them.

People often assume it’s the other way around. That if I talk so negatively about a character, I hate them.

The reality is I really like that character.

May even love them. I talk about them so negatively often because I find their negative characterization interesting or compelling. It’s not because I hate it.

For example: Willow Rosenberg.

She’s actually my favourite character in the entire Buffyverse. But I read her for filth most of the time.

I’m constantly talking about her negative characterization. Her qualities or arc.

The reason why is because I LOVE THAT about her. I find it so fascinating about her character. Willow’s representation and development is highly exciting.

She’s an amazingly well-written and well-portrayed morally grey character with an arc that is riveting.

But I’ve actually had so many people on here ask me why I talk so much crap about her. Why I hate her.

I don’t hate her. Not in the slightest.

I hate the way she behaves and reacts sometimes but that’s part of what makes me so thoroughly invested.

If I actually hated her, I’d never talk about her because I don’t talk about characters that I do actually hate.

Yes. Those characters exist. You’ll just never know it.

The same with ships. If you know I am aware of a ship but I never ever talk about them - assume I hate them.

If I always talk about the ship but not in the most positive way - don’t assume that. I do love them.

The way I consume media and TV art/entertainment is in a very unusual way because my intention is to learn.

It’s not to be entertained or pleasured.

I have no interest in art/entertainment to be appeased.

I don’t care what looks good, sounds good, feels good.

Blah blah blah. I want to be mentally stimulated.

I want to expand my consciousness and sense of self.

Everything I watch, regardless of what age or genre it is, it has to be something incredibly thought-provoking.

I just fucking switch off otherwise. I just don’t care.

I am incapable of consuming media just to consume.

Now what’s funny is aesthetically and thematically, I like camp, I like stuff that really isn’t all that serious at all. I like the supernatural, metaphorical, philosophical.

But the caveat is that it has to be well-written. The writing is very important to me in whatever it is. So when it comes to characters and also character relationships/dynamics, I don’t have to “like” or “ship” them. I just have to be compelled by them. That’s it.

I have to be given room to think and feel and interpret.

You give me that - I’ll quickly a be lot more engaged.

I do not think you have to “like” a character or “ship” a character dynamic. You just have to learn something.

It’s just with me personally that tends to be why I like or ship them because what’s important to me is learning.

I don’t ship Xena and Gabrielle so obsessively and egregiously because they’re “cute” together. I couldn’t care a less about that. I ship them because they’re an incredible multi-faceted compelling character dynamic and I learn something new or something profound out of watching them - out of understanding that dynamic.

If all that they had about them or between them was “cuteness”, I wouldn’t ship them. I wouldn’t give a shit.

It’s not about that for me. It never has been.

Never will be.

i feel like nobody has NOTPs anymore. like if you hate a ship now it has to be for some deep moral reason and you have to justify it to everyone what happened to just not liking stuff that isnt inherently bad but just because you personally think it sucks

[fireinmoonshot]

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: Joaquín loves referring to you as his wife after your wedding... even when it's driving Sam insane at work. Warnings: I don't think there are any. Word Count: 937 A/N: I had a request to write something about this and since the fic about Joaquín loving to be called husband has done so well, I thought this one would be a cute one. It's not very fluffy or romance based and Sam is in it a lot but I think it turned out pretty cute and funny and very Joaquín. Enjoy 💗

It’s uncharacteristically quiet inside Sam and Joaquin’s base. The two men are sat at their desks, eyes focused on their computer screens as they look up information about their next target, trying to memorise as much as possible before it’s inevitably time for them to save the world again. 

Sam leans back in his chair and stifles a yawn. “So, when’s your girl coming by?” He asks, looking across the room at Joaquin, who is sat at his own desk, staring blankly at his computer.

Joaquin blinks, sitting up a little straighter at the mention of you, and turns to look at Sam. Despite the fact that staring at a computer screen is part of his job, even he’s getting tired of it today. 

“Oh, my girl? You mean… my wife?”

Sam immediately regrets saying anything. Joaquin has been talking all morning about how you’re coming by to visit and take him out for lunch this afternoon. He’s been excited because you’ve never come to visit their base before and after marrying you last month, being apart from you is harder than ever. 

The thing is, every time Joaquin mentions you lately he never mentions you by name. It’s always ‘my wife’ or some variation of it. Sam has never heard of anyone liking a word so much.

“If you say one more word I’m sending you home and finishing off this mission plan alone,” Sam sighs, turning back towards his own computer where he’s been reading up on their target.

For a moment, Joaquin just stares at Sam. “Okay, what’s so wrong about me referring to her as my wife? Just cause you’re not married doesn’t mean I can’t talk about my marriage, Sam.”

If it were anyone else, Sam would’ve been surprised by their confidence in saying something so bold directly to him. But with Joaquin… well, this is really just a regular Tuesday.

“Cause she has a name, man, and I don’t need you trying to rub the fact that you’re married and I’m not in my face, Joaquin,” Sam shakes his head. He’s not as annoyed about it as he sounds – he’s really just trying to get Joaquin to use your name for once. It’s almost like a challenge to him at this point.

As if you’ve been summoned, there’s a knock on the door of the base. You push it open a little, just enough to poke your head through to make sure you’ve got the right room. When you see Sam and Joaquin, you smile. “Am I interrupting?”

Joaquin springs from his chair and is across the room, wrapping his arms around you like he hasn’t seen you for weeks. He moves so quickly Sam barely even registers him moving.

“How you doin’, Mrs Torres?” Sam asks, spinning around in his chair so he’s facing you. He feels like he’s the one interrupting based on the way Joaquin is hanging off you like a koala. 

You pull out of Joaquin’s arms, smiling a little at the way that he still keeps a hand on your waist. “I’m good, Sam. How has this one been today?” You point a finger towards Joaquin.

“The usual,” Sam grins. He knows that you immediately know what he means by that. His smile grows even bigger at the look on Joaquin’s face. “He’s talked about you so much that it’s felt like you’ve been in the office with us all day.”

Joaquin pouts a little but quickly removes the look from his face, not wanting Sam to notice and tease him about it later. “Hey, don’t talk about me like that to my wife, man.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Sam huffs out a laugh. He’s pretty sure Joaquin hadn’t even meant to say it that time, but he jokes with him anyway. “You can’t call her by her name just once?” 

“I am. It’s ‘my wife’,” Joaquin protests, looking proudly between you and Sam as he says the words. Then, his grin fades. “Wait. That did not sound as good out loud as it sounded in my head.”

Sam puts a hand over his face and tries not to laugh. 

Beside Joaquin, you’re also trying not to laugh. You hadn’t taken offence at his words – you knew what he meant by them. But his realisation was amusing.

“I’m sorry, angel. I know that’s not your actual name,” Joaquin apologises, his grip tightening on your waist a little. “It came out all wrong.”

You meet Joaquin’s eyes and smile at your husband. “I know what you meant, but you’re right. It did not sound good in the slightest.” You look over at Sam. “You mind if I steal him away for an hour or so?”

Sam shakes his head. “You can take him for the rest of the day as far as I’m concerned.”

“Hey,” Joaquin narrows his eyes at Sam. 

“Go on,” Sam waves his hand at Joaquin, ignoring the look he’s giving him. “Your wife wants to take you out to lunch and you’re wasting time, Joaquin.” He smiles a little as he speaks, knowing Joaquin will enjoy him giving in and referring to you as his wife.

Joaquin smiles a little – just as Sam had expected.

You reach down and take one of Joaquin’s hands in yours. “Come on, husband. We have an hour and I intend to make the most of it. I’m sure Sam feels the same way.”

At hearing the word husband come out of your mouth, Joaquin’s smile grows. He happily starts to lead you out of the office, hand holding yours tight. “I’ll lead the way, my wife…”

[rafes-slut]

Leave Me On Read, I Dare You

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Girlfriend!Reader

Warnings: suggestive content, lingerie/nudes, dirty talk, sexting, mentions of arousal, slight angst (insecurity), soft dom!Rafe undertones, possessiveness, minor jealousy themes, reader spiraling over being left on read, mature language

Summary:

You send Rafe some sultry pictures while he’s busy, expecting a quick reply—or something. But when he leaves you on read with zero reaction, your insecurities spiral… until Rafe finally answers, and you realize just how hard he was because of it.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, heart hammering in your chest as you stared down at the message thread with Rafe. You’d just sent him a series of pictures—well, technically not nudes, but close enough. Soft, lacey lingerie hugging your body just right, teasing skin and curves you knew drove him insane. You’d posed just how he liked it—arched back, slightly parted lips, that little smirk he always said made him crazy.

And… nothing.

He read the message. The tiny “Seen” notification glared at you like a slap in the face.

You sat there, blinking, still in the same lingerie, waiting for the telltale dots of him typing something—anything.

But they never came.

Ten minutes passed.

Then twenty.

You bit down on your lip, irritation bubbling beneath your skin as you stared at your phone like it had personally betrayed you.

You:

Rafe?

No reply.

You:

You alive?

Still nothing.

You huffed, eyes narrowing.

You:

Ok wtf

Did you not like them???

Why tf would you leave me on read after THAT

Hello???

Your thumb hovered again, and before you could stop yourself, the floodgates opened.

You:

Do you even like me anymore???

Not like I need validation but also wtf???

Honestly feel stupid now lol

Won’t send you shit again if you’re just gonna ignore me

Not even a “damn babe” or “holy shit”? really?

Wow

You flung your phone onto the bed, face flushing with a mix of embarrassment and anger. This wasn’t supposed to go like that. He usually lost his mind over these things, blowing up your phone with filthy messages, telling you he was on his way over, or begging for more. Not silence.

You sighed, tugging at the strap of your bra, feeling a little ridiculous now. Why had you even bothered?

Your phone buzzed.

You snatched it up, fully ready to go off—until your eyes landed on the picture.

Rafe. In his bedroom. Hand wrapped tightly around his very hard length, veins prominent, tip flushed red, precum dripping as he gripped it just for you. His other hand held his phone, snapping the picture low so you could see everything.

Rafe:

This is what happens when you send me that shit, Sweetheart.

Had to wait till I was alone.

Now come fix this.

Your mouth went dry, legs suddenly weak beneath you as heat rushed through your veins.

Your irritation? Gone. Just like that.

You swallowed hard, eyes glued to the picture like it might burn a hole through your screen. Your cheeks burned, and you could practically hear his cocky tone through the text. That signature smirk he wore when he knew he had you wrapped around his finger.

Another message.

Rafe:

And don’t ever doubt if I like you again.

Next time, you’re sending those pics in person.

While you’re riding me.

You whimpered.

Phone still clutched in your hand, you typed fast.

You:

Be there in 10.

Keep it hard for me.

Your phone buzzed again almost instantly.

Rafe:

Don’t worry.

It’s for you anyway.

[cressidagrey]

The Queen of Romantasy and the Race Car Prince - Chapter 23

Pairing: Lando Norris x Elizabeth "Lizzie" Treshton (Original Character)

Summary:

Elizabeth Treshton—bestselling romantasy author, queen of fae heartbreak, and sworn devotee of a carefully structured routine—never expected her service dog to abandon protocol and diagnose a Formula 1 driver with something. But that’s exactly what happens when Mara the wonder-dog ditches Lizzie’s side to aggressively alert to none other than Lando Norris in the middle of a coffee shop.

Warnings and Notes: 

Mention of epilepsy and service animals. I don't myself suffer from epilepsy, so I asked my IRL friend, who thankfully was nice enough to let me ask her all the questions I could come up with. The rest I asked Reddit. So everything that's wrong...that's totally my fault and not on purpose.

We are wrapping up loose plot threads so: Hungary 2024, WHICH I FIXED (kinda). My questionable understanding of racing strategy? Crocheting.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Lando had seen Lizzie nervous before—before a book signing, even before their first public appearance together—but this was an entirely new level. She was sitting in the passenger seat, gripping the hem of her sweater so tightly that he was surprised the fabric hadn’t ripped yet.

“Lizzie,” he said gently.

She exhaled sharply. “Lando, I don’t think you understand. Your sisters have read my books.”

“Yeah, they love them.”

“That’s the problem!” She turned to him, eyes wide with panic. “What if your mum has read them? What if she’s read the spicy parts? Lando, I wrote those scenes!”

He tried—he really did—to keep a straight face, but a laugh escaped before he could stop it. “Liz, I hate to break it to you, but my mum is a grown woman who had four kids. She’s not going to combust if she reads a bit of smut.”

Lizzie looked at him like he’d just blasphemed. “That’s your mum! God, Lando, you’re missing the point.”

“Oh, I have a point,” he said, still trying not to laugh. “And that point is, you’re making this way too big a deal.”

She scowled at him, whacking him with the back of her hand. “You’re being extremely unhelpful right now.”

He caught her hand, grinning. “Hey, I’m just providing perspective. But if you want to keep being nervous on your own, be my guest.”

Lizzie huffed but didn’t pull away from his grip. “Why do I feel like you’re enjoying my freaking out?”

He squeezed her hand, still amused. “Because it’s entertaining to watch.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the effect was diminished by the way she was worrying her bottom lip. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

Lando bit back a smirk, bringing her hand to his mouth and pressing a small kiss to her knuckles. “Maybe I am.”

“Your dad is a millionaire, Lando,” she muttered as they pulled into the driveway. “What if he thinks I’m using you for your money?”

Lando couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “What?”

Lizzie huffed, glaring at him. “Don’t laugh at me! It’s a valid concern!”

He tried—and failed—to regain his composure. “You’re worried my dad is going to think you’re a gold digger?”

Lizzie nodded, looking at him with wide, earnest eyes. Lando bit back another laugh, shaking his head. “Liz, love, you really worry too much.”

“I’m serious, Lando!” she protested. “People talk, okay? And with your family’s background, I can’t blame them. How am I supposed to convince them that I’m not just some fangirl with a talent for writing dirty scenes?” Her eyes widened. “Oh my god, I am,“ she whispered.

“Come on,” he coaxed, reaching over to squeeze her knee. “They already love you.”

“They don’t know me.”

“They know of you. And they’re excited to meet you properly. Trust me, they’re more likely to make me uncomfortable than you.”

Lizzie lifted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Why?”

Lando smirked. “Because they’re probably going to tell you all the embarrassing things I did as a kid.”

That seemed to help—at least a little. She huffed a small laugh, shaking her head. “If they bring out baby photos, I’m taking pictures.”

“Traitor.”

“Survival.”

He chuckled, shaking his head before unbuckling his seatbelt.

Lizzie did the same, taking a deep breath. When Lando walked over to her side of the car and held out his hand, she took it, gripping it tightly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, but she climbed out of the car anyway.

Mara jumped out of the backseat with a wagging tail, immediately tucking herself against Lizzie's side.

Lizzie laughed, giving the dog a quick scratch on the head. Lando watched her intently, noticing how tense she still was.

He moved forward, placing a hand on the small of her back. “Breathe,” he told her softly.

She let out a shaky exhale, leaning into his touch. "I'm trying," she muttered, sounding a little less nervous.

They began the short walk toward the door, Mara trotting happily ahead of them. Lando could feel Lizzie trembling a little under his touch.

“Remember," he murmured against her ear, "they’re going to be just as nervous as you, if not more."

Lizzie shot him a disbelieving look but didn’t have time to say anything as the door swung open.

The front door opened before they even reached it. His mum stood there, beaming, and before Lizzie could get a word out, Cisca pulled her into a warm hug.

“Oh, sweetheart, it’s so good to finally meet you.”

Lizzie tensed for a split second, then melted. “You too, Mrs. Norris. Thank you for having me.”

“Cisca,” his mum corrected, stepping back. “And please, we’ve been waiting for ages to meet you. Lando keeps you all to himself.”

Lizzie shot Lando a look, and he just grinned. “Told you.”

His mother stepped back, still smiling. “Well, now that I’ve got you in person, it makes sense why Lando's been so distracted." She cast a sly glance in Lando's direction. He just rolled his eyes.

"Mum," he said, a warning tone to his voice.

His mother just laughed, patting his cheek affectionately. “Oh, don’t you mum me.” She turned back to Lizzie, linking their arms together. “Now, come on. We’ve got lunch ready.”

Lando let them walk ahead, watching how easily his mum settled Lizzie. Even when he was a kid, his mum had always had a way of making people feel comfortable. Now, it seemed Lizzie was on the receiving end of that skill.

They headed inside, the rest of the family waiting in the living room. They all stood when they entered, and though Lando wasn’t surprised to see the eager curiosity on their faces, he still shot them a warning look. His brother in particular looked like he was preparing to say or do anything to embarrass him.

“Finally!” Oliver stood , arms crossed, grinning like an idiot. “The Elizabeth Treshton, in the flesh. Lando has been hoarding you." His brother wasted no time. “Alright,, I have questions,” he announced brightly. “First of all, how did this idiot pull you? Second, how long did it take before you realized he’s an absolute menace? Third—”

Adam Norris appeared in the doorway, shaking his head fondly. “Leave her alone, Oliver.”

Oliver just grinned. “No can do, Dad. She willingly signed up for Lando. I need answers.”

Adam shot Lando a look. “You should’ve known bringing her here would be opening her up to interrogation.”

Lizzie was trying hard not to laugh, but her eyes were sparkling. Lando couldn’t tell if that was from nerves or amusement.

"I have questions!" And there was his youngest sister. He should have known that neither Flo or Cisca were going to be normal.

"Of course you do," Lando muttered.

Flo ignored him and beamed at Lizzie. “I have questions too!"

His mother rolled her eyes at her children, stepping forward. “How about we hold off on the interrogation until after lunch?” She placed a hand on Lizzie’s shoulder, offering the slightest bit of reprieve. “I think poor Lizzie here needs a moment to readjust before we barrage her with questions.”

"But I have book questions!" Flo said quickly.

"And you can ask those during lunch," His mother assured her, steering Lizzie away. "Give the girl a chance to breathe."

"Fine, fine," Oliver said, flopping back onto the couch like a disgruntled teenager.

Adam chuckled. “Maybe try not to scare the poor woman off in the first five minutes?”

"Oh, no worries there," Oliver drawled. "She put up with Lando, right? Everything else will be a breeze."

Lando just rolled his eyes.

Adam laughed, clapping Lando on the back. “Don’t act like that comment wasn’t 100% accurate.”

Lizzie slipped right in the midst of his family, like she always had belonged there. Keeping up with his sisters' rapid-fire Q and A, his very fascinated toddler niece who kept staring at Mara, who sat next to Lizzie, as well-behaved as always...

It was almost surreal to watch the scene unfold. Lizzie was already comfortable with his family, chatting and laughing, easily deflecting questions and answering others. Even his sisters had given up their attempts at embarrassing him, too interested in Lizzie to bother with him now.

He watched all this, trying to keep the smile off his face. It wasn’t until his dad walked over and stood next to him did Lando realize he hadn’t said anything in a while.

Adam clapped Lando on the back, his tone warm. “You picked a good one, son.”

Lando’s chest filled with quiet pride as he watched Lizzie laugh at something Flo had said.

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I really did.”

He should have known that something was going to go wrong.

It started with Mara.

She’d been lying calmly at Lizzie’s feet one second, then suddenly sprang up, ears perked, tail stiff. She nudged Lizzie’s leg with her nose, then her arm. Insistent. Focused.

Lizzie stilled.

Lando was already frowning. “Liz?”

She exhaled slowly, looking down at Mara before turning toward him. “I’m going to have a seizure.”

Just like that. Simple. Direct. As if she were telling him it might rain later.

Lando shot to his feet. “What—what do I—”

A tense silence fell across the room as the others picked up on the situation. Lizzie reached out, fingers skimming Mara’s head as she struggled to keep her breaths even. She was already pale, a thin sheen of sweat gleaming on her forehead.

His mum was the first to recover, her expression calm but her voice sharp. "How do you want to handle this, sweetheart?"

"I need to go lay down," Lizzie said, her voice careful. "I should have a few minutes until it hits."

Everyone else was still reeling, frozen in shock, but Lando’s mind snapped into focus. “Right. Yeah. Come on.”

He crossed the room, gently tugging Lizzie to her feet. She leaned on him, her weight a little heavier than usual.

“Lando,” Adam said, “we can—”

“I’ve got it,” he said, cutting his dad off. He shifted Lizzie’s weight, supporting her as best he could. “Just...give us some space, okay?”

His dad nodded, clearly wanting to say more, but holding back for Lizzie's sake. Lando appreciated the effort.

He half-carried Lizzie out the door, Mara sticking close to them. The dog knew as well as Lando did – something was wrong.

The walk to his old room felt like it took an eternity.

As soon as they reached it, Lizzie was already moving, sinking down to the floor like she’d done this a hundred times before. Maybe she had.

"What do you need?" he asked her, sawllowing.

“Nothing,” she said. “You don’t have to do anything.” She stretched out, lying flat on her side, arms loose, legs bent just slightly. Mara settled near her head, pressed close but not touching.

Lando hated how practiced it was.

His pulse hammered in his throat. He dropped down beside her, panic clawing at his ribs. “Lizzie—”

“If you can’t watch it, I get it,” she murmured, voice calm, even as something flickered in her expression. “But don’t touch me.”

Lando’s hands clenched into fists.

“I— I can watch,” he said, even though his entire body screamed otherwise. “I’m not leaving you.”

Lizzie managed a weak smile, but her eyes were already going glassy. "Okay," she whispered. "But don't blame yourself." And then her breath hitched, and her body began to tremble.

And then she was gone.

Her body tensed, jerking suddenly, violently. Her hands curled, fingers twitching erratically. Lando could hear her breathing shift—harsh, uneven. It was awful.

He dug his nails into his palms, forcing himself to stay still, to stay calm.

It felt like forever.

In reality, it was barely a minute.

Then, as quickly as it began, it ended.

Lizzie sagged against the floor, still, quiet except for her uneven breaths. Mara whined softly, nuzzling against her arm.

Lando moved carefully, shifting onto his knees.

“Liz?” he asked, voice tight. “Can you hear me?”

A long pause. Then, a weak murmur: “Mm. Hate that part.”

Relief hit him so hard he nearly choked on it. He exhaled sharply, pressing a shaking hand over his face. “Yeah,” he said, voice thick. “Me too.”

Lizzie cracked one eye open, exhausted but there. “You okay?”

Lando let out a strangled laugh. “Am I okay?”

Lizzie blinked at him like it was a genuine question.

“Jesus Christ, Lizzie.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “That was awful.”

She hummed, voice drowsy. “Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that.”

“Don’t—don’t apologize—”

“I’m fine,” she mumbled.

Lando swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Yeah. Okay. But I still hate it.”

Lizzie sighed, shifting slightly, her limbs sluggish. “Me too.”

He watched as Mara pressed in closer, her body warm against Lizzie’s side. Lando reached out slowly, brushing damp hair away from Lizzie’s forehead.

She leaned into the touch, just barely.

Lando swallowed hard. “You’re okay,” he murmured.

Lizzie didn’t answer—already half-asleep in the aftermath.

But she was breathing.

She was safe.

And he would make sure she always stayed that way.

He wasn't sure how much time went by, but eventually, soft footsteps sounded at the doorway. He glanced up to see his mum standing there, her face pale, expression carefully neutral. She took in the situation for a moment, her eyes lingering on Lizzie before looking to Lando. There was a silent question on her face, and Lando nodded to her. She exhaled softly, nodding to herself, before speaking quietly.

"Is she alright?"

Lando's voice felt like gravel in his throat. "She's fine. She'll probably sleep for awhile."

His mum stepped more into the room, taking in the sight of Lizzie on the floor. A deep frown pinched her brow, like she was trying to hold back her emotions.

Lando looked back at Lizzie, reaching out and brushing his fingers gently over her damp hair. Just the sight of her sleeping peacefully was enough to soothe some of the wild panic from earlier, but his heart still ached.

"Does...has this happened before?" His mum's voice was quiet and careful, as if she were worried about upsetting him.

"I've never seen it," he admitted weakly. "I knew she had epilepsy. I have seen her after a seizure...but I never saw her seize," Lando admitted, swallowing. "How can a mother see this and then decide to leave?"

"Lando..." his mum's voice was gentle, almost like she was bracing him for something.

Lando's heart felt heavy. "I just don't understand how someone could—" he cut himself off when his voice broke, trying again. "I don't understand how someone could just leave their child like that."

His mum crossed the room, sitting beside him and pressing a hand to his shoulder. "I don't think most people will ever be able to understand that, hon. I can't," she admitted freely. "If I imagine that it's Flo or Cisca in her place...nobody would have gotten me away from my daughter," his mother said fiercely.

He swallowed down a lump in his throat, his voice tight. "That's because you wouldn't leave her," he said, voice low. "You'd never go without her. You'd fight to stay every step of the way. And you sure as hell wouldn't give up on her."

There was a beat as he stared at the floor, and he barely registered his mum wrapping an arm around his shoulders. She pulled him into a tight hug, and he couldn't help but bury his face against her shoulder, eyes stinging.

His breath hitched. "I just... I can't imagine just walking away from her."

"Then don't," his mother said simply. "Don't be like her mother. Don't walk away. Talk with her and the next time it will happen, it will still feel horrid. You'll never get used to it. But you'll learn to live with it."

The words hit Lando like a weight to the chest. For a moment, he just sat there, absorbing them. His first instinct was to disagree. He would never, ever be like Lizzie’s mother. He could never abandon her like that.

But then...

His mum was right. He'd never get used to the idea of him just standing by and watching while she suffered. No matter how many times he would see her seize, it would still be torture for him.

But this wasn’t about him. 

This was about Lizzie. Lizzie, who needed to live with an invisible illness that could be controlled to the best of modern medicine's knowledge, but never cured completely.

And Lando would rather live through the torture of seeing her have a seizure a hundred times than to let her go. To leave. To let her deal with it alone. 

***

Lizzie woke up feeling like she’d been wrung out, every muscle sore and heavy, her head pounding with the dull, familiar ache of exhaustion. She blinked at the ceiling, willing herself to move, but even that felt like too much effort.

Then she remembered.

Lando.

The seizure.

How he’d seen it—how he’d stayed.

Her stomach twisted.

Carefully, she turned her head.

Lando was lying on his side, facing her. He was awake. Had he even slept? His hair was an absolute mess, his expression unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, studying her closely.

Lizzie had always known this moment would come.

She’d warned Lando about it early on—matter-of-factly, no dramatics. She had epilepsy. She had seizures.

But knowing about something and seeing it were two very different things.

And she’d lost people to the latter before.

Her mother couldn’t handle it. The fear, the helplessness, the exhaustion of watching and not being able to do anything. It was too much. So she left.

Lizzie didn’t blame her.

But she also knew what it felt like to be too much for someone to love.

Lando held her gaze, the silence stretching painfully between them.

She swallowed hard, bracing for it - the looks of concern, the pity, the thinly veiled excuses.

Then Lando spoke, his voice rough and quiet.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I lost a fight with a freight train.”

Lando’s mouth pressed into a thin line. “Yeah,” he muttered. “I figured.”

The silence between them was heavy.

Lizzie forced herself to push up onto her elbows, ignoring the way her body protested. “Lando—”

He cut her off with a shake of his head, his eyes never leaving her. “Stop talking.”

She went silent, staring at him. His gaze was like a steady weight, pinning her in place.

He inhaled slowly, as if steeling himself.

“I’m not going anywhere, Liz.”

Her breath caught. She'd been bracing herself for rejection, for distance. For fear and confusion and pity.

But Lando was just...looking at her. Just like that. Not like she was broken. Not like she was different now. He was just looking at her.

“You’re not?” Her voice was a whisper, vulnerable and terrified in spite of herself.

He shook his head. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

Something stirred in her chest. Hope, maybe.

Or maybe it was something else.

She swallowed, trying to get control of her emotions. “Most people don’t stick around after they see it.”

Something flickered across his face—something sharp, something angry. “Well, they’re idiots.”

Lizzie huffed a small, tired laugh. “Maybe.”

Lando shifted closer, hesitating before reaching out. His fingers brushed lightly over her wrist, careful, almost hesitant.

“Did it scare you?” she asked softly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, his fingers curled around her hand, grounding both of them. “I hated seeing you like that,” he admitted, voice low. “Knowing and seeing aren’t the same thing.”

She sighed, exhaustion pressing against her bones. “No. They’re not.”

Lando shifted again, his thumb sweeping over the back of her hand. “Your mum couldn’t handle it.”

It wasn’t a question.

Lizzie swallowed. “No.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then—“I’m not her.”

Lizzie’s chest ached, and not from the seizure.

“I know.”

Lando’s fingers squeezed hers. “Do you?”

She let out a slow breath. “Yeah. I do.”

“Good.” His voice softened, but the weight of his words remained. “Because I need you to believe that I’m not going anywhere.”

Her eyes stung with held-back tears. She clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Lando’s expression remained steady, but she could see the determination in his eyes. "I do know that,” he said softly. “I know me, Liz. How I feel. What I can handle. And I can tell you with complete certainty that I’m not leaving. You can’t get rid of me now even if you tried.”

She tried to keep her voice steady, but her breath hitched on a stifled sob. “What if it changes though? What if one day you can’t—”

“Liz.” He cut her off, his tone firm but not unkind. “Stop it. Stop worrying about what-ifs. This is my choice. I’m staying. End of story.”

“But—”

He cut her off again, his grip on her hand tightening, as if he could force her to believe him through touch alone. “No buts. This is a non-negotiable for me.” He took another deep breath, his voice growing even quieter. “I’m not your mother, Liz. You are not too much. And I’m not scared. Got it?”

Something crumbled inside her, some long-held piece of fear disintegrating in the face of his steady, certain gaze.

Her throat felt tight, and she could feel the tears threatening to spill over.

“Got it?” He repeated, his thumb rubbing softly over her knuckles.

There was something pleading in his voice—a silent plea for her to understand, to believe him.

And she realized in that moment, as he held her hand and looked at her with so much certainty...she did.

She believed him.