#maya’s music moments ⊹ ⋆｡˚

[voidsuites]

this song has been simultaneously healing and destroying me recently ugh i’m gonna explode into a thousand pieces. like tell me why they reached into my chest and yanked out everything i’ve unknowingly been feeling for a while and then made this song and now i’m supposed to just be normal about it… UGH

[bruce-morrow]

Venmo Maya & Max Music, Central Park, NYC, 2024

Photo: Bruce Morrow

[lesbicosmos]

MAYA POSTED THESE AND DELETED THE REST OF HER POSTS??? WHAT IS HAPPENING

[astroauddy]

Thérèse makes me feel something l I’m e both the song and the painting(s)

Like How at first view it’s just a carefree looking, casual young girl and that’s what I thought instantly, but when I looked into it the painter was sexualizing her in a way and I find it sickening because it really just looks like a relaxed kid but it was painted with the intent to be this terrible ugly, male gazey fantasy.

And the fact that any kid looking at it won’t pick up on anything because they’re kids, and it’s like how as you grow up you start being sexualized when you yourself don’t even understand that. Like you start getting boobs or something and all of a sudden you half to change how you dress but you don’t even understand that because you’re a kid. Your body becomes sexual when you yourself dint even know what sex is.

[caramelapplesauce]

the exit by conan gray and right where you left me by taylor swift give the same energy

[killjoy-prince]

them announcing games 4-6 as an a/po/llo j/us/tice trilogy is so funny like i get why they marketed it like that but only 1 1/2 games are about him and the one where 1/2 the games about him only focuses on him in the second and last case

[damneddamsy]

falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part viii)

SOFT INFINITY—Not endlessness, but the gentle refusal to end.

summary: As Joel entirely embraces new fatherhood, it becomes glaringly obvious that it isn't what it was cut out to be—it's harder, messier, and terrifyingly real.

a/n: oh yeah, this one's got it all. it's biiiiiig. you want cowboy joel? you got it. you want flirty joel? you got it. you want a daddy joel? you. got. it! might be one of my favourites until now, can't wait for you to read this one! WARNINGS this time, alcohol abuse, substance abuse, light smut.

Joel realized, maybe too late, that raising a kid meant surrender. Not in a way that made him feel small, but in a way that made him feel like everything he was, everything he did, mattered. Really mattered.

Who you were, what you believed, what you let your kid see in you—every single second of it meant something. It was stamped onto them in ways you wouldn’t even notice until you caught a glimpse of yourself staring back. And God, did he see it in her.

Months passed in a slow, golden stretch, summer giving way to autumn. The heat receded, but the sun still burned, casting everything in deep amber, draping the world in honeyed light. The days, despite their quiet toil, had taken on a kind of sweetness. He didn’t think much about it at first, but one evening, as he watched Maya toddle across the porch, her curls catching the last of the light, he felt it sink in.

His days were sweeter because of her.

Maya was at the age, where she knew what she wanted with no second-guessing, what she liked and what she didn’t, and it wasn’t a surprise that she was turning out just like him. Stubborn in one way, expressive in others, passionate to understand the world in her own little way.

And—well, it felt like a miracle, but she liked his guitar. She liked his music. She liked to sing with him.

Whenever he let out that familiar grunt as he lowered himself onto the porch swing, Maya’s ears would perk. From wherever she was—inside, out back, tucked into Leela’s arms for a story—she’d drop everything and make her way to the front door.

He’d hear her small, eager footsteps pad against the wood floor, and then—there she was, peeking around the big front door, wide-mouthed and grinning, her four little teeth on full display.

And then the clapping. Always the clapping.

“Yeah, yeah, trouble,” he’d grumble, settling the guitar on his lap. “I’m gettin’ to it.”

He’d strum a chord, throwing in an extra flourish, and she’d giggle, her small hands patting at the strings, feeling them hum beneath her touch.

“Maya's here to see me play her favourite song,” he'd first idly sing in tenor, and strum the strings, leaning down to push a kiss on her soft curls.

And her favourite song of the moment? Handy Man. He fucking loved that song now. And damn if she didn’t know the words already. Well, sort of, whatever her baby brain could comprehend. When he hit the chorus, she’d push close between his knees, mouthing along, all serious concentration, her tiny fingers gripping at the air like she could pluck the notes right from his hands.

“Come-a, come-a, come-a, come-a, come, come,” he would sing to her, and she'd tune with him with that big, pretty smile, “Oh, now, they'll come runnin' to me.”

“Comma, comma, comma, me-hee!” she'd laugh after the song was over, plucking the strings herself.

And Leela—she stood in the doorway, watching all of it. Always watching, never interfering. Sometimes, when Maya was wrapped up in his arms, conked out, she’d reach over, smoothing a hand over Maya’s growing curls, meeting Joel’s eyes with something so complete, so warm, it made his entirely too at home.

She didn’t say much, not with words, but she didn’t have to. He saw it in her face, in the way she touched their daughter, in the way she looked at him.

She loved him. She loved him in the same quiet, unconditional way that Maya did. God help him, he loved her too. He loved her 'til he was bursting at the seams.

And by that same front door, Maya waited for him. On the dot. Four o’clock sharp. His very own homecoming.

She’d perch on the porch step, her toy horse clutched tight in her hand, rocking back and forth, big brown eyes fixed on the street like a tiny sentry. And when she did spot him—dust-covered, exhausted, rolling the stiffness from his shoulders, pack in hand—she didn’t run straight for him. Not at first.

No, she’d squeal loud enough for the street to hear, all shy excitement, and scurry back into the house like she couldn’t bear to face it head-on.

That never lasted long. By the time he reached the porch steps, there she was, barreling into him at full speed, arms open, curls bouncing, calling for him in that desperate, earth-shattering little voice that never failed to gut him. His little shadow.

“Da-da-da-da—”

Joel never grabbed her up right away—not yet, not until he wiped every last trace of the day’s grime from his hands and face. She’d linger by his boots, gripping at his pants, all but vibrating with the need to be held.

“Hey, now, hold on, baby girl.” He held up his hands, palms out, dirty from the day, trying to walk his way around her. “Lemme—hey, hey. I'mna squish you, Maya, jeez.”

Maya bounced on her toes, impatient, grabbing at his pant leg with a whine. “Up, up, up—”

And she followed him all the way to the kitchen sink, opening and closing her fingers, teetering on her tiptoes, tugging at his pants like she could climb up his leg if she tried hard enough.

“Alright. What’d you do today, sunshine?” he’d ask, crouching down, draping the kitchen towel over his shoulder.

Maya, thrilled to be heard, would babble a response, half-gibberish, half-words, expressive as anything. One day about her clothes, one day about the fruits in the garden, one day about her lunch.

“Mm-mm…” she hummed this time like she was keeping secrets. Then, suddenly, “Mama ‘n me,” more incomprehensible gibberish, pointing out the window, “...bird.”

“Yeah?” He pushed a ringlet behind her ear, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You saw a bird?”

She flapped her arms, mouth forming a perfect little ‘O.’ “Biiiig bird.”

And he’d nod along, utterly rapt, hanging onto her every word. Every single time. Ever since she started to talk, he couldn't go a moment without hearing it.

And Maya—she was far more interested in his hands than her own stories. She grabbed at them, little fingers poking into his palm, inspecting. He chuckled, letting her turn them over, palms up, palms down.

With a knowing smirk, Joel reached back into his jacket pockets, bringing his fists between them, closed tight. A familiar game. One she never got tired of.

Her eyes lit up instantly. Excitement fizzled through her tiny frame, her little fists curling at her sides like she could barely stand the suspense.

Joel pulled his lips to a smile for her. “Which one?”

Maya let out a high-pitched giggle, practically thrumming, as she tapped her tiny fingers against his fists. She took her time, bottom lip jutting out in concentration, brows knitting together, her nose scrunching. Then—she tapped his right hand.

Joel uncurled his fingers. A small handful of blackberries spilled out of his palm, violet, ripe and plump.

Maya perked up. Letting out a curious sound, she carefully plucked one between two tiny fingers, examining it like it might reveal a secret if she looked close enough. She turned it over, squishing just a little before deciding it passed her test.

Joel popped one into his mouth, chewing slow.

Without hesitation, Maya followed, mirroring him like she always did, stuffing the berry into her mouth. Her cheeks rounded out as she chewed, her tiny jaw working. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, she tilted her head back and grinned. Berry-stained, toothy, pure delight.

And by that same front door of her house grew the one thing she despised—to watch him go as the day came to an end.

Some days, she was content to wave from Leela's arms. Tiny hand flapping in the air, so dazed, until he crossed the street and closed the door behind him.

“Say 'bye,'” Leela coaxed her.

“Bye,” Maya echoed, watching him go, although not with that sweet spirit that always laced her voice.

And those nights—strangely, selfishly—were his favourite, even though the hardest. Because as much as it ached to walk away, it meant something. It meant she loved him in a way he could feel in his bones.

That carried him through the door, through the long hours, through the world beyond this big, white house of his. And when he returned—when he stepped onto that porch and saw her waiting there, chewing on her breakfast, beaming at him with her whole little heart—he swore, there was nothing on earth that could ever feel better.

Other nights—God, those nights—Maya wept like her whole world was caving in.

She’d stand at the door, fists rubbing furiously at her eyes, her lip trembling so hard she could barely get the words out. But she tried anyway, between big, shuddering breaths. “No go, no go, da-da.”

Again and again, like a prayer, like a plea, like she thought if she said it enough, it’d undo the fact that he had to leave. She’d cling to him, her small fingers curling into his shirt, her whole body pressed against his legs like she could anchor him there, keep him from slipping away.

And every single time, Leela would murmur knowingly from the doorway, arms folded, watching him with those calm, dark eyes.

“Guess you’re staying over tonight.”

And every single time, she was right.

He wouldn’t dare sleep in her bed—his courage only stretched so far—but he found his place in the nursery. The expensive memory foam mattress was properly equipped for a man of his size, but even then, he always woke up aching, every knot in his back a little worse than before. Not that he minded. He liked being close. Liked that if Maya so much as moaned in her crib in a sudden bout of loneliness, he’d hear it, could reach for her, could whisper, Shh, I’m here, and she’d settle instantly.

Some nights, he ended up in the basement instead.

Just to be near Leela.

She was always down there. Gloves rolled on, hair tied back, brow furrowed in concentration. Fixing something, building something, welding something—whatever it was, she did it with that singular focus, hands steady, mouth set, utterly in control.

And he was always there too. Hovering, passing her tools, handing her protective glasses, lifting the heavy things when she needed him to.

He told himself it was enough.

It was enough just to be close, just to hear her murmur thanks when he tightened a bolt for her or held a panel steady. It was enough to watch the way the glow of the welding torch lit up her face, how she wiped the sweat from her temple with the back of her hand, and how she chewed absently at the corner of her lip when she was thinking. It was hard to find common ground in the way he did with Maya—he didn’t have the brainpower for her technobabble, the same way she didn’t have the patience for guitar.

He told himself that. Over and over. It was totally enough.

“Y’know,” he muttered one night, leaning against the workbench as she tightened a bolt, “I got no goddamn clue what you’re doin’ half the time. S'like watching Top Gear. Can't understand shit, but it's fun as hell.”

Leela huffed a quiet laugh, not looking up. “I figured that out when you handed me the wrong pliers three times in a row.”

Joel rolled his eyes but smirked anyway. That was entirely her fault; those little shorts of hers were a daily nuisance and blessing. “Still doesn’t stop me from helpin’, does it?”

She finally glanced up, the corners of her mouth tugging upward in that soft, knowing way. “No,” she admitted. “I like it when you're next to me.”

Except—except sometimes it wasn’t.

Because every time he was near her, every time she was just within reach, he had to force himself not to touch her. Not to brush his knuckles down her spine. Not to stroke the delicate dip of her lower back. Not to slip his fingers just under the hem of her crochet top and feel the curves and planes of her skin against his calloused hands.

She was just so—beautiful.

It hurt sometimes, looking at her.

The smooth lines of her body, the way her throat moved when she swallowed, the effortless way she existed like she belonged in the world in a way he never had.

Sometimes, helpless to his wants, he'd reach out—slow, testing—just to brush the backs of his knuckles along the bare, soft skin of her thigh. Not much, just enough to feel the heat of her, just enough to see if she’d let him. God, he wanted his mouth there, he wanted to sink his teeth in, let his tongue taste what it was like there.

She didn’t move at first, and that was enough to make his breath catch—maybe, maybe—but, just as quick, she effortlessly shifted away, like she hadn’t even noticed. Like she hadn’t felt it.

She reached for a pen instead, silently scratching down something on a paper, brows furrowing in concentration.

Joel let his hand fall, flexing his fingers once before he curled them into a loose fist against his thigh. He told himself it didn’t sting. Not really.

Instead, he forced out a rough chuckle, trying to cover the way his heart still hammered up his throat. “You always this cruel, or am I just special?”

Leela hummed to herself, lips quirking like she might actually be amused. “You’re special, Joel.”

Joel grunted, shaking his head, but he couldn’t quite fight the smirk tugging at his own mouth. Damn tease, this girl.

It was getting maddening, waiting for her comfort. Waiting for her to want him.

Yet, here they were.

On his birthday, side by side in the Maranello, seats reclined all the way back, hood rolled down, the garage door cracked open behind them while the car lingered out on the huge driveway, the night breeze blanketing them. The scent of rain lingered from an earlier shower, mingling with the faint, distant burn of woodsmoke.

The sky stretched wide above them, endless and dark, stars scattered like someone had dragged their fingers through a bowl of salt. Crickets hummed, a lazy song against the quiet, broken only by the occasional clink of their beer bottles. A perfect, warm night.

Joel sighed, lifting his bottle to his lips. His gaze drifted over the dashboard, over the leather interior, over the sleek frame of the goddamn Lambo he was sitting in.

He still couldn’t believe it. Leela had gifted him this thing. Useless in the apocalypse. But fucking cool.

A snort rattled from his chest, and he thumped a fist against it to cover a burp. His stomach was full from his birthday dinner, grease and sauce still coating his tongue. Cheeseburgers, french fries with the little holes in them, cold beers. Classic. Having a grinning Maya pass him the glistening keys in the morning at breakfast? Adorable. Leela had outdone herself big-time.

“Burgers were top-notch, sweetheart,” he muttered, tipping his beer toward her in a lazy toast. “I 'preciate it.”

Leela pulled the bottle from her lips, raising a brow. “I believe the word you used for the burgers was 'gut-busting'.”

Joel huffed a laugh, shifting to glance at her, fully amused.

“Gut-busting, greasy-ass cheeseburgers,” they stated in unison.

Leela giggled, a hand over her mouth. His grin lingered, slow and easy. “A fast car and a fat burger. Hands down the best birthday I’ve had in twenty years.”

And just like that—just those few words—it struck him. Twenty damn years.

Joel rolled the bottle between his fingers, staring up at the sky, watching the way the stars flickered in and out of the clouds, how they dimmed and reappeared, shifting, changing—like they were alive. Like they had always been there, even when the night felt too dark to hold anything at all.

Twenty years.

This day had been a gaping wound for so long, torn open year after year, over and over, until it barely bled anymore. Just a dull, aching thing, carved into his ribs. A black hole that seemed to conquer him, again and again.

Twenty years ago, the world had ended. His world had ended.

He could still feel it if he let himself—the heat of the pavement. The smell of fire. The deadweight of her in his arms. The desperate, shaking press of his palm, Stay with me, baby, please stay with me—The silence after. The void. Sarah.

He swallowed hard, taking a slow sip of beer. Let the taste settle on his tongue, rich and bitter, grounding him to the moment.

Now. Now. Stay here.

Joel blinked, staring up at the stars, at the dark stretch of sky.

Because somehow—somehow—he was here. Sitting in the front seat of a convertible. Beer in hand. A belly full of hot food. A beautiful baby girl waiting for her goodnight kiss. A woman at his side, stunning and easy in her skin, fulfilling his dreams.

For the first time in twenty years—this day didn’t feel like hellish grief.

It felt like something else. Lighter, better, easy.

Funny how life does that to you. How it yanks you under, pulls you apart, spits on your face, leaves you with nothing—and then, somehow, years later, it gives you this.

Because if it weren’t for them—if it weren’t for Maya or Leela—he wouldn’t have left his house. Wouldn’t have stepped foot outside that goddamn pullout. Would’ve let himself rot in it, hollowed out and mourning, still letting the world pile itself on top of him until he disappeared beneath it.

But she had given him this. Not just the car or the amazing dinner. The moment. The peace. Hope in himself.

“I planted onions just for these burgers. They don't usually last the winter,” she mused all of a sudden, pulling him back to reality.

Joel turned his head, blinking and eyeing her. “You did?”

She nodded. “Can you believe that? And now you just belch it up like it's nothing.”

“Chrissake.” Joel groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes. Only she could make him sound that disgusting.

Leela laughed. A real laugh, warm and taunting, something she saved just for his ears. “But hey, you know what?”

Joel peeked at her from under his arm, and—shit. Shouldn’t have done that.

Because she’d rolled onto her side, head propped up on her palm, body stretched out, long legs draped lazily over the seat, the hem of her pretty yellow top riding up just enough to show a teasing sliver of skin. His gaze caught on the curve of her waist, the faint dip of her stomach, and the soft swell of her breasts pressed against the fabric of her top.

He had to collect his jaw back up and clear his throat. “What?”

She didn’t try. That’s what got him. Didn’t preen or pose. Didn’t shift under his gaze like she knew what she was doing to him.

She just was. Existing in the way she always had—effortless, untouched by his wanting, yet somehow still the sexiest goddamn thing he’d ever laid eyes on. Best fucking birthday ever.

“We missed something crucial,” she murmured, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Joel swallowed thickly. “That so?”

She nodded. “Sodas. My favourite was—”

“Cherry Coke,” he finished, tongue-in-cheek.

She rolled her eyes. “Good to know I've become that predictable.”

He grunted, shifting onto his side too, trying—but failing—to move as smoothly as she did. “Well, actually, I missed a birthday kiss.”

Leela’s lips curved. Slow. Knowing. “I can fix that.”

Then she leaned in, putting his heart in overdrive.

Not hesitant. Not rushed. Just sure. Soft, just a brush of warmth against his mouth, so fleeting it almost didn’t happen. A whisper of heat, a promise more than a kiss. One more soft kiss on his nose before she pulled away.

“Only because you asked nicely,” she said, wiping a thumb over his mouth.

And that just pulled the rug right out from under him. He managed a smile as she leaned onto her back, head resting back over her arm.

She'd only kissed him because he wanted it. God, what a fucking joke he was.

She liked him. That much he knew. She liked his presence, liked that he was there, liked the easy simplicity between them. Liked just being with him without expectation or pressure. And yeah—after everything she’d been through, that was a good thing. A great thing. She saw him as someone she trusted. Someone she felt safe with.

But sometimes—sometimes, it almost felt like she didn’t see him.

Not as a man. Not as someone she wanted.

Look, he wasn’t some goddamn heartthrob. Wasn’t James Dean or Paul fucking Newman. He wasn’t expecting her to look at him like that, wasn’t expecting her to ache for him the way he ached for her. But was it so much to ask that she did look?

That she saw him, really saw him, as more than just Maya’s dad?

Because he saw himself. And what was there to want?

He’d caught his reflection in the mirror earlier. Stared at it longer than he should’ve, cataloguing everything he hated.

There was a paunch in his stomach, slight sagging muscles beneath the too-tight flannel, a scatter of age spots across his forehead, deepening creases in his brow, endless white creeping into his beard and temples, and years settling into his skin like old grief.

He gave his chest a scratch. Jesus. Ancient, worn down, unexceptional. Maybe that was why she didn’t kiss or touch him much. Perhaps it was easier to see him as something safe and constant—because there was nothing desirable about him anymore.

Once, he found an old packet of men’s hair dye while rummaging for an electric razor, set on plucking away those stubborn white hairs from his beard.

He’d held the dye packet, turning it over in his palm, giving it more thought than he wanted to admit. Wouldn’t hurt, right? Just to try?

But before he could shove it away, a voice.

“Are you going to use that?”

Leela stood in the doorway, arms crossed, her mouth twitching like she was holding back a laugh.

Joel gritted his teeth, fisting the pack so tight his knuckles went white. “No.”

She hummed, stepping closer, and Christ—he wanted to die right then and there. Or flush the damn thing down the toilet.

But instead—she reached for him.

Her fingers dragged through his hair, combing it back, nails barely grazing his scalp. And fuck—he sighed, head tipping forward, catching her wrist in his palm, pressing a slow, reverent kiss against her pulse. Felt it flutter beneath his lips.

“I really like this though,” she murmured.

Joel lifted a brow, not trusting himself to look at her fully. “I’m gettin’ old, darlin’. Nothing left to like.”

She nodded, her smile small, a little shy. “Oh, I don't know.” A pause. “I know I can’t wait for my hair to get like that.”

He frowned. “Like what? A zebra?”

She gave him a look, like are you really making me spell it out?

So, softly, she said, “So we’ll look the same, Joel.”

His chest caved in with a tight breath.

She didn’t just see him. She wanted to be like him.

His heart felt like it was too big for his ribs, pressing up against the inside of him, aching in a way that had nothing to do with desire and everything to do with love. He was the king of the fucking world, alright. Jack Dawson had nothing on him.

He swallowed hard, gripping her wrist a little tighter, as if maybe—if he just held on long enough—he’d finally figure out how to put it all into words. How to tell her that she was everything. But all he could say was—

“You've got a long way to go,” he said, teasing.

She pushed her lips out to a pout. “Another few years?”

Joel huffed. She wasn’t even American. Her hair wasn’t going grey any time soon. He figured she had a good decade before she had to start worrying about it.

“Longer,” he said.

She hummed, tilting her head a little, studying him like she was trying to figure something out. And then, before he could process it, she leaned forward on her toes, pressing her lips to his. His hands instinctively came to settle on her waist.

Soft. Warm. Unhurried. Her fingers brushed along his jaw, the pad of her thumb stroking over the rough bristle of his chin. She lingered there for just a second before pulling away, pressing one last kiss to his cheek, like she was sealing something in place.

Because that single statement from her, that simple act, changed it all. Made him braver. Made him feel like maybe she did see him the way he wanted her to.

And come morning, he had his answer.

She was there at the kitchen island, waiting for him at breakfast, greeting him with another kiss—this time at the white hair on his temple, fingers curling into the curls at his nape as she slid a piece of toast onto his plate.

Yeah. He got the message.

X

There were bitter, darker days.

Less frequent than before, but still there, waiting beneath the surface. Days, where the loads settled too heavy on his chest, pressing him down, making the simple act of breathing, feel like a goddamn effort.

Yesterday had been one of those days.

From the moment he woke up, he'd known it, a dull, aching fog clouded his mind. His limbs felt sluggish, his body unwilling, his muscles all crumbs. He’d barely moved from bed, save for dragging himself to the kitchen, only to stand there, staring at nothing, gripping the counter's edge like it might keep him from drowning.

Sarah’s birthday. And he’d forgotten.

The realization had hit him out of nowhere, sucker-punching him in the ribs, making his breath catch.

How? How the fuck had he forgotten?

For years, her birthday had been a bare, uncleaned wound, a day spent drowning in liquor if it was nearby, in silence, in the unbearable pricks of memory. He’d counted down the days every year. Her age, had she been by his side. What she would've been doing.

And now?

Now he had let it slip past him, let it fade into the haze of normal days—just another morning, another afternoon. He had laughed yesterday. Laughed. He had eaten, spoken, kissed, sang, loved—without realizing what day it was.

A sickness had curdled in his gut. That painful guilt of living came unbidden. It made him disgusted with himself. So much, so that he couldn't dare face anyone around him. Not even Tommy.

So he did what he used to do.

He grabbed a bottle from the bar, kept his head down as he left, and took the back route home before Maya could spot him from the porch. He had seen her there, though. Tiny thing, peering down the street for him, waiting.

And he hadn’t wanted her to see him like this. He didn’t want anyone to see him like this.

He had shut the door behind him, the bottle clinking against the wood as he sank onto the couch, letting the liquor do what it always did—burn through the hollow parts, dull the sharp edges, and take him somewhere else.

And still, it hadn't been enough.

When evening crept in, it came slow. Shadows stretched long across the walls, the last of the day bleeding out in streaks of dull orange, then fading to blue.

He barely heard the knock at the door. A soft pat-pat-pat. And then—a voice. Small. Muffled through the wood.

“Da-da.”

Another knock, more rigid and insistent. “Joel?”

Joel barely moved. Didn't even turn his head. He wanted to, he really did. His body felt leaden, pinned beneath—this day, this year, all the years before it—pressed too deep into his bones, sinking him down into the mattress. His head throbbed, a slow, punishing ache, that faded at the edges but persistent. And that wound—the one no one could see—still wouldn’t close.

He couldn't face them like this. This broken shell of a person. What if they never came back after this?

“C’mon, Maya,” Leela murmured, gentle but firm. Obviously attempting to tuck Maya back into her side. “He’s probably tired. He’s sleeping.”

A beat of quiet. Then—Maya, in that soft, curious little voice— “Sleeeeepy.”

“That's right,” Leela hummed, warmth threading through her words. Like it was the easiest thing. Like sleep was something you could just slip into. “We’ll come back later.”

“Da-da dinna’.”

Something rustled outside. A soft thud. Joel blinked slowly at the ceiling, tracking the sound.

“Very good. Put the lid on top.” A pause, that gentle patience he had seen in her when she was with her daughter. “Do you want to go back home, and Mama will put some music for you?”

A clap. Small hands smacking together. An excited squeal. “Comma, comma, comma, Mama.”

A breath of laughter. Light and soft. “Yeah, baby. Let's go.”

The warmth of their voices drifted away, their footsteps fading down the porch, swallowed by the quiet of the night. He wanted to walk out, stop them, follow them, hold them—but he imagined how his ribs might crack, or the lead in his lungs might choke him.

So, Joel stayed where he was, his gaze unfocused, tracing the cracks in the ceiling. Leela wasn’t wrong. He was tired. But not the kind of tiredness that sleep could fix. Not the kind that ever really went away.

Time blurred. Hours, maybe. Minutes. He couldn’t tell. Nothing made sense in the darkness.

The whiskey had burned low in his veins, leaving behind only the ache, the hollowing out. Everything hurt, but not in the way anything could soothe away.

Eventually, exhaustion took hold. Not rest. Not peace. Just a slow descent into the depths, dark and familiar.

At last, he dreamt.

Of Sarah. Of her arms around him, small, warm, clinging tight, her face buried in his chest, breathing deep. Of her laugh. The way it used to sound—radiant, uninhibited, lighting up the spaces inside him that he hadn’t even known were empty.

For a second, he could almost believe it. Almost feel her again.

But then—the cold came. Took it all away.

Cold that seeped into the marrow, nailed in deep, wrapped tight around his ribs and never let go. The kind that pulled him under, again and again, no matter how hard he fought it. And fought so goddamn hard.

And yet—somewhere, in the edges of that darkness, something else lingered. Something little.

The echo of a laugh. Not Sarah’s anymore.

No, this one was lighter. Younger. Breathless. He liked it. It didn't hurt to hear it as much.

A weight against his chest—but different this time. Not loss, not emptiness. A little palm, splayed over his ribs, forming a fist into his collar. A warm, sleepy body curled into his chest, tap-tap-tapping away like she was making sure he was still there.

Maya.

Joel’s breath stuttered. Even in sleep, his body knew before his mind did. The warmth of it, the shape of it—what he had now. His reality.

And for once—for just a glad moment—it kept him from sinking. A life vest in his raging ocean.

Morning came too late, in slivers of light through the blinds. Pale. Reluctant. Afraid for him. Like even the sun wasn’t sure if it was welcome here.

Joel blinked, groggy and slow, rubbing a heavy hand over his face. His throat felt raw like he'd screamed too loud for too long, his mouth dry, the taste of stale whiskey clinging to his tongue. His head was thick, his thoughts sluggish, and beneath it all—beneath the crusted-over exhaustion and the dull throb of his skull—the hurt was still there.

That same old invisible bullet lodged somewhere deep, that never fully dislodged, pressing into the places he didn’t like to look at too closely. The kind of wound that never fully closed, never let him forget it was there.

Still—he pushed himself up like he always did.

Didn’t know why. Didn’t know what the hell was pulling him forward, keeping him upright, but he moved. Swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Dug his palms into his knees. Breathed through it.

Got the hell on with it.

He dragged himself to the sink, and planted his hands on the cool porcelain, gripping it hard, like it might hold him up if his legs finally gave out. His reflection stared back, hollow-eyed, lined with years and misery, the past carved deep into every crease, every shadow. He despised himself with every inch of his being. He hated it all.

He brushed his teeth with patience he didn’t have.

Splashed water on his face, cold and biting, shocking his skin like maybe that could shake him loose from the bullet pressing into his ribs.

It didn’t.

Still, he moved.

The morning light hit harder here, slanting golden through the windows, indifferent to the man standing in it. The world had the nerve to keep turning, to keep moving forward.

Joel squinted against the sunrays, his gaze landing on the coffee table.

The bottle sat there, emptied, toppled on its side, amber remnants clinging to the bottom.

And by the bottle—a sandwich. Small. Wrapped neatly with careful hands. He'd evidently bit into it and left the rest to rot overnight.

Joel exhaled, dragging a hand over his jaw.

He didn’t remember drinking. Didn’t remember setting the bottle down. Didn't remember walking to the door. Didn't remember staring out the window, across the street at the big, white house that had gone dark now. Didn't remember breaking down right there, feeling like a fucking failure to the dead and the living. Didn’t remember eating. Didn’t remember closing his eyes, or dreaming, or waking up.

Didn’t remember much of anything. Except for the pain.

But even that felt faded now—like an echo of something sharper, something that had already done its damage and left him to sit in the wreckage.

Still—he moved.

Stepped outside.

Joel blinked against the morning light, the world stretching wide and clear around him, washed in pale blue, moving on without him, uncaring, like it always had, and then—his body betrayed him.

His knees bent before he could stop them, hanging onto the rails, and he sank onto the porch steps, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes. Winded all of a sudden.

Count to ten, he recalled. Slow. Even. One, two, three.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

His ribs ached. His skin felt too tight, like it was trying to hold in something too big, something pressing outward from him.

And still—he counted. Four, five six...

By the time he looked up, the knot in his chest hadn’t loosened, not really, but—they were there, too.

Them. Across the street.

Leela and Maya. Standing in the wide front lawn, bathed in the softness of morning.

Leela had clearly been sidetracked—again—always halfway between duty and distraction. He knew how much she hated these chores. The clothesline stretched out, strung with damp sheets, but the laundry basket at her feet sat untouched, still full of what she’d meant to hang.

She wasn’t folding anymore.

Instead, she was holding up a long, white bedsheet, grinning at Maya's small hands curled into fists of excitement.

Joel watched as Leela ducked behind the sheet, disappearing—Maya’s breath hitched—and then—

Leela reappeared, hands lifting, fingers wiggling. “Boo!”

Maya shrieked, her whole body jolting in surprise before she collapsed onto the grass, giggling so hard she lost her balance, tumbling onto her little butt. Her laughter was bright, high-pitched, breathless, shaking her tiny shoulders.

Leela laughed too, full and warm, head tipping back just slightly.

And Joel just sat there. Breathing in, breathing out. Eight, nine, ten. Barely thinking about it anymore.

Because fuck.

After last night. After the whiskey. After the emptiness. After the memories had clawed their way out of their grave and wrapped around his throat like they wanted to drag him back under—

Here he stopped.

Watching this. Warm. Real. Close enough to touch.

Something that hadn’t been there twenty years ago, but was here now, right in front of him.

And he still didn’t think he deserved it.

But really—maybe he didn’t need to.

He didn’t move. Not right away.

Just sat there, hands braced on his knees, watching. Letting it settle into him, this moment. Something to dig his heels into while he caught up with the world again.

Leela exhaled, dramatic, hands on her hips. “Phew,” she huffed, glancing down at the still-full laundry basket. “Still got to hang these up.”

Maya, fresh off her giggling fit, sat up, rocking forward onto her hands and knees before clambering to her feet. Her dress—soft cotton, faded at the edges, patterned with tiny yellow flowers—was rumpled from rolling in the grass. A few strands of dark curls stuck to her forehead, but she barely noticed, too busy eyeing the basket with newfound purpose.

Joel could see it happen—that little shift.

The way her expression turned serious, brows knitting in focus, her lips parting like she’d just discovered the most important job in the world.

She reached down, fingers barely big enough to grasp the edge of a sheet. She grunted, giving it all she had, but it didn’t budge.

Leela glanced down. “Hm?”

Maya huffed, squared her tiny shoulders, and tried again—both hands this time, using her whole little body to tug at the fabric, little theatrical 'hng!' of hard work escaping her chest.

Still nothing.

“Mama.” She stomped her foot. “Up.”

Leela’s mouth twitched, amusement flickering in her eyes. She crouched beside her daughter, resting her hands on her knees. “Oh, I see. You’re helping me, huh?”

Maya nodded. Firm. Determined. “Gimme, gimme.”

Joel palmed his mouth, hoping the world didn’t take his smile away too soon.

Leela reached into the basket, fingers brushing lightly over Maya’s before gathering up the sheet properly. “Thank you, baby,” she murmured.

Maya beamed. Like the baby girl had just been handed the keys to the kingdom.

She toddled after her mother as Leela walked to the line, big eyes fixed on the way the fabric billowed like a cloud as it caught the light.

Joel exhaled. Sat frozen, watching.

The simple rhythm of it. The way Maya—so small, so certain—kept reaching down, picking up the next thing, both hands now, learning from last time, lurching after her mama with that same eager little voice.

“Mama, up.”

And every time—every single time—Leela patiently answered the same. “Thank you, baby.”

Again, and again. Again, and again.

Joel swallowed. His throat no longer felt tight. His head still ached, still held the despair of last night, of everything before it. But right now, here, with the cool air on his skin, the smell of damp earth in his lungs, the sound of Maya’s tiny voice chirping “Mama, up” over and over—

He could breathe. Really breathe.

And when his feet finally moved, when he finally pushed himself up from the steps and started walking toward them—it wasn’t some grand decision. It wasn’t something he had to force himself to do.

It was simply inevitable.

Leela didn’t hear him approach. Too focused on her daughter, on the task at hand, on the rhythm of their little world.

His fingers moved, apart from his control, found the frayed waistband of her shorts, just there, and hooked in. A gentle tug, a slow pull toward him.

Leela flinched—not much, just a hitch in her shoulders, a half-second's worth of instinct before she recognized him. Still unlearning old habits. Before she softened right against his chest.

And when she laughed, soft and knowing, she reached up without hesitation, fingers brushing along the side of his bristly cheek, a gentle, familiar warmth.

“G'morning,” she whispered.

Joel didn’t care anymore.

Didn’t care about the ghosts still clinging to his ribs. Didn’t care about the way exhaustion stretched him thin, about how last night still loomed in the back of his mind, dark and swollen and waiting to be acknowledged. Didn’t care that he probably looked half a corpse, standing there in yesterday’s clothes, smelling like whiskey and relapse.

He only cared about this. Only this.

The strings of her top tied at the nape of her neck, the curve of her spine beneath his fingertips, her skin warmed at his touch as he leaned in, pressed his open mouth against it, and let himself taste her where he could.

Leela sighed, tilting just slightly, like she always did—like her body always made room for him, even before her mind caught up.

His fingers slid forward, skimming beneath the loose hem of her top, smoothing down, trailing slowly over the smooth plane of her stomach.

A reminder. That she was here. That he was here. They were here. And that some things in this world were still good.

“Mornin',” he murmured into her skin.

Leela blinked, only half-registering the words. Then—

She sniffed and grimaced at him. “Jesus, Joel,” she muttered, nose wrinkling, “did you drink?”

Joel let out a quiet breath, pressing his forehead to the curve of her shoulder.

He shook his head. Not a yes. Not a no, not really. Just not now. “I don't wanna talk about it.”

Leela didn’t push. She only turned, facing him now, studying him like she was flipping through the pages of a book she already knew by heart.

His sunken eyes. The pallid, drawn look of him. His hair, a complete mess. His shirt, wrinkled like he hadn’t even bothered taking it off before collapsing somewhere.

He felt the attention in her stare. Not pity, she just understood. She knew because this had been her for some time, minus the alcohol.

So, all she said was—“Do you want to wash up?” Her voice was quiet. Only there for him. “I’ll make you some coffee and you can sit by the garden. Get some fresh air.”

Relief punched through him, sharp and unexpected. He nodded. Squeezed at her waist. “Yeah. Thank you.”

Leela didn’t look away, still watching him. Seeing if he needed anything else. Not even when he tried to smooth his voice out, tried to make it sound like he was okay.

“I'm alright, darlin’,” he promised—lied. “Had a rough night. Thanks for the sandwich.”

She patted his cheek before her lips curved into a meaningful smile. He really needed her with him, like the air he breathed.

“Maya,” Leela called, her eyes still anchored on his. “Look who's here, baby.”

Maya, busy untangling the last set of laundry from the basket, glanced up at her mother. Then her company.

Her face lit up, her mouth opening wide with a smile. And then she was off like a shot, legs pumping through the grass, a firecracker of squeals and giggles and wild, uncontainable joy.

Joel barely had time to brace himself before she crashed into his legs, clinging to him with all the strength her tiny body could manage.

“Da-da!”

Fuck.

He shut his eyes for half a second. That little voice, that little word, scraping a five-fingered claw so raw inside him, into something that shouldn’t be touched. But when he opened his eyes again, when he looked down and saw her, saw the absolute unsought delight written across Maya's face—

He couldn’t refuse her. He never could.

“Hi, baby girl,” he rasped, hoisting her up with one arm. “C'mere. Gimme a kiss.”

Maya fit perfectly against him, the way she always did, all carved in for herself, her arms impossibly small where they wrapped around his neck. And Jesus, the way she grinned at him—then leaned forward to smack a tiny, wet kiss on his cheek.

“You're breakin' my heart in that dress,” he told her, brushing a thumb over the little yellow flowers. “Did you pick it out?”

Maya gasped and pointed at them for him. “'S-h-f—s’flowers, my f-d-dwess,” she stammered, words tumbling over themselves in the excitement of seeing him.

Joel huffed a laugh, tucking his chin against her head. Christ, how did she get sweeter every goddamn day?

But then she started squirming, leaning right out of his arms, stretching her little fingers toward the clothesline as far as they could go. “Hang!”

Joel caught her before she toppled, laughing despite himself. “Woah, yeah, I know you did.” He glanced at Leela, who was watching them with that quiet, knowing expression. “Biggest little helper in the world.”

Maya nodded. Like it was a fact.

Joel pressed a kiss to her temple, still holding her close. “Listen, sunshine, I gotta hit the shower, okay? 'Cause your mama said I stink, and I can’t have that.”

Maya wrinkled her nose, scrunching up her whole face. He pinched at it.

Leela arched a brow. “Mama's only concerned,” she murmured.

“Mama ain't gotta be, yeah?” Joel shot back. But his voice was softer than before. Not so hollow.

Leela studied him for a second—like she knew that wasn’t true. Knew exactly what had happened last night. Knew exactly what he’d been trying to drown. But she didn’t say anything or call him out. She only did what Leela always did—she helped. Without condition. Without question.

“Now,” Joel cleared his throat, adjusting Maya in his arms, “which one of you pretty ladies is gonna fix me up a nice breakfast?”

Maya clapped her hands, a little burst of glee. “Yay!”

X

It started with Ellie. Because of course, it did.

That kid had a way of getting under his skin, of digging her nails into the parts of him he didn’t even realize were still soft. Poking. Prodding. Needling. And she’d done just that—smirking, goading, dangling the bait in front of his face like she knew damn well he was gonna take it.

“Well, sourpuss, Leela’s coming,” she'd convincingly said to him as they were returning their horses to the stables after patrol.

Joel had laughed at her face. Scoffed, even. And, what? His Leela? At the Tipsy Bison? At a goddamn party? With all the noise, all the music, all the drunk, sweaty fools two-stepping on the wooden floor? No chance in hell.

Yet, Ellie went on.

“I dunno how Tommy convinced her,” she had said, grinning like she’d already won, shoving her hands into her pockets. “But—yeah. She’ll be here with Maya.”

And that was all it took.

Which was how Joel found himself here. Stood stiff by the bar, one hand wrapped around a sweating glass of beer, the other clenching and unclenching at his side. His leather jacket felt too damn hot under the press of too many bodies, the heat of the string lights, and the music—Christ, the music. That twangy, knee-stomping, boot-scuffing, banjo-heavy bullshit rattling through the rafters—loud enough to set his damn teeth on edge. He'd hated it back then, and he hated it now.

The annual hoedown at the Tipsy Bison.

The world couldn’t give him a break. How in God’s name had he ended up here? How the hell had he let this happen?

This was not his scene. And it sure as hell wasn’t Leela’s. They would've been at home, curled up for dinner, amusing themselves with Maya like she was their favourite show on the television.

All it took was to establish that Leela was going to be there.

Because now, here he was—standing in the corner like a goddamn joke, cleaned up like he had any business being out on a Friday night, his boots polished, his hair combed back, his leather jacket slung over a shirt he actually bothered to button properly. Dressed to the fucking nines, he was.

And for what? To sit in a sea of drunken idiots and wait? Wait for her to walk in, looking like she was some kind of myth, some rare, elusive thing, something too glorious to be real? Wait for every goddamn person in the room to notice?

Because they would. Of course, they fucking would. Even the straightest of women would be turning their heads for her if they'd seen what he'd seen. Those never-ending legs, that face, that smile—shit, yeah, he was in big trouble.

Because fucking Maria had gotten her hands on Leela, and Maria was up to no good.

He’d tried. Lord knows he’d tried. He had stomped up the stairs at the fifteen-minute mark, knowing damn well this whole thing was taking too long, and had called, “Alright, well—sweetheart, nothing too showy, right? Y’know, these people don’t ‘preciate that as much as—”

“Oh, get the fuck outta here, Smeagol!” Maria had shouted him off.

Now, he was here... all because of her. And she wasn’t even here yet.

Joel exhaled sharply, jaw ticking, eyes darting to the door for the tenth time in five minutes. Nothing. He dragged his fingers along the rim of the bottle, still scowling at the bar like it owed him an apology.

Because the longer he stood here, the clearer it became what was really getting to him.

It wasn’t that Leela was coming.

It wasn’t that she’d let Maria fix her up—touch her pretty face, brush out her hair, maybe even put her in a pretty little dress.

No. It was the eyes. The way they were gonna watch her.

Hell yeah, Joel was jealous man. One of the many sins he had the privilege of bearing. He could get territorial as fuck, no doubt about it. All that sharing and community crap was bullshit. He had what he had, and it was splendid. Perfect, even. It was his because he kept it that way. He wasn't about to flaunt it to everyone in this town, have everyone poking at the green-eyed monster. And now was not the right time to test it, especially with his shocking self-esteem at an all-time low.

Damn it, this was his Leela.

She wasn’t just pretty. She wasn’t just easy on the eyes. She was—God, she just was. Unknowable. Untouchable. Something soft and sharp and utterly fucking stunning—and worst of all? She didn’t even realize it.

But they would. And Joel—fuck, he was pissed. Not at her. Never at her.

At them.

Because they didn’t get to see her the way he did.

Not in the morning, curled up and soft, her voice all husky and groggy. Not when she was tired in the afternoons, tucked into the couch with Maya, absentmindedly stroking her little girl’s hair. Not at night, in the flickering warmth of the fireplace, barefaced and undone, tucked between her blackboards and chalk pieces, humming the rhythm of equations under her breath.

They didn’t get that. They didn’t get her. But that wouldn’t stop them from looking. From trying.

Joel was still scowling at the door when Ellie appeared at his side, grinning like a fox. Before he could say anything—something landed on his head, slumping into his eyes. A ritzy, cowboy hat.

His whole body went rigid.

“Hat-asaur, yeah!” Ellie whooped, slapping the brim.

Joel exhaled sharply. The Lord was really trying him tonight. His hand went up automatically, ready to rip the damn thing off, but—

“Wait, Joel, c’mon!” Ellie slapped his hand away. “You look good, Maya will love it.”

Joel sighed and dragged a hand down his face. Then—begrudgingly, muttered, “Fine.”

Ellie whooped again, nudging him hard enough to make him stumble a step forward.

He grumbled something under his breath, eyes still glued to the damn door. Because any second now—she was gonna walk in. And already, it felt like his ass was on fire.

He flexed his fingers, shifting on his feet, too aware of the way the hat sat a little too low over his eyes, the way his collar felt like it was choking him. He wasn’t nervous, alright? Not nervous. Just—

Shit.

The door opened. At first, it was just a blur of movement, people shuffling in and out, but then—there.

Leela stepped inside. And Joel was simply a man who’d been gone a long time and just found his way home.

Her head was tilted slightly down, eyes lowered in that way of hers, like she wasn’t sure if she clicked in a place like this. Maya was tucked close to her side, her little hand securely fastened within her mother's, but she was already wriggling, already whining, ready to tear herself away and make her own little discoveries around the place.

Little thing was decked out in tiny denim overalls, small curls pulled into two bows, soft white boots barely keeping up as she stomped at the floor, still fighting against Leela’s hold, squealing her frustration, saying, “Mama, go, me go!”

And well—thank you, Maria. Because Jesus Christ. Leela wasn’t wearing anything particularly more catering to her strappy tastes, nothing that showed more skin than usual, but somehow, it was worse—because of course it was.

The soft brown dress unevenly swayed at her calves, the deep plunge of it down to her sternum until it nearly blended into her skin, the measly beaded strings tied around her neck. Her black hair all loose and wild around her waist. Effortless as anything.

And those goddamn embroidered, leathery cowgirl boots. Stopped his goddamn heart. Sexy as hell. All he could think about now was having them over his shoulders, that dress pulled to the seam of those arch legs, lips tasting, moving against that sweet, sweet—

He closed his eyes to collect his scattered wits for a second. Oh, Christ, he was already losing it.

See it didn’t matter that the dress was modest, that she wasn’t trying to draw attention to herself. People were still fucking looking, alright.

Leela hadn’t spotted him yet, her focus on a sniffling Maya as she crouched low, murmuring something in her ear, pressing a warm kiss to her palm, before handing her off to Maria with a soft, “Sorry, I’ll be right back.”

She searched the crowd, weaving carefully between bodies, until she looked up and spotted him. No other flicker in her eyes, just recognition, as she didn't waste another second and made her way straight to him.

Joel barely had time to say anything before she reached for his hand, cool fingers slotting through his as she dragged him aside, away from the crowd, away from the noise, into a quiet corner near the stairs.

“Come with me,” she murmured to him.

He could feel the eyes burning through him, the silent stares pressing in from every direction. And for a split second, he had the strongest urge to make it known. To push her against that wall. To kiss her. To stake his claim, loud and clear for the whole damn bar to see.

But before he could do a thing, Leela was stopping.

She was unfolding something. A piece of paper, scrawled with numbers and symbols smoothed out between trembling fingers.

Her eyes darted to his, wide and glowing with something almost feverish.

“I did it,” she said, voice a mere breath and almost shaking. “I solved it, Joel. The Riemann Hypothesis.”

Joel blinked. The who-what now?

“Took me ten whole years,” she whispered, hands trembling slightly as she held up the paper. “And my dad’s entire life. I-it’s a milestone in the field of mathematics. I just solved the biggest unsolved problem out there, Joel. Oh, I—I don’t know what to do—I don’t—Omigod—shit, I can’t breathe—”

“Hey, hey.” Joel reacted before he could think, his hands reaching up, long fingers networking at the back of her head, cupping her face, grounding her to him.

“Daggum, girl, you're incredible,” he murmured, close to her ear, pressing a kiss there. “You make me proud every damn day.”

Leela let out a breath, squeezing her hands to her mouth, eyes bright and almost disbelieving. “Thanks.”

She exhaled again, shaking her head a little, like she was still trying to wrap her mind around it.

A thought hit her. Then—her gaze snapped back to his, sharp and alive. She held his elbows tight.

“Do you know someone we can tell?” she asked, the words tumbling out. “This is really revolutionary, Joel. Would Tommy or Maria know? Someone outside of Wyoming maybe, a professor or a student? Radio them? Or someone who—um, can get this notarized?”

Her words started rushing out, full of hope, full of expectation—but Joel had nothing. He just stood there.

He was a man used to thinking practically, used to reading the world for threats, for weaknesses, for what mattered in the immediate sense of survival.

This was out of his hands, out of his understanding. Leela’s excitement, the breathless urgency in her voice—it’s not something he was used to handling. It’s not something he can fix with his fists, with a gun, with a little death. This was bigger than him, bigger than Jackson, bigger than this world they’re barely holding together.

And that’s the part that was eating at him.

Because she cared about this. He could see it in her eyes, feel it in the way she shook when she pressed that crumpled piece of paper into his hands. This wasn’t just numbers to her. This was ten years of her life. This was her father’s legacy.

And all he could do was stare at it.

Because what the fuck was he supposed to say? What could he tell her when there’s no one left to hear it? Anyone worth anything was gone? When there’s no university, no award, no history books to remember her name?

It made him angry in a way he couldn’t explain. At the whole fucking world. At the way it had stolen so much from her already—and now it was going to take this, too.

She saw it in his face before he even spoke. He tried to think, tried to come up with something, but he was taking too long.

And that was the worst part. Because that spark, that glow in her eyes—it was already dying.

She swallowed and managed a faltering smile. Folded the paper back up, like it was nothing. Like it was just another thing she had to let go of.

“So silly,” she mumbled.

Joel wanted to stop her. To tell her it mattered that what she’d done was worth all the awards, golds and notaries in the world. But what would that mean coming from him? What the hell does he know about numbers or legacy? He'd shit all over his own.

So he just watched as she tucked the paper away. That familiar, bitter rage simmered at the back of his throat.

“Darlin’,” he said softly, stroking the back of her head.

She shook her head. “No, it’s fine,” she said quietly, running a hand through her hair. “I just—I don’t know what I was expecting. World's different now.”

Joel clenched his jaw. She should’ve expected more. She deserved more.

The world was too small now, and she was too big for it.

A moment passed, heavy and quiet, and Joel really tried to work his mouth, distract her, pull her out of her head. He didn't need to.

So softly it barely made a sound—

“I like your hat.”

Joel blinked at her, and felt something in his chest ease, just a little, at the quiet humour in her voice. He exhaled a small laugh, tipping his head slightly, letting the hat slink a little lower, playing along.

“Yeah? Reckon you’ve never been hit on by a real cowboy before,” he drawled, all gravel and honey, emphasizing his accent, thumb hooking into his belt.

Leela let out a soft laugh, her fingers brushing her lips. “Never even been to a bar before.”

Joel whistled, low and slow, shaking his head like he’d just laid eyes on the Mona Lisa. “Damn shame for a pretty young thing like you.”

He really was trying, pulling out all the big guns. Laying it on thick, thicker than he had any right to, but goddamn—if she deserved the world, and he couldn’t give her that, at least he could make her smile. At least he could lift that weight off her shoulders, even for a minute.

So he leaned in a little more, let his voice drop to a slow, easy drawl, and let the heat of his gaze do half the work.

“Well, now,” he murmured, watching her just a little too long, letting his gaze drag over her like a slow hand, “lucky for you, darlin’… I got a real nice record of showin’ a lady a good time. My saddle ain’t the only thing gettin’ ridden hard if you said it.”

Leela raised her brows, sceptical but not immune. “...saddle? Oh.”

Joel felt it the moment it landed. The way her breath hitched—not much, just enough. The way her fingers tightened around the folded slip of paper in her hand.

And he wanted to feel it—wanted to feel that tension in her, the kind he swore he could taste in the air between them. It had been a long goddamn time since he felt this—since he wanted something enough to reach for it.

Slow, steady—like breaking a skittish horse. Like testing the waters, making sure she wouldn’t spook. His hand hovered, calloused fingers just inches from her skin, giving her the chance to move, to pull away, to tell him no.

She didn’t. So he took what she gave.

His fingers found her chin, the pad of his thumb barely grazing the plush curve of her bottom lip. He tilted her face up just a fraction—just enough to make her look at him, to catch that moment her lips parted on instinct, like she was already breathless.

Jesus. His control didn’t do much when she blinked up at him like that, lashes and lips fluttering—just asking to be pinned to that wall behind her.

His smirk came easy—lazy, dangerous, wolfish. Yeah, he knew that look. Knew it because he felt the same damn way.

He casually let go, and her eyes followed his hand down to his side.

“See,” he continued, angling his body toward hers, close enough to catch the way her pulse ticked at the base of her throat. “A cowboy’s got a duty, y’know. Gotta show a fine lady what a proper gentleman’s like.”

His fingers dipped under the brim of his hat, tipping it just so—shadowing his eyes, letting his gaze drop, nice and slow, just long enough to let her know exactly where he was looking.

Then, a slow shrug—broad shoulders rolling under his shirt, casual, easy—like he wasn’t laying a goddamn trap.

“Well,” he drawled, voice turning downright sinful, “‘d be mighty honoured to be called yours t’night.”

And there it was. And Joel knew right then and there—he had her. Because she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t laugh or stop him.

That telltale little pause—like maybe, just maybe, she was picturing it. He knew he was.

Instead, she just stood there, watching him, lips parted like maybe she had something to say—something that got lost somewhere in the space between them.

And for one wild, reckless moment, Joel thought she might just lean in, kiss the crap out of him. But then—she blinked, and the moment was gone.

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head. “You're funny.”

Joel grinned, even though he felt the shift. The retreat. “That so?” he drawled, still not letting up.

“You sound like you walked out of a Western.”

He smirked, tipped his hat lower, and let his voice drop just for her. “Now, sugar, that ain’t no way to talk to the man who’s about to teach you how to have your first bar fight. I quite like a girl with some fire in her belly.”

That got a laugh out of her. A real one. And Joel soaked it in, every damn inch of it.

Leela snorted, rolling her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“C’mon, now,” he teased, nudging her arm, his fingers just barely brushing against the soft skin there. “You’ve been missin’ out, angel, bein’ all locked away in that big house of yours.”

She raised her palm up in surrender. “Excuse me for having more pressing matters.”

Joel let his gaze drift over her, taking his time, dragging over the curve of her dress, the shape of her legs in those maddening boots. And then—he looked her right in the eye.

“Well,” he murmured, deep and sure, “maybe it’s time you stopped thinkin' about it.”

And just like that—the mood swerved again. Leela’s smile flickered, fingers twitching at her side.

She wasn’t looking at him anymore. Joel hated that he understood what that felt like. Hated that she deserved so much more than this world could ever give her. But before he could say a thing—

A little body slammed into his leg, nearly knocking him off balance.

Joel let out a breath just in time to feel Maya’s tiny arms latch around his calf, her face tipped up at him, all big eyes and a hopeful little four-teeth grin.

“Pease, pease, da-da,” she whined, hopping in place, her little hands patting at his jeans. “Up!”

Joel exhaled, running a hand down his face. Jesus Christ. Tic-tac-sized cockblocker, he was raising.

Leela laughed, faint and knowing, shaking her head as Maya demanded his full attention. But Joel couldn't even be mad. Baby girl was looking at him like he'd just walked straight out of heaven.

“Alright, alright,” he muttered, already reaching for her. “C’mon up, trouble.”

Maya squealed, her little body kicking excitedly as Joel lifted her into the air, her arms flung out like she was ready to take off. He swung her once, twice, before tucking her close, and she immediately latched onto him, her tiny hands gripping at his collar like she owned him.

Hell. Maybe she did.

She smelled like baby powder and whatever sweet stuff Tommy had probably snuck her earlier, and her little curls were tickling his jaw as she wriggled against him. She was always moving, always vibrating with energy, her whole body alive with it.

Then, suddenly—her wide eyes locked on his hat. Oh, hell. Joel knew that look.

“Gimme, gimme,” she demanded, tiny fingers already reaching.

He playfully narrowed his eyes at her. “Gimme?” he echoed, raising a brow. “That how you ask me?”

Maya pushed her lips out—big, dramatic, a whole damn performance. All that, he had no idea where that came from. Then she reached again, ready to rip it off him if she had to. “Gimme.”

Leela sighed beside them. “Maya, you have to say plea—”

“Pease!” Maya cut in quickly, blinking up at him with too much innocence.

Joel shook his head, letting out a low chuckle. “Goddamn, you’re trouble.”

Then, without another word, he took the too-big hat off his head and plopped it right onto hers.

The thing swallowed her whole. She was just this tiny little baby, her grinning cheeks barely visible beneath the brim, only the tips of her fingers peeking out as she held it up with both hands.

Then—with all the theatrics of a seasoned performer—she bent all the way back, her whole body arched beneath the hat, peering at him, flashing him a big, toothy grin.

And when she let out that breathy giggle—sharp, bright, real—Joel felt his chest squeeze. Too damn much.

“You havin’ fun under there?”

Maya nodded so hard the hat nearly flew off, and she had to grab at it, still giggling.

Then, out of habit, he glanced up—toward Leela.

No, she wasn’t really there. Her body was, sure—standing right beside him, arms crossed, eyes aimed at Maya. But she wasn’t watching. She was elsewhere, stuck somewhere in her own head, her fingers twitching like she wanted to grab at something—her pocket, that damn folded-up paper, something to keep herself busy.

Joel’s grip tightened on Maya.

He knew that look, the feeling. The way the body stayed standing but the mind wasn’t anywhere close.

His mouth opened, but before he could get anything out—

“I’ll go get a drink,” Leela muttered.

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was her way of saying—don’t follow me. So, he just let her go with a quiet nod.

But the second she disappeared into the crowd—he moved. His jaw was already tight as he reached for Ellie, snagging her by the arm and pulling her away from whatever dumb thing she was about to get into.

“The fuck... Joel?” she snapped, yanking at his grip.

Joel ignored her. Nodded toward the bar.

“Leela’s out of it,” he muttered, voice low. “Get her with your friends. Make her relax or somethin’.”

Ellie’s brows pulled together, her sharp little gaze flicking toward where Leela had gone. “What, so you’re just pawning her off? Your precious darlin'?”

Joel shot her a don't-test-me-look.

Ellie rolled her eyes. Dramatic as hell, now he knew exactly where Maya was getting it from. “Fine, whatever,” she muttered. “I got it.”

And with that, she disappeared after Leela, not without giving Maya's nose a little affectionate boop.

Joel stayed put, jaw still clenched, a hand on his hips, gaze locked on the door.

A small, warm hand patted his cheek for his attention.

“Da-da,” Maya mumbled. Her tiny fingers gripped his collar again, her cheeks still half-swallowed by his hat, her dark eyes big and certain.

And just like that, his body eased.

Joel sighed through his nose. “Yeah, baby girl. I'm here.”

Then, slowly, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of her tummy.

“C’mon,” he murmured, shifting her higher against his chest. “Let’s get you somethin’ to drink, too. You want to share a beer?”

X

Maya had been swept away by the time Tommy had caught up to Joel with a bottle and a few guys, practically pried out of Joel’s arms before he could blink. Maria had her now, parading her like a carnival float, making a whole damn show out of her.

And why wouldn’t she? The smallest baby in dirt road Jackson. Hell, Maya was practically town property at this point.

Joel watched, a little amused, as Maria lifted her high, twirling her around like a prize before setting her on her shoulders. Maya squealed, fisting her tiny hands into Maria’s hair, kicking her little boots, having the goddamn time of her life.

“Miller baby’s gonna get spoiled rotten,” Tommy muttered beside him, arms crossed.

That name still rubbed at him wrong. “Already is,” Joel mumbled.

He hummed. “And she’s eatin’ this up, little peacock.”

Joel made a derisive noise in his throat. “Ain’t her fault everyone here treats her like the second comin’.”

Tommy chuckled, shaking his head. “Can’t blame ‘em. Cute as hell.”

Joel couldn't argue with that. Just watched Maya beam at the attention, watched Maria spin her like she was royalty, watched as people—grown adults—cooed and clapped like she was putting on a Broadway show.

Yeah. This kid had them all wrapped around her little finger.

Joel exhaled, rubbing his jaw, his fingers pressing into the rough scrape of stubble like it might ground him. Tommy stood beside him, his stance easy, but Joel knew his brother too well—there was a thought in the way he was standing.

And then—the nudge. So casual, it almost had him fooled.

“So, back to the point,” Tommy started, quieter now, like he didn’t want the words to carry. “Leela’s big breakthrough. Hypothesis or whatever. Shit, I knew she had it in her.”

Joel ran his tongue over his teeth, nodding, preferring to stay silent rather than give anything away.

Tommy sighed, bracing a hand on his hip, eyes lazily scanning the room before he went on. “Listen, man, there are—people. Some folks I knew way back. When I was with the Fireflies. Dunno if they're still around, but...”

Joel turned his head slowly, his jaw tightening like a steel trap.

Tommy met his gaze, serious now. “Way outside of LA.”

Joel didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“They’re still keepin’ the science goin’,” Tommy said, voice lower now. “Not a lot. Just—pockets of ‘em, doin’ what they can. Research and stuff. Pretty legit. The kinda thing she’d wanna hear.”

Joel’s fingers flexed against the worn leather of his belt.

He didn’t like where this was going. Or the thought of giving her something to hope for, just to rip it out of her hands when it all went to hell. He also didn’t like how much this conversation was starting to matter to him.

Tommy let out another sigh, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“But we keep off the radar,” he said firmly. “No radio, no messages, nothin’ that could get the wrong kinda attention. You know the rules.” He levelled Joel with a look, voice final. “So, I won’t tell her a thing.”

Joel swallowed, his throat tight, something hot and sour curdling in his gut.

It was the right call, but that didn’t mean he liked it. He despised knowing that there were still people out there who gave a shit about knowledge, about discovery, about the old world. Knowing that Leela might’ve had a place there, if things had been different.

He grunted. “Good.”

Tommy exhaled, long and slow, like he’d been holding his breath. “Maria and I were thinking.... it'd be nice if she helped out at the school.”

Joel sniffed a, “What?”

Tommy shrugged, shifting his weight. “Y’know. Teach the kids.”

Joel furrowed his brows, fully turning to face him now. “What the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I mean, she’s sittin’ on all that knowledge,” Tommy said. “And she’s stuck in that damn house all the time.” He lifted a brow. “Might do her some good. Get her mind off…” He waved vaguely, eyes flicking in the direction Leela had gone. “Everything.”

Joel just stared at him.

Tommy shrugged again. “Think about it.”

Joel did. It wasn't the worst idea. But he didn't know if she’d be up for it or even consider stepping into that kind of role. He was about to say as much when—

A burst of murmurs and hoots erupted from the centre of the bar, cutting through the low hum of music. Chairs scraped, people turned, and a few whistles pierced the air.

Both brothers looked toward the noise. Tommy raised a brow. Joel narrowed his eyes.

“What in the...”

And then he saw her.

Leela. Right there in the centre of it all. She was surrounded—by Ellie, Dina, Jesse, and a few others forming a loose, laughing circle around her, dancing along. Encouraging. Egging her on.

She wasn’t two-stepping. This wasn’t a country song anymore. The band had taken a break, and someone had thrown on an old record—something slow, sultry, snappy, the kind of tune that slinked through the air, curling into the bones, pushed you to move.

And she was feeling it.

Joel had never seen her dance like that. Way too much for his heart to handle. Not his Leela, who never strayed too far from the walls, slipping between shadows, never let her guard down, never let herself be seen.

When Soft Cell sang about having the burnin', yearnin' feeling inside on Where Did Our Love Go, he felt that deep. Right now—she was a goddamn sight. Pure, wicked temptation.

Body swaying, hips rolling in slow, leisurely motions. Hands tangled in her own hair, then sliding down her neck—down—over her chest, grazing her ribs, curling over the curve of her waist.

She had no idea what she looked like right now—how that loose dress clung to her body with every billow, shifting and stretching with every movement. How the dim, golden light caught on her skin, illuminating her like some sort of deity.

How nearly every person in this bar had stopped to watch her.

It pissed him off.

And yet—he couldn’t look away.

Joel’s fingers twitched at his sides. Didn’t know whether to stop her or—pull her close.

Drag her against him, press his hands to her waist, and let her roll those hips against him, sink his teeth into her skin, deep enough to leave his mark. Hold her still, just for a moment, just long enough to feel her body fit into his—see if she’d let him.

So soft, willing, entirely elsewhere. Like she wasn’t in Jackson anymore, wasn’t in this old, rough-edged bar, but in some smoky club, where the lights were low, sequins danced off clothes, and the air was sweaty and nobody cared about pasts or promises.

The way her skirts fluttered as she moved, clutched loosely in her fingers, lifting just enough to show the lean muscle of her legs. The way she smiled—full, unguarded, head tossed back, a laugh cruising out, teeth gleaming in the dim light, unrestrained, a sound so full of life it hurt.

He’d seen her smile before. But never like this—wild, free, daredevil. Ellie must’ve really gotten more than three hard drinks in her.

Joel swallowed hard, forcing his feet to stay planted where they were.

Because something about this—about her—about the way her body moved, the way she felt the rhythm like it was something sacred, the way she tilted her head, eyes fluttering shut for a moment like the music sunk under her skin—

Something about it made Joel feel like his skin didn’t quite fit around his bones. Like something was gnawing at him. Feeding into his insatiate hunger. He curled his hands into fists, shoving them into his pockets. Because the way he wanted to touch her right now? Not fucking appropriate.

Tommy doubled up with a hoot. “Oh, hell, man.” He clapped Joel on the shoulder. “That’s a whole different Leela right there!”

Joel exhaled slowly, forcing his jaw to loosen. He knew he should be worried. Should be thinking about why she was drinking that much, why she was like this all of a sudden. Relaxing was different. This was goddamn spinning in outer space.

But she wasn’t reckless. She wasn’t stumbling, wasn’t out of control. She was just—happy. And how the hell was he supposed to take that from her?

Joel shook his head, mouth twitching into something dangerously close to a grin. “Just let her be.”

Tommy shot him a look. “Yeah?”

Joel exhaled, watching as Leela did something almost like a body roll, slow and smooth, skirts flicking as she spun. He dragged a hand over his beard. “Never seen her smile like that.”

And God. He wanted her to keep smiling like that. He wanted to keep her like that. That lightness. That freedom. That untouchable, golden, weightless feeling. She’d been carrying that unspeakable shit in her chest since the day he met her. And now?

Now, she looked free. Like she was burning it all away. Let her, the world owed her that much.

She threw her hair forward, fingers raking through the strands before she whipped it back, shaking it out, arms in the air, eyes half-closed, a small, lazy grin curling at her lips—

Joel was staring. Unblinking. Jesus, just look at her. All of that belonged to him. He really did all right for himself, didn't he?

And he wasn’t the only one watching.

“Holy shit,” Tommy murmured, his amusement barely contained. Joel didn’t have to look at him to know that stupid grin was plastered all over his face. “You lucky old bastard.”

“Shameless jackass.” Joel smacked him upside the head, but hell—he wasn’t gonna argue.

Because Leela was out there, a careless grace, hips swaying, head tilted back just enough for the dim glow to catch on the slope of her throat. She wasn’t dancing with anyone, not really—just herself, the music, the air around her.

And then—she spotted him. Their eyes locked.

Joel watched, not backing down, cocking a brow, casually lifting the rim of his beer to his mouth. Go on, then.

Her lips curled slow, teasing, teeth catching on the edge of a grin as she raised her index finger, a silver ring glinting off it—beckoning him. A clear come-hither look if he'd ever seen one. Dance with me.

Joel exhaled sharply through his nose. She was being such a goddamn tease tonight.

Where the hell was this girl all along? He was halfway to forgetting himself, forgetting how his boot was planted firm against the bar wall, how he wasn’t the kind of man to drift into the thick of things, but hell if she wasn’t making it too damn tempting. His feet nearly moved on their own.

The little flirt brought the fingernail between her canines, watching him back through dark lashes, still swaying. Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing to him, drunk or not.

Then someone grabbed her.

It happened fast—a rough hand curled at her elbow, breaking that moment clean in two. Yanking her back, that playful grin dropped from her face as she stumbled back.

“You wanna fuckin' dance like that, you take it to the fuckin' streets where you belong,” the man sneered, his grip tight, stance aggressive.

Joel didn’t spare another thought, pushing past people, single-minded on one thing, one thing only. Fucking this guy up.

He was already moving, already cutting across the floor before Ellie’s sharp “Hey—!” had fully left her clenched teeth. Before Dina had raised her voice louder or Jesse had shoved his drink onto a nearby table.

Joel got there first.

His fist caught the guy’s collar, violent and hard, hauling him back so fast his boots scraped the floor. The man let out a startled grunt as Joel shoved him, sending him staggering.

“Get the fuck off me!” he barked, regaining his footing and immediately shoving back.

Big mistake—he might as well have tried pushing a brick wall. Joel barely moved a muscle.

That dark, familiar thing flared in his chest, searching for fuel, the way it always did before things got really bad for someone else. It thrived in moments like this. His jaw locked, teeth gritted.

Tommy got between them fast, hands up. “Alright, hey. Back off.”

The man’s lip curled, face twisted. “She’s makin’ a damn scene. Grown men tryna enjoy a drink, and she’s out here—” he waved a hand, scowling, “—doin’ that sleazy shit.”

“She was dancing, motherfucker,” Ellie snapped.

Dina stepped forward, unhesitant. “You got a problem with a girl having some fun?”

The bar crackled with tension.

Joel hadn’t looked away from the bastard. His chest rose slow, calculated, shoulders squared. He could already feel the heat of his pulse through every vein.

And the son of a bitch had the audacity to hold his gaze.

Joel was one word, one breath away from ripping his fucking teeth out of his head.

His fingers curled at his sides, hot with the need to do something, to wipe that smug look clean off the bastard’s face. It was an old, ugly feeling, one he knew too well—one that had kept him alive, carved into his bones like instinct.

“Don’t, Joel.” Tommy’s voice, quiet, firm. A name. “Maya.”

Joel’s breath hitched, like a hand gripping his collar, yanking him back before he could step over the edge.

He flicked his eyes past Tommy—past Maria—toward the far end of the bar. And there she was. His baby girl, small in Maria’s arms, being bounced in a steady rhythm. Distracted enough, but still watching. Big, dark eyes locked onto him, lips parted, fingers idly picking at her mouth like she did when something upset her.

Joel forced himself to breathe a calm breath in.

The man muttered something under his breath, took a step back.

Joel let him go. For now.

When he turned for Leela, she was stock-still, eyes fixed on the ground like she was trying to unsee what just happened. Her breath came shallow, uneven. Her fingers twitched at her sides, curling and uncurling, like they hadn’t quite gotten the message that the danger had passed.

Joel moved toward her without another thought, reaching for her. His hand found her face, a thumb grazing over her cheekbones. “Hey, we're done here.”

She blinked up at him. Swallowed. Lips parted like she meant to answer, but nothing came.

Joel didn’t wait, didn’t want to stand in this damn bar any longer with all these eyes on them and the sticky air pressing in. He guided her out—out of the noise, out of the murmurs, out into the cooler air beyond.

He barely heard the bar door swing shut behind them, noises within muffled by the night. His grip around Leela didn’t loosen until they reached the railings, and even then, he kept a steadying hand at her arm as she lowered herself to sit.

She sagged against the cool wood, breath coming uneven, gaze distant.

Joel inhaled deeply, trying to work the fire out of his blood. It only eased a fraction—just enough to let him think past the need to hit something. But something was still very, very wrong.

Dina, Jesse, and Ellie weren’t far behind. He barely registered them at first, too busy watching Leela.

Then it hit him.

This wasn’t just liquor. He’d seen it before, the unfocused sway, the way her pupils were just a little too blown, the sluggish, too-long blinks like her brain was catching up to reality in slow motion.

Joel had seen this before. Dealt with it before.

This stupid girl was high off her ass.

His breath came out sharp through his nose, and Jesse—fucking kid—must have caught onto his mood, because he held his hands out, cautious.

“Okay, Joel, before you lose your shit—”

Joel’s head snapped up, and the look he gave Jesse could’ve killed him right there. “The hell is wrong with you kids?”

Ellie threw up her hands. “You said to relax her! What else am I supposed to assume?”

Relax her. Joel almost laughed.

Because what kind of idiot was he, thinking they’d understand what he meant? He’d asked them to look out for her, to make sure she wasn’t overwhelmed—not drug her up and leave her swaying like a goddamn candle in the wind.

A headache started curling at the base of his skull.

The door opened again. “All okay out here?” Maria’s voice sliced through. She stepped outside, arms empty—Maya was with Tommy now. One long glance at Leela, and her expression sharpened. “Who got her high?”

Silence.

“I did.”

Dina, sounding less defensive and more resigned, shoulders dropping as she rubbed at the back of her neck. “Look, she was miserable, okay? I didn't want her to cry so... I just helped her out a bit.”

Joel pressed the heel of his palm against his eyes, fingers digging in. A few months ago, he might’ve laid into the poor kid. Might’ve let his anger tear out of him in something sharp and punishing, because what the hell were they thinking?

But right now—now, there was Leela.

And she was leaning into him, forehead coming to press against his stomach, fingers loosely gripping the fabric of his shirt. Seeking warmth, steadiness. Him.

His hand found the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair, stroking down in slow, absent motions. She was still warm, her breath soft against his stomach.

“Booooo-berries,” she slurred into him. It was the way Maya said it to them with that toothy smile, the one that never failed to get the two of them cracking up every morning.

Joel shook his head. “Christ.”

Maria sighed. “Take her home, Joel. I’ll take care of these three and send Tommy with Maya once you’ve got her sobered up.”

Joel didn't need to be told twice. He just nodded, tightening his hold on Leela, and braced himself for the slow, messy walk home.

X

Leela had surprisingly good depth perception for someone downright hopped up on drugs.

She’d asked him to dance with her to the music in her head five times, been refused all five times, attempted to spell some long-ass word while balancing on her tippiest toes, yelled that they'd lost Maya at least three times to which he'd assured her three times, and even showed off her ability to wiggle her ears like it was the greatest goddamn achievement in the world.

And well, Joel was having the time of his life.

Because everything about her at this moment was a person frozen in time, immature, stopped somewhere around nineteen, probably the same age her parents had passed. Like the weed had stripped everything else away, dulled out the grief, the hardship, the relentless millstone of responsibility.

Something she probably hadn’t let herself be in a long time. The Leela before Maya came along.

He sighed, steering her toward the house with firm hands at her waist, shuffling her through the door with the patience of a saint. She giggled at something—probably nothing—and the moment she was inside, she made a halfhearted attempt to kick off her pretty boots but ended up dropping onto the bottom step of the staircase with a huff, stretching out like a damn cat, arms over her head, smiling up at him like he’d just given her the world.

He shook his head, fighting the twitch in his lips. “Stay put, darlin’. Gonna get you some water.”

“Sure thing, darlin’,” she teased, stretching the words out, thick and syrupy. Her eyes glittered, mischief curling at the edge of her lips.

Jesus. Joel exhaled hard, rubbing a hand down his jaw as he turned toward the kitchen. He needed a second—just one—to get ahold of himself.

The faucet hummed as he filled a glass, and he let the sound drown out the heat still prickling under his skin. She’s just high. Just loose. That’s all. But damn if she wasn’t making it hard to remember that.

By the time he came back, she’d sprawled out even more, a lazy sprawl that had no right looking as ravishing as it did. Dark hair spilling like seaweed on the steps, one arm bent behind her head, the other resting just below her collarbone—fingers ghosting slow, absent patterns over the bare skin there.

His pulse ticked at his temple. He needed to look anywhere else.

He set the glass of water down, just beside her head, looming over her, leg stretched on a step, and patted her cheek. “Drink up, c'mon now.”

Leela blinked up at him, hazy and warm, and smiled like she was about to do something thoughtless. Oh, then she did.

Her hand lifted, fingers threading into the front of his hair, tugging through the strands before dragging down the rough line of his jaw. He exhaled sharply through his nose, caught between amusement and the low hum of shattering want.

“You're so hot,” she mumbled.

Pretty sure he'd blown a fuse. Now, it would be so easy to let himself sink into it, just let himself fall.

Instead, he huffed. “You’re so high.”

“I know,” she murmured, almost pleased with herself. Then, just as easily as she touched him, she let her hand drop. Then, like she’d been turning it over for a while, she said, “You know, Joel… if we got married, I’d be... Leela Miller.”

Joel froze, then—damn him—grinned his teeth off. He hadn’t ever married before, hadn’t even thought about it past the young, fleeting kind of love that got tangled up in dreams of a life he never really had. He was barely in college when he had Sarah, and after that, everything had been for her. Marriage, romance—it had been so far from his mind it might as well have been another country.

But hearing it now? So late in his life, in this broken, rebuilt world, and from a woman like Leela? It felt—strangely—like a promise. Her, standing there, hair tucked into a veil, teeth gleaming in a smile, a big white dress on a long aisle, walking towards him—it was what it was. A fantasy.

“Mrs. Miller,” he drawled, tasting the words. He shook his head. “No, actually—I like Dr. Miller more. First one in the family.”

Leela sighed like it was some faraway dream. “Dr. Leela, PhD.” She shook her head, biting down a smile. “Can you imagine that? I’d be published, be on planes, lecture students… maybe get tenure.”

He could imagine it, beyond question. Leela, all sharp intellect and sophistication, standing in front of a lecture hall full of wide-eyed students, knocking socks off with her brilliance. He saw her in crisp suits, red-bottoms clacking on marble floors, shaking hands with scholars, debating theories over glasses of wine, running circles around the best of them.

But then her expression shifted, something more distant creeping in. “But I think I’d rather take up my parents’ names. For legacy.”

Joel nodded. Made sense. If she wanted to honour where she came from, if she wanted that, who was he—

“Legacy,” she snorted, cutting through his thoughts. She carelessly patted at her skirt, fishing through her pockets, and pulled out a note—a small, crumpled scrap of paper, worn at the edges. She waved it absently in the air.

The numbers meant nothing to him, but he knew what they meant. The solution to one of the biggest unsolved mathematical problems out there. The kind of thing people used to kill themselves trying to solve. The kind of thing that would have her face and name splashed on headlines, maybe get her one of those Nobel Prizes. And she just held it like it was nothing.

“What’s the point anymore?” she muttered.

Then, before he could blink, she dunked it straight into the glass of water.

Joel lurched forward. “What in—” He snatched at the glass, pulling the soaked paper free. “The hell is wrong with you?”

“It doesn’t matter, Joel,” she dismissed him with a sigh. “There isn’t anyone out there who cares about this anymore. Just… let it go.”

Joel stared at her, then at the dripping remnants of her work. He pressed the ruined paper to his chest as if, somehow, he could will it back into existence, but it was too late. The ink had smudged, the numbers running into each other in unreadable streaks. The thin paper had started to break apart.

His jaw tightened. “You don’t get to decide that.”

Leela didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the walls of the house, out past Jackson, past whatever limits she had drawn for herself.

Joel exhaled hard through his nose, rubbing at his face. He looked around the small space of the stairwell, the dim light catching the curve of her cheek and the sharp slope of her nose. She looked tired—and not just in the way that meant she needed sleep.

He leaned back on his haunches, resting his arms on his knees, watching her like he was trying to figure out the right words.

“Y’know,” he started, “I used to think that too. That things didn’t matter. That people—ideas… that they could just disappear, and the world would keep going like nothin’ happened.”

Leela blinked at him, somewhat interested. “And?”

“And I was wrong.”

She scoffed, barely there. “What changed?”

Joel tilted his head, brooding. He wanted to say Sarah. But that wasn’t the definitive truth. Losing Sarah had been the reason he stopped believing in things, in himself, in the good of the world. But finding Ellie, loving Maya, falling for Leela, learning to give a shit about anything again—that was what made him realize he was wrong.

So instead, he just said, “I did.”

Leela studied him, still in a daze. Then, she dropped her gaze to the water-stained paper. “It’s not the same, Joel,” she murmured. “No one’s out there waiting for this anymore.”

He shook his head. “That ain’t the point.”

He gestured vaguely at the note, at the numbers that were little more than smudges now. “You put your time and life into this.” He glanced back at her. “You cared. Your people cared.”

She didn’t say anything. Just sat there, shoulders drawn in, staring at her own hands.

Joel sighed, rubbing at his jaw. “Listen, I ain't some goddamn philosopher. I don’t know shit about legacy or what’s supposed to last. Or have one. But I do know—things don’t stop matterin’ just ’cause you’re tired of carryin’ ‘em.”

Leela swallowed, but her throat bobbed like it was hard work.

Joel reached down, nudging the damp paper toward her. “You wanna throw it away? Fine. But don’t tell yourself it never meant nothin’ in the first place. You wisen the fuck up and find somethin' else. Another big idea.”

Leela stared at the ruined note. He could see the war going on in her head, the part of her that wanted to believe him, and the part that had already convinced herself it was all pointless.

And he wasn’t sure if it was because she was thinking about it, or because she was already too far gone.

That being said, Joel barely had time to react when it began. The very first notch on his epitaph.

Leela lifted onto her elbows, fingers curling into the collar of his shirt, pulling him down over her until her breath ghosted over his lips—warm, teasing, heady. He could smell the impulse, the weed, the sweetness of her skin, everything that made up this living ideal. And then, just like that, she closed the distance and kissed him.

Slow at first, careful. Like she was figuring it out as she went, learning the way their mouths fit together, the way he tasted, tongue searching for his. And then something shifted—her hands slid up, fisting at the leather over his shoulders, tugging at him, voicing a small, needy sound in the back of her throat that just about undid him.

Joel breathed out sharply, his restraint unravelling like a frayed rope snapping under too much tension. Wrecking him, ruining him, pushing him, making him lose his head.

“Joel,” she murmured a plea.

“Christ, Leela,” he hissed against her lips. “We—”

We what? Can't do this? Are not ready? Need to do this on your big-ass bed so I don't throw my back out? Need to talk this through, and set some boundaries? What was he, an idiot?

She was fucking with him. Just had to be.

But, the joke's on her because he was fucked to begin with.

His closed, shaking fists found her ass, opening only to press into the softness there, mapping the curves and grooves he’d spent too goddamn long depriving himself of.

And then she was pushing his jacket back, fingers clumsy but determined, impatient.

He could tell, she clearly didn’t know what she was doing—not entirely—but she was following instinct, and it was killing him. She had no idea what it did to him, the way she was just handing herself over like this. Like she wanted it just as badly.

So, he let her work it off him, let it fall with a soft thump, not caring where it landed, his own hands greedy now, focused and unstoppable—sliding up her ribs, the dip of her waist, down to the soft skin between her thighs. She was supple beneath his touch, melting into every press, every slow drag of his fingers, his own callouses catching into her skin.

Joel wasn’t sure if he was breathing. Didn’t care if he wasn't.

He had to rip himself off her to kneel back on a creaking step to find his pace, unbutton his cuffs one by one and roll back his sleeves to his elbows, like a dedicated man about to knuckle down and give everything.

Because this was how he should’ve had her—how he’d wanted her from the start. All fingers and touch. Desperate. Awed. Like she was something he’d been dying to claim.

“You okay?” he had to pant out, that one last instinct pushing him to ask, but he couldn't stop himself to one more deep kiss into her neck. “Jesus, I can't stop. Fuckin' want everything... you alright, sweetheart?”

No response, but he was met with a quiet, feeble nod when he looked at her. It was all he needed.

“S'okay, I've got you. I'll make it good, real good for you, baby,” he made his promise, feverish.

Now utterly too immersed in her, trailing his lips, beard scratching a little too hard into her skin—on the thin, useless straps of that dress, slipping off her shoulders like they had no right being there in the first place.

He dragged his mouth down, nudging slow, deep, open-mouthed kisses against the inside of her arm, the slope of her shoulder, and the sharp line of her collarbone. He let himself linger, let himself taste—the wet, sweet, hot summer in the flesh, tongue flicking against the hollow of her throat, feeling the way she swallowed.

Fucking dress. Driving him insane, the way it barely covered her, how easy it would be to pull it down, to strip her bare, and—shit, he had to get his head in the game.

He let out a breath, hot and heavy, dragging his lips down lower, between her chest, kissing the bony little space there, hands smoothing over her breasts, squeezing them into his palm, pressing each one with a lingering, rolling, attentive kiss, revelling in the softness there. His teeth grazed the soft flesh, just enough to make her gasp, to feel her fingers tighten where they clutched at his arms. He soothed the spot with his tongue, tasting the salt of her skin, his hands roaming lower, gripping, kneading, pulling her deeper into his mouth.

She arched into him even, like her body was learning how to react, and he groaned, half-mad with want, barely holding himself together. “Oh, baby…”

His fingers found the hem of her dress, gathering it up, slowly pushing it up over the curve of her stomach.

He was like a goddamn kid opening a present on Christmas day.

The muscle there—taut, toned, fucking sexy. Deep stretch marks from pregnancy settled into her skin like the rings of a tree, or his own uncharted map, leading him down, down, to the space between her legs. From there, it was all long limbs and those maddening cowgirl boots—boots he had big plans to enjoy. He clenched his jaw and pressed his mouth against the dip above her navel, lips parting, teeth scraping, biting down just enough to feel the resistance of her skin against his tongue.

Then—his senile little brain caught up all at once, like a heart attack. “Gotta be kiddin' me. Look at you.”

Black. A little faded, like they’d been through too many wash cycles. A tiny white bow stitched into the hem of those soft, ruffled panties. He had half a mind to ask if she liked them—if she’d mind him tearing them off with his teeth. If she wouldn’t, well… he sure as hell wouldn’t.

He nearly felt a spark against his fingertip as he slid his fingers over the bow, over the fabric, his mouth watering, his longest finger pressuring in, feeling her slit through the softness, so warm, a ready little ridge in her body waiting just for him.

Well, fuck, if that wasn't a slice of heaven, he didn't know what was.

His breath hitched, and for a second, a strange dread twisted in his gut—tight and sharp, a visceral reaction to seeing her like this, vulnerable and unharmed in ways that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with the way she just laid there.

Because she wasn’t here. Not completely.

Her hands were on him, but barely. Just resting. No urgency, no fire, no need that matched his own. Her fingers curled into his shirt like she didn’t know what to do with them. Like she wasn’t even thinking about what they were doing, like she was just letting herself be taken.

Her eyes—half-lidded, unfocused, watching him but not seeing him. Allowing him, not needing him. He couldn't tell if that was the weed or just her instinct.

And suddenly, all that desperate, consuming heat turned ice-cold in his chest.

No.

Not like this. This wasn’t how he wanted her. This wasn’t how he wanted them. Not when she might not even fucking remember it in the morning.

Joel blew out a sigh, pressing his forehead against her stomach, forcing himself to breathe, to reel himself in, to fight the fucking starvation clawing at him from the inside. His fingers twitched against her ribs, aching to keep going, to give in, to be selfish for once in this goddamn relationship.

But he couldn’t. He knew his own strength, knew how easy it would be to press too hard, take too much. He’d spent too many years being careful. Watching himself. And right now, it wasn’t just himself he needed to be careful of.

And he was in this for the long run.

He leaned back, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, forced his hands to loosen, to let her go.

She glanced at him, sluggish, blinking like she didn’t understand why he’d stopped.

Joel brushed her hair out of her face, his thumb stroking gently over her temple, his touch mindful now, like she might break.

“Hey,” he murmured, rough, still thick with want. Forced himself to smile, small and lopsided, like none of this was pulling him apart at the seams.

“Where’d you go, darlin’? You with me?”

And he hated how desperate it sounded. Because he wanted her here right by him. Wanting this as much as he did. But if she wasn’t, if she wasn’t entirely here, then he wasn’t going to fucking take it.

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, half-there, half-somewhere else, something unreadable flickering in her expression.

Then—slowly, consciously—her fingers lifted, skimming along the stubble of his jaw, then lower, slipping behind her own neck. “It's okay.”

His breath hitched as she undid the thin strap at the back of her neck, her dress loosening, slipping ever so slightly. The curve of her shoulder, more of that smooth, bronze skin—fuck.

Joel closed his fingers around her wrist before it could go further, her pulse jumping beneath his fingertips.

And for a moment, there was only the ragged pull of their breathing, his harsher than hers, his mind a coil of need and restraint, and something dangerously close to guilt.

Without a word, he turned her hand over, brushing his lips to the centre of her palm. The way a man might kiss a cross before prayer.

Leela’s fingers twitched, then curled slightly.

She swallowed, then hesitated. “Did I do something—don't you...” Her voice was quiet, too careful. “Don’t you want to, um...?”

Joel's throat constricted. The words shouldn’t have made him feel like this—shouldn’t have sent something sharp and aching curling deep in his chest. But they did. They scoured against him, somewhere he hadn’t realized was still bleeding.

He exhaled sharply, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes for a second, like he could rub out the frustration clawing through his chest. His jaw was tight, his pulse hammering—his whole body still wound too fucking tight from everything that almost happened, from everything he wanted to happen.

Then he dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head.

“Jesus, Leela.” His voice was low, rough-edged.

She just watched him, slow-blinking, her head tilting slightly—something indistinct crossing her expression. She looked… lost. Like she wasn’t sure how they got here.

Then, quieter now—“Don’t you want me, Joel?”

Joel inhaled. Exhaled. Fought it. Fought the goddamn instinct to pull her right back in, to let himself take, to let himself lose.

Instead, he pushed a hand through his hair, let out a sharp breath, and muttered, "More than you fucking know."

His voice came out hoarse, almost gutted. Because it was the truth.

He wanted her more than anything. More than he wanted to breathe, more than he could goddamn stand, more than he despised himself. He’d spent too many nights pretending not to, spent too many mornings waking up with her ghosted across his senses, still tangled in his bloodstream, in every part of him. He wanted her in ways he shouldn’t. In ways that scared the living shit out of him.

And she was right there. Warm, soft, half-lost in the haze of the weed, but still her. Still Leela. Still, the only thing he wanted.

But not like this.

He shifted back, forcing space between them—except her warmth was still there, still lingering, still wrapped around him like she hadn’t realized yet that he was trying to let go.

Leela blinked at him again. Slow. Fuzzy. Making sense of this. “Okay.”

She reached behind her, fumbling with the ties of her dress, shoulders shifting as she tried to fix them, needing to close the space between them with something more real.

But before she could—he beat her to it. His hands moved without thinking—secured the knot at her shoulder, fingers brushed against warm skin.

He sighed. “You are so beautiful. And smart. Make me so damn unworthy of you.”

And then—a pause. A moment he shouldn’t have let himself have.

Softly, he pressed his lips to the lune of her shoulderblade, just once. A slow breath against her skin. And then, finally, he pulled the fabric back over her legs, smoothing it into place.

Not because he didn’t want her. Because he refused to take her like this.

It was entirely too heartbreaking, the way she was looking at him now—lost and waiting, her fingers curling into nothing, like she wanted to hold onto something but wasn’t sure if she could.

Leela watched him, unmoving. Something flickering in her eyes, something deeper than the haze, something real trying to surface through the weed.

He cupped the side of her ribs, palm splayed over warm skin, then moved lower, pressing his hand firm against her lower stomach.

Leela inhaled sharply, lips parting slightly, something flickering behind her gaze. A breath hitched in her throat.

Joel swallowed hard, his jaw working as he stared at her, his thumb stroking once over the fabric of her dress, over the smooth skin beneath. Trying to make sure she felt it.

Right there. Right where he wanted to be.

“But the truth is, I love you,” he rasped. A promise. A warning. He didn't have to force it out anymore, it was written all over him.

“So, one day, when I'm real deep inside you, Leela, I am all you're gonna think about. Just me, loving all of you.”

Her lashes fluttered. And for the first time in the last few minutes, she really looked at him. Like she was coming back. Like his words had cut through the fog and pulled her back down to him.

Joel’s breathing was ragged now, his self-restraint stretched thin, nearly breaking—but he didn’t move. Didn’t close the last inch between them, didn’t let himself pull her under.

Instead, it was she who moved. Right toward him.

Slowly, carefully, she shuffled forward, and slid down onto the step beside him. The movement was hesitant, like she wasn’t sure if he’d let her. Quietly curled into his side, slipping her arm around his bicep, the warmth of her soaking into him, settling beneath his skin.

Joel let out a slow, shuddering breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. The muscles in his shoulders eased, just slightly, before he let himself lean into her, pressing his nose into her hair, breathing her in.

Her fingers found his, twisting together, small and warm and so fucking delicate.

Then she lifted his hand to her lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles, barely there—but she ravaged him.

Then, quiet—hesitant—

“You're good for me,” she whispered.

Joel closed his eyes for a second.

It wasn’t a question. Wasn’t a plea. Just a simple, quiet thing, like she’d finally let herself believe it. And maybe that was what ravaged him the most.

Because he wasn’t good. Had never been. He was a man shaped by hard choices, by regret, by suffering, by all the things he’d done just to survive. He was pretty sure the gears in his heart were rusted, black sludge pumped through his veins, merely broken in ways that time hadn’t fixed.

But for her—with her, with Maya—he wanted to be. God, he wanted to be. Maybe he already was. Maybe she saw something in him that he never let himself hope for before he ever did.

His fingers curled tighter around hers, like he could hold onto this moment, keep it from slipping through the cracks. His thumb traced slow, absent circles against her skin, memorizing the feel of her, in the press of his calloused hand against hers.

“You're good f'me, too,” he muttered.

She just leaned in closer, her body soft against his. Yeah, Joel let himself believe it now.

He's good for her.

X

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[blueberrybirdsworld]

Collision 1/20

Summary:

Lando always had a type : blonde, models, not ready to settle down. Yet once he met her, all his world is changed and he slowly start to realises maybe he was wrong all this time.

It's a prequel story of The Cat Distribution System, on how Lando Norris fall in love with Ariana. Could be read seperatly.

Pairing : lando norris x original female character

Genre : Fluff, slow burn, enventual smut and angst

Warning : none

Serie Masterlist

CHAPTER 1 :

London was bone-cold in the way only January could be. The streets sparkled beneath thin veils of frost, and breath puffed into the air like ghosts. Pastel skies bled into charcoal as evening settled, and the city—like always—buzzed with life beneath layers of scarves and city noise. 

Ariana stood outside the dimly lit entrance of the private members' club, her arms folded tightly against her chest, breath trembling as it left her lips. Her coat—cashmere, camel-colored, and belted neatly at the waist—hugged her frame with disciplined elegance. The streetlights cast a silver sheen over her dark hair, which was pinned in a low chignon, rebellious strands curling against her cheeks. Her heels were impractical for this weather, but they matched her quiet grace: poised, pointed, prepared. 

She hated being late. Even more than that—she hated being out of place. 

"You're late too ?" The voice came from behind her, smug and accented, sharp enough to make her spine stiffen. 

She turned, slowly. 

The man who stood there was all swagger wrapped in a North Face puffer and casual arrogance. Messy brown curls peeked from beneath a black beanie, and his eyes—icy blue-green and unapologetically amused—swept over her with the easy confidence of someone used to being looked at. 

“Excuse me?” Ariana asked, her French accent melting into her voice like warmed sugar, "do we know each other?" 

"Not yet." He extended a gloved hand. "Lando." 

She looked at his hand. Then at him. Then back at the door. 

She did not shake it. 

He laughed, not offended. “Alright. Tough crowd.” 

The door opened behind her, and warm light and louder voices spilled out. 

“Ariana! You made it!” The voice belonged to Maya—her friend, who’d dragged her to this gathering. “Come in, come in, it’s freezing. Oh—Lando, you’re here too.” 

So, he was part of the friend group too. 

Ariana entered the club, she peeled off her coat inside, revealing a slate-blue wrap dress. Not flashy, but impossible to miss. 

Lando followed, slower, watching her like someone flipping pages of a book they didn’t expect to like but couldn’t put down. 

The club was intimate, lit with golden chandeliers and velvet booths. The music wasn’t subtle, bass flirting at the edges of conversation. 

Ariana sat stiffly beside Maya, her back straight, her hands in her lap. She observed quietly as friends passed around cocktails and stories. She smiled politely, nodded at the right moments. But she wasn’t one of them. They were loud, unfiltered. Comfortable in their chaos. 

Across from her, Lando sprawled on a couch like it was his throne. One arm hooked over the back, the other swirling a whiskey glass he hadn’t touched. He kept looking at her, like she was some kind of puzzle he couldn’t solve. 

“You don’t talk much, do you?” he finally said, mid-conversation lull, loud enough that others chuckled. 

Ariana looked up slowly. “I talk when I have something worth saying.” 

He raised a brow. “And nothing here’s worth it?” 

“Not yet.” 

There was a moment—brief, almost imperceptible—where something flickered in his eyes. A spark of amusement… or challenge. 

“I think you’re just scared.” 

“And I think you’re not used to people not liking you,” she countered, voice soft but razor-sharp. 

The table quieted. 

Lando tilted his head. Then he smiled. Not the cocky kind. Something else. “Fair enough.” 

Later, the group splintered. Maya dragged Ariana toward the bar, and Lando disappeared with someone toward the back. Ariana let out a slow breath, resting one elbow against the polished wood, eyes scanning the room. 

This wasn’t her scene. She could feel her muscles coiling with the need to return to something structured and quieter. 

“You don’t drink?” 

She turned. Lando was back, empty-handed now. His curls damp from the cold air outside again, like he’d stepped out for a moment to breathe. 

“Rarely,” she replied. 

“You’re hard to read.” 

“You’re easy.” 

He barked a laugh. “Touché.” 

Ariana wasn’t sure why she said it. Or why it felt strangely satisfying to say aloud. 

But something was happening here. Not flirtation. Not exactly. 

A friction. A friction that left her pulse uneasy and her skin warmer than it should’ve been. 

“I don’t get it,” he said, leaning in slightly. “You act like you hate this place, but you came.” 

“I came for Maya. She thinks I should meet new people.” 

“And?” 

She looked at him, then away. “I’ve met someone.” 

He smiled. “Let me guess. Opinionated. Loud. Annoying.” 

A pause. 

Ariana met his eyes fully. “Yes.” 

Their eyes locked—blue to blue, wild storm to still water. The music swelled in the background as time folded inward. 

For a moment, neither of them moved. The world slowed. Ther were no longer music or people dancing around them. 

Just her breath. His eyes. And the kind of tension that doesn’t snap—it simmers. 

Later that night, Ariana walked back to her flat alone, the city buzzing softly in the background. She replayed the encounter in her head, dissecting every gesture, every line. 

She didn’t like him. That much she was certain of. Yet something inside her when thinking about their encounter.

A few days after while the London’s December sun hung low and pale in the sky, turning the frost on the cobblestones into glitter, Lando adjusted his coat, stuffing his gloved hands deeper into the pockets as he waited outside a boutique, bored while Max tried to choose a gift for his sister inside. 

Pietra stood nearby, sipping on a to-go oat milk latte from a corner café. “You know,” she said between sips, “this would go faster if men actually planned before shopping.” 

Lando smirked, distracted. “You mean like making a list?” 

“Yes, or asking questions. Being observant. Like, oh, my sister mentioned she liked this brand.” She shook her head dramatically. “But no. Let’s just drag the whole squad through Mayfair and hope for divine inspiration.” 

The rest of the group—some of the Quadrant team floated between shops, their bags multiplying by the minute. It was noisy, easy, full of the kind of camaraderie that made winter bearable. 

Then Lando saw her. 

Across the street. Just past the Chanel display window. 

She didn’t walk like everyone else. 

That was the first thing he noticed. 

There was a grace to her steps—measured, light, like she’d learned to move in a world that required silence. She wore a black skirt that floated just above her knees, black heeled boots, and a soft pink sweater. Her hair was down this time—long, glossy, dark—and tied with a velvet ribbon in a soft bow at the back of her head.. 

She looked like something out of a painting. Or a poem. Or a memory that didn’t quite belong to him. 

Ariana 

He hadn’t forgotten her. Not for a second. Not since the night at the club. 

And she looked even more… real now, which somehow made her more impossible to reach. 

She paused near the silk scarves display just inside the glass, tilting her head to examine the arrangement. Her profile turned, and even through the window, he could see the faint shadow of her lashes, the way her lips parted slightly in thought. She reached for a soft ivory scarf, lifting it with both hands like it was something fragile and rare. 

“Lando.” 

He didn’t answer. 

“Lando,” Pietra repeated, stepping into his line of sight. 

“Hm?” 

She turned, following his gaze. 

And saw her. 

“Well,” she whispered, “helloooo again.” 

Max appeared at that moment, bags in hand. “Alright, got it. Can we—why do you two look like you’ve seen a ghost?” 

“Not a ghost,” Pietra said, her voice lilting with amusement. “More like someone haunting a certain someone’s brain.” 

Max squinted through the glass. “Wait—isn’t that the girl from the club?” 

Lando gave a short nod, his eyes not leaving her. “Yeah.” 

“Wow,” Max said. “She’s… not what I expected.” 

“She’s beautiful,” Pietra murmured, watching the girl in the window. “She looks like she belongs in some old French movie.” 

“She’s not really the type who goes clubbing, is she?” Max asked. 

Lando shrugged, looking mildly annoyed. “I don’t know. I don’t know her.” 

“You want to ?” Pietra grinned. 

“I talked to her for five minutes,” he said, a little too fast. “Barely.” 

“Exactly,” Pietra replied, already stepping off the curb. “Time to fix that.” 

“No, Pietra—don’t—!” 

But she was already weaving through traffic with the confidence of someone used to getting her way. 

Lando groaned. “She’s going to scare her off.” 

Inside the store, Ariana had just finished folding the scarf back when she felt the presence beside her. 

“Hi there!” came a bright voice. 

She turned slowly. 

A woman smiled at her like they were old friends. 

“I promise I’m not crazy,” she said quickly. “I saw you the other night. At that club. With Lando.” 

Ariana’s expression froze for half a second. Her hands dropped away from the scarf. 

“I’m Pietra,” the woman continued, offering her hand with a little flourish. “We’re actually just shopping with some friends. Lando’s outside with Max and the rest of the group.” 

Ariana shook her hand politely. “Nice to meet you.” 

“So,” Pietra went on, eyes flicking over Ariana’s outfit approvingly, “we were thinking of grabbing some drinks afterward. It’s just down the street—warm, chill vibe. You should come with.” 

Ariana’s eyes flicked toward the window, where she could now see Lando—standing awkwardly near the entrance, half-hidden behind a pillar, pretending he wasn’t watching them. 

Something in her expression shifted. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, gently but firmly. “I’m not one of Lando’s friends.” 

“Oh, come on—” 

“I barely know him,” she added, voice still quiet but now edged with finality. “And I don’t go for drinks with strangers.” 

There it was. The clean, cold line of refusal. Not cruel, but distant. Like a door closed with careful hands. 

Pietra blinked. “Okay, wow. You’re serious.” 

Ariana offered a soft smile. “Yes.” 

Then she nodded once, turned, and walked away—her heels clicking softly against the marble floor, ribbon swaying behind her like the tail end of a breath. 

Outside, Pietra returned with a smirk and a story. 

“She said no,” she announced. 

Max’s jaw dropped. “What?” 

“She said, and I quote, ‘I’m not one of Lando’s friends. I barely know him. And I don’t go for drinks with strangers.’” Pietra mimicked Ariana’s soft, deliberate tone with exaggerated drama. “It was cold.” 

The group howled. 

Lando exhaled through his nose, jaw clenched as he watched Ariana walk further down the street, blending into the crowd like she’d never been there at all. 

Max laughed. “Mate. Brutal.” 

Pietra nudged him. “You’ve officially been humbled.” 

“She doesn’t even know who I am,” Lando muttered. 

“Maybe that’s why she said no.” 

All evening, the teasing followed him like confetti stuck in his collar. 

But none of them noticed the way Lando went quiet near the end. Not sulking—just thoughtful. Like something had shaken loose in him. Like something important had been said, and not just to his ego. 

He couldn’t stop replaying it. 

I barely know him. I don’t go for drinks with strangers. 

Ariana wasn’t cruel. 

She was careful. 

And somehow, that made her more impossible to forget. 

Taglist : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress

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[insidekatmind]

The other woman~Jude Bellingham

Wearning: +18,smut, angst,cheating.

Request: yes!

It all started as a game, a way to have fun without complications. Jude had been your friend for years, but for a few months, your friendship had taken a different turn. No promises, no strings attached. Just the pleasure of being together when you both felt like it.

Yet, things were no longer that simple.

You’re sitting on a black leather couch in an exclusive club in Madrid, a glass of wine between your fingers. The place is crowded, the music vibrating in the air, but your attention is fixed on them. Jude and Ashlyn.

She laughs, leaning on his arm, her sparkling eyes fixed only on him. Jude smiles at her, whispers something in her ear, and you feel an inexplicable pang in your stomach.

"You’re torturing yourself," Maya, your best friend, says, casting you an inquisitive look.

"I’m not doing anything," you reply, bringing the glass to your lips.

"Yeah, except staring at him like you’re about to rip him from her arms with just the force of your thoughts."

You grimace. "He’s free to be with whoever he wants."

Maya sighs. "And you? You’re free to be with whoever you want, but you’re not. Have you ever wondered why?"

You avoid her question and look away from Jude, but it’s too late. His eyes meet yours. His smile fades for a moment, as if he’s sensed your discomfort. Then Ashlyn pulls him back to her, and he turns, leaving you with a sense of emptiness.

Later, as you’re heading home, you feel your phone vibrate. It’s a message from Jude.

"Wait for me outside. I’m coming."

Your heart races, but you pretend not to care. It doesn’t take long for him to arrive in his black car, the window rolled down.

"Get in," he says, with that voice that makes you tremble inside.

You bite your lip, then obey. There’s a heavy silence in the car.

"What happened earlier?" you ask, crossing your arms.

He clenches his jaw. "You should tell me. You seemed... different."

You huff. "Why? Because you were looking at me while you were with her?"

Jude parks the car on the side of the road, then turns to you. "Because I can’t help but look at you."

Your breath catches in your throat. "Jude, you shouldn’t say these things."

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Then tell me it doesn’t mean anything. Tell me we can keep doing what we’re doing without anyone getting hurt."

You feel a lump tighten in your throat. "I can’t say that."

His gaze softens. "I knew it."

Weeks pass, and every moment with him becomes more intense, harder to ignore. But he’s still with Ashlyn, and you’re stuck in limbo.

One evening, while you’re in his apartment, you confront him.

"Jude, tell me the truth. What do you want from me?"

He looks at you for a long moment, then moves closer, brushing your face with his fingers. "I want you. I’ve always wanted you. But I’m afraid of ruining everything."

You hold your breath. "And what about Ashlyn?"

He lowers his gaze. "It’s not right for her. I know. But I’m afraid to admit what I feel for you."

You pull away, shaking your head. "You have to choose, Jude. Because I don’t want to be the hidden option in the shadows anymore."

Silence. Then, finally, a whisper.

"I choose you."

And this time, when he kisses you, it’s no longer a game. It’s real.

You return the kiss passionately, straddling him. Jude moans into the kiss, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"God, I've wanted you for so long..." he murmurs, his lips moving to your neck.

You feel a shiver down your spine as his tongue trails over your skin, his touch igniting a fire within you. You kiss him hungrily, your hands exploring his abs over his shirt.

"Jude..." you gasp, your body pressed against his, "I want you so much."He groans, pulling you even closer, his body pressed against yours.

"You have no idea how badly I want you," he murmurs, his voice hoarse with desire. "I've been trying to resist, but it's impossible when you're like this."

He kisses you again, his lips hot and demanding, his tongue teasing yours.With trembling hands, you begin to unbutton his shirt, wanting to feel his skin against yours. Jude helps you, eagerly discarding the fabric and revealing his toned chest. You run your fingers over his abs, relishing in the way his muscles flex beneath your touch.

His hands grip your thighs, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you even closer. He kisses your jawline, then your earlobe, his breath hot against your ear.

"I can't get enough of you," he whispers, his voice ragged with desire. "I've tried to deny it, but I can't anymore. I need you."You tangle your fingers in his hair as he kisses your collarbone, his lips leaving a trail of fire on your skin. You arch your back, pressing yourself against him, your body trembling with need.

"Jude, please," you gasp, "Take me."

You and Jude quickly undressed and then let him enter you while you held on to the car seat behind him. Jude groans and buries his head in the middle of your breast. “Always so tight,” he moaned.

You started riding him while moaning. "So big" you muttered and Jude squeezed your ass as he helped you ride him. "That's right, take it like this" Jude moaned. With every movement, waves of pleasure wash over you, making your body tingle all over. You look at him, seeing the desire in his eyes, how he bites his lip as he watches you ride him.

You look at him with pure desire and kiss him. His fingers dig into your hips, guiding your movements, as he kisses you back hungrily. He breaks the kiss and looks at you, his gaze full of intensity.

"You drive me crazy," he says, his voice low and rough. "No one else has ever made me feel like this."

“Mine” you moaned riding him while sucking his lip.

"All yours" he agrees, his hands gripping your waist tightly. "Only yours."

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing and nipping at your skin as you move against him.

"I don't want anyone else," he growls, his tone possessive. "You're mine."It's as if a fire is burning within you, each touch and movement bringing you closer to the edge. Your moans fill the car, blending with Jude's deep, guttural sounds.You move frantically, seeking release. You're so close, your body quivering with anticipation. "Don't stop" you pant, your forehead pressed against his.

He growls in response, his grip on you tightening. "I won't," he promises, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm right here with you."Your breath hitches as you feel the heat building, your body on the brink of exploding. "That's it, let go" he coaxes, his voice a rough whisper. "Come for me."

And then it hits you, a wave of pleasure more intense than anything you've ever experienced washes over you, stars exploding behind your closed eyes. You cling to him more.Jude holds you close, his own release following close behind. His arms tighten around you, his face buried in your shoulder. For a moment, everything feels so real, so perfect. But as the echoes of pleasure fade, reality comes crashing back in.After catching your breath, you disentangle yourselves, pulling on clothes in silence. Jude looks out the window, avoiding your gaze. The silence is heavy, laden with unspoken words and uncertain feelings.

You break the silence first. "What now?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

Jude runs a hand through his hair, still not looking at you. "I don't know," he mutters."Is this just a fling for you?" you press on, needing to know where you stand.

He hesitates, his expression conflicted. "It's more than that," he admits. "But... I can't just leave Ashlyn."

A weight settles in your chest, the familiar ache of being someone's secret.“You said you chose me,” you whispered hurt.

Jude's shoulders sag, the guilt evident in his face. "I did choose you," he reiterates, his voice heavy with conflicting emotions. "But it's not as simple as just walking away from her. There's history, there's loyalty... and... I don't want to hurt her."You get up from him and get dressed quickly. "So you hurt me" you said and unlock the car. "I don't deserve this" you say getting out of the car.

Jude follows you, his face a mix of remorse and desperation. "Wait, please." He grabs your arm, holding you back. "You know I don't want to hurt you. It's just... complicated."

"No, I'm tired. You don't want to choose and I'm done being second choice," you muttered and walked away.

[pitchsidestories]

Dancing Through Life II Lucy Bronze x Reader

romantic masterlist | platonic masterlist | word count: 1314

summary: after the training camp you finally got to spend some time alone with your girlfriend.

author's note: hi everyone we hope you'll like the oneshot. Any form of feedback is appreciated. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

disclaimer: everything in this fanfiction is purely fictional and nothing corresponds to reality.

“Finally, home.”, a happy sigh escaped your lips as you stepped inside.

Shortly after you, your girlfriend entered your shared flat. The two of you dropped your bags on the floor at the same time.

A broad grin lit up Lucy’s face: “I can’t wait for our own kitchen, bed and Narla of course.”

You couldn’t help but to notice that the Portuguese sun had brought out her freckles even more, which looked adorable in your eyes.

“And some time for us.”, you added in a delighted tone.

The defender's warm laughter filled the room: “Oh yes, I lost count on how many times we were interrupted during game.”

“Way too often.”, you agreed smiling.

Memories of the England camp came back to you in waves. The first half in the Algarve has remained a fond impression, even if it was equally exhausting. You both didn't plan it, but as the more experienced footballers in the team, the younger players naturally gravitated towards Lucy and you.

At this, Lucy grimaced: “We didn’t have a single minute alone.”

Whenever you two thought you had a moment just for the two of you, Maya, Grace, Lauren, Aggie or Jess came. The time as a couple was cut short between their intervention, the training drills and the Nations League games.

And yet you were grateful for the pictures the young Manchester United captain took at the beach, the picturesque sunsets forever captured on film.

“True.”, you said quietly.

One quick glance later, an excited West Highland Terrier ran out of the bedroom and wagged its tail excitedly to greet you.

Immediately Lucy got down on her knees, the pain forgotten at the sight of her beloved dog, whom she began to cuddle: “Hello, Narla. We missed you too.”

“Very much.”, you admitted and joined in the cuddling. While Narla pressed wet kisses onto your face, which you tried to escape with a laugh.

Smirking, Lucy remarked: “She missed you too.”

“I can tell.”, you giggled.

More seriously, your girlfriend looked up at you and asked you a question that made your stomach growl:” Are you hungry?”

“Hungry? More like starving.”, you replied amusedly, placing a hand dramatically on your empty stomach.

Determined, she slapped her thighs before slowly standing up, the intense weeks having left their mark: “I’ll cook.”

“That's like music to our ears, isn't it, Narla?”, you winked at the small Westie who seemed to agree with you on this point. With a quick flick of the hand, you connected your mobile phone to the speakers and the first harmonious tones rang out within your four walls.

Lucy watched as the little dog wagged her tail with excitement.

“I think she agrees.”, she smirked.

“Oh yes, clearly a yes from her.”, you laughed, petting Narla.

“Absolutely.”

Lucy opened the fridge, taking ingredients out and got to work. You studied every movement with curious excitement. Whatever she touched, it promised to be a delicious meal.

“What are you cooking, Chef Lucy?”, you asked innocently.

She turned to you, smug as ever: “It’s a surprise.”

“Sounds amazing.”

“It will be.”

A delicious smell filled the kitchen within minutes, making you almost as impatient has Narla who sat in front of Lucy, hoping that she would drop something.

You realised that you were no better than your dog when you got up and snuck up to Lucy. You distracted her by wrapping your arms around her waist and inconspicuously grabbed a spoon full of sauce to taste.

“Hmm, delicious.”, you hummed, deliberately ignoring your girlfriends protests.

Lucy rolled her eyes with a gentle smile: “Hey, it’s not done yet.”

You blinked at her with puppy eyes: “Sorry.”

Lucy opened her mouth, about to playfully scold you as she always did but nothing came out. She paused.

It took you a few seconds until you realised that she was listing to the music.

“That’s our song!”, she announced suddenly.

“Oh, you recognised it?”

“Of course.”

The food on the stove was suddenly forgotten.

You studied Lucys face, her eyes softened.

“Do you remember when it first became our song?”

“I do.”, she nodded.

You both stood there, remembering how this song played whenever you met. At every bar, every restaurant and every shop. Your friends used to play it at parties too because they knew it was a safe way to get you two on the dance floor. You hadn’t actively listened to that song in a while.

“It’s a nice memory, dont you think?”

Lucy didn’t reply. Instead, she reached for your arms and pulled you in.

“Dance with me.”

You laughed in surprise: “What? In the kitchen?”

“Of course. Where else?”, she said and started swaying you to the rhythm of the music.

“Okay.”, you finally agreed.

You gave in, fully moving your body in sync to hers. Her hands rested on your waist as you stepped and turned, your hands lingered on her shoulders. It was easy to follow each other’s movements.

You stared into your girlfriends’ eyes and a pleasant warmth spread through your body. Your heartbeat sped up. It was almost like falling in love all over again.

“We should do that more often.”, you smiled at her.

A mischievous smile played on Lucy’s lips: “Dancing?”

“Yes. Although the dancing sessions with the team during camp were fun too.”, you admitted with a wink.

The defender couldn't help bursting out in a hearty laugh: “I wouldn’t count that as dancing.”

“No and how would you call this here?”, you asked teasingly.

“This? That’s called cooking.”, she replied with a cheeky grin.

It was only now that you noticed the bubbling on the hob, you had both been too engrossed in dancing beforehand.

“Oh my god the food!”, you exclaimed.  

Unlike you, Lucy remained calm and waved away your worries: “Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control.”

Despite her assurances, you opened the window to let in some fresh air. “Are you sure?”, you questioned.  

“Yeah, you know I don’t play when it comes to food.”

You knew that she prided herself on being a good cook and that when something like this happened, it was in the right hands. Slowly you began to relax again as you watched her put the finishing touches to the food with practised grips.

Whilst doing so, you couldn't help chuckling at a memory: “Yes, it's a bit of a shame you don't wear glasses anymore, they looked funny when they got cloudy from the hot steam.”

“You know what? I don’t miss that at all.”, Lucy shook her head in amusement. The defender had to worry too often that her contact lenses would fall out during a game or that she would lose her glasses in a strange hotel room.

Only sometimes, on a long day, did the older woman caught herself longing for poorer eyesight, where she would rather not see so sharply because the world had lost its softness with it.

While you knew how her answer came about, you'll love your friend's glasses forever because you met her for the first time with them on her nose: “I thought you might say that.”

“Yeah, I can finally see what I’m doing.”

“Dinner’s ready?”

Lucy confirmed it with a simple yes.

“Perfect, I’ll set the table.”, you announced satisfied. Afterwards you lit some candles and dimmed the overhead lightning to create a cozier atmosphere.

“Romantic. I like that.”, Lucy remarked as she brought the cooked meal, which already smelled heavenly, to the table.

With a knowing smile you responded: “Oh, I know you do.”

“It’s finally just us.”, your girlfriend said.

Quickly, you added: “Us plus Narla.”

“Exactly.”, she grinned.

After you had taken the first bite and absorbed everything, you realised: ”It’s perfect.”

“I agree.”, Lucy hummed.

One thing was for certain, there was no one you would rather dance through life with than her.

gif source: https://www.tumblr.com/glimmerofawesome/691333988304977921?source=share

[voidsuites]

feeling this so hard rn. boooooo (it’s currently 5:43pm)

[nylqnder]

𝐈 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐃𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 | 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 𝐇𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐄𝐒

summary: despite your differing personalities, you and quinn find yourselves drawn to each other. but you know what they say? opposites attract.

warnings: none :)

word count: 0.78k

Quinn leaned back on the club's sleek bar, the polished surface cool against his skin as he observed the chaotic dancefloor. The thumping bass reverberated through the room, syncing with the erratic flickering of the strobe lights.

Amidst the mass of dancers, his eyes were on one figure in particular. You stood out among the pulsating crowd, commanding attention effortlessly. Adorned in a shimmering mini-dress that caught the lights with every sway of your hips, you exuded a magnetic aura. Quinn’s eyes followed your graceful movements as you twirled around with one of your friends, laughter ringing out above the music. In the midst of the chaotic dance floor was where you seemed most in your element.

It wasn’t uncommon for your relationship to raise eyebrows. You had always been a glass-half-full kind of person and always carried an effervescent demeanor. Your positivity was a beacon, drawing people towards you like moths to a flame. Meanwhile, Quinn was on the quieter side, not necessarily grumpy but far from the ray of sunshine that you were. Compared to you, Quinn was the calm after the storm, a steadying force that balanced your whirlwind of energy.

As Quinn continued to watch your effortless moves, he marveled at the way you situated yourself in the mass of people, your smile never wavering and your movements staying fluid and confident. Moments like these reminded Quinn of how he was drawn to you in the first place. You brought a lightness to his life, a spark that he hadn't realized he was missing until you came along.

His brief daydream was interrupted by Maya, one of your friends, sidling up beside him. “Hey, Quinn,” she said, knocking the neck of her beer against his glass.

Quinn offered her a small smile. “Hey, Maya. Having a good time?”

She took a sip of her beer and leaned on the bar beside him, her eyes following his gaze to you. “Always,” she replied with a grin. “You know, I’ve never seen her this happy with anyone before. How are you two doing?”

Quinn's smile widened as he glanced back at Maya. "We're good," he said, his voice carrying a hint of pride. "She's amazing, you know that.”

Maya looked between the two of you, a small smile on her lips. “You guys are total opposites though, aren’t you?” she asked.

Quinn chuckled softly, glancing back at you as you continued to dance with abandon. “Yeah, you could say that. But somehow, it works.”

Maya nodded knowingly. “She brings you out of your shell.”

“Exactly,” Quinn replied with a nod. “Even when she doesn’t realize it.”

As if on cue, you bounded over, a radiant grin lighting up your face. “Quinn! Come dance with me!”

Quinn chuckled, feeling a warmth spread through him at your presence. “I don’t know how to dance, y/n.”

Your eyes sparkled, shrugging your shoulders as you took hold of Quinn’s hand. “Well, it’s never too late to learn!”

Reluctantly, Quinn allowed himself to be pulled onto the dance floor. The music seemed louder there, the bass thrumming in his chest. You started moving immediately, your body swaying in time with the beat. Quinn tried to mimic your movements, feeling awkward and out of place.

You took notice and giggled. “Quinn, it wouldn’t kill you to move your body a little.”

You placed your hands on his hips, forcing them to move to the music, but his body seemed to fight you.

“It actually might,” Quinn replied, his eyes glancing around to see if people were watching.

You laughed again, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Just follow my lead.”

Quinn took a deep breath and tried to relax. He honestly didn’t know how you were just naturally full of energy and positivity. However, your energy was infectious, and soon he found himself moving more naturally, though still far from graceful. You teased him about his lack of rhythm, but your laughter was warm and encouraging.

“Baby, you’re doing great!” you said, your smile radiant. “See, I knew you could dance.”

Quinn felt his hesitation fall away as you continued to dance, your movements becoming synchronized as you lost yourselves in the music. Your friends cheered from the sidelines, Maya giving Quinn a thumbs up when she caught his eye.

A couple of songs later, you and Quinn headed off the dancefloor. You made your way to the table your friends had commandeered, Quinn pulling you into a tight embrace.

“You were right,” he murmured into your ear. “That was fun.”

“Told you so,” you replied, grinning up at him, eyes sparkling with the same energy that had captivated Quinn from the beginning.

[better-setterv2]

hii, your stories are amazing, especially your Met gala ones. Could you maybe do one where she’s like a famous singer and the meet at the Met and are like fans of each other?❤️

𝐵𝑒𝓃𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒮𝓅𝑜𝓉𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

Authors Note: Hey everyone! Sorry if this seems rushed, I’ve been busy at the moment. Here’s another Met Gala one-shot. Enjoy! Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis and reader are massive fans of one another. They have their first ever intersection together at the Met Gala, intimacy blooms between them.

Warnings: mild sexual content

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You had walked countless red carpets.
From the roaring chaos of the VMAs to the hushed, reverent air of the GRAMMYs. From fashion week afterparties lit in moody purples and gold, to private label launch events so exclusive the press had to whisper the password at the door.


You’d worn everything from crystal corsets to shredded couture, heels that felt like art and gowns that weighed more than a toddler.
And yet nothing felt quite like this.
Not like the Met Gala.

Even your stylist, Maya the cool headed, unshakable Maya, who once re-threaded a bustier strap mid sprint up the Dolby Theater stairs looked slightly breathless as she glanced at the ticking gold hands of her Cartier. She held your coat like it was a rare artifact, not a piece of your ensemble.

You stood near the floor to ceiling windows of your penthouse suite at The Mark Hotel, hands tucked behind your back as you watched Manhattan exhale into twilight.

The grey hush of the city below was already being devoured by flashbulbs and arriving town cars. The Avenue outside glittered with promise and pressure.

Inside, the suite smelled faintly of sandalwood, setting powder and the citrusy scent of your signature perfume. The silence was thick with anticipation. You weren’t just getting dressed, you were becoming a moment.

“Let’s get you into the jacket,” Maya murmured behind you, relaxed now. “It’s almost time.”

Her voice was softer than usual. Like she was prepping armor.

You turned away from the window and stepped back onto the low velvet platform in front of the mirror. It had been custom built for nights like this where transformation wasn’t just cosmetic, it was spiritual.

The Atelier had called your ensemble an ode to elegance and rebellion.
You had simply called it perfect.

The 2025 Met Gala theme - Superfine: Tailoring Black Style.


It wasn’t just fashion, it was legacy. It was reverence stitched into silhouette. A reclamation of threads, techniques and textures passed down and reinvented through generations of Black brilliance. This wasn’t just an aesthetic. This was language, spoken in lapels and seams and intention.


You were determined to honor that fully.

But who were you, really? The world saw you as the darling of the charts, the magnetic singer with a voice that could make even the coldest hearts feel something.

You had grown up on melodies and rhythms, learning to pour your soul into every note until it left an imprint on anyone who heard you. Your rise was meteoric an album released just two years ago had gone platinum and charted at number one for several weeks. Hits followed, each one bigger than the last.

Your voice, soulful yet powerful, became the backdrop to millions of moments - summer nights, long drives, heart wrenching breakups and new beginnings. You performed on grand stages, in packed arenas and intimate venues alike, holding audiences in the palm of your hand. Your music was an invitation to vulnerability, to raw emotion and above all, to joy.

But that was just the public side of you. The side that everyone adored. The side that was always under the spotlight, but never quite seen.

Behind the scenes, though, there was more. You had always been careful with your personal life, guarding it fiercely as you carved out your space in an industry that was both cutthroat and demanding.

The family you came from had taught you strength, the resilience to fight for your place in a world that often saw you as an outsider. And that fight was reflected in your music. Your songs weren’t just pop hits they were stories, anthems of empowerment, the soundtracks to your battles and victories.

Still, amid all the noise, there was one thing you always sought - the ability to connect. To meet people who truly saw you. Who would care for the soul behind the voice and not just the celebrity behind the name.

Tonight, you wore your heritage like armor, dressed in the legacy of your people, the generations who fought for the space you now inhabited in music and in the world. This wasn’t just a night for fashion. This was about honoring your identity where you came from and who you were becoming.

Your Look -


The base was a tailored plum velvet corset jumpsuit bespoke, fitted with painstaking precision. It hugged your torso like sculpture, the boning cinching your waist while the fabric moved like second skin. A double breasted front with sharp shoulders gave it a masculine edge, offset by the way the bodice dipped to reveal the subtle curve of your collarbones.


The collar was wide, peaked and strong. A nod to 1980s Harlem but cut with the restraint of Savile Row. The trousers were tapered to perfection, cropped just above the ankle to spotlight the true show stealer: your oxblood patent loafers. Each heel had been hand carved into the silhouette of a Baobab tree, the bark etched with a phrase from your grandmother’s favorite proverb “Even the tallest tree begins as a seed.”


Layered over it all was the coat though coat didn’t do it justice.


It was a declaration.


Cropped at the ribs, wide at the shoulder in the style of a 1930s zoot suit, the kind Black and Afro-Caribbean youth wore when tailoring was protest. The silk lapels had been embroidered with metallic gold thread in swirling Akan symbols each one chosen intentionally - strength, legacy, harmony, truth.


The inside lining of the coat was indigo Adire cloth, dyed and hand painted by artisans in Nigeria. You’d chosen the fabric yourself, flown in samples, held them up to the light with your mother. Your grandmother had worn a headwrap in the same pattern in the only surviving photo you had of her.


When you moved, you carried her with you.
Pinned to your left lapel was a single cowrie shell set in a gold clasp. It glinted against the plum velvet like a secret you wanted the right person to notice.


Your hair was braided into an intricate crown, each section precise, symmetrical gold cords woven through the plaits like constellations. It was regal, soft and fierce. A love letter to ancestral memory.


Your makeup? Art.


Bronze shimmer kissed your eyelids, catching every flicker of light. Your liner was sharp and deliberate, reminiscent of vintage jazz posters and the kind of femme fatales who didn’t need to raise their voices to silence a room. Your lips were oxblood, rich, a perfect echo of your shoes.


The effect was undeniable.


You weren’t just dressed.


You were armored in legacy. Draped in intention.

Maya circled you slowly, fingers making tiny adjustments here and there. A tug at the hem. A smoothing of the lapel. Her eyes shone not just with the usual approval of a job well done, but with awe. Quiet, knowing awe.


“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look like this,” she whispered, voice cracking ever so slightly. “You’re giving Harlem Renaissance general but if she ran a record label and never missed.”


You managed a nervous laugh. “You think…he’ll notice?”


Maya paused. One brow arched. “He?


You didn’t answer.


You didn’t need to.


Because you both knew. Everyone knew.


Lewis Hamilton.


You’d spoken his name a hundred times in interviews always with a little smile tugging at your mouth. Sometimes playfully. Sometimes sincerely. Always with admiration. Not just for the titles, or the fashion, or the history he’d made but for the way he spoke about identity, about resistance, about his mother and father. The way he turned the podium into a pulpit and the paddock into protest.


He was more than a driver to you.


He was a force.


And he would be there tonight.


Somewhere on those steps, dressed in something no doubt transcendent. And maybe, maybe this was the year your paths would finally intersect.

“Do not faint if he speaks to you,” Maya teased, but her grin was warm.

“No promises,” you muttered, clutching the coat lapels like they might steady your pulse.

Outside, the first camera flashes ricocheted off the building across the street.

Your car was waiting.

It was time.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Carpet -

The roar outside the museum was almost mythic like an orchestra of lenses clicking, fans shouting, heels striking stone. As your car pulled up to the curb, the chaos crescendoed, but you felt it as a hum beneath your skin rather than a threat.

You stepped out of the SUV slowly, the thick carpet beneath your patent loafers muffling the world’s sharpness. A sea of flashes greeted you, a wall of gasps and voices calling your name, but your posture didn’t falter. You stood tall, hand poised lightly on your hip, the cropped coat falling just right over the velvet of your jumpsuit.

And then silence.

At least, that’s what it felt like when you saw him.

Lewis.

He stood just ahead on the carpet, framed by the massive limestone facade of the museum, giving an interview to Vogue. His back was to you at first broad and composed but then he turned slightly at something the reporter said, and that’s when it happened. His eyes found yours across the ivory carpet and suddenly, the flashbulbs didn’t matter. The crowd, the press line, the curated chaos of fashion’s biggest night all of it faded behind the moment his gaze locked with yours.

His Look -

He looked like something from a painting no, a prophecy. An ivory cropped tuxedo jacket, tailored so sharply it could have cut light, wrapped around him like a second skin. The black tuxedo stripe down his tailored trousers drew the eye with each precise movement, but it was the sash that captured your breath. Embroidered with cowrie shells and mother-of-pearl buttons that shimmered like constellations, it was more than an accessory it was a legacy. He wore it like armor and poetry both.

His garnet cuffs caught the soft white light of the press canopy and you could just make out a brooch at his lapel - a botanical motif, delicate and deliberate. His locs were pulled back into a clean twist, the edges of his beard sculpted into perfection. And his expression serene, grounded, but watching like a man who knew exactly what kind of impact he had and still found wonder in seeing you.

Your breath caught.

And then, as if pulled by something ancient and invisible, his eyes truly met yours.

You didn’t smile. Neither did he. There was no need.

Because whatever passed between you in that quiet pause long enough for the cameras to catch it, for murmurs to start rippling behind the barricades was louder than any red carpet moment.

You began to walk, slow, measured, letting the movement of your coat flash the Adire cloth inside like a whisper from your grandmother. He turned his head, just slightly, to watch you pass.

That alone nearly undid you.

You hit your mark. Posed. Answered questions with poise.

“Inspired by Black dandyism and West African elegance,” you said, lifting your chin, coat gleaming under the lights. “Tailored rebellion.”

But even as Vogue and W’s cameras flashed and stylists clutched clipboards behind the ropes, your thoughts were a soft drumbeat against your ribs.


He saw me.

He really saw me.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The Dinner -

Inside the Met, the air shifted from spectacle to reverence. The Temple of Dendur had been transformed into a celestial dining room soft golden light danced on ancient Egyptian stone, casting elongated shadows that made even the elite look like gods in silhouette.

You were seated at a table just off centre, close enough to feel the pulse of the room’s energy but far enough to avoid the obvious spectacle. Past your champagne coupe, just three tables over he sat.

And this time, it wasn’t about flashes or proximity. It was something else, a gravitational pull that made you keenly aware of your every gesture. Every tilt of your head, every laugh, every glance.

Because you could feel him watching.

Not possessively. Not even flirtatiously. Just witnessing.

Your spine straightened without meaning to. You kept your eyes down as a designer to your left began recounting the meaning behind his gallery installation, but your heart betrayed you. It sped up the moment Lewis shifted in his chair and you caught his gaze from your periphery.

Still calm. Still steady. Still there.

And then he rose.

You didn’t hear him approach over the music and conversation, but you felt the change in air as he stepped near. A smooth voice, intimate and low, cut through the din.

“You’re even more stunning up close.”

You turned.

And there he was.

Lewis Hamilton. Inches away. Jacket precise, sash luminous, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets like he had all the time in the world to be here with you. His smile wasn’t full just the shadow of one but it made your breath catch anyway.

“Funny,” you said, gathering your calm, “I was just thinking the same about you. That sash it’s unbelievable.”

He chuckled, voice deep and warm. “Five months of fittings. Wales Bonner made me sign a fabric preservation clause, I swear.”

You laughed, genuine and breathy. “I don’t blame her. It’s not just fashion it’s a thesis. A sermon.”

His head tilted slightly, something like admiration flickering behind his eyes. “Coming from the woman in power and ancestral fire? I think we both came ready to preach.”

That made your lips part into a slower, deeper smile. “We did.”

And then silence.

Not the kind that begged to be broken. The kind that shimmered with unspoken questions.
Why haven’t we met before? Have you been watching too? Were you waiting for this just like I was?

“I’ve seen your interviews,” he said softly, gaze steady on yours. “The ones where you talk about your grandmother. About West African music and survival through style. I loved what you said about carrying her with you.”

You blinked, surprised by the intimacy of it. “You watched those?”

He nodded, no trace of pretense. “Always meant to tell you. You put language to things I’ve only just started trying to name.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. “That’s wild. I’ve been quoting your 2021 press conference on mental health for years. It got me through more than I realised at the time.”

His laugh escaped, sudden and soft. “Is this what mutual admiration looks like in person?”

“Messy,” you said, grinning. “And nervous.”

“Definitely nervous,” he agreed, his tone conspiratorial and the honesty in it cracked something open between you.

You looked down for a second, just to catch your breath, then back up again. “I’m really glad you came over.”

He offered a one-shoulder shrug, but his voice was earnest. “Had to. I’d regret it if I didn’t say hi.”

“You want to sit?” you asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside you, the question light but your heart pounding.

He sat.

Just like that, the Met Gala faded. The press, the stylists, the tension it all dissolved in the warm hush between you. The table disappeared beneath the soft hum of two people discovering each other, not as icons, but as humans.

“Your embroidery,” he said after a sip of champagne. “Akan symbols?”

You raised an impressed brow. “You know them?”

He nodded. “Spent a few weeks in Ghana last year. Visited Elmina. Talked to artists who still make Adinkra cloth by hand.”

You stared at him a little too long, your voice low. “You’re kind of impossible.”

He leaned in slightly, curiosity lighting his face. “Why’s that?”

“Because you’re real,” you said, quiet but certain. “And I thought I’d made you up in my head. Or at least exaggerated the idea of you.”

His smile softened, slow and sincere. “Guess we both did that.”

That moment sat between you alive and electric. No declarations, no dramatics. Just truth. Shared and quietly seen.

And still, neither of you moved.

You simply were. Two people, dressed in stories and stitched in heritage, finding something neither expected.

A beginning.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Later that Night – The Afterparty

The rooftop suite felt like a dream wrapped in midnight and music. Vinyl crackled from hidden speakers, spinning slow soul Donny Hathaway, maybe, or Minnie Riperton. You weren’t sure. The air buzzed with candlelight and the soft hum of conversation, but none of it touched you. Not really.


You stood by the balcony, the skyline stretched out like a living mural before you. Manhattan glittered below in reverence, as if it too had felt what you felt on that carpet, in that museum, in his gaze.

Your fingers grazed the stone railing, grounding yourself. Your lips still held the ghost of a smile from the interaction earlier. And then, like gravity answered your body’s wish, Lewis appeared beside you.


No announcement. No preamble. Just presence.


He stood close, close enough for your bare arm to feel the subtle heat from his skin, even through the fine thread of his shirt sleeve. He hadn’t changed out of his Met look entirely. The jacket was gone, but the sash still remained, draped loosely around his neck like a lover’s promise. His locs were pulled back, a few strands escaping, softened by the breeze and the hours between then and now.


He glanced at you, eyes low-lidded and unreadable. “Still nervous?” he asked.


His voice was quiet anddeeper now, rasped by the night and the champagne. It poured into your ears like silk warmed by fire.


You exhaled. “Less,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, “but only because I’ve decided to accept my fate.”


He angled his body slightly toward yours, intrigued. “Which is?”


You turned slowly, inching closer until your perfume tangled with his cologne something earthy, expensive, and clean, like woodsmoke and citrus and silk. You tilted your chin up, eyes locked to his.


“Admiring a man who drives 200 miles an hour and wears brooches like they hold his soul.”


The corner of his mouth twitched upward. A slow, devastating smile.


“That sounds dangerous,” he murmured.


“You live dangerously.”


He shook his head, eyes glinting. “I live intentionally.”


That silenced you. Not because you didn’t have a retort, but because your throat tightened around the truth of it. His words sank beneath your ribs, settling into something tender. He hadn’t come here just to charm you. He’d come to see you.

Fully. Unapologetically.


And he was doing it now, gaze dragging over your face like it was a map he’d spent years trying to memorise.

“You know,” he said, voice lower now, more certain, “I’ve followed your music since the very beginning. Not just the big moments the viral ones, the awards. The quieter tracks too. The ones you wrote when no one was watching.” He smiled gently, a little in awe. “Your lyrics they don’t just speak. They listen. I’m a fan. A real one.”


You blinked, stunned by the honesty of it. “You’re a fan of me?”


He nodded. “Absolutely. I had your first EP on repeat before I ever knew we’d meet. I think I fell in love with your voice before I even saw your face.”

Your breath caught in your chest both flattered and moved. But you met him there, heart for heart.

“Well,” you said softly, “then I guess this is mutual admiration.” You paused, gaze warming. “Because I’ve always loved your driving what you stand for. You’re the reason I started watching F1. But also your voice, Lewis.”
He raised an eyebrow, a little caught off guard.
“You don’t give it enough credit,” you continued. “I love XNDA. The tone, the depth you’ve got something real there. You should sing more. A lot more.”


He looked at you like you’d said something forbidden and sacred all at once. “You really think so?”


“I know so,” you said. “There’s something honest in it. Just like your racing. Just like you.”

You didn’t move when he reached out.

His fingers were warm when they brushed the lapel of your cropped jacket, just above your heart, lingering over the cowrie shell pinned there. His thumb traced it delicately, reverently.

“You kept this close,” he said, almost to himself.

“I always do,” you replied, breath shallow.

He looked at you then looked at you like you were a question and an answer all at once. His palm didn’t fall away. It rested gently over your heart, fingers curling slightly into the velvet.

“Thank you,” he whispered.
Your eyes searched his, hungry for understanding. “For what?”

“For seeing me before tonight. For making tonight feel like it meant something.”

It did.

But you couldn’t say that out loud. Not when he was standing this close. Not when your lungs had learned to breathe around his nearness like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You leaned in, slowly, deliberately your temple grazing his cheek as your lips brushed the space just behind his ear. Not a kiss. Not yet.

“Don’t let this be just a moment,” you whispered.
His body tensed. Then softened.

“It won’t,” he promised.

You didn’t kiss then, not exactly. But your foreheads met and you stood like that pressed together by gravity, held apart by timing. Breath shared. Eyes closed. The world dissolving.

When he finally pulled away, it was only to thread his fingers through yours. And in that quiet, electric connection, you both knew.


Tonight had changed something.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You woke to sunlight.

Not the kind that screams through windows and burns your eyelids but the soft, golden kind that seeps in like music. The kind that warms without demanding. The kind that traces slow shapes across the floorboards and wraps around you like a memory you never want to forget.

It filtered through gauzy curtains that billowed with the faintest breeze, dancing in rhythm with the quiet hum of New York waking outside. Somewhere in the suite, the barely there clink of room service trays being wheeled away was the only sound. But next to you warmth.

Real, grounding warmth.

You turned your head.

Lewis was still asleep.

His breathing was even, chest rising and falling beneath the open collar of a ribbed cotton tee he must’ve changed into after you dozed off. One arm stretched above the pillows, the other tucked beneath him. His locs had unraveled slightly from the night’s movement, spilling like ink across the white pillowcase. He looked peaceful unguarded in a way the world rarely got to see. Like something sacred.

Across the room, his ivory silk sash part of the afterparty jacket everyone was already obsessing over hung neatly on the back of a chair. You remembered the way he had shrugged it off in the early hours, laughing, telling you it had served its purpose, that nothing mattered now except being here, with you.

Last night hadn’t been a blur.
It had been unfolding.

There hadn’t been a kiss. Not fully. Not yet. Just two people enjoying each other's company in a slightly romantic way.

But the tension between you had hummed with a resonance too tender to be denied. Like a song reaching its final note, lingering in the air long after the last strum. The connection wasn’t rushed it was held. Revered. It felt like the kind of thing you only experience once, if you’re lucky. Nothing overly intimate occurred, just the two of you getting to know each other more like fall for one another.

You slid out of bed quietly, his grey sweatpants and white t-shirt drowned your body. You ran a hand through your hair undoing the knots.

Your phone blinked with light on the vanity.

You reached for it, expecting the usual post event buzz. Maybe a few tagged photos, the odd write up. Instead chaos. Glorious, glittering chaos.

Your notifications had exploded.

@vogue: The moment famous singer and @lewishamilton locked eyes on the Met steps? Instant history.

@F1Fanatics: She’s talked about admiring him in interviews for years. Now look. Met Gala magic.

@GQ: “You say things the rest of us are still trying to figure out how to.” — Hamilton, on her Met Gala speech. #mutualadmiration

You scrolled, barely breathing.

Photo after photo.

One from the steps your bodies slightly angled toward each other, foreheads nearly aligned. That tiny tilt in your smiles. Like you knew. Like you’d always known.

Another, more intimate taken later from the balcony of the afterparty suite. Just the two of you silhouetted against the city skyline, your faces hidden, but your closeness unmistakable. His hand resting at the small of your back. Your head tipped toward his shoulder. Private, even in the midst of public.

It wasn’t gossip.
It wasn’t scandal.
It was admiration, seen and reciprocated.

A soft smile tugged at your lips unexpected and completely genuine. Like something blooming in a place you didn’t realise had been waiting for light.

You turned back toward the bed.

Lewis stirred, lashes fluttering as he blinked awake. His voice, when he spoke, was sleep soft and sandpaper smooth.

“You’re awake,” he murmured, stretching slightly, arm folding behind his head.

You nodded, still holding your phone, eyes bright with disbelief. “We broke the internet.”

A low, husky chuckle rumbled from his chest. “Good,” he said. “It deserved a little breaking.”

You crossed the room slowly, sinking back onto the mattress beside him, the plush duvet folding around your legs. The morning was still hazy with comfort. The air smelled like rosewater and hotel linen. You could hear the distant honk of a yellow cab, the city never quite asleep.

Lewis turned his head to look at you more fully, his gaze sweeping over your features like he was still trying to memorize them. His fingers reached for yours instinctively.

“You okay?” he asked. His thumb brushed over your knuckles in slow, grounding circles. “After all that?”

You nodded, the answer rising from somewhere deep.

“Better than okay.”

He smiled then. Soft and real. The kind that made your heart tilt in your chest.

“Still feel nervous?” he asked.

You thought about it.
About the flashbulbs and the whispers, about the headlines, about the not quite kiss and everything it could mean. The nerves were still there, yes. But they’d changed shape. They weren’t sharp now. They were softer. Like silk worn in from wear. Like being excited, not afraid.

“No,” you said. “Just excited.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Me too.”

You leaned in then, your forehead resting gently against his. Noses gently rubbing against one another. A quiet hum filled the space between your bodies. Not noise just presence.

And in that moment before the coffee arrived, before statements were drafted or stylists knocked on the door there was only this.

Two people, no longer defined by admiration from afar, no longer separated by timing or title. Just you and him, steady in each other’s company. Warm and real and finally seen.

Not as icons.
Not as headlines.
But as two hearts that had spent years orbiting the same universe finally, finally arriving.

And in that quiet, golden space, you stayed.

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The hush of morning still wrapped the room like gauze and neither of you moved not for a long while. Your fingers stayed laced, resting between your bodies on the cover, the warmth of his touch anchoring you more deeply than anything else ever had.

Then, a soft knock at the door.

Lewis didn’t even flinch. He just sighed, low and resigned, like the inevitable was tugging at the edge of your little world. “That’ll be breakfast,” he murmured, lips brushing your temple as he sat up.

You stayed behind on the bed, drawing your legs up beneath you, arms wrapped loosely around your waist. The suite’s oversized robe was slung across the foot of the mattress and you tugged it over your shoulders just as Lewis padded to the door, barefoot and half rumpled in the best way. Still somehow red carpet worthy.

He spoke quietly to the staff member outside, thanked them with that same gentlemanly ease you’d always noticed in interviews, then turned back toward you with a smile and a silver domed tray in his hands.

“Truffle eggs and fresh fruit,” he said. “Apparently someone told them we were celebrating.”

You raised a brow. “Are we?”

He set the tray down on the low table beside the couch, lifting the lid with a soft clink. Steam curled into the air like a greeting. “I think last night counts for something,” he said. “Don’t you?”

You joined him slowly, settling onto the plush hotel couch as he poured two flutes of freshly squeezed juice, the color of sunrise. It all felt surreal. Opulent, yet impossibly intimate. Like you were part of something unscripted.

You picked up a piece of mango, nibbling at the edge. “You know they’re calling us ‘the softest power couple of the year’ already?”

Lewis chuckled, taking a bite of his toast. “Could be worse. At least they got the soft part right.”

You turned to him, heart tugging. “That doesn’t bother you? All this noise?”

He paused, chewing thoughtfully. Then he looked at you, truly looked at you.

“I’ve lived in the noise my whole adult life,” he said gently. “But last night wasn’t noise. It felt like clarity.”

You swallowed, your throat suddenly thick with feeling.

“I meant what I said,” he continued, voice low. “I’ve watched you from afar for a long time. The way you speak. The way you wear your culture, your story. Like it’s armor and silk all at once.”

Your breath caught.

“I never thought we’d actually meet like that,” you whispered. “On a carpet, with half the world watching.”

He smiled, slow and steady. “Then maybe it’s time the other half got to see the rest.”

You blinked. “The rest?”

Lewis set down his glass, then reached for your hand again. He didn’t rush. Just held it, ran his thumb across your palm in a way that felt almost like a vow.

“I don’t mean headlines,” he said. “I mean us. If you want it.”

You studied him. Not the world’s most famous driver. Not the icon, the activist, the legend. Just the man across from you tired eyes, morning voice, open heart.

And somehow, impossibly, it felt easy to say -

“I do.”

He tilted his head, amused. “That sounded dangerously close to a proposal.”

You laughed, the sound light and real, leaning into him until your head rested against his shoulder. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

“No promises,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “But I think I’d like to.”

The tray sat forgotten. The world outside, the notifications, the assumptions and the press could wait.

Here, inside your golden little pause, was something better than firsts.

It was the beginning of something lasting.

And as Lewis’s fingers threaded through yours again, as the light spilled a little brighter through the gauze and the future hummed just beyond the windows, you knew -

You weren’t afraid of what came next.

You were ready.

The soft hum of the city continued outside, but it was distant, muffled by the thickness of the moment between you and Lewis. The tray of breakfast remained forgotten on the low table, the only thing you cared about now was the quiet stillness that enveloped the room.

His fingers brushed against yours again, a simple gesture, but it sent a ripple of warmth through you. You couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at the corners of your mouth, the quiet joy that filled you. Something had shifted. Something permanent.

"What's next for us?" you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper, as though speaking too loudly would shatter the fragile bubble you’d created together.

Lewis looked down at you, his eyes soft, but filled with purpose. "I don't know," he said, his thumb tracing over the back of your hand, drawing slow circles. "But whatever it is, I want to do it with you."

The simplicity of his words hit you harder than you expected. It wasn’t about titles, or the chaos outside these walls it was about you, and him and this moment.

You leaned in, pressing your lips to the skin of his shoulder, breathing him in. He smelled like warmth and something sweet, like home.

"You think they’ll let us have a moment to ourselves?" you teased, voice light but heavy with everything you were feeling.

He chuckled softly, shifting so that he could pull you closer, his arm wrapping around you, securing you in a gentle, protective hold. "Probably not," he said, his voice a low murmur against your hair. "But that’s okay. We’ll carve out our own time. Our own space."

You nodded, feeling the weight of his words settle comfortably in your chest. The world could keep spinning, the press could keep theorising, but this connection between you, the way it had bloomed quietly and naturally it was yours. And no one could take that away.

The door knocked again more urgently this time, reminding you that life outside would eventually demand attention. But for now, you let yourself stay in this little cocoon of peace.

Lewis shifted slightly, his eyes catching yours as he pulled back enough to face you. There was something in his expression something raw, yet full of that same warmth that had drawn you to him in the first place.

“I think we deserve one more minute of this,” he said, before pulling you back into him.

You didn’t argue.

You let the moment stretch, uninterrupted, even as the world outside continued its relentless spin. No rush. No expectations. Just the two of you, here and now, caught in the delicate quiet of something new and already, impossibly, lasting.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt the weight of everything else slip away because all that mattered was this moment, and the man beside you.

The knock at the door came again, but this time, you didn’t let it break the spell. Because with Lewis’s arms around you and the soft light spilling through the windows, you knew everything else would wait.

It always would.

[ohmybueckers]

Never Strangers: Chapter Four

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: binge drinking, that's basically it

Authors Note: happy game day! we're still in the "its so over" portion of paige and maya's story but dw we're making our way to the "we're so back" section. lesson of this chapter do not try to have a serious convo with your ex in a bar. also shoutout to anon who said they had a dream about chapter 4 being posted, here you go bby <3

“You said they weren’t coming!” I hissed to Adria. My eyes were focused on how Paige looked accepting a shot from one of the mens players, going eye to eye with KK before tilting her head back and letting the liquid rush down her throat. I knew I should look away - no, had to look away - but there was something about seeing Paige in the flesh after all these years that made it so I physically couldn’t. 

Adria appeared just as shocked, alternating between looking at me and the two players. “That’s what KK said!” 

The music echoing through the bar all became too much. The shots taken earlier in the night evolved from a warm buzz to an uncomfortable heat blazing through me, making me sweat in my jean shorts and black tank top. I needed a break, needed some time to think of a game plan. Surely there was time to sneak out of a back window or something. I just needed to be somewhere quieter, somewhere where I wouldn’t be seen. “Um, I’m just gonna go to the bathroo-“

Before I could finish my sentence, a loud voice broke through the crowd, “Adria!” 

Both Adria and I watched as my window of escape vanished before my eyes in just a few short moments: A girl with a bright smile, wearing a baggy white tee shirt with a silver chain, barreled through the sea of people and towards my friend, whose jaw had not left the floor. KK Arnold. And who else would be behind her than Paige, whose eyes met mine before I could avert them.

I had seen more recent photos of Paige, sure, but getting to see her in person - the way her hair texture had changed from the pin straight style she kept through high school to a more natural wave, the way her arms had grown in definition, and the way her eyes widened as she was taking me in at the same time - that was a completely different ball game. KK moved to embrace Adria, her hands lingering on the other girls waist in a way that was just noticeable enough that anyone who bothered to look would raise an eyebrow. “I’ve been texting you!”

“What happened to Teds?” Adria asked, leaning into the other girls touch. Through my panic, there was a brief moment of recognition of just how good the two of them looked together. If KK is half as great as Adria makes her out to be, they would make a good couple - as long as KK doesn’t fuck it up.

“Some emergency maintenance thing with the plumbing, they kicked us out.” KK grumbled, leaning one arm against the aforementioned table. As if she just noticed there was another person with the girl (wouldn’t be the first time tonight), she gestured over to me. “Is this your friend?”

Adria nodded, looking over to me as if she was seeking permission to acknowledge the elephant in the room. There was no use trying to be invisible now: in just a few moments, I had become very, very visible, and the pair of bright blue eyes staring at me in shock from my peripheral vision were proof of that. “KK, this is Maya. Maya, this is KK”

I smiled and gave a wave, which earned me a sudden side hug in return. “Hi, I’m KK,” the shorter basketball player gave me an intoxicated grin, giving no indication of knowing who I was. KK pulled away, turning to face the blonde who had kept a few steps of distance until this point. Whether this was to allow KK to have her moment with her girl or to avoid me, I didn’t know. I didn’t really care to know. “Adria, I’m not sure you’ve met Paige - Adria, Maya, this is my designated driver of the night.”

I forced myself to make eye contact once more, letting myself get washed away as Paige looked me up and down as if she was somehow still unconvinced I was there. It was only after I heard Adria introduce herself through the muffled haze that I remembered I was still around others. With a voice crack I am not proud of, I managed a, “Hey Paige.”

Paige bit her lip, nodding as if to bring herself back to the present as well. “Long time no see.”

KK, who had appeared unaware of any tension between us while her girl stood next to her a little too aware, shifted her grace between Paige and I. “You two know each other or something?”

Paige let out a loud cough, her eyes like saucers, leaving me to answer the loaded question. “Yeah, um, old friend from high school.”

KK’s reaction to this information was akin to a kid at Disneyworld. “Oh shit, so you got to see Hopkins Paige in action then?” 

“Sure did!” I force a smile, feigning joy so well I almost believed it myself. Inside, images of nights nearly losing my voice as I stood out of place in the Hopkins section of the audience and post-game meals with the Bueckers family came back to me like a plague.

“Well, looks like I need to catch up with you guys. Your drink is almost empty!” KK shouted, turning back towards Adria and gesturing to the glass in her hand which had been reduced to a watery brown substance, the Captain and Coke long finished. KK grabbed her hand. “Come with me, I’ll buy you another.”

With a speed and energy that was truly impressive (athlete stamina, I guess), KK managed to whisk Adria towards the bar, leaving Paige and I alone as Adria shot one last apologetic glance my direction. And then there were two.

--------

How do you introduce yourself to someone who once knew everything about you? I don’t think. either of us knew the answer to that question, but Paige made an attempt. 

“Hey,” she said, her voice almost cautious, unlike the interview clips I had seen where she had been unapologetically confident.

I can’t say I’m much more confident when I squeak out, “Hi.”

She makes a stab at breaking the ice first, asking the obvious question. “Had enough of Minnesota, huh?” 

I felt myself rock on my toes, the stickiness of the bar floor not making my typical anxious tick easy. “Just… looking for a change, I guess.”

“Yeah, I get that.” She nods, looking around the bar of UConn fans before smiling. “Made a good choice at least.”

I pause at that, opening my mouth before giving it much thought. “Not sure I’ve been making too many of those lately.” I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to tell Paige the truth, something I had hardly accepted myself after years of it being my identity. Being in front of Paige for the first time in three year must have reminded me of the times where telling Paige everything felt like a given, back when there were no secrets between us. I guess old habits die hard. “I quit mock trial.”

Paige’s eyes widened, her lashes blinking as if that was the last thing she was expecting me to say (in which case I am concerned which “bad decisions” she deemed more likely for me to make). “What? When?”

“Last spring, when I was still at Minnesota.” I looked down, unable to handle her gaze on me much longer after dropping this on her. I had dealt with enough disappointed looks and people scolding me like a child for this choice in the past few months - I don’t know if I could handle it from her right now. “I loved it in high school, and then I got to college and it just didn’t really hit for me anymore. I think I was just scared to leave for a while because it was so comfortable. But now I’m… just figuring it out. Opening myself up to everything.” 

She nodded, eyes trained on me like she was really trying to understand what I was saying. Finally she shrugs; not in a dismissive way, but almost as a method of reassurance. “Well, as long as you’re doing what you think is best, I don’t think that’s the worst decision you could make.”

I found some relief in those words. I think it may have been the first time I had heard them since I sent my resignation in. Paige was always good at that in high school, reassuring me that I didn’t need to have it all figured out and that the world wouldn’t implode if I didn’t have my life planned out through my thirties. Surely if she were feeling this way about basketball, I knew she wouldn’t take her own advice, but it didn’t make the sentiment matter less. Even if I didn’t know it, I think I may have needed just one person to tell me I wasn’t about to fuck my life up. Even if it was coming from someone I never thought I would speak to again.

In the back of our conversation, some Nicki Minaj remix faded out. In some absurd twist of fate that can only be explained by my absurd luck this past week, a couple of chords caused a visible reaction in both of us, my back straightening and head cocking as if I hadn’t heard it correctly. Fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) I had: the opening chords to Exchange began playing over the speakers.

 I tried my best to play it cool, staring at my sneakers so as to not blow my cover immediately, until I peered up and saw that Paige was thinking the exact same thing, an amused grin plastered on her face. “Is this-“

I couldn’t help myself - I started cackling, because if I didn’t laugh I was pretty sure I would find the nearest hole in Storrs and bury myself in it. My laugh was followed by Paige’s, ours harmonizing in a way that was all too familiar and caused an unnecessary tug at my heart in a way I preferred not to think about.

Rolling my eyes, I exclaim, “Exchange in the bar is crazy.”

We look at each other, clearly both thinking about that night in the Culvers parking lot, how the Fanta float tasted on her tongue. Maybe it was the flashing lights, but I could have sworn I saw a spark in her eyes, which grew in intensity the longer she looked. Maybe there was one in my eyes too.

Before we could let the moment linger, a familiar voice calls out. “P Boogers, Maya! We got a shotski, come on!”

------

KK and Adria stood at the bar, Adria laughing as KK pretends to stretch her arms in order to prepare for the shot in front of them - a wooden ski painted white, with four blue shot glasses on it. How fitting for a UConn sports bar. 

Paige and I join them, assuming our positions as the bartender aids in lifting the ski. Out of all the things that have felt foreign to me at UConn, this does not feel unusual - it reminds me of tailgates with my friends as we prepared to cheer on the Gophers. 

You would think having experience with shotskis I would know the mechanics better, particularly mechanics involving height. But it is only as we tilt the board back and I recognize that I am standing next to two tall athletes that I have made a grave mistake, one that I am unable to correct before the glasses meet the other girls lips and I am met with a shower of strong liquid splashing down on me, my eyes shutting just fast enough to avoid any true catastrophe. 

“Oh shit,” I hear them notice what has happened as I bend over, attempting not to gag as I realize KK has purchased rail vodka, which smells not unlike Everclear. 

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” I manage to say, though I know I am fooling nobody. Opening my eyes, I see the guilt on the three of their faces as KK attempts to flag down the bartender who is currently helping a group of six girls all on different tabs. “I’m gonna just run to the bathroom and clean up a bit.”

I only make it a few steps before I sense the blonde jog up beside me, her face concerned. “Can I help?” I am beyond embarrassed, all too aware of the people surrounding us who noticed the incident, some of whom elbowing their friends upon spotting Paige. I don’t really have it in me to argue when Paige identifies a single stall restroom, pushing us inside. 

It’s wild to me how just one locked door can feel so much more secluded and safe, even though from the disheveled appearance I can tell this bathroom has likely seen unimaginable horrors. Paige gets to work quick, wetting a paper towel on the sink and turning to assess the damage.

“I’m pretty sure there’s vodka in my hair.” I laugh, head leaning back before somewhat suddenly hitting the cool tile wall behind me, which only prompted more giggling. Paige gave a hum of concern, fingers tracing the back of my head to ensure I didn’t hit it too hard, though I saw her swallow back a laugh of her own. She trails her fingertips down, examining my styled wavy hair to see if my suspicions were true. I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the fact that Paige was doing this right now, touching my hair so tenderly with her body so close I was surrounded by the musk of her cologne.

“How much did that bartender pour? Goddamn,” Paige clearly was not given as pleasant of a smell, visibly wincing as she was faced with the smell of rail liquor.

Paige removed her fingers from my hair, unable to find any excessive liquid in my tresses. Her eyes traced a couple of inches down before stopping. Noticing how the grip on her damp paper towel only tightened, my eyes trailed down my own body before realizing what caught her attention - a huge splash of liquid on the point where my top met my breasts, the cheap vodka giving my cleavage a sheen under the hum of the cheap bathroom light. Paige’s lower lip was caught in her teeth, biting down before clearing her throat which seemed to break the spell on both of us. 

With haste, I grab a paper towel of my own, dabbing at my skin and attempting to make it look as decent as possible. This could not happen again. I know what she did the first time, I remind myself. “You didn’t need to help me, I’m not going to die from a little liquor on my skin,” I crack a joke, escorting the both of us out of the bathroom and back into the crowded bar. “Thank you for doing it though.”

Paige looks at me with an unreadable expression, almost appearing as if she wants to say something before setting on,“You know it’s really good to see you, right?” 

I can’t help the flush that reaches my face, though perhaps later I would blame it all on the alcohol. The truth was that seeing Paige tonight was far less scary than I was envisioning. Some parts of it - the reassurance, the laughs, her touch - it felt like old times. Maybe that was the scariest part. At least it was the scariest part until her face fell serious, taking a cautious step forward before beginning, “Been wanting to talk to you for a while. Actually talk to you.”

I felt my heart rate accelerate, feeling out of breath even though I was simply standing there. Licking my lips, I manage an, “I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to do this here.” I dismissed, feeling pressure accumulate at the base of my throat at a speed that was starting to scare me. When Paige and I were alone, all outside noise muffled, the bar felt more manageable. Now, as the other girl had unknowingly cornered me as we were surrounded by sweaty bodies, I felt trapped. “I promised Adria I’d be here tonight, and she is…”

“Gone, probably left with KK.” I look around, realizing her assessment is right. Reaching for my phone, I find her message. “KK wanted to leave and talk. So sorry. Good luck.”  

So much for my lifeline. “It was years ago, we don’t need to…”

Paige cuts me off, an old habit that until now she had refrained from falling back into. “Need to what? Maya, I’ve waited years because it’s what you wanted. And I respect that, I do. I just have shit I needa say. Give me two minutes, please.”

Paige sounded downright desperate, her eyes wide and pleading. I would be lying if I said I never pictured this happening, and what I would do or say if I ever got the chance to see her again. I can’t say I ever pictured it happening at a crowded bar, covered in vodka. Then again, I never pictured going to UConn in the first place. Sighing, I gestured her to follow me, moving us to an area with slightly less people. Not that it was necessarily secluded at all, but drunk me couldn’t find it in me to care. “Say what you need to say,” I say, feigning confidence despite my arms remaining crossed.

“I was a dick in high school, okay. I do not blame you at all for acting how you did after… everything.” She didn’t need to say it for both of us to know. “I miss you, though. I never stopped missing my best friend. Nobody could ever take your place. I need you to know that I’m not the same person I was back then.”

I’m not sure if it was the two last sentences she said, or if it was the alcohol hitting me like a fucking mallet, but it was as though any listening I had been willing to offer to Paige had evaporated in just a few seconds. “Really? Because last time I heard, you had no issue forgetting everything happened the second you got here.”

One of Paige’s eyebrow raised as she stepped forward, reaching an arm out in an attempt to touch mine. “Maya, what are you talking about?”

I jerked away. While Paige’s touch felt warm and welcome earlier, it certainly did not feel that way now. “I hear you got pretty popular with the girls of UConn, didn’t you?”

Paige’s mouth shut and her eyes closed, as if she realized she had been caught in some form of a lie. Nearby, I hear a beer bottle shatter on the floor, and I am made aware of just how much I do not want to cry in here, surrounded by a bunch of drunk students who clearly know the person causing my tears. “Please let me explain. We weren’t together, you know I wouldn’t have done anything if we were.”

Of course that’s what she leads with, I thought with an eye roll. “I don’t care, Paige.” I stress. “You can hook up with whoever you want. I care that you can’t even be honest with me, and you’re telling me that you magically changed the second you got to Storrs. Because from what I’ve heard, I don’t know if you have.”

“Who’s telling you this, Maya?” She asks, as if I would ever tell her. I trusted Adria and Brooke. More importantly, I trusted my own intuition that screamed at me that there were other girls after me, especially after seeing a few girls give flirty glances her way. Something about the knowledge that I was likely just practice for all her girls at UConn made me want to run back into the single stall and expel all I had consumed throughout the night.

“Doesn’t matter. All I know is that you led me on and made me believe you wanted more when you just wanted to fuck around…”

“I didn’t…” She tries to cut me off again, but I won’t let her. Not this time.

“Let me finish. You ruined our friendship. You ruined us, Paige. And now you’re here, and I just know you’re off hurting other girls in the way you hurt me.”

I noted how the circle of girls next to me looked over, some of their glances sympathetic upon seeing my emotional state while others were downright dirty for disturbing the peace of their night. Though I didn’t feel as though I was in any place to walk, I quickly decided staying in this bar with Paige was far more dangerous. “I don’t think I can have this conversation right now. Hope you get home safe.”

Paige attempted to speak again, but I was already making my way to the door, un-phased by the pouring rain which I had failed to prepare for. I had no plan on how I was getting home, no clue when busses were running and no desire to walk thirty minutes in the dark while it was storming. All I knew is I needed to get out. 

I couldn’t handle hearing her escape accountability, telling me what I wanted to hear instead of what I needed to hear. The sad part is that I almost believed her.

My mom always warned me how rose colored glasses changes the past and makes you believe things were better than they were. She didn’t need to tell me she was referring to dad when she said it - I could tell from the look in her eyes and the tone in her voice. Maybe the same could be said for Paige. Maybe all those memories of ours weren’t actually as real as I thought they were, and that the shameful nights I spent crying in my room all through senior year of high school (and let’s be real, a good bit of freshman year of college) were for nothing. 

Maybe I never actually knew Paige Bueckers at all.

-------------

taglist: @paiges-1vur @unadulteratedcyclepaper @pboogerswbb

[xtra7s]

Hi hi omg i love your writing it’s amazing! Can i request a Reneè fic where reader is in a famous band and admits in an interview how much she loves and admires Reneè (yk that clip where Reneè is like “Date me” for Rachel Mcadams) and Reneè responds and they get close and collaborate or whatever you want!

𝐄𝐜𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬𝐞𝐝

Pairing: Renee Rapp x Reader

Synopsis: Y/N, the bassist for Eclipsed, gives Renee some props during an interview and ends up hanging out with her.

Content: mainly fluff

Word Count: 2k

a/n: okay so this one was a bit confusing to write mainly because I felt like nothing was really going on, I didnt know if you wanted smut or something else so I apologize if it isnt what u wanted :(

masterlist

The excitement buzzed in the air as Y/N YL/N, the talented bassist of the rising rock band "Eclipsed," prepared for a much-anticipated interview. The band had been making waves in the music scene, and the media was eager to learn more about the individuals behind the electrifying sound. Y/N, known for their skillful bass playing and enigmatic stage presence, was ready to share their journey.

The interview took place in a trendy studio, with the band seated on a chic, modern couch. Y/N's fingers idly traced the frets on their bass, a well-worn instrument that had seen countless gigs and late-night jam sessions. The interviewer, a music journalist with an infectious passion for the industry, dove straight into the questions.

"So, Y/N, let's start with your musical journey. How did you find your way to the bass guitar?" the interviewer inquired, leaning forward.

Y/N grinned, the memory of their musical awakening evident in their eyes. "I actually started with the guitar, but one day, I heard this deep, resonant bass line that just spoke to me. It was like the heartbeat of the song, and from that moment, I was hooked. I switched to the bass, and it felt like coming home."

The rest of the band nodded in agreement, acknowledging the pivotal role Y/N played in shaping the band's distinctive sound. The lead singer, Maya, chimed in, "Y/N brings a unique energy to our music. The bass lines add a whole new layer, creating this dynamic and powerful sonic landscape."

As the conversation flowed, the interviewer shifted gears, asking about the band's creative process. Drummer Alex spoke about the collaborative nature of their songwriting, while the guitarist, Jake, discussed the influences that shaped their sound. Y/N interjected with tales of late-night jam sessions and the organic evolution of their music.

"We all bring something different to the table," Y/N explained. "It's like a musical potluck. Each of us has our own tastes and influences, and when we come together, it creates this fusion of sound that defines Eclipsed."

The conversation turned to the band's recent successes, including a sold-out show and a growing fan base. Y/N's eyes sparkled with gratitude as they reflected on the journey.

"It's been incredible," Y/N shared. "Our fans are amazing. They connect with the raw emotion in our music, and that's the most rewarding part. Music is a language that transcends words, and seeing people resonate with what we create is truly humbling."

As the interview with Eclipsed continued, the interviewer shifted gears, a mischievous glint in their eyes.

"Now, Y/N, the music world is full of incredible artists, and one rising star who seems to have captured a lot of attention is Renee Rapp. Have you had the chance to meet her, and what are your thoughts on her music?" the interviewer inquired, a sly smile playing on their lips.

Y/N's expression lit up at the mention of Renee Rapp. "Oh, Renee is fantastic! I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her in person yet, but I'm a big fan of her work. Her music has this raw authenticity that really resonates with me. It's always refreshing to see artists who pour their heart and soul into their craft."

The rest of the band nodded in agreement, expressing their admiration for Renee Rapp's talent. Maya, the lead singer, chimed in, "I love how she fearlessly embraces her uniqueness. It's inspiring to see artists who aren't afraid to be true to themselves, both in their music and their persona."

The interviewer pressed a bit further, asking if there were any specific songs or aspects of Renee Rapp's music that Y/N found particularly inspiring. Y/N thought for a moment before responding, "I really connect with the way she uses her voice to convey emotion. It's powerful and evocative. As musicians, we're always drawn to those artists who can create a genuine connection with their audience, and Renee does that exceptionally well."

The conversation then meandered into a discussion about musical influences, with each band member sharing their favorite artists and the impact those musicians had on their own sound. It was clear that Eclipsed Echoes drew inspiration from a diverse range of genres and artists, contributing to the richness of their music.

"And, Y/N, given that you've expressed admiration for Renee Rapp's talent, do you have any comments for her?" the interviewer asked, a faint hint of curiosity in their tone.

Y/N, ever composed, smiled with her teeth. "I do,-" She paused, looking at the camera directly. "Keep your head up, bitch. you're effortlessly you and that shit is wicked. You gotta remember the comments of your loved ones are the only ones that matter."

The rest of the band nodded in agreement, sensing the delicate nature of the question. Maya, the lead singer, added, "Absolutely. It's crucial to separate someone's art from their personal lives. We're all here because of our love for music, and that's what we should celebrate."

The interviewer, quickly shifted gears steering the conversation back toward the band's music and upcoming projects. Y/N, always poised and focused on the music, gracefully navigated through the interview, steering it away from personal matters and back into the realm of creativity and passion.

As the interview concluded, it was evident that the members of Eclipsed were not only talented musicians but also individuals who valued respect and professionalism in their interactions. The episode served as a reminder that, while curiosity about an artist's personal life may arise, the primary focus should always remain on the artistry and creativity that unite the diverse and dynamic world of music.

A few days after the interview, Y/N found a pleasant surprise in their Instagram inbox. It was a message from none other than Renee Rapp herself. Excitement bubbled within Y/N as they read the message.

"Hey Y/N! 🌟 I caught your interview, and it was awesome hearing your thoughts on my music. Your band's sound is killer! Would love to chat more and maybe hang out sometime. What do you say?"

Y/N quickly replied, expressing their gratitude and enthusiasm for the unexpected message. The conversation flowed effortlessly as they exchanged thoughts about music, shared favorite artists, and found common ground in their passion for creating authentic, powerful art.

Renee suggested meeting up for a casual hangout, perhaps grabbing coffee or exploring a local record store. Y/N eagerly agreed, and plans were set in motion for a meeting between two talented musicians who had connected through their shared love for the art form.

As the day of the meetup arrived, Y/N couldn't help but feel a mix of excitement and nerves. They met Renee at a cozy cafe, and from the moment they greeted each other, it was clear that the connection extended beyond the digital realm. The conversation flowed effortlessly, filled with laughter, shared stories of musical journeys, and a mutual appreciation for the creative process.

Y/N and Renee's casual hangout unfolded into an afternoon of shared laughter, animated discussions about music, and an undeniable chemistry that lingered in the air. The cozy cafe provided the perfect backdrop for their burgeoning connection, with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee enhancing the warmth of the atmosphere.

As they chatted about their favorite bands and musical influences, Y/N couldn't help but be captivated by Renee's infectious enthusiasm. The conversation flowed seamlessly between topics, from the intricacies of songwriting to the exhilarating rush of performing on stage. Each shared anecdote deepened the connection, forging a bond between two artists who understood the unique challenges and joys of their chosen path.

The flirtatious banter began subtly, with playful glances and gentle teasing. Renee's laughter resonated like a melody, and Y/N found themselves drawn to her magnetic energy. As they strolled through a nearby record store, fingers lightly brushing against vinyl covers and sharing recommendations, the air seemed charged with an unspoken tension.

At a moment of quiet contemplation in the record store, Renee's gaze met Y/N's, and a playful smirk played on her lips. "You know," she said with a twinkle in her eye, "your interview made me curious. You mentioned appreciating someone's art without focusing on appearance. Do you always manage to separate the two?"

Y/N felt a flush of warmth creeping up their cheeks, realizing the subtle shift in the conversation. With a coy smile, they responded, "Well, I believe in appreciating the beauty in everything, whether it's in the artistry of music or… other things."

The air between them crackled with a newfound tension, and as they continued to explore the record store, the playful exchanges deepened into a more overt flirtation. A gentle touch on the arm here, a lingering gaze there—each gesture spoke volumes, creating an atmosphere charged with unspoken desire.

As they wrapped up their hangout, Y/N and Renee exchanged contact information, promising to meet again soon. The connection they forged went beyond the shared love for music, evolving into a magnetic attraction that lingered in the air, leaving both of them eager to explore the potential of this unexpected and thrilling connection.

In the days that followed their initial hangout, Y/N and Renee's connection deepened through playful messages and shared playlists. Their conversations became increasingly laced with flirtatious undertones, a dance of words that hinted at a mutual attraction.

One evening, Y/N received a message from Renee suggesting a joint songwriting session. The prospect of collaborating ignited a spark of excitement in Y/N, and they eagerly agreed. As they settled into the cozy ambiance of Y/N's home studio, surrounded by musical instruments and the gentle hum of creativity, the air seemed charged with both anticipation and a growing sense of intimacy.

As they worked on a new song, Y/N couldn't help but notice the subtle shifts in Renee's body language—the way she would lean in slightly, the lingering touches on shared instruments, and the occasional laughter that held a hint of something more. The energy between them was palpable, a magnetic force drawing them closer with each passing moment.

Renee, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, suggested taking a break and grabbing a snack from the kitchen.

As Y/N and Renee took a break in the cozy kitchen, the atmosphere crackled with a potent blend of creative energy and unspoken desire. The shared laughter and flirtatious banter lingered in the air, creating a magnetic pull that neither could ignore. Renee, feeling the palpable tension, decided to take a bold step.

As they stood near the kitchen island, discussing the finer details of their latest composition, Renee's gaze lingered on Y/N's lips. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she leaned in, closing the distance between them and placing her hands on Y/N's waist. Time seemed to slow as Y/N felt the soft warmth of Renee's lips pressing against their own, and their back hitting the counter.

The kiss was electric, a spontaneous spark that ignited a fire between them. Y/N, momentarily stunned, soon reciprocated, their hands instinctively finding each other in a gentle embrace. The kitchen became a canvas for this unexpected moment, a dance of passion and shared connection against the backdrop of a creative haven.

Breaking the kiss, Renee grinned, her eyes filled with a mixture of playfulness and genuine affection. "Well, that was unexpected," she teased, her fingers gently tracing patterns on Y/N's arm.

Y/N, catching their breath, couldn't help but smile in response. "Glad you did it, Renee."

The shared laughter that followed sealed the moment, turning the kitchen into a haven where the boundaries between music and personal connection blurred. As they chatted over a plate of shared snacks, their knees brushed against each other under the table, creating a subtle yet electrifying connection. As they returned to their songwriting session, the newfound intimacy lingered, infusing their creative collaboration with an electrifying energy that promised more harmonies to come. The kitchen island, witness to the impromptu kiss, became a symbol of the uncharted territory their connection was now exploring.

[notapradagurl7]

Used To Be.

BlackOC! x Method Man.

Requested by @duhitzkay380

Summary: newly single and divorced, Carla was dropping off her twin daughters for college, not knowing she would bump into a high school sweetheart, Cliff. Apparently, she wasn’t the only one dropping off her kids for college. They decide to rekindle that fire between them.

Warnings: angst, fluff, praise, fingering, oral(fem receiving), consensual intimacy, sweet parent moments, old flames, a lot of fluff.

Taglist: @megamindsecretlair @satoruya @planetblaque

@playgurlxoxo @dabratzchronicles

@becauseimswagman1 @pocketsizedpanther @beenathembo @brattyfics

@hxneyclouds @yassbishimvintage

@nahimjustfeelingit-writes @nayaesworld @ovohanna24

@novahreign @writingsbytee @avoidthings @kimuzostar @slippinninque @keyera-jackson @theblacklewinsky

@euphorichappiness10 @life-in-the-slut-house @miguelspvssy @kaylaahisthebestest-

@uniqueoutlierblog @mama-2001

@fakxmbj @kaylalb @theereinawrites @uzumaki-rebellion @blyffe @kumkaniudaku @ranikyani @luckydaye777 @ruewritesoccasionally @sageispunk

—————-

First day of college, well actually it wasn't the first day, it was the move-in process with her twin daughters, Simone and Maya. Carla’s nerves were bubbling from the pits of her stomach, ready to explode any minute. The sleek black truck driving straight on the highway that lead to the campus, passing through the other cars, tinted windows on her vehicle.

Her chestnut brown eyes met theirs through the rearview mirror, there they were, looking out the window while listening to music until they caught their mother gazing aimlessly for the umpteenth time.

Their hair in styled brown box braids, dressed in cozy clothes in the shade of purple and black, their brown skin shone brightly from the sun.

They were heading off to Spelman college, their dream college and the only one they wanted to be in together, their mother hoped that they would be roommates.

“Mom, you're still nervous? It's going to be okay, you taught us everything we knew. We will be fine,” Simone brought up, taking her earbuds out of her eyes.

Carla knew that Simone was right but still she was a mom, she was always gonna worry about her daughters. The world was already cruel enough, quick to judge and didn’t give much grace to black people just as the world did to white people.

White people didn’t even know the luxury they lived in, that bubble of privilege that was made for them.

“Hey, I’m a mom, I’m always gonna worry about y’all, this world isn’t nice. I couldn’t shelter you two when you were young, I had to teach as much as possible to prepare you for every situation,” Carla spoke up, sighing after.

As the car pulled up to the parking lot, coming at complete stop. She unlocked the car door as she heard the clicking sound, as they all got out of the car, her daughters took their bags out, and slammed them shut.

Carla followed behind her twin daughters toward the entrance, opening the doors before heading through, into the office to meet with the principal.

After that meeting, they were given room keys and schedules for their classes, She walked with them, helping them pack up. Once she walked out, there he was.

Her heart swelled with pride for her daughters but was quickly interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Carla?”

She turned, her breath catching in her throat as she recognized the face that had once been so important in her life. Cliff, her high school sweetheart, stood there, looking just as handsome as she remembered.

The memories came flooding back one by one, the good ones.

His dark brown, soulful eyes shone with surprise, and a warm smile spread across his face.

“Cliff! Wow, it’s been… what, over twenty years?” Carla said, trying to suppress the butterflies that erupted in her stomach.

“Yeah, something like that,” he chuckled, stepping closer. “I can’t believe we’re here, at the same time, dropping off our kids. How’s life treating you?”

“Life’s been a rollercoaster,” she replied, glancing back at her daughters who were now chatting with other incoming students. “I just got divorced, so this is a big change for me, you know?”

Cliff’s expression shifted to one of understanding. “I’m sorry to hear that. But look at you, still shining bright. You raised some amazing daughters.”

“Thank you, that means a lot coming from you,” she said, her cheeks warming slightly. “How about you? How’s it been?”

“Same boat, actually. I’m a single dad now, too. My son and daughter are starting here as well. We’ve had our challenges, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything,” he replied, his smile softening as he spoke about his children.

Just then, Simone and Maya approached, their eyes wide with curiosity. “Mom, who’s this?” Maya asked, her head tilting slightly.

“This is Cliff, an old friend of mine,” Carla introduced, feeling a mix of nostalgia and excitement as she looked at him. “He’s here dropping off his kids too.”

“Nice to meet you guys,” Cliff said with a friendly grin. “You must be excited to start college!”

Turns their kids were the best of friends, and Cliff ended up explaining to the kids their history, and realize that their mom has been avoiding him, since she is still hurt over their break up.

After that, she bid farewell to the man and her daughters, leaving the man longing for her. Still that fire burned brighter.

The next week, parents were having lunch with their kids, it wasn't only Cliff but Clara as well. Could it be fate bringing them together?

The cafeteria buzzed with overlapping chatter, Carla sat with her daughters as they ate their delicious lunch. All while their mother resumed to stare off into space, while Simone was talking. The kisses, the hugs, the memories came flooding back.

“Mom, are you even listening?” Simone's voice broke through her thoughts.

“Huh? Oh, sorry, I was just… thinking,” Carla replied, forcing a smile.

Maya nudged her shoulder playfully. “About Cliff, right? You totally had a moment when you saw him last week!”

Carla rolled her eyes, but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto her face. “Okay, maybe a little. But he’s just an old friend.”

“He’s not an old friend, mom. Friends don't look at each other like that,” Maya mentioned.

Carla taught her daughters way too much, shaking her head and chuckling. As she saw Cliff with his son and daughter again, “Eat your food, I'll be back,”

Cliff locked eyes with her once again, sitting across from them. They excused themselves and walked toward each other, smiling brightly.

“Hey, how are you Carla?”

“I'm good, it was nice catching up with you,”

“Yeah, it was. The kids are already eager for us to leave them alone,”

“Tell me about it. It feels like just yesterday we were trying to sneak out to go to those late-night parties,” she laughed, recalling the thrill of their youthful adventures.

Cliff chuckled, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And getting caught by your mom every time. She never let us live that down.”

“Right? She was relentless,” Carla shook her head, smiling at the memories. “You were always the one trying to convince me to sneak out.”

“Guilty as charged,” he grinned. “But I think it was worth it, don’t you?”

“Definitely,” she said, her heart fluttering at the thought. “So, how are your kids adjusting?”

“Oh, they’re loving it so far. They’re excited about the classes and meeting new people. Just like I was when I first got here,” Cliff said, his voice filled with pride.

“Same with mine. I’m just so proud of them,” Carla replied, glancing back at her daughters who were chatting animatedly with their new friends.

“Speaking of proud, I was thinking… maybe we could get together sometime? Just to catch up, you know?” Cliff suggested, a hopeful look in his eyes.

Her heart raced at the invitation. “I’d like that,” she said, feeling a spark of excitement. “But what about the kids?”

“They’ll be fine. We can arrange it so they’re busy. It’s important for us to reconnect too,” Cliff replied, his smile widening.

“Okay, let’s do it then,” Carla agreed, feeling a surge of hope. “Just as long as it’s not a late-night thing,” she joked, raising an eyebrow.

“Deal,” he laughed. “I’ll text you. And maybe we can relive some of those old memories.”

“Sounds perfect,” she said, her heart fluttering as they exchanged numbers.

After that, the two of them began to go on dates, catching up on their lives as they took a walk in the park after.

“I had a great time with you today, Cliff. It’s been so long,”

“Yeah, i had an amazing time too. Honestly, It’s like we never skipped a beat,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes.

Carla felt her heart leap. “I know what you mean. It’s like we fell right back into our rhythm, but... I feel something more than that.”

Cliff’s expression softened, his gaze intense. “I feel it too. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years, Carla. You were always the one who got away for me.”

“Really?” she asked, a smile breaking across her face. “I thought I was just a chapter in your past.”

“Nah, you were the whole book for me,” he replied, reaching for her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “I never forgot how we used to be. I’ve just been waiting for the right moment to reconnect.”

“Cliff, I have been thinking about you since I saw you,” she started, but looks at her gently.

I know we’re both coming out of tough situations, but I can’t help but want this. You and me. Together,” he said, his voice steady and sincere.

“I want that too,” she admitted, feeling a sense of warmth spread through her. “But I don’t want to rush anything. My heart still bears some scars from my past.”

“Totally get that. We can take our time. Let’s just enjoy each other’s company and see where this leads us,” he suggested, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles.

“Okay,” she agreed, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. “But we have to keep it low-key for now. You know, for the kids.”

“Of course. They come first. But I’m looking forward to seeing where this goes,” he said, grinning broadly.

“Hey, you think the kids would freak out if they saw us like this?” she asked playfully, glancing up at him.

“Probably,” he chuckled. “But I think they’d be happy to see their parents happy, don’t you?”

“Yeah, you’re right,” Carla said, her heart swelling with warmth. “It’s nice to think about building a new future, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” Cliff replied, his eyes twinkling as he looked down at her. “Here’s to new beginnings, Carla.”

“Here’s to us,” she said softly, squeezing his hand tighter as they walked forward together, ready to explore whatever came next.

Once he walked her home after their date, they stood near the front door. Lovingly gazing into each other’s eyes, they leaned in for a passionate kiss. Before pulling away from each other.

“Let’s head inside, yeah?”

They hurried their way inside and locked the door behind them, still kissing each other.

And with that, he took off her leggings alongside her panties while leaving her tee shirt on, she looked the other way until he gripped her chin, forcing you to look into his eyes.

“Eyes on me, baby,”

He ducked his head between her legs, his tongue trailing a wet stripe onto her folds, sucking roughly around her throbbing clit. “Oh..shit, Cliff,” she moaned harshly.

Her faces, moans and his name in between spurred him on, keeping the same steady pace, her folds clung to his fingers, sucking him back in, wetness leaking on his. “Damn,” he whispered.

His fingers slid between her wet folds, his warm breath against her neck sent chills down her spine. He always made her see galaxies instead of stars. Fuck that, the entire solar system.

Her body responds instinctively, arching towards him with a soft moan escaping her lips, “Just like that,” she mumbled, rolling her hips to the pace of his digits.

“You taste amazing, baby girl,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing.

His fingers pushed deeper, moving in a ‘come here’ motion, his thumb rolling onto your clit, staying in tune with every heartbeat. “I can't get enough of your pussy grips around me, you’re so beautiful,”

She was close to the edge of her climax, the knot in her stomach tightened and was ready to be pulled apart, and her mouth parted wide open. Her essence gushed onto his fingers once again, replacing his fingers with his mouth, swallowing and licking her pussy clean.

He carried inside the bathroom, and turned the bathtub, as she washed herself clean. After that, she dried herself off and got dressed in her pajamas.

Once the morning arrived, she did her morning routine and walked into the kitchen, her eyes landed on Cliff placing a plate of breakfast food next to another one.

“My bad, I made some breakfast for us, I didn't want you to think that I was gonna leave you,” Cliff reassured softly with a smile.

Carla shook her head with a chuckle, “No, it's fine. I was planning on doing it myself but I'm glad that you didn't leave,”

As she grabbed herself a plate, she kissed the man twice passionately. Enjoying each other’s company more than ever.

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