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iamquiantrelle · 1 month ago

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BLOOD OATH (chapter 6) • iamquaintrelle

# pairings: mob!lewis hamilton x black reader (☔️⚡️)

# tags: @queenshikongo3 @peyiswriting @yeea-nah @ggaslyp1 @pickingupmymercedes @donteventry-itdude @snowseasonmademe @szariahwroteit @amirawrah @beauty-gurl @jessnotwiththemess @sailurmewn @lewismcqueen @purplerain-94 @vintagesoul-01 @aykxz98 @thepointlessideas @lostennyc @saintslewis @cocobutterqwueen @purplelewlew @imjustheretomanifest @a-moment-captured @mauvecherie-writes @httpsserene-main

# wc: long af...

# summary: A marriage of convenience between crime families was supposed to be simple. No one mentioned it would be this complicated...or this deadly. series masterlist

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The helicopter descended through wisps of early evening fog, revealing rolling hills of heather and forests that stretched toward distant mountains. The Scottish Highlands spread beneath you like something from another time—untouched, wild, and hauntingly beautiful. After the chaos of Geneva, the isolation felt like both sanctuary and vulnerability, depending on how you looked at it.

Lewis leaned closer to the window, his profile outlined against the glass as the estate came into view. Stone walls rose from the misty landscape—not the ostentatious mansion you might have expected, but something older, more grounded, with turrets and weathered stonework that spoke of centuries rather than decades.

"My mother's family has owned it since the 1700s," Lewis said, his voice carrying through the headset, softer than you'd ever heard it. "One of the few things I kept when I built my own world."

The revelation caught you off guard—a rare personal detail offered without prompting. In the week since you'd crossed that pillow barrier in Geneva, these moments had become more frequent, yet each still felt like discovering a new room in a house you thought you knew.

"It's beautiful," you replied, meaning it. After a life surrounded by your father's preference for modern glass fortresses and Italian marble, the ancient stone felt like something from a dream—or perhaps a memory you'd never actually had.

The helicopter touched down on a clearing about a hundred yards from the main house, the rotors slowing as the pilot completed landing procedures with practiced efficiency. Through the windows, you could see a figure emerge from the house, a woman in her seventies with an elegant bearing that somehow reminded you of your own mother, though they couldn't have been more different visually.

"She's been tracking the flight," Lewis murmured, unstrapping himself with swift movements. "She always knows when I'm coming, even when I don't tell her."

The helicopter door opened, cold Highland air rushing in to replace the stale cabin atmosphere. Lewis jumped down first, then reached back to help you—not because you needed it, but because he'd grown increasingly aware in these small moments. His hand remained at the small of your back as you approached the woman waiting for you, her silver-streaked dark hair blowing in the wind.

Up close, Lewis's mother was nothing like you expected, yet exactly what made sense. The resemblance to Lewis was striking—not in coloring but in the way she carried herself, the sharp assessment in her blue eyes that missed nothing. But where Lewis controlled his expressions with practiced discipline, his mother made no effort to hide her thoughts as they crossed her face.

"So this is the American wife," she said, her Scottish accent much stronger than you were prepared for. Her eyes moved over you with unabashed curiosity. "Prettier than your photo, and far too alert for someone who's just escaped a firefight and flown half the day. I'm Carmen."

No pretense of polite small talk—just direct assessment that reminded you instantly of your own mother's practicality beneath her social polish.

"Mother," Lewis said, the single word carrying both warning and affection. "This is—"

"I know exactly who she is," she interrupted, stepping forward to take your hand in both of hers. Her grip was firm, her skin warm despite the chill. "Ricci's eldest. The one who graduated Columbia with honors while her father was busy making enemies across three continents."

The specific knowledge caught you off guard—most people in your world focused on your father's reputation rather than your own accomplishments. "You've done your research," you observed, meeting her gaze steadily.

"Knowledge keeps you alive in this world," she replied with a slight shrug. "Especially when your son brings home a wife from a family like yours with bullet holes in his transport."

The bluntness was refreshing after Geneva's diplomatic circles and Mueller's carefully coded conversations.

"I didn't invite the bullet holes," you said, a smile tugging at your lips despite the circumstances.

"No one ever does, love," Carmen stated, something warming in her expression. "But we all know whose names are on them, don't we? Come inside before you catch your death in this Highland evening. Neither of you are dressed properly for Scotland."

Lewis's hand pressed more firmly against your back as you followed his mother toward the house, the gesture communicating something you couldn't quite interpret. Tension, perhaps, or a deeper anxiety than he'd allowed himself to show during your escape.

The helicopter crew began unloading essential equipment behind you—communications gear, weapons cases discreetly labeled as sporting equipment, the necessities of life on the run when "life" involved international crime syndicates and Cuban vendettas.

"Jensen has the perimeter," Lewis told his mother as you approached the heavy wooden door. "Naomi's team is running digital interference. As far as anyone knows, we're headed to Amsterdam."

"While you hide in the last place anyone would think to look," his mother finished for him, pushing the door open to reveal a warm interior that defied the fortress-like exterior. "The ancestral home that doesn't exist in any records Lewis would be connected to."

Inside, the estate was a study in unexpected contrasts—ancient stonework alongside modern comforts, traditional Scottish elements mixed with subtle security technology that would be invisible to anyone who didn't know what to look for. A fire roared in a massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across antique furniture and hand-woven rugs in rich colors.

A familiar snuffling sound drew your attention to a corner where Roscoe lay curled on what appeared to be a custom-made dog bed positioned near the fire. The bulldog raised his head at your entrance, his entire body wiggling with excitement as he recognized you both.

"He arrived yesterday," Carmen explained as Roscoe waddled toward you with single-minded determination. "Your team thought he might provide some comfort during the... transition."

The careful phrasing didn't disguise her meaning—Roscoe was here because someone had anticipated you might need emotional support as much as tactical protection. The insight spoke to either Naomi's surprising sensitivity or, more likely, Lewis's own consideration.

You dropped to your knees, all pretense of composed dignity forgotten as Roscoe pressed his wrinkled face against your hands, his stub of a tail wagging frantically. "Hey, buddy," you murmured, the simple joy of his presence unexpectedly overwhelming after the tension of the past twenty-four hours.

Lewis crouched beside you, one hand resting on Roscoe's back while the other found your shoulder—the three of you connected in a moment that felt strangely like family despite its improvised nature. When you glanced up, you caught Carmen watching with sharp interest, her expression thoughtful as she observed this unguarded interaction.

"He refused his dinner until you arrived," she commented. "Been sitting by the window waiting. Dogs know things people pretend not to."

The cryptic observation hung between you as Lewis helped you back to your feet, his hand lingering at your elbow a moment longer than strictly necessary. You'd noticed this increasing protectiveness since Geneva—subtle shifts in how he positioned himself with you, the frequency of contact, the watchfulness that went beyond professional security concerns.

"You'll want to rest," Carmen said, leading you deeper into the house. "I've prepared the east room. Best views, strongest security features." She glanced back at Lewis. "Your old room is made up as well, if you'd prefer to sleep separately."

The question beneath the statement was clear—testing the nature of your relationship beyond the legal framework. Lewis's eyes met yours briefly, an unspoken question passing between you. The pillow barrier in Geneva had dissolved days ago, but this was different territory—his childhood home, his mother's watchful assessment, the weight of family beyond strategic alliance.

"The east room is fine," you replied before Lewis could respond, making the choice with more confidence than you might have managed a week ago. "For both of us."

Something that might have been approval flickered across Carmen's features before she nodded once, continuing down a corridor lined with paintings that appeared considerably more valuable than their simple frames suggested. "Bathroom's been updated since your last visit," she told Lewis. "No more struggling with ancient Scottish plumbing. Some traditions aren't worth preserving."

The east room turned out to be a spacious chamber with exposed beams crossing a high ceiling, a large four-poster bed dominating one wall while floor-to-ceiling windows offered breathtaking views of the misty landscape beyond. Modern touches had been integrated seamlessly—the lighting, the discreet security panels, the subtle comfort improvements that maintained the room's historical character while providing contemporary convenience.

"I'll leave you to settle in," Carmen said, pausing at the doorway. "There's food when you're ready. Lewis knows where everything is." Her eyes moved between you with that same sharp assessment. "Naomi established the communications hub in the west wing. Said to tell you she's tracking movement in Geneva that suggests our Cuban friend is quite displeased with your disappearance."

With that understated summary of what was undoubtedly a complex security situation, she departed, leaving you alone with Lewis for the first time since your whispered conversation in the helicopter. Roscoe had followed you into the room.

Lewis moved to close the heavy wooden door, the soft click of the latch emphasizing your sudden privacy. The transition from active escape to this moment of quiet felt almost jarring—adrenaline still coursing through your system with nowhere to direct it, your body still braced for threats that weren't currently present.

"You should rest," Lewis said, his voice gentler than his words. "You've been running on fumes since Geneva."

"So have you," you pointed out, noting the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension still evident in his shoulders despite their return to relative safety.

"I'm used to it." He moved to the windows, checking the latches with automatic movements that spoke to ingrained habits rather than immediate concerns. "This place is secure, but old habits..."

"Die hard?" you finished, the ghost of a smile touching your lips despite the exhaustion beginning to settle into your bones.

Lewis turned, something softening in his expression as he looked at you. "Something like that." He crossed to where you stood, his movements deliberate but unhurried. "You're holding something back," he said quietly, the directness catching you off guard.

"What do you mean?" The question came automatically, deflection as instinctive as breathing after a lifetime in your father's world where vulnerability equaled weakness.

Lewis's eyes held yours with that penetrating focus that still sent involuntary warmth through you despite everything else happening around you. "Since the helicopter. Something's been weighing on you beyond the immediate situation."

The observation was unnervingly accurate. You'd thought you'd masked it well—the realization that had struck somewhere over the Mediterranean, the dawning understanding of exactly what you were feeling for the man whose ring you wore.

"It's nothing," you said, the lie feeling awkward on your tongue after the increasing honesty that had developed between you. "Just processing everything that's happened."

Lewis studied you for a moment longer, his expression suggesting he knew you weren't being entirely truthful but wouldn't push—another distinction from the men you'd grown up around, who demanded immediate answers regardless of readiness to provide them.

"Okay," he said simply, accepting your boundary with that unexpected respect that had drawn you to him from the beginning. "But I'm here when you're ready to talk about it." His hand reached up, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising tenderness. "Whatever it is."

The simple gesture nearly undid your careful composure—the gentleness from a man who had ordered executions with clinical detachment, the patience from someone whose world moved at the speed of digital transactions and tactical responses. You leaned into his touch slightly, allowing yourself this small acknowledgment of whatever was developing between you.

"I know," you managed, your voice steadier than you felt. "I just need some time."

Lewis nodded, his thumb brushing your cheek once before he stepped back, giving you the space he somehow knew you needed. "Take a shower, get some rest. I need to check in with Naomi about Suarez's movements anyway."

You nodded, grateful for both his perception and his restraint. "Your mother is... not what I expected."

The observation drew a rare genuine smile from Lewis. "She says the same about you. Though in her case, it's a definite compliment."

"And in mine?" you challenged, feeling some of the tension ease between you.

"In yours," Lewis replied, moving toward the door, "it's still being determined." The slight curve of his lips took any sting from the words. "But preliminary assessment is positive."

With that understated tease—another evolution in your dynamic that would have been unimaginable weeks ago—he slipped from the room, leaving you to the blessed privacy you suddenly desperately needed.

The bathroom proved to be as modernized as promised, the hot water a blessing against travel-weary muscles and the lingering tension of your escape. You stood under the spray longer than strictly necessary, letting the heat work into knots of stress that had accumulated since the first shots were fired in Geneva.

By the time you emerged, wrapped in a silk robe that someone—Naomi, probably—had thought to include in your hastily packed belongings, exhaustion hit with physical force. The adrenaline crash you'd been staving off since the helicopter couldn't be denied any longer.

The bed looked inviting, its crisp linens and heavy duvet promising comfort you hadn't experienced since the hotel in Geneva. Roscoe had already claimed a spot near the pillows, his snoring providing oddly soothing background noise as you surrendered to the pull of sleep.

Your last conscious thought was of Lewis—not the dangerous crime lord who had ordered Bianchi's execution or the strategic husband your father had arranged, but the man who had shielded you with his body during gunfire, who knew you were holding something back but respected your need for time, whose rare genuine smiles had become increasingly important to you.

*****************************************

You woke disoriented, the quality of light suggesting late afternoon rather than morning. For a moment, panic fluttered in your chest—too much time lost, too many developments missed during your unplanned sleep. Then reality reasserted itself: you were in Scotland, in Lewis's family home, temporarily beyond the immediate reach of Suarez and his vendetta.

The space beside you in the massive bed was empty but showed signs of having been occupied—the pillow holding the impression of someone who had lain there, watching over you perhaps, before leaving. Roscoe had migrated to the floor, his snores punctuating the otherwise quiet room.

Voices drifted through the partially open door—Lewis and his mother, their tones low but audible in the ancient house whose walls had witnessed centuries of family conversations.

"—can't keep her in the dark forever," Carmen was saying, her Scottish accent more pronounced in apparent frustration. "She deserves to know what she's truly involved in."

"It's not that simple," Lewis replied, his voice carrying that edge of tension you'd grown attuned to over your weeks together. "The less she knows about certain operations, the safer she is if things go sideways."

"That girl isn't some fragile ornament needing protection from harsh realities," his mother countered. "I've spent all of thirty minutes with her and can see she's made of stronger stuff than you're giving her credit for."

"This isn't about her strength." Lewis's response was immediate, defensive in a way you rarely heard from him. "It's about limiting exposure. Compartmentalization protects everyone involved."

A short, derisive sound from Carmen suggested exactly what she thought of that explanation. "That's your father talking, not you. Keeping secrets from family never ends well, as he discovered the hard way."

The reference to Lewis's father—a topic he'd mentioned only in passing during your time together—caught your attention. You moved closer to the door, something uncomfortably close to eavesdropping but justified by the apparent discussion of matters directly concerning you.

"This is different," Lewis insisted, though something in his tone suggested uncertainty beneath the assertion. "The Suarez situation is volatile. The less she knows about our countermeasures, the less she can reveal if—"

"If what?" Lewis challenged. "If she betrays you? Is that really what you're worried about, or are you afraid of letting her see the parts of yourself you keep locked away from everyone?"

The question landed with almost physical impact, silence falling between mother and son that suggested a direct hit on something Lewis wasn't prepared to address. You stepped back from the door, suddenly uncomfortable with your unintended intrusion into what had become a deeply personal conversation.

Roscoe chose that moment to wake, stretching with a series of grunts that announced your place to anyone listening. The voices in the hallway stopped immediately, footsteps indicating retreat to more private spaces for whatever remained of their discussion.

You dressed quickly in clothes someone had unpacked and arranged in an ancient wardrobe—simple but practical items suitable for the Scottish climate. The domestic thoughtfulness behind this preparation struck you; someone had still considered your comfort despite tactical planning and security protocols.

By the time you emerged from the bedroom, the house appeared empty, though sounds of activity came from what must be the west wing Carmen had mentioned. Following instinct and the layout Lewis had briefly described during your flight, you made your way toward what proved to be a large kitchen dominated by another fireplace.

Carmen stood at a massive wooden island in the center of the space, chopping vegetables with the skill of someone who knew their way around a knife. She looked up as you entered, those sharp eyes assessing you with the same direct focus her son possessed.

"Feel more human after some proper rest?" she asked, gesturing toward a copper kettle on an ultra-modern stove that looked incongruous against the ancient stone walls. "Tea's fresh. Cups in the cabinet to your left."

The simple domestic instruction felt strangely normal after the chaos of the past twenty-four hours. You found a mug and poured the strong tea, the steam curling between you and Lewis's mother like a physical thread of the unspoken questions hanging in the air.

"He's with Naomi in the communications hub," Carmen said, answering your unasked question. "Tracking Suarez's movements. The Cuban's apparently quite put out by your disappearance—making quite a scene in Geneva, from what their intelligence suggests."

The casual delivery of this security update highlighted the unusual nature of Lewis's family dynamics—a mother as comfortable discussing international criminal movements as most might mention weather forecasts.

"How long have you known?" you asked, the question emerging before you'd fully formulated it. "About what Lewis really does?"

Carmen's hands stilled on the cutting board, her expression shifting toward something more complex than her previous direct assessment. "Since the beginning," she replied after a moment. "I helped him establish his first legitimate front business when he was twenty-six. Set up the banking connections through my family's old networks."

The revelation landed with surprising impact—not just Lewis's mother's awareness of his criminal empire, but her active participation in its foundation.

"You don't seem concerned about it," you observed.

"Concerned?" Carmen resumed her vegetable preparation. "About my son building something that can't be taken from him? No, I'm not concerned about that."

The philosophical framing—crime as legitimate path to security in an inherently unjust system—wasn't unfamiliar in your world, but the straightforward acknowledgment of it from a mother about her son's choices struck you as unusually honest.

"My husband—Lewis's father—believed in certain principles," she continued, her rhythm with the knife never faltering. "Honor among thieves. Loyalty above all else. Protection of family at any cost." Her eyes met yours briefly. "He died believing those principles would save him. They didn't."

The underlying message was clear—principles without pragmatism were ultimately hollow, an expensive luxury in a world that didn't reward moral stances without tactical backup.

"Lewis learned from his father's mistakes," you said, understanding flowing from context rather than explicit information. "Built something different."

"Something that works," Carmen corrected. "That's the only measure that matters in your world—in our world. Does it work? Does it keep you alive, keep your people safe, build something sustainable beyond immediate advantage?" She scooped chopped vegetables into a waiting pot. "Everything else is just pretty words people tell themselves to sleep better at night."

The assessment aligned with what you'd observed in Lewis's operations—the focus on effectiveness rather than tradition, results rather than appearances. Another distinction from your father's more theatrical approaches to similar challenges.

"He's worried about you," Carmen said abruptly, changing topics with the same directness that characterized everything about her. "Not just about Suarez and the physical threats. Something deeper."

The observation caught you off-guard—both its accuracy and the fact that Lewis had discussed personal concerns with his mother rather than maintaining the strict compartmentalization he typically favored.

"It's complicated," you replied, falling back on vagueness that felt immediately inadequate given the circumstances.

"Most worthwhile things are," Carmen agreed, wiping her hands on a nearby towel. "But complication isn't the same as impossibility."

Before you could respond, the sound of footsteps announced someone. Lewis appeared in the kitchen doorway, his expression shifting subtly when he saw you—tension easing almost instantly, as if confirming your continued presence provided some needed reassurance.

"You're up," he said simply, moving into the space with that contained grace that still drew your eye. He'd changed into more casual clothes—dark jeans and a simple sweater that somehow emphasized his dangerous capability. "Feeling better?"

"More human," you replied, echoing his mother's earlier phrasing. "Though still catching up on what I missed while sleeping."

"Not much beyond confirmation of what we already knew," Lewis assured you, reaching for a mug and pouring his own tea. The act made your eyes linger longer than they should—this dangerous man performing ordinary actions in his childhood home, the controlled crime lord momentarily replaced by someone more accessible. "Suarez is making noise in Geneva, but he's lost our trail completely. The digital misdirection is working perfectly."

The clinical update couldn't quite mask the underlying concern you could read in the tension around his eyes, the careful way he positioned himself between you and the doorway—protective habit rather than immediate threat response.

"And the leak in your organization?" you asked, the question addressing one of the more concerning elements of the situation that had forced your hasty departure from Switzerland.

Lewis's expression hardened slightly, his jaw tightening. "We're narrowing it down. It's just a matter of time."

The controlled response didn't disguise the deadly intent beneath—whoever had betrayed Lewis's security protocols to Petrov and, by extension, Suarez would not survive the discovery. That much was certain without requiring explicit confirmation.

"Your father called again," he added, his tone shifting toward something more careful. "Three times in the past hour. He's... concerned."

His phrasing couldn't mask the reality—Salvatore Ricci was undoubtedly furious about being kept in the dark regarding his daughter's situation, especially given his extensive intelligence network that would have reported the gunfire in Geneva almost immediately.

"I should call him," you said, the obligation clear despite the complications it presented. "Before he decides to handle things his way."

Lewis nodded, understanding the implications without requiring elaboration. Your father's "way" typically involved escalating violence applied with theatrical flourish rather than strategic precision—exactly the opposite of what the current situation needed.

"Use the secure line in the communications hub," he suggested. "Naomi's established protocols should prevent any tracing."

Carmen watched this exchange with sharp interest, her assessment taking in both the practical security discussion and the unspoken currents flowing beneath it. "I'll have food ready in an hour," she said simply. "Sort your father out, then come eat. Everything looks clearer after proper sustenance."

Lewis's hand found the small of your back as you moved toward the door—that increasingly familiar touch that had evolved from performative gesture to genuine habit over your weeks together. The contact steadied you more than you wanted to admit, grounding you in the present moment despite the swirling complications surrounding you.

"I'll show you where everything is set up," he said, guiding you through corridors that blended ancient architecture with modern functionality. "Naomi's been coordinating with Claire's team while you rested."

"And you?" you asked, glancing up at his profile. "Did you get any sleep at all?"

Something softened briefly in his expression—surprise at the concern, perhaps, or acknowledgment of the care behind the question. "Enough," he replied, though the shadows beneath his eyes suggested otherwise. "I needed to make sure certain security protocols were implemented immediately."

The explanation made perfect tactical sense while avoiding the truth you suspected—that he'd found it difficult to rest while potential threats remained unresolved, his protective instincts heightened by the events in Geneva and whatever personal evolution was developing between you.

"After you talk to your father," Lewis said as you approached a heavy wooden door that appeared considerably newer than the surrounding structure, "we should discuss next steps. The situation's evolving faster than anticipated."

The careful phrasing caught your attention—professional terminology masking what sounded like more significant developments than he'd initially suggested. "How much trouble are we in?" you asked directly, stopping before the door could open.

Lewis met your gaze with that unflinching directness you'd come to both appreciate and find mildly unnerving. "It's manageable," he replied after a brief pause. "But complicated by certain factors we hadn't fully anticipated."

"What factors?" you pressed, unwilling to enter what was clearly a tactical hub without complete information.

Lewis hesitated, that internal calculation visible as he weighed operational security against partnership transparency. Finally, he sighed, decision made. "Petrov wasn't just feeding information to Suarez. He was coordinating with someone in your father's organization as well."

The revelation landed like a physical blow—betrayal not just within Lewis's carefully constructed operation but potentially within your own family structure as well. "Who?" you demanded, mind already racing through possibilities, assessing loyalties and motivations among your father's captains.

"We don't know yet," Lewis admitted, the acknowledgment of uncertainty clearly costing him. "But the communication patterns suggest someone who would know about our marriage arrangements before they became public."

The implication was clear—not just any soldier or associate, but someone your father trusted. Someone who might have had access to information about your movements, your security protocols, your future plans.

"I need to talk to my father," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "Not just to reassure him, but to warn him without revealing what we know."

Lewis nodded, his hand finding yours in a gesture that had nothing to do with performance and everything to do with genuine support. "Together," he said quietly. "We handle this together."

"Together," you agreed, squeezing his hand briefly before releasing it to face whatever awaited beyond that heavy wooden door. Whatever you were holding back would have to wait a little longer.

For now, there were calls to make, threats to assess, betrayals to uncover. The rest—the increasingly complex feelings developing between you and the dangerous, protective man you married—would have to find its moment later.

****************************************

Morning light filtered through heavy curtains you didn't remember closing. You stretched beneath the thick duvet, awareness returning slowly—the unfamiliar room, the Scottish estate, the events that had driven you here from Geneva. A day had passed since your arrival, a day spent in tense phone calls with your father, strategic planning with Naomi, and careful navigation of the unspoken current growing between you and Lewis.

The space beside you in the massive bed was empty again. Lewis slept little these days, his vigilance heightened since the ambush in Geneva. You'd felt him slip from bed before dawn, his movements careful not to wake you despite your light sleep. The consideration was becoming familiar—another small kindness from a man whose reputation suggested none.

Roscoe's snoring drew your attention to the foot of the bed where he'd migrated during the night, sprawled across your feet like he'd been sleeping there his entire life instead of just one night. The bulldog had attached himself to you with surprising devotion, following you through the ancient house with determined waddles whenever you left Lewis's side.

The smell of coffee pulled you fully awake. Not the fancy espresso from the hotel in Geneva, but something richer, more earthy—likely Carmen's doing. Lewis's mother had proven to be nothing like the aristocratic Scottish matriarch you'd half-expected, instead revealing herself as pragmatic, direct, and refreshingly free of the carefully coded language that dominated your world.

You slipped from bed, pulling on a soft sweater against the Highland chill that seeped through even the oldest parts of the house. The wooden floors creaked beneath your feet as you made your way downstairs, following both the coffee scent and the low murmur of voices from the kitchen.

"—can't just sit here waiting for something to break," Lewis was saying, frustration evident in his tone. "Every day gives Suarez more time to regroup."

"Rushing into action because you're impatient is exactly how people in our world end up dead," Carmen replied, her voice carrying that blend of motherly concern and tactical assessment that still caught you off guard. "Naomi and her team needs time to trace the leak properly."

You paused in the hallway, not deliberately eavesdropping but reluctant to interrupt what seemed like a strategic discussion. The ancient house carried sound in unexpected ways, making privacy both rare and easily violated.

"It's not impatience, it's practical reality," Lewis countered. "The longer we wait, the more opportunity for Suarez to establish new connections. We know Petrov was feeding him information. What we don't know is who else might be involved."

"And charging in without full intelligence is somehow going to improve the situation?" Carmen's tone suggested precisely what she thought of that approach. "I didn't raise you to make your father's mistakes."

The reference to Lewis's father—still mostly a mystery to you beyond brief mentions—hung in the air. You shifted your weight, a floorboard creaking beneath your foot and announcing your presence whether you intended it or not.

The conversation stopped immediately. When you stepped into the kitchen doorway, both Lewis and Carmen were looking your way, though with markedly different expressions. Carmen's face softened into something like welcome, while Lewis's eyes carried that careful assessment that had become more frequent since your escape—checking for signs of distress, evaluating your state in ways that went beyond merely professional concern.

"Good morning," Carmen said, gesturing toward the coffee pot with a wooden spoon. "Sleep well in that ancient bed? I've been telling Lewis for years we should replace the mattress, but he's sentimental about certain things despite his practical façade."

The casual revelation—Lewis sentimental about his childhood bed—added another piece to the complex puzzle. Each day seemed to bring new dimensions you hadn't anticipated when signing those marriage papers.

"I slept fine," you replied, moving toward the coffee with the single-minded focus of someone who needed caffeine before further conversation. "Better than in the helicopter, at least."

Lewis watched you pour your coffee, his expression unreadable to anyone who hadn't spent weeks studying the minute shifts that betrayed his thoughts. To you, the slight tension around his eyes and mouth spoke volumes—concern, calculation, something deeper he wasn't ready to voice.

"I was just telling my son that patience might be our best strategy at the moment," Carmen said, turning back to whatever she was cooking on the ancient stove. "Though he seems to have misplaced his usual capacity for it."

"I haven't misplaced anything," Lewis replied, the edge in his voice softened by obvious affection for his mother despite the disagreement. "I'm making a tactical assessment based on evolving intelligence."

Carmen rolled her eyes, the gesture so unexpected from a woman her age that you nearly choked on your coffee. "He always hides behind fancy language when he's worried," she told you, as if sharing an important secret. "Been doing it since he was twelve. Thinks it makes him sound more in control."

"Mother," Lewis said, warning and exasperation blended in the single word.

You hid your smile behind your coffee mug, finding unexpected comfort in this glimpse of ordinary family dynamics beneath the extraordinary circumstances that had brought you all together.

"Any other updates from Naomi?" you asked, steering the conversation toward practical matters as you slid into a chair across from Lewis at the kitchen table.

Lewis's expression shifted back to business, though his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than strictly necessary. "Suarez has gone quiet in Geneva. No movement from his known associates for the past eighteen hours."

"That's not good," you observed, the tactical implication immediately clear. "When someone like Suarez goes quiet..."

"They're planning something bigger," Lewis finished, nodding in agreement. "Exactly my concern."

"Or they've lost the trail entirely and are regrouping," Carmen countered, placing a plate of what appeared to be homemade scones on the table between you. "Not every silence is a threat."

"In our world, it usually is," you said, finding yourself automatically aligning with Lewis's assessment despite Carmen's reasonable alternative. Your father had taught you early that apparent calm from enemies typically preceded the worst storms.

Carmen studied you with those sharp eyes so like her son's. "Your father's daughter indeed," she observed, though without judgment. "Always anticipating the next attack."

The point wasn't inaccurate. Salvatore Ricci had raised all his daughters to expect betrayal, to analyze apparent peace for hidden threats, to find the knife waiting beneath every offered handshake. Survival skills disguised as paranoia—or perhaps the other way around, depending on perspective.

"Speaking of my father," you said, accepting a scone with a grateful nod, "has he called again this morning?"

Lewis and Carmen exchanged a look that immediately raised your guard. "Twice," Lewis confirmed. "Naomi spoke with him the second time. She thought it might be better coming from security rather than family."

The careful phrasing couldn't disguise the reality—your father was growing increasingly agitated by your continued absence and limited communication, his protective instincts warring with the strategic necessity of maintaining your hidden location.

"What did he say?" you asked, though you could imagine the colorful language your father would have used when confronted with security personnel rather than his daughter.

"He's sending Paolo to London," Lewis replied, watching your reaction closely. "Officially to coordinate security protocols between our organizations. Unofficially..."

"To find me," you finished, understanding your father's methods without requiring elaboration. Uncle Paolo had always been your father's problem-solver, the one sent to handle delicate situations when Salvatore preferred to maintain plausible deniability. "When does he arrive?"

"Tonight, according to Naomi's report," Lewis said. "Our team is maintaining the digital façade suggesting we're in a safe house outside London. Your father's people will be led there while we remain here."

The strategic deception made perfect tactical sense while creating uncomfortable emotional complications. Lying to your father—even by omission—wasn't something you did lightly, regardless of the security justifications.

"He's worried," you said, feeling the need to explain what would be obvious to you and Lewis but perhaps not to Carmen. "Not just as a business associate concerned about alliance stability, but as a father. His methods are... complicated, but the concern is genuine."

"I understand family loyalty," Carmen said, her expression softening slightly. "Better than most. But right now, your safety requires certain measures that might feel uncomfortable."

Carmen Hamilton might lack your mother's social polish, but her straightforward approach carried its own comfort.

"I should call him again," you decided, the obligation clear despite potential security concerns. "Before Paolo reaches London. A short conversation would reassure him enough to prevent more... dramatic interventions."

Lewis's expression suggested he'd anticipated this response, his nod carrying neither surprise nor objection. "Use the secure line in the communications hub. Naomi has enhanced the protocols since yesterday—even better protection against tracing."

"After breakfast," Carmen interjected, placing a pot of tea beside the scones with definitive emphasis. "No one makes good decisions on an empty stomach, and Lewis tells me you barely ate yesterday."

The motherly concern behind the directive caught you off guard—not because it was unexpected from a mother, but because it was so rarely directed at you specifically. Your own mother's care typically manifested through strategic guidance rather than practical nurturing, a distinction born of necessity in your father's world.

Lewis's hand found yours beneath the table, a brief squeeze communicating something you were still learning to interpret—support, perhaps, or shared understanding of the complex emotions Carmen's straightforward care might trigger. The touch lasted only seconds before he withdrew, but the warmth lingered like an echo against your skin.

Breakfast passed with surprisingly normal conversation—Carmen sharing stories of the estate's history, Lewis occasionally correcting details with the precision that characterized all his communications. The domestic normalcy felt both foreign and comforting, a glimpse of what family interactions might look like beyond the constant strategic calculations that dominated your world.

"I need to check in with Jensen about the perimeter," Lewis said as you finished your tea. "The morning security rotation should be complete by now."

"I'll come with you," you replied, rising from the table. "I want to see the full layout of the grounds anyway. Understanding the terrain seems important given the circumstances."

Lewis's expression shifted toward something warmer—appreciation for your tactical thinking rather than merely accepting the desire to accompany him. "Good idea. There are approaches from the north that require some attention."

Carmen watched this exchange with that same sharp assessment that missed nothing, her eyes moving between you with what might have been approval. "Take proper coats from the mudroom," she instructed. "The highland weather turns faster than you can blink, especially this time of year."

The motherly directive, so ordinary yet so unfamiliar in your experience, brought an unexpected lump to your throat. You nodded, not trusting your voice for a moment as emotions you hadn't anticipated threatened to surface.

Lewis's hand returned to the small of your back as you left the kitchen, the touch now so familiar it felt like its absence would be more noticeable than its presence. The simple contact grounded you, pulling you back from the emotional edge Carmen's casual maternal concern had unexpectedly pushed you toward.

"She likes you," Lewis said quietly as you moved toward the mudroom.

The comment caught you off guard. "How many women have you brought to the estate?" you asked before you could consider whether the question was appropriate.

Lewis glanced at you, something like surprise crossing his features before his usual control reasserted itself. "None," he admitted after a moment. "You're the first."

The revelation landed with unexpected weight. Not just the first wife—that was obvious given the circumstances of your arrangement—but the first woman he'd brought to this particular sanctuary that seemed to exist outside his carefully constructed public identity.

"Why me?" The question slipped out, genuine curiosity overriding strategic calculation.

Lewis paused at the mudroom door, his expression shifting toward something more vulnerable than his usual composed exterior. "That's... complicated."

"I've got time," you replied, surprising yourself with the directness of the response. Geneva had changed something between you—the abandoned pillow barrier just the physical manifestation of boundaries dissolving on multiple levels.

Lewis studied you for a moment, that intense focus that still sent warmth spreading through your chest despite familiarity. "When we were leaving Geneva," he said finally, "with bullets flying and everything falling apart around us, I realized something."

He paused, seeming to search for words—unusual for a man whose communication typically flowed with practiced precision. "I realized that getting you to safety wasn't just about the arrangement or strategic considerations. It was about you. Specifically you."

The distinction might have seemed subtle to others, but you understood immediately the significance of what he was admitting. Not duty or obligation or professional responsibility, but personal concern transcending the boundaries of your strategic marriage.

"The thought of losing you..." he continued, his voice dropping lower, "it wasn't acceptable. Not in any calculation, strategic or otherwise."

The confession hung between you, more revealing than any physical intimacy could have been from a man who maintained such careful control in all aspects of his life.

"That's why I brought you here," he finished, his eyes never leaving yours. "Because this place is outside my professional identity. It's the one space that's just mine. And I wanted you in it."

The simple truth behind his explanation hit harder than any elaborate declaration could have. Lewis Hamilton, dangerous and calculating crime lord, had brought you into the one sanctuary he maintained separate from his criminal empire, not because strategic advantage demanded it, but because he wanted you there.

"Lewis, I—" you began, though you weren't entirely sure what you intended to say.

The moment shattered as Naomi's voice called from further inside the house, urgency evident in her tone. "Lewis! We've got movement. Multiple signals approaching the outer perimeter."

Lewis's expression shifted instantly from vulnerable to tactical, the transformation so complete it might have given you whiplash if you hadn't seen it before. "Stay here," he instructed, already moving toward Naomi's voice.

You followed without hesitation, the automatic obedience that might have characterized your early days together now entirely absent. "Not a chance," you replied, keeping pace with his longer strides. "If there's a threat, I need to know exactly what we're facing."

Rather than arguing, Lewis adjusted his pace slightly, allowing you to match him more comfortably as you both moved toward the communications hub established in what had once been a formal dining room. The acceptance of your partnership—even in potential danger—spoke volumes about how your relationship had evolved since those early carefully distanced days in London.

Naomi looked up from multiple screens as you entered, her expression professionally neutral despite the tension evident in her posture. "Three vehicles approaching from the east," she reported without preamble. "Not following any documented road, using what appears to be an old forestry track."

"Local authorities?" Lewis asked, immediately dropping into the chair beside her to examine the surveillance feed.

"Negative," Naomi replied. "No identifiable markings, and the approach pattern suggests deliberate avoidance of standard routes. Jensen has positioned teams at intercept points, but visual confirmation is still pending."

You moved closer to the screens, studying the topographical display that showed three blinking dots moving steadily toward the outer boundaries of the estate. "How did they find this place?" you asked, the security implications immediately concerning. "I thought it wasn't in any records connected to you."

"It isn't," Lewis confirmed, his attention never leaving the screens. "Which means either we have another leak, or..."

"Or someone followed Uncle Paolo's team to London and tracked communications from there," you finished, the tactical assessment flowing naturally from your lifetime in your father's world. "If he's arriving tonight as planned, advance teams would already be in place establishing security."

Lewis glanced at you, approval evident despite the tension of the moment. "Exactly what I was thinking. Tracking your father's security protocols would be easier than finding ours, especially if someone in his organization is compromised."

The revelation hung between you, not just the immediate threat of unknown vehicles approaching the estate, but the deeper implication that the betrayal within your father's organization might be more significant than originally suspected.

"Incoming call from Jensen," Naomi reported, activating the communications system with practiced efficiency.

Jensen's voice filled the room, the connection slightly distorted by distance but clear enough to understand. "Visual confirmation on approaching vehicles. Not hostiles. Repeat, not hostiles. Ricci markings identified."

The revelation landed with mixed impact—relief that the approach wasn't Suarez's men somehow tracking your location, but fresh complications regarding your father's resources appearing despite security protocols designed to prevent exactly that.

"Your father doesn't do anything halfway, does he?" Lewis observed, though without the irritation you might have expected given the security breach this represented.

"Never," you confirmed, already calculating potential approaches to this unexpected development. "Once he decides on a course of action, he commits completely."

"Like father, like daughter," Naomi muttered, though quietly enough that she could pretend you hadn't heard if challenged.

Lewis's lips quirked briefly before his expression returned to tactical assessment. "Establish communication with the lead vehicle," he instructed. "Confirm identity protocols before allowing approach beyond the outer perimeter."

"Already in progress," Naomi confirmed, her fingers moving across a specialized keyboard.

Lewis turned to you, that intensity back in his gaze though now focused on strategic considerations rather than the personal revelation that had been interrupted. "Your father's people arriving creates complications beyond the immediate security concerns," he said quietly.

The implication was clear—your father's security team would bring with them not just physical protection but the weight of Ricci expectations and observation. The fragile evolution of your relationship with Lewis would face new scrutiny, additional pressure from eyes reporting back to your father with potentially incomplete understanding.

"I know," you acknowledged, the complexity of the situation requiring no elaborate explanation between you. "But we adjust and move forward. Like we have since Geneva."

Something softened in Lewis's expression—gratitude, perhaps, for your understanding without requiring extensive discussion. "Together," he said quietly, the single word carrying weight beyond its simplicity.

"Together," you confirmed, the agreement feeling more like promise than mere acknowledgment.

The vehicles approached more quickly than expected, kicking up dust along the old forestry road that wound through the eastern edge of the property. From the window of the communications room, you could see Jensen's team establishing a perimeter, their movements precise and coordinated.

"Jesus, my father is so dramatic," you said, watching as not one but three black SUVs came into view. "Of course he sent a damn convoy."

Lewis glanced at you, that hint of a smile touching his lips before disappearing. "Would you have expected anything less?"

"No," you admitted with a slight eye roll. "Subtlety has never been his strong suit. When I was at Columbia, he once sent Uncle Paolo with four guys just because I missed a check-in call by like, half an hour."

Naomi kept her focus on the monitors. "Looks like Paolo's in the lead vehicle. Confirming identity now."

You moved closer to the window, watching as the first SUV stopped at Jensen's checkpoint. A familiar figure emerged from the passenger side, his body language broadcasting irritation even from a distance.

"Yep, that's Uncle Paolo alright," you confirmed. "I can tell by how pissed off he looks. He hates the cold, always says it makes his arthritis act up."

Lewis positioned himself beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours as he assessed the approaching team. The casual contact had become something natural between you, no longer the calculated touches of those early days.

"Your uncle seems... very displeased to be in Scotland," Lewis observed, his tone dry.

"He'll get over it," you said with a shrug. "Though he's gonna be a nightmare about the accommodations. He acts like he's allergic to anything that isn't five-star."

Carmen appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. "I take it we're having company?"

"Family's coming to visit," you said with a grim smile. "Hope you've got extra coffee. Uncle Paolo turns into an actual monster without it."

"I've dealt with difficult men my entire life," Carmen replied. "One more Italian with opinions about proper coffee won't be the end of me." She glanced toward Lewis. "Though perhaps we should consider the security implications of having Ricci men on the property."

Lewis's phone buzzed with an incoming message. As he read it, that slight tension appeared around his eyes – the tell you'd learned to recognize when complications arose.

"Everything okay?" you asked, moving closer without thinking about it.

"It's the other team," he replied, his voice dropping lower even though Naomi was the only other person in the room. "They confirmed the potential source for the leak in your father's organization."

Your stomach tightened immediately. "Who?"

Lewis hesitated, glancing toward the window where your uncle was now talking animatedly with Jensen. "That's the problem. Analysis still points to someone in your father's inner circle."

"Someone like Paolo?" Your voice came out steadier than you felt, the suggestion hitting hard and fast. Your uncle had been like a second father to you growing up, his loyalty to your father seemingly absolute through decades of business together.

"It's preliminary," Lewis cautioned, his hand finding yours with that protective instinct. "The team is still cross-referencing data points. But the timing of his arrival..."

"Could be completely innocent," you finished, not wanting to jump to conclusions despite the sick feeling in your gut. "Or it could be the worst kind of setup."

The conversation halted as Jensen's voice came through the comm system. "Paolo Ricci and team cleared initial verification. Requesting final approval for approach to main house."

Lewis's eyes met yours, the question clear without needing to be spoken. This was your family, your uncle—the decision about how to handle his arrival was ultimately yours to make.

"Let them through," you said after only a moment's hesitation. "But keep the security protocols. And Lewis..." you paused, steeling yourself for what might come next. "I want to be the one to talk to Uncle Paolo first. Alone."

Lewis's expression tightened. "That's not happening."

"It has to," you countered, holding his gaze. "If he's involved, he won't reveal anything with you hovering nearby. And if he's not, then treating him like a suspect is only going to piss him off and make this whole situation worse."

"She has a point," Naomi interjected, not looking up from her monitors. "Family dynamics create opportunities for information gathering that external pressure can't replicate."

Lewis didn't look happy about it, but you could see him processing the tactical logic behind your request. "Controlled environment," he finally said. "The library. We'll have audio surveillance and Jensen's team on standby. First sign of anything suspicious, we intervene."

"Fine," you agreed, knowing this was as much of a compromise as you were likely to get. "But no visible security presence. Uncle Paolo's been doing this too long not to spot surveillance a mile away."

Carmen had been watching this exchange with that sharp observation that reminded you so much of Lewis. "I'll bring tea to the library," she said simply. "Nothing makes men let their guard down quite like an older woman they underestimate."

The plan formed quickly after that—you would meet Paolo in the library, ostensibly for a private family conversation, while Lewis monitored from the communications hub and Carmen provided the perfect cover for additional observation.

As the SUVs pulled up to the main house, you took a deep breath, mentally shifting gears. The uncle who had taught you to ride a bike might now be the same man who had betrayed your location to Suarez. The contradiction felt impossible to reconcile, yet you'd grown up in a world where such betrayals were practically a family tradition.

"Be careful," Lewis said quietly as you prepared to head downstairs. His hand caught yours, squeezing briefly in a gesture that carried more meaning than any words could have. "I'll be right here, watching everything."

"I know," you replied, finding unexpected steadiness in that simple fact.

Your uncle's voice echoed through the ancient house as Carmen greeted him at the front door as your head spinned with your thought. You pushed them aside for now. You can’t handle them now, not with the potential revelation of betrayal hanging in the air like a guillotine blade.

But later, when this immediate crisis had passed, you and Lewis would need to address what had been building between you.

For now, though, you straightened your shoulders and headed downstairs to face whatever truth Uncle Paolo had brought with him to Scotland—whether proof of family loyalty or confirmation of its limits.

*******************************************************

The library felt like the perfect setting for a confrontation—old books lining walls that had witnessed centuries of family secrets, heavy curtains half-drawn against the Scottish morning light, and furniture solid enough to have survived multiple generations of difficult conversations. You settled into an armchair positioned to keep the door in view, a habit ingrained since childhood.

Uncle Paolo burst in before you'd fully collected your thoughts, his presence filling the room with the same larger-than-life energy he'd always carried. At fifty-three, he remained imposingly fit, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped short in the same style he'd worn since you were a kid. The outfit he wore couldn't disguise the street fighter underneath—something he'd never tried to hide, unlike the more polished captains in your father's organization.

"There you are," he said, arms spread wide in a gesture that was half relief, half exasperation. "Do you have any idea what hell you've put your father through this week? Not to mention dragging me to this frozen wasteland to find you."

You stood, accepting his embrace with the complicated affection that had always defined your relationship with your father's most loyal soldier. The familiar scent of his cologne—the same brand he'd worn for twenty years—brought a rush of memories.

"It's good to see you too, Uncle Paolo," you said, genuinely meaning it despite the circumstances. "Sorry about the dramatic exit from Geneva."

"Dramatic?" He pulled back, dark eyes scanning you for injuries with practiced efficiency. "Getting shot at in a neutral city is a bit beyond dramatic, don't you think? Your father almost had a stroke when he heard."

You gestured for him to sit, buying a moment to assess his demeanor. Nothing seemed off—the familiar concern, the slightly theatrical outrage, the way he glanced around the room with the automatic security check he performed wherever he went.

"So this is Hamilton's family place?" Paolo settled into the chair opposite yours, his gaze still cataloging details with professional thoroughness. "Gotta admit, I wasn't expecting something so... old. Always figured him for modern glass and steel, security tech everywhere."

"Appearances can be deceiving," you said, watching his reaction carefully. "The security here is better than it looks."

Paolo snorted, adjusting his position to better see the doorway—the same tactical habit you had. "Clearly not that good if I found you, eh? Though I'll admit, tracking you to Scotland was a pain in the ass. Your husband's digital people are no joke."

The casual compliment to Lewis's team registered as a potentially important detail. "How did you find us, anyway?" you asked, keeping your tone conversational despite the weight behind the question.

Paolo's expression shifted toward something more calculating, the uncle temporarily replaced by the professional. "You really want to know? Or is this a test?"

The directness was pure Paolo—no patience for games or diplomatic evasion. It was one of the reasons your father valued him; in a world of carefully coded language, Paolo's bluntness often cut through bullshit faster than any strategic maneuvering.

"Both," you admitted, matching his honesty with your own. "There's a leak somewhere. We need to know if it led to you."

Paolo's eyes narrowed, genuine offense crossing his features. "You think I'd sell you out? After everything?" The hurt in his voice couldn't be faked—not by Paolo, who'd never mastered the polished deception that characterized most men in your world.

"I think someone close to Papa has been feeding information to Suarez," you clarified, watching his reaction closely. "And I need to know how you found us so we can figure out who it might be."

The door opened before Paolo could respond, Carmen entering with a tea tray that seemed too heavy for a woman her age, though she carried it with easy strength. "Thought you might want refreshments," she said, setting it down on the table between you. "Scottish mornings call for something warm."

Paolo rose automatically, old-world manners kicking in despite the tension of the moment. "Thank you, signora. You're too kind."

"It's Carmen," she corrected, pouring tea. "And kindness has nothing to do with it. This conversation looked like it needed proper fortification."

Paolo's eyebrows shot up at her direct tone, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. "Hamilton's mother, I take it?"

"The very same," Carmen confirmed, handing him a cup. "Milk? Sugar?"

"Just black, thanks." Paolo accepted the tea with a nod. "Strong Italian coffee is more my speed, but this'll do."

Carmen's eyes met yours briefly as she handed you your own cup—a silent message passing between women accustomed to communicating beneath male notice. She'd assessed Paolo in seconds, her conclusion clear: this man was exactly what he appeared to be, no deception detected.

"I'll leave you to your discussion," she said, heading toward the door. "But the walls in this house are old and thin. Shouting won't be necessary for people to hear you." The warning was delivered with a smile that did nothing to diminish its meaning.

Once she'd gone, Paolo shook his head slightly. "Your husband's mother is something else."

"She grows on you," you replied, taking a sip of perfectly brewed tea. "Now about how you found us..."

Paolo set his cup down, all business again. "Your sister, if you want the truth. Sophia."

"Sophia?" The revelation caught you completely off guard. "How the hell did she know where we were?"

"She didn't, not exactly." Paolo leaned forward, lowering his voice despite the room's apparent privacy. "But she installed some app on her phone right before you moved to London. Said she wanted to stay connected, see what you were up to since you'd be so far away." He shrugged. "It's one of those things where you can share your location, photos, all that stuff. Pretty standard for kids these days."

You immediately knew what he was talking about—Sophia had been devastated about your quick marriage and move to London, insisting on downloading a family connection app where you could share updates and locations easily. You'd only been using it for the few weeks since your marriage, mostly sending her photos of London and occasionally Roscoe.

"So what happened?" you asked, still trying to understand how this led to Paolo finding you in Scotland.

"Your sister's been checking that damn app like every hour since she heard about Geneva," Paolo explained. "Yesterday morning, she noticed your location suddenly showed up in Scotland. Called your father in a panic, thinking maybe someone had stolen your phone." He shook his head. "Turns out you just forgot to turn the location sharing off."

The explanation hit you like a physical blow—so simple, so utterly mundane that no one could have anticipated it. You and Lewis had been so focused on sophisticated security protocols and digital misdirection that you'd completely overlooked the family connection app you'd been using to keep Sophia from having a meltdown about your sudden marriage and not being in constant contact with you.

You couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled up, edged with both relief and the absurdity of it all. "We got tracked through Sophia's family app. Oh my God."

Paolo's expression shifted from confusion to grudging amusement. "Technology, eh? Back in my day, we had to work for our intelligence. Now kids just push buttons on phones."

"So Sophia told Papa where to look," you said, pieces falling into place. "But that doesn't explain how you got past the perimeter security. This place isn't on any maps connected to Lewis."

Paolo's smile turned smug, professional pride evident in his expression. "Give me some credit, piccola. I've been doing this longer than your husband's been alive. Once I knew to look in Scotland, finding the property was just legwork. Old-school surveillance, bribes to the right locals, and a little luck." He shrugged. "Plus, Hamilton's security chief needs to vary his patrol patterns. Too predictable on the east approach."

The tactical assessment was delivered without hostility—one professional noting areas for improvement rather than criticizing a rival. Another small detail that registered as important: Paolo was evaluating Lewis's security on its merits, not looking for weaknesses to exploit.

"So it's not you," you said, the relief in your voice impossible to hide completely.

"Feeding information to Suarez?" Paolo's expression darkened, genuine anger flashing in his eyes. "I'd cut off my own hand before I'd put you in danger. Your father would put a bullet in my head himself, and I'd deserve it."

The vehemence couldn't be faked—not by Paolo, whose emotions had always run too close to the surface for effective deception. Whatever leak existed in your father's organization, it wasn't coming from the man sitting across from you.

"I believe you," you said simply, the weight lifting from your chest. "But someone close to Papa is talking to Suarez. Someone with access to secure communications, someone he trusts."

Paolo's expression shifted toward the cold calculation that had made him effective as your father's enforcer for decades. "I've had my suspicions for a while now," he admitted. "Things moving too smoothly for the Cubans in Jersey last month. Shipment schedules getting compromised. Your father thought it was just bad luck, but..."

"But you've been in this business long enough to know when bad luck is actually something else," you finished, understanding flowing naturally between you.

"Exactly." Paolo rubbed his jaw, the familiar gesture of concentration you remembered from countless family strategy sessions growing up. "Got a few ideas who it might be, but nothing concrete yet."

"We need to be careful how we handle this," you cautioned. "If we start throwing accusations around without proof, it could create openings for Suarez to exploit."

Paolo studied you with newfound appreciation. "You sound like a boss, not just the boss's daughter," he observed. "Marriage to Hamilton's been good for you, eh? Sharpening those strategic instincts."

The casual assessment caught you off guard—not because it was inaccurate, but because you hadn't fully acknowledged the evolution yourself until hearing it confirmed by someone who'd known you your entire life.

"It's been... educational," you replied, unable to fully articulate the complex shifts that had occurred since your arranged marriage began just weeks ago. "Lewis sees things differently from Papa. Different approaches, different priorities."

"But effective," Paolo acknowledged, surprising you with his openness to perspectives beyond your father's traditional methods. "Even your father admits that, though you didn't hear it from me." He leaned forward, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Don't tell him I said so, but I think he's actually impressed with how Hamilton handled Geneva. Clean extraction, minimal exposure, effective misdirection."

The backhanded compliment to your husband from your notoriously critical father registered as significant—evidence that the strategic alliance was functioning as intended, regardless of the unexpected personal dimensions developing beneath it.

"So what's the play now?" Paolo asked, all business again. "Your father sent me to bring you home, but I'm guessing that's not happening with Suarez still hunting."

"No," you confirmed. "It's safer for everyone if I stay off-grid for now. The fewer people who know my exact location, the better—even within the family."

Paolo nodded, accepting this assessment without the argument you might have expected. Another evolution—he was treating you as a strategic equal rather than just Salvatore's daughter needing protection.

"Your father won't like it," he warned. "But I can run interference for a while. Tell him security concerns make immediate return inadvisable, feed him enough technical bullshit about digital tracking that he'll hesitate to push too hard."

The offer of alliance—Paolo effectively siding with your assessment over your father's direct orders—meant more than the practical assistance it represented. It was acknowledgment of your authority in your own right, not merely as extension of your father's will or your husband's strategic interests.

"I appreciate that," you said, the simple phrase inadequate for the significance of the moment.

Paolo waved it off with characteristic dismissiveness of emotional weight. "Just doing my job. Keeping you safe is priority number one, always has been." He took a sip of tea, grimacing slightly at the unfamiliar beverage. "Though I gotta say, I didn't expect 'keeping you safe' would involve freezing my ass off in Scotland while drinking leaf water instead of proper coffee."

The complaint was so perfectly Paolo that you couldn't help smiling. "Carmen can probably make you coffee if you ask nicely. Though fair warning—she doesn't respond well to demands."

"No shit," Paolo agreed with a short laugh. "Reminds me of your mother that way. Steel spine behind the proper manners."

The comparison caught you by surprise—not because it was inaccurate, but because you hadn't consciously made the connection yourself. Both women had navigated dangerous worlds on their own terms, maintaining autonomy despite the controlling men surrounding them.

A knock at the door interrupted before you could pursue this thread further. Lewis appeared in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral though you could read the tension in his shoulders.

"Everything alright in here?" he asked, the question directed at you despite his eyes quickly assessing Paolo with professional thoroughness.

"We're good," you confirmed, the simple phrase carrying layers of meaning beyond its surface reassurance. "Uncle Paolo was just explaining how Sophia's family connection app led him straight to us."

Lewis's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise breaking through his composed exterior. "The app you've been using to send her photos? Bloody hell."

"Technology, right?" Paolo said with a shrug. "Always the simple shit that gets you."

Lewis moved further into the room, his posture relaxing slightly as he read the situation. "I take it our concerns about information leaks have been addressed?"

"Not entirely," you replied, shifting to make space for him on the sofa beside you—a small gesture that felt natural despite its significance. "Uncle Paolo's not the source, but there's still someone in Papa's inner circle feeding Suarez information."

Lewis settled beside you, the subtle shift of his body angling protectively toward yours now so familiar you barely noticed it consciously. "Any theories on who it might be?"

The question was directed at Paolo, professional respect evident in Lewis's tone despite the lingering watchfulness in his posture. Two dangerous men assessing each other across a library in Scotland, their shared concern for your safety creating temporary alliance across traditional boundaries.

"Few possibilities," Paolo acknowledged, studying Lewis with equally professional assessment. "Nothing concrete enough to move on yet. But I've got people I trust keeping eyes on certain individuals."

Lewis nodded, accepting this without pressing for details you knew he'd want eventually. "Naomi has been running analytics on communication patterns within the Ricci organization. Might be worth comparing notes."

The suggestion—sharing intelligence across family operations—would have been unthinkable weeks ago. Another evolution in the alliance, boundaries shifting toward greater integration rather than merely parallel interests.

"Could work," Paolo agreed, surprising you with his openness to collaboration. "Though your analytics people should talk to our intelligence guys directly. Technical details get lost in translation when they go through too many channels."

Lewis glanced at you, something warm flickering in his eyes despite the tactical nature of the conversation. "Seems we're all on the same page then."

"For now," Paolo qualified, though without hostility. "Still haven't figured out why Suarez is so fixated on this particular situation. Guy's got plenty of other business concerns that should be higher priority."

"It's not business for him anymore," you said, understanding flowing from patterns you'd observed since Geneva. "It's become personal. Papa rejected his proposition, Lewis married me instead, and now he's determined to prove it was a mistake."

"Male ego," Paolo snorted, years of observing similar dynamics evident in his dismissive tone. "Always fucking things up where money and power should be the only considerations."

"Language, Uncle Paolo," you teased, falling into the familiar pattern established since your teenage years.

"Sorry, sorry," he replied automatically, though without actual contrition. "But am I wrong?"

"No," Lewis acknowledged, surprising both you and Paolo with his candor. "Ego makes men in our position vulnerable to manipulation. Suarez has always had that particular weakness—react to perceived insult rather than strategic advantage."

Paolo studied Lewis with renewed interest, reassessment evident in his expression. "Not bad, Hamilton. Sounds like something I've been telling Salvatore for years." He gestured between you with a knowing look. "You two might actually be good for each other, beyond the business alliance."

The casual observation landed with unexpected weight, voicing aloud what had been developing beneath the surface of your arranged marriage these past few weeks. Not just strategic partners navigating complicated circumstances, but something evolving beyond the parameters established in those initial arrangements.

Lewis's hand found yours on the couch between you, the contact hidden from Paolo's view but carrying significance beyond mere physical connection. You squeezed back briefly, the silent communication feeling as natural as breathing despite its newness in your relationship.

"So what's the plan moving forward?" Paolo asked, ignoring whatever he might have observed passing between you. "My team can't camp out in Scotland forever without raising questions. Your father's expecting reports, and he'll send more people if he doesn't like what he hears."

"We need to identify the leak before making any major moves," Lewis replied, shifting seamlessly back to tactical assessment. "We should have the preliminary analysis complete by tomorrow morning. If we combine that with your intelligence..."

"We might have enough to take action," Paolo finished, nodding in agreement. "Narrow the field at least."

You found yourself watching them with a strange sense of detachment—these two dangerous men from different worlds finding common ground in strategy and protection, their natural competitiveness temporarily set aside in service of shared objective.

"Uncle Paolo, your team can use the west wing for now," you suggested. "Carmen's already preparing rooms. We should coordinate communications protocols to ensure nothing compromises this place any further."

Paolo nodded, accepting your directive without the automatic challenge he might have offered weeks ago. "My guys are good, but I'll make sure they understand the sensitivity. No unnecessary communications, no mentions of specific location in any transmissions."

"I'll have Jensen coordinate with your security chief," Lewis added. "Integrated patrol patterns, clear chain of command to prevent confusion if anything develops."

The conversation continued—practical arrangements, tactical considerations, the temporary integration of two security teams with different protocols and loyalties. Throughout, you found yourself increasingly aware of the subtle shift in dynamics: both men treating you as an active participant rather than a protected asset, your insights incorporated into strategic planning rather than merely acknowledged and set aside.

As the discussion wound down, Paolo rose from his chair with the slight grimace of a man whose joints protested Scottish dampness. "I should check on my team, make sure they're settling in without causing problems for your people."

Lewis stood as well, extending his hand in a gesture that carried more significance than its casual appearance suggested. "We appreciate your discretion in this matter. And your support."

Paolo accepted the handshake, his assessment of Lewis evident in his expression. "Just doing what's best for the family. All of it." His gaze shifted to include you in that definition of "family," the boundaries expanding beyond traditional bloodlines.

Once Paolo had left to check on his team, Lewis turned to you, that careful control softening now that you were alone. "Your uncle is... not what I expected."

"He grows on you," you said, echoing your earlier description of Carmen. "Rough around the edges, but absolutely loyal once you've earned his trust."

"And have I?" Lewis asked, genuine curiosity rather than strategic calculation in the question. "Earned his trust?"

You considered this, thinking about Paolo's assessment and the subtle shifts in his interaction with Lewis throughout the conversation. "You're getting there," you replied honestly. "The fact that he's willing to help manage my father rather than just following orders to bring me home? That's significant."

Lewis nodded, accepting this assessment without pushing for more definitive reassurance. Another distinction from the men you'd grown up around, who demanded absolute loyalty rather than recognizing its gradual development through demonstrated worth.

"So it's not Paolo," he said, circling back to the central concern that had shadowed your reunion with your uncle. "But there's still someone in your father's organization feeding information to Suarez."

"Someone close," you agreed, the implications still troubling despite your relief about Paolo specifically. "Someone with access to secure communications and family matters."

Lewis's expression shifted toward that focused calculation you'd seen when he ordered Bianchi's execution—not emotion but absolute determination, the cold precision that had built his empire from nothing.

"We'll find them," he said simply, the quiet certainty in his voice more reassuring than elaborate promises would have been. "And when we do..."

He didn't need to finish the thought. In your world, betrayal had only one consequence—the only variables were the method and visibility of retribution. Quick and clean or public and mesmerizing, the end result remained the same.

"Together, right?" you asked.

Lewis's eyes met yours, something warming in their depths despite the deadly focus they'd held moments before. "Together," he agreed, the simple echo feeling like a promise rather than mere acknowledgment.

....tbd

#quainwritings #blood oath #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton fanfiction #lewis hamilton fic #lewis hamilton x black reader #lewis hamilton x black oc #lewis hamilton x reader #mob!boss lewis hamilton #mob!lewis hamilton #f1 x you #f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 fanfiction

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novelconcepts · 1 month ago

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It’s so funny seeing the problems people have with this show and just going *shrug*. The show itself is so ambitious that it was bound to have holes in the narrative, but like. “The adults only remember what’s convenient”—yeah, kinda? Kinda the idea? Do you remember every instance of what you did when you were eighteen, decades ago? I don’t. I definitely do not. And there is so much I know I’ve wallpapered over out of shame and regret and embarrassment—as a very normal person with a terribly boring upbringing.

Imagine spending two years where every day bleeds into the next, where you’re doing unimaginable things just to get by, where you’re sometimes reveling in the worst shit you could possibly be doing because it makes you feel alive? You’re telling me you’d cast that all in stone, memory-wise? Nah, dude, you’re pushing that shit down. You’re fine-tuning it in your head so it’s fuzzy at best and flat-out erased at worst. You think at forty these woman have just been chilling with their most reprehensible memories? Shauna absolutely did not. Taissa canonically repressed everything she possibly could. Natalie sank into drugs. Van ran away. It’s only when they’re together and they’re forced to actually interact that they start behaving like their teenage selves again. It’s only when you come back upon your old classmates that you fall into old patterns. Because doing otherwise for twenty-five years would have undone them completely. They did forget. Not completely, but the way you always forget huge swathes of your childhood. And then it’s easier to make the story what you can live with.

Shauna? Oh, she was kind of always writing, good with a knife, feel like she stressed me out sometimes, but I had my own problems. Oh, Tai? She was intense and ambitious and…did that ever damage me directly? Can’t recall. Van? She was sweet and funny and told stories. That’s probably it. Misty? Yeah, she was the outsider, she wasn’t even on the team. I remember making fun of her, but haven’t we all been there? Lottie? Where did she even go? We just lose track of old friends sometimes. Nat? Nat’s been in and out of trouble for years. Hard to remember what she even looked like when she was small and blonde and…and…rough? She was rough, right? Yeah. Yeah, the yearbook pictures back that up. Jackie? A tragedy. Just so sad. Anyway: life to live, groceries to buy, work to do. Anyway: don’t need to waste any more mental energy on that. Anyway: wait—why is someone sniffing around the story? What even is the story? It’s bad. It’s bad, why would we want to remember? It’s bad, and the details are coming back, and oh no, oh god, we can’t bury it any deeper.

What we’re watching in the adult timeline is far from flawless, but they are remembering as they go. And they’re coloring their own memories, which are really just memories of memories. Like Nat seeing Travis in the dead-wife light, they are still writing the narrative the way they can live with. But their stories are going to start butting up against one another. And the only way through is to be the last one standing: because then you can believe whatever you need to. Whatever lets you keep standing tall.

#yellowjackets #yj spoilers #yj meta #shauna saying I was a warrior is exactly this #van hating her younger self when there was so much to love is the opposite but equal reaction #taissa is only now letting the two parts of herself merge #Misty’s been rewriting the narrative the whole time pretending she was friends with these people #it’s all telling a story. it’s all telling DIFFERENT stories of the same events #no dude they don’t remember and that isn’t a bug. it’s intentional.#they have never once looked at the full truth of their lives #they only see what they’re capable of handling #anyway you can like it or love it or hate it or whatever but #i fundamentally disagree with anyone claiming the writing is trash or the writers are stupid

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saffusthings · 7 days ago

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second chances

mob boss!lando norris x reader

part thirty-seven: this ends now

word count: 8.3k (i'm so sorry y'all)

warnings: this chapter contains graphic violent content. reader discretion is strongly advised.

thirty-six | thirty-seven | thirty-eight

The Leclerc estate looked different in the dark – less like a palace, more like a mausoleum. Even the marble seemed colder under the clouds. Lando’s boots echoed on the stone as he stepped through the gates that someone —some fool— had left unlocked.

Lando didn’t wait for an invitation.

Two guards moved for him near the foyer.

“You touch me,” he threatened, his voice even, “and your boss will be scraping your teeth off the floor before dinner.”

That gave them pause. He was ushered through without another word.

And then, he was there.

The sharp click of polished shoes echoed across the marble. Charles Leclerc stepped into the atrium, his jaw set, his eyes cold with something older than rage. The two men flanked him— private security, judging by the expensive tailoring of their suits.

By the time he reached the front doors, Charles Leclerc was already waiting. He was dressed in silk and anger, the dark robe hanging loose around his shoulders like he’d been dragged from sleep.

He stood at the base of the grand staircase like he was an oil painting come to life, all scorn and silk and spotless white cuffs. His expression was more contempt than confusion.

Across the foyer, Lando’s shadow grew shorter before he finally approached.

“Lando,” Charles greeted, voice smooth as silk pulled taut, practically through gritted teeth. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Or has etiquette finally died in Monte Carlo?”

“You didn’t answer your phone,” Lando mock-pouted.

“You’ve lost your mind,” Charles replied, nothing but venom in his voice. “You must have a very short memory, Norris. Or perhaps no memory at all. Surely even a street rat like you knows better than to bring a blood feud to someone’s home.”

Lando proceeded to step inside without being asked.

The guards flinched but didn’t stop him. Maybe they were under orders, or maybe they knew better.

“What the hell are you thinking?” Charles continued nonetheless, voice low and lethal. “You think you can come to my house, in the middle of the goddamn night, and– what? What exactly is the plan here, Norris?”

With all the nonchalance in the world, Lando’s eyes flicked to the portraits on the walls. Generations of Leclercs, frozen in oil and arrogance.

But Lando Norris walked like he wasn’t surrounded by the best money had to offer or men twice his size with weapons slung across their shoulders. He walked in like he wasn’t one twitch away from never walking out.

The leather of his motorcycle jacket was dripping from the storm outside. The red accents on the shoulders of his jackets glistened, reflecting the little light from outside ominously. Even his hair was misty, darkening the color as if to suit his intentions for the night.

In short, Lando Norris walked in like a threat in human form.

What confused Charles even more than the ease with which the Brit had entered, was the nonchalance with which he’d done it.

Charles laughed. He couldn’t help but find humor in this blatant act of idiocy.

Only a fool would do something like this.

But Lando continued to stand there, an unsettling calm in his posture, like he had all the time in the world. As if he wasn’t at the doorstep of Charles’s home, soaking the entry carpet with the dirty water from his shoes like it wasn’t handmade Turkish silk, woven just for the Leclercs.

The audacity–

Charles took a step forward, his fury restrained only by old money etiquette.

“Perhaps you are too stupid to know, but let me explain this to you,” he inhaled deeply, breathing in all the patience he possibly could so he wouldn’t strangle Lando with his bare hands.

“You want to settle something with me, you do it like a man. You do it on the streets, with terms, controlled. But this?” He gestured around them. The chandelier above them almost seemed to tremble faintly from the sheer force of the Monagesque’s voice. “This is war without rules.”

“Good,” Lando answered, his voice flat as he appeared entirely unamused. “Because I’m done with rules.”

Charles’s lips twitched – not a smile, but a warning.

“You forget who you’re speaking to,” he seethed, words forced from between clenched teeth.

“No,” Lando replied. “I remember exactly who I’m speaking to. A man so careful with his hands he sends other people to do his dirty work.”

The guards moved to take a step forward, sensing the rising tension. Before they could move any further, Charles stopped them with an arrogant wave.

“I take it this is about the girl?” Charles asked, tone suddenly dismissive, like he could toss the whole topic away like lint off his sleeve.

Lando didn’t flinch, tensing every muscle in his body until the entirety of him went rigid.

Say her name from your filthy mouth, I dare you. I’ll rip your throat out before I let you say her name. You don’t even deserve to know it, you bastard.

There was a beat of silence where something ugly passed behind Charles’s eyes — remorse, or perhaps regret that they hadn’t aimed better.

“I warned you,” Charles said slowly, carefully. “You dragged her into this.”

Silence.

“No,” Lando shot back. “A lot of blood has been spilled, Leclerc. Margot, Daniel…” a brief flicker of emotion crossed his eyes, but it was gone before the other man could even notice it.

“And I am not in the business of forgiveness.”

Charles gave a patient sigh, like standing here was boring him, like he was wasting time explaining simple mathematics to a toddler. “They were mere casualties of consequence. You know what happens when people get close to you.”

There it was. That sentence.

It pulled the last stitch of restraint from Lando’s chest.

Lando’s voice dropped, quieter than a whisper, sharper than glass. “You want to talk about consequence?”

He then reached into his coat pocket. The guards went to step forward again, this time to restrain Lando before he could pull out his weapon. Curious, Charles raised a hand, and they froze where they stood.

Lando peered up at them, as if annoyed by the buzzing of a persistent fly instead of two men, trained and armed. As he maintained eye contact, he reached into one of the zipped pockets of his jacket and pulled out a small black drive.

“Logan found this. Oscar verified it.”

Lando tossed it forward, the men watching it as it slid across the marble, until it stopped neatly at Charles’s feet.

The older man stared down, then back up. “And what is it I am looking at?”

“A mistake,” Lando announced breezily, a hint of a smirk curling at the corner of his lips. “Your mistake.”

Charles didn’t blink. Lando didn’t wait.

“If you play it, you might recognize the person there. Your brother was caught outside Brews & Books, back in November. It’s funny, because I don't remember you having any business in that area…” he trailed off dramatically, entertaining himself by passively observing the ornate decor around them

“Imagine my surprise when I see Little Leclerc’s face caught on the corner cam at the bookstore.”

Though Lando was smiling, even Charles was smart enough to know that this was nowhere near as small an issue as Lando’s tone might suggest.

“Rookie mistake,” he smiled.

Carefully, Charles lifted his gaze from his inspection of the drive to look up at the man stood across from him. “So, what, you came here? To my home?” A flicker of disbelief crossed Charles's features, and then the fury settled in. “You’re mad. This is a line no one crosses.”

“Oh, spare me the performance,” Lando snapped. “You’ve killed in clubs, burned businesses to the ground, shot people in broad daylight. Don’t lecture me on lines!”

“I warned you to stay out of this.”

“You killed my friend,” Lando said, jaw clenched. “You tried to kill the only person I have left.”

“Daniel was collateral,” Charles hissed, stepping closer, the mask cracking just enough to show teeth. “He was simply standing too close to you. Don’t you get it? ”

Lando’s hands curled into fists, but he didn’t move.

Instead, he studied the man in front of him — Charles, dressed in black-on-black, composed even in wrath, but letting through something far more interesting now. Something that glimmered at the edges of certainty.

Fear.

“You always act so untouchable,” Lando said, quietly now. “But even your little empire has cracks, doesn’t it?”

Charles’s brow ticked.

Lando kept going. “You cleaned up everything so carefully. Bribed witnesses. Burned tapes. Covered your tracks. But even you missed something.”

He stepped forward, ignoring the additional guards that had suddenly materialized at the sides of the room.

“Arthur.”

Charles’s expression faltered — just slightly, but enough. His stance shifted to a more defensive one. Lando was on very thin ice.

“Careful, Norris.”

It was like he didn’t even hear him. Lando was on a roll, and he was nowhere near going back now. “The kid’s green. You’re groomin’ him for something, yeah? Future heir, ’s that it? Hm, but he’s sloppy. Doesn’t know how to stay in the shadows like you. And guess what?”

Lando pulled out his phone and pressed play.

Grainy footage rolled – a timestamp, a street corner. The shop sign was unmistakable: Brews & Books. And a too-familiar figure ducking around the alley in a hoodie just a little too clean, eyes darting behind dark sunglasses.

Arthur Leclerc.

Charles didn’t breathe.

“I know where he’s been,” Lando said. “I know what he’s seen. And if I follow him long enough, I’ll know everything you’ve tried to hide.”

“You threaten him—”

“I didn’t say a word yet,” Lando interrupted. “But you get it now, don’t you? This isn’t about money or respect or even revenge anymore. No, none of that.

I jus’ think it’s about time someone teach you a lesson.”

Charles’s face flushed not with fear, but with fury. His expression contorted, transformed into one of controlled, burning, blistering rage.

“You come into my house and threaten my brother?” he boomed. “Do you really want a war that bad, Norris?”

Lando shrugged. “I didn’t come here for war. I came here for you.”

The younger of the two stepped closer now, the sound of his shoes echoing in the still silence of the grandiose hall.

“But hey, if you want t’ make it about Arthur, I’ll adjust.”

“Leave him out of this.”

“Why?” Lando asked, voice low, his head tilting almost as if he was genuinely confused. Even his voice changed, suddenly syrupy sweet and full of mock naivety. “Because he’s young? Because he’s innocent? Because he’s the only piece of your dynasty that can still look in the mirror without seeing ghosts?”

Charles stepped forward, the rage radiating off him like heat from a furnace.

“This is your death wish,” he said. “And I promise you, Lando — if you leave here tonight, it’ll be in a bodybag.”

Lando smirked.

“For your sake, Leclerc? You better be right.”

As Lando brushed the excess water off the pads of his shoulders, Charles stepped up to him. “You’re out of your depth, Norris,” Charles declared. “Whatever stunt you think this is — it ends here.”

Lando stepped inside anyway, crossing the threshold of the entrance like it meant nothing. He now stood squarely beneath the extravagant chandelier that hung from the center of the domed ceiling, looking more comfortable than Charles himself. “Then stop me.”

The heavy doors slammed shut behind him, the two guards that had been standing beside Charles now flanking the floor to ceiling windows on either side. Charles didn’t flinch. He didn’t have to – the house was a fortress, and he clearly thought himself to be untouchable.

“You think showing up to a man’s home — his sanctuary — will earn you justice? You of all people should know there is no such thing as justice.” Charles sneered.

“No,” Lando corrected. “I think it’ll earn me your attention. And I’ve got it now, haven’t I?”

Charles stepped forward, the heat rising in his voice. “This is a declaration of war. The kind that doesn’t get walked back.”

“You started that the moment Margot died.”

“I didn’t pull the trigger.”

“No,” Lando said, jaw clenched, “but you gave the order.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he laughed — a short, humorless thing. “Look at you. You’ve done more damage to yourself than I ever could.”

Charles’s smile dropped. The air grew still.

“This is your last chance,” he said tightly. “Walk out of here while you still can. You may have your network, your girl, your tragic little vendettas, but here, Norris? You are outgunned, outnumbered, and out of time.”

“I think you’re mistaken.” He turned slowly, letting his words hang in the air like a noose tightening.

Charles didn’t respond, but Lando saw the flicker – barely half a second where his weight shifted. His shoulders squared — too quick, too sharp.

Defensive.

Protective.

Lando surveyed Charles’s expression carefully, taking his time until he seemed to have found what he was looking for.

“You think you are so untouchable, so protected here, in this little castle of yours,” Lando gestured to the estate surrounding them. “But I’ve been going through old footage, CCTV, armory logs, phone pings. And you know what I found?”

Lando took another bold step forward, looking far too certain of himself for someone who Charles believed was supposed to be scared shitless by now.

Perhaps he had been too kind a host, he mused.

“What?” he demanded, irritated and clearly done with Lando’s games. "What is it that you think you found?”

“A pattern. You were always too clean. But someone wasn’t.”

He took a step forward, past the guards who now stood just a touch tenser, just a touch readier.

“Little brother,” Lando said quietly. “The one who’s always three steps behind.”

Charles’s eyes sharpened.

“Arthur,” Lando continued. “He’s the one who got caught outside Brews & Books in your unmarked car, with the wrong plates. He’s the one who trailed me that day.”

But it was the next thing he said that struck fear down to Charles’s bones.

“And I think he’s here tonight.”

“You have no proof,” Charles snapped, but it was too fast, too defensive.

Lando smiled. “I don’t need proof. I just needed doubt. And you’ve got plenty of it.”

Silence hung like wire between them.

“You touch him,” Charles said, voice low and furious, “and I will bury you.”

“Oh, please,” Lando said, stepping close enough to see the hate in his eyes. “You’re the one who taught me, yeah? There are no rules.”

“Do you realize what you’ve done?” Charles asked, descending the last few steps. His voice was soft, dangerous. “You don’t come into a man’s house. That’s not a rule. That’s law. Even the dirtiest of us respect that line. What you've done here isn't business. It's insult. And now you think you can threaten my brother? That’s suicide.”

Lando took a step closer. Charles faltered—not in step, but in certainty. It lasted a second. Maybe less.

“After what you did,” Lando continued. “You thought I’d stay civilized after that?”

“Civilization,” Charles murmured, “is the only thing keeping people like you breathing.”

Lando’s gaze narrowed. “Then maybe it’s time someone stopped playing civil.”

Just then, as if divinely timed, a door opened. Another figure stepped out—taller, younger, all nerves and false bravado.

Arthur.

He froze when he saw Lando.

Lando didn’t turn his head, but his eyes moved. Just enough to catch the flicker of guilt, the half-step backward, the shadow of recognition.

He knows what he did.

Arthur’s spine snapped straight. He opened his mouth — then closed it. Too slow, too unsure.

Charles turned, sharp. “Arthur—”

“Did he know?” Lando cut in. “Or maybe he was just following orders? Actually, it doesn’ matter now, does it? Because he got caught. Your downfall has arrived, Charles Leclerc. And it starts with the weak link.”

Arthur bristled, having the audacity to look offended. “I’m not—”

“You’re a pawn,” Lando sneered, turning his attention to the younger boy. “That’s why he sent you. Disposable enough to shadow me, stupid enough to get seen”

“I didn’t shoot her—” Arthur snapped, but it was too late.

“That’s enough!” Charles shouted, his face reddening as he threatened to explode with fury. He held up a hand, silencing his brother before he could dig himself into any deeper trouble, before he got himself into something Charles couldn’t get him out of.

Finally, Charles straightened, buttoning his cuff with all the performative calm of a man trying not to explode.

“Get lost, Norris,” he spat, before turning to his guards. “Kill him, don’t kill him, I don’t care.”

He glared at Lando, obsidian eyes boring into his own with the most fury Lando had ever seen.

“I want him gone.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Lando smiled, fluttering his lashes mockingly.

Did he think this was some kind of joke?

Charles sighed, before going to pull his handgun from the waist of his pajamas. It looked like he’d have to take care of this himself. He didn’t mind, though it did mean there would be a bigger mess to clean up.

Charles glared at Arthur to get back inside, away from the inevitable mess that would unfold here tonight. He looked back to Lando having already pulled out his own gun.

Lando stepped forward again. The guards tensed, unsure whether they were supposed to intervene.

Still, Charles didn’t move, torn between his anger and a morbid sort of curiosity.

“I’m not here for games, Leclerc. I’m not here to dance around threats or sit across the table like we’re equals. I’m here because you killed Daniel. I’m here because your brother put my girl in the crosshairs. And I’m here,” he said, voice low and final, “because I want you to understand something very clearly before this ends.”

Charles went eerily still.

Lando wasn’t here to talk. He wasn’t here to bargain. He was here because he’d been pushed so far off the edge of sanity that the only way out was through.

"I'm not here to threaten you."

The words echoed in the marble-clad quiet of the Leclerc estate. A space carved from power, gleaming with untouchable wealth. The kind of place where men like Charles were meant to be invincible.

There was a pause.

Then Lando smiled—sharp, mean.

"I'm here to end you."

“You– You’re bluffing,” Charles stammered.

Lando smiled. Simple, clean, and more dangerous than any knife to the ribs. Charles’s eyes narrowed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop even further.

“You are out of your mind,” Charles muttered, but there was no real conviction in his voice. Only the hint of uncertainty that Lando’s words had planted.

“I’m not.”

“You couldn’t possibly think you could even lay a finger on me here, let alone kill me,” Charles laughed, but it was a strange, nervous sort of chuckle – nowhere near the confidence that was meant to daunt his enemy.

Lando didn’t reply. Looking bored, he simple made a slow, deliberate motion with his hand. He raised a single finger, waved out once, side to side, as if ringing an invisible bell, before pointing right at Charles.

A red dot appeared then.

Right over Charles’s heart.

The red laser sight of a sniper flickered on Charles’s chest. Then, it shifted, just barely, to the center of his forehead.

Good work, Oscar.

Charles’s breath caught in his throat as the realization hit, the color draining from his face. It was like time itself slowed, his pulse skipping a beat.

A sniper. A cold, precise killer waiting for a moment.

He’d be dead before his guards could even draw their weapons.

“D’you still think I’m bluffing?” Lando asked, as his hand slowly dropped.

“You wouldn’t.”

Lando raised his palm, closing it into a fist before resting it by his side. The light disappeared with it.

Charles had only begun to take a breath of relief when–

Glass shattered.

A single shot rang out.

Then, chaos ensued.

Charles moved without thinking, instinct cutting through his initial shock. He ducked behind one of the expensive sculptures, his heart racing. The echo of glass, the sharp staccato of bullets, all of it instantly transformed the polished, pristine estate into a warzone.

His men didn’t have time to regroup. The moment he looked back to check on his men, he knew they would be of no use to him — all of them either dead or about to be, as they used their assault rifles to return fire at a target they couldn’t even see.

Lando had played him. He’d been stalling, waiting for backup until he knew he had the advantage, and Charles had played right into his hand. Now, he was rapidly losing control of the situation, and it gnawed at him.

As Charles ran to duck behind another pillar, he watched as the statue he’d just been crouched behind shattered to pieces, a pullet piercing straight through its marble foundation. The gunfire was relentless.

How many gunmen did Lando have? He needs to call backup, needs more guards, needs—

But before Charles could complete that thought, the gunfire stopped, the final ringing silence following the last shot. As he tactfully peered out from behind the stone pillar, he watched a cold, cruel grin spread across Lando’s face.

“You’re not very good at this, are you, Charles?” Lando singsonged, unnervingly pristine amidst the active threat and destruction.

“I have reinforcements on the way,” Charles panted, fixing Lando with a threatening glare. “You may have your shooter, but I have an army, Norris. What will you do then?”

Lando didn’t answer. In the moment in between, Charles’s eyes swept the space — looking for his guards, planning out his angles. He made no sudden moves yet – not with Lando standing there like a lit match in a room full of gasoline.

“You’ve made your point,” Charles yelled, voice controlled as he stalled for time. “But you forget — this is my house. And I don’t lose control in my house.”

“No,” Lando said, eyes glinting. “But you do lose something else.”

It happened slowly.

Charles opened his mouth to answer—only to realize he hadn’t seen Arthur in at least ten minutes. First, he glanced toward the right hall, where his youngest brother had last been standing.

Nothing.

Then, when the gunfire stopped, a whisper came into Charles’s earpiece. “What is it?” Charles whispered, trying to confirm the words lost in the electronic garble.

The voice on the other end of his line hesitated. “We’ve… lost visuals on Arthur.”

Charles went still.

“What?”

Arthur’s guard repeated it, quieter. “Not sure when. He was on the east wing minutes ago.”

Lando’s smile widened—wolfish now. Sharp. “Oops.”

“You think I’m afraid of you?” Charles bellowed, finally stepping out from where he’d sought cover. “You’re out of your depth.”

Lando tilted his head. “Then why haven’t you stopped me yet?”

The older man shouted into his earpiece. “Find Arthur.”

No response.

He frowned. “Now!”

When still he heard nothing, Lando’s smile widened like the crack of a coffin lid.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Charles stated coldly.

“I know exactly what I’m doing,” Lando snorted, stepping deeper into the house. He seemed right at home amidst the destruction and the opulence. “The only thing I’m not sure of yet is whether I’ll use bullets or rope.”

“You think you can walk into my house and—”

“Funny thing,” Lando said. “You still keep calling it your house.”

Charles stiffened.

“You think just because you built this kingdom that it makes you untouchable. You think men like you stay kings forever,” Lando practically sang. He took one more step forward, and for the first time, Charles took a step back.

“Yet here I am.”

“Security—”

“Won’t reach you in time.” Lando tilted his head. “They haven’t had eyes on Arthur in nearly twenty minutes, by the way. Disappointing, really.”

Charles’s face twitched, just slightly. “Don’t lie to me!”

“Oh, Charles. We’ve known each other a long time now. Wouldn’ you know if I was lying?”

The room fell silent. Too silent.

“You’ve lost eyes on your brother.”

The words landed like a gunshot. Charles stiffened, composure slipping just enough for Lando to see it—the hit had connected.

“You think you’re clever,” Charles muttered, a sad attempt at regaining his footing. “But we keep track of our own.”

“Clearly not well enough.” Lando smiled, looking quite pleased with himself.

“You see, I thought about killing you first,” Lando explained, eyeing the older brother, voice light but empty of warmth. “But then I realized... people like you don’t break when you bleed. You break when your legacy does.”

He turned slightly, his eyes on the door as if waiting for someone.

Charles suddenly surged forward, carrying the full momentum of his entire body weight — some pathetic, hail mary attempt at catching Lando off guard but Lando caught him by the collar and slammed him back against the nearest wall.

“You wouldn’t—” he choked out, face pressed up against the wall.

But Lando cut him off. “I already did.”

Charles blinked, his face flickering for the briefest of moments. There it was—the hesitation in his eyes. The flicker of fear.

Lando continued, his words deliberate, as if pulling back the layers of a secret too dangerous for anyone to know. “Kid’s just a pawn, but he’s a pawn you forgot to protect. You left him out in the open — vulnerable — and now I’ve got him.”

Charles took a step forward, fury rising in him like a tidal wave. His voice was tight, barely contained. “You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Lando asked, tilting his head slightly, like he was savoring the moment. "Do you really want to test it?"

Charles’s blood turned cold. “Where is he?”

Lando didn’t answer.

“You were looking for someone?” he taunted.

Charles didn’t have time to react. The front gate was slammed open, interrupting their intimate little affair. The sound of footsteps behind him made him turn, just in time to see Oscar entering the room, stepping out of the shadows with a calm precision that sent a fresh wave of dread down Charles’s spine.

Amidst the shattered glass and stretching shadows, Oscar appeared to be moving like an apparition in the chaos. He was Lando’s gunman, a ghost of death made real.

The Aussie had always been more quiet, choosing to observe more often than to announce his presence with witty quips. But now, he stood too quiet, too composed. It was as if he knew this was the moment to ensure the final nail in the coffin was driven home.

Oscar, Lando’s cold-blooded enforcer, stepped into the foyer. His presence was as subtle as a strike of lightning—quick, precise, and deadly. Charles couldn’t possibly understand why Oscar was here, why Lando would give up his trump card like that but making him vulnerable out here in the open. He didn’t understand, at least until he looked beside him.

Charles’s blood turned to ice.

In Oscar’s hands, he carried a figure bound and gagged, a sack over the head. The second figure was taller, the canvas bag over the head obscuring his face, his wrists bound behind his back. Charles watched him struggle against the restraints, noticed him wearing—

Charles’s stomach turned.

I know that jacket.

It was his brother’s favorite, a vintage racing bomber with a cracked red stripe on the sleeve. Worn at the collar, frayed at the edges. Custom-sized. There was no mistaking it.

Arthur.

His baby brother.

He was alive, but barely. His hands were tied, a black cloth bag thrown over his head, and he was making muffled, weak noises through the cloth. A low, desperate plea that Charles wanted to never hear. His younger brother was barely able to stand, and when Oscar shoved him forward, Charles’s breath hitched.

It was Arthur Leclerc, his own younger brother, who had been shoved into the room like a rag doll, arms bound, a bag over his head. His muffled shouts for help reverberated through the chamber like a dying heartbeat.

“No…” Charles whispered, voice barely audible.

Lando watched him, his gaze calculating, a predatory look in his gaze.

“Don’t.” Charles’s voice cracked – a warning, a plea.

Oscar’s grip was ruthless. At Lando’s nod, he shoved the boy forward. Arthur fell hard, his knees instantly hitting marble. He let out a choked, muffled noise —desperation– and flinched as cold metal pressed against the center of his forehead.

Lando’s gun.

“Lando—”

“D’you feel that?” Lando asked softly, almost kindly. “That pulse ‘n your throat? That ache ‘n your chest? That’s what it feels like when someone takes the one thing you’d kill t’ protect.”

Charles could barely hear him. He didn’t know if it was the leftover ringing from the gunshot or the sound of his own blood rushing in his ears, but everything felt muted. All he could do was stare at those shoes. He couldn’t peel his eyes away from those sneakers, the white pair with the green trim — Arthur’s favorite, a limited pair Charles remembered he’d spent weeks trying to track down.

Charles struggled against where Lando had him held against the wall. “Stop—”

Lando let him go. With his gun already in hand, he slowly turned his attention back to Arthur, before pressing the cold barrel to the bowed head in front of him once again.

Oscar came to stand beside him, his face expressionless.

Would they really kill a child? Would they really make him watch as they blew his little brother’s brains out?

Charles felt vomit rise in his throat. He watched as the boy shook, trying to breathe. A muffled sound broke free—raw panic.

“Norris,” Charles called weakly. “That’s my brother.”

“Oh, is it?” Lando said, feigning surprise. “Huh. Shame.”

“You can’t—”

“I definitely can,” Lando said flatly.

He twisted the gun, just enough for the metal to dig into the front of the boy’s skull.

“You hurt me. It’s only fair I get to hurt you too. Plus, m’ bein’ quite nice, really. Look, I didn’t even do anything to you. Just your brother, but since he was the one tailin’ me, he’s fair game, yeah?”

The gun pressed harder against his skin, creating an indent from the pressure. Beneath the canvas, the younger boy whimpered.

Charles’s composure cracked just a fracture. “Please,” he said tightly. “Whatever it is you want, we– we can negotiate.”

“Oh, now you want to talk?”

Lando chuckled, until it turned into a deep, full-bodied laugh. Charles looked at him like he had finally, properly gone insane, but he didn’t care.

What about this is funny?

“There it is!”

He looked up at Charles, his face lit up with sort of indescribable joy. “You know, I always wondered what would finally do it. What would finally make you beg?”

As Charles knew now, it was always Arthur.

Arthur, the weak link. Arthur, the brother who couldn’t shut his mouth and didn’t know how not to be seen. Arthur, who killed a woman because he thought it would make him a man.

The boy’s knees scraped as he tried to shift, too terrified to do much else as the marble floor pressed uncomfortably against his kneecaps.

The muffled screams from Arthur—the desperate, guttural noises of a man who knew exactly what was happening, even though his face was covered—cut through the air. Charles’s face rapidly drained of color, his body going rigid with a mixture of disbelief and panic.

Lando didn’t give him a chance to speak. He didn’t care for the pleas Charles might make, the way his voice would crack or his eyes would soften in desperation. No, this was a moment of pure control. Power. Lando’s finger rested on the cold metal, pressing just hard enough to remind Charles who was truly in charge here.

Charles’s face twisted. “If you touch him—”

"Put him down," Lando ordered.

Oscar, without hesitation, shoved Arthur to the floor, making him fold closer to the floor with a harsh thud. Arthur’s body slumped from the impact. His breaths were ragged, but it wasn’t just fear that had him shivering. It was the desperate effort of muffled screams.

“No!” Charles screamed, but he couldn’t move. His body refused to cooperate as his gaze locked onto his brother’s trembling form.

Arthur was on his knees, his head down. His voice was still distorted, struggling against the gag.

Lando’s voice was eerily calm.

“Do you recognize him, Charles?” he asked, leaning in just slightly, waving his gun around casually like it was a toy instead of a real weapon. “I thought you might. Funny how the details slip away when you’re so busy hiding your tracks.”

His head snapped to Lando, fury sparking in his eyes.

"You can’t do this. You—" Charles’s voice was tight, desperate. "If you kill him— if you kill Arthur— you’ll never get what you want. You’ll never see anything through. You’ll lose.”

Lando’s eyes hardened. He didn't blink. Instead, he simply pressed the barrel of the gun against the back of Arthur's head, just hard enough to make the boy flinch.

The world held its breath.

Click.

He pressed the barrel against the side of the bag-covered head. The figure beneath flinched. The gagged cry that came from under the canvas was unmistakably raw and terrified.

That’s when Charles snapped.

“Stop. Stop. Stop!” He shouted, his voice cracking through the silence. “Norris— Norris, don’t.”

Lando looked up, gaze glinting like a knife just before it slid in.Charles’s eyes darted back to his brother, his mind racing. The sound of Arthur's muffled cries was the only thing that filled the air.

"Please, don’t," Charles breathed. "Please, Norris. He’s just a kid. He’s not a part of this. I never meant for him to be."

Lando let the silence drag on, letting Charles stew in his fear. He wanted him to feel it, to understand that the blood on his hands wasn’t just from his own choices, but from the lives he’d destroyed in the process.

Charles’s voice cracked again. “I’ll give you whatever you want. Just... don’t kill him.”

Lando smirked, lifting the gun just slightly so that it was no longer pressed against Arthur’s head.

"What do you think?" Lando mused aloud. "What is your life worth, Charles? What is Arthur’s life worth?"

Charles clenched his teeth.

"You think this is a victory for you, don’t you?" he spat. He hated this, hated how Lando was treating it like this was some game, rather than a matter of life or death. He hated feeling like a puppet on strings, dancing to whatever tune Norris sang. But most of all, he hated Norris for forcing him to look in the mirror and recognize the monster in his reflection.

Lando's smile only grew colder.

"Victory? No. It’s just... retribution."

The moment stretched on, before Lando quickly grew bored of all of the talking and decided it was finally time for action.

"Alright, let’s do this,” Lando nodded to Oscar, cracking his neck and stretching his wrist.

Charles’s expression shattered—rage giving way to something rawer: terror. He immediately jumped in, intending to at least put himself between Arthur and Lando’s gun. He didn’t know if that would stop Lando, but maybe it’d confuse him or deter him or at least buy Arthur an extra second so he could try to escape.

As fate would have it, he found himself in a similar position just an instant later, the business end of Oscar’s personal handgun pointed right between his eyes.

“Easy there, mate.”

Charles directed his attention to Lando, like he was the one with the power to change this. But then he saw the way Lando’s gun was pointed at his brother, the safety clicked off.

”You wouldn’t—” he tried pathetically. He couldn’t help it. For once, Charles Leclerc was all out of cards to play.

“Let me guess,” Lando cut in, mocking. “Family is sacred?”

He tilted his head. “You should’ve thought of that before Arthur pulled the trigger.”

And then, with the same calm Charles had once used to sign death warrants, Lando raised a single finger to hover over the trigger.

“NO!”

Charles tried to lunge. Oscar stopped him with nothing but a step forward and then Lando whispered a single word in his ear.

“Beg.”

It came out of him like a command. Not loud. Not cruel. Just final.

Charles froze.

“You want to talk about rules?” Lando said, voice low and unforgiving. “You broke them. You started a war you didn’t finish. Now you’re gonna learn what happens when someone like me decides to finish it for you.”

Charles’s breathing turned ragged.

“Please,” he whispered.

Lando stepped closer.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Please,” Charles said again. “Please, don’t hurt him. He didn’t—he’s just a boy. He didn’t understand. He was trying to prove himself.”

“And he did,” Lando said. “Just not in the way you hoped.”

Charles dropped to his knees, hands open.

“I’ll give you whatever you want. Money. Territory. Everything. Just let him go.”

Lando considered that. Then, he smiled – a thin, soulless thing.

Arthur’s muffled screams echoed louder as he struggled, the desperation in his movements adding weight to the tension. The sound of his little brother’s panicked cries was the only thing Charles could focus on. His hand, trembling now, reached forward as if trying to stop it, to make it all stop, but the words came out in a frantic whisper.

“Please.”

Lando let the silence stretch between them before he responded. “You had your chance, Charles. You had the opportunity to stop this. But you’re too fucking careless, too arrogant, and now it’s your little brother who’s gonna pay the price for your mistakes.”

Oscar stepped back, keeping a steady hand on the gun in his belt, while Lando continued, his words slow and deliberate. "I don’t care about your empire, Charles. I don’t care about your family’s legacy. But I will care about you when you beg. I’ll care about it because it’ll be the last thing I hear from you.”

Charles’s shoulders slumped, the full weight of everything crashing into him like a flood. The power—the control—was slipping away, bit by bit, and it terrified him. For the first time, he saw it. The pure, unrelenting force that was Lando Norris. And he knew, deep down, he would never escape it.

The gun was still pressed to Arthur’s head.

Lando leaned in close, just inches away, his voice barely a whisper.

“Beg. Like you mean it. Like your brother’s life depends on it.”

Charles, his throat tight, his body fighting the instinct to break, finally whispered, the words barely audible.

“Please, I’m begging you... don’t.”

Lando’s eyes flicked to Oscar, who took a step back, giving him space. For a long moment, Lando stared at Charles, his cold gaze unwavering.

“You should’ve known better,” Lando murmured. And then, as if flipping a switch, he pulled the gun back, the danger not entirely gone but a shift in how he wielded it.

Charles collapsed to his knees, breath ragged, the weight of his failure crashing down around him.

“I’ll make it quick,” Lando promised softly.

And with that, the empire Charles Leclerc built began to crumble.

His eyes widened in horror.

No. No. No. This– That wasn’t the deal. He can’t–

The word tore out of Charles like muscle from bone. “Merde— don’t!”

Lando smiled.

“Ah, finally. So you do have a heart,” he said softly.

Charles stepped forward, panic chasing the tail of his voice. “You don’t want to do this. Norris— Lando, I’m serious. This is not the way—”

“Why not?” Lando’s tone was glacial. “You used your brother like a pawn. If you don’t care who gets caught in your crossfire, why should I?”

“I care!” Charles shouted. “He’s just a kid, he—he doesn’t know what he’s doing—he’s not part of this!”

Lando clicked the safety off.

And then, quietly, “Oscar?”

Oscar nodded. “On it.”

Then, with theatrical ease, he reached up and ripped the bag off the boy’s head. Charles breathed the greatest sigh of relief, finally breathing oxygen for what felt like the first time in years, as his eyes finally landed on that familiar mop of blond hair–

Wait, blond?

Arthur doesn’t have blond hair.

Charles blinked again, only to find Logan, his blond hair tousled, his eyes wide and gleaming with mischief.

Wide-eyed. Gagged. Blonde. Same height. That jacket. Familiar green-trimmed sneakers.

Logan coughed as Oscar helped him take the gag off. “Fucking hell—your gun is cold, man.”

Oscar grunted. “You kept squirming.”

Lando stood, gun still in hand, but no longer aimed.

He looked at Charles, whose face had gone pale, every bit of power and superiority draining out of him like wine from a shattered glass. Logan stood up with a groan, rubbing his wrists as he came to stand beside his boss. He was grinning now, the gag halfway down his neck.

“Evening,” he saluted. He turned to Lando and Oscar then. “Y’know, next time, I wanna be the scary one.”

“Next time,” Lando rolled his eyes.

Charles staggered back.

His face twisted in disbelief, horror, then dawning realization.

He’d begged… for the wrong person?

Lando lowered the gun and tucked it away.

“Where’s…” he cleared his throat, hoarse from yelling and pleading. “Where is Arthur?”

Footsteps echoed behind them. Max Fewtrell strolled in from the side hallway, chewing on a toothpick like this was a neighborhood bodega.

“Arthur’s not here,” he said cheerfully, the way people might discuss the weather. “But I did find his laptop. And his phone. And his little black book. Amazing what you can find when the house is this big and the help’s this underpaid.”

Charles didn’t speak. He only stared at the objects like they would somehow speak and tell him where his brother was.

Lando crouched down, leaned in. “See, Charles,” he murmured. “I came here to prove I could’ve ended you any time I wanted.”

Lando crouched, getting eye-level with Charles now, whose anger was smoldering into something raw and painful.

“I didn’t kill—”

“No,” Lando said. “But you let it happen. And that’s worse.”

He straightened.

“From now on, every time you look over your shoulder, you’ll see me. Every mirror, every dark corner, every deal you try to make—I’ll be there, haunting you. You don’t get to sleep peacefully ever again.”

“Then kill me,” Charles spat. “If you want revenge so badly, do it. Get it over with.”

Lando leaned in close, voice nearly a whisper.

“Oh, I don’t want to kill you, Charlie. I wanted to ruin you.”

He crouched down in front of Charles and looked him in the eye.

“I want you to wake up every day knowing that the thing you love most is alive because I let him live. Not you. Not your money. Me.”

Charles’s shoulders shook.

And with that, Lando and his boys turned their backs on a shattered prince, walking out into the night—Logan in tow, Oscar guarding the flank, Max not far behind.

They left the Leclerc estate in ruin—not in ash or blood, but in something far worse.

Fear.

The doors slammed shut one after another.

The car was silent for a few beats, the windows fogged slightly with the residue of adrenaline, cold air curling through the open vents, and the scent of gun oil still clinging to Lando’s jacket.

Lando slid into the driver’s seat without a word. Max, of course, took shotgun. Oscar and Logan were left to climb into the back, Logan still rubbing at his wrists, the red marks raw.

Lando didn’t turn the key yet. He just sat, eyes forward, letting the silence settle. His jaw was tight, knuckles still a little pale around the steering wheel.

“Well,” Logan muttered, “that was fun!”

Lando didn’t answer. He sat in the passenger seat with his head tilted back, eyes half-lidded, like the sound of silence itself tasted better than air. A small, amused curl played on his lips — one that hadn’t moved since he left Charles Leclerc kneeling in his own marble entryway like a man begging the devil to go easy.

Max climbed in last, casually tossing Arthur’s confiscated belongings into the center console.

“You could’ve told me you were going full Bond villain,” he said, but there was no real bite, just a grin of shared satisfaction. “You had me searching between oil paintings and family crests like I was casing the fucking Louvre.”

Lando just laughed. “Noted.”

“His laptop was unlocked,” Max added. “No password. Classic little brother move.”

He turned then, looking back at the two sitting in the back of the car. “And where’d you two come from? I thought you were taking care of the thing in America this weekend?”

Oscar grinned. “Nah, we stuck around for this. Boss left his phone on in his pocket, so we heard everything. Leclerc didn’t even know what hit him.”

“And the jacket?” Logan asked. “How’d you know he’d recognize it?”

“He’s a big brother,” Lando said simply. “They notice stupid shit like that.”

“Hmm, Arthur’s laptop was unlocked,” Max added. “No password. Classic little brother move.”

The laughter faded gradually, like dust settling after a storm. Silence trickled back in. Outside the windows, the road stretched long and dark, the only light coming from the dashboard and the faint glow of the city in the distance.

Oscar cracked his neck in the passenger seat. Logan was still half-bound in the back, rubbing at the angry red marks on his wrists and shaking off the adrenaline.

“You really went full drama with the tape and everything, huh?” Logan muttered, voice still somewhat hoarse.

“You looked great,” Oscar said, deadpan.

“Thanks,” Logan grunted. “I was aiming for kidnapped chic.”

Oscar punched him on the arm, and the two shared a laugh.

“You didn’t have to tie me so tight though,” Logan muttered, tugging at the red marks. “My bones are not decorative.”

Oscar rolled his eyes at that. “You wanted it to be convincing, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, but I also want to be able to type again. What if I get arthritis from this? You know how cold it was in that room? My knuckles were—”

“Logan.”

Lando look at him through the rearview mirror. “You did great. Now stop complainin’.”

That shut him up.

But only for about thirty seconds.

Logan whistled low. “So what now? Charles isn’t going to just lie down and take this. It’s only a matter of time until he finds Arthur. And when he does—what’s stopping him from coming after us?”

For a second, the only sound was the faint purr of the engine. Then Lando’s eyes met Max’s in the rearview mirror. They exchanged a single look.

“He won’t find Arthur.”

Logan blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Lando said, finally turning in his seat to glance back, “he’s already long gone.”

“Gone where?”

“Little Leclerc’s already on his way to someplace new.”

Logan blinked. “Wait– what?”

Oscar leaned forward a little. “You’re kidding. How?”

Lando let a small, dangerous smile curve at the corner of his mouth. “I texted Max the minute I walked through the front door. Told him which wing to check.”

Lando kept speaking, quiet and sharp. “Arthur had an escort waiting the moment he stepped out for ‘air.’ Thought it was a Leclerc security driver. He’ll wake up three countries away, passport stamped, head spinning.”

Logan gawked. “Where’d you send him?”

Lando reached into his coat and pulled out his phone. He held it up to show them a live location dot ticking slowly across a map.

“Saarbrücken,” he said simply.

Oscar let out a low, impressed whistle. “Germany?”

Lando gave a small, satisfied nod.

Logan squinted at the map, brows furrowed. “Who’s in Saarbrücken?”

Lando’s smirk widened.

“Our German friend is gonna get him there,” he said. “He still owes me a favor or two. He’s Ex–Stasi, collects vintage knives.”

Oscar barked a laugh. “That guy?”

Logan was still squinted at the map, brows furrowed. “What’s in Saarbrücken?”

Lando’s smirk widened.

“Nico Hulkenberg, he’s gonna take very good care of Arthur,” Lando said, voice cool and unhurried. “Feed him, keep him safe, teach him how to properly scrub the serials off a gun, maybe.”

Logan slumped back in his seat. “Jesus.”

“Mhm.” Lando finally glanced at the rearview mirror, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “More importantly, he’s gonna get him to Vettel.”

Logan squinted. “Vettel…?”

Lando’s grin widened. “Sebastian. He’s good people. He was in the game for bit, absolute menace. But he’s retired now.”

“Oh my god,” Logan practically squealed with excitement. “You gave Arthur to the Sebastian Vettel?”

Oscar laughed. “Perfect. That man once raised three goats and an orphaned fox in his garage. He’ll make Arthur chamomile tea and emotionally rehabilitate him in two weeks flat.”

“He’s already halfway to Bavaria by now,” Max updated, checking his phone. “With no phone, no idea where he’s going, and zero chance of escape.”

“He’ll take good care of him,” Lando added, rolling the window down to let in the cold night air. “Kid’s harmless. He just needs a change of scenery and someone who knows how to make him feel useful. Sebastian’s good at that kinda stuff.”

Logan slumped back into the seat, half-amused, half-exasperated. “I hate how smart this all was.”

A look passed over Lando’s face, something surprisingly thoughtful. Max realized for the first time how close he’d been to giving up one of the few principles he had left in this world.

Lando must’ve been feeling what it’d be like to almost kill a kid.

“Arthur needed a new start,” Lando announced, clearing his throat. “And Seb’s got a whole ranch in the Alps now. So he’ll be walking goats and reading philosophy in no time.”

Max barked a laugh. “Assuming he doesn’t drive Niko insane first.”

“He won’t.” Lando’s tone was final. “He won’t be anyone’s pawn again.”

The car fell quiet again.

It was a moment later when Logan added, whispering lowly as he leaned in closer. “You’re kinda terrifying, you know that?”

Lando didn’t answer. He only smiled.

They drove in silence after that, the weight of what they’d finally accomplished trailing behind them like smoke.

a/n: as some of you already know i was literally typing this at graduation lol but this chapter is finally done! i have to say this is one of my favorite chapters we've done so far, so pls pls lmk what you think!

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espace--positif · 3 months ago

Text

Warmth

A Zayne x F!Reader Fic [Love and Deepspace]

Summary: For a man whose Evol is pure, frigid, pristine ice, Zayne is surprisingly warm. Pairing: Zayne x F!Reader WC: ~1.7k Content tags: pure fluff, domestic fluff

Read on AO3 // Masterlist

For a man whose Evol is pure, frigid, pristine ice, Zayne is surprisingly warm.

You first make this realization one winter evening, as you laze on his comfortable yet firm sectional, tucked within layers and layers of blankets. The last of the credits dissolve from the screen, definitively marking the end of your movie night. The movie was nothing remarkable, a typical action flick with a neat bow-on-top ending that set it up perfectly for its inevitable sequel, but you still wouldn’t trade a night like this one for the world.

As if on cue, a yawn creeps up on you, and Zayne catches the tail end of it as he returns to the living room, two mugs of Valerian herbal tea in hand. His pajamas, loose as they are, still frame his chiseled form; a simple white long sleeve, the memory of its soft cotton touch still on your skin, and equally plain heather grey pants. His lips upturn slightly as he pauses halfway through the room.

“We should head to bed,” he proposes as tendrils of vapor escape the mugs he holds. ‘We.’ It’s not even ‘Are you staying the night?’ anymore. As the stray thought passes, you can’t help but notice how ethereal he looks under the dim overheads and misty steam.

You stretch, muscles lax and languid, toes curling into the warmth of your blanket cocoon. “Mmh, you can go ahead. You have an early morning tomorrow, right? I’ll join you in a second.”

Zayne hums as though he doesn’t believe you. You stifle a chuckle. It isn’t that you’re not tired, but the enticing warmth that envelops you is making it difficult to even think about braving the cool air that awaits you, even in the short walk between the living room and the bedroom. You’re pretty sure you’ve also forgotten your slippers God knows where, and you’re not exactly looking forward to walking on icy hardwood.

“Sure,” Zayne says before disappearing into the hallway. You curl into yourself, knowing very well it will only get harder and harder to escape your soon-to-be blanket prison. But the promise of warm, soothing Valerian returns to the forefront of your mind, and you half-sit up.

“Ah,” you call out. “You forgot to bring me my t–”

Zayne reemerges, empty-handed. Your lips curve into a smile as he slowly walks towards you, his expression mirroring your own, untold mischief dancing in his hazel eyes.

“I didn’t forget. Come to bed,” he gently insists. “Your neck’s going to hurt if you sleep here.”

You giggle as you curl back into your blankets. “S’not my fault your couch is so comfy.”

Zayne lets out an over-dramatic sigh. “I’ll make sure to buy a stiffer couch, then. Just for you.” At this, you laugh unabated.

“But in the meantime…” he continues as he closes the distance to you. And in a swift movement, you’re extricated from your toasty haven, its warmth but a memory. But before you can muster a protest, his arms curl under your body and you find yourself lifted against his chest. And the warmth returns, blossoming tenfold in your chest.

You don’t find the energy or desire to protest as Zayne carries you to the bedroom, your hand resting on the soft cotton of his shirt, taking in the warm energy of his heartbeat, steadfast and unyielding as the midday sun shining on even the coldest of winter days.

“You’re warm,” you mumble, a small smile coloring your words.

“Is that a bad thing?” His voice rumbles pleasantly through his chest, spreading a suffused, invisible, yet palpable glow through your relaxed body.

“Not at all,” you reply, letting your head rest against his chest as your eyes flutter shut. And in that moment, you find yourself hoping that this year’s winter will persist, so that you might relish in Zayne’s warmth longer. This time, your voice is barely above a whisper. “Not at all.”

The winter market has become a yearly tradition for you and Zayne, partly because you’ve dragged him there enough times to make it an inevitable habit, but mostly because of the food.

Carts and stands line the pedestrian street, filling the air with a mixture of delectable scents — warm and toasty and sweet and nutty all at once. Suspended lights illuminate the bustling paths, banishing the untimely darkness that characterizes the colder months, as families, friends, and couples trickle up and down the busy street.

You both hold the spoils of your expedition in your hands as you walk through the crowd — Zayne dual-wields a variety of skewered fried treats and rice cakes, while you brandish a skewer of red bean paste-filled rice balls, steam still escaping the sweet treats.

You glance at Zayne, and the sight of him, inextricably focused on the too-hot snacks, makes you smile wide. You lightly bump him with your elbow, which finally pulls his attention. “Making use of that surgeon's dexterity, Dr. Zayne?”

A slight flush blooms on his ears, one that he can’t chalk up to the cold. “Only for the important things.”

You giggle, then return your focus to your own treat. You lightly blow on the steaming hot skewer — a fruitless endeavor, you realize, but the sooner you can gulp down the sweets, the sooner you can return your freezing hands to your pockets. You decide to risk it all and finish off the skewer in one bite, finding it much cooler than expected. You briefly break away from Zayne, tossing your empty skewer into a nearby trashcan, then return to his side, palms rubbing vigorously against each other.

As you’re about to seek refuge in your coat pockets, Zayne wordlessly extends a black glove towards you.

“Take it,” he says before biting into one of the three rice cakes he now balances in a single hand, on top of the skewers nestled between his fingers.

“It’s alright, I should’ve brought my own.”

Zayne’s brow furrows, but his expression is rendered a bit less stern by the way his cheeks are puffed as he’s shoved who knows how many fried goods in his mouth to free his hand.

“Doctor’s orders,” he mumbles between two bites. With a laugh, you graciously accept the glove, wearing it on your left hand. And then it’s your turn to furrow a concerned brow.

“Wait, you only brought one glove?”

“No, but this is far more efficient.”

Zayne swiftly brings your hand into his coat pocket, his large palm engulfing your own, his touch never leaving you. You inch closer to him in response, nerve endings in your almost-frozen fingers sighing in relief as the warmth of his hand and the softness of his wool coat warm them — far better than the slick nylon of your puffer would have done.

You smile, almost incredulous, as you meet his gaze. Even in the biting cold of the dead of winter, Zayne’s hands somehow manage to be warm. And even more impressive, he’s somehow managed to balance a small child’s weekly portion of snacks and treats into a single hand as he bites at a skewer, not even close to dropping a single crumb.

“Ok, now you’re just bragging,” you tease, lightly laying your head against his shoulder.

Zayne chuckles warmly. “Like I said. Only for the important things.”

Over the years, Zayne has grown accustomed to your every little whim and habit, even those you haven’t noticed yourself — just as you’ve grown wise to his own. And as quietly as you’ve always tried to do it, he’s noticed that you often get up in the middle of the night.

Tonight, as you slither out from the bathroom and into the kitchen, your arms instinctively wrap around your body, desperately clinging to the warmth you’ve left behind in your shared bed. You don’t need to turn the lights on as muscle memory and familiarity carry you through the motions of grabbing a cup from the cupboard and the pitcher of water from the counter. But when you tip the pitcher and it almost flies up, weightless and clearly empty, you sigh.

Forgot to fill it again.

The chill seeps into your bones as you fill the pitcher as quietly as possible, opening the faucet only slightly, which unfortunately makes the task much slower. You fill it halfway, wait for it to filter, and fill your cup not-so-carefully before proceeding to down the whole thing in three gulps.

You rush back to the bedroom, slippers softly sliding against the floor, and the sight that greets your darkness-accustomed eyes draws a smile from your lips. Sprawled across the entire length of the bed is Zayne, softly snoring as though he doesn’t have a care in the world. Far too cold to continue to admire the sight, you gently nudge yourself into bed next to him, ducking under the covers in the meager space he’s left for you.

He stirs, and you take the opportunity to slide under his arm, burying your face into his chest and draping a chilly leg over his own. You inhale his scent, already feeling yourself warming up again. Zayne’s arms curl around you like second nature as he sighs deeply, and he gently shifts you both away from the precarious edge of the bed. He covers your shoulders with the soft duvet, and you feel yourself almost melting into the warmth that cocoons you.

“Didn’t know you were such a bed hog,” you murmur into his chest, already feeling yourself relax in his arms.

Zayne lightly chuckles, low and gravelly, as his grip around you tightens. “I’m not. I was fulfilling my duty as a certain someone’s personal bed heater, but she took so long that I fell asleep.”

A contented hum leaves your lips. “Were you now?”

“Mmhm…” Zayne says, voice laced with sleep. “Why do you think your side’s always warm after your nightly escapades?”

You’ve never noticed it, but that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Your shared bed has always been a place of warmth and comfort, and only now do you realize that the man who holds you in his arms is, as always, at the centre of it all.

It feels like floating — being so comfortable and so safe and so warm, so much so that words elude you as you melt into Zayne’s embrace. You’ll remember to thank him tomorrow. For now, as the throes of slumber threaten to pull you under, your only wish is to bask in Zayne’s warm comfort, to cling to it, to inhale it and let it bloom inside you. To remain right here, forever.

This fic was inspired by the fact that I, at every minor inconvenience, keep thinking to myself that 'Zayne could fix this'. And I guess I've been cold recently lmao. Thanks for reading <3

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #dr zayne #doctor zayne #zayne x reader #zayne x mc #zayne x you #zayne x y/n #love and deepspace zayne #lads zayne #lnds zayne #l&ds zayne x reader #lnds x reader #l&ds #li shen #zayne fluff #lads fluff #espace--positif

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ohproserpine · 1 year ago

Text

vi. deer dolly

see all chapters here tags: fem! reader, reader is a performer in a speakeasy, heavy warning for violence and blood, overdose, murder, death, hunting, graphic descriptions of injuries, manipulation, allusion to death, grey morality, references to alcoholism, twisted view of love, gorey descriptions of love, murder, heated scene (making out)

˚୨୧₊♱

You never really liked cars.

The first time you had ridden in one was in the 1930s.

It was after one of your shifts, the wet streets illuminated only by the flickering glow of the rusting lampposts. There you stood, still in your glad rags and wrapped in a coat, the misty drizzle kissing your face. Alastor arrived a few minutes later with a honk of his horn, surprising you with a ride home in his latest purchase—a stunning red car with a sleek roof that gleamed in the dim light, its long, sweeping fenders and rounded body cutting a striking figure against the darkness of the night.

As you got into the car, excitement tingled in your veins, eager to experience the wonders of modern transportation. However, the thrill quickly turned to fear as the speeds increased, and your husband, the ass he was, seemed to enjoy nothing more than pushing the accelerator and hearing your horrified screams. Each time the car accelerated, you found yourself clinging onto him for dear life, the rush of wind slamming against your flushed face, your heart racing in your chest.

Since then, you swore never to get into a car again, preferring the safety of solid ground beneath your feet, the memory of that terrifying ride haunting your thoughts whenever you heard the roar of an engine.

Now, standing outside and shivering in the cold, you watched as a long royal blue limo pulled up before you. The sleek vehicle gleamed under the streetlights, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the surrounding city. The doors, adorned with gold accents, were automated and opened up for you, revealing a plush interior illuminated by soft, warm lighting. Small steps extended gracefully from below, inviting you to step inside.

Velvette wasted no time and went in first, her stiletto heels clicking against the polished floor as she settled into one of the luxurious seats. Already engrossed in a phone call, her voice echoed faintly through the open doorway, mingling with the low hum of the engine.

Meanwhile, Vox stood by your side, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the pavement. You knew he was making sure you wouldn't attempt to escape, although the thought barely crossed your mind.

After all, where could you possibly run to now? Any endeavor in that direction would likely prove futile and possibly even fatal. The evidence of your soul being sold was clear, evident in the now black color of your sclera.

"Well," Vox drawled, his voice carrying a subtle edge of impatience as he gestured towards the open limousine door. "Aren't you going to go in?"

You hesitated, biting your lip as you reluctantly took a step back. Vox eyed your actions warily.

"Is it safe?" you found yourself blurting out, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

"Is it safe?" Vox repeated with a scoff, a hint of annoyance flickering in his eyes. "Of course it's safe! I made it!"

He pointed to the VoxTek logo on the car—as though he were a seasoned salesman promoting a product. The metal emblem gleamed under the faint streetlights. Yet, rather than assuring you, the sight of the branding only heightened your unease.

Vox noticed the lack of change in your expression and sighed, deciding to take a different approach. With a faint glimmer of empathy, he motioned toward a nearby building which had a large billboard featuring his face and image.

"See there?" he gestured, his tone adopting a persuasive edge. "See what that billboard says? VoxTek is a symbol of power and security. You're in the safest hands possible. This limousine is equipped with state-of-the-art safety features."

His attempt to reassure you only rang hollow in your ears, and despite his words, a sense of unease continued to gnaw at you. Yet, Vox still persisted, his voice softening as he stepped closer to you. You had to crane your head up to look at him while he stared down at you, his figure casting a shadow over your form.

"I assure you," he pressed, his tone gentler now. "You have nothing to fear."

With no other choice but to comply, you reluctantly stepped forward, your movements stiff and hesitant. Vox held your hand as he guided you towards the waiting limousine. As you entered the luxurious interior, the door closed behind you with a soft click, sealing your fate as the vehicle pulled away from the curb and disappeared into the night.

Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color as the limousine sped through the streets. With each passing moment, the distance between you and Mimzy's torn-down lounge grew.

Lost in your thoughts, you barely noticed when the limousine finally came to a stop, the sudden silence jolting you back to reality. As the door opened with a soft hiss, you gazed out to behold the imposing V Tower looming before you.

Its grandeur was undeniable, with its towering floors and striking red windows gleaming in the night. At the very top, a massive antenna sat, reaching towards the sky like a beacon, while a studio sign was plastered along the building's front, featuring red lips nestled within the arches of the middle V, an iconic symbol of the entertainment empire housed within.

Vox and Velvette emerged from the limousine, their presence causing a few loiterers on the street to scurry away in fear.

Oh, how you wished you could do the same.

Inside the car, you hesitated, nerves coiling in your stomach as you fidgeted with your hands. Then, unexpectedly, Vox turned to you, his expression unreadable as he extended his hand.

Surprised, you paused for a moment before accepting his hand, allowing him to guide you down the steps. The chilly night air enveloped you as your feet touched the pavement, the distant sound of the limo's engine fading away as it drove off.

Seconds passed, and Vox still maintained his grip on your hand, his hold firm. Confusion flickered in your mind as you turned to him, noticing the irritation in his gaze as he eyed your wedding ring.

"Is there a problem, mister?" you asked as you followed his gaze to your ring.

Vox's expression remained inscrutable for a moment before he finally responded, his tone cool and detached.

"I suggest you ditch that," he said, his eyes narrowing slightly. "It's a liability now. Doesn't do any favors for your image, doll."

"But I'm awfully attached. It's…" you began, your voice trailing off as you struggled to find a good enough excuse.

You knew all too well the consequences of revealing your connection, especially in your current vulnerable state. The mere mention of Alastor's name could unravel everything, plunging you deeper into this mess. With two powerful overlords and a soul contract hanging over your head like a guillotine, caution was not just a choice but a necessity.

"It's a symbol of your past life," Vox interjected, his voice cutting through your hesitation.

"And we're leaving that behind now." He extended his hand, the glint of his metal claws catching the dim light, mirroring the uncertainty in your expression. "Hand it over."

With a resigned sigh, you reluctantly slipped the ring off your finger, a pang of loss gripping your heart as you handed it to the overlord. Vox accepted it with a dismissive nod before tucking it into his pocket, his attention already turning back to the looming entrance of the V Tower.

As you entered the building flanked by both Vox and Velvette, you were immediately struck by the brash, modern atmosphere that engulfed you. The walls were painted in bold hues of pink and red, illuminated by the glare of oversized LED screens that flashed with images and advertisements for upcoming events. The floor beneath your feet was polished to a sterile sheen, reflecting the harsh neon lights that bathed the space.

Velvette, with her usual air of haughty superiority, led the way to your room, her steps brisk and impatient. She barely spared you a glance as she gestured towards the metal door that stood before you, its surface cold and unwelcoming.

With a swish of her fingers, she conjured an obtrusively bright star decoration on the wall, reminiscent of celebrity door decorations found in Hollywood, with your name scrawled in cursive on its surface.

"Right, if there's anything you need, you just go down to the lobby and find someone named Shalom," Velvette barked, her tone sharp and impatient, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route.

"Say, is there a chance I could lay my mitts on a radio?" you asked, hoping to grasp onto some semblance of familiarity in this alien environment, your eyes flitting back and forth between the two of them.

But instead of a response, Vox began to buffer, his screen flashing with bright neon glitches, while Velvette's lips curled into a sneer, her expression one of thinly veiled contempt and amusement at your request.

"Guess I'll take that as a no then?" you smiled tensely, your attempt falling flat.

To your surprise, Vox shook his head, and his screen flashed back to his face, the glitches disappearing as quickly as they had come.

The TV demon reached into his pocket and pulled out a sleek smartphone. Without a word, he plopped it into your hand, and you turned it over, confusion evident on your face.

"A phone?" you said, flabbergasted, your eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. You blinked in astonishment, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you. You were more surprised by the fact that it came from his pocket. Does he keep random smartphones on him at all times?

"Yes, a phone," Vox confirmed with a smirk, a hint of pride dancing in his eyes. "Consider it a courtesy from VoxTek. No need for a radio when we have such sleek products. This is the future! You don't need old shit from the past. Those radios barely pick up anything worth listening to, just crappy, barely audible broadcasts."

"Oh," you said, the air deflating from your lungs as a pang of disappointment settled in your chest. The phone was a thoughtful gesture, but it wasn't going to fix your longing to speak to Alastor. "Well. I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't mention it," Vox replied casually, his demeanor shifting back to its usual aloofness, his tone devoid of any genuine warmth or concern.

With a resigned sigh, you turned and stepped into your new room. You looked around the décor curiously, taking in the sleek modern furniture and it's peculiar design.

Velvette followed closely behind you, her eyes, framed with smoky eyeshadow, narrowing as she regarded you with disgust. The glint of her perfectly manicured nails caught the harsh overhead lights as she folded her arms across her chest.

"Really? A hooverette dress?" Velvette sneered, each syllable dripping with disdain. "You're like a relic from the '40s. Outdated."

You felt a surge of anger at the comment. Sure, you died near the 1940s, but that didn't mean you were outdated. Before you could even muster a response, Velvette raised a hand, and with a flick of her fingers, she effortlessly transformed the fabric of your dress. It rippled and shifted, morphing before your eyes into a pink silk pajama robe, trimmed with a cream-colored fur. She stepped back, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips as she admired her handiwork.

"Much better," she declared with a clap. "Listen, you're representing VoxTek now. Even when sleeping, we can't have you looking like a washed-up has-been, can we?"

Swallowing your pride, you forced a tight-lipped nod, suppressing the urge to lash out in defiance.

"Yes, ma'am," you managed to grit out, your voice strained. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," she retorted, her tone sharp and dismissive. "I've got a lot of work to do, and you've got a long way to go before I can get you stage ready."

With that, Velvette stormed out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor with each brisk step. As she disappeared from view, Vox leaned in, his shadow casting a long silhouette against the wall. He reached for the doorknob, his fingers gliding over the cool metal.

"Goodnight," he murmured softly, his voice barely audible above the hum of the air conditioning. With a gentle pull, he closed the door with a thud, sealing you in with your thoughts and fears. The latch clicked shut, and you were left alone, enveloped in the eerie silence of the unfamiliar space.

With a heavy sigh, you turned to survey your room even closer.

Your eyes swept over the tall walls adorned with abstract artwork, bursts of vibrant colors contrasting sharply with the subdued hues of the furniture. The wide windows offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline, with skyscrapers twinkling in the distance like distant constellations.

Approaching the plush king-sized bed, you sank into its cloud-like mattress, feeling its comforting embrace envelop you. It was definitely an improvement from Mimzy's lounge. And yet, despite the luxurious trappings, a sense of confinement lingered. After all, a gilded cage remains a cage.

As you assessed your situation, it became clear that you were going to be the star attraction in Velvette's upcoming fashion extravaganza. Her shows were always a hit, and this year's circus-themed spectacle had her buzzing with excitement. The lead model was a singer-actress you'd heard of; you'd seen her the day Mimzy dragged her into the lounge. Pity the poor girl died.

Given the circus motif, it was apparent why Velvette had chosen you. Your background as a singer, coupled with your doll-like appearance, made you the perfect fit for the role.

The best course of action now was to play it safe. Going along with her plan was sure to draw attention, from the lowest imps to Lucifer Morningstar himself. Your face was bound to be plastered on every screen in the infernal realm, broadcasted to demons and damned souls alike. Even with his hatred for the picture shows, Alastor would have to be both blind and deaf to miss this.

He would come for you, you knew it deep in your bones, and yet a pessimistic voice in the back of your head whispered doubts.

Did you even deserve to be taken back after all of this?

With these thoughts weighing heavily on your mind like an anchor dragging you into the depths, you closed your eyes, seeking solace in the darkness behind your lids. But sleep remained elusive, evading your grasp.

As the night wore on, exhaustion crept over you like a heavy fog, its tendrils enveloping you in a suffocating embrace. Despite the turmoil raging within, your body succumbed to weariness, and gradually, you slipped into your dreams.

˚୨୧₊♱

Both you and Alastor embarked on a slow journey through the darkened streets of Louisiana, the car's headlights cutting through the enveloping gloom like beacons. Carefully navigating the labyrinthine city, you avoided the occasional patrol car with its blinding flashlights, skirting through shadowed alleys and side streets to evade detection.

Finally reaching the outskirts of town, where the forest awaited, Alastor brought the car to a halt, the engine's low hum fading into silence. Turning to you, he noticed the fear etched on your face, your wide eyes reflecting the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

With a tender touch, Alastor took your face in his hands, calling for you. "Cher?"

You turned to him, your lips parting slightly as tears welled in your eyes. Alastor's touch was feather-light as his fingertips traced a delicate path along the curve of your cheek. With a gentle brush of his thumb, he coaxed your eyelids closed. Tears streamed down your cheeks, leaving a trail in their wake. As you blinked your eyes open again, you were met with the tender press of his lips against yours.

"We did what we had to do," Alastor murmured against your lips, his voice a low rasp that sent goosebumps dancing across your skin.

With his eyes closed, he leaned in closer, his kiss growing more urgent, almost desperate. You responded in kind, the roughness of the kiss igniting a fire within you.

Feeling his fingers threading through the back of your hair, you whimpered and melted into his embrace, your hands clutching onto his broad shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his button-up shirt. Alastor groaned in response as he lifted you effortlessly from the passenger seat and settled you onto his lap. Your chest pressed flat against his, the rhythm of your heartbeat syncing with his own.

As the sky grew darker, the moon mingling with the fading hues of sunset, the wind whispered through the open windows of the car, carrying with it the promise of a new beginning.

Alastor eventually pulled away, his gaze lingering on your tousled hair and puffy lips as he leaned back in his seat, taking in every detail of your appearance. Seeing you in such a ruined state stirred something within him.

"Are you ready?" he asked. You nodded meekly in response, your heart racing.

Truth be told, you didn't think you could ever truly be ready for what you were about to do.

Your husband hummed in acknowledgment, allowing you to slip off his lap as he straightened his brown coat, the fabric rustling softly with each movement.

Guiding you out of the car, he then reached into the backseat, retrieving his hunting gun. The metallic click of the firearm being loaded echoed in the quiet night. And you damn near fainted when he handed it to you, the weight of it feeling heavier than you could bear. The metal surface was icy against your palm, and you fought the urge to recoil, but Alastor pressed it firmly into your hand, his touch reassuring yet commanding.

"You'll need this," Alastor spoke lowly, bending down to your height, his glasses slipping further down the bridge of his nose. "Use it for safety. There might be wild animals out."

You hesitated, the weight of the weapon heavy in your hand, but the urgency in his tone spurred you to nod in agreement.

"Do you remember when I taught you how to hunt?" he questioned, slipping on a pair of dark leather gloves he had pulled out of his pocket. His voice was low and smooth, laced with a hint of nostalgia. "You remember how to shoot, no?"

You nodded, eyes still glued to the gun, unable to tear your gaze away.

"Words, cher. Use your words."

"Yes, love," you whispered, finding your voice. Alastor smiled, the rough texture of his glove grazing gently against your cheek as he pressed his hand to your face one last time before stepping away.

Your husband made his way to the trunk of the car, the soft glow of the taillights casting long shadows across the forest floor. With strong pull, he opened it, revealing its contents. Your breath caught in your throat as he retrieved a shovel and a black body bag, the sight sending a sickening feeling through your stomach.

Alastor slung the bag over his shoulder and began walking, his steps confident, as if he knew exactly where he was going. The weight of the bag seemed inconsequential to him, swinging lightly with each stride. There was an odd, almost unsettling look in his eyes as he whistled a tune, the sound echoing eerily through the silent woods. A glint of something primal and untamed flickered within their depths.

Nonetheless, you followed him, drawn to his presence like a moth to a flame.

Trudging deeper, the shadows seemed to grow darker, more menacing. The silence pressed in on you from all sides, broken only by Alastor's whistling and the sound of your footsteps crunching on the forest floor. Each step felt like a descent into madness, the unknown lurking just beyond the reach of your flashlight's beam.

Suddenly, Alastor halted in a secluded corner, where the trees were decaying, their long branches resembling gnarled fingers reaching out for you in the darkness. He turned to you, the dim light of your flashlight reflecting off his glasses, giving his brown eyes an otherworldly glint.

In that moment, illuminated by the pale beam, he looked almost demonic, his features twisted by the play of light and shadow.

"I'll be back shortly, cher," he hummed with a smile, adjusting the bag over his shoulder. You couldn't help but notice a darkened spot on his brown coat, the collar of his white button-up now stained with crimson. "Stay here."

With that, he disappeared into the darkness, his figure swallowed by the shadows of the forest, leaving you alone amidst the looming trees.

Time stretched on endlessly, each minute feeling like an eternity as you stood alone. Faintly, you could hear the distant sound of Alastor's shovel breaking through the earth's surface, its metallic scrape and the muffled thud as it struck the soil sending another wave of nausea curling in your gut, each noise a grim reminder of the task at hand.

All you wanted was to escape, to return to the safety of your quaint house in the city.

More than anything, you longed to open a bottle of whiskey, to drown your fears and sorrows in its comforting embrace. Maybe have a second, or a third, and just forget.

Forget about all of this. Forget it all ever happened. But deep down, you knew that no amount of alcohol could erase the memories of tonight, each image now etched into your mind like scars on your soul.

All of a sudden, a rustling sound behind you sent a jolt of adrenaline through your veins, followed by the distant but unmistakable bark of dogs. The sound seemed to come from all directions, surrounding you in a menacing chorus.

With a sharp gasp, you spun round and round in a whirl, your vision tunneling with fear as you scanned the darkness, eyes wide and frantic. Every rustle of the leaves, every snap of a twig, seemed to magnify the sense of dread that gripped you. Your breaths came in ragged gasps, the cool night air burning in your lungs as you struggled to keep your composure.

And then, without warning, something lunged from the darkness, a blur of movement that sent your heart racing even faster. Instinct took over, and without thinking, you raised the gun and fired, the deafening sound reverberating through the silent forest.

You gasped for air, the rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins as you found yourself sitting on the damp, muddy ground. The recoil of the gun had sent you sprawling backward, leaving you disoriented and breathless.

With trembling hands, you clutched the gun closer to your chest, the cold metal providing a shaky sense of security in the darkness. Despite the fear coursing through your veins, a surge of determination propelled you forward, your muscles tensed and ready for whatever danger lay ahead. Scrambling to your feet, you pushed yourself onward.

Each step was punctuated by the crunch of underbrush beneath your boots, the sound amplifying in the stillness of the forest. Amidst the shadows and foliage, you caught a blur of brown, relief flooding through you like a wave crashing against the shore.

Oh, heavens, it was just a deer.

As you trudged towards the poor animal, your foot caught on a branch, and you stumbled, the unforgiving forest floor meeting your body with a painful thud. In the fall, your gun slipped from your grasp, skidding off into the shadows.

Wincing, you pushed yourself up to your knees, the earthy scent of decay mingling with the metallic tang of blood. You looked toward the fallen creature, its form now visible in the dim moonlight filtering through the trees. But as you crawled over, dread crept into your heart.

There, lying face down on the dirt, was Alastor, his once-immaculate brown coat now dirtied, blending seamlessly with mud. His glasses lay shattered and discarded in front of him, glinting faintly in the dim moonlight that danced across the forest floor. A pool of crimson blood seeped from his head, staining the earth beneath him.

Your eyes widened with renewed horror as the truth dawned upon you, and you fell onto your back, scrambling away from the corpse of your husband, the damp earth sticking to your palms as you clawed at the ground in your panic.

The bark of the dogs were louder now, closer. Ignoring the dizzy vertigo in your head, you pushed yourself to your feet, your senses on high alert.

You choked out a broken apology but found that you could not hear it, that you could not make any sound at all.

You breathed, it was all you could do, all you could manage at the moment, and with the terrible weight on your chest, even that was made difficult.

What have you done?

˚୨୧₊♱

"Salutations! It's Tom back on the airwaves! Hold onto your hats because we've got some news that'll knock your socks off! Alastor Caron, the big shot radio host and husband of underground singer Dolly, also known as Y/N Caron, has been found pushing up daisies out in the sticks of Louisiana!

That's right, folks, he's dead!

Word on the street is, ol' Alastor met our maker with a bullet to the head in what can only be described as a real tragic whodunit. Sources close to the case are whispering in the wind, suggesting that Dolly herself might be mixed up in this spicy little affair. The coppers found her fingerprints on the gun! Can you believe it?! Stay tuned as we peel back the curtain and spill the tea on this sto—"

You shut the radio off with a frustrated slam of your fist, the sound echoing through the desolate living room.

Eviction papers and newspapers, crumpled and worn from countless readings, are strewn haphazardly across the table.

"Gone Girl," "Husband-killer," "Missing Marionette," "A Doll's Vanishing Act," "Manhunt underway for Suspected Murderer," "Louisiana Radio Host dead; Wife blamed."

The headlines scream, each word a painful reminder of the nightmare engulfing your life.

Empty bottles litter around you, their contents spilled and forgotten, the sharp scent of alcohol mingling with the drowning feeling of grief that permeates the room. Sirens wail in the distance while red and blue lights dance along the walls, cast by the dim light filtering through tightly shut curtains.

As you reach for another bottle, the drinks blur into one another, their labels indistinguishable in the dark room. The burning sensation as the liquid courses down your throat offers temporary relief from the turmoil raging inside your mind, numbing the pain and grief threatening to consume you. Each sip takes you further into a haze.

The room spins around you, items warping and dancing in a twisted mockery of your predicament. There are whispers now, soft and insidious, slithering into your ears like serpents. You try to push away the accusing voices echoing in your mind, drowning them out with your bottle's numbing embrace. But with each passing moment, the weight of the accusations grows heavier, dragging you deeper into despair.

Nausea churns in the pit of your stomach, and you finally stop moving, the dizziness overwhelming you. A deathly coldness settles over you, seeping into your bones like icy tendrils, causing you to shiver involuntarily. Your fingers lose their grip on the bottle, and it crashes to the ground with a shattering sound that echoes in the stillness of the room, shards of glass scattering across the floor like stars falling from the sky. You follow suit, collapsing onto the floor, limbs heavy and muscles twitching.

You stare vacantly ahead, unable to move, your eyes glazed over with a hollow emptiness as a sense of dread washes over you, suffusing the air with an oppressive weight. Each breath feels like a battle, your chest tightening with every inhalation, as if your lungs were filled with water.

Your breaths grow more labored, each one shallower than the last, until they eventually cease altogether, leaving you gasping for air that refuses to come.

The world around you fades into darkness, the edges of your vision blurring as consciousness slips away, leaving you engulfed in a silence broken only by the faint echo of your last heartbeat.

˚୨୧₊♱

There was screaming.

Footsteps thudded along a path nearby, accompanied by the fluttering of wings as creatures soared overhead.

You awaken with a startle, disoriented and groggy.

Slowly sitting up, you find yourself surrounded by a crimson landscape, a pentagram shimmering ominously in the air above you. As you move, your hand sinks into something cold and wet, a sickening squelch accompanying the sensation.

Horror grips you as you realize your hand is touching a corpse, its monstrous form adorned with twisted horns, jagged tails, and rows of sharp teeth. The pair of lifeless eyes shift and stare into you, devoid of any trace of humanity.

Frozen with terror and panic, you scramble away from the grotesque sight, the ground slick with crimson ichor, each step leaving bloody handprints and footprints in your wake.

The evening light of this place reveals a grim environment surrounding you – a lumpy, uneven field of corpses and bones, a mass grave unlike any you've ever seen. But these corpses are not human; they are demonic, twisted and contorted in death.

Before you can even make sense of this grotesque scene, a spear slices through the air, its sharp tip gleaming in the dim light. With a thud, it embeds itself into the ground beside you. A sharp, stinging sensation follows as your cheeks burn, crimson liquid trailing down your skin.

Gasping for breath, you look up and catch sight of a figure soaring overhead, its massive wings spread wide against the crimson sky. Each beat sends a gust of wind rushing past you, whipping your hair around your face. The figure's single eye fixates on you, its gaze piercing through the darkness, the other obscured by a large 'X' mark.

Adrenaline surges through your veins as you run away, the cold sweat of fear prickling your skin.

Your surroundings blur into a chaotic whirlwind as you race through the labyrinthine alleys of Hell. With every stride, your heart pounds in your chest like a drum. Each footfall echoes in the narrow passageways, the walls closing in around you like a vice, but the chase of the angel behind you drives you forward, your muscles burning with exertion as you push yourself to your limits.

Suddenly, you're yanked to a stop, your body colliding with a stone floor as you're pulled into a hidden doorway. Pain shoots through your arm, and you wince, clutching it tightly against your chest. It throbs with a dull ache, bruised from the fall.

As you cautiously lift your gaze, you find yourself in a familiar setting—a speakeasy, though more rugged and rundown than you were used to. The air is thick with the scent of cigarette smoke and stale alcohol. Mismatched furniture and a barely held-together bar give the place a sense of makeshift charm.

"Well, look who it is."

The voice freezes you in place, and your eyes nervously move upward to see a familiar blonde woman before you, her sharp teeth glinting in the dim light, her eyes dark and intense.

"Mimzy?" you whisper, disbelief coloring your voice.

"It's me!" she cheers, swinging her legs and jazzing her arms up in the air. With a jump, she plops onto the ground, circling your hunched-over form with a mischievous grin. "How you doin', Dolly?"

"How?" your mind scrambles. "You-You…"

"I know! You thought I was dead?" she snickers before knocking you upside the head playfully. "Welcome to the afterlife, you ditz!"

"What?" you rasp, eyes frantically darting from her to your surroundings. "What are you talking about? Why do you look like that?!"

"Look what? Adorable~?" Mimzy hums and waltzes over to a gramophone, inserting a disk and starting a scratching melody that fills the speakeasy.

Hello, Dolly! Well, hello, Dolly! It's so nice to have you back where you belong~

"Come on, Dolly," Mimzy says, her voice low and melodic as she sways to the music. The bedazzled fringes of her dress sparkle in the dim light as she twirls, her heels dragging along the floorboards. "You haven't been living under a rock, have you? Or did'ja just arrive?"

You're lookin' swell, Dolly I can tell, Dolly You're still glowin', you're still crowin' You're still goin' strong

"I don't understand," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper as you struggle to comprehend what's happening. Everything feels like a dream—a nightmare, more accurately. "Where am I? What's going on?"

"We're both dead," Mimzy chuckles, tapping her heels along to the beat.

We feel the room swayin' While the band's playin' One of your old favourite songs from way back when

"What do you mean?" you manage to croak out, the words barely audible over the music.

Mimzy pauses mid-twirl. "Oh, Dolly," she sighs, shaking her head. "Hell, darling. We're in Hell."

Your blood runs cold at her words, the reality of your situation sinking in like a heavy weight on your chest. The memories of that fateful night flood your mind, filling you with a sense of guilt and despair.

Before you can voice your thoughts, Mimzy grabs your hand and pulls you into a dance, the gramophone's melody swirling around you like a sinister lullaby.

"So, take her wrap, fellas," Mimzy sings along, her laughter echoing off the walls. Her eyes gleam with a mischievous light as she leads you through the steps of the choreography you once knew so well. She twirls you around and drops you into a dip. "Find her an empty lap, fellas!"

"Dolly'll never go away again~"

You feel a surge of frustration building within you, the absurdity of overwhelming your senses. With a shout of anger, you push Mimzy away, a scowl etched deep on your face. She stumbles back, nearly losing her balance in her heels, her smile fading into a look of annoyance.

"Will you cut it out!" you snap, your voice echoing in the empty speakeasy. "Tell me what's going on!"

"Killjoy." Mimzy rolls her eyes and lets out a scoff, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. She moves over to the gramophone and turns it off, the melody abruptly silenced.

"I just told you what was going on, you doof!" Mimzy retorts, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. The speakeasy falls into an uneasy silence, the air thick with tension, broken only by the faint sound of distant screams echoing outside the building. You gesture toward the source of the noise with a look of shock.

"Alright, I know well enough why I'm here, but what is that?" you inquire, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"An extermination. Angels come here to rid of sinners and such," Mimzy shrugs, her expression nonchalant despite the gravity of her words.

"Well, what about Alastor?" you press, the worry evident in your voice.

Mimzy's expression darkens, a flicker of anger crossing her features before she quickly masks it with a smirk. "Oh, you mean your darling husband? He's probably causing chaos somewhere, as usual. He'll be fine."

"I don't think he even knows you're here," she adds on with a yawn. "He probably thinks you're up in the shiny gates of heaven with his momma or something."

"Al knows I'm already dead?" you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Yup!" Mimzy chirps, her grin widening. "Your death came out in the news months ago. But only Lord knows why it took 'em so long to get you through purgatory."

The barrage of new information leaves you dizzy, your head spinning with the implications. "Wait—my death? The news?"

Mimzy moves over to the bar, kneeling down the worn floorboards as she digs through the bottom drawers.

"Didja know there's this little killin' business in Hell? I.M.P.—the Immediate Murder Professionals. And there's this cute little fella named Blitzo who does deliveries for me. I was his first costumer and poor guy needs the extra money so—"

"Mimzy, why are you telling me this?" you interject, confusion evident in your tone.

Mimzy's grin widens as she peeks at you from over the counter, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well, sweetcheeks," she purrs, continuing to leaf through piles of paper, "if you paid attention to their name, they do murder. Murder in the human world, to be exact. And I hired them to go snuff you out!"

"But lo and behold, to my surprise," Mimzy continues, her tone laced with amusement, "you did their job for 'em! And this is what they brought back as proof."

With a flourish, Mimzy procures a newspaper from the depths of the cabident, her hands waving it around in excitement. She throws it to you, and you catch it, fumbling to see the headline. Your stomach churns as you take in the bold letters.

'LAST SWING: Speakeasy Star Suspected of Husband's Murder Dies in Alcohol Overdose.'

"Hi-larious!" Mimzy snorts as she presses a finger against the title, her expression gleeful. You hold the paper up, your hands trembling as you read through the article detailing your own death.

With a cackle, Mimzy jumps onto a nearby table, her movements lithe and energetic as she snatches the paper away from you.

"So, did'ja do it?" she taunts, leaning in close to your face with a devilish grin. "Didn't take you as the type. What was it? Poison? Housewife classic, I tell ya. Maybe a knife? Good ole push him down the stairs? Or was it a gun?"

You tense up at her last words, a cold sweat breaking out on your forehead. Mimzy smirks, her snicker ringing out like a sinister melody. Curls bounce around her face as she leans in closer, her lips practically ghosting against your cut.

"You shot him?"

"I—" you stutter, your breath catching in your throat as you run a hand through your frazzled hair, the disheveled strands tangling under your trembling fingers. "I didn't mean to! Heavens. I thought he was a deer!"

At that, Mimzy bursts out in loud laughter, tears streaming down her face as she clutches her stomach, doubling over with mirth. The sound echoes off the grimy walls of the speakeasy.

"Is that right?" she wheezes between fits of laughter, slapping her knee while still shaking with amusement. "No wonder he looks like a deer! Oh! The irony!"

"Deer?" you whisper out in confusion, your mind struggling to grasp the implications of her words amidst the chaos of her laughter. She laughs even harder at your response, kicking her feet in the air with unrestrained glee.

After a few minutes, she finally calms down. With a skip in her step and a glint in her eyes, she saunters over to you. Humming a tune, Mimzy twirls around you again, her movements fluid and graceful despite her earlier outburst.

"I know something you don't know~" she sings.

"What do you mean?" you frown, your voice trembling as you gaze at her, searching for any hint of what she's hiding.

"All in good time. I've told you a lot already, didn't I?" Mimzy replies cryptically, her tone snappy. "Let's see—I graciously saved you from that angel that was ready to spill your guts out, I've given you a wonderful welcome, helped you learn about your death, and, well, you were involved in my murder. I'd say the scales aren't balanced! You owe me. A lot."

Guilt churns in your gut as you nervously wring your hands. "Mimzy, no words can express how much guilt I feel about your—"

"Oh, cut the weeping dame bullshit. I don't care about that," Mimzy interrupts with a roll of her eyes and a wave of her hand. Her eyes gleam with a predatory intensity as she leans in closer.

"I'm feeling generous today," she purrs, her voice dripping with honeyed venom. "So, I'll make you a deal."

You eye her warily, the guilt in your gut twisting into a knot of apprehension. Despite your unease, you nod, silently urging her to continue, bracing yourself for whatever devil's bargain she has in store.

"In exchange for absolving your involvement in my murder and providing information on your husband," she whispers, her voice dripping with malice, "you'll owe me a favor. A big one. I want you to work for me again."

You tense, your mind racing as you process her proposition, a knot forming in the pit of your stomach. "What?"

Mimzy's smirk widens at your reaction, her eyes gleaming with amusement as she relishes in your discomfort. "That's right, sugar. I want you back on the job, working for me just like old times."

"Well I… I don't have much of a choice, do I?" you reply, clenching your fists in frustration.

Mimzy's laughter reverberates through the speakeasy, each chuckle sending shivers down your spine.

"Of course not! Would you prefer to go running to Alastor instead? Oh, dear hubby, please shield me from the consequences of my sins! My apologies for putting a bullet in your skull!" she mocks your voice, drawling the syllables out as she clasps her hands together and bats her eyes at you.

A surge of humiliation and guilt washes over you, weighing heavy on your shoulders as you struggle to come to terms with the choices before you.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. Despite the overwhelming guilt and shame swirling within you, you know that you're cornered. Mimzy has you right where she wants you, and the only way out is to play her game.

"Fine," you say through gritted teeth, your voice tinged with resignation. "I'll work for you again."

Mimzy's grin widens, her sharp teeth flashed at you. "Excellent choice, darling. You won't regret it."

With a snap of her fingers, a contract materializes in her hand. She hands it over to you, and you read through it. Funnily enough, it looks almost identical to your previous employment contract in the living with her, but one detail catches your eye.

"To settle the debt incurred due to the aforementioned act, Y/N Caron, acknowledging the gravity of her transgressions, agrees to become a singer for Mimzy's Lounge for a duration of ten decades," you read the line in shock. Turning to Mimzy, you clutch the contract tightly, your nails threatening to break the paper. "Ten decades?!"

"What?" Mimzy scoffs, her voice dripping with derision. "You stuck here for all of eternity anyways, and so is your husband. Might as well do something."

With a theatrical flourish, Mimzy reaches into her chest and pulls out a pen, waggling it teasingly in your face. "So? What will it be? Are ya gonna sign the contract? Or am I gonna have to throw you out where those angels can tear you to pieces?"

You read through the contract again, your eyes frantically scanning the paper for any loophole or escape route, but you come up empty-handed. With a sinking feeling in your chest, you realize that you're in this for the long haul.

"But what about Alastor?" you pressed, urgency creeping into your voice.

Mimzy's laughter filled the speakeasy, bouncing off the walls like mocking echoes. "Oh, sweetheart," she cooed with faux sympathy, "haven't you read the fine print? Your dear Alastor is strictly off-limits. Can't have him interfering with our little arrangement, now can we?"

"But… I need to see him," you pleaded, desperation lacing your words.

Mimzy's smirk widened into a wicked grin as she leaned in closer, mischief gleaming in her eyes. "And I need to make sure my end of the deal is fulfilled," she countered firmly.

Glancing down at the contract, you saw her pointing to a specific section. "Y/N Caron's husband, Alastor Caron, is strictly forbidden from being physically present around her in any way, shape, or form for the safety and integrity of this agreement."

"But… can't we find some middle ground?" you asked, a sliver of hope lingering in your voice.

"Ah, I've got an idea," Mimzy grinned , reaching into her drawer and pulling out an old radio. She extended it towards you. "You can talk with him as much as you like. This little radio will be your hotline to him. But there's a catch: he stays far, far away from you and this joint. How's that sound?"

Twisting the radio in your trembling hands, you felt the weight of the decision settle heavily on your shoulders. The device seemed ancient, its surface worn and its knobs slightly rusted, yet it held the power to bridge the seemingly insurmountable gap between you and Alastor. With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly brought the pen to the paper, the ink blotting the sheet as you signed your name away, sealing your fate.

"It's a deal."

#sephiewrites #hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin imagine #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin hotel #alastor #hazbin vox #hazbin hotel velvette

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thedancingcostumeyoungadult · 5 months ago

Text

From the Grave - Lucius Verus Aurelius x fem!Reader

A man returned from the dead, a childhood ghost made flesh again

Contents: Lucius Verus x fem!Reader, childhood friends reunited, angst, comfort

Word count: 1.5k

Rome is fickle, it is her way, but even then the fall of the mad twin emperors Geta and Caracalla was a sobering moment. Tyrants they were, and you were far from mourning them, but still the future lay uncertain in the hands of a mystery. The truest shock, however, came with the whisperings of a name, one from a far distant misty past.

“What did you say?” You don’t mean to, but your astonished question startles the girl in the doorway, who draws away, apologies already pouring forth as she ducks her head.

“I’m sorry my lady I-“

“No, no, it’s alright,” you raise your hand in an attempt to calm her, “I just-“ your voice catches in your throat and you blink, trying to reel in your unruly thoughts. “Did you say Aurelius?”

The light chill of the evening rushes over your arms as you practically run through the atrium of your house, blood pounding in your ears in time with your footfalls on the tile floor. Your hair whips around your shoulders as you look into rooms, an edge bordering on frantic coloring your voice as you call out.

“Drusus!” A door just ahead of you flies open and your brother steps out, on edge as he reaches to the sword by his door.

“What’s wrong?” You reach him in just a few more steps, grabbing his arm to pull him with you.

“We must go to Rome.” He plants his feet like an obstinate mule, causing you to whirl on him, your other hand joining the first as you give him another pull. His face is full of confusion as he studies you and you’re sure you must seem like you’ve gone mad.

“What are you talking about? Why?” Words you’d never even dreamed you’d say again crack in the air as you say them, turning his expression to one of stunned disbelief.

“It’s Lucius.”

So many long years had passed since you’d walked these halls, it feels like the strange echo of a dream that lingers after you’ve awoken. The attendant at your side seems to fade away, lost among the whispers of memory that tug at you from every corner and hidden nook of the house of Lucilla Aurelius. The two days’ journey from your home had given you plenty of time to turn over every memory of the boy you’d known in childhood. How many mornings and afternoons had you spent chasing back and forth over these tiles? How many mornings had dawned since? Nervous pressure rises in your chest as you get closer, to what you’re still not sure you know the nature of. How do you know he’ll remember you? Will he care? Is it even him?

The abrupt halt of the attendant shakes you, drawing you back from the depths of your jumbling mind. Ahead of you is an open door, voices filtering through from the room beyond. The woman who had guided you here disappears as quietly as she’d walked beside you, leaving you and your thrumming heartbeat to stare at the man seated inside. TIme is like honey around you as you take him in. You don’t know this man, broad-shouldered and statuesque, cut in sharp relief by the firelight. And then you see his eyes as he smiles and yes, you do know him, somewhere deep and untouched for the lifetime that sat between you two, you know him. Something in your chest reacts, a choking sob jerking painfully from you as you step backwards, deeper into the shadows. You can’t go in there and pretend like what you’re feeling is anything less than burying you so you turn and retreat, tears flowing hot down your cheeks as you go.

Lucius doesn’t know if what he’d seen was a ghost, a woman draped in fluttering ruby silk, a shade that slips into the dark just as soon as she’d appeared but his body is moving before he can truly consider it, excusing himself to follow what might as well be an apparition. But he knows that face, he knows it and it’s shaken him to his core. In the hallway he catches the flash of fabric as a figure turns a corner ahead. He rushes towards it, the name he calls out all too familiar and all too strange in his voice.

The sound of it makes you freeze, stopping dead as footsteps sound behind you. You manage to turn just as he comes into view and stops as well. Between you the hallway stretches into miles yet you burn under his gaze, your heart crashing against your ribs. His chest rises and falls under his tunic and his hands flex slightly at his sides. He stands like a warrior, you notice, but there too is a trace of hopefulness, of a vulnerability that tugs your heart.

In turn Lucius’ heart nearly stops in his chest when he sees you, solid and living, not a shade at all but standing in his home once again like it was just days before that you’d last been there. Your cheeks shine with tears as you look back at him. He’d had a vision like this a million times after that day in the arena that had torn his world apart, a vision of you in his home, welcoming him. As the years had worn on he’d folded those ideas up and hid them away, new ones rising to take their place. His chest is full of a relieved kind of disbelief that sounds in the only words he can find.

“It’s been a long time.”

A smile breaks across your face for a split second and it’s as though the words turn a tide and he’s being dragged along, feet carrying him towards you as yours do the same, his eyes stinging as though from a salt breeze. You collide with him just a little too hard, driving a surprised huff from him as you throw your arms around his shoulders while his wrap around your waist, a large hand pressing between your shoulder blades as he tucks his face against your shoulder. Until then you’d been considering that you still may be dreaming, that you might wake and he would still be a distant memory. But now you feel him, strong and very, very alive, and the full weight of sixteen years floods through you. Fresh tears rush to your eyes, your throat aching as you swallow against them, reeling with emotions all jumbled together as your hand cradles the back of his head.

“It is you.” Lucius starts at the way your voice trembles and the fitful rhythm of your breath against his palm, quickly taking you by the shoulders and holding you gently away from him so as to see your face. You cannot bring your gaze to his, suddenly overwhelmed with the loss of him all over again as though a long healed bone had been broken again to be set right.

You want to scream, the way you had when they’d said he was dead, your legs threatening to give out just as they had then too. But his hands, warm on your shoulders even through the fabric draped around you, splint the break and you keep your footing somehow.

“I thought you were-” You suck in a ragged breath, fingers curling around his wrist like he might fade away if you don’t hold him there, “I mourned you, I-” At last you raise your eyes to his and find a sheen of tears to match your own.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t wish to cause you pain.” Sincerity fills his expression and your heart breaks for him again, and then again even further when he continues, low and quiet in the torchlit hall. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Through your tears you take the opportunity to study him up close, your hand reaching tentatively towards his face. He blinks rapidly at the barest brush of your fingertips on his cheek that knocks his breath uneven. You can see only flickers of the boy he was, but he's there in the furrow of his brow, the tilt of his head as he regards you with similar interest. Up close his eyes are older, sadder, but still his.

“What happened?”

“Too much.” He shakes his head at the same time he gives your shoulder a squeeze, “At least for right now.” His hands fall away from you and you miss them in the same second, feeling your stomach drop a little when he clasps your hand that was still raised by his face with both of his for a brief second. You return the squeeze, offering him a small smile. A silent agreement passes between you to leave the grief for another time. As your hand leaves his you bring it to your face, wiping your tears dry before tucking it away in the folds of your clothes. Looking back at him, a glint crosses your eye as you tilt your head to regard him with a lightly critical eye.

“When did you grow curls?”

Thank you so much for reading it means so much to me I hope you enjoyed!! Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! Tell me what you thought I'd love to hear it ❤️

#lucius verus x reader #lucius verus x fem!reader #lucius verus x you #lucius verus fanfiction #lucius verus fic #lucius verus angst #jeanie writes #gladiator ii fanfiction

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vampiilure · 3 days ago

Text

Tuesday

Summary: you accidentally grab at the same book as another, turns out it's the reason why you look forward to every tuesday. You and Spencer, after meeting, enjoy each other's space in the little bookstore, it escalates to him asking you out to dinner.

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Genre: fluff, slow burn, a tiny trauma dump from spencer

WC: 2219

an: I'm working on part 3 of the black butler one, but I'm currently in between moving so Idk when I can post it! :(

The first time it happens, it's raining, light, misty rain, the kind that's more whisper than weather. The air smells faintly of damp pavement, crushed leaves, and the orange peel you tucked into your coat pocket on the walk over. You duck into the little bookstore nestled between a florist and a vintage clothing shop, your usual Tuesday sanctuary, and shake the rain from your sleeves as the door swings closed behind you with a soft, familiar chime. The sound feels like punctuation, a gentle full stop at the end of whatever outside noise you've left behind.

Inside, the bookstore hums in its quiet way, old jazz murmurs from a corner speaker, blending into the rustle of pages and the soft scuff of someone moving between stacks. The place is warm with the scent of old paper and wood polish, with something slightly citrusy you've never quite been able to identify. You follow the creaky wooden floorboards instinctively, stepping around a table stacked with faded Penguin Classics, past the fiction aisle, and into the back corner, where Psychology lives, tucked between political theory and poetry like some strange venn diagram of the human condition.

You reach for the book without thinking, Cognitive Development and Psychopathology. It's dense, unflinchingly clinical in parts, but you’ve been circling it for weeks. There's something in the way it weaves together early development, trauma theory, and behavior patterns that fascinates you, how it reads more like the anatomy of memory than an academic text.

And then, as your fingers touch the spine, another hand reaches for it at the exact same moment.

The contact is brief- cool fingertips brushing yours- but it's enough to make you glance up.

He's taller than you, but somehow he manages to take up less space than he should, like he's trying to shrink himself to fit the bookstores hush. His hair curls slightly from the humidity, soft and unbrushed in a way that suggests he might have run here through the rain without an umbrella. He wears a navy cardigan over a mismatched shirt and tie, the pattern of the tie slightly crooked. He looks surprised, blinking at you with warm, honey-colored eyes behind wire-framed glasses.

He pulls his hand back immediately.

“I-sorry. You go ahead,” he says, his voice low but clipped, as though he's used to recalibrating mid sentence. “I've read it before. Several times, actually. Though I find I never quite retain the same interpretation twice.”

You pause, glancing down at the book again and then back at him. “Sounds like memory reconsolidation.”

That makes his eyebrows lift, sharply, delightedly, as if you've just said the exact right thing on accident.

“Exactly. Yes. that's actually-well, it's the core of the problem, isn't it? That every time we retrieve a memory, we alter it. It's not like a file you open and close. It's more like…like clay. Always being reshaped. Dr. Vass even argues that therapy, at its best, is just carefully controlled memory destabilization. But of course, her sample sizes were too small and skewed toward outpatient populations, so..”

He trails off, blinking again. Then he lets out a breath and offers a shy, crooked smile. “Sorry. I ramble.”

“No,” you say, a little too quickly. “It's refreshing.”

He glances at you as if he's trying to determine whether you mean it. Then his smile deepens, just slightly.

“You have good taste,” he says.

“Likewise,” you reply, this time, he actually lets out a quiet laugh, something barely audible but genuine.

He offers you his hand, like the thought just occurred to him. “Spencer Reid.”

You shake it, noticing the precision in his grip, the careful way he measures touch like he's learned to be cautious with his presence in the world. You give him your name in return, and he repeats it softly, almost to himself, committing it to memory.

Something shifts then, something subtle. Like two books leaning gently into each other on a shelf, no longer strangers.

You think that will be it. But the next Tuesday, he's there.

You spot him first, seated in the philosophy aisle, one leg curled under the other on the faded armchair near the back. He's reading again, The Denial of Death by Becker, but looks up the moment you enter, as if he's been listening for the sound of your step.

“Hi.” he says, the word a little breathless, like he didn't realize he'd been holding any until just now.

That day, you talk about Carl Jung. The week after, it's Virginia Woolf. Once, your conversation spirals from Plato to neurolinguistics to the way children invent private languages and how that might intersect with trauma encoding. He speaks in long sentences, hands moving in rhythm with his thoughts, building out entire structures of ideas in the air like he's mapping galaxies. You never feel lost, though. He pulls you into the orbit of his mind with ease, always pausing to check if youre still with him, always listening as intently as he speaks.

He starts bringing you books, ones he thinks you'll like, secondhand copies with his thoughts scribbled in the margins. You bring pastries from the cafe down the block. On rainy weeks, he brings tea. It becomes a ritual. You become ritual.

Sometimes you sit in silence, reading side by side. Other times, the words don't stop until the shop closes and the clerk politely flicked the lights. The world outside shrinks into irrelevance when he's across from you, head tilted, brow furrowed in thought.

You learn how he cracks his knuckles when he's nervous. How he won't interrupt, but his eyes light up when he's holding back a thought. How he listens, really listens, with the kind of reverence that makes you feel like what you say matters, like it's being gently stored away somewhere sacred.

He tells you things you know he doesn't tell most people. That he's been called a genius, but he doesn't always feel like one. That he used to hate silence, but lately, he's been learning how to sit with it. That he never had a favorite place in D.C, not really, too transient, too loud, but this bookstore, he says one day, without looking up from his book, “feels like breathing again.”

You don't answer. You just smile and turn the page.

Five months after that first accidental brush of fingertips, he gives you a book.

He doesn't say anything. Just place’s it on the table between you. A worn copy of Letters to a Young Poet, soft-edged and underlined. You open it without thinking, and a folded piece of paper falls out.

Your name is written on the front in careful, narrow handwriting.

Inside the note reads:

I've found a rhythm in these Tuesdays.

A stillness I didn't know I needed.

I used to believe connection was accidental.

Or infrequent.

But then I met you. And it didn't feel

Accidental at all.

I was wondering,

Would you like to have dinner with me?

No pressure.

Just one more conversation.

-Spencer

You sit back slowly, heart thudding in your chest, the soft sound of pages turning somewhere in the store now impossibly loud. When you look up, he's not pretending to read. He's watching you, quietly, hands folded in his lap, eyes full of uncertainty that doesn't match the brilliance of his mind.

You smile, small, certain, and hold up the note.

He straightens, blinking once.

“I'd love to,” you say.

The smile that breaks across his face isn't perfect. It's not suave or practiced or cinematic.

It's real.

And just like that, the story turns another page.

The dinner is set for the following friday. He chooses a quiet, tucked away place, of course he does, a little family-owned bistro with books stacked on its windowsills and flickering tea lights on each table. He texts you the address precisely, three days in advance, and follows up on Thursday to confirm with a slightly self conscious, “Still okay for tomorrow?”

You reply yes, and he sends a single reply back: looking forward to it. Very much.

The phrase plays on a loop in your head as you dress.

You arrive first. The table is already reserved, near the back, half-shielded by a tall shelf of antique hardcovers. You glance around at the soft lighting, the quiet music playing in the background. It doesn't surprise you that Spencer found this place. It feels like him: thoughtful, hidden in plain sight, full of depth and charm you only see when you slow down.

When he walks in, you spot him immediately.

There's something about the way he carries himself tonight, more upright than usual, but still with that signature nervous energy he never quite masks. He's wearing a dark sweater and blazer, and his hair is a little more carefully styled than usual, though it still curls loosely around his ears. His eyes land on you, and the second they do, his shoulders drop just a little, like he's been holding something in and finally remembers how to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, pulling out your chair for you, and then his own. “Im...Im really glad you came.”

“So am i,” you answer, and his lips tug into a smile that takes its time spreading, like it's blooming rather than appearing.

The conversation is easy. Of course it is. You talk about books at first, he asks if you've started The Body Keeps the Score, and when you say yes, he leans in, visibly excited, launching into a soft but passionate explanation of how somatic trauma therapy has reshaped the way we understand memory storage. He stops himself three times mid-ramble, apologizing with flushed cheeks and glancing down at his hands. You touch his wrist gently once, just to steady him. “I like listening to you,” you say, and he glances up at you like that's something he doesn't hear very often but wishes he did.

Over pasta and shared wine, the conversation deepens.

He tells you about his mom. He doesn't launch into it the way he does with literature or statistics, it's slower, careful, like unwrapping something delicate. He talks about her schizophrenia, about the sharpness of her mind before the illness settled in, about how he used to read her poetry and scientific papers out loud just to keep her anchored. You don't interrupt. You just let the quiet stretch when it needs to, holding space for the weight he's always carried.

“I used to think I had to fix everything,” he says, voice low. “That if I just knew enough- read enough, understand enough- i could make it all go away. But some things aren't puzzles. They Are…ongoing.” he pauses, then looks at you. “You make it feel okay to have some of those pieces still unresolved.”

You say his name then, softly, and his gaze flickers to yours with something unguarded, something that's not just gratitude but recognition. Like he sees something in you he didn't expect to find, but can't quite let go of now that he has.

You talk for hours, until your plates are cleared, until the wineglass between you is empty, until the candle burns low and the lights dim just a little more.

Outside, the air is cool and still. The rain has passed, leaving behind the shimmer of wet pavement and reflections in puddles. He walks you to your car without speaking at first, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. You match his pace naturally.

“I…don't really do this,” he says suddenly, stopping just before you reach your door. “Not just the dating thing. But the part where i…care this quickly.”

You feel something shift again, like the pause before a page turn.

“I haven't either,” you say. “But I do.”

His expression softens, and for a moment, the world shrinks to the narrow space between you. He doesn't lean in. He doesn't rush. He just looks at you, and it feels like a long-held breath finally being released.

“I'd like to see you again,” he says. “Outside the bookstore. Not that I don't love the bookstore- I do. But I'd like to know what your laugh sounds like in other places. What you look like in the morning light. What you think about on a Sunday when no one’s asking you questions.”

The words are so Spencer- half poetic, half exact, more honest than most people are allowed to be.

“I'd like that too.” you say.

And then he smiles, and it's the real one, the one that starts in his eyes and unfolds all the way through him, like he's not sure what's happening, only that it feels like something he doesn't want to stop.

He brushes your hand with his before he leaves. Just barely. But it's enough.

Enough to know this is only the beginning.

Enough to know the next chapter is already writing itself in quiet, deliberate ink.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #mgg #matthew gray gubler #fanfic #fluff #vampiilure

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lilmisssona · 5 months ago

Text

꥟˚｡Love Unexpected ꥟˚｡

꥟˚｡Pairing - Lee Know × Fem Reader

꥟˚｡Plot - Two years after a horrible accident, YN is left paralyzed but secretly finds purpose in a quiet job. The stranger who saved her life reappears unexpectedly at her workplace, stirring emotions and memories she thought were buried. Their fateful encounter raises questions about second chances and unspoken connections.

꥟˚｡Genre - Angst, Trauma, Hurt, Comfort, Fluff

꥟˚｡Warnings - Mention of accident, blood, trauma, paralysis, anxiety, insecurities of yn, mention of the word gore, hurt to comfort, au, non idol au, Strangers to lovers au

꥟˚｡Word Count - 10.8 K ꥟˚｡Screenshot Count - 4

꥟˚｡A/N - Staymas Episode 2 is here! Dive into Y/N’s emotional journey of healing and rediscovery after life-altering events, and witness how Minho’s unwavering love and support become her guiding light. A story of resilience, love, and finding hope again. ( Inspired by Japan's Dawn Robo Cafe for disabled workers ) It's just slightly proofread so apologies for any mistakes 🙂‍↕️

꥟˚｡SKZ Masterlist ꥟˚｡Staymas Masterlist

The neon lights of Tokyo stretched endlessly, their vibrant colors blending together in the misty evening air. As you hurried down the crowded sidewalk, your breath formed small clouds, visible in the crisp chill of early winter. The rain from earlier had left the pavement slick, creating mirrors that reflected the glow of countless shop signs, vending machines, and the steady stream of passing cars. The city felt alive, buzzing with energy, but all you could focus on was the time ticking away. You were late…again.

“They’re going to kill me,” you muttered under your breath, gripping the straps of your bag like a lifeline. You had promised to be on time for the movie night, yet here you were, rushing through the streets twenty minutes after it had already started. The culprit? A last-minute customer at the café, who wanted all of the last stock left for the puddings.

Your phone vibrated incessantly in your pocket, no doubt another flurry of teasing texts from your friends. They loved to give you a hard time for always being late, and this would only add to their ammunition. You didn’t dare check the messages yet; it would only slow you down.

The crosswalk ahead blinked green just as you reached it. A small blessing. Without hesitation, you broke into a jog, your footsteps echoing faintly against the damp asphalt. The weight of guilt pressed heavily on your chest as your mind scrambled to come up with a plan.

"Should I bring snacks to make up for it?" you thought, already considering a detour to the nearest convenience store. "Maybe that’ll soften the blow. But what if they’re already too annoyed to let me in?"

Pulling your phone from your pocket, you quickly typed out a message to your friends, asking if they wanted anything specific. Your thumb hovered over the send button when a sharp, blaring horn shattered your concentration.

The world seemed to freeze.

Your head snapped up, and your eyes locked onto a truck barreling toward you, its headlights glaring like twin suns cutting through the darkness. Time moved in slow motion as panic gripped your entire body. Instinctively, your legs pushed you forward, trying desperately to cross the street, but it was too late.

This can’t be happening.

The impact came like a thunderclap, a brutal force that knocked the air from your lungs. Pain exploded through your body as you were flung backward. The world spun wildly,a chaotic blur of neon lights, muffled screams, and the distant screech of tires. When your body finally hit the ground, the cold, unforgiving pavement sent a jolt through you.

You tried to breathe, but each inhale was shallow and sharp, like your ribs were made of glass. Every part of you ached, your arms, your chest, your head. But what terrified you most was the eerie numbness in your lower body.

Your legs.

You tried to move them, but they wouldn’t respond. Panic clawed at your throat as the realization sank in. Something was horribly wrong.

Before your mind could spiral further, you felt a pair of strong arms scoop you up from the pavement. Warmth flooded over you as your cheek pressed against someone’s chest.

His scent-woodsy, clean, and faintly familiar,calmed you in a way you couldn’t explain.

“Stay with me,” he said, his voice deep and steady, cutting through the haze of pain and confusion.

You squinted, trying to focus on his face, but the pounding in your skull blurred your vision. All you could make out was the faint outline of his jaw and the shadows of his features against the streetlights. It seemed like you've seen him before, but where ?

“Who… who are you?” you managed to whisper, your voice trembling with pain and fear.

“Can you hear me? Are you okay?” he asked, his tone gentle but urgent. He shifted you slightly in his arms, cradling you as if you were made of glass.

“My… my legs,” you stammered, tears spilling over as you struggled to get the words out. “I can’t… feel them.”

His grip on you tightened just slightly, a quiet curse escaping under his breath. “Don’t worry about that right now,” he said, his voice firm yet soothing. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”

The sound of approaching sirens grew louder, mingling with the distant hum of the city. Each step he took was deliberate and steady, as if he was determined to keep you safe no matter what.

Your vision blurred as the voices of the paramedics grew louder, their words a distant hum against the roaring chaos of your mind. The relentless pain and exhaustion finally overwhelmed you, lulling you into a deep, heavy sleep. The darkness took hold, pulling you further away from reality.

The last sensation you felt before slipping into unconsciousness was his hand,warm, firm, and undeniably reassuring, gently squeezing yours. His voice followed, low and steady, like a lifeline in the storm.

"You're going to be okay."

------------------------------------------------------

Two years had passed since that fateful evening.

Minho stepped off the bustling train platform in Tokyo, the city’s vibrant energy hitting him like a wave. It was a stark contrast to the quieter streets of Seoul, where he'd spent the last couple of years, working tirelessly to climb the ranks at his job. And now, he was back in Tokyo, taking on a new position. Not even two weeks into the job, and already, he found himself buried in meetings and overwhelmed by tight deadlines, leaving him exhausted.

One evening, with no work to occupy his mind, Minho decided to take a stroll around the city to clear his thoughts. The cold December air hit him sharply as he stepped out of his apartment, but there was something in the atmosphere that urged him to walk. Whistling a soft tune, he wandered through his neighborhood, which, to his surprise, was unusually quiet even in the early evening hues of 6 pm. Of course, people were likely busy, either shopping for the holidays, nestled in the warmth of their homes, or working, just as he had done for most of his days.

After hours of aimless walking, he found himself on a street that seemed strangely familiar. At first, he couldn’t place the memory, but as the traffic light turned green and he crossed the street, it hit him like a truck. This was the same street where the accident had occurred,the one where he had saved that woman….

-------------------------------------------------------

Two years ago, Minho's friends were having a get-together, and he had one simple task: bring dessert. Yet, as always, he had forgotten. Panic set in as he rushed through the streets, desperately searching for any café or restaurant still open that evening. Unfortunately, the city seemed to have shut down after 8 PM. He ran through neighborhood after neighborhood, street after street, but every café he passed was dark and locked up tight.

Finally, in the last neighborhood, feeling defeated, he was about to turn back when a soft glow from an establishment caught the corner of his eye. It looked like a café from a distance. His legs moved automatically in that direction, hoping, praying they still had any desserts left. Huffing and puffing, he pushed through the door, the sudden entrance startling the woman who was packing up some boxes for closing.

"Sorry," Minho said, breathless as he approached the counter.

"We’re about to close, sir," she replied, her voice distant, her attention still on the boxes.

"I’m so sorry for barging in last minute," he blurted out in a rush. "I completely forgot to bring dessert to a get-together with my friends, and every café in the neighborhood seems to be closed. If it’s possible, could you sell me any puddings you have left? I’ll take them all and be on my way."

He spoke so quickly that he almost didn’t pause for a breath, but still, she didn’t look up. The sincerity in his voice, however, seemed to reach her, and she paused her work, glancing up at him. She walked over to the counter, her gaze softening as she met his eyes.

"We’re closing, sir. I don’t think it’s possible," she said gently, though there was a hint of regret in her voice.

Minho felt a pang of disappointment but couldn’t help but notice how sweet her voice was, like honey. He blushed, and the warmth spread across his cheeks as he looked back at her. "I’m so sorry, I humbly request just a couple. I’ll pay, and I’ll be out of your way, I promise. It won’t take long."

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From the woman’s perspective:

The man in front of her looked to be about the same age, his face a perfect mix of soft features and a sharp jawline. Even in a basic hoodie, sweat dripping from his face from his rush, there was an undeniable handsomeness about him. She felt a sudden catch in her throat, and for a moment, she was at a loss for words.

"Is that okay?" he asked again, his voice pulling her out of her daze.

"Y... yeah," she stammered, shaking herself from the shock. "We have a couple of puddings left. How many do you need?"

"Thank you," Minho replied, a grateful smile lighting up his face. "Could you pack 20, please?"

She nodded, quickly starting to pack a box full of puddings. Under her breath, she cursed as she glanced at the clock, she was running late.

End of her POV.

-------------------------------------------------------

Half an hour had since passed and Minho was rushing back to his friend's apartment when the scene unfolded in front of him. A truck barreled down the street, and there she was-the same woman from the café-standing frozen in its path. His heart dropped as he realized what was about to happen. Panic set in as he scrambled to help her, dropping the box of puddings he was carrying. But it was already too late. The truck struck her with full force, throwing her into the air. Her body slammed into the cold pavement with a sickening thud, and a pool of blood began to spread from beneath her head.

Minho didn't hesitate. He ran to her side, desperately trying to scoop her up. His phone was in his hand, but when he tried to call an ambulance, no one picked up. The nearest hospital was ten minutes away, and he knew carrying her was the only chance he had to save her. Adrenaline surged through him as he lifted her into his arms and began running, each step feeling like a race against time.

He spoke soothingly to her, trying to keep her awake. " Stay with me! She stirred beneath his touch, murmuring softly, "Who are you?"

Minho felt a rush of relief when he saw that she was still conscious. His voice, though gentle, carried a trace of urgency as he asked, “Are you okay? Can you hear me?” His words, meant to comfort, felt hollow, as if they couldn’t reach the depth of his fear. Panic surged through him once more when she whispered that she couldn’t feel her legs.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” he said, his voice steady but laced with an underlying tension. “We’re almost there. Just hold on.”

Even as fear twisted in his chest, Minho forced himself to believe in the calm he was trying to project. He spoke with more confidence, hoping that the reassurance would reach her, and that it would somehow settle his own racing heart.

When Minho reached the hospital, the building seemed eerily quiet, almost deserted. Panic clung to him like a second skin as he rushed inside. Before he could make it to the emergency room, the paramedics arrived and took over. They moved quickly, whisking her through the double doors, their voices urgent but steady. Minho stood frozen at the entrance, unable to do more than hold her hand one last time. Giving it a soft squeeze, he whispered, “You’re going to be okay,” his voice trembling with determination, even as fear gnawed at him.

As the paramedics disappeared into the depths of the hospital with her, Minho finally released a shaky breath. His hands were still trembling, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he stared at the now-empty hallway. Moments later, the quiet was shattered by the sound of hurried footsteps and frantic voices. A group of people burst through the hospital doors, their faces etched with panic and fear.

“Y/N! Y/N, please wake up! You’re going to be okay! Just stay with us!” a young woman cried, her voice breaking as she rushed toward the direction the stretcher had gone. Her desperation was palpable, raw, and it hit Minho like a wave.

Minho, still standing at the door, desperate to be of any help, quickly picked up on her name. Y/N. It echoed in his mind, anchoring him in the chaos. “Y/N, hang in there,” he whispered softly, as if somehow his words could reach her through the walls.

Turning to the young woman, her sister, he realized.Minho tried to offer what little comfort he could. “I was there,” he said gently, his voice low but steady. “I saw the truck coming. It swerved out of nowhere. I… I got her out of the way just in time.” His voice faltered as the memory replayed in his mind. “But the impact… I’m so sorry.”

Her sister’s tears streamed freely as she listened, clinging to every word. She nodded, her voice trembling as she whispered, “You saved her. You saved my sister.”

When Y/N was finally wheeled into the operating theater, her sister turned to Minho, her face streaked with tears, her eyes glistening with gratitude and heartbreak. “Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “You’re her guardian angel. I don’t even want to imagine what could’ve happened if you hadn’t been there.”

Minho nodded mutely, overwhelmed by the weight of her words. He couldn’t find the right response, couldn’t process the mix of emotions swirling inside him,the relief of knowing he’d done what he could, the fear of what might come next, and the raw ache of seeing a family on the verge of losing someone they loved.

As the night stretched on, Minho stood outside the hospital, his figure silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlights. A strange mixture of hope and helplessness washed over him. Her name, Y/N, echoed in his mind, repeated like a lifeline, tethering him to the present moment

Even after the chaos subsided and he returned home...

-------------------------------------------------------

Minho's throat ran dry as he recalled the scene unfolding in front of him that day.Her face remained etched in his mind. He often wondered if she had fully recovered, if her life had returned to normal after the tragedy…

"Focus," Minho murmured to himself. The past was just that, the past. He couldn’t change it, and now, his craving for something sweet tugged at him. Even though he had tried to forget her, a persistent voice in his head urged him to seek out the café she once worked at. He never had the chance to taste her desserts after he’d accidentally dropped them to save her. The memory lingered, but he couldn’t quite shake the need to return to that place, to experience what he missed.

As he wandered through the winding backstreets, he found himself standing at the corner where the café had stood two years ago. But instead of the familiar cozy spot, there was only a pharmacy now. The café was gone,nothing more than a distant memory. His heart sank in disappointment, and he sighed, deciding to head home. The chill in the air was becoming sharper by the minute.

Taking a shortcut through a narrow alley, he walked into a quieter street, the contrast to the bustling lanes he had passed earlier striking. It was much calmer here, with the glow of a few lit shops casting soft, warm lights onto the pavement. As he neared the corner, a café sign caught his attention. The bold letters “Open” gleamed back at him, and curiosity bubbled inside him.

He approached and stepped inside, greeted by a rush of warmth. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and pastries filled the air, the soft hum of machinery a backdrop to the quiet atmosphere. A curious name adorned the café’s front: Twilight Robo Café. Minho raised an eyebrow. The name intrigued him.

The interior of the café was unlike any he had seen before. Robots, sleek and small, glided around with surprising grace. They served drinks, delivered snacks, and interacted with customers in a way that blurred the lines between technology and humanity. Their screens displayed animated avatars, mimicking emotions with perfect accuracy. It was futuristic, yet oddly comforting.

Minho chose a seat by the window, gazing out at the winter landscape as snowflakes began to fall, casting a soft veil over the world outside. He could feel the warmth of the café against the chill creeping into his bones. He exhaled, content for the moment.

Moments later, a small robot wheeled up to his table and stopped in front of him.

"Welcome to Twilight Robo Café!" the voice chirped brightly, warm and inviting. "What can I get for you today?"

Minho froze. There was something about the voice, something unnervingly familiar. His mind raced, but he couldn’t place where he had heard it before.

"Sir?" The robot’s voice broke his train of thought.

Minho blinked, shaking himself from his stupor. "Uh, I’ll take a pudding... and a black coffee, please."

“May I know whose name it’s going for?” the robot voice asked.

“Minho,” he replied.

“A pudding and a black coffee for Minho, coming right up!” The screen flashed a wide smile before the robot zipped away.

Minho stared at the empty space where the robot had been, confusion clouding his thoughts. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the voice belonged to someone he knew, or at least someone he had once met.

Minutes passed, and soon enough, the robot returned, carefully placing his coffee and pudding on the table. "There you go! Anything else I can do for you?" it asked, the screen flashing another bright, animated grin.

Minho leaned forward slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Um, this might sound strange, but your voice... do you choose it yourself?”

The robot's head tilted in a quizzical way, that made it seem almost human. Behind the screen, you were controlling it, your fingers hesitating on the joystick as your heart skipped a beat. There he was, he was here. The man who had rushed to your aid that night, the one you had tried to forget, yet never could. The same man who had been by your side when everything had fallen apart. You hadn’t expected to see him again, let alone hear his voice now.

Sitting in your dimly lit apartment, you blinked twice, your eyes wide in disbelief. Was this really happening? It couldn’t be him... but it was. The man from that day. The one you had barely spoken to but had thought about constantly since then. How was it possible that he remembered your voice? That day, your words had been barely audible, lost in the chaos of the accident. Your voice had been raw and broken. You had been a mess…scattered emotions and fear. And after everything, after your accident, your life had changed so drastically.

You had become a shadow of the person you once were, paralyzed from the waist down, the scars marking your body and face a constant reminder of everything you had lost. The woman you once were, vibrant, full of life, running the café you owned, with ease and a warm smile, was no longer. Now, you hid behind the screen of a robot, controlling its every movement, its every expression from the confines of your small apartment. It was the only way you could still interact with the world, without the fear of frightening people with your appearance. The very face that had once greeted customers with warmth now carried the weight of painful memories, and you couldn't bear to see the looks of pity or fear in the eyes of those who might recognize you. So, you stayed behind the safety of the screen, crafting your persona through the robotic avatar, a small semblance of the woman you used to be, but never fully seen.

But there he was, still as handsome as you remembered. His smile hadn’t changed, and it made your heart ache. You hadn’t expected him to recognize your voice, yet here he was, doing just that.

Minho knocked gently on the screen, as though checking if the robot was malfunctioning. The action snapped you back to the present, your palms suddenly clammy. You quickly moved the controls, realizing you’d left the robot on idle for too long.

"I certainly do," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant, keeping your voice light. "It just... your voice sounds oddly familiar. Like I’ve heard it before."

Minho’s brows furrowed as he tried to place the voice. "Maybe I just have one of those voices," you deflected, not wanting to reveal too much.

"Maybe?" Minho murmured, taking a sip of his coffee and watching the world outside with a contemplative look on his face.

For the next several minutes, Minho continued asking questions, trying to get to know the person behind the robot. Each answer you gave was carefully measured, trying your best to keep your emotions in check. You couldn’t risk revealing your identity, not yet.

"So," Minho asked, setting his coffee down and leaning forward, "how does this work? Are you controlling it remotely?"

"Yes," you replied, trying to keep your tone even. "I control it from home. Everything you see, the movements, the voice, the expressions, it’s all me, just through a robot."

"That’s amazing," Minho said, his lips curling into an impressed smile. "Does it feel weird... interacting with customers like this?"

"Not really," you answered. "At first, it was awkward. But after a while, you get used to it. And maybe it’s a nice way to interact with people in ways I couldn’t before."

Minho nodded, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the table. "Do customers ever forget there’s a person behind the robot?"

You laughed softly, a genuine chuckle that escaped without you meaning to.

"Of course! You’d be surprised how many people forget and just say things like, ‘This robot has great customer service.’ Like it’s some kind of AI program," you giggled. "It’s fun, though."

"Yeah, seems like you enjoy your workplace," Minho replied with a grin, taking a bite of the pudding. His eyes lit up as the sweetness of the caramel and the creamy texture hit him. It was the perfect balance of flavors, nothing too overwhelming. He closed his eyes for a moment in pure satisfaction. Behind the screen, you couldn’t help but smile, warmed by his enjoyment.

"Miss, may I know who made this?" he asked eagerly.

You smiled, pride swelling in your chest. "It’s my family’s recipe. I just control the robot to make it perfect here. After a couple of trial and errors, we finally got it just right."

"It’s delicious!" Minho exclaimed, his smile widening.

"Thank you," you said, pleased to see him enjoying it.

The conversation continued to flow naturally, the lighthearted exchanges easing some of the tension you’d felt earlier. But then Minho asked a question that made your heart stutter.

"Did your family own a café?"

Your breath caught in your throat. You had almost said too much. You froze, but then tried to cover up the slip.

"Yes... they did, but I did, too. It was just around the... " You stopped yourself mid-sentence. The words you almost let out were too dangerous.

Minho looked at you, confused. You quickly recovered, the warmth on your face barely hiding the panic you felt. "I mean, yes, it was a family recipe turned into a business... but not anymore," you added awkwardly, forcing a smile.

Minho nodded, his attention returning to the pudding. "That explains the taste."

Minho leaned back in his chair, his eyes still on the robot, as though he were studying it for answers. "So, do you get a lot of people like me? The ones who ask too many questions?"

You laughed more genuinely this time, the sound like music in the quiet café. "You’d be surprised. So many of them treat me like a therapist, venting about their day and asking for advice. Others just make small talk about the weather."

Minho chuckled at one of your stories, the conversation feeling more relaxed. It almost felt like you could breathe again.

But then he asked something that made your heart race once more.

"Do you think we’ve met before? I can’t help but think your voice reminds me of someone."

Your heart skipped a beat. You froze, not sure how to respond.

"Maybe I just have one of those voices?" you said, your voice light and carefully measured.

"Maybe?" Minho replied, though his tone carried a hint of doubt. "But I can't shake the feeling that that's not it... The way you talk, it's just too personal."

Minho tilted his head slightly, studying the robot as though the answer might be hidden there, etched into its smooth surface.

Your grip on the controls tightened, and your pulse raced in your ears. A wave of heat flushed over you, making it feel like you were trapped in a sauna. Every part of you screamed to deny it all, to retreat, but your heart, oh, your heart, yearned for him to remember you.

"Well," you said, forcing a light smile, "It's a small world. Maybe we've crossed paths before?"

Minho’s gaze narrowed, his expression thoughtful. "You think so? Tokyo's a big city. Anything's possible."

Your voice softened as you responded, "Maybe."

Minho’s next question caught you completely off guard. "Do you ever wish you could meet the person you're talking to? In person, I mean?"

You hesitated, fingers trembling slightly as you processed his words. "Sometimes," you admitted, your voice barely a whisper. "But it's complicated."

Minho didn’t interrupt. He just kept looking at you with that same, unwavering curiosity, as though he could see beyond the surface, searching for the truth that you had buried deep within.

"I believe it's easier for people to connect when they don’t see the messier parts of someone's life," you said quietly. "The robots, they make things simple. No judgment. No awkwardness. And I'd like to keep it that way."

Minho frowned. "That's not fair, though. Everyone has a messy past. That's what makes us human."

You were left at a loss for words once again. How could he say such things so easily? The very reason you applied for this job was to avoid letting anyone see who you really were. They couldn’t see you like this, not when you were too broke to even afford to hide the scars on your face. Not when going outside felt more like a monumental task. It was exhausting, living without the use of your legs.

A tear slipped down your cheek, but you wiped it away quickly. You had no answer for him. The silence between you felt deafening.

"It’s just..." you finally managed to croak, "Not everyone thinks like you."

Minho tilted his head, his gaze thoughtful. "Maybe they should..."

He smiled gently. "I’d like to meet the wonderful lady behind this voice as well."

-------------------------------------------------------

It was almost 10 p.m., closing time for the café. Minho was disappointed when another robot politely told him it was time to leave. The robot he'd spent so much time talking to was now busy attending to another customer. Maybe it was his questions. Maybe he had overstepped or overwhelmed her.

She had excused herself to tend to others, and Minho was left standing there, contemplating the conversation. As the clock ticked closer to 10, a thought struck him,one that seemed silly but lingered in his mind. He wasn’t sure if anything would come of it, but he wanted to know more. It had felt nice talking to her.

Before he left, he handed the next robot worker a note addressed to the wonderful robo Missy.

‘It was nice talking to you. I’m really sorry if I overstepped. Call or text me if you ever need to vent.”

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"It was nice talking to you. I'm really sorry if I overstepped. Call or text me if you ever need someone to talk to or vent."

You stared at the note for what seemed like an eternity, the words dancing in front of your eyes but never quite sinking in. Weeks had passed since your last encounter with Minho, yet you couldn’t stop replaying that moment over and over. He had wanted to meet you, to know you, but you had been frozen in place, unable to say a word. You had scrambled for an exit, seizing the first opportunity; A last-minute customer ordering takeout. You had apologized to him, your voice a strained whisper, as you quickly steered your robot towards the new customer. You avoided his gaze, his eyes, still burning into your back, full of something you couldn’t quite read.

And now, you were holding this in your hand, a simple note with his number scrawled across the bottom, an apology for something Minho didn’t even know he had done. He had respected your boundaries, your silence, even when everything in you had screamed for him to see you, to understand you. But you couldn’t bring yourself to speak up, to make it clear that you were not just the voice behind the screen.

Yesterday had been one of those days, the kind that chipped away at you slowly, piece by piece, until you were left wondering how much more you could take. The café was bustling as usual, but the warmth that typically filled the air had been replaced with an unsettling, tense energy.

A group of rude customers had strolled in, their voices cutting through the usual hum of the café like a razor. At first, it was subtle. They made snide remarks about the novelty of the robot café, their laughter sharp and mocking. But soon, their jabs became more pointed, their words carrying an edge that sliced deeper than you wanted to admit.

One of them leaned in close to your screen, his sneer almost palpable. "Oh, how lucky you are to be working from home," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as if your reality were some kind of twisted privilege.

Another chimed in, her tone laced with venom. "Really? Don’t you think you’re being ungrateful? Life handed you a golden opportunity, and you’re complaining?"

Their words stung far more than they should have. Because they didn’t see you. Not truly. They didn’t know the reality behind the screen. The daily battles you fought, the pain of waking up in a body that no longer obeyed your will. They didn’t know how exhausting it was to perform even the smallest tasks, how something as simple as getting dressed could feel like scaling a mountain. They didn’t know the humiliation of needing help for the most basic functions, or the way the world seemed so much larger, harsher, and more inaccessible now.

They didn’t know about your sister, your fiercely loyal, stubborn sister, who had taken on the role of caregiver without hesitation, even when you begged her not to. You had pleaded with her to chase her dreams, to live her life without the shadow of your limitations hanging over her. But she refused. And every time you saw her push her own happiness aside for your sake, guilt gnawed at you, sharp and unrelenting.

Life before the accident felt like another lifetime, a fleeting memory of who you used to be. Back when you were independent, whole, and full of possibilities. That person felt like a stranger now, someone you’d never quite find your way back to. And days like today only widened the chasm between who you were and who you had become.

Their cruel words echoed long after they had left, bouncing around in your head like a relentless reminder of everything you had lost. You had kept your voice steady, your responses professional, but inside, you were crumbling. The mask you wore was cracking, and you didn’t know how much longer you could hold it together.

Later that night, as the silence of your apartment pressed down on you, your eyes landed on the letter Minho had left at the café. His handwriting was neat and careful, but the words… they were like a lifeline thrown to you in the middle of a storm. An invitation, a chance to connect, to be seen. You had read it over and over, the lines blurring as doubt crept in.

What if he didn’t mean it? What if he had only written it out of politeness or guilt? The idea clawed at you, feeding the insecurities that always lingered just below the surface. But another thought followed, quieter and far more dangerous. What if he truly meant it? What if he actually wanted to know you, not out of pity, but because he cared? Because he saw something in you worth knowing?

That thought scared you more than anything. Because you weren’t the same person he had saved two years ago. That version of you had been whole, bright, and full of potential. Now, you were a patchwork of scars and insecurities, trying desperately to hold yourself together. Would he even recognize you? Would he still care if he knew how much you had changed?

You stared at the letter for what felt like hours, caught between fear and hope. The weight of the day pressed heavily on your chest, and the idea of reaching out felt impossibly daunting. But something in Minho’s words lingered, a warmth, a sincerity that made you want to believe, even just for a moment, that someone might see you for who you were now, not who you used to be.

Finally, you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible in the stillness of the room,

"What if?”

You wiped a tear from your cheek, your hand trembling as you stared at the number Minho had written at the bottom of the page. It had been days of battling conflicting thoughts, of wondering whether you should even try to reach out.

Part of you wanted to hear his voice again, to feel that connection, but another part of you warned against it. What if you burdened him with your pain? What if he thought you were just being dramatic, that you were too much to handle?

The weight of yesterday pressed down on you, suffocating and relentless. Every word, every sneer from the café replayed in your mind like a broken record. Tonight, the walls of your apartment felt closer than ever, the silence too loud to bear.

With trembling fingers, you found yourself reaching for your phone. You hadn’t planned this, hadn’t even allowed yourself to consider it. But now, your hand moved as if it had a will of its own. You scrolled through your contacts until you found his name. For a moment, your thumb hovered over the call button, doubt creeping in. What if this was a mistake? But before you could overthink it, you pressed down, the ringing filling the void.

It felt endless. Each tone seemed to stretch on for an eternity, echoing in your ears and amplifying the pounding of your heart. With every ring, a fresh wave of nerves rolled over you, making you question what you’d even say if he picked up.

And then…voicemail.

A deep sigh escaped your lips, a mix of disappointment and relief. The automated message played, his voice absent, replaced by a mechanical tone inviting you to leave a message. You hesitated, the silence on the other end daring you to speak. But the words you wanted to say felt caught in your throat, tangled with fear and uncertainty

"Of course," you whispered to yourself. "He’s probably busy. Why would he want to hear from me?"

You set the phone down, shaking your head at your foolishness. He had saved your life that day, yes, but that didn’t mean he wanted to hear about the mess your life had become. Slowly, you changed into your pajamas, ready to crawl into bed and let the darkness of sleep take over.

Just as you settled beneath the covers, your phone buzzed in your hand. The soft vibration startled you, and when you glanced at the screen, your heart skipped a beat. Minho. His name, glowing in the dim light of your room, sent a wave of panic and excitement through you.

For a moment, you froze, staring at the screen as if it might disappear. Should you answer? Could you? What if he didn’t remember you? What if this was just a courtesy call, and he’d forgotten everything? Doubts swirled in your mind, threatening to paralyze you. But before you could overthink any further, your fingers moved on their own, and you pressed the green button.

“H-Hello?” you stammered, your voice shaky with nerves.

There was a pause on the other end, one that felt like an eternity, before a familiar voice filled the line. “Who is this?”

The breath caught in your throat, and for a moment, you couldn’t find the words. “I… I’m the robot voice you talked to the other day,” you finally managed to say.

“Oh, yes, Robo Café Missy!” he said with a soft chuckle, the warmth in his tone instantly melting some of your anxiety. “You really rushed off that day. I barely got a chance to say goodbye.”

“Yeah,” you admitted, a nervous laugh escaping your lips. “My manager was giving me this concerned look for talking to a customer so long.”

“Sorry about that,” Minho said, a note of humor in his voice. “Didn’t mean to get you in trouble.”

“It’s alright,” you said quickly, your nerves easing slightly. “I just… I got your letter, and I’m sorry if I’m bothering you, but I was having a bad day, and… I thought I’d call. I didn’t know who else to talk to.”

His tone softened immediately. “You’re not bothering me, Robo Missy,” he said gently. “But before we dive into your day, how about we properly introduce ourselves?”

You hesitated, biting your lip. Sharing more of yourself felt terrifying, like peeling back a layer of armor you’d grown so used to. But there was something about Minho’s voice, its warmth, its sincerity,that made you want to take the leap.

“I’m… Y/N L/N,” you whispered, barely audible.

There was a brief silence on the other end, as if he was processing the name. Then, he let out a soft laugh, tinged with disbelief. “Y/N? That’s a crazy coincidence. Someone I used to know had the same name as you.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone.

This was it

“Minho… it’s not a coincidence.”

The silence that followed was heavier this time, charged with anticipation. You could almost feel the shock on the other end of the line.

“I… I’m Y/N,” you said, your voice trembling. “It’s me.”

There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by a stunned, “Wait… what? Y/N? That Y/N?”

“Yes,” you confirmed with a hesitant laugh. “That’s me.”

The line went quiet for a beat, and then Minho exclaimed, “Oh my God, Y/N! It’s you! I can’t believe this!”

You chuckled nervously, the sound more of a release of tension than amusement. “Yeah, it’s me. Thank you for saving me that day, Minho. I never got the chance to properly thank you.”

“I’m just relieved you’re alright,” he said earnestly. “You made a full recovery, right? Everything’s fine now?”

Your smile faltered, and you took a shaky breath. “Umm… about that…”

Minho’s voice softened instantly, his concern palpable. “What do you mean?”

You hesitated, the words caught in your throat. But then, with a deep breath, you began telling him everything. You told him about the accident, the surgeries, the endless therapy, and the long, grueling days of learning to live in a body that no longer worked the way it once did. You told him about the guilt you felt watching your sister sacrifice so much to help you, about the nights spent crying in frustration and pain, and about the fear that you’d never be seen as anything but broken.

Through it all, Minho listened silently, not once interrupting. His quiet attention was steady, grounding, as though every word you said mattered deeply to him.

When you finally finished, your voice cracked, tears threatening to spill. “I… I didn’t want to tell you all this. I didn’t want to bother you or make you feel sorry for me. But today was just….”

“Y/N,” Minho cut in, his voice firm yet impossibly gentle. “You’re not bothering me. And I don’t feel sorry for you. I’m just… I’m glad you called. I’m glad you trusted me enough to tell me.”

Tears welled in your eyes again, but this time, they weren’t from sadness. They were from something warmer, something that felt a lot like hope.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

“No, thank you,” Minho said softly. “For calling me. And for being honest. You don’t have to go through this alone, you know.”

You smiled faintly, clutching the phone tightly to your ear. Maybe, just maybe, you didn’t have to.

And thus began your connection with Minho...

----------------------------------------------------

Your fingers hovered over the video call button, trembling slightly. Since that phone call last Christmas eve, Minho had become an undeniable presence in your life. Whether it was his casual phone calls, random texts checking in on you, or the silly messages that always made you laugh, he was there, ensuring you never felt completely alone.

But last week, something changed.

“Why don’t we have a movie night?” he had texted casually. “We can video call while watching.”

You froze at the suggestion, your immediate response a firm, resounding no.

"Come on,” he coaxed gently. “It’ll be fun. I want to see you.”

And that was the problem. You didn’t want him to see you.

The thought of showing your face made your stomach churn. What if he was disappointed? What if he looked at you differently after seeing what the accident had done? You tried every excuse you could think of, but Minho’s quiet persistence was hard to ignore.

“I won’t push you,” he finally said, his tone soft yet resolute. “But I don’t care what you think you look like. You’re Y/N, and nothing will ever change that for me.”

His words lingered all week, pulling at the corners of your mind whenever your insecurities screamed louder than your hope.

And now, here you were, sitting in front of your phone, staring at the glowing call notification. Your heart raced, your palms damp as you adjusted your hair for the fifth time. Every buried doubt clawed its way to the surface.

Don’t do this. He’ll regret staying in touch, your mind hissed.

But another voice, softer yet stronger, whispered, He cares. He won’t leave.

With a shaky breath, you pressed the button. The camera flickered on, and you quickly angled it so only the top of your head was visible.

“Y/N?” Minho’s voice came through, soft and cheerful.

“Y-Yeah, it’s me,” you stammered, still too afraid to tilt the camera lower.

“I can’t see you,” he teased lightly. “What, are you hiding from me?”

You hesitated, your thumb hovering over the "end call" button. But something in his tone....so patient, so warm...nudged you forward. Slowly, you lowered the camera, revealing your face.

“There you are,” Minho said softly, a smile spreading across his face.

You braced yourself for disgust, disappointment, anything that would confirm your worst fears. But his reaction wasn’t what you expected. His expression didn’t falter, his smile didn’t waver, and his eyes held nothing but warmth.

“You look beautiful,” he said simply, as if it were a fact, not a compliment.

Tears stung your eyes as you looked away. “Don’t say that,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I mean it,” he replied firmly. “I’m not just saying it to make you feel better. You’re Y/N, and you’re beautiful to me. Always have been, always will be.”

His words chipped away at the walls you had built around yourself. He wasn’t looking at you with pity or discomfort, he was just looking at you.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself a small smile. “Thank you, Minho,” you murmured.

“Now,” he said, his tone shifting to playful. “Are we watching this movie, or are you going to keep hiding from me?”

You chuckled softly, wiping a tear from your cheek. “Alright, alright. Let’s watch.”

As the movie began, the tension in your chest slowly eased. Minho’s occasional sarcastic comments or soft laughter warmed you in ways you didn’t fully understand. The awkwardness that had gripped you at the start of the call melted away, replaced by a rhythm that felt natural.

During a quieter part of the movie, Minho spoke, his voice cutting through the momentary silence. “This feels nice.”

“What does?” you asked, glancing at the screen.

“Being able to see you while we talk. It feels... more real.”

His honesty caught you off guard, and you fiddled with the edge of your blanket. “I guess,” you mumbled.

“Don’t downplay it,” he chided gently. “You don’t realize how much I’ve missed this, just spending time with you.”

Your heart thudded at his words. “Minho, you barely knew me before the accident…”

“And yet,” he interrupted, his tone soft but unwavering, “I’ve always felt like I knew you. The way you smiled at the hospital, even through the pain. The way your sister shared pieces of your life with me that day, the struggles you faced, in the hospital. You left an impression, Y/N. And no matter how much time passed, I couldn’t forget you.”

His confession left you speechless. You opened your mouth to respond but couldn’t find the words.

Minho smiled faintly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

The movie ended, but neither of you hung up. The conversation drifted to lighter topics, your favorite foods, places you’d love to visit, funny childhood stories. You found yourself laughing, surprised at how easy it was to talk to him, how intently he listened to every little thing you said.

When the clock struck midnight, you yawned, trying to stifle it.

“Am I keeping you up?” Minho teased.

“No, I’m fine,” you lied, but your sleepy tone betrayed you.

“You need to rest,” he said with a soft laugh. “But… can I call you again tomorrow? Or, you know, whenever you’re free?”

The warmth in his voice made your chest ache in the best way. “I’d like that,” you admitted quietly.

“Good,” he said, his smile evident even through the screen. “Sweet dreams, Y/N.”

“Goodnight, Minho,” you replied, ending the call and setting your phone aside.

As you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the events of the night replayed in your mind. For the first time in years, you felt a little lighter. A little less alone.

You didn’t know where this connection with Minho would lead, but tonight, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he saw you, not just your struggles, but you.

And for the first time, that felt like enough.

-------------------------------------------------------

Over the next few months, Minho became your lifeline. What started as casual conversations and video calls grew into something deeper. He was patient, funny, and warm,someone who made you feel seen, heard, and cherished. For the first time in years, you felt like you could breathe again. It wasn’t something you could pinpoint, a singular moment where your feelings for Minho shifted from gratitude to something deeper. It happened slowly, quietly, like the way the first hints of dawn creep into the night sky.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing more than admiration. Minho had saved your life, after all. When you woke up in the hospital, groggy and disoriented, the nurses told you about the stranger who stayed by your side, ensuring you received the care you needed. That alone had been enough to etch his name into your mind.

Months later, when you heard his voice again at the robot café, your heart stumbled. It was almost embarrassing how much his presence, even through the robot’s camera and speakers, stirred something inside you. He spoke to you with such warmth, such genuine interest, that it felt like you were more than just a disembodied voice behind a screen.

But it wasn’t until the letter he left for you that the walls you’d so carefully built around your heart began to crack.

You read it so many times that the edges were worn from your fingertips. His words weren’t overly flowery or poetic, but they were sincere, making you feel seen in a way you hadn’t felt in years. He didn’t just write about how thankful he was bout the customer service, he wrote about you. That you can call or text him anytime you wanted to vent.

From that point on, every phone call, every text, chipped away at the fears you’d held so tightly. At first, you were careful, guarded. You kept your responses light, your conversations surface-level. But Minho had a way of disarming you without even trying. He’d slip in questions about your favorite childhood memories or tease you until you laughed. And before you realized it, you were sharing pieces of yourself you hadn’t shown anyone in years.

And then came the video call.

You almost didn’t do it. The idea of letting him see your face, the scars that made you feel like a stranger every time you looked in the mirror, was too much. But Minho had been gentle in his persistence, assuring you that he just wanted to watch a movie with you, nothing more.

When you finally turned on the camera, your hands were trembling, and you could barely meet his eyes on the screen. You braced yourself for the shift, for the flicker of discomfort or pity that you were so used to seeing.

But it never came.

Instead, Minho smiled, his gaze soft as if he were looking at something beautiful. “Hi,” he said, his tone light and full of warmth, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

And in that moment, something inside you shifted. The fear that had kept you isolated for so long began to loosen its grip, replaced by something warmer, brighter.

He made you feel normal. He made you feel seen. And over time, you realized it wasn’t just gratitude or admiration anymore.

You were falling for him.

You tried to fight it at first, convincing yourself it was foolish. Someone like Minho...a man who could light up a room with just his presence....could have anyone. Why would he choose someone like you, with your scars and limitations?

But then he’d call you late at night, just to ask how your day went. Or he’d send you pictures of stray cats he’d found, knowing how much you loved them, just like he did. Or he’d make you laugh so hard you’d forget, even for a moment, about all the things you thought made you unworthy.

And then, over the course of the next few weeks, something unexpected started to take root inside you. At first, you brushed it off as fleeting, an echo of loneliness mistaken for something else. But it grew, steady and undeniable, a strange, fluttering feeling in your chest every time Minho’s name lit up your phone.

You found yourself lingering on his texts longer than you should, re-reading them late at night when the world was silent. His words, simple and casual, had a way of making your heart race. And those calls? They were becoming the best part of your day. It wasn’t just his voice....it was the way he laughed, the way he said your name, like it held a special place in his vocabulary.

He looked different to you now, too. Or maybe you were just seeing him for the first time. Handsome didn’t even begin to describe it. There was something magnetic about the way he carried himself, a quiet confidence that made him seem untouchable, yet he was so real with you. So patient, so kind.

And that’s when the panic set in.

Because how could you fall for him?

It wasn’t fair. Not to him. Minho was everything you weren’t: free, whole, untethered. He could have anyone he wanted, someone who could walk beside him in the park without needing a wheelchair, someone who could dance with him instead of watching from the sidelines.

You hadn’t left the house in years. The thought of facing the world outside, with its prying eyes and unspoken judgments, made your stomach churn. How could you expect someone like Minho to accept that? To accept you, when even you struggled to accept yourself?

Your scars felt like barriers, visible proof of the life you used to have and the one you were forced to live now. You’d lost the power in your legs, and sometimes it felt like you’d lost the power to dream, to hope for something better.

And yet, Minho made you hope.

It terrified you, this fragile thing blooming in your chest. Because if you allowed yourself to fall for him, truly fall, what would happen if he didn’t catch you? Could you handle the heartbreak? Could you bear to see pity in his eyes where kindness now shone?

You tried to push the feelings down, bury them beneath the weight of your fears. But they wouldn’t stay hidden. Every text, every call, every laugh chipped away at your resolve until you were left raw and vulnerable, clinging to a question you were too afraid to answer. Will Minho even accept you?

------------------------------------------------------

-------------------------------------------------------

That evening during the video call, Minho dropped a bombshell.

“Y/N, let’s meet,” he said casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

You froze, blinking at the screen. “What?”

“I want to see you,” he repeated, smiling. “In person. How about a café date and a stroll in the park? I know a quiet spot, not too crowded.”

Panic surged through you. You hadn’t left your house in years....not since the accident. The thought of people staring at you, noticing your scars, filled you with dread. You opened your mouth to protest, but Minho’s gentle expression stopped you.

“Take your time,” he said softly. “You don’t have to decide now. But I’d really like to spend time with you, Y/N. No pressure.”

Minho ended the call with a hopeful smile on his end when you told him you'd think about it.

For the next few days, you agonized over his request. Part of you wanted to see him, to feel the sun on your face and experience the world outside your walls again. But the fear of judgment and rejection was overwhelming. Finally, with a shaky breath, you agreed.

------------------------------------------------------

Minho had never been the type to hesitate when it came to the people he cared about. But with Y/N, everything felt different....delicate, like holding something precious in his hands that could shatter if he pushed too hard. The past month of video calls and late-night texts had been like a breath of fresh air for him. He loved how she spoke, how her voice softened when she was relaxed or brightened when she talked about something that brought her joy. But he could also sense the walls she’d built around herself, her hesitations woven into every interaction. It didn’t matter to him, though. He’d seen enough in her to know she was worth the patience. The idea to meet her in person had been bubbling in his mind for weeks. He missed being able to see her face beyond the tiny camera frame, to hear her laugh without the digital lag of a call. And more than anything, he wanted her to know she didn’t have to hide anymore...not from him, not from anyone.

When she’d finally agreed, he’d been careful not to show just how thrilled he was. He knew it wasn’t an easy decision for her, and he didn’t want to add to the weight she was carrying. Instead, he spent the days leading up to their meeting planning every detail, choosing a quiet café and a serene park where she wouldn’t feel overwhelmed.

The day of the date, he arrived early, checking his reflection in the café window to make sure he looked okay. Not that it mattered much to him, he just wanted Y/N to feel comfortable.

---------------------------------------------------

Whereas you, on the other hand, were on a completely different wavelength altogether.

The days leading up to this moment had been an emotional tug-of-war within yourself. A part of you longed to experience something new, something outside the prison of your four walls. But the other part...the one that whispered cruel reminders of your scars, your limitations, and the judgment of others...fought to hold you back.

The night before the date, you barely slept. You paced your room, questioning everything. Why would Minho even want to be seen with me? He’s kind, patient, and could easily find someone who isn’t a mess like me. What if people stare? What if I embarrass him?

You looked at yourself in the mirror that morning, pulling your favourite hoodie over your head and adjusting it. The scars that stretched across your temple and cheekbone felt like they screamed at the world, a constant reminder of the accident and how different you were now. You sighed deeply, pushing down the lump in your throat. You can’t back out now. He’ll think you don’t trust him.

When your sister wheeled you to the café and you saw Minho waiting, his face lighting up the second he spotted you, something in your chest softened. You weren’t used to people looking at you like that...as if you weren’t just enough, but more than enough.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice full of warmth, “you look beautiful.”

Beautiful? The word echoed in your mind, foreign and almost laughable. You glanced away, unable to accept the compliment, but his sincerity made it impossible to dismiss.

The café was quiet, the conversation light and easy. Yet, no matter how much you tried to relax, the anxiety simmered under your skin. Every time someone walked by or glanced your way, your fingers twitched, wanting to pull your hood further down. They’re staring. They’re judging. They’re wondering why someone like him would bother with someone like me. Minho noticed the anxiety in your face. He squeezed your trembling hand, comforting you. Nodding silently, as if to tell you it’s okay.

You calmed down a little and asked him if you could leave early. He agreed and suggested a walk in the park. You hesitated but eventually agreed. The park was peaceful, the fresh air soothing, but the nagging voice in your head wouldn’t let you rest. You kept your hood pulled tight, your eyes darting to every person who passed. They’re all looking. They can see right through me.

And then, it happened.

A strong gust of wind swept through the park, catching your hood and pulling it back. You gasped, immediately reaching to fix it, but your trembling hands froze as you noticed the stares. Strangers’ eyes lingered, their expressions unreadable, but in your mind, you could hear their judgment loud and clear.

Hide. Cover your face. Run. You don’t belong here.

Your breathing quickened, panic rising in your chest. Your vision blurred as tears welled up, and you wanted nothing more than to disappear.

“I....I can’t do this,” you choked out, barely able to form the words.

Before you could spiral further, Minho was by your side. His hands rested gently on your shoulders, grounding you.

“Y/N,” he said softly, his voice cutting through the noise in your head. “Look at me.”

You hesitated, but his calm, steady presence drew your eyes to his. The world seemed to fade, leaving only his warm gaze and the reassurance in his expression.

“You’re okay,” he said, his voice firm yet soothing. “I’m here. Forget about them. Just focus on me.”

“But they’re staring,” you whispered, tears spilling down your cheeks. “They’re looking at my face… at my scars…”

“Let them stare,” Minho said firmly, his hands squeezing your shoulders gently. “What they think doesn’t matter. What matters is you. And you’re perfect just the way you are.”

His words pierced through the storm in your mind, and for a moment, you could breathe again. He guided you to a nearby bench, sitting beside you and giving you time to calm down.

As your breathing steadied, Minho knelt in front of you, his gaze unwavering.

“Y/N,” he began, taking your hands in his. His touch was warm, steady, and grounding. “I know this is hard for you. I know you’re scared, and I know you think you’re not enough. But you need to hear this.”

His eyes searched yours, filled with an unshakable sincerity that made your chest tighten.

“It’s always been you,” he said softly. “From the moment I met you, I knew you were someone special.”

“Min, what are you...?” you began, your voice trembling with uncertainty.

“Let me finish, Ynnie,” he interrupted, a small smile tugging at his lips. The tenderness in his tone silenced your protest, and your breath hitched as he continued, his voice heavy with emotion.

“Your strength, your kindness, your heart....those are the things that matter to me. Not your scars, not your disability. Just you. And I still can’t believe it… how someone so intelligent, so beautiful, and so powerful came into my life. I can’t believe how lucky I am.”

He paused, his grip on your hands tightening just slightly as if grounding himself.

“You brought color to my mundane life, Ynnie,” he said, his voice trembling now. “And I love you. I love you so much.”

Tears spilled down your cheeks as his words settled into your heart, breaking through every wall you had built. But once again, a part of you wanted to retreat from this. Minho deserved someone better. Not you.

And so, with a heavy heart, you asked, “Why me?” Your voice barely above a whisper. “You could have someone better. Someone who isn’t… disabled or disfigured. Someone who could give you more.”

His grip on your hands tightened as he shook his head. “No one could ever be better than you. No one else is you. And I don’t want anyone else. I want you. Scars, fears, everything. You’ve been through so much, and you’re still here. That’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

You were at a loss for words, overwhelmed by the sincerity in his voice and the love in his eyes.

“So, Y/N,” he said, his voice softening, “will you let me stay by your side? Will you be my girlfriend?”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, the insecurities tried to creep back in. But then you looked at him...truly looked...and saw nothing but love and acceptance.

With a shaky breath, you nodded. “Yes.”

“I love you too, Min!”

“So much!” Happy tears spilled down your cheeks.

A bright, almost boyish smile spread across his face as he leaned forward, his eyes sparkling with affection. He kissed you softly, a tender, lingering touch that made your heart flutter. The moment was quiet, but it felt like the world had paused, leaving only the two of you in this space of peace and understanding. As he pulled you into a gentle hug, his arms wrapped around you, warm and steady...like a shield that protected you from everything outside of this moment.

For the first time in years, you let go of the fears and doubts that had held you captive. You allowed yourself to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were worthy of love. His embrace was a reminder that you didn’t have to hide or be afraid anymore. In Minho’s arms, the weight of the world seemed to lift, leaving only the soft warmth of his love surrounding you, filling you with hope that, no matter what, you were never alone again.

As he held you, you realized that this moment was everything you had been longing for. It wasn’t just the comfort of his touch, but the genuine care in his heart, the way he made you feel beautiful...scars and all. It was a love that didn’t ask for perfection, only for you to be yourself. And in that truth, you found the strength to believe in the future, to believe in the love that was growing between you.

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꥟˚｡ENDNOTE - Everything Here is a work of fiction and my own imagination. This does not represent the real life characteristics of Stray Kids. Make sure to like, reblog comment, and follow me for new updates!

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