#so now the thought of readding her is BACK

[i2sunric]

𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 𝐈 𝐂𝐀𝐍’𝐓 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 (l.hs)

p.s. ─────── ୨ৎ ────── i already did

PAIRING: boss!heeseung x employee!reader (f)

SUMMARY: who knew an email sent in a moment of range could spark a burning desire between you and your boss?

WARNINGS: 95% smut 5% plot. fingering, dirty talk, reader is burnout, semi public sex, oral (m receiving), blowjob, p in v, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy), sex while on the phone, pool sex (not really narrated), missionary, riding, creampie, office sex; fluff, established relationship, reader wears a tiny bikini, lmk if more. NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 28th April 2025

WC: 9.4k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey @jakeflvrz @astratlantis @tunafishyfishylike @branchrkive @insommni4 @kirinaa08 @leiclerc @nxzz-skz @laurradoesloveu @beomluvrr @heeshlove @17ericas @riribelle @cloud-lyy @enhamonsterghoul @star-hoon @princesstiti14

a/n: i’m so fucking sleepy i just wan to go to bed but hey! i’ve been dead on this app for sometime so lemme drop this. hope y’all like it and please LIKE & REBLOG to share + lmk your thoughts 🩷🩷 (enjoy my calligraphy in the picture).

It was one of those days.

The kind where your inbox filled up faster than you could breathe, the phones wouldn’t stop ringing, and the breakroom coffee had been left to die a slow, cold death in the pot since 8 a.m.

You hadn’t even had a chance to take more than two sips of yours— barely enough to take the edge off the brutal headache crawling behind your eyes.

Noon had come and gone, and your lunch sat forgotten in your drawer, untouched and already lukewarm.

You rubbed at your temples as you stared at the latest email that had just come in from her again— your personal tormentor for the past three weeks.

Mrs. Kim.

There she was, requesting the same impossible order you had already refused.

Not once. Not twice. Eight goddamn times.

You counted them.

You explained patiently and then less patiently that the items she wanted were discontinued, had been discontinued for two fiscal years now, and were no longer in the company’s catalogue.

You linked her to alternatives. You CC’d the product manager. You called her, even, and yet here she was again—

"Dear,

Following up again. I don't understand why this is taking so long. I’m requesting the original order from 2021. Can you process this today?"

That was it. The last thread of your patience snapped.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, possessed, every keystroke a satisfying clack of indignation.

You didn’t care.

You were soaked in stress and caffeine and the fading hope of ever having a quiet afternoon.s

"Mrs. Kim,

For the last time: we do not carry that product anymore. I have told you this eight times. Eight. I don’t know if you’re ignoring me on purpose or just incapable of reading full sentences, but either way, I’m not wasting any more time repeating myself. Maybe go get yourself checked.

You are welcome to refer to the updated catalogue I sent you four emails ago. If that’s too difficult, I’d be more than happy to point you to someone who does have time to coddle unreasonable requests.

Kindly, please, stop emailing me about this.

— Y/N"

You clicked "Send" with a sense of righteous satisfaction.

A victorious breath left your lungs as you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms.

It wasn’t until ten minutes later that you saw the reply ping.

And then you saw who it was from.

Lee Heeseung

— Re: Mrs. Kim order.

Your blood turned to ice.

You forgot.

You completely forgot about the BCC—the default blind courtesy copy to your boss, a setting meant for transparency, accountability, and gentle professional oversight.

You’d set it up months ago during performance review season and then never gave it a second thought.

You clicked on the thread like you were opening your own coffin lid.

"Hi Y/N

Well… that was certainly a passionate response.

I think she noted on the product being discontinued.

Let’s circle back to this client later. maybe I can take over if needed.

For now, step away from your inbox and grab a coffee. Deep breaths. :)

— Heeseung"

Your stomach dropped so fast it might as well have hit the basement.

He didn’t even sound mad. That was the worst part. There wasn’t a single reprimand, not even a passive-aggressive comment.

He was giving you a chance to fix it yourself.

You stared at the screen for another full minute, then slowly stood, your legs weak as you grabbed your employee badge and took the elevator upstairs.

The executive floor was always eerily quiet compared to the chaos below.

Carpeted hallways absorbed all sound, and the scent of fresh espresso floated from the machine that Heeseung insisted on using himself every morning— never the breakroom sludge.

You walked past the glass meeting rooms, the sleek decor, until you reached the wide double doors that marked his corner office.

You paused. Knocked.

"Come in," came the voice. low, smooth, always relaxed in a way that somehow made it more intimidating.

You pushed the door open and stepped in, trying to keep your posture from crumpling into guilt.

Heeseung sat behind his desk, blazer off, sleeves rolled, laptop open. His eyes flicked up to you.

"Hey," he said, not unkindly. "Surprised you didn’t run straight to the fire escape."

You swallowed. “I… I’m so sorry, sir.”

His brow arched slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the edge of the desk.

He didn’t say anything right away. Just waited, giving you enough silence to make your own words echo back at you.

“I didn’t mean for it to go out like that,” you rushed, nervous now, your throat tight. “I was just so— so overwhelmed, and she’s been driving me insane for weeks, and I know that’s no excuse, I just… I completely forgot the BCC was still on. I wasn’t trying to be unprofessional… well, okay, I was, a little, but I didn’t mean for you to see it, and that’s not better, I know, but—”

"Take a breath," he interrupted gently.

You did.

Inhale. Exhale.

He tilted his head, looking at you with a calm you were desperately trying to borrow.

"You clearly didn’t mean for me to see it," he said with a hint of dry humor. "That was obvious by the way you said, ‘incapable of reading full sentences.’"

You winced. “I know. I know, I’m so sorry, that was… I was just frustrated.”

"Yeah, I got that part loud and clear." He smiled faintly. "You know, if you’d added one more insult, I think the server might’ve flagged your email as harassment."

You dropped your face into your hands. “Oh my god.”

He laughed quietly.

It wasn’t cruel.

It was soft. Understanding.

Which only made the heat crawl up your neck worse.

"I’m not mad," he said, and you looked up, cautiously.

He stood, walking slowly around the desk to lean against the edge.

His arms folded casually across his chest as he looked at you.

"I’ve seen worse. Much worse. Hell, I’ve sent worse. You’re not the first employee to lose it on a client who doesn’t listen, and I doubt you’ll be the last."

"That doesn’t make it okay," you murmured.

"No, it doesn’t. But it makes it human. And it tells me you care enough to be pissed.”

That surprised you. You blinked up at hiem.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "I don’t need perfection. I need people whoho get frustrated when things go wrong. But I also need people who can recognize when they’ve gone too far and come up to say what you just did."

You looked at the floor. “Still… I should’ve handled it better. She might report me.”

"She might," he agreed, not sugarcoating it. "But I’ll handle it if she does. I’ve got your back."

You swallowed hard. His voice was calm, but firm. Final. He meant it.

"Thank you," you said quietly. "Really."

"You’re welcome. And hey…" He pushed off the desk, walking toward the espresso machine behind him. "You didn’t have lunch yet, did you?"

Your stomach growled traitorously. He glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

"Didn’t think so. I’m ordering in. You’re having a rough day, so I’ll let you pick the place."

You blinked at him. “Are you… rewarding me for that email?”

He smirked. "No. I’m rewarding you for surviving the week without quitting or combusting, consider it a boss’s mercy."

You laughed, finally, the tension bleeding from your shoulders.

He handed you his phone with the food apps already open, the glow of the screen warm against your palm.

And as you scrolled through the options, still feeling the flush of embarrassment under your skin, you thought— maybe it wasn’t the worst day after all.

☆.

Today was the worst day.

It had already gone to hell by the time it hit 6:45 p.m.

You were the last person left on your floor. again.

The office was a graveyard of abandoned coffee cups and empty swivel chairs, the windows dim with evening light as the sun dragged itself under the horizon.

Everyone else had mysteriously developed urgent appointments or nonexistent deadlines that somehow meant they couldn’t stay late to help with the mountain of archival reports dumped unceremoniously onto your desk.

You were hungry.

Tired.

Your back ached from leaning over outdated filing codes, and your fingers were permanently smudged with printer toner and dust.

Your last message in the team group chat asking “anyone still around to help scan the last batch?” had been left on read.

Of course it had.

You swore under your breath, stuffing another stack into the ancient office printer that had already groaned at you three times.

The stupid thing was older than your internship

. It made this grinding, death-rattle sound every time you asked it to scan anything double-sided. You were halfway through cursing at it when the overhead lights flickered once.

Twice.

And then the power cut out completely.

A sharp click of darkness. Then silence.

You stood frozen in place, fingers still on the edge of a document feeder. A beat passed. Then another.

You stared into the void, blinking, the only sound the faint tik-tik-tik of the unplugged printer slowly powering down like it was dying dramatically in your arms.

You sighed. “You have got to be kidding me.”

You waited. Surely the backup would kick in.

It didn’t.

The battery emergency lights flicked on around the hallway, casting everything in a soft red glow like the inside of a submarine.

Your entire floor looked apocalyptic.

It would’ve been funny if you weren’t thirty pages away from finishing and aching to get home.

"This is so stupid," you muttered to yourself. You paced around your desk, cracked your knuckles, and then, because the universe clearly had it out for you, tripped slightly on a cable.

You whirled around, eyes narrowing at the printer like it had personally insulted your intelligence.

You weren’t usually violent, but something about the whole day had ignited a very specific brand of frustration in your chest— the kind that made you want to break things. Or cry. Or both.

So when the lights buzzed for a brief second and the printer beeped at you with a snide error code for the fifth time in a row, you snapped.

“Alright, you boxy little demon,” you hissed. “Let’s dance.”

You kicked it.

You meant it to be symbolic. A warning. An expression of just how done you were.

Unfortunately, your foot caught the corner of the machine.

And because karma is very real and very punctual, your boot slid awkwardly through the paper tray, lodging itself inside the machine with a humiliating clunk.

“Shit,” you whispered, staggering forward and grabbing the desk for balance. “No, no— come on.”

You tugged. Nothing.

You yanked harder..

“Are you kidding me?” you groaned, now bent awkwardly sideways over the printer, one foot completely jammed in the lower tray, arms flailing for something to grab.

The evil machine wobbled, and you grabbed it to keep from tipping it over, your hair falling into your face as you tried to wiggle your leg free.

The overhead lights snapped back on all at once.

Power returned with an electric hum.

Machines came alive. Computers rebooted.

The lights flickered to life overhead like judgmental gods bearing witness.

And at that exact moment, you heard a door open down the hall.

You froze.

Slow footsteps. Leather shoes on carpet.

You knew that walk. You’d memorized it over the last few months without meaning to— those long, easy strides. That quiet confidence.

Lee Heeseung.

Of course he was still here. Of course he chose now to emerge from his corner office.

You tried to untangle yourself, but the paper tray refused to budge, your boot stuck in such a cursed angle you briefly considered removing your entire leg.

Heeseung’s voice was much too close when he finally spoke.

“…Am I interrupting something?”

You froze, eyes wide.

You didn’t even need to look at him to hear the amusement dripping off every syllable.

“I—” You cleared your throat. “No. I mean, yes. I mean— I’m fine.”

you finally risked a glance up… and there he was, standing a few feet away in his usual dress shirt and slacks, sleeves rolled halfway to his elbows, tie loose, a sleek laptop tucked under one arm.

His dark hair fell across his forehead in a way that was just unfair. And he was smiling. Very clearly trying not to laugh, but smiling.

“Should I even ask how this happened?” he said, gesturing vaguely at the situation.

You, half-folded over a printer like a modern art sculpture. One foot swallowed alive by outdated office equipment.

You groaned and dropped your head against the top of the machine. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He chuckled under his breath, moving forward. “Alright.”

Your head snapped up. “Really? You’re not gonna ask why I did this?”

He raised an eyebrow. “It’s clear you have some anger management issues.”

You blinked at him. Well, he ain’t wrong.

He crouched down beside the printer, setting his laptop carefully on the floor. “Let me take a look, don’t move.”

“Oh yeah,” you deadpanned. “I’ve got so many options.”

He shot you a grin. “Careful. Keep being cute and I might leave you here.”

You flushed, instantly. “Sorry, Sir.”

“What?” he said, clearly enjoying this too much. “I’m just saying, I’ve never had an employee try to merge with office machinery before. It’s a new milestone.”

You buried your face in your hands as he gently maneuvered the paper tray open from the opposite side, humming softly to himself.

“Alright,” he said after a moment. “I see the problem.”

“Is it me?”

“Mostly.” He grinned, grabbing onto the corner of the tray and wiggling it slightly. “But also, this machine is trash. You were absolutely justified in assaulting it.”

You bit back a laugh. “Don’t tell HR.”

“HR’s gone home. And besides, I’m the one you report to.”

You paused. “So you’re saying I could commit minor office crimes and get away with it?”

He glanced up at you from under his lashes, dark eyes amused. “I’m saying if anyone’s going to report you, it won’t be me.”

The tray finally released with a snap, and your boot came free all at once, nearly sending you toppling backward. Heeseung caught your arm before you could fall, his grip warm and steady.

“There we go,” he said, helping you balance. “Foot intact?”

“Barely,” you mumbled, brushing your hair out of your face. You looked down at your scuffed boot, then back up at him. “I think we might need a new printer.”

He smirked. “I think you need a break.”

You hesitated. The words hit harder than they should’ve.

Because he was right.

You’d been drowning lately, taking on every overflow task, every weekend shift, picking up the slack whenever someone else dropped the ball.

You hadn’t complained. Not out loud.

But your body was exhausted, your head full of static, and your foot was living proof that you were about five seconds from completely losing your mind.

Heeseung must’ve seen it in your face, because his expression softened.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You don’t have to keep doing everything on your own.”

You looked away. “It’s fine. Everyone’s busy. I can handle it.”

“Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”

There was a silence. A long one. He stepped a little closer.

“I’ve been watching you,” he said softly. “Not in a creepy way— just… I see how hard you work. How you take on more than you’re asked to, how you stay late every night, even when it’s not your responsibility. You think that goes unnoticed?”

You swallowed. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is to me,” he said. “You don’t have to burn yourself out to prove you belong here.”

The words hung between you, heavy and warm and real.

You finally looked up at him and found him already watching you, his gaze steady, thoughtful.

You felt something in your chest shift. Something small, quiet, and undeniable.

Heeseung smiled gently. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner, you’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “You’re bribing me with food.”

“I’m rescuing you from this cursed printer,” he corrected. “It’s part of the job description.”

You laughed, a real one this time, and let him lead you away from the graveyard of scanned archives and haunted machinery.

His hand brushed yours as you walked side by side out of the office, and neither of you moved away.

☆.

You hadn’t expected anything beyond some greasy takeout and maybe a few jokes to soften the edge of your embarrassment.

But somewhere between the second round of dumplings and Heeseung trying to guess what playlist you put on when you're really mad, something shifted.

You found yourself laughing more easily than you had in weeks.

He was funny in a sly, dry sort of way— casual but sharp, with this low warmth in his voice that made everything he said sound like it had a double meaning.

Not that he was flirting.

Not exactly.

But there was something in the way his eyes lingered on yours a second too long after every shared joke, something in the way his thumb brushed too casually along the rim of his cup when you took a sip of yours and left a glossed fingerprint behind

And you weren’t exactly not leaning in when he talked.

When you came back to the building, it was after an hour, There was a kind of stillness that made your footsteps echo across the marble floors and made the flicker of vending machine lights look cinematic.

He’d offered, half-jokingly, to let you finish up your work in his office, because his A/C actually functioned, and his desk chair didn’t creak like it was on the verge of collapse.

You said yes. Obviously.

Heeseung unlocked his door and held it open for you.

His office smelled faintly like citrus, due to the candle lit in the corner, and something a little woodsy, probably the cologne that clung to his shirtsleeves.

The overhead lights were dimmed low, and the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk stretched out into the city, glittering in the dark.

You stepped in and paused, suddenly aware that you were somewhere very personal. It was tidy, precise.

You turned to thank him, but he was already watching you from the doorway, his hands in his pockets.

“Take the desk,” he said, smiling softly. “I won’t even be mad if you kick it.”

You smirked and dropped your bag onto the guest chair. “Don’t tempt me.”

He moved past you, loosening his tie the rest of the way and tossing it onto the coat rack.

The click of his laptop followed, and then music— something R&B and low enough that it almost felt like background noise to the silence around you.

You settled behind his desk, relishing the cool burst of air from the functioning A/C vent. The chair was absurdly comfortable.

You kicked off your boots and leaned back with a soft sigh of relief.

“Better?” he asked from his corner.

You nodded. “Miles better. I might not leave.”

He raised a brow. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

There it was again— that something.

just enough weight behind the words to make you pause. His voice had dropped half a note lower.

You reached for the folder you’d been working on earlier that you brought there, suddenly conscious of the faint buzz under your skin.

You tried to focus on your work, but your mind kept slipping.

The room was warm now, and so was the space between you, too heavy with something unsaid. Every glance he gave you seemed a little longer, like he was debating something in real time.

You looked up from the folder and found him leaning against the edge of the window, arms folded, watching you.

“You’re different when you’re not in the middle of a crisis,” he said.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

“You’re quieter, but in a good way. Like you finally have room to breathe.”

Your heart gave a small, unwanted flutter. “Is that your way of saying I’m usually too stressed out to function?”

“No.” He stepped closer. “It’s my way of saying I like seeing you like this.”

The space between you collapsed by inches.

He was standing just on the other side of the desk now, one hand resting lightly on the polished wood, eyes locked on yours.

The city lights outside were a soft blur behind him. Your breath caught, stuck in your chest.

“Heeseung…” you started, uncertain. Because somewhere between fries and dumplings, he gave uou the green light to call him by his first name.

“I’m not trying to mess with you,” he said softly, cutting you off without force. “But I’d be lying if I said I haven’t been thinking about this… about you.”

You swallowed. The tension had shifted into something tangible now.

It pooled in your belly, a tightness threaded with heat. You felt it in the curl of your toes against the carpet, in the quick, darting beat of your pulse.

“I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it,” you murmured.

“You weren’t.”

You stood slowly, the chair gliding back with a soft scrape.

He didn’t touch you yet.

“I meant what I said,” he said, voice low and even. “I’ve seen how much you carry. You work so damn hard, and no one ever makes space for you to just be. I want to do that, even if it’s just for tonight.”

There was something deeply sincere in his voice. Like this wasn’t just wanted. It was something more careful. Something he’d been holding back.

You stepped into his space, breathing shallow, and said, “Then show me.”

The moment he touched you, it was with a reverence that made your knees weak.

His fingers grazed your jaw, tilting your face up.

He paused, just long enough to make sure— long enough to let you lean in first. And when you did, he kissed you like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting.

His mouth was warm and slow against yours, lips parting gently, breath mingling. His hands found your waist, grounding and sure, pulling you closer.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt, the soft cotton warm from his skin. He deepened the kiss gradually, coaxing you into it, tasting the hesitation out of your mouth until you melted into him.

When you finally broke apart, you were breathless.

He leaned his forehead against yours. “Still okay?”

You nodded. “More than okay.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not done.”

He walked you backward toward the desk, hands steady on your waist, until you were pressed against the wood.

He kissed your neck softly, then more deliberately, leaving a slow trail to your collarbone as his hands skimmed under the hem of your blouse.

You gasped when his fingers touched your skin, warm and unhurried, exploring every inch like he wanted to memorize it.

You reached for his belt, nerves trembling with anticipation.

He caught your wrist gently “Let me take care of you,” he said, voice like velvet.

You nodded.

He moved with purpose now, pulling your blouse off with a soft sound of approval, eyes dark as they raked over you.

He leaned you back over his desk, fingers gliding down your hips, lifting you slightly onto the surface. The wood was cool under your thighs, the air sharp against your skin.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer.

His mouth returned to yours with renewed urgency, hands trailing over every curve, every line, until you were sighing against him, your fingers tangled in his hair.

When he finally undressed you fully, it wasn’t rushed.

It was deliberate. Worshipful.

He pressed kisses to the inside of your thighs, your hips, your ribs, like he was chasing every sigh that left your mouth.

And when his hands finally slipped lower, when his fingers teased and stroked and coaxed you into a slow, building pleasure, you arched under him, gasping his name.

“Heeseung— oh—”

He smirked, slipping a finger inside you, and then a second one.

You were so worked up already, your thighs trembling around his waist as he pressed kisses on your neck.

“Fuck,” you sighed, “Faster.”

“Milady.” he complied, hurrying his fingers, curling them right where you needed them.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Let me hear you, let go.”

And you did.

You came undone with your back arched off his desk and his name on your lips.

Later, as he tucked you into his chair with your shirt back on and a glass of water in your hand, he knelt beside you, brushing your hair gently from your face.

“Still okay?” he asked again, voice soft.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed. “Better than okay.”

He smiled, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“I meant it, you know,” he murmured. “Whatever happens after this— I want to be the one who makes space for you.”

You reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I think you already are.”

☆.

It had started with an email. And it continued with an email now too.

You were half-conscious, running on your second cup of coffee and buried in quarterly reports, when your inbox pinged with that familiar chime.

Most emails in your morning queue were mind-numbing— reminders from admin, updates on broken copy machines, requests to “circle back” on things that no one ever wanted to circle forward in the first place.

But this one was from Heeseung.

The subject line read:

urgent file request – please review ASAP

Your stomach twisted the way it always did now when his name popped up on your screen. A quiet, breathless little flip.

You clicked it open, expecting a report or some scanned doc he wanted reviewed.

Instead, you found:

From: Lee Heeseung

To: You

Subject: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Can you come to my office and check if the file I’m thinking about is tucked between your thighs?

Might need to examine it closely.

Very closely.

– H.

You nearly choked on your coffee.

Heat rushed to your cheeks and your neck as you jerked your head up— he was in his office, of course.

Glass walls, the blinds open. He was pretending to be on a call, holding the phone to his ear, nodding, totally composed.

But when your eyes met his, he winked.

The phone probably wasn’t even on.

You sunk a little lower in your chair, your thighs tightening automatically.

That look he gave you set off a ripple down your spine.

It had been three weeks since the first time he pulled you across that desk and showed you just how good things could feel.

Since then, everything between you had changed.

You still worked. Still got things done.

but now, when he passed by your desk, he let his fingers brush your shoulder a little too casually. When he asked you to stay late for “filing,” the door always locked behind you. And now, apparently, he was taking it to email.

You typed back before you could second-guess it:

From: You

To: Lee Heeseung

Subject: RE: urgent file request – please review ASAP

Sorry, that file is confidential. You’ll have to check with your hands. or tongue.

I’m available in five.

— Y/N

You slipped into his office with a folder in your hands purely for cover.

He was seated behind his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The city glared behind him in the afternoon light, and his laptop was open— but he barely glanced at it when you stepped inside.

He leaned back, dark eyes dragging over you from head to toe.

“Lock the door,” he said quietly.

You did. And closed the curtains for privacy.

When you turned back around, he was already on his feet. He crossed the room in a few slow steps, standing in front of you, taking the folder out of your hands and setting it blindly on the shelf.

He cupped your face, tilting it up, and kissed you without hesitation.

It was slow at first, teasing— his lips soft, mouth coaxing yours open as if he had all the time in the world.

You sighed into it, your hands going instinctively to his waist, curling into the soft cotton of his shirt.

The kiss deepened, his tongue stroking over yours, and you whimpered softly when he slid a hand down your back and pressed you against the door.

“Lord,” he murmured, mouth brushing against yours, “you taste like cinnamon today.”

You swallowed hard. “Too much coffee.”

“Perfect amount,” he whispered, and kissed you again.

He backed you toward his desk, trailing kisses from your mouth to your jaw, down the line of your neck.

Your hands fumbled with his buttons, needing him closer, needing something to fill the ache that had been growing ever since that first email.

When he sat down in his desk chair, he pulled you into his lap without asking.

You straddled him, your skirt already hiked up. His hands settled on your thighs, slow and warm, thumbs stroking upward.

“You always get so worked up when I tease you,” he murmured against your ear. “You like getting those emails?”

You nodded, breath hitching. “You’re going to get me fired.”

He laughed softly, low in his throat. “No one’s firing you. Not when you do such a good job to me.”

You kissed him again and rocked forward just enough to hear the sharp inhale he tried to swallow down.

His grip on your hips tightened. You could feel him through his slacks, warm and firm beneath you, and the pressure of your body against his made your skin feel hot all over.

He tried to pull your blouse open, but you caught his wrist.

“Let me,” you said, voice just above a whisper.

His breath stilled.

You slipped off his lap, slowly, sinking down between his legs.

His brows lifted, mouth parted, but he didn’t say a word.

Just leaned back in the chair, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide with heat.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands, fingers slow and deliberate.

The clink of metal filled the quiet room, followed by the soft drag of his zipper. Heeseung exhaled hard when you brushed him through his boxers, already hot, already thick.

“You’ve been thinking about this all day, haven’t you?” you said, looking up at him as you lowered his waistband.

He let out a breathy laugh, voice tight. “Are you really going to make me beg?”

You smiled.

“No.”

And then you took him in your mouth.

He groaned instantly, his hips twitching up, one hand flying to your hair but stopping short of gripping it.

Always waiting for you to take the lead. Always making sure.

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, tongue gliding along the underside, savoring the weight and heat of him. He cursed, low and raw, his other hand tightening around the edge of the chair.

“Fuck—” he breathed. “You’re too good at this.”

You hummed around him in response, and he shuddered.

The thrill of having him like this, head tipped back, jaw clenched, breath uneven, sent sparks through your veins.

His thighs flexed under your palms, and when you looked up at him, his eyes were half-lidded and glazed, locked on you like you were the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

“Baby, wait—” he said suddenly, voice cracking. “You keep going like that, an I’m not gonna last.”

You pulled back slowly, your mouth wet, lips swollen. “Isn’t that the point?”

He blinked hard, laughing breathlessly, and pulled you to your feet.

“I’m going to owe you for that,” he said, voice rough, still out of breath.

You climbed back onto his lap, letting him tug you close. His hands found your hips again, holding you there like he never wanted to let go.

“You already do,” you whispered against his mouth.

And when he kissed you this time, it was slower. Deeper.

Less urgent, more full. Like he wasn’t just thanking you with his mouth, but promising something.

His fingers slipped beneath your skirt again, and this time you didn’t stop him.

He pulled your panties to the side and you sank down on him with a sigh.

“Holy shit,” he groaned, already thrusting up into you “You feel like heaven, baby,”

You hummed, already squeezing around him “You’re so big.” you murmured, resting your head in the crook of his neck.

You felt him twitch inside you “You can’t say things like that.”

Heeseung glanced at the clock on the wall. “We have three more minutes before someone gets suspicious.”

“Then you better hurry.” as those words left your lips, Heeseung thrusted up fast and hard, chasing both of your highs.

He planted a hand on your mouth and held your waist with the other, so tight a bruise would probably form the following day.

You squeezed your eyes shut as white washed over you, a particular deep thrust getting you over the edge, tightening to the point of pain around him.

“Fuck.” he groaned and pulled out to jerk off, but you quickly slapped his hand away and put him back inside you.

The mere action caused his hot release to spill, coating your walls.

“You didn’t have to do that.” he said, breathless as you got up on wobbly legs and put your panties into place.

“Oh please.” You fixed your hair “You’d rather me havig to explain why there’s a white stain on my skirt?”

He smirked, tucking himself back in his trousers, “Touché, baby.”

☆.

California sunlight spilled golden through the glass balcony doors, bathing the entire suite in that soft, lazy kind of warmth that made your skin glow even when you weren’t trying.

You were floating in the center of the hotel room’s private pool, limbs stretched out on the flamingo inflatable mattress, sunglasses slipping slightly down the bridge of your nose.

Your legs dangled in the cool water, barely kicking, your only real effort being adjusting your position every few minutes to stay in the shade of the swaying palm tree outside.

It had taken you exactly one hour on the first morning of the trip to finish the task Heeseung had “urgently” brought you to California for: color-coding and organizing his meeting schedule and dinners with clients.

One hour.

Sixty minutes of tapping at your laptop while sipping overpriced coffee from the mini bar and watching your boyfriend move shirtless around the suite while on a call.

Then, nothing.

The rest of the two-week “business trip” had been one long, uninterrupted vacation— for you, at least.

You weren’t entirely sure if Heeseung had ever actually needed your help or if he just wanted an excuse to bring you along without raising eyebrows at the office.

Either way, you weren’t complaining.

He was in the bedroom now, getting ready for another meeting with suppliers, while you basked in complete, indulgent peace, a mango drink resting on a floatie beside you.

The silence was broken only by the soft splash of water and the hum of light music playing from the speakers in the corner of the suite.

“Baby,” Heeseung called from inside the room, his voice slightly muffled.

You lifted your sunglasses with one hand, squinting toward the balcony door. “Hm?”

“Where’s my tie? The navy one.”

“You mean my navy one,” you corrected, smirking. “The one you let me use for my aesthetic outfit.”

He emerged into view then— black slacks hugging his legs, crisp white shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his hair still wet from the shower.

He looked at you, at the pool, the view, the drink, and let out a breath that sounded halfway between a sigh and a laugh.

“You’re telling me you brought it just to never actually use it; since you’ve been floating for a week.”

“No,” you replied, raising your drink. “I brought it for aesthetic purposes. I was actually planning on using it today.”

He shook his head with a grin, disappearing for a couple of minutes before reappearing with the tie in hands.”

“You’re the most spoiled assistant I’ve ever hired.”

“I’m not technically your assistant,” you pointed out.

“You were for an hour.”

“And I was excellent.”

He crouched down beside the pool, tying the silk around his neck with practiced fingers.

The way he stood in the sun, looking so put-together and elegant while you floated in a barely-there swimsuit, made the corners of your mouth twitch up in appreciation.

He caught the way you were looking at him and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You tilted your head, letting your fingers drag through the water. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Just remembering how I was supposed to be working on this trip.”

Heeseung stepped closer, knelt down again so your faces were almost level. The sun lit up his eyes, made the edges of his smirk gleam.

“You did,” he said. “You organized my entire schedule in an hour and got me a better restaurant reservation than the company’s PR manager could. You're essential.”

You scoffed. “Please, you just wanted an excuse to have me in a bikini while you take calls.”

He smiled wider, unapologetic. “Guilty.”

You watched him adjust his tie, watched how he paused to smooth his shirt over his stomach before finally stepping back with a low whistle.

“How do I look?” he asked.

You pulled off your sunglasses, dragging your eyes from head to toe and back again.

“Like you’re about to cheat on your fiancée with your poolside mistress.”

Heeseung let out a bark of laughter. “Good thing my girlfriend is also my poolside mistress.”

He walked over to your float and, with no warning, shoved it gently with his foot.

You yelped as the mattress tipped slightly, water splashing over your legs.

“Rude!”

“You started it,” he said, lips twitching with amusement.

You kicked water at him in retaliation. He dodged it, barely, and pointed at you like he was scolding a child. “Do not make me cancel this meeting.”

“I dare you.”

He gave you one last look, long and deliberate, like he wanted to say something but was holding back, then sighed and backed away.

“I’ll be back in two hours,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Three tops.”

“Don’t hurry on my account.”

“You saying you won’t miss me?”

“I’m saying you should make it up to me for dragging me across the country and making me do sixty minutes of labor.”

He chuckled again, stepping into his loafers by the door. “Oh, baby, I plan on making it up to you every night.”

You raised your glass. “I’ll hold you to it.”

Then the door closed, and he was gone.

You sighed deeply, happily, as you turned your face toward the sun and whispered, “Best fake job ever.

☆.

The sun had shifted from blazing overhead to a slow, golden creep across the hotel balcony, casting palm leaf shadows over your stretched-out body on the poolside chaise.

The water made soft sloshing noises nearby, and the air carried the sweet, heady scent of chlorine and sun-warmed skin.

Your cocktail glass sat empty on the tile. Your fingers had gone limp around your sunglasses, which had slid just enough to let one eye peek through.

But you didn’t move. You were somewhere between sleep and heat-drunk bliss, limbs too heavy to care.

The faintest breeze kissed your thighs, cooling the warm sheen of sun on your bare legs.

The strap of your bikini had shifted slightly. Your breasts curved gently out of their fabric prison, unnoticed by you in your half-dozing state.

The suite’s private pool was wrapped by stone walls and the tallest hedges you’d ever seen. The kind of privacy only the wealthiest or most mischievous sought after. No one could see in. And you didn’t expect anyone to be watching.

But someone was.

You stirred when you heard the creak of the glass door sliding open behind you.

Then footsteps.

Then a pause.

“Jesus Christ,” came a voice “This is what I come home to?”

You cracked one eye open, squinting up into the dusky light.

Heeseung stood by the edge of the pool, jacket off, tie loosened, top two buttons undone, a grocery bag of overpriced room snacks in one hand.

His eyes were dark. Hungry. Like he hadn’t had a sip of water all day and you were the first drop.

You blinked at him sleepily. “Hi.”

He dropped the bag. “Hi? That’s all you’ve got?”

“I was sleeping.”

“You were melting.” He moved closer. “You were— fuck, your tits are just out.”

You lifted your head, lazily looked down, and shrugged. “It’s your fault for buying me a swimsuit two sizes too small.”

“And I’d do it again,” he muttered, already crouching down in front of you.

You giggled, eyes fluttering closed again. “Good meeting?”

“Don’t care,” he said, brushing a hand up your thigh. “Missed you.”

You felt his fingers, warm and familiar, sliding over your skin.

You sighed. “I got tan.”

“You got delicious.”

You opened your eyes just as he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a slow, sun-warmed kiss.

His lips tasted faintly of mint and something sweet, and when he groaned softly against you, you felt it everywhere. You kissed him back lazily, smiling into it, dragging your fingers through his damp hair.

And then, because you couldn’t resist—

You shoved him.

Hard.

He didn’t have time to react. A yelp of pure, startled betrayal escaped his lips as he tipped backward, arms flailing, hitting the water with a spectacular splash.

You burst into laughter, doubling over on the chair, clutching your stomach as the water rocked with the force of his fall.

His head popped up seconds later, soaked and blinking, his once-perfect shirt plastered to his chest.

“You—” he sputtered, coughing once, glaring at you with water dripping from his lashes. “You menace.”

“I warned you not to flirt near the pool!” you said between gasps, wiping your eyes.

He grabbed the edge of the pool, hair slicked back, mouth twitching in a way that should’ve warned you.

“You’re so dead,” he promised. “I’m gonna end you.”

You squealed and tried to scramble off the chair, but it was too late. his hands gripped your ankles and yanked.

You hit the water with a splash and a shriek, the cold shocking your overheated skin instantly.

You surfaced, breathless and gasping, blinking salt out of your eyes.

“You asshole!”

“You started it!” Heeseung was laughing, fully soaked now, his shirt and pants clinging to his body like a second skin.

He was unfairly hot, even wet. Especially wet.

You swam toward him with furious strokes, water flying around you both, and he caught you around the waist as soon as you got close enough.

“Say sorry,” he said, lips grazing your ear.

“Never.”

His mouth met yours before you could say more, hard and deep

He wrapped his arms around you beneath the water, pulling your body against his like he couldn’t bear the idea of even an inch of space.

The way his hands moved over your skin, palming your ass, your thighs, sliding beneath the useless scraps of your swimsuit, made your breath catch in your throat.

“You feel like summer,” he murmured against your neck. “Warm and soft and fucking perfect.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair and tilted your head back, your breath hitching when his lips traveled lower, kissing a slow trail down your jaw, then your collarbone. The water lapped gently around you, your bodies floating in the privacy of the pool, lost in each other.

When he pulled the top of your swimsuit aside, exposing the bare curve of your breast, you didn’t stop him.

And when he kissed over your nipple, dragging his tongue slowly around it before sucking it into his mouth with a quiet, greedy sound, you moaned, arching into him.

You pressed your mouth against his temple, whispering, “You’re still in your clothes.”

He lifted his head, breathing heavily, his eyes dark.

“You planning to take ‘em off me?”

You bit his earlobe. “Maybe.”

“Fuck,” he breathed, sliding his hand between your thighs underwater. “You’re already so wet.”

“It’s a pool, genius.”

“You know what I mean.”

And you did.

You kissed him again, slow and wet and needy, wrapping your legs around his waist as he held you up, the water making everything feel weightless.

His hand found that perfect spot between your thighs and pressed, rubbing slow, delicious circles that made you tremble in his arms.

The sky overhead darkened into soft pinks and golds, casting both your bodies in sunset glow. The water shimmered. The world blurred.

But all you could feel was him.

All you could taste was his breath in your mouth, his fingers pushing you closer and closer to the edge, and the low, ragged way he whispered your name against your shoulder when you gasped, legs tightening, your body pulsing around his hand.

And then, grinning against your lips, he asked, “Still think I wore this shirt just for business?”

You laughed into his mouth, breathless and drunk on him.

“No,” you whispered. “You wore it so I’d rip it off later.”

He smirked. “Then don’t keep me waiting.”

☆.

And you didn’t.

After his act of pleasure in the pool, Heeseung brought you inside, not caring about you both being damp, and laid you down on the suite bed.

You undressed each other with the kind of fire that ignited sparks between your burning forms.

And then he was inside you.

The city lights bled through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, casting sharp golds and deep blues against the curves of his body, his bare chest above you, sheen of sweat at his throat, fingers pressing hard into your thighs as he moved inside you like he owned you.

Like he wanted to prove something.

The only thing you could still feel was how he looked between your legs, the way his voice rasped when he told you, “You’re not leaving this bed until I’ve had every part of you.”

You were already wrecked, your body limp from the last orgasm he’d dragged out of you.

You weren’t even sure if this was the second or third round now. His thrusts had gone deeper, slower, more deliberate. He wasn’t rushing. He was savoring you.

And then his phone rang.

You both froze for half a second. The sound cut through the room, vibrating against the nightstand.

Heeseung groaned into your neck. “Ignore it.”

But then he glanced at the screen. His jaw tensed.

“Shit,” he muttered. “It’s Mr. Dufour, from Paris investors. I have to—” He was still inside you. Still rock hard. “Just… don’t move.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and flushed. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he said through clenched teeth, swiping to answer with one hand. His other never left your waist. “He’ll lose his shit if I don’t pick up.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but then—

“Bonjour,” Heeseung said smoothly, voice dropping into french, polite and practiced as he settled more firmly between your legs. His hips shifted.

You gasped.

He was still moving.

Not hard, not fast— but deep. Lazy, unhurried strokes, his eyes locked on yours while he spoke like everything was normal.

“Oui, Mr Dufour. Vous allez bien?” (yes, mr. dufour. are you doing well?)

You bit your lip, hard, trying not to moan.

The sheer insanity of it, his voice so calm, words sliding like honey in another language while he kept fucking you, slow and deliberate, hips rolling with obscene precisione

“J'ai envoyé le rapport sur le plan d'investissement hier.” (i sent the report on the investment plan yesterday.)

You dug your nails into his shoulders. He didn’t flinch.

His free hand slid between your bodies, brushing your clit with teasing strokes.

You whined, quietly and desperately but he only smiled.

Not sweetly. No, this was the smile of a man who knew he was driving you insane.

“Oui, je vous serais reconnaissant de me faire part de vos commentaires une fois que vous l'aurez examiné.” (yes, i would be glad if you could give me a feedbacks when you review it.)

You clenched around him, and for a split second, his voice hitched, only slightly, but he recovered fast.

You wanted to scream. Instead, your breath came out in little gasps, your back arching under him, heat rising through you in thick, dizzy waves.

“Heeseung,” you whispered, pleading.

He didn’t break eye contact. Just leaned closer, breath brushing your lips, and whispered back, “Be quiet.”

He was still speaking French into the phone. Still sounding professional. Still thrusting into you like he had all the time in the world.

You were unraveling beneath him.

His fingers found your clit again. Pressed lightly. Rubbed in slow, careful circles.

uour lips parted, and he kissed you hard, swallowing your cries as your climax built dangerously close again.

“Non, il n'y a pas de problème. Je vous contacterai bientôt.” (no, no problem. i’ll call you back soon.)

He ended the call.

There was a beat of silence. You could barely breathe.

Then his voice dropped to a low growl. “You didn’t listen.”

“I—” You were panting now. “I tried.”

He slid out of you slowly, only to slam back in with no warning.

You cried out, loud this time, legs tightening around him instinctively.

“I told you to be quiet,” he said again, but he was grinning now, breathless and wild and just as undone as you.

“You were, fucking speaking another language, what did you expect? That was hot as fuck.”

He grabbed your jaw and kissed you like he’d been starving for you all over again.

“Next time,” he said against your mouth, “I’ll put you on speaker. See how well you stay quiet then.”

You moaned into the kiss. “You’re insane.”

“And you fucking love it.”

And you did. Every slow, punishing thrust he gave you after that call, until you came again, clutching him so tightly he groaned your name like a prayer and finally followed you into oblivion.

Heeseung collapsed over you, breath hot against your shoulder, both of you sticky with sweat and utterly destroyed.

You lay there for a long time, your hand tangled in his damp hair.

“Just so we’re clear,” you murmured eventually, still breathless. “If you ever do that again, I’m going to break your phone.”

He laughed into your neck.

“I’d like to see you try.”

☆.

California wasnt so quiet at night, it still held its chaotic and festive atmosphere; but it was less noisy than day.

Heeseung stood barefoot in the kitchen, phone pressed between his shoulder and cheek, one hand cupped around a steaming mug of coffee, the other resting loosely on the marble counter.

The clock read 3:12 AM, but the supplier he was talking to was halfway across the world in Malaysia, bright-eyed and loud over the line.

“Yes, I got the spec sheets. I’ll forward the revised invoice before tomorrow,” he murmured, trying not to sound like he was barely two hours out of bed, or that he was still aching in every limb from the way you’d pulled him into you earlier that night.

His other hand scrubbed at his face, jaw rough with sleep-stubble.

He wore nothing but a loose pair of gray sweats, the waistband low on his hips, his skin still warm from your touch.

Every time he blinked, he could still see you— flushed, breathless, tangled in his sheets like sin wrapped in silk.

He should’ve stayed in bed. Lord, he wanted to.

But the time zones wouldn’t bend for him.

“Right, just make sure the quantities are adjusted. I don’t want to see another backorder excuse in the next—”

He didn’t hear the sound of you approaching. You always moved soft like that— barefoot, sleepy, half-dreaming when you woke.

It wasn’t until you slipped your arms around his bare torso that he felt you.

You hugged him from behind, face nuzzling into his back, your body covered only by the warm duvet you’d stolen from the bed.

Your skin was flushed with residual heat, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.

He paused mid-sentence.

Your voice came out soft, “Come back to bed.”

He swallowed, throat tightening around the words he’d meant to say.

“Just a second,” he murmured into the phone, gently pulling it away from his ear. “Hold on.”

You didn’t let go.

In fact, your arms curled tighter around his waist, and he could feel the slow drag of your bare chest pressed to his back, the way you breathed in the scent of his skin like you needed it to fall asleep again.

“You’re cold,” he murmured, not even turning around yet, his hand covering yours where it rested low on his stomach. “You should’ve stayed under the covers.”

You mumbled something unintelligible and a little whiny against his skin, still half-asleep.

“I got lonely,” you finally whispered. “Bed’s too big without you.”

That nearly broke him.

He glanced at the phone still clutched in his hand, hearing the faint crackle of the supplier’s voice on the other end.

He could’ve finished the call. Should’ve.

But your breath was slow and warm against his back, and your fingers were tracing lazy little circles against his abdomen like you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

Heeseung tilted his head toward the phone and spoke quickly. “Sorry, I’ll get back to you in an hour. Something urgent came up.”

The line clicked off. He didn’t care if the supplier was annoyed.

You didn’t say anything at first, not even as he set the phone down on the counter and turned slowly in your arms.

You looked up at him through heavy eyes,, hair a tousled halo around your face, skin lit by the faint blue haze of early morning.

The duvet stayed wrapped around you, but he could see the line of your shoulder, the slope of your collarbone, the flush in your cheeks.

You looked like something out of a dream.

His voice came out rougher than he meant. “You’re dangerous.”

You tilted your head up at him, blinking innocently. “Me?”

“You.”

He ran his fingers through your hair, thumb brushing your cheek. “You do things to me I can’t explain.”

You leaned into his chest again and murmured, “Then stop trying to explain and just come back to bed.”

He chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Pushy.”

You tugged him gently by the waistband of his sweats. “You like me pushy.”

He did.

Buthe liked you like this, too— soft and quiet, in the middle of the night when the world was paused just long enough to let him hold you without pretending.

So he kissed your forehead and reached down, scooping you up in one smooth motion.

You squealed, the duvet slipping a little, exposing your legs as you curled instinctively into him. “Heeseung!”

“You woke up,” he said as he carried you down the hall, voice mock-serious. “Then interrupted my call. Now you’re going to make up for it.”

“I missed you,” you said, chin tucked against his shoulder, “You’re the one who left me naked and cold in your enormous bed.”

“Don’t act like you didn’t steal all the covers and kicked my back”

He nudged the bedroom door open with his foot and carried you back to bed.

The mattress were still warm where you’d been. He laid you down gently and crawled in beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“You’re such a clingy sleeper,” you mumbled.

“I like sleeping with you,” he said, pulling the duvet higher around you both. “Shut up and let me enjoy it.”

You smiled sleepily, eyes already drifting shut again, your body melting into his.

And there, under the weight of blankets, limbs tangled together, his breath evening out beside yours, you both slipped back into the kind of sleep that only came after passion, laughter, and the slow certainty that neither of you wanted to be anywhere else.

It started with an email, and it ended with love.

[0scarp1astr1]

˖ 𐔌 𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐒𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐝𝐚𝐲࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || When the flu hits the Norris household, you're suddenly the full-time nurse, chef, and cuddle provider. With Lando down and sick. It's up to you to nurse him and the kids back to health. ||

ᯓ★ (Husband!) Lando Norris x Fem! (Wife) Reader

ᯓ★ 1x Genre: Fluff

ᯓ★ Warning: None

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: More of the Norris Family on your feed. Some stories might not be as long as the others. I do apologize, I am swamped with some things, but making it work. As of now, here is some fluff about the Norris family. DOUBLE POST TODAY!

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

It started with Sebastian.

You were home on the couch, one leg curled beneath you, a warm mug of tea in your hands as the low hum of afternoon silence filled the house. Lyla was upstairs napping, snuggled into her favorite pink blanket with her bunny tucked beneath her chin. Lando had gone out for the afternoon to grab groceries and maybe meet up with Oscar for lunch. It was peaceful. Until your phone rang.

You glanced down, squinting at the screen. St. Mary’s Primary School.

That peaceful feeling? Gone.

You picked up immediately. “Hello?”

“Hi, is this Sebastian’s mum?” a gentle voice asked. “This is Nurse Rachel, I’m calling to let you know Sebastian isn’t feeling too well. He’s got a slight fever, looks a bit pale, and he’s complaining about a headache and chills. He’s resting in the office now, but we’d recommend picking him up as soon as possible.”

Your heart dropped. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.”

Ten minutes later, you were parking in front of the school, your chest tight with worry. As soon as you stepped into the nurse’s office, your heart broke.

There was Sebastian, curled up on a cot with a blanket pulled up to his chin. His curls were a mess, flattened to one side, and his eyes looked heavy and dull. His cheeks were flushed, lips dry, and the moment he saw you, he blinked slowly and reached out with a weak little, “Mama…”

“Oh, baby,” you whispered, rushing to his side. You ran your fingers gently through his curls and kissed his forehead. He was burning up.

“Let’s get you home.”

At home, things started okay. You and Lando worked like a well-oiled team—fluffing pillows, taking temperatures, setting timers for medicine, keeping cartoons going on a loop to distract him. You’d been through colds and stomach bugs before. This was just another one. Or so you thought.

But two days in, Sebastian was getting worse.

“He hasn’t eaten anything,” Lando muttered, pacing at the foot of Sebastian’s bed. His hands were shoved into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed on his son who was lying limp, glassy-eyed, not even responding to his favorite movie playing.

“I know,” you sighed, rubbing Sebastian’s back gently. “He won’t even drink juice.”

“He’s not… him. He doesn’t even want me to read to him.”

You both looked at each other then, the unspoken agreement passing between you like a bolt of electricity.

Doctor. Now.

The diagnosis: flu. A pretty bad one.

“Just rest, fluids, and keep monitoring his fever,” the pediatrician said kindly. “These days, the strains going around have been knocking kids out hard, but with proper care, he should be alright in a few days.”

Lando let out a long sigh once you were back in the car, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay. So we can do this.”

You smiled weakly. “Yeah. We’ve got this.”

You didn’t have this.

Because two days later, Lyla got it.

She woke up wailing in the middle of the night, her entire little body on fire with fever, cheeks damp from tears, and that heartbreaking toddler cry that said she didn’t know what was happening.

“Oh no,” you whispered as you scooped her into your arms.

From the doorway, Lando stood in pajama pants, his shirt long forgotten, with sleepy eyes, hair sticking out in every direction, and dark circles under his eyes. “Not her too.”

“She’s burning up, Lan.”

The house descended into chaos.

You barely knew what day it was. There were humidifiers going in every room. Thermometers beeping every few hours. Medicine charts taped to the fridge. Lyla wanted nothing but cuddles. Sebastian was in a zombie state, and you were running on cold coffee and adrenaline.

One afternoon, while you were wiping down the kitchen counter, a soft knock came at the front door.

You opened it to find Oscar standing there, hoodie pulled over his head and holding a large brown paper bag.

“Hey,” he said with a small, apologetic smile. “Lando said you guys were in full-on crisis mode. I figured you could use a hand.”

“Oscar,” you blinked, almost tearing up. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He stepped inside, pulling off his shoes. “I brought electrolyte drinks, cold meds, some soup, and—” he pulled a stuffed dinosaur from the bag with a small grin, “a get-well friend for Seb.”

You laughed softly, taking the items. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He looked toward the living room where Lando was sprawled on the floor with Lyla clinging to his chest, half-asleep. “How’s he holding up?”

You snorted. “Heroically. Stubbornly. Recklessly. Pick one.”

Lando looked up just then. “Oi! I’m doing my best over here!”

“You’re gonna catch it too, mate,” Oscar warned.

“Nah,” Lando said, stroking Lyla’s back gently. “I’ve got dad immunity.”

“You mean denial,” you muttered, setting down the soup.

But Oscar was right.

Two days later, you walked in from the store to find the living room in complete stillness.

Lando was lying facedown on the couch, motionless. Sebastian was snuggled on top of his back like a human blanket, fast asleep. Lyla was curled at the base of the couch with her head on Lando’s leg, mouth open, drool visibly soaking into the fabric of his joggers.

He lifted his hand lazily and gave you a pathetic wave.

“You’re home,” he rasped, voice so congested it didn’t even sound like him.

You set the bag of groceries down and crossed your arms. “Lando.”

He turned his head just slightly, revealing red-rimmed eyes and a nose that was clearly on strike.

“What?”

“You’re sick.”

“No, I’m just tired,” he mumbled.

You arched a brow. “Tired? Your face looks like it’s been hit with hay fever, the flu, and a cold front.”

He huffed. “I’m fine.”

“You are not fine. You have a seven-year-old with the flu asleep on your back and a two-year-old sneezing on your leg. You’re now patient three in this house of doom.”

“Don’t diss my babies,” he muttered, sniffling.

You walked over and gently lifted Sebastian off him, carefully not to wake him. “Come on, superhero. Time to go to bed.”

He groaned dramatically, trying to sit up before collapsing again. “This is how I go.”

“Lando.”

He opened one eye. “If I don’t make it, tell Oscar I forgive him for bringing me that soup with ginger.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“Tell the children I fought bravely.”

“You got the flu from cuddling a toddler.”

“...still brave.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The early morning had become your only moment of true peace.

The sun hadn’t fully risen yet, but soft golden light was beginning to filter in through the tall windows of your Monaco flat, casting long, warm shadows across the quiet living room. The city beyond the glass was still sleeping, wrapped in the quiet hum of a new day not yet begun. No traffic. No coughing. No cartoons buzzing in the background. Just silence. Precious, rare silence.

You stood barefoot in the kitchen, the tiles cool beneath your feet, wrapped loosely in your robe. One hand cradled a warm mug of tea while the other rested against the edge of the counter as you took a breath. Deep. Grounding. You could almost pretend the past week hadn’t happened—almost pretend the house wasn’t still full of flu-stricken chaos, discarded tissues, and sleepless nights.

But you knew better.

Your eyes wandered toward the hallway.

In your bedroom, Lando lay sprawled across the bed, curled protectively around a small, warm bundle. Lyla was tucked up against him, her tiny frame almost disappearing beneath the heavy duvet. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, her thumb still resting against her lips, breathing soft and even. One of Lando’s arms was draped over her securely, his hand resting gently on her back as if shielding her from even the remnants of the flu. His curls were a tousled mess on the pillow, his mouth parted slightly as he slept—exhausted, stuffy, and completely defeated by the same virus he’d insisted he wouldn’t catch.

You’d warned him. Time and time again, you told him to stop letting her cough in his face, to quit letting her nuzzle into his hoodie while she sniffled and sneezed.

“She’s a daddy’s girl,” you had said. “You’ll be the next one down.”

And now, here you were.

Across the hall, Sebastian was finally asleep too, curled up in his bright red race car bed. His tiny body lay limp under a Cars-themed comforter, his arms tucked beneath his pillow, one leg dangling out from under the blanket like it always did—flu or no flu. His cheeks were still a little pink, but the fever had come down overnight. You’d stood in his doorway earlier just to watch him breathe, just to make sure.

He looked peaceful. For now.

And for a few stolen moments, so did everyone else.

You sipped your tea, turning slowly back toward the stove.

“Breakfast,” you mumbled to yourself, eyeing the sparse options you’d managed to keep stocked through the week. There wasn’t much point in cooking something elaborate. Nothing seemed to stay down anyway. Every meal came with the risk of being met with a gag, a grumble, or worse—clean-up duty.

You sighed and set the mug down. “Oatmeal and yogurt,” you decided aloud. “Simple. Gentle. Not likely to end up on the floor.”

You grabbed the oats and a small pot, setting it on the stove to warm the milk. Your hands moved with practiced rhythm—quiet, calm. You sliced some banana, then carefully cut a few strawberries, arranging them in a little dish in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, the colors might tempt Lyla or Sebastian to eat something.

The silence was comforting, for once. No crying. No sneezing. No soft calls of “Mama…” from down the hall.

Just you. Your kitchen. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The aroma of tea.

And then—ring ring ring.

You jumped a little at the sudden break in stillness and reached across the counter for your phone, sighing lightly. You glanced at the screen and smiled.

Cisca.

You picked up immediately. “Well,” you said with a chuckle, phone pressed to your ear, “it’s nice someone is calling me and not crying or throwing up.”

“Calling to check in on the family!” Cisca’s warm, familiar voice greeted you.

Your smile deepened. Lando’s mom had always been so caring—gentle but no-nonsense, the kind of woman you could rely on. She knew how hard motherhood could get, even with help.

You leaned against the counter, balancing the phone between your shoulder and cheek. “You have impeccable timing. The house is actually… quiet. For once.”

“I was hoping I’d catch you before the chaos starts again. How’s everyone holding up?”

“Well,” you exhaled, stirring the oatmeal slowly, “Sebastian’s fever finally broke last night. He’s asleep in his bed, looking like a little zombie racer.”

“That’s good news.”

You nodded to yourself. “Lyla’s still all sniffles and sleepy cuddles. And she’s in bed with Lando right now.”

Cisca laughed knowingly. “Let me guess—tucked under his arm like a little koala?”

You chuckled. “Exactly. It’s actually adorable. She’s latched onto him like he’s her personal comfort pillow. She refuses to be anywhere else.”

“She always was a daddy’s girl.”

“Yeah,” you said with a smirk, “which brings me to the bad news—he’s got the flu now too.”

“Oh no…”

You shook your head, scooping the finished oatmeal into a bowl. “I told him. Over and over. Stop letting her breathe on you. Stop kissing her forehead every five minutes. But he couldn’t help himself. He cuddled her through the worst of it and now…” You glanced toward the bedroom door. “He’s just another one of my patients.”

Cisca groaned. “He never did listen to advice when it came to sick days.”

You grinned. “Now he’s snoring like a bear, wrapped around his sick toddler like he’s the one keeping her alive.”

“Well, you’re a stronger woman than me,” she said with a laugh. “I’d have booked a hotel.”

“Trust me, I’ve thought about it.”

You both laughed, and for a moment, the tension eased.

“You’re doing great,” Cisca said warmly. “I know this part is exhausting, but it’ll pass. Just make sure you don’t go down next.”

“Knock on wood,” you muttered, glancing at the counter. “I’m the last one standing.”

“For now,” she teased.

You chuckled again and looked over your shoulder, taking in the morning light filtering across the floor, casting a soft glow down the hallway. Behind those doors were your whole world—sick, tired, and helpless—but still your heart in three fragile, beautiful pieces.

And right now, you were holding everyone together.

“I’ve got it,” you whispered more to yourself than anyone else. “I’ve got all of them.”

The sound of a raspy cough pierced the quiet, interrupting your rare sliver of calm. You gently pulled the phone away from your ear mid-sentence.

“I think that’s my cue,” you murmured with a soft sigh. “One of the tiny patients is awake.”

“Hang in there,” Cisca replied sympathetically. “Call me later if you need anything.”

“I will. Thank you, Cisca.”

You ended the call and set the phone down on the counter, already hearing the familiar rhythm of small footsteps padding against the wooden floors. And then—

“Mama!”

You turned toward the hallway, just as Sebastian appeared—his race car pajamas rumpled, curls flattened on one side of his head, and his cheeks still flushed from fever. He rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, dragging his favorite stuffed animal behind him.

Before you could respond, Lando stepped into the kitchen behind him, holding Lyla close to his chest. She was bundled in a blanket, thumb in her mouth, her heavy head resting on his shoulder. Her curls were tangled from sleep, her little body completely melted against him.

“Lando,” you sighed gently, though your tone carried the weight of exhaustion, “put her down. You all should be in bed. I’m making breakfast.”

He gave a tired shake of his head, voice barely above a whisper. “We’re fine, love.”

But you saw the truth in his eyes—the fatigue, the faint daze behind his movements, and most telling of all, the harsh cough that followed his words, forcing him to turn away from the stove area.

“Please,” you said more firmly, “not around the food.”

He nodded weakly, patting Lyla’s back as she made a soft noise in her sleep.

You set the spoon down with a soft clink and crossed your arms. “Okay. You three—back to bed. Now. All of you.”

“Mama…” Sebastian whined pitifully. He shuffled forward and leaned into your side, wrapping his arms around your leg. “I want to stay with you…”

Your heart tugged painfully.

You ran your fingers through his curls and crouched down to meet his tired gaze. “Oh, sweetheart… you three make me feel awful. I hate seeing you all like this.”

Lando watched you, still holding Lyla like a sick little koala bear. His lips were pale, eyes heavy-lidded. You stepped closer, gently brushing a hand over Lyla’s back and then across his arm.

“Lando, honey,” you said softly, your voice dipping into something tender, something pleading, “can you please lay back down? Take them with you? Just rest a little longer.”

He hesitated, shoulders slumping as he exhaled shakily. “I would,” he murmured, “but my head is pounding and I feel like my whole body’s made of wet paper.”

You sighed, leaning into him briefly, pressing your forehead to his arm. “I told you this would happen.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But she wouldn’t sleep without me…”

You looked down at Lyla, who hadn’t stirred once since they entered the kitchen, her little fingers fisted in the fabric of Lando’s shirt.

“Alright,” you said softly. “Come on. All of you—back to bed. I’ll bring breakfast to the bedroom. Just let me finish getting it ready. I’ll even add a bit of honey to Sebastian’s oatmeal and cut Lyla’s strawberries just the way she likes them.”

Sebastian sniffled and looked up at you. “With the little star shapes?”

You smiled tiredly. “With the star shapes, baby.”

Lando gave you the faintest, grateful grin. “You’re kind of a superhero, you know that?”

You reached up and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. “Don’t you forget it.”

As they slowly turned back toward the hallway—Lando shuffling like a sick penguin, Sebastian clutching his stuffed animal and trailing behind, Lyla still completely draped across her dad—you watched them disappear one by one into the bedroom.

The kitchen was warm with the gentle scent of honey and oats, the steam from the tea curling softly into the air. You moved with quiet care, filling the bowls with the oatmeal you’d just made—each one sweetened with a drizzle of honey and topped with star-shaped strawberries and banana slices. A small cup of yogurt sat beside each bowl, along with spoons, napkins, and the kind of quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, the kids would eat today without rejecting it.

You poured a mug of warm tea for Lando—his favorite herbal blend with a slice of lemon, just the way he liked it when he was sick—and then filled a tiny glass with vegetable juice for Sebastian, placing it gently on the tray. You knew he didn’t love it, but he’d promised to try if you made it “look fancy.” Lyla’s sippy cup was filled halfway with the same juice, mostly in the name of fairness.

Balancing the two trays with practiced care, you made your way down the hall and into the bedroom.

What you found made your heart ache in that bittersweet way only motherhood ever could.

Lando had propped himself up against the headboard, hair a complete mess, cheeks slightly flushed. Lyla was curled up on his lap, wrapped in her blanket, her thumb tucked into her mouth as she blinked sleepily at you. Sebastian was leaning into Lando’s side, his little head resting on his dad’s shoulder, still holding tightly to his stuffed bunny.

“Goodness,” you breathed, stepping into the room, “you three amaze me…”

Lando looked up, managing a tired grin as you carried the trays in.

You set them carefully on the bedside table and climbed onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as you sat at the edge. “Alright, breakfast is served—oatmeal, yogurt, fancy fruit, and drinks you’ll all probably ignore.”

“Ocker!” Lyla suddenly perked up, her voice muffled and sleepy as she looked at you hopefully.

You gave her a gentle smile, brushing a hand over her forehead. “Uncle Oscar’s probably busy right now, baby girl. And you’re too sick—he can’t come over until you’re feeling better, remember?”

Lyla frowned, clearly disappointed, but snuggled back into Lando’s chest.

Lando groaned softly, placing a hand over his face in mock defeat. “Great. Sick, miserable, and now my own daughter is choosing Oscar over me.”

You let out a soft laugh, nudging his foot under the covers. “Relax. She’s not picking favorites.”

He peered at you over his hand. “Sure sounds like it.”

You glanced at Lyla, who was now absently poking the edge of her blanket and sucking on her thumb again. “You know when she’s anxious, she gravitates to people who make her feel calm,” you said gently. “And Oscar’s like her giant golden retriever. He’s quiet. Still. And he always lets her talk first, even when she’s babbling nonsense.”

Lando raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I don’t let her talk?”

You gave him a look. “You narrate her every move like she’s a Formula 1 highlight reel.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but then shut it again, sheepish. “Okay… fair.”

Sebastian let out a soft laugh beside him. “You do that, Daddy.”

Lando gave him a playful nudge. “Traitor.”

You smiled at the sight of all three of them bundled up in bed together—your entire world, messy hair and flushed cheeks and all. You passed out the bowls carefully, helping Sebastian sit up straighter and placing Lyla’s tray on the bed where she could reach it, even if you’d probably end up spoon-feeding her half of it.

Lando took his tea with a grateful hum, blowing on it gently. “You didn’t have to do all this, you know.”

“Yes, I did,” you said simply, brushing a curl from his forehead. “Because if I don’t take care of you three, who will?”

He caught your hand in his and kissed your knuckles softly. “When this is over, I owe you a week of sleep and massages.”

“Throw in some chocolate and a hot bath, and you’ve got a deal.”

Lyla leaned her head against Lando’s chest again, sleepy and warm, and Sebastian spooned some oatmeal into his mouth with a quiet, “Mmm, the stars are tasty.”

You laughed softly.

Even in sickness, even in chaos—you wouldn’t trade this for the world.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Medicine hour. A warzone.

“Lando, for the love of everything, just drink it.” You stood over him, arms crossed, holding the measuring cup filled with thick, cherry-red syrup. “You’re setting the worst example.”

He groaned. “I hate the taste. I’d rather die than drink that stuff again.”

“Dramatic,” you muttered, before grabbing a tissue and wiping a smear of sweat off his brow. “But fine. If you die, I’m throwing you out on the balcony so you don’t get the rest of us sicker.”

Sebastian, peeking from behind the kitchen island, gasped. “You’d throw Daddy off the balcony?”

You grinned. “Only a little.”

“Nooooo,” Lyla whined dramatically, half-laughing, half-crying from where she had crawled into Lando’s lap — seeking refuge. “No medicine! No meeeeedicine!”

“She’s hiding behind me,” Lando groaned. “I’m literally dying, and she’s hiding behind me.”

You gave them both the look. “I swear to God—”

10:00 AM They were scattered across the living room like sick little soldiers after battle. Lyla was curled on Lando’s chest, snot crusting around her nose as she finally gave in to sleep. Sebastian lay on his side with a cold rag on his forehead, muttering something about how he was “still in control of the situation.”

You were running on caffeine and desperation, perched at the edge of the armchair, flipping through temperature logs on your phone and timing medicine gaps.

“You okay?” Lando mumbled hoarsely, watching you through tired eyes. You hesitated. “I’ve been better.”

He gave you a weak smile. “I’d kiss you, but I’d infect you.”

You snorted. “You already did.”

12:45 PM Lunchtime was a joke.

Lando tried to stand and help but ended up throwing up water in the bathroom and groaning dramatically like a Shakespearean ghost. You had to threaten Sebastian with no Mario Kart for a week just to get three spoonfuls of chicken broth into him.

Lyla wailed when you brought the soup near her mouth. She refused to even open it unless Lando was holding the spoon, which he physically couldn’t. It ended with you holding Lyla, and Lando guiding your hand to her mouth with both of yours like some sort of messed-up relay.

“Say aaaaah,” you tried.

“No!” “Please?” “Noooooo!” “Fine, then no cartoon time for the day”

Her mouth opened like magic. You almost cried.

2:30 PM Nap time.

Not for you, of course. Never for you.

Lando was finally out cold in bed, one leg dangling dramatically off the side. Sebastian had passed out with a box of tissues under one arm and a Switch on the other. Lyla was asleep on the living room floor, a stuffed bunny clutched to her chest and tear streaks still drying on her face.

You just sat. In the silence. For ten whole minutes.

Ten peaceful, quiet, blessed minutes.

Until Sebastian shouted from his dream, “Don’t touch my kart!” and startled Lyla back awake.

4:00 PM Round two.

You had to strip Lando’s shirt when he started sweating through it again. He barely fought you this time, just muttered something about “this being true love” as you threw it into the hamper.

Sebastian vomited in the hallway. “I didn’t mean to!” “I know, sweetheart. It’s okay.” “Do I still get Mario Kart?” “…We’ll talk about it.”

Lyla bit your arm during her medicine dose. Not unusual considering who her father is.

6:00 PM You finally had them clean, medicated, in fresh pajamas, and watching a movie — a miracle. Lando took your hand from where he lay on the couch.

“You’re amazing,” he whispered. “You haven’t sat all day.”

“Who has time to sit when you have three Norrises pretending they're fine but slowly dying in front of you?”

He laughed softly, rubbing your knuckles. “Seriously… thank you.” You kissed his temple. “Next time you say you’re fine… I’m duct-taping you to the bed.”

From across the room, Sebastian weakly raised his hand. “Me too?” “Yes, you too.” “And Lyla?” Lyla sneezed so hard she fell over. “Nooooooo!”

You exhaled, leaning back at last.

One long, flu-stricken day down. God help you — it probably wasn’t over yet.

But for now… they were okay.

And that was enough.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The sun had barely crept over the buildings of Monaco, casting soft golden streaks through the glass windows of the flat. You stood barefoot in the kitchen, hoodie sleeves rolled up and hair tied messily atop your head. The faint hum of the dishwasher was a low reward for your efforts, and the strong scent of lemon-scented disinfectant lingered in the air. You'd deep cleaned every surface before anyone had even stirred. You sanitized toys, aired out bedding, wiped down door handles — anything that had been sneezed, coughed, or whined on.

You were exhausted, but the apartment felt new again — lighter somehow, fresher, like the weight of the past 48 hours had lifted a little. Even Monaco, framed through the glass windows, looked like it had taken a deep breath alongside you.

Just as you were about to sink into the couch for the first time all morning, the doorbell buzzed. You already knew the voice before the intercom clicked:

“Delivery!” came Oscar’s cheerful tone.

You grinned.

Dragging yourself to the door, you cracked it open slightly. “You,” you said with a tired smile, “are the absolute best.”

He laughed as you opened the door the rest of the way. “I figured you needed it,” he said, handing over a large brown paper bag with your favorites — fresh croissants, some fruit, and what you knew was a much-needed double-shot latte.

You clutched the bag like it was sacred. “You're a hero. Truly. Come in?”

He shook his head. “Can’t. On the way to the simulator, but I wanted to check in.”

“How’s Lando? And the others?” he asked as you leaned against the doorway, exhaustion written under your eyes but a soft smile on your lips.

You let out a sigh that carried a world of chaos. “Well… let’s see,” you began, brushing a strand of hair from your face, “I’ve been running around handling cleaning and cooking and, you know, making sure no one dies from stubbornness.”

Oscar smirked. “Sounds about right.”

“Lando keeps trying to act like he’s fine, defending Lyla during medicine hour like some sort of sick knight in a hoodie. He practically begged me not to make her drink the syrup last night — while sweating through his own shirt.”

Oscar snorted.

“And Sebastian…” You softened a little, glancing toward the hallway. “He wants to do karting. He was almost crying this morning. Said he knows he can drive even if he’s sick — ‘just not with a helmet on because it squishes his head,’” you mimicked gently in Sebastian’s voice. “So, he’s very much stuck in the flat and not happy about it.”

You paused, then added with a chuckle, “And me? Well. I’m surviving. Officially crowned Mrs. Norris and her flu-stricken family. Put it on the mailbox.”

Oscar gave you a soft look, one of genuine admiration. “You always say you’re surviving, but honestly… you’re the one keeping the wheels turning.”

You gave him a tired smile in return, warmed by the words. “Maybe. But next time they all get the flu? I’m moving out. Temporarily. Maybe to your flat.”

“Ha! Yeah, okay. You, voluntarily away from them?” he grinned. “You’d last three hours before you’re texting Lando to send you pictures of the kids in their pajamas.”

You shrugged, accepting the truth. “Alright, fine. But I will complain the whole time.”

He stepped back, giving you a two-finger salute. “Hang in there. And seriously — nap when you can. You’ve earned it.”

You raised the coffee cup like a toast. “Oscar Piastri, Patron Saint of the Overworked Mother.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he said over his shoulder as he walked down the corridor.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, sipping your drink, letting the warmth spread through your fingers and into your chest.

The house was quiet again. Peaceful, if only for a few minutes.

You closed the door and whispered to yourself, “Alright. Round three… let’s go.”

The rest of the day unfolded in a blur of soft whines, crumpled tissues, and half-eaten meals abandoned mid-bite. Every corner of the flat held evidence of a war against the flu — juice cups only half drunk, bowls of soup pushed aside, little socks strewn across the floor like fallen soldiers.

Sebastian and Lyla had entered the “bickering phase,” where every toy, blanket, or parental glance became a battle.

“Mummy, Lyla stole my truck!”

“Nooo, mine!”

“It’s literally mine!”

You exhaled loudly from the kitchen, gently massaging your temple. “Please… one moment of peace. One.”

Lando, lying horizontal on the couch with a blanket thrown over his head like a man defeated, peeked one eye open. “Want me to mediate?”

“You fell asleep twice during Cars 2,” you shot back. “You’re barely qualified to stand.”

“I’m fine,” he said for the fourth time today — voice raspy, hair tousled, and one sock mysteriously missing. “Totally fine.”

You glanced at the coffee table, where a half-full mug of cold tea sat untouched next to a bottle of cold meds. “You sure about that?”

“Mmhm,” he said, eyes already closing again.

You didn’t push it. You just picked up another tissue from the floor and added it to the already overflowing bin.

Midday blurred into afternoon.

You dragged a basket of clothes out of the bathroom, a trail of damp towels and pajamas trailing behind you. Every time you passed a doorknob, you hit it with a disinfectant wipe. The light switches, the remotes, the handles to the fridge — all wiped in steady repetition like you were running your own personal hospital ward.

Lyla cried when she couldn’t find Bunny. Sebastian cried when Lyla touched his Mario Kart controller. Lando made a valiant attempt to make toast, only to collapse back into bed five minutes later, claiming the “world got a little spinny.”

And you… you kept going.

You’d lost count of how many times you’d reheated your coffee. You hadn’t brushed your hair since early morning, and your hoodie had a suspicious smear on the sleeve — you didn’t ask what it was. But still, you moved through the house like a quiet force, taking care of your people, checking temperatures, brushing sweaty hair from little foreheads, rubbing Lando’s back when he coughed hard enough to wince.

You were tired.

Utterly drained.

But you looked at them — at the mess, the madness, the family-shaped hurricane swirling around you — and your chest still swelled with that quiet kind of love.

You wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Not the mess. Not the noise. Not even the flu.

Because they were yours.

And all you wanted… was for them to feel better.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Three more days.

Three more days of the same rhythm: tissues, thermometers, scattered toys, the faint beep of the washing machine in the background. You moved through the apartment with quiet determination, never stopping for long — cleaning surfaces with one hand, balancing a bottle of electrolyte solution in the other. You knew exactly how many crackers were left, how low the medicine was getting, and which blanket belonged to which feverish body.

You restocked what was needed, organized medications by time, wiped down doorknobs like it was second nature. You were the engine keeping the flat running — quiet, steady, reliable. But it was draining, and though you didn’t say a word of it out loud, your body ached with exhaustion, your eyes stung when you blinked too long, and your thoughts grew foggy from lack of sleep.

Lando noticed.

Even in his haze — buried in the couch, skin pale, lips cracked from dehydration — he watched you.

And it hurt him.

Every time he opened his eyes and saw you wiping down the remote or cleaning Lyla’s pacifier again, he felt it deep in his chest. Not the ache of the flu — but the ache of helplessness. The guilt.

He wanted to get up and take the load from your shoulders. He wanted to hold Lyla while you slept, chase Sebastian around the flat again, make you tea and tell you to lie down. But his body betrayed him. Every time he tried, the wave of nausea, of exhaustion, of weakness pulled him right back down.

Still… he silently promised himself: As soon as I can stand, I’m making it right.

And then — slowly, things began to shift.

Day Four of Illness.

It was subtle at first. But you noticed.

Lando made it to the bathroom on his own. No dizzy hands braced on the wall. No stumbling. Just… quiet steps down the hallway, and a simple, calm return to bed. He even flushed this time, a small miracle. When he laid down, he muttered, “Didn’t even gag this time.” It was ridiculous — and still made your heart squeeze.

His appetite came creeping back. He managed to finish toast without wincing, and even reached for a banana. “Don’t get too excited,” he said weakly when he caught your proud smile. “I’m still a shell of a man.”

Sebastian’s voice was still hoarse with a lingering cough, but he was no longer buried under four blankets in bed. Instead, he was camped on the couch, one leg hanging off as he watched cartoons, munching slowly on dry cereal. His eyes were brighter, not glassy anymore, and he even complained about how boring it was to be sick now.

“Can I go karting today?” he asked. You raised a brow. “Buddy… you’re still coughing.” “But I feel fast.” You laughed softly. “You’ll be fast again soon, promise.”

And Lyla — your little whirlwind — was finally playing again. Her fever had broken. She was dragging her plush animals around the living room like royalty, babbling half-words, climbing into your lap only to squirm out two seconds later. Her energy was returning in soft waves — not chaotic, but present.

And you?

You finally noticed you weren’t holding your breath anymore.

You weren’t setting alarms every few hours in the night. You didn’t have to make midnight runs to the bathroom cabinet. You no longer counted coughs or worried about temperatures spiking.

The house still held signs of the storm — the tissues, the blankets, the smell of menthol lingering in the air — but it was passing. Slowly, but surely, your family was healing.

That night, for the first time in what felt like forever, you laid down in bed and didn’t immediately feel the pressure of duty pulling you back up.

And when Lando turned over to face you, his voice was low, scratchy, but more him than it had been in days.

“You can sleep now,” he whispered, his hand gently brushing yours under the blanket. “We’re okay.”

And you believed him.

So you closed your eyes.

And slept.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

You almost thanked the heavens out loud when color returned to your family’s faces.

Sebastian was up earlier, bounding down the hallway with his usual chaotic energy, no longer curled up on the couch like a sad, blanket-wrapped burrito. He was asking about karting again, insisting he was at “90% top speed, maybe 95 if I have juice first.”

Lyla had less whines and more giggles, finally dragging her plush bunny around like a queen commanding her court. She followed Sebastian with a trail of toys and an occasional squeal of laughter, her little feet pattering like soft rain across the living room.

And Lando — God, Lando was himself again. Teasing the kids, poking Sebastian in the ribs until he laughed too hard and snorted, lifting Lyla over his shoulder with ease as she squealed “Daddy noooo!” through laughter. His eyes had lost that fever-dull glaze. His cheeks held their warmth again, his playful smile was back.

It was perfect. Finally.

You could breathe. You could wipe your forehead, toss the washcloth into the laundry, and declare — with exhausted triumph — mission accomplished. You’d nursed your flu-stricken army back to health. You'd survived the storm.

Dinner plates were no longer left half-full. No one was clutching their stomach or whining about sore limbs or sweating through pajamas at 2am. They were whole again.

And then, like cruel irony, a week later… it hit you.

It started slow. A dull ache behind your eyes. The scratch in your throat. A heaviness in your body that you desperately tried to shake off.

No, you told yourself. Not me. I’m the caregiver, the strong one, the immune one. I don’t get sick. I fix sick.

But the ache deepened. The energy drained. And by the time you found yourself in the kitchen, hunched slightly over the steaming bowl of chicken soup, elbows on the counter, face slack with fatigue — you knew.

It got you. The flu finally got you.

Your head lolled to the side as the world tilted just slightly under your feet, and you groaned, nose wrinkling. You didn’t even hear him come in, not until that familiar voice softened behind you.

“You okay, baby?”

Lando’s tone was light, but laced with immediate concern. You turned your head sluggishly and gave a small, pitiful hum.

“Think the flu is trying to attack me,” you mumbled, punctuating the sentence with a weak cough into your sleeve.

He was at your side instantly, hand brushing your lower back. You saw his face fall just slightly. Not the dramatic Lando face he gave the kids — the real one. The worried one.

“Alright,” he said firmly, “go lay down. No arguments.”

You groaned. “No. I still need to finish—”

“Nope. Don’t care. You took care of us. Now we take care of you,” he said, gently taking the spoon from your hand and setting it down. “C’mon, don’t be stubborn. You were a badass nurse. It’s my turn to suck at it.”

You gave him a sideways glance. “You’re going to be the best and worst nurse. Somehow, both at once.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. “Right. Now off you go. Shoo. Mama’s off duty.”

You were about to turn, maybe even argue a little more — but then, with a cheeky grin, he slapped your ass. Hard enough to make you yelp.

“NORRIS!” you barked, rubbing the spot with a soft wince.

“What?” he laughed, completely unbothered, “I’m just encouraging the patient to move along. Nurse’s orders.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, incredibly handsome.”

He winked, ushering you toward the hallway.

You dragged your feet, muttering, “A nurse does not hurt the person he’s caring for.”

“Oh come on,” he murmured, catching up to you, kissing the edge of your jaw. “It’s my favorite part of you. Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

You turned back to give him the dirtiest look you could muster — half-hearted at best — and he smirked again.

“I’ll carry you if I have to,” he said, following close behind.

From the living room, Lyla squealed in laughter and Sebastian shouted something about racing plush animals. You smiled faintly, even through the growing ache in your head. They were okay. They were whole again. That was everything.

Lando guided you toward the bedroom, one hand still gently on your hip.

“Oh, and babe?” he added, grinning, “If I nurse you back to health, I get baby number three.”

You spun slowly on your heel. “You really wanna try that while I have the flu?”

He raised both hands. “Just planting the idea. Let it simmer. Like your soup. Which I’m now in charge of, by the way.”

You laughed softly — hoarse and worn, but genuine.

He brushed your hair away from your forehead, pressed a kiss there. “Go sleep. I’ll check on the kids, do dinner. You’ve earned it.”

You nodded, curling under the blanket a few minutes later, body finally letting go.

Your husband — your teammate, your chaos, your comfort — was the biggest pain in your ass. But he was also the one always ready to carry you when you couldn’t walk.

And really, that made him the best damn nurse of all. Even if he had wandering hands.

[icarusignite]

he leaves you out like a penny in the rain (p.2)

Pairing: Zayne Li x Non MC Reader

Summary: You spent years orbiting Dr. Zayne Li, but when a careless comment shatters the fragile bond you thought you’d built, you walk away. Only then does Zayne realize what he's lost.

Warnings: Hurt/comfort, angst. slowburn. Zayne being emotionally constipated rip

Word Count: 6.7k

A/N: I did not expect all the overwhelming love and feedback on part 1, so thank you so much to everyone who read and interacted, you made my day.

There will be a part 3 later to explore them getting even closer, and that will be more fluff (I did say slowburn lmao). I know they don't technically kiss and make up in this one, but that would be unrealistic, and this chapter is essentially Zayne having an existential crisis lmao. Gotta make our man suffer a little. I may also make this a whole series with more snippets of their life together (dates, workplace shenanigans, wedding, etc.) cuz I am rather attached to the concept of Zayne x coworker lmao. As always would love ot hear yalls thoughts <3

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

"I didn't ask for her kindness. She's not helping anyone by wasting time with personal errands. If she spent as much energy on her department as she does playing nursemaid, maybe the pediatrics wing would run on schedule."

Zayne regretted the words the moment they left his mouth. In his head, they'd sounded like a neutral observation spoken in the abstract. But out loud? They were undeniably brutal.

He didn't even realize how harshly it had come across until he saw Miss Hunter's expression change. The easygoing smile slid off her face, and her eyes narrowed. She began gathering the files strewn across his desk in silence.

Zayne frowned. "What are you doing?"

Miss Hunter scowled without looking up. "Sometimes I forget that I'm speaking to someone with the emotional availability of a brick."

"Excuse me?"

She rolled her eyes as she shoved a folder into her bag. "I do sincerely hope, for your sake, no one else heard you say that. Your colleague may be a lot of things, but incompetent is not one of them. I've never seen anyone work as hard as she does. She bends over backward for her patients, stays longer than anyone else, and still finds time to show basic human decency to the people around her. You don't have to like her, Zayne, but don't you dare belittle her like that."

Zayne opened his mouth to reply, but the woman had already thrown her coat over one shoulder.

"Where are you going?" he asked. "Didn't you say you needed my help with the case? That is why you've been coming in, haven't you?"

"I think I have what I need. Someone from the Association will give you a call if we require anything else." Her eyes met his one last time. "Thank you for your time, doctor. Now don't let me waste any more of it."

Then she was gone, and the silence she left behind was deafening. It wasn't like her to walk out like that. Frigid departures were his specialty.

He sat down slowly, but didn't open the file in front of him. Instead, his eyes drifted to the spot on his desk where you used to leave his tea for him.

Miss Hunter was kind. You were, too. He never quite understood why people like that kept finding their way into his life. He seemed terrible at keeping them there. And now, he was starting to understand why.

The words he'd said earlier soured in his stomach, replaying in his mind like a low-grade headache he couldn't medicate away. He didn't even know why he'd said them. It wasn't like him to speak without thinking.

Miss Hunter was one of his oldest friends. She had known him long before he was "Dr. Li." Back when he was just Zayne. She knew his tells better than anyone.

If she had caught him glancing at you every time you entered his office, she would have known immediately. She would have teased him mercilessly, bothered him about something he didn't even fully understand himself.

And she was your friend, too. Which meant she would've told you.

He certainly hadn't wanted that. It would ruin things.

Not that there was anything to ruin, technically. You weren't involved. You weren't his. You weren't anything more than a colleague.

From the early days of med school to the quiet corners of the hospital now, you flitted in and out of his life with a warm drink in one hand and a smile on your face, offering sugar and comfort like it cost you nothing.

Zayne knew better than to believe it was just for him. You were like that with everyone.

You brought donuts for the night shift nurses, slushies for interns melting in the summer heat, and hot cider during the freezing winter. You volunteered to cover holidays and swapped shifts without complaint. You remembered birthdays, favourite snacks, and which residents were allergic to almonds.

You were a kindness machine, and he hated that it still got to him. Sometimes it was hard not to feel like there was something different about the way you smiled at him, and when you slipped out of his office after each delivery, Zayne found it nearly impossible to concentrate afterward.

Your presence left ripples. He had insinuated that you were a distraction, but not because you hindered the hospital. No, you were a distraction to him. When you were gone, he was thinking about you, and when you were near, he couldn't think at all.

So why had he said what he said?

Because he didn't want Miss Hunter to know what he was feeling? Because he didn't want you to know?

Zayne took off his glasses and rubbed the space between his eyes. He still didn't have a good answer. The only real explanation was the simplest, and the hardest to admit: He'd been cruel. And now he felt the guilt of it like a stone in his throat.

Zayne wasn't the kind of man who tracked people's comings and goings. He only paid attention to pathology reports, test results, and charts with clear logic. He didn't count footsteps in the hallway or wonder where someone's voice had gone.

At least, not until yours had been missing for three days.

At first, he told himself it was a good thing. You were keeping your distance, finally, after all this time. No more interruptions. No more unsolicited desserts or stickers pressed onto his notes like a child's reward chart.

He had, after all, been pulling away from you, too. Maybe you'd finally taken the hint.

He should've been relieved. This distance was what he wanted, wasn't it? He'd convinced himself that if you were gone—if your presence stopped softening the corners of his day—then he'd finally be able to focus again. Be more efficient. More himself.

But to his growing dismay, the effect was the exact opposite. He could focus even less.

He spent too long rereading documents, missed the timing on his own schedule, and found his attention drifting in the middle of patient reports. Every time he turned a corner and didn't see you, he wondered where you were. When he passed the pediatric ward and didn't catch a glimpse of you hunched over a chart or joking with a young patient, he slowed to search without meaning to.

Maybe you were on vacation. That was rational. Doctors took leave all the time, and you of all people deserved one. But when he asked a pediatric nurse in passing, he got an answer that deflated every illusion he'd been holding onto.

"She's still on duty," the nurse explained. "Very busy. You know how she can be."

That was worse. You were close by, and still not coming around. It became harder to ignore.

Occasionally, he'd get a glimpse of your coat disappearing down a hall, or the top of your head as you ducked into the operating theatre, but never your face. And he certainly never saw you in his office again, even when you should have been there.

His desk was cleaner now. No crumbs from lemon cake, and no more paper cups of oolong. During his breaks, he found himself rifling through his drawers, trying not to look at the stack of stickers he kept there. The ones he peeled off and meant to toss, but never did.

There was the glittering, heart-shaped one you'd slapped onto his clipboard months ago. A cartoon cat, a kidney with googly eyes, and a shiny peach. You'd stuck that last one on his stethoscope once, and he hadn't taken it off for days, claiming it made his youngest patients smile.

But really, it was because it made you smile.

By the fifth day of your absence, he found himself looking up every time his office door opened. He dared not say aloud what he was hoping for, but the disappointment in his expression was telling enough when his guest never turned out to be you. He hadn't realized how often you used to cross his path until you didn't anymore.

On the sixth day, he lingered by the pediatric nurses' station, claiming he was checking up on a shared patient, but he didn't find you.

On the seventh, he stopped by the eastern stairwell just before midnight, the one he knew you liked to take instead of the elevator because you were trying to get your daily steps in. It was empty, but he waited for fifteen whole minutes.

By the end of the week, something in his chest felt too tight. The silences were heavy, and his tea never tasted right because he had to make it himself.

It was nearing midnight when Zayne finally finished logging the last of his post-op notes. The hospital had thinned to its late-shift hush, leaving only the occasional overhead call and the low hum of fluorescent lighting that never truly turned off.

The unexpected sound of knocking almost made him flinch, but when the door opened, his shoulders practically slumped in disappointment.

"No need to look so disheartened by my presence," his colleague, Dr. Greyson, teased. "I'm only here to drop off patient files, as you requested."

Zayne didn't respond.

"I really wish you hadn't scared off our caffeine supplier, though," Dr. Greyson continued, unaware of the subtle shift in the man's demeanour at the mention of you.

"Excuse me?"

"You know. The doctor who used to swing by with desserts. She hasn't come by in a whole week. The whole cardiology department is suffering. Morale's at an all-time low."

Zayne rolled his eyes. "I hardly think anyone's suffering."

Greyson tilted his head, watching him with that infuriating look that said I know more than you think I do."Did you scare her off or something? You used to get visits like clockwork. Can't believe I'm saying this, but I find myself missing that 'you-forgot-to-eat-again' look of pity she used to give all of us."

"She is probably busy. As you should be."

Greyson clicked his tongue. "I'm not trying to pry—well, maybe I am, just a little—but I figure if she stopped showing up, and you started passing by pediatrics like you're casing the joint, something must've happened."

"Nothing happened," Zayne muttered stiffly.

"Sure. Except for the part where she's been sending interns to collect your reports instead of coming herself. And the part where you've looked like someone kicked your cat for three days straight. You're not as subtle as you think."

"It's none of your business."

"Isn't it?" his colleague drawled. "Because it's starting to affect your concentration. You missed a detail on that post-op note yesterday. Not like you."

Zayne's lips pressed into a thin line. "It was corrected immediately."

"Doesn't mean I didn't notice." Then he added, more gently, "You know, if she's avoiding you, there's probably a reason."

Dr. Greyson's words echoed long after he departed.

Zayne scoffed at first, but the question refused to dislodge itself, settling under his skin like a splinter he couldn't quite reach.

What had he done? What could he have done?

He turned the thought over again and again, as if studying it from every clinical angle might make it reveal itself.

Yes, perhaps he'd been colder than usual lately, but that wasn't new. You'd known him long enough to recognize the ebb and flow of his moods. You used to tease him about it. "Dr. Li, did your coffee betray you again today?" or "Should I come back when the glacier thaws?"

You always came back because you weren't the type to hold a grudge. And certainly not the type to vanish without a word. If something bothered you, you would have said it.

So, why disappear?

The only thing he'd done differently, the only deviation from the constant rhythm of your companionship, was—

His stomach turned.

No.

There was no way.

Had you heard what he said to Miss Hunter that night? Or worse, had she told you herself?

Miss Hunter wasn't the sort to do that, especially if she knew it would hurt you. But you hadn't been working that night. He'd checked the rota; you weren't even on call.

His voice sounded vindictive in hindsight. He had only meant it as a deflection. A way to keep Miss Hunter from pressing further into places he hadn't yet dared to look himself. He hadn't thought—

He hadn't thought.

His gut twisted. That would explain your absence. You hadn't simply disappeared, you'd withdrawn. And not just from him, but from his whole department.

He'd done something worse than push you too far. He'd made you feel small and irrelevant.

Zayne exhaled sharply and leaned back in his chair, overcome with guilt. He didn't know what he was going to do. He wasn't good with apologies. He wasn't even sure how to begin, but something had to be done.

If not for himself—he still wouldn't allow himself that admission—then at least for the others. For the people who looked to you. For the space you had filled so effortlessly, that now felt so cold and painfully quiet.

Maybe, if he could fix this, you'd look at him again the way you used to. Maybe it was time for him to stop watching his door and finally go knock on yours.

The next week, Zayne finally mustered the courage to approach you. He stood just by your office, waiting for you to arrive, but when you finally did, you were moving too quickly for him to say anything. Your shoulders were tensed as you ducked past him, and without thinking to ask for permission, he followed you inside.

You didn't even acknowledge his presence. You were hunched over a drawer, rifling through it with your good hand. The other one—your dominant, he noticed—was clenched in a bloodied fist, a crimson thread trickling from between your fingers and down your wrist.

"You're hurt," he murmured.

You ignored him, yanking open another drawer with more force than necessary. Your good hand trembled as you pulled out the first aid kit, and it clattered onto the desk, spilling slightly.

He took a step forward. "You're bleeding. What happened?"

Still no response, and Zayne was forced to watch as you clumsily opened the box, tugging at alcohol wipes and sterile gauze with one hand, fumbling with the bandage roll like it had personally offended you. When the antiseptic hit your wound, you hissed, and that was the last straw.

Zayne reached for your wrist, and you pulled back as if stung, your blood-slicked palm cradled awkwardly against your chest.

"I just want to—"

"Leave me be!" you snapped. "Please. I have work to do."

He didn't raise his voice. "You can't work like this."

"I am working like this."

"You can't take care of your patients if you can't take care of yourself."

You let out an incredulous laugh. "Is this your way of calling me incompetent again? Believe me, Dr. Li, I have no time for you right now."

Zayne pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed impatiently. "I'm not trying to—look, please, just let me help. You can snap at me all you want afterwards."

Without waiting for your response, he firmly nudged you in the direction of your chair, and you let him because standing suddenly felt too exhausting. Maybe the adrenaline had worn off, or maybe you were just too tired to argue anymore. You kept your mouth pressed into a thin, unhappy line as he worked.

Zayne didn't speak either, kneeling beside you tentatively. He did not look at your face as he pried open your fist, his frown deepening as he examined the wound. Then he cleaned it with uncharacteristic tenderness, wiping away the blood and wrapping the gauze, his fingers stalling against your skin a beat too long.

When he finally stood to pack the kit away, you stood too, your anger spilling past your lips in a venomous tumble.

"My apologies for wasting your precious time with personal errands, Dr. Li," you practically sneered. "But you don't have to play nursemaid anymore. You do have a department to run, after all."

His own words thrown back at him. Zayne winced, but met your gaze without faltering. He deserved every bit of your resentment. "That was...certainly warranted."

You scoffed, pressing your wrapped hand into your lap. "Damn right, it was."

He nodded stiffly, absorbing the blow without complaint. He would accept your barbed words because at least you were speaking to him. Anything was better than your silence.

"I..." He cleared his throat and tried again. "I wanted to say I'm sorry."

When all you could do was glower at him, he adjusted his lab coat just to have something to do with his hands.

"I have no excuse for what I said. Or for what you heard," he continued. "It was... awful. And cruel. And I was wrong. You work harder than anyone else here. You work too hard. And I never should've implied otherwise. I'm sorry."

"I don't accept it," you said simply.

"I—"

"I don't care if that makes me petty. I'm allowed to be angry. You don't get forgiveness just because you decided to feel bad about it now."

Zayne's mouth parted in protest. "I know this is about the conversation you overheard, and I—"

"The one where you called me pathetic? Questioned my competence? You essentially said I've been neglecting my job because I bring my colleagues refreshments every now and then?"

"You must know...I had no intention of hurting you."

"Didn't you?" You stepped back, putting some distance between the two of you. "Because I remember every word. Every. Word. And believe me, it wasn't the first time I've been told I'm not good enough to be here. I just never thought you'd be the one to say it."

He flinched, but you didn't give him the chance to say anything else.

You tipped your head toward the door. "Please leave, Dr. Li. As per your earlier suggestions, I am working on managing my time better, and part of that includes not engaging in pointless conversations."

You followed him to the door, closing it in his face with a click. It was worse than if you had slammed it, because this felt too final.

He was just about to leave when he heard the strangled sound from the other side. A whimper and then a quiet sniffle. Zayne stood frozen in place, hand hovering over the doorknob, wishing he could offer more than the hollow apology he had.

His voice, when it came, was hoarse. "Truly, I am sorry."

For the first time in all the years he had known you, there was nothing else he could say.

Zayne didn't try to speak to you again. You asked him to leave you alone, and he respected your decision enough to resist intruding into your life. But that didn't mean he stopped caring, and he certainly never stopped trying. He just changed the way he did it.

You never ran out of your favourite stationery, a new box appearing on your desk every time you were even close, and it seemed that someone had paid for a lifetime's worth of beverage orders at the cafe across the street where you frequented. Every time you showed up, the barista would grin at you and tell you that your order had been paid for, no matter what hour it was. It was absurd.

The nurses had started noticing, too. How Zayne signed off on consults for your shared patients before you could ask him to. And the fact that the smartboard in your office now auto-updated like clockwork because someone had programmed the algorithm to pull directly from the cardiology logs.

He didn't overstep, of course. He didn't want to do anything that would make you think he was questioning your competence or ability to get things done. He just handled the little things to make your life easier.

For Zayne, it wasn't about being forgiven. He wasn't delusional enough to think that any of this would win you over, but that wasn't the point. He just couldn't stand the thought of you being tired, overworked, or overlooked anymore.

He knew you were angry, and you had every right to be, but this was the only way he could think of to fix things. To anticipate your every need before it arose and solve it before it became a problem.

However, no matter how much he tried to stay out of your way, his eyes were always drawn toward you when he occasionally passed you by, like a reflex he couldn't kill. You never returned the look, and though it killed him, he never stopped refilling the frog stickers when the last sheet disappeared from your drawer, and making sure the lab results for your most critical cases were flagged top priority. He wasn't waiting for your gratitude. He just didn't know what else to do with the ache that sat where your laughter used to echo.

It became unbearable when he began messing with your break room. The one in the pediatric wing was barely even a room, really just a glorified closet with a dying microwave and a fridge that made suspicious humming noises when overfilled. But it had been your domain. A little corner of chaos you liked to keep warm for the interns and residents who rotated through your department, stumbling half-asleep between charts and crying toddlers.

You'd made it a habit to stock the cabinets with snacks. Caffeine bars. Gummy vitamins. Single-serve juice boxes and thermal mugs with weird slogans. It wasn't much, but it made the 2 a.m. shifts bearable. People had started calling it the "Sunshine Station."

But lately, something had shifted.

You didn't notice it at first because you were too busy. But then, one afternoon, you ducked into the room to grab the last apple juice from the mini fridge, only to find that the juice had already been restocked. Not just that, it had been rearranged neatly, the labels facing out. Right next to a new box of cereal bars that no one else even liked, but your most overworked intern swore kept her from fainting.

It was strange. You hadn't placed an order this month because you'd been shamefully distracted by your own indignation. When you checked the other cabinets, they were full too, and not just with generics, either.

The gummy vitamins were the exact kind your other interns liked, the ones shaped like bears instead of those awful chalky tablets. Whoever had placed the order had even remembered to get lactose-free yogurt.

When you asked around later that day, all you received were blank stares. Those who frequented the break room claimed that the items had been simply delivered as they always were, and that they thought you had been the one to handle it like you always did.

It unsettled you. For years, you had been the one to keep things stocked. You took pride in remembering everyone's favourites because you liked showing up for the people who worked under you. It mattered to you. But now it was as if someone had quietly picked up where you left off. Someone had taken the time to learn what your team liked. Someone who was trying very hard to make amends.

You shut the thought down fast. You didn't want to think about him.

But your interns had other ideas, it seemed.

The next evening, you were filling out patient notes at the corner table, half-tuned out, while they squabbled over a nearly empty box of mango pudding cups.

"I swear to god, Nam, that was my last one!"

"First come, first serve, Clara. You've had four already!"

"I'm dessert-loading for morale!"

You didn't intervene. Their bickering was strangely comforting, like white noise after too many days of stifling silence.

Clara finally wrenched the box from Nam's hands, only to gasp dramatically.

"They're gone!" she mourned, rattling the empty cardboard. "My pudding! This is an emergency!"

"Just ask Dr. Li to add them to the supply list," Nam muttered, crouching to inspect the fridge's bottom shelf for apple slices.

You froze. "Ask who?"

Nam's head jerked up, eyes wide. "I—I mean, like. I don't know why I said that. Just—someone else must've added them to the order since you've been so busy lately. That's all I meant."

Clara nodded with a false smile. "We must have a secret supplier in our midst who keeps us stocked. The Snack Phantom. Or maybe... the Nutrition Ninja."

Nam nodded sagely. "The Candy Courier."

"Or the Juicy Justice Man."

"Okay, now you're just being plain ridiculous," you snorted, rubbing your temple. "In case you forgot, I'm the one who places the orders. And I'm sorry I forgot to this month. So what's all this about Dr. Li? He's got nothing to do with us."

Clara's eyes bounced between you and Nam guiltily. "Oh. Uh...it's just that he asked us about our snack preferences."

Nam nodded. Then quickly shook his head. "Well, not all of them. Just like... a few specific ones."

You squinted suspiciously. "Like what?"

Nam hesitated. "Like, which flavour of chips you like. And which brand of protein bars Clara eats when she's on night shifts. And those gummies that Dr. Gao hoards like a dragon."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

"Dr. Li doesn't believe in vending machines," Clara deadpanned, trying to ease the awkward atmosphere. "I swear I've heard him call flavoured chips 'an affront to God' once."

"He's not trying to replace you, of course," Nam added hastily. "He's just taking stuff off your plate. We all know how busy you've been lately. You even have that health outreach drive this weekend."

Your jaw clenched, and you looked back down at your chart, trying to keep your expression unreadable. In your periphery, you saw the two interns nudge each other, mumbling something about a chart they forgot to update before scuttling off.

When the room cleared out a few minutes later, you were left alone with your tepid green tea, staring at a worn sticker someone had left on the edge of the table. The same kind you used to put on Zayne's mugs.

Suddenly, every little thing felt far too overwhelming. You didn't know what you were supposed to feel.

Gratitude? Bitterness? Some ugly combination of both?

You were just so tired.

It was past midnight when you finally finished with your tasks of the day, exhaustion making your limbs feel like they belonged to someone else. Your coat was slung over your arm, your bag slumped tiredly against one shoulder, and the charts you'd meant to leave in the admin office tilted in your grip like a collapsing tower.

You cursed under your breath when a few of them slipped loose and tumbled to the floor. When you bent, your back made an uncharacteristic sound, and you winced. You hadn't eaten dinner. Or lunch, or even breakfast, for that matter. Your feet hurt, and you still had a dozen things to do tomorrow, even though it was supposed to be your day off.

Of course, this would happen. Of course—

"Let me help."

You turned sharply, and there stood Dr. Zayne Li, just a few paces away.

His hair was impeccable as always, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, coat draped carelessly over his shoulder. He looked as tired as you felt. More, maybe. The shadows under his eyes had grown darker since the last time you really looked at him.

You hadn't seen him this close in months.

In the time it took for you to scrutinize him, he had already stepped forward to gather your scattered files. When he handed them back to you, his fingers brushed yours tentatively, but you did not thank him.

Nonetheless, he followed you to the nurses' station where you dropped your load off, and then outside toward the exit.

"I didn't think you'd let me help," he remarked.

You shrugged, and that earned the smallest quirk of his lips. Equal parts sad and knowing. He must have sensed some kind of brittle neutrality in your expression. Not forgiveness, but the absence of active malice. The first thaw in a long, punishing winter.

When the two of you stepped out into the cool night air, he held the door open for you. You didn't comment on it, and the silence stretched again.

Zayne cleared his throat. "You're off tomorrow, right?"

"How do you know that?"

"I checked the roster. I wasn't trying to pry."

You gave him a sideways glance.

"I just—" He adjusted his cufflinks. "I've been trying to apologize. Properly. I know I hurt you. I said things I didn't mean, and I let you believe things that weren't true. That you weren't—"

You turned to face him then, and he stopped talking.

"You did hurt me."

He swallowed. "I know."

"I still don't think I forgive you."

"I don't expect you to."

Your arms wrapped around yourself. "But holding onto it for this long has been exhausting, so I'm going to let it go. I'm not letting you off the hook. I am just letting myself off it. I simply don't care what you think of me, so you can rest easy, I suppose. I'm not angry anymore."

Strangely enough, you found that you meant it. It had been several months since the incident, and although for a short while it had bruised your ego, you needed to try and move past it. It was a lesson you had learned early in life when everyone around you doubted your abilities. You could not let their opinions of you make you waver. The same applied here. While you admired Zayne's intelligence and abilities, you refused to let his opinion of you affect your work. You had worked too hard for that to happen.

You were letting go more for yourself than for him. You wondered if Zayne knew that too, because he was looking at you with an expression of melancholy resignation, like he wasn't sure if he should be relieved or devastated. 

Was indifference any better than fury?

When you stepped past him to head in the direction of the train station, he called out after you. "You shouldn't take the train this late."

You didn't stop walking. "I've done it before."

"You're exhausted."

"Shocking, considering I just completed a 17-hour shift looking after tiny humans with fevers and sticky fingers."

"I'll drive you."

You glanced at him over your shoulder skeptically. "What, is this some sort of attempt at penance?"

"No," Zayne countered. "It's common sense. You're swaying on your feet."

You opened your mouth for a retort, but he was right, and frankly, you were too tired to protest on principle. So with a small, muttered, "Fine," you followed him to the parking lot.

You said nothing as you slid into the passenger seat and let the warmth of the heater begin to soothe the ache in your muscles.

You closed your eyes, and when you opened them, five minutes later, the streetlights outside looked wrong.

"This isn't my route."

Zayne didn't look at you. "I'm taking you to dinner."

"I didn't consent to that."

"You got in my car, didn't you?"

You turned fully to glare at him. "Where are we going?"

He disclosed the name of your favourite late-night restaurant, the one with the golden stew and free barley tea.

"How did you—?"

"I know you haven't eaten all day."

"Have you been having my interns spy on me?"

"You can't be both sleep and nutrition deprived. I've bagged up bodies that had more vitality than you."

"Oh, so now we've moved on to insulting my appearance? How novel."

"You're not hideous," Zayne remarked absently. "You just look like a Victorian ghost that's been wandering the moors since 1852."

You made a strangled noise of indignation. "I hate you."

"I know."

"Well, you should start acting like it."

But you lacked your usual fire. Then your stomach betrayed you, growling so loudly it echoed through the silence of the car.

Zayne didn't say anything, but the way he glanced over at you with that annoyingly subtle twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth made your scowl deepen.

"...Fine," you grumbled. "But I'm not thanking you."

"Wouldn't dream of asking you to," he said dryly, pulling into the familiar lot.

You rolled your eyes but stepped out when he opened the door for you, letting the smell of garlic, chilli, and warm rice overpower the urge to strangle him.

The restaurant was nearly empty at this hour, only a few lingering patrons tucked into booths, and faint ballads played through the speakers like a lullaby. You sat across from Zayne, not quite looking at him, and the overhead light was dim enough to make everything feel like a dream viewed through steam.

The waitress didn't bother with menus because she knew your order. You'd been coming here ever since your residency days. She simply smiled and said, "The usual?" with a glance at you, then your companion, who gave a silent nod.

You watched her leave, then directed your attention toward him. "You didn't even ask what I wanted."

"You always get the same thing. Unless you've changed your mind in the last several years."

"And if I had?"

"Then I'd offer you mine."

That shut you up for a moment.

"I didn't expect you to say yes," he confessed candidly. "To dinner."

"Then why are you trying so hard?"

"Because I miss you." His response startled even him because he immediately avoided your probing gaze.

"Excuse me?"

"I miss..." He exhaled. "I miss your bad jokes. Your sugar bribes. The energy you bring into a room just by walking into it. I miss being someone who deserved all of that."

"Dr. Li...Zayne...what are you doing?"

Your use of his first name made his heart convulse in his chest, and he wondered with mild curiosity if he was having a heart attack. You tended to have that effect on him. "I'm trying to make things right."

You didn't have an answer for that, so you picked up your spoon and dipped it into your food that had just arrived. You let the warmth hit your tongue, sink into your bones, and settle somewhere deep inside the ache. This was easier than coming up with a response.

Across from you, Zayne stirred his bowl absently. For someone who dragged you here with such conviction, he wasn't eating much. You caught him glancing at you more than once, and each time, he looked away just as quickly.

Then he cleared his throat. "So, one of my interns fainted in the middle of a laparoscopic demonstration yesterday."

You blinked, surprised he was talking at all, let alone telling you stories.

"She nearly took down the anesthesia tray with her."

"Oh...is she okay?"

"She's fine. She may have forgotten to eat. Or breathe. Possibly both." A beat. "I told her if she ever wants to pull a stunt like that again, she has to warn me first so I can bill cardiology for Greyson's near heart attack."

You gave a reluctant huff of amusement, and he seized it like a drowning man to driftwood.

"And then, today, one of my residents presented a case that was very obviously plagiarized from a House episode. He even kept the ludicrous diagnosis."

"That's... dramatic."

"He said, and I quote, 'It's rare, but not impossible, Dr. Li.'" Zayne took a sip of water. "I told him so is being struck by lightning during a Sudoku competition. That doesn't mean it belongs on a discharge summary."

You snorted into your rice. He seemed pleased by that. As pleased as he ever looked, which wasn't much, but you saw the ease in his shoulders, and the faint wrinkle at the corner of his eyes.

It was odd, watching him do what you used to do. Filling the silences and stumbling awkwardly over attempts at connection. Sharing things he wouldn't normally bother to say out loud. You tried not to let it affect you.

Tried.

Zayne glanced at you again, then made a visible effort to keep going. "Someone else spilled an entire tray of empty vials. He dropped them while trying to open his pudding cup. I told him that's what he gets for eating like a five-year-old."

You smirked. "Dr. Greyson told me last year that you eat your sandwiches with a knife and fork."

Zayne didn't miss a beat, going along with your story just for the sake of hearing you talk. "I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"You... what?"

"It's cleaner. You get an even distribution. No hand residue. Structural integrity is maintained throughout."

"That is the most unhinged thing I've heard in months."

"I'm a surgeon," he replied unapologetically. "I value precision."

"You're a monster."

"Possibly."

Another quiet moment passed, but this time it was companionable, warmed by broth and faint humour.

Zayne stirred his stew with mechanical precision, then said, with no real preamble, "Did I ever tell you about the time one of my interns tried to impress me by diagnosing a nosebleed as a sign of brain-eating amoeba?"

"...Please tell me you're joking."

"I wish I were."

"And what was your response, Dr. Li?"

"I told her that unless the patient had just returned from a stagnant swamp in the middle of winter, she was catastrophizing. Then I handed her a nasal spray."

You pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh. "You're such a menace."

"She handed in a ten-page write-up on amoebic encephalitis the next morning."

"I'm torn between horror and pride."

"Greyson said I should start charging tuition."

"As if you don't make enough money already."

"They're all chaos." He shook his head. "One of them showed up in inappropriate footwear during an OR rotation and asked if we were doing anything fun today."

You choked on your rice, and Zayne offered you a napkin without comment.

"Inappropriate footwear? Would that be high heels or Crocs?"

"I cannot recall exactly."

"God. That sounds like something you would've done back in school."

Your dinner companion looked offended at the insinuation. "I would never have disgraced myself that way."

"True. You were insufferably by-the-book."

"I still am."

"You are." You chuckled again, reluctantly. You hadn't laughed this much in months.

Worst of all, you didn't hate the way it felt. But you hated that you missed it. You hated how much you'd missed him. You had to remind yourself that he was just trying extra hard to alleviate his own guilt, not because he actually wanted you to feel better. But it was hard to question his sincerity when he looked at you so earnestly. To you, his eyes had always been his most mesmerizing feature, and now, when he trained them on you, unguarded and sincere, you felt your resolve start to crumble.

Despite the distance and the cruelty that still stung at the edges of your memory, the ache hadn't lessened. There was something so familiar about him, the way his stories came out stiff and slightly disjointed, like they'd been rehearsed. The way he glanced up between anecdotes to check if you were still listening.

"I also miss not being verbally assaulted every morning by my ravenous interns asking where the 'sugar fairy' went." He gave you a gentle smile, something a little more than the usual twitch of his lips, and you chugged your glass of water to drown the sudden influx of butterflies that swarmed in your stomach.

You groaned. "I knew Dr. Greyson started that name."

"He did. But the students run with it like it's gospel. I overheard one say they were going to sacrifice someone to the snack deity if you didn't come back to our floor soon."

"And would that someone have been you?"

"You would enjoy that, wouldn't you?"

You laughed before you could stop yourself. You tried to smother it, but it bubbled up anyway. "Indeed, I would."

Zayne looked deeply, irritatingly satisfied, and you bit back another smile. For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself enjoy it.

You were too tired to resist the lull of good conversation and an old friend tonight. Tomorrow, you could try to go back to hating him. Tomorrow, you would take your grudge by the hand, but today, you deserved to let go a little.

Eventually, he stopped talking, and you looked up to find him watching you intently. Almost reverently.

"...What?" you asked, warily. "Do I have rice on my face or something?"

He didn't respond.

"Seriously. What are you looking at?"

Zayne hesitated. "I didn't mean what I said earlier."

"What?"

"That thing I said. About you looking like a Victorian ghost."

"Oh?" Your lips quirked up wryly. "Do I look worse, then? Let me guess. Forest cryptid instead? Decrepit hag?"

Zayne didn't crack a smile or tease you back, and something fragile fluttered just beneath the surface of his gaze.

No. You look beautiful.

Even like this. Even in exhaustion with dark circles under your eyes and your hair messier than you probably realized. You were beautiful in the way late-night hospital lights made you glow. Beautiful in the way you had always cared, even for people like him, who never knew how to deserve it.

He hated that it had taken him this long to notice. Or rather, that it had taken him even longer to admit it to himself, but he would spend the rest of his days trying to find the right moment to say it aloud, to make you believe it. 

Today, however, was not the right moment, so he just wordlessly refilled your cup of water.

You didn't thank him, but you didn't push him away either.

For tonight, that was enough.

Taglist: @floofycookie @heartandeye @lanxianschoenheit @loverindeepspace @treeteaofversailles @ikesimpleton @mysticcauldronspire @69-gojos-wife-69 @nm4565natty @ciexuvia @jeonjenny @plzdonutpercieveme @sylusgirlie7 @raethewargeneral @staarflowerr @eolivy @straykidslvr @lemurianmaster @preeyas-world @sillyfreakfanparty

Hope I didn't miss anyone ❤️

[bluewxrld07]

Soap (2)

Lando Norris X F!Reader

Summary: Y/N has always loved hard and shows that through affection. Especially lately. She's a touch-starved kind of lovergirl, and Lando has always been okay with it. At least she thought so.

Guess I better wash my mouth out with soap

Warning(s): angst, possessiveness, physical altercations

A/N: Tag list is completely full!! You guys are amazing wtf😭🩵 The keyboard got away from me, guys. Good luck getting through this🤧. Oops hehe. There's a poll at the bottom, so feel free to vote after reading. See u soon, friends

The world was quiet.

It was calm, especially after all the noise from the race weekend.

Y/N was tired. She couldn't keep her eyes open, her mental state just shutting down the more she stayed awake.

It felt as if she was feeling everything at once, and that brought her to the point of numbness. Feeling nothing at all. Just complete tiredness.

Max looked back from the front seat, seeing her state, fighting the exhaustion from all the crying and debriefs they had stuck around for. He could see her mind shutting down, her eyes lazily following the objects that they passed by.

She had told him she would come out with them, despite the way her eyes were puffy as she assured him.

At this point, he would put a chair in front of the door to prevent her from leaving. There would always be another opportunity for her to go out with them. He couldn't bear to see how she'd try to hold herself while being out at a loud restaurant. Not after what happened.

It was the way Max's heart broke as he heard her sob to herself in his arms.

The last time he had ever seen her cry, let alone cry like this, was when her childhood cat had to be put down. That was almost six years ago.

She's the strongest person he's ever met, ever seen. Especially with what she deals with on a daily basis.

The girl was now slowly letting her eyes close, barely fighting it. Her eyes felt too sore and heavy to put any more battle into keeping herself fully conscious.

When they arrived back at the hotel, Max couldn't help but jump out of the car and quickly open her door.

He didn't hesitate to wrap one arm under her legs, the other around her back, before lifting her into his arms. His security guard scurried over with his arms out to take her instead, Max shaking his head. "I've got her, don't," he sternly orders, the guard nodding slowly before backing away and guiding them inside.

Max felt her grip tighten on his black button-up, clenching and unclenching as she tried fighting her tiredness.

He reached his hotel room, letting his guard swipe the keycard as Max nodded at him. "I won't be long," he says to him, receiving a nod as he holds the door open for the pair.

His guard closes the door behind them, standing outside to give Max privacy, while the driver walks Y/N over to his bed. He sets her body down softly on the mattress, watching her stir slightly to look at him with a furrow.

"Max," she mutters, her eyes barely able to keep her eyes open. "What's-"

He shook his head with a hum, sitting by her side and caressing her cheek. "No," he says. "You need to rest."

Her puffed eyes tried to look up at him through her lashes, and Max rubbed a thumb over the dried tears that sat on her cheek. "What about dinner?"

He chuckles softly. "There'll be plenty more," he nods down at her. "You need to let your body and mind rest after today," he tells her. He watches her softly grab his wrist, only to hesitate before her fingers could wrap around his skin, deciding against it and putting her hand down.

Max frowns as she turns away from him. "Schat?" he asks in confusion.

She shook her head. "Please just don't," her voice sounding shaky. "You're doing enough. I don't want to suffocate you."

Max swears his chest tightens at her words. She had never pushed his touch away. Let alone anyone's. "Schat, you aren't."

"Maybe there is something wrong with me. Maybe I shouldn't be this way."

Oh, he was going to kill Lando.

Instead of saying anything else, knowing if she turned away, that she was truly done talking, he stood up and leaned over her with both of his hands caging her small figure in, holding him up from crushing her. He lets his lips press to her temple.

"You're never suffocating," he assures her. "Your love and affection with everyone is my favorite thing about you."

With that, he stands up slowly and turns around to walk towards the door to leave. He doesn't miss the way he hears her sobs quietly leave her lips, Max fighting with himself to just stay there and hold her the rest of the night.

Yet he knew that when she wanted space, which was a rare sighting, to give her the space she was creating.

Once he let the door shut softly behind him, he kept his head down while his mind raced a million miles a minute. His guard spoke up after a few moments. "Max?"

The Dutch driver clenches his jaw for a second, his head snapping up with a darker look in his eyes.

"Let's go, or we'll be late."

They were both off shortly after that, Max's pace faster with every step he took. He could feel his insides burning. Twisting.

The drive was quiet as they made their way to the restaurant, Max keeping his gaze out the window as he fidgeted with his bottom lip. His jaw was clenching and unclenching every other moment.

He didn't hesitate to whip his door open once they arrived, not giving the valet driver a chance to open it for him.

He was walking like he had a purpose, and in that moment, he did.

Once his eyes found the large table where the other drivers were sitting, he felt his face harden when he didn't see the familiar McLaren driver there.

The drivers all smile at Max when they see him, some of them soon frowning at his glare.

"Where's Norris?" his voice boomed out, not missing the flinches from a few of the guys that were close to him.

Oscar, being the only one who knew what was about to happen, answers first. "Max, don't."

Max scoffs and swats at him. "Geef me die onzin niet, where is he?" (Don't give me that shit, where is he?)

Everyone's demeanor had dropped immediately, knowing that when Max started speaking Dutch, he was not to be messed with. He was already pissed, and when a pissed off Max is near, nobody wanted to be in that damage path.

"Where?" his voice booms, getting some stares thrown his way. He didn't care.

"I think he went to the bathroom. Said something about needing to freshen up," Pierre announces, not failing to watch as Max makes his way over towards the direction of the restrooms.

Once Max found the hallway leading down to the men's room, he pushed the door open, seeing Lando in front of the sink, patting water over his face. His gaze slowly turned over when he heard the door slam open, his entire face falling and turning white.

"Max-"

"Jij verdomde klootzak," (You fucking bastard) he laughs bitterly, stalking closer to Lando, who was backing away slowly as the Dutch driver got closer.

"How dare you?" Max growls. "Hm? How fucking dare you?" his tone getting louder before he pushes Lando hard. Lando put his hands up in surrender, trying to sputter out apologies.

"I give you my fucking blessing for her, and this? This is how you treat her? Are you fucking serious, Norris?" his voice booms, echoing across the bathroom walls. He pushes Lando harshly with every word that leaves his mouth.

"Max, look. I was upset with the race, I didn't-"

"I don't give a fuck if it's about the DNF. I wouldn't give a fuck if you got a disqualification penalty! You don't fucking treat her like she's some fucking scum on the bottom of your shoe!" he screams, giving one final hard push to Lando's chest, the thump of his back meeting the marble walls behind him echoing loudly.

"I didn't mean it, I just was frustrated-"

"Jouw gevoelens kunnen mij niks schelen, Norris!" (I don't care about your fucking feelings, Norris!) Max yells back bitterly, his hands slamming against the wall right next to Lando's head. Lando clenched his jaw, holding himself back as he let Max scream at him. He deserved that. He deserved a lot worse if he were honest.

Before he can even put another hand on Lando, Lewis and Oscar scurry inside, grabbing Max by his shoulders to pull him away from Lando.

"Let's not do this," Lewis says to Max as the Dutch fights his hold. He points at Lando.

"You realize you made her cry, Lando? She rarely does, and you made tears fall from her eyes!"

Lando felt his heart clench, his stomach dropping as he remembered the tears glossing over her eyes. "I didn't mean-"

"I held her there, as she sobbed in my arms. Sobbed! Saying she felt like an inconvenience, like she suffocates people. What did you fucking say to her?"

Lando couldn't get the words out, but Max already knew in that moment. His eyes widened, seeing that just by Lando's face alone, it really was all true. He said she was suffocating. Clingy. Lando said her touch was too much. Max scoffs bitterly, rolling his eyes.

"You're fucking dead to me, Norris," he spat, letting Lewis guide him out of the bathroom. "Verdomd dood!" (Fucking dead!) he yells back once more before leaving with Lewis.

Oscar has his arms crossed, turning back to face Lando, who just stands there in shock. "Mate, what did you do?" he asks in a knowing tone, more so making it sound like a rhetorical question.

Lando lets out a strangled sob as he begins to rub his face, sliding down against the wall. "I fucked up is what I did."

"He's going to have your head," he tuts, walking over to his friend and extending a hand. "Literally and figuratively. He's going to kill you next race."

Lando shook his head, keeping his stare over at the door, waiting for Max to come barging back in. "He's gonna kill me before we even make it to practice day."

Once Oscar had helped Lando clean himself up, looking more presentable, they left the men's room.

They made it to the table, seeing Max's spot was still empty, Lando felt his insides churn. Waiting for Max to pop up behind him somehwere.

"Where's Max?" Oscar asked as they sat down.

Lewis answers this time. "He left," he admits. "He said he'd rather be taking care of Y/N than be here. Said if he stayed any longer, he was going to throw something at Lando or drag him out by his ear."

Lando let out a groan, letting his head fall onto the table with a thud.

"Mate, what the actual fuck did you do to piss him off so badly?" Charles asked across the table. Lando just shook his head.

"He made Y/N cry from my understanding," Lewis reveals, causing every single head at the table to turn to Lando.

"What did you do? She never cries," George spoke up, a frown on his face. Most of the guys agreeing, being just as confused as Russell was.

Oscar spoke up this time, pursing his lips. "He let his anger out on her. Said she's suffocating and clingy basically."

"Oscar!" Lando seethes, snapping his head over at his teammate, a glare on his face. Oscar shrugged while sipping his drink, all the guys exchanging whispers and groans at Lando.

"Mate, you fucked up. Bad," Oscar says, not backing down.

"You're absolute toast."

"Max is going to have your head on a stick."

"I'm shocked he didn't drag you out already."

"Mate, you're in deep shit. Max doesn't play when it comes to her."

Lando groans before raising his hands to stop them from commenting more.

"I know. Guys, I know!" he snaps, making them all go quiet. "I just- I let my anger get hold of my emotions at the wrong time. I regret it with everything in me. I do."

"You don't realize how bad that is. You're lucky he let you even get a chance to be with her. His possessive ass," Lewis scoffs more to himself as he shook his head, sipping on his drink. The entire table looks his way, Lando frowning at his words.

"What's supposed to mean?" Lando sputters, feeling offended by Hamilton's words.

Lewis set his drink down, crossing his arms over the table while leaning towards Lando's direction.

"It means he doesn't share," he admits. "Not Y/N at least."

Lando feels his heart drop to his ass.

No. There was no way. He would've known.

Lando tilts his head, eyes squinting knowingly. He shook his head. "No. He's not, there's no way."

George cuts in, eyebrows furrowing. "What am I missing?"

Lewis leans back in his chair. "Max has been in love with Y/N for years," He says, reaching for his drink once more. Everyone at the table stays silent. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"When she told him she wanted to be with you, he wanted her to be happy. After everything she helped him through growing up, she was his escape. Especially when his dad was harsh on him. He vowed to always make sure she was happy. He knew you could give her that, but he fought himself a lot with going against it."

Lando feels his insides caving as Lewis reveals every word. "He saw how happy you made her. That's all he ever wants for her, even if it's not him," he chuckles, seeing Lando's face. "He did say if it didn't work out between you two, that he would make that move."

Lando leans back in his seat with a groan, head falling back while he rubs his face out of stress, curses leaving his lips.

"So, if you thought you had any chance to win her back, Max is going to try and beat you to it. You probably have lost your chance," Lewis points out, sipping on his drink.

"And if we know anything about Max." George trails off.

"He never loses. Especially when it's something he wants."

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It was the next morning. Clouds covered the sky as it cried.

Max sat with his back against the headboard of his bed, hearing the door open from the bathroom. Y/N just finishing up a shower.

She hadn't really slept. When she would finally hit a deeper level of slumber, she would jolt up crying.

She didn't even let Max get close to her, not wanting to be touched, which was a new thing she was doing. Max hated it. He hated that she felt as if her needing and wanting touch to calm down was too much.

So he would sit there, feeling helpless, as she just held herself.

He had snuck down the hallway earlier that morning while she was somewhat asleep, packing up all of her things that were in her hotel room, bringing them up to his own. Knowing full well she'd end up doing that in the morning anyway.

She hated being alone when she was hurting. It was rare, but when it happened, Max was always there. He could always pick up on it.

He straightens up slightly when she walks around the corner, donning a pair of her sweats and one of his Redbull t-shirts. Deciding to stick with comfier pair of clothes for the flight back home.

Max had declined going to the F1 premiere, wanting to focus on Y/N as well as just not liking the idea of being stuck in New York around the press. Or having to keep things professional with Lando when he wanted to run him over with his car.

"You all packed up?" he asks softly, watching her nod.

He doesn't miss the way her face was blotched and puffy again, signaling she had cried a bit more while in the bathroom.

"Schat," he trails off in a sadder tone, getting up from his bed to walk to her. Y/N backs away from Max, shaking her head. "Please," she croaks. "Just don't touch me. Not right now."

Max stops in his tracks, feeling his heart hurt at her words. He nods reluctantly, deciding instead to busy himself with gathering both of their bags. His gaze going to see outside by the entry, seeing some fans and paps already waiting by the cars.

"They're lining up outside," he says slowly, handing her a hoodie to throw over her head. She says nothing, only sniffling as she puts it on.

The pair don't say anything more as they finished grabbing their things, leaving the hotel room to head downstairs.

Max would usually stop to take a few photos with the fans that stood outside, but he was only keeping his mind on getting Y/N past the crowd.

The security guards held the front door open as they saw Max and Y/N making their way outside, another guard going over to open the car door.

Max makes his way in front of her to shield the other side from seeing her, keeping his gaze on her figure. Y/N didn't hesitate to scurry into the car, Max pressing a hand softly on her back to help her up into the car. The man ignored the calls and pleas of his name before stepping inside the car behind her.

The door shuts behind the guard who climbs in after Max, soon being driven off towards the airport.

It was quiet the entire way there, Max keeping a close but safe distance from her in the shared backseat. He doesn't miss how her phone buzzes, seeing her peer down at it only to double-click the home button to decline it.

Lando had been blowing up her phone since the night before. Especially after Max had left, her phone wouldn't stop buzzing.

Y/N declined every call, putting his messages on Do Not Disturb. The more she sat with what he had said to her, the more it made her think back to every time he made a face when she would touch him.

She didn't know how long he felt that way with her, Y/N letting her mind overthink to the point it made her feel sick.

It wasn't good for her, and she knew that. She couldn't help it. Not when she had given herself fully to Lando in every way. Thinking he was it for her. That he was all she wanted. She was all he wanted. So she thought.

Max watched as she began to pinch at the skin on her wrists, something she did when her mind wouldn't stop running.

"Genoeg lieverd. Je zult je huid weer beschadigen," (Enough, darling. You'll damage the skin again) he says softly to her. She doesn't acknowledge his words, only pinching harder to try and stop her mind.

Max didn't hesitate in the next few moments, not caring if she yelled or glared at him as he touched her. He reached over to grab her hands, holding onto them. She snaps her gaze away from the window with a frown.

He looks at her. "If you're going to pinch skin, pinch mine. Not yours," he instructs. Y/N doesn't see anything but assurance in his eyes, Max nodding slowly with a hum. "You can't hurt me. You never could."

Y/N bites her lip before nodding. Max has her lean into his body as she begins to fidget again. But this time, with his own hands.

Max lets his head fall onto her own, watching her whole body, for the first time in the last day, soften. The more she fidgeted, seeing how it didn't hurt or affect him in any way, the more it relaxed her mind. She didn't know why.

It brought her a calming sensation, feeling Max's touch against her own body, and it made her whole body begin to relax.

Once they had arrived at the airport, Max didn't release her hands once. He kept his hands laced with her own. He only removed them once to adjust his hold, having her walk behind him as he made her lace her hands with his behind his back. They stayed that way as they walked up into the jet.

Max helped her set her backpack down on one of the cushioned chairs, and that was the time he released her hands.

He thanked the flight attendant crew as they loaded their things onto the jet, then exchanged a few words with his security guard and publicist.

Y/N stood there with an exhausted look in her eyes, just wanting to finally sleep. Let her mind and her body rest.

Once Max was done talking to them, he made his way over towards her figure. He didn't say anything, only guiding her to the back of the private jet. Y/N followed him slowly, Max opening the door to the small bedroom.

A bed in the corner, a TV sitting in front of it, while there was a recliner chair embedded into the floor on the other side of the room with a table in front of it.

This was usually where Max disappeared to when they had long flights, knowing he tried sleeping whenever he could get the chance.

He shut the door behind her softly before crawling into bed and getting comfy. Max turns back to her, seeing her stand there looking absolutely defeated.

"Come on," he assures, motioning for her to come lie down. Y/N shrugs. "I don't want to take up your space."

Max gives her a knowing look, clenching his jaw. "You could never. You know that," he says, his tone more stern. "Lay down."

Instead of her prying and arguing more, knowing she wouldn't win it, she doesn't fight it, not having anything left in that moment. Y/N cautiously goes to climb in, keeping her distance as best as she can. Giving him his space.

Max notices her actions, immediately ignoring the eyeroll he wanted to do, and wraps his arms around her waist to pull her back towards his figure.

She lets out a low squeak at his actions, and Max turns her to lie against him. He doesn't miss the way her body instantly caves into his side, him helping her lie her head on his chest as he laces their hands together in case she begins to pinch and pick at her skin again.

"Je hoeft je geen zorgen te maken, ik heb je lieverd," (You don't have to worry, I got you darling) he mumbles against her temple. He hears her sigh, the way he knows she is fighting with her body in her head. The way she tries to tense, but her body craves every touch that's being given to her. "Sleep."

That's all he has to mutter to her before her eyes finally begin to close, the closeness of another one's body heat lulling her into a deeper slumber.

Max kisses her head, letting his thumb caress the top of her hand as he feels the tenseness in her body falter away. He kisses her head once more.

"I've got you."

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

A/N: Me after pressing "Post now"

Sooooooo hehe.... That got away from me, and I'm not sorry. Lando is a dumbass as we know. Are we loving a protective Max? How're we feeling overall, friends? Vote below. I love you guys <3, I'll see you soon ;)

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[rimzaaa]

Happily Ever After

Oneshot!

Pairing: Frontman(inho) x Female reader(y/n)

Fandom: Squid Game (오징어 게임)

Summary: What if the final game never truly ended? What if love survived the arena?

Y/N thought she had lost everything. The man she loved—dead. Her world—shattered. But when the mask comes off, and the truth is revealed, she's forced to face her deepest heartbreak all over again. With a newborn in her arms and her past standing in front of her, will she walk away… or risk everything for a second chance?

This is a story of betrayal, grief, found family, and the kind of love that crawls out of hell just to hold you again.

Warning: Violence & death. Blood & trauma. Canon-typical content. Emotional breakdowns. Heavy angst. Redemption arc. Some soft comfort & fluff. Mentions of suicidal ideation (brief)

Author's Note: This is my first ever fanfiction for Squid Game, and it’s centered around my favorite character—the Frontman (aka Inho/Young-il). I wanted to give the show an ending that we all think the characters deserve. This story means a lot to me, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Feedback and reblogs mean the world 💌

Words Count: 4.2K+

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The air was thick — heavy with the scent of blood, sweat, and fear.

Only three players remained: Y/N, Gi-hun, and Player 222 — Jun-hee’s daughter, too young to understand the stakes of the game.

They stood on the broad, red-stained surface of the triangle-shaped platform, raised high above the arena floor. It was wide enough to move, to run — or to fight. The ground beneath them felt solid, but the danger lay in the unspoken rule: one of them had to fall.

Y/N clutched the child tightly against her chest, her breath quick, her heartbeat louder than the ticking clock. A few feet away, Gi-hun stood in silence, eyes locked on the next shape — the circle, waiting for the moment someone would make the first move.

Time was running out.

Only two players could jump forward.

High above the arena, behind the wall of dark glass, the Frontman stood in silence — his mask reflecting the soft glow of the lights. The VIPs lounged nearby, laughing, drinking, placing their bets. But he wasn't listening.

His heart was pounding.

There they were.

Y/N and Gi-hun.

Two names from a life he barely recognized anymore.

Two people he once knew... back when he was still young-il.

Originally, he had entered the games as a player with one mission — to keep an eye on Gi-hun. But the moment he saw you, everything changed.

He fell for you. Hard.

Quietly. Helplessly.

And without telling a soul, he made himself a promise:

He would protect you. No matter the cost.

But now, as he watched from the shadows of power, that promise echoed bitterly in his chest.

Because all he could think about…

was what happened last night.

⟣ FLASHBACK ⟢

The room was dimly lit. Player 100 and Player 333 were fast asleep after the luxurious dinner arranged for them as finalists. Gi-hun and Y/N, however, remained awake — watching over the baby girl Jun-hee had entrusted to them.

Suddenly, a pink guard entered the room and walked toward them.

“The Leader wants to see you both,” he said flatly.

Gi-hun and Y/N exchanged a glance before standing up and silently following the guard.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft beep.

And there he was — the Frontman, seated calmly on a couch in his all-black uniform, his expression hidden behind a dark mask.

Gi-hun and Y/N walked in slowly, stopping in front of him.

“Sit down. This will take some time”

He said in his cold, commanding voice.

They obeyed, taking seats across from him.

“I have an offer for both of you.”

Both Gi-hun and Y/N stared at him, confused.

An offer?

The Frontman reached into the pocket of his long coat and pulled out two daggers, placing them on the table between them.

“Go and kill the remaining two players,” he said evenly. “And I’ll make sure you both walk out of here. The next game won’t happen — I promise you that.”

“Why should we trust you? Why would you help us?”

Gi-hun asked sharply, trying to make sense of what was happening.

Y/N, meanwhile, was silent — her eyes locked on the man behind the mask. Something in her gut told her something was coming… something big.

The Frontman’s eyes flicked between the two of them beneath his mask.

He took a slow breath, then reached up — pulling back the hood of his uniform.

Then, without a word, he removed his mask.

And looked straight at them.

“…young-il?”

Y/N whispered, her voice trembling, her breath catching.

Her hands shook as she stared at the man she had once fallen in love with inside these deadly walls — the man who had whispered soft promises to her in the dark. The man she’d mourned. The man she thought was long dead.

He wasn’t.

He was alive.

Right in front of her.

Part of her wanted to throw herself into his arms, to cry into his shoulder and tell him how much she missed him.

The other part wanted to grab that dagger… and drive it into his throat.

She clenched her fists tightly in her lap, her heart unraveling.

“young-il… you…?”

Gi-hun looked stunned, disbelief washing over his face. The man he once trusted — the one who had fought by his side — was the Frontman?

The Front Man lowered his head.

“In-ho”

He corrected quietly, barely above a whisper. There was guilt in his voice. Shame in his eyes.

He turned to Y/N. She was gripping the hem of her t-shirt tightly, her eyes glassy with tears — but she refused to let them fall.

“Why?”

Her voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“Why did you do this to us?”

Before In-ho could answer, Gi-hun suddenly stood up, grabbing one of the daggers off the table, rage flaring in his eyes. He raised It as if to strike but stopped just short — trembling, breath uneven.

“Why did you kill Jung-bae?”

He asked through gritted teeth.

In-ho didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry for what happened to him,” he said. “But killing me now won’t fix it. Someone else will just take my place. You both need to get out of here — with that baby.”

There was a flicker of desperation in his voice.

Despite everything — the lies, the betrayal, the pain — he was still trying to protect them.

“I swear I’ll explain everything. But please… just do what I’m telling you. Go back. End this. I’ll make sure you both survive.”

Gi-hun scoffed bitterly, shaking his head before storming out of the room — dagger still in hand.

Now only Y/N remained.

She sat frozen in her chair, staring at the man across from her — the man she once gave her heart to.

In-ho slowly rose from the couch and stepped toward her.

But she was faster.

Y/N snatched the second dagger from the table and stood, holding it out toward him.

“Don’t… don’t come closer.”

In-ho froze.

“Don’t you dare come near me,”

She snapped, voice shaking.

“You’re a liar. A killer.”

Those words sliced deeper than any wound.

He had been called that before. Many times.

But coming from her?

It shattered something in him.

“Y/N”

He whispered, taking a step forward.

“Don’t!”

She screamed, stepping back.

“Don’t come any closer or I swear… I’ll kill myself.”

She pressed the dagger to her throat.

In-ho’s heart nearly stopped.

His hands flew up in surrender.

“Okay — okay. I won’t. I promise.”

“Y/N, please… just listen. Just this once.”

His voice cracked, stripped of all command.

He was no longer the Frontman now — he was just In-ho.

A man begging the woman he loved to believe in him one last time.

“I don’t believe you.”

Her voice was a whisper.

“You’re not young-il. You’re not the man I fell in love with.”

The words hit him like a bullet.

He couldn’t speak. Only watched as a tear finally slipped down her cheek.

“Please, Y/N,”

He breathed.

“Don’t say that. I know I’ve done horrible things. I’ve lied. I’ve killed. But my love for you — it was never part of the game. It was pure. It was real. It is real.”

She let out a bitter laugh.

“Pure? Do you even know what that word means?”

She lowered the dagger. Stepped back.

“I loved you. I really did. But now…”

She paused. Her voice cracked.

“If you love me — even a little — you’ll help us. You’ll help us all escape this sick, twisted world of yours.”

The words struck deep.

She threw the dagger to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Then turned.

And without looking back…

She walked away.

⟣ PRESENT ⟢

Y/N trembled with fear, but her grip on the baby girl remained steady as she cradled her tightly against her chest.

Across from her, Gi-hun stood frozen in thought, still lost in everything that had happened — and likely still struggling to accept the impossible truth: Young-il… was the Frontman.

“We can’t stay here forever,”

Gi-hun’s voice suddenly cut through the silence.

“We have to think of something.”

Y/N stepped closer to him, lowering her voice as if afraid someone — or something — might hear.

“Gi-hun…”

She glanced around warily, then met his eyes.

“Maybe… maybe we should wait. What if what In-ho said… what if it’s true?”

Gi-hun stared at her in disbelief.

“What?”

His voice cracked with pain.

“You think that man — the one who killed Jung-bae — will save us?”

The memory of that moment was still fresh in his mind.

The blood. The scream. The mask.

“Do you…”

He paused, his voice thick with emotion.

“Do you still love him, Y/N?”

Her heart stuttered in her chest.

She didn’t know the answer.

She’d spent the whole night convincing herself that In-ho was a monster — a liar, a murderer. But some part of her — the part that remembered whispered promises and warmth in a cold, brutal world — refused to let go.

“I don’t know,”

She whispered, eyes falling to the floor.

“But… I want to believe him.”

She didn’t dare look at Gi-hun after that — afraid of what she might see in his eyes.

Behind the dark glass wall, In-ho stood silently, watching it all unfold alongside the laughing, drunken VIPs. He didn’t need to hear her words to know what she was saying.

And God…

It was already tearing him apart.

His thoughts spun in every direction — calculating, panicking, hoping.

He turned his head slowly toward the VIPs, who were already placing bets and laughing about who would fall first.

His jaw tightened behind the mask.

He was running out of time.

But if there was even a single chance to stop this game — to end all of this — he was going to take it.

Gi-hun ran a hand through his hair, eyes flickering between Y/N and the baby in her arms.

The clock was ticking.

Tension rising.

He turned his gaze toward the last platform — the circle.

There wasn’t much time left.

If they didn’t act soon, all three of them would be eliminated.

“I’ll do it”

Gi-hun said quietly, not looking at her.

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, then turned to face her.

Stepping closer, he placed his hands gently on her shoulders.

“Y/N…”

His voice was low. Shaky. Thick with emotion.

“This baby — she’s innocent. Jun-hee entrusted her to us. She deserves to live.”

A beat.

“And you…”

He paused, his lips quivering slightly.

“I know you still love him. In-ho. And I don’t blame you.”

“You’re the best person I met here,”

He continued, voice breaking.

“And I know he loves you too. He won’t let you die.”

He tried to smile — a pained, trembling thing — as tears welled in his eyes.

“I have no one left.”

His voice cracked.

“My daughter… she’s safe. She’s happy. That’s enough for me.”

He looked down at the baby nestled in Y/N’s arms and smiled softly.

“I’ll go.”

“You both need to live.”

Y/N’s silent tears streamed down her face as she stepped forward, wrapping her arms tightly around him.

“No… I can’t let you die for us,”

She whispered, shaking her head desperately.

“You can’t just give up your life like this.”

Gi-hun held her close, his own tears falling freely now.

“Someone has to.”

He pulled back gently, brushing a hand over her arm. Then, leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to the baby’s forehead.

“Keep her safe, Y/N.”

“And take care of yourself, too.”

“I’m sure In-ho will come for you.”

He smiled faintly, then began stepping backward.

One step closer to the edge.

Y/N sobbed, her voice breaking apart as she screamed:

“NO! GIHUN, DON’T!!”

But he didn’t stop.

In-ho watched as Gi-hun stepped backward, inching closer to the edge of the triangle-shaped platform.

He stopped — just a few feet from falling.

This was it.

Now or never.

In-ho’s jaw tightened, fists clenched. His heart was hammering in his chest.

He couldn’t let Gi-hun die.

Not after the promise he made to her.

Behind the glass wall, his eyes stayed locked on Y/N.

She had fallen to her knees, crying, screaming, begging Gi-hun to stop.

The baby lay beside her on the platform — unaware of the nightmare unfolding around her.

In-ho’s chest burned with guilt.

The sight of her like that — broken, helpless — was unbearable.

“Goodbye, Y/N”

Gi-hun whispered, a faint, resigned smile on his lips.

And just as he was about to fall back—

BANG.

A gunshot tore through the silence.

Y/N screamed.

Gi-hun flinched, stumbling forward in shock.

Behind the glass, the room exploded into chaos.

In-ho stood holding a smoking gun — and one of the VIPs lay dead at his feet.

The remaining VIPs froze — stunned, furious, terrified.

“What the fuck did you just do?!”

One of them roared.

In-ho didn’t answer.

He simply raised his gun again, pointing it toward the one who spoke — who immediately backed off in fear.

“This game ends here”

He said, voice thick with rage and barely-contained grief beneath the mask.

He turned to one of the pink guards and gave a sharp nod.

Seconds later, the cold robotic voice echoed through the entire arena:

“The game has been stopped.”

On the platform below, Gi-hun and Y/N stared upward — eyes wide.

They knew.

They knew it was him.

Y/N lowered her head, tears still slipping down her cheeks — but a deep part of her exhaled in relief.

A part of her that knew he would come for her.

That he would keep his promise.

Another VIP stepped forward, but In-ho fired a shot into the ceiling — making him freeze instantly.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“You can’t do this!”

Another VIP spat.

“We fund your games! You exist because of us!”

In-ho stepped forward slowly, like a shadow rising.

“I’m ending this game.”

His voice was cold now. Final.

“And I’m ending you with it.”

The room was suddenly flooded with guards — all pink suits, all armed, their weapons now turned on the VIPs.

In-ho walked toward the exit.

“Boss!”

The black-mask officer called out.

“What do you want us to do with them?”

In-ho didn’t turn around.

Didn’t flinch.

“Kill them all”

He said quietly.

Then walked out of the room.

Gunshots echoed in the distance as In-ho stormed through the corridors, heading straight for the game arena.

His mind raced. His grip tightened on the gun still warm in his hand.

A pink-suited guard came running from the control room, nearly stumbling as he approached.

“Sir!”

In-ho stopped and turned toward him. “What is it?”

“We’ve got a problem. Coastal guards — they’re headed this way. We believe they’ve located the island.”

In-ho’s expression remained calm behind the mask, but inside, he knew this day would come.

His brother. Jun-ho.

He always knew he’d find him eventually.

In-ho followed the guard into the control room. A monitor flickered, showing the coordinates and proximity of the coastal ships — closer than ever.

Without hesitation, In-ho crossed to a locked panel on the wall.

He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the hidden compartment.

Inside: a single red button.

He didn't hesitate even for a second — then pressed it.

A piercing siren blared, echoing across the island.

“We’re leaving”

In-ho commanded, his voice like steel.

Guards scattered into motion around him, collecting hard drives, burning papers — prepping the evacuation.

On the Platform…

Gi-hun and Y/N looked up in alarm as the siren wailed through the sky.

“What… what is that?”

Y/N asked, her voice trembling.

Was In-ho behind this?

What was he planning?

Or worse… had he changed his mind again?

Gi-hun rushed to her side, knelt down, scooping the baby girl into his arms and wrapping his free arm around Y/N’s shoulder.

“Stay close,”

He whispered.

“Whatever’s coming… I’ve got you both.”

Suddenly, with a mechanical hiss, the center of the triangular platform began to open — revealing a hidden lift.

Both Y/N and Gi-hun stumbled back, stunned.

The platform rose again…

And there he was.

In-ho. Standing in his usual frontman dress. Mask still on.

“You… what the hell are you doing?!”

Gi-hun shouted, stepping forward as he carefully laid the baby back down.

“What’s going on?!”

Y/N froze, staring at In-ho — her chest rising and falling fast.

She wanted to scream, but something about his eyes beneath the mask told her… he hadn’t given up.

“I’m keeping my promise,”

In-ho said quietly as he stepped forward.

“There’s no time to explain. We have to move. Now.”

“This siren — what does it mean?”

Y/N demanded, her voice cracking between rage and fear.

In-ho knelt beside her, took off his mask and gently lifted the baby into his arms.

Gi-hun made a move, but Y/N’s small shake of her head stopped him.

In-ho looked down at the baby, his expressions changed just for a second. Maybe the memories of his unborn child hit him. He quickly composed himself then looked up at her.

“The island is rigged to explode. We don’t have much time.”

A beat.

“Y/N, please… just trust me. I’ll explain everything later. But if we don’t leave now, none of us make it out.”

Gi-hun took the baby from In-ho and gave Y/N a solemn nod.

“He’s right. Let’s go.”

Y/N stood, still glaring at In-ho.

He reached out a hand to help her up.

But she ignored it. As she was still angry at him. She stood on her own — proud, guarded.

In-ho lowered his hand and curled it into a tight fist, but said nothing.

He led them both out of the arena, through a hidden back corridor.

A hidden dock. A ship waiting.

The guards had already boarded the other escape vessels, leaving behind only the sound of alarms and the ticking clock of destruction.

Gi-hun boarded with the baby, Y/N right behind him.

In-ho hesitated, turning for one last look at the island.

And then he stepped aboard.

Moments later, the engines roared to life, and the ship sped away from the shore.

As they sailed into the horizon, a massive explosion lit up the sky behind them — the island engulfed in flames.

It was over.

✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦ ✧ ✦

The sky was dark, moonlight hidden behind drifting clouds.

The steady sound of waves filled the air as the ship cut through the black ocean, heading toward the nearest safe dock.

Inside a quiet room below deck, Y/N gently rocked the baby girl in her arms — her tiny eyes fluttering closed, unaware of the world she’d survived.

Meanwhile, up on the deck, Gi-hun stood at the railing, staring blankly into the ocean, lost in thought.

Footsteps approached.

In-ho came to stand beside him, silent for a moment. Then he held out two small bottles of soju.

“You remember?” he said softly.

“We promised we’d drink soju together… once we made it out alive.”

Gi-hun didn’t even glance at him.

He let out a dry, bitter scoff and shook his head.

“I made that promise to young-il.”

In-ho lowered his head, guilt crashing over him like the waves below.

“I know,” he said quietly.

“And I know you hate me for everything I’ve done. You have every right to.”

He looked over at Gi-hun, whose eyes stayed locked on the horizon — silent, hard, unreadable.

“But let me fix things now. Whatever I can. I did… horrible things. I thought humanity was dead. But you—”

In-ho swallowed hard, voice thick.

“You proved me wrong.”

Gi-hun finally turned his head, surprised.

“You were going to give up your life… just to save Y/N. And that baby. You showed me… there are still good people left in this world.”

The man who once orchestrated death games… now standing beside him, confessing his defeat?

Gi-hun didn’t know how to respond.

Not fully.

But after a long pause, he reached out — and without looking — took one of the soju bottles from In-ho’s hand.

“Finally,” he muttered under his breath.

He opened the bottle, still not meeting In-ho’s eyes.

But that single action said enough.

In-ho smiled faintly.

He didn’t speak again. He knew forgiveness wouldn’t come easy.

But maybe, just maybe…

This was the first step.

Y/N gently laid the baby down on the bed, her hands lingering on the blanket.

She leaned back against the headboard, eyes fluttering closed.

Click.

The door creaked open.

She sat up instantly.

In-ho stepped in and quietly shut the door behind him.

“Can we talk?”

His voice was low. Hesitant. Not the voice of the Frontman. Just… his.

Y/N didn’t turn to face him.

“There’s nothing to talk about” she said, rising from the bed.

She turned her back to him — because she knew the moment she looked into his eyes, she’d lose all her resolve.

In-ho walked toward her slowly until he stood just a few steps away.

“Y/N…” he breathed.

“I know you hate me. And I deserve that. But…”

His voice cracked.

“Please believe me — loving you was never part of the game. I lied, yes. I did unforgivable things. But you— You were the only truth in all of it.”

His eyes shimmered. His voice, shaking.

Y/N turned sharply and stepped toward him, rage flooding through her chest.

She grabbed his collar with trembling hands.

“How dare you.”

Tears spilled from her eyes now — raw, broken, endless.

“You LIED to me. You faked your death. Do you even understand what that did to me?”

“I wanted to die. Because in a world where you didn’t exist — what was the fucking point of living?”

In-ho’s eyes dropped to the floor.

Her words shattered him.

And then — he fell.

Dropped to his knees.

Like a broken man — like a boy who lost everything.

He wrapped his arms around her legs, clinging to her like a lifeline.

“I’m sorry… I’m so sorry I made you feel that way…”

His voice was barely a whisper, thick with the weight of every buried emotion he’d ever carried — ones he’d never shown the world… except to her.

Y/N stood frozen — watching him.

The Frontman. The cold-blooded man behind the mask.

Now crying like a child at her feet.

She slowly knelt down, trembling, and gently cupped his face in her palms.

She wiped his tears away with her thumbs.

“I… I want to forgive you,” she whispered.

“But I can’t. Not after everything you did — to me, to us.”

In-ho’s heart lurched. His breath caught. Was this it? Was this the end?

“No” he whispered urgently, cupping her face.

He pressed his forehead to hers.

“Don’t say that. You don’t mean it. I know you don’t. Please — just one chance. Let me prove I’ve changed. Let me be better.”

He pulled back, searching her eyes for anything — a flicker of hope, the softness she used to show him.

But all he saw was pain.

So much pain.

She didn’t answer. She just shook her head.

And something inside him broke.

“Y/N, please…”

His voice cracked under the weight of desperation.

His hands trembled.

“I’ll protect you both — you and the baby. I’ll take you far away from this hell. I’ll keep you safe. Just… please don’t leave me like this. Please—”

He was spiraling — voice unraveling, panic rising.

She slowly stood up.

Took a single step back.

And that was enough.

“It’s over, In-ho.”

⋆｡°✩ 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑 𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐑 ✩°｡⋆

The house smelled of warm vanilla and sugar. Y/N had just finished baking Yu-ri’s favorite cookies.

Yu-ri — that was the name she’d given Junhee’s daughter. Now one year old, chubby-cheeked, bright-eyed… the spitting image of her mother.

Tiny footsteps pattered into the kitchen.

“Mama.”

Y/N turned with a soft smile. Yu-ri stood there, rubbing her sleepy eyes with her tiny fists. She was still half-asleep, but hearing her voice always filled Y/N’s chest with a bittersweet ache.

She knelt, scooping her up into her arms and kissing her temple.

“Did you sleep well, sweetheart?”

Yu-ri gave a slow nod, wrapping her small arms around Y/N’s neck.

Just then, her phone rang from the living room. Y/N’s face lit up when she saw the caller ID.

Gihun.

She pressed the green button, settled on the couch, and gently placed Yu-ri in her lap.

“Hey! Gihun. How are you?”

“I’m good. What about you? And how’s the little queen?”

“She just woke up. Moody as always”

Y/N laughed, just as Yu-ri peeked into the camera and babbled: “Un..cle!”

Gihun chuckled, but his eyes glistened with tears.

“She looks… just like Junhee,”

He said softly, and a flicker of pain crossed his face.

Sensing the shift in mood, Y/N tried to steer the conversation gently.

“So? Adjusted to American life yet?”

Gihun had moved to the U.S. a year ago to be closer to his daughter — trying to start fresh, to live differently.

“Yeah. You could say I’m figuring it out.”

Then, a pause.

“Y/N… Inho called me last night.”

Her smile faded.

Inho. The man she had once loved. The man who had broken her.

The memories crashed into her like a wave — the betrayal, the lies, the pain… and somehow, still, the love.

“I forgave him,” Gihun said gently.

“He’s changed, Y/N. And I hope, someday, you’ll be able to forgive him too.”

Before she could respond, the front door creaked open.

“I’ll call you later, Gihun.” She ended the call and placed the phone aside.

“I’m home!”

A familiar voice called.

Yu-ri’s entire face lit up.

“Appa! Appa!!”

She scrambled off the couch and ran to the door.

Inho walked in, catching her in his arms instantly.

“Aww, appa’s little princess” He whispered, kissing the top of her head.

“Can appa get a kiss too?”

Yu-ri giggled and gave him a sloppy kiss on the cheek, making him laugh.

He stepped into the living room, holding her, and Y/N stood nearby — a plate of warm cookies in her hand.

“Yu-ri, come baby. Let’s eat.”

Yu-ri gasped excitedly, “Yayyy!” and reached for the cookies.

Inho gently set her down, and she happily took a big bite.

Y/N turned to head back into the kitchen—

But Inho caught her wrist.

She turned to him.

He dropped down on one knee.

A small red velvet box in his hand.

Y/N’s heart stopped.

“I know you weren’t expecting this”

Inho began, his voice trembling.

“And I know you haven’t fully forgiven me. But it’s been a year… and I’m so thankful you decided to give me a second chance that night”

“Today, I want to make it official. I want to be a father to Yu-ri. I want to be yours — forever.”

“Y/N"

"Will you marry me?”

Tears welled in her eyes.

Could this really be happening?

The memories of the games, the horror, the heartbreak… it all came crashing back — but so did every moment of change, of healing, of the quiet love that had grown again.

She nodded slowly, her voice breaking:

“Yes.”

Inho’s eyes widened, stunned.

“I forgave you, Inho. I just never said it. You’ve changed — and you’ve proven it.”

“But promise me… you’ll never go back to who you were.”

He stood, pulling her into his arms.

“I swear. I’ll spend the rest of my life giving you both the happiness you deserve.”

He slid the ring onto her finger.

They both smiled through their tears.

And then he leaned in and kissed her — a soft, emotional kiss filled with everything they couldn’t say. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, returning it with just as much love.

“Oooo…”

Yu-ri’s curious voice made them break the kiss and laugh.

Inho picked her up again and tickled her until she squealed with joy.

Y/N grabbed her phone with a grin.

“Time to tell someone the news.”

She video-called Gihun.

“What happened? You ended the call so suddenly earlier—”

She raised her hand.

The ring sparkled on her finger.

Inho stepped in, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“WHAT? He proposed to you?!”

Gihun’s jaw dropped.

“Damn! I’m so happy for you both,”

He said, his voice cracking, eyes glassy.

“We have decided to officially make Yu-ri our daughter” Inho added.

Gihun nodded in approval.

“After everything… you two deserve this. A real, peaceful life.”

“Finally,”

He smiled.

“A happy ending.”

Y/N and Inho echoed together:

“Yes"

"Happily ever after.”

[rotapathetic]

hii, i don’t know if you take requests but i thought of an idea for twitch streamer rafe >.<

he was mid stream ( early in the morning ) and she walks into his room very quietly, and he doesn’t realise due to his headphones being on, she’s half asleep, wearing just his hoodie, and the chat is currently going wild as they can see snippets of her. ( i hope this is good enough but i love ur au’s so much and ur writing ♡ ♡ )

͏͏͏✧ ྅ ˚ . ᯇ * reader sleepily surprising TWITCH STREAMER!RAFE’S stream ۫ : . 🎧

❛someone just woke up❜ : bold text is stream chat! 💬

STREAMER who tries to be as quiet and gentle as possible for you while streaming

user: what time is it for you

rafe clicked his screen a few times, loading up the game he was playing today before reading the chat. “um. . it’s pretty early. i didn’t start on time yesterday so i wanted to stream longer today to make up for it.”

he was playing a pretty chill game for right now since it was still early and he wanted to warm up to it. he murmured the description to himself, making sure it was the right thing. “yeah, someone recommended this game a couple of streams ago, and i wanted to check it out.”

user: awhh user: someone just woke up

the game loaded, the volume louder than rafe expected. “oh, sorry. let me figure this out.” rafe squinted at his screen, too focused on fixing the loud audio to notice his chat or you behind him, wondering why he was awake so early.

user: isn’t that the hoodie rafe wore yesterday user: rafe!! user: someone tell him his girl is behind him he can’t hear

rafe decided then to glance at the chat, only catching ‘his girl.’ “she’s asleep right now. she’s not usually up this early and i didn’t want to wake her.”

user: well

“okay, i got it. sorry about that,” rafe fixed the volume as you finally reached him, bleary eyed and still half asleep. you tapped his shoulder gently as to not startle him.

he turned, seeing your tired state. he took in his hoodie reaching your mid thigh, your hands hidden by the sleeve length, and plush socked feet. from the shoulders down, his viewers were still able to tell, from the parts of you they saw, that you were tired as well.

“hi,” you whispered, “why are you starting so early?” you asked after rafe removed one ear of his headset from his head to hear you better.

you shuffled on your feet, finding it a little hard to keep stand. rafe noticed, rolling his chair back, allowing you space to climb onto his lap.

user: well he’s not playing the game user: hi!!!! user: my cat is watching btw user: hi cat

you took the invitation, wrapping yourself around rafe as he angled his arms around you to still reach the keyboard. “started early because i started late yesterday. didn’t mean to wake you if i did.”

you shook your head against his neck. “you didn’t. i just noticed you weren’t next to me.”

“’m sorry,” rafe placed a soft peck on your head, getting to the menu of the game.

user: discord must be going crazy user: now you have to be still and quiet

you were already falling back asleep on his chest, content now that you knew what rafe was doing. he put a finger up to his mouth, shushing the viewers.

user: 🤐 user: 🤫 user: don’t mean to be that guy but you can’t hear us

rafe noticed how the audio of the game sounded like soft, lofi ambience. he placed his headphones gently on your head, hoping it would soothe you. he whispered to the chat, “i can’t hear the game now, so if i miss anything, let me know.”

user: no 🥺

[pucksandpower]

All the Hard Things

Oscar Piastri x obsessive compulsive!Reader

Summary: sometimes OCD has a way of taking over your mind beyond all logic, but that’s okay because the love you and Oscar share goes far beyond all logic too

Warnings: depictions of obsessive compulsive disorder and inadvertent self-harm due to it

It happens like this: your cap is crooked, your tassel’s stuck in your hair, and your mum’s crying harder than you expected. You don’t even feel that proud. Just tired. Wrung out and blinking against the flash of someone else’s camera.

“Y/N!” A voice calls from behind a crowd of hugging classmates.

You turn, already smiling. Oscar is leaning against a brick column, arms folded, sunglasses pushed up on his head. He’s trying not to grin too wide, but he’s doing a shit job of it.

“There she is,” he says, and then, a beat later, “How’s my graduate?”

“I feel exactly the same,” you say, walking into him, arms wrapping around his middle. His hands slide up your back, and he presses a kiss into your temple.

“You smell like other people’s success,” he mutters into your hair. “It’s disgusting.”

You laugh. “You’re disgusting.”

Behind you, your dad’s saying something about parking validation, your brother’s holding a balloon that says “YOU DID IT!” and your mum’s trying to pull out her phone without dropping her purse.

Oscar pulls back. “You’re done.”

You nod. “I’m done.”

“Like … officially?”

“I walked across the stage. They pronounced my last name wrong. I think that’s the official benchmark.”

He tilts his head. “Y/L/N is not that hard.”

“They added a G in the middle.”

“That’s impressive.” He slides his hand into yours, lacing your fingers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “I got you something.”

You blink. “I told you not to-”

“It’s not a gift,” he says. “It’s a … proposal.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. He catches it instantly.

“Not like that!” He says, laughing. “Jesus. No, I mean like, an offer. A plan. Sort of.” He reaches behind the bench near the column and pulls out a slim black binder.

You frown. “You made me a presentation?”

“I made you an itinerary.”

You stare at the front cover: in big, bold letters across a map background, it reads WORLD TOUR WITH MY FAVORITE PERSON.

Your stomach flips.

He says quickly, “You said once, like ages ago, that when you finished uni, you wanted to travel. No job yet. No responsibilities. Just a year off. And I thought … well, I’ve got all these races. All these cities. And it’s not really traveling if I’m just doing it without you. So … why not come with me?”

You flip open the binder. Inside, there are tabs. “First Half of the Season,” “Packing Lists,” “Important Travel Dates,” “Rainy Day Snacks”. And, in the back, a hand-drawn doodle of the two of you in front of a cartoon world map.

It’s stupid and sweet and meticulous and everything you love about him.

You swallow around a knot in your throat. “You made this.”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “I also laminated the cover. For durability.”

“I-” You’re blinking too fast now. “I don’t even know what to say.”

Oscar’s voice softens. “Say yes.”

Your heart thuds.

“Yes,” you say, and it’s barely a whisper. “Yes, obviously yes.”

He lifts you, spins you in a way that has your brother making gagging noises behind you. But you don’t care. Your hands are in his hair, his arms around your waist, and the sun is catching his grin just right.

You’re in love. That terrifying, stable kind of love that doesn’t burn — it holds.

But when you step into the airport two days later, something shifts.

You know the moment it happens: the automatic doors slide open, the air conditioning hits your arms, and the white floor tiles stretch in front of you like a trap.

Oscar walks ahead, wheeling your shared suitcase. He turns to smile at you. “Gate 18. Let’s go.”

You nod, follow, but not before pausing. You have to.

Boarding pass in your hand. Tap it twice. Your fingers tremble. Tap. Tap.

You whisper his name under your breath. Quiet. Careful. “Oscar.” If you don’t say it, if you don’t get it exactly right-

“Y/N?”

You look up. He’s waiting near security, one eyebrow raised.

You step forward, but there’s a pattern now. Left tile, skip the crack, right tile. You count. Three steps forward. One step back.

You are not spiraling. You are fine. You’ve been fine for years.

Only … you weren’t in love then.

Back then, if you skipped the whisper, if you touched the door handle wrong, it was just … a mistake. A thought. A ghost.

But now there’s something to lose. Now, if you don’t do it just right, he might-

You touch the strap of your backpack twice. Tap. Tap. Breathe in. Hold for four seconds.

You’ve done this before. Since you were eleven. Since your brain decided it could protect people through ritual. Since the term magical thinking first entered your therapist’s vocabulary.

It’s been quieter these past few years. A murmur instead of a scream. Because routine was everything. Your days were built like puzzles — tightly shaped. No pieces missing. Study at 10, class at noon, walk back the same route. Sleep at 1:07 a.m. on the dot.

But now? Now the flight might be delayed. The hotel might smell wrong. Oscar might crash on a track in Italy because you didn’t count to eight before getting on the plane.

“Y/N,” he says again. “You good?”

You smile too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out.”

He takes your hand, squeezes it. “I mean, you’re allowed to be emotional. You graduated. You’re about to travel the world with your super-hot boyfriend. Big week.”

“Hmm. Debatable.”

“What, that it’s a big week?”

“That you’re super hot.”

“Rude.”

You exhale through your nose. Your pulse is still off.

Security is slow. You hate taking your shoes off. You hate the bins. You hate how close everyone stands. Your hands ache with the need to count something.

Oscar is pulling your backpack off your shoulders, placing it gently on the belt. “Don’t stress. We’ve got time.”

You nod. You don’t meet his eyes.

He’s so patient. Too patient.

He’s seen the worst of it. The meltdown in second year when you washed your hands until they bled. The days you didn’t leave your flat. The scripts you clung to like lifelines: tap twice, count backwards, check again, again, again.

He’s never flinched. But that was then. That was with structure. Now it’s airports and motorhomes and the whole world on wheels.

You touch your wrist once. Then again. Then again.

Oscar bumps his shoulder into yours. “You hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Wanna grab something anyway?”

“Sure.”

It’s a stupid dance, the pretending. The masking. It exhausts you before the flight even boards.

But then he says, “I put extra highlighters in the binder. You know. In case you want to color-code where we’ve been.”

You look at him.

He’s not teasing. He’s serious. Earnest.

You swallow. “Thank you.”

He shrugs, but his eyes are searching. “You’re sure you’re okay?”

You hesitate. Just one second too long.

He drops his voice. “Hey.”

You can’t speak. You can’t explain that if you say the wrong thing you might curse him.

He steps closer. “Y/N. You can tell me.”

You whisper, “It’s starting again.”

He doesn’t say what is? He knows. He just nods. Quiet.

“Okay,” he says. “So we take it slow.”

You nod, your throat thick.

“If the rituals come back, we deal with them. We make space. We adjust.”

“I don’t want to ruin it,” you say, and your voice cracks. “This was supposed to be-”

“You haven’t ruined anything.”

“But if I mess it up-”

“You won’t.”

You look away. “You don’t know that.”

“I know you.”

You cover your face with your hands. You want to hide in his chest. Climb into his suitcase. Dissolve into the binder he made you.

Instead, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you right there in the middle of the terminal.

“Tap my arm if you need to,” he says, mouth near your ear. “Count the tiles if you have to. Say my name twenty times. I don’t care. Just … do it with me. Don’t do it alone.”

You nod against him.

You feel him kiss your temple. “It’s us,” he says. “Just like always.”

And somehow, it makes it a little quieter in your head. Just enough to walk toward the gate.

***

The first thing you notice about Melbourne is the sky. It’s the wrong kind of blue. Too open. Too big. It glares down at you like it’s waiting for you to flinch.

And you do.

The second thing you notice is the noise — brash, bright, city noise. Not like back home, where even the chaos has a rhythm. Here, everything is fast and clashing and late.

You’re sweating in a hoodie because you weren’t expecting the heat, and you can’t remember if you packed your toothbrush, and Oscar’s already halfway to the garage.

“I’ll be back by five!” He calls over his shoulder, lugging a small bag that probably has six identical team polos and nothing else. “Don’t wait for me to eat!”

You nod, smile, wave, try to match his energy. But the hotel door clicks closed behind him and you just stand there. Still. In the middle of a perfectly lovely hotel suite with perfectly white sheets and a view of the track just three buildings over. You don’t move for a while.

When you finally do, it’s to unzip your suitcase for the fifth time and root through it like you didn’t already check it back at the airport.

You’re looking for the toothbrush. You know it’s not about the toothbrush. It’s about the fact that you don’t know. About the fact that maybe you packed it, maybe you didn’t, maybe it’s in the front pocket, or the side one, or maybe it fell out when security made you re-check your liquids and now it’s sitting on some conveyor belt collecting strangers’ breath and dust.

You touch your wrist three times. Check the bathroom drawer. Again. Again. Again.

By noon, you’ve unpacked and repacked the toiletries bag twice and lined all your socks up by color. You’ve opened the minibar, then closed it again without taking anything out. You’ve opened Instagram, then shut it. Twitter, then closed it.

Everything itches.

Oscar texts at 12:47.

Garage is chaos but I love you

Also tell me you remembered the sunscreen this time

You don’t answer. You pull the sunscreen out of the side pocket and line it up next to the tiny bottle of hand sanitizer. Then you sit down on the bathroom floor, back against the cool tile, and count the seconds between your breaths.

One. Two. Three.

You try not to picture the FP1 crash in Bahrain two years ago. The one where Oscar hit the wall and climbed out shaking his wrist.

You try not to imagine it happening again. Try not to think that if you forget to lock the door before 9 p.m., that if you don’t re-pack your bag in the right order, if you don’t wash your hands after touching anything metal-

You try not to think that he’ll die. But you do. You do.

The thought is sticky. Loud. It wraps around your ribs and tightens.

That night, he comes back wired and sweaty, a towel around his neck, still halfway through a story about someone’s brake sensor malfunctioning.

“And I swear to God, the look on his face — like, full terror — but then it just reset itself! Like boop, nothing happened. Which is either very reassuring or the worst thing ever — are you okay?”

You freeze in the middle of the room.

Your hand is on the lock. Click. Click. Clickclickclickclickclick-

Seven. Always seven.

“Hey,” he says, voice gentler now. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You nod. “No, you didn’t. It’s not — it’s nothing.”

His eyes flick to the door. Then to your hand.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over and kisses the top of your head. “Food?”

You try to smile. “Sure.”

You order room service because the idea of navigating a restaurant tonight is too much. You both eat cross-legged on the bed, watching reruns of some terrible home renovation show. He makes fun of the lighting choices and does impressions of the narrator.

You laugh at the right moments. You kiss him when he nudges your knee.

But after he falls asleep, the thoughts come back.

You get up. Check the lock again. Seven times. Seven always felt safe. Always felt symmetrical.

You wash your hands before getting back into bed. Then again. Then again. Until the soap makes your skin sting.

You press your palms to the towel. It’s soft. New. Not the one from earlier.

Your chest tightens. You turn on the bathroom light.

There’s a post-it on the mirror.

I love you more than the lock clicking 7 times.

Your legs give out a little. You sit on the edge of the tub and press your face to your knees.

You don’t cry. Not yet.

***

The next day is FP1.

Oscar’s in the car and you’re in the paddock with noise-cancelling headphones and a credential that still feels fake around your neck.

You wave at someone on the team. Try to remember their name.

Try to remember how to breathe.

The first time he comes out of the garage, your heart stops. Not figuratively. Not poetically. Actually.

Everything in your body goes cold, then hot. Your fingers twitch. Your legs feel heavy. You touch the metal railing in front of you.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Someone else’s girlfriend is laughing nearby. Someone else’s sister is filming a TikTok.

You can’t move. Your skin feels like it’s crawling off your bones.

He flies past, and you don’t see the turn.

You don’t know if he made it. You check your phone. No texts. No alerts. You picture the worst anyway. A wall. A fire. A miscalculation.

You go to the bathroom and scrub your hands raw. You do it because the soap is thin and the water is too cold and you don’t trust any of it. You do it because maybe it will help. Maybe it will protect him.

When you come out, he’s already changed. Hair damp. Laughing with a mechanic.

You smile when he catches your eye. Walk toward him.

He kisses your cheek and asks, “Hungry?”

You lie. “Yeah.”

He holds your hand all the way back to the hotel.

That night, he doesn’t say anything when you check the door again. Or when you rearrange the toiletries by size. Or when you flick the light switch twice before turning it off.

But when you step into the bathroom to shower, the towel has been switched again. Softer. Thicker. No tag to scratch your wrists. And there’s another note.

I love you more than the thoughts that tell you I’ll crash.

You stand under the hot water for too long. Your shoulders shake, and the water hides the tears.

You don’t tell him.

When you come out, he’s already asleep, one arm stretched toward your side of the bed like he was waiting for you in his dreams. You climb in beside him and press your nose to his shoulder.

He stirs, just a little. Murmurs, “You okay?”

You whisper, “Yeah.”

He turns toward you, eyes barely open, and kisses the center of your forehead.

You’re not okay. But maybe you don’t have to be. Not alone.

***

The sun in Bahrain hits different.

It’s not just the heat — it’s the glare, the dry air, the way the sky never seems to turn fully blue. The way the desert hums under everything, invisible and endless.

Oscar tells you it’s one of his favorite places to race. You nod, pretend to agree, then ask if he remembered to pack his cooling vest. He didn’t. You repacked it for him two nights ago. It's already folded neatly between his gloves and his race boots in the side pouch of his duffel.

But you don't tell him that. You don’t say much at all anymore.

Now you sit on the floor of the hotel suite, cross-legged, a pile of his things laid out beside you: team gear, toiletries, gum, charger, sunglasses, protein bars, custom earplugs.

You fold everything the same way. Three creases, not two. Socks rolled, not folded. Charger coiled clockwise, not counter. And the gum has to go on top. Always the gum.

You’ve unpacked and re-packed this bag twice already. You’re halfway through a third round when the door opens behind you.

You don’t look up.

Not until he says, gently, “Didn’t we already pack that?”

You pause. The toothpaste is in your hand, and your chest starts to tighten. You forgot if you’d put it back in yet.

You can’t answer until you do. So you place the toothpaste in its slot, adjust the zipper mesh around it, and zip it shut — smoothly, not too fast, not too slow.

Only then do you look up. Oscar’s standing by the door. He hasn’t moved.

He’s wearing the black McLaren polo you like — the one that clings to his arms in a way that makes your brain short-circuit. His hat’s turned backwards. He looks like he should be holding a skateboard, not stepping into a hotel room thick with compulsions.

He drops his keys on the table. Steps forward.

“Hey,” he says, kneeling beside you. “Are you okay?”

Your throat tightens. You nod. Too quickly.

His eyes search yours, quiet. Not accusing. Just watching.

You say, “I’m just double-checking this stuff. Making sure everything’s where it should be.”

“You mean my stuff.”

You nod again. “Right. Yours.”

He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t make a joke.

Instead, he touches your knee, softly. You hate that it makes you tear up.

You blink fast, pretending to scratch your face. “I’m just making sure.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to forget anything.”

“I know.”

A silence falls between you. It’s not heavy. Not entirely.

He kisses your forehead. Not dramatically. Just once, warm and real.

Then he says, “Do you want help?”

Your laugh is brittle. “You’d pack the gum upside down.”

“That’s fair.”

You zip the bag closed again. Touch the zipper head three times. Oscar notices but doesn’t comment. He sits with you for a few minutes like that — shoulder to shoulder on the hotel floor, watching you breathe.

You don’t tell him about the prayer.

The one you whisper in your head every time he gets into the car. The one with no origin, no clear logic — just syllables. A rhythm. A bargain.

It’s not from any religion. It’s not even a complete sentence. Just words. A shape. One you’ve repeated over and over so many times it doesn’t sound like anything anymore.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You say it twelve times. Every time. If you lose count, you start over.

Even during FP1. Even when the crowd cheers and music blares and your phone buzzes in your back pocket. Even when someone talks to you mid-mantra and you forget if you were on the seventh or eighth round, and suddenly you can’t breathe until you start from the top again.

You don’t tell anyone that, either.

It started three years ago. But maybe it really started back at school.

***

You were fifteen when you told him.

It was late. You were supposed to be in your dorm.

You were in the library, sitting under the long window seat in the back corner, knees pulled to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. The kind of night that felt infinite. The kind where your chest buzzed with thoughts you couldn’t get out of your head.

He found you by accident. Probably looking for somewhere quiet to FaceTime his mum.

He said, “Did you fall asleep here or are you just hiding from your roommate again?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He crouched down, noticed your red hands. “Did you burn yourself?”

You shook your head. “Washed them.”

His brow furrowed. “With bleach?”

“Soap,” you said. “Just soap. Too much, maybe.”

He sat beside you without asking. Without flinching. Just crossed his legs and leaned his back against the bookshelf.

“I check the windows,” you said. “At night. Three times each. Left to right. Then the desk drawers. Then the closet.”

He didn’t speak. Just waited.

“If I don’t,” you said, “I feel like something terrible will happen. Like my brother will die in his sleep. Or my mum will get hit by a car.”

He was silent for a beat. “Is that why you were late to maths yesterday?”

You turned, startled.

He shrugged. “You checked the doors, didn’t you?”

“Three times.”

He nodded. “Yeah. I noticed.”

You blinked.

“You think I don’t notice stuff,” he said. “But I do. Especially about you.”

You didn’t say anything. The library was too quiet.

Then he said, “Okay, so what do we do?”

“What?”

“To keep your family safe. What’s the plan? You check the drawers, I’ll do the closet.”

And then he smiled. Crooked. Boyish.

You hated how much you wanted to cry.

But you laughed instead. “You would make a terrible closet checker.”

“I’m excellent. Thorough. Award-winning.”

“You’d leave the hangers crooked.”

He paused. “That feels like a personal attack.”

You looked at him.

He looked back.

“Okay,” he said softly. “We’ll straighten the hangers.”

***

Back in Bahrain, he leaves you alone with the travel bag.

You don’t repack it a fourth time. But you think about it. You feel guilty for lying to him. Even now. Even when you know it’s not really a lie — it’s protection. It’s control.

It’s survival.

That night, Oscar’s busy with press. You curl up on the couch with a throw blanket and his credential on the table beside you. It has his face on it. His smile.

You say the prayer once under your breath. Just once.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

You feel a little better. Until the guilt creeps back in. Until the soap on your skin starts to sting again.

Later, when he comes back, you’re brushing your teeth.

He wraps his arms around you from behind, rests his chin on your shoulder.

“You taste like spearmint and fear,” you say through the foam.

He snorts. “Only because I saw the tyre wear report.”

He presses a kiss to your jaw. You close your eyes.

“Did you eat?” He asks.

“Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Popcorn,” you mumble. “And two Oreos.”

He makes a face in the mirror. “Dinner of champions.”

You lean into him. “I didn’t feel like going out.”

“That’s okay.”

“I just wanted everything quiet.”

“That’s okay, too.”

You’re quiet a long time.

Then you say, “Do you ever feel like … if you do things wrong, someone you love might get hurt?”

He meets your gaze in the mirror. “Like … jinx it?”

You nod.

“All the time,” he says softly. “Every time I get in the car.”

You swallow.

“I used to have this ritual,” he says, moving your hair back from your shoulder. “When I first started karting. I’d knock my helmet twice before putting it on. Thought if I didn’t, I’d spin out. I was eight. Super serious stuff.”

You smile, faintly.

“I still do it,” he admits. “Out of habit.”

“But if you forget-”

“I don’t die,” he says. “I just feel a bit weird.”

You stare at the sink.

“I know it’s different,” he adds. “But I’m just saying … rituals don’t make you broken. They make you human.”

You don’t answer.

But when you fall asleep that night, you whisper the words in your head again.

Keep him safe, keep him whole …

You lose count at ten. You start over.

Oscar stirs beside you and pulls you closer without waking.

You start over. And over. And over again.

Until sleep finally wins.

And for the first time in days, you don’t dream of fire.

***

You wake up late the next Saturday.

The hotel curtains don’t block the light the way they should, and your eyes snap open to the wrong kind of brightness, too early to be actual morning, too late to start over.

You sit up too fast. Reach for the watch on the nightstand.

It’s 9:07.

Panic squeezes your ribs. You were supposed to tap the face of the watch five times before 9:00. Five times. Right index finger only. In rhythm.

The rules are stupid. You know that. That’s the worst part — you know.

But it’s like knowing you’re not supposed to need oxygen. Doesn’t make breathing optional.

You tap it anyway. One, two, three, four, five. Then again. Then again.

Oscar stirs beside you, rubbing his eyes.

“Hey,” he says groggily. “Alarm didn’t go off?”

“No,” you whisper.

“You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. I just … overslept.”

“You never oversleep.”

You manage a hollow smile. “First time for everything.”

***

Jeddah’s paddock buzzes with the usual pre-race chaos — carts clattering across asphalt, reporters huddled around coffee, engineers shouting over radio chatter.

Oscar kisses your temple before FP3. “Back soon. Don’t worry.”

You nod. Smile again. Fake it. You’re getting good at that.

As he disappears into the garage, you whisper it.

Keep him safe, keep him whole, turn the wheels, pay the toll.

Twelve times.

You lose count on the seventh. Someone brushes past you with a headset, jostling your shoulder. You whisper faster. Eyes closed.

Start again.

Once, twice, three times — you say the whole sequence over and over until your throat’s dry and your heart pounds.

You should have tapped the watch. You shouldn’t have overslept. You shouldn’t have broken the rhythm.

You glance up at the screen just in time to see the rear of Oscar’s car slide into the wall.

Not hard. Not catastrophic.

But jarring.

The commentators are already talking: “Oh, and that’s a little moment for Piastri — looks like a minor rear contact with the barriers coming out of Turn 13. Shouldn’t be anything major.”

He’s already out of the car. Helmet off. Shrugging. Fine.

He’s fine.

But your legs stop working. You sit on the concrete behind the pit wall and start to cry. Big, full-body sobs. Like your chest is folding in on itself.

You don’t care who sees. You cover your face and shake and shake and shake.

Someone says your name, distant and worried. A team liaison maybe. A reporter who’s seen too much. An assistant trying to help.

You can’t answer.

He’s okay. But it’s not okay.

Because it’s your fault.

You’re still crying when Oscar finds you, fifteen minutes later, hair wet with sweat, gloves still in his hands.

He crouches fast. “Hey, hey, what happened?”

You grab his arm.

“I forgot the numbers,” you choke out. “I didn’t — this morning — I didn’t do it right. The watch. I was late. I didn’t tap it right. I broke the pattern. I knew something would happen-”

“Stop. Stop. No — hey. Hey.” He cups your face with both hands. “Look at me.”

You don’t.

He doesn’t let go. Just presses his forehead to yours.

“I’m fine,” he says. “I’m here. I walked away. You see me? Still annoying. Still sweaty. Still very much alive.”

“I didn’t protect you-”

“Love.” His voice cracks. “That’s not your job.”

You break. Really break.

You bury your face in his chest and cry like you’re thirteen again and trapped inside your own mind, like you’re five and lining up your stuffed animals in perfect color order so your mum won’t crash on the drive home, like you’re you — messy and cracked and terrified.

And he holds you. Not like you’re fragile. Like you’re real.

The car isn’t totaled. The garage can fix it. He’s fine. You are not.

***

Back at the hotel, the lights are dim. He’s quiet. So are you.

He doesn’t say anything when you pick up your water glass, then put it down, then pick it up again just to hear the sound.

You sit on the bed with your legs folded under you. He’s beside you, back against the headboard, iPad in his lap.

When he speaks, it’s soft. Careful.

“Do you want me to read?”

You blink. “Read?”

“Out loud. Something gentle. You don’t have to talk.”

Your throat is raw. But you nod.

He opens a book. You don’t see the title. It doesn’t matter.

He reads something about quiet rivers. A woman feeding birds by a window. A person learning to sleep again.

His voice is low, even. Not like a performance. Like a promise.

You stare at the blanket. Listen.

You don't speak for a long time.

Then you say, “I feel insane.”

He doesn’t look up from the page. “You’re not.”

“I knew something would happen.”

“You didn’t.”

“But it did.”

He finally turns to you. “And if I’d stubbed my toe getting out of the car? Would that have been your fault too?”

You wince.

“Is every breath I take your responsibility now?”

“No. I just … I just needed something to matter. I needed something to control.”

He closes the book.

Silence swells between you.

Then he says, “You’re not a burden.”

You flinch. “I didn’t say I was.”

“I know. But I see it in your face when you fold my shirts six times. When you don’t eat until the toothpaste is facing the right way. When you cry over a crash that wasn’t your fault.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “I hate that you have to see it.”

“I want to see it.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of you. And I love all of you.”

You swallow hard.

He leans closer. “You’re not a burden,” he repeats. “You’re a person. My person.”

You look down. The tears come again, slower this time. Like they’ve made peace with gravity.

“You’re not going to fix me,” you say quietly.

“I’m not trying to.”

“You can’t love it out of me.”

“I wouldn’t try that either.”

You finally look at him.

He smiles, small. Crooked. Devastating.

“I’m just here,” he says. “Reading badly-written novels and trying not to leave my gum upside-down in the bag.”

You laugh, just once. Sharp and surprised.

Then you lean your head against his shoulder.

“I want to get better,” you say.

“I know.”

“But I don’t know how.”

“That’s okay.”

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. “We’ll figure it out.”

You don’t respond. Not right away.

You just breathe.

It’s not better. Not yet. But for the first time in weeks, it’s not getting worse.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe that’s where healing starts.

***

You start therapy on a Monday.

It’s raining in Tokyo — some poetic, cinematic drizzle that clings to the windows and makes the skyline blur into watercolor.

Oscar has back-to-back media obligations, which means he won’t be in the room.

You’re glad. You’re scared.

You’re both.

Your laptop is perched on the edge of the hotel desk, camera propped just above the little glass dish of paperclips you keep moving but can’t seem to throw away. Behind you, the bed is unmade. Oscar’s hoodie is draped over the chair. It still smells like him — clean and sun-warmed, like laundry detergent and the inside of a helmet bag.

You touch the sleeve once, for courage.

Then you click “Join Meeting.”

The screen flickers.

And there she is.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

Her voice hasn’t changed.

You swallow. “Hi.”

She looks older — maybe because she’s in a sweater and not a blazer, maybe because you are. But her eyes are the same: kind, clear, and sharp enough to see you even when you’re trying to disappear.

“Time difference okay for you?” She asks.

You nod. “Yeah. It’s weird being this many hours ahead.”

She smiles gently. “And how’s traveling?”

You hesitate.

“Hard,” you admit.

Then you take a breath. “I thought it would feel free. Like finally being with him full-time would make all the bad stuff … smaller.”

“And does it?”

“No.”

Her voice stays soft. “Does it make it louder?”

“Sometimes,” you say. “Sometimes it makes it everything.”

She nods. She doesn’t write anything down. She’s never needed to.

You stare at your hands.

“I have this thing,” you say, “where I think if I don’t do the right ritual, someone I love will die.”

She nods again. “That’s a pretty common fear.”

“But it doesn’t feel common. It feels — magic.”

“Magical thinking,” she offers gently.

“Yeah,” you say. “But it’s not like fairies and spells. It’s rules. Like … invisible math. And if I get the equation wrong …”

You trail off. Your throat burns.

“If I get it wrong,” you whisper, “he might not come back.”

***

In the next room, Oscar sits with headphones on, pretending to scroll.

He’s not eavesdropping. Not exactly.

But sometimes the walls in these hotels are thin, and her voice is just soft enough that he can’t make out the words — but yours carries.

Especially when it cracks.

He hears your pacing steps. The way the chair squeaks. The moment you stop and go still.

He doesn't move.

He just waits.

***

You tell her about the watch.

About the crash.

About the way your stomach hasn’t fully unclenched since Bahrain.

“I can’t tell what’s real anymore,” you say.

“What do you mean?”

“Like — okay. Oscar’s talented. Smart. He’s got a great team. All that. I know that.”

“Right.”

“But I also know he could die in the car.”

She nods slowly. “Both things can be true.”

“I don’t want to believe that I can control it. That a prayer or a tap or a word whispered at the right second could protect him.”

“But?”

“But I do. I believe it with everything in me.”

“And how long have you felt that?”

You pause. “Since I was a kid.”

“Do you remember when it started?”

“After the fire,” you say without thinking.

You blink, surprised you even said it out loud.

She doesn't flinch.

You go on, slowly. “We were on holiday in Cornwall. Someone left a candle burning in the hallway. No one got hurt. But after that, I started checking everything. Light switches. Stoves. Then it wasn’t just candles. It was — anything. If I left the bathroom light on, maybe Mum would crash her car. If I didn’t count the steps right, maybe my brother would fall off his bike.”

She nods. “And over time?”

“I stopped trusting anything random. Everything had to have meaning. Rules. Cause and effect.”

“And now?”

You rub your face.

“I know the crash wasn’t my fault,” you say. “But knowing doesn’t help. I still feel like I almost killed him.”

Her voice is steady. “That’s the trick of OCD. It doesn’t need logic. It just needs fear.”

You laugh, quiet and exhausted. “I’m so tired of being scared.”

***

Oscar waits until the door creaks open.

You step into the room with your arms wrapped around yourself, and he doesn't push. Doesn't ask.

He just smiles.

“Hey,” he says. “I ordered tea.”

You smile back. It doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

He nods to the tray on the table. “Chamomile. With honey. And one of those weird sugar cubes shaped like fish.”

“Fancy.”

“Only the best for you.”

You pick up the mug. Warm. Comforting. Just the right weight in your hand.

“Thanks,” you say softly.

He leans against the windowsill, watching the city blur behind glass.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Then he adds, “How are you feeling?”

That part makes your throat catch.

Not what did you say or what did she tell you to do or when will you be fixed.

Just: how are you feeling.

You sit on the edge of the bed. “Better, I think. Lighter.”

He smiles, small. “Good.”

You take a sip of tea.

He wanders to the TV. “Want to put something on? Something stupid?”

You glance up. “How stupid?”

“Rom-com level stupid.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Meg Ryan stupid?”

He gasps. “Ma’am, I will defend Meg Ryan with my life.”

“You’ve seen You’ve Got Mail like five times.”

“I was emotionally held hostage!”

You laugh into your mug.

He queues it up anyway.

You lie back on the bed, head resting just below the crook of his shoulder. He drapes an arm around you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your hand finds his.

And for the first time in days, it doesn’t tremble.

The movie starts. Meg Ryan opens her laptop and narrates an email like it’s a Shakespearean sonnet. Tom Hanks appears with a golden retriever. The early 2000s flood the screen in pixelated nostalgia.

Oscar grins at the dumbest parts.

You watch him more than the movie.

Halfway through, he turns to you. “You good?”

You nod.

“You sure?”

You squeeze his hand. “Yeah.”

He kisses your temple and doesn’t say anything else.

And in the warmth of the blanket, in the quiet of the city that doesn’t know your name, in the tea mug cooling on the table — you realize you don’t feel like a walking emergency.

Not right now.

Right now, you just feel held.

***

Monaco smells like salt and champagne and pressure.

You’ve been here three days, and it’s already too much. Everything glints. Everything shines. Even the people — white linen, Cartier sunglasses, voices pitched to carry. You haven’t seen a single stain or out-of-place thread. It’s like the whole city got polished for camera.

Oscar laughs at the absurdity of it, but even he is sharper here. Quieter. Hungrier.

You don’t mind that. It’s part of the deal.

You love that about him — that locked-in look in his eyes when he’s half-listening, half-chasing the apex in his head.

But today, it’s harder to watch.

He qualifies P2.

You watch from the hospitality deck, hands wrapped tight around a sweating bottle of water, trying to look normal. Trying to stay still.

There’s celebration, but subdued — the kind that says good job, now finish it tomorrow.

Oscar waves once toward the team’s box. Gives you a small grin. You smile back. You hope it looks real.

“You alright?” One of the junior engineers asks, nudging you with a gentle elbow. He’s no older than twenty. Looks like he still does math homework on Sunday nights.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat. “I’m good.”

You’re not.

But it’s Monaco.

And you’ve got it under control.

***

Sunday starts slow. Oscar leaves early for prep. You kiss his cheek three times — once at the door, once at the elevator, once at the paddock entrance.

Just in case.

The numbers are tight today. No room for error.

You eat half a croissant, then stop. The knife next to your plate isn’t aligned.

You move it. Then move it back. Then again.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

Then you put the knife down and walk away.

It’s not about the knife. It’s never about the knife.

***

You think you’ll be okay until Lap 47.

He’s still holding P2. Holding it well. It’s a processional race, like always, but still — one tiny mistake in Monaco and it's done. He brushes the wall near Tabac once and your throat clamps shut. But he saves it. He always saves it.

Until the chicane.

The car twitches. A flicker — half a second of skid, of oversteer, of what if-

He catches it.

But your brain doesn’t.

You start counting before you even know you’re doing it.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six.

By the time he crosses the line — P2, perfect, unhurt — your nails have left crescent moons in your palm.

You try to clap. You try to smile.

You can’t feel your hands.

You can’t feel your face.

***

You don’t remember leaving the viewing area.

Somehow you’re in the hospitality tent — empty now, except for the cleanup crew and a tray of untouched macarons that looks radioactive in the light.

You sit. Then stand. Then sit again.

Your chest feels like it’s locked in a vice.

Forty-eight, ninety-six, one hundred forty-four.

The pattern slips.

You start over.

Twelve, twenty-four, thirty-six-

“Hey.”

A voice. Close. Familiar.

Kim.

Oscar’s performance coach.

He’s crouching a little, not touching you. His voice stays calm, neutral.

“You with me?”

You nod. Then shake your head.

He sits on the ground next to you. “Alright. We don’t have to talk. Just breathe.”

“I’m trying,” you rasp. “I-I can’t-”

“You don’t have to get it right,” he says. “You just have to stay.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “It’s my fault. I didn’t — I started too late — if I’d just counted faster-”

“Hey.”

He looks you in the eye.

“I’ve worked with athletes for twelve years. I’ve seen crashes. Injuries. Worse.”

He keeps his voice even. Gentle. Like he’s talking to someone learning how to walk again.

“You didn’t cause that twitch at the chicane. Oscar just got a little loose. It happens.”

Your breath is coming too fast. Your ears ring.

“I can’t stop counting,” you say. “It feels like if I stop — he’ll — he’ll-”

He doesn’t let you finish.

“C’mon.”

He stands slowly. Offers you a hand.

You hesitate.

Then take it.

***

He brings you behind the McLaren motorhome, around the side where the generators hum and no one bothers to look.

Oscar is already there.

Still in his suit, helmet tucked under one arm, hair damp with sweat.

He doesn’t speak.

He just kneels down on the pavement beside you and sits.

Right there. In the dirt. In Monaco.

You lower yourself next to him, legs crossed, breathing shallow.

He sets his helmet down. Rubs your back in slow circles.

Not trying to fix. Just being here.

Minutes pass. Maybe ten. Maybe thirty.

You lose track.

But eventually your breath evens.

Your hands stop shaking.

You lean against him. He adjusts to fit you in like muscle memory.

“Better?” He murmurs.

You nod. Barely.

He presses a kiss into your temple.

“I left the media pen,” he says, like it’s a secret.

You blink. “You didn’t have to-”

“Yes, I did.”

He turns to look at you, eyes clear, steady.

“You’re not broken,” he says softly. “You’re just trying too hard to keep me safe.”

You bite your lip.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” You ask.

“It is.”

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “But not at the cost of you.”

You let out a long breath. “I don’t want to ruin this.”

“You’re not.”

“I just … I want it to be perfect.”

Oscar smiles faintly. “It is. It’s messy and weird and real and ours. That’s perfect enough.”

You lean your head on his shoulder.

“Kim found me,” you say.

“He told me. He said you were trying to multiply by twelve.”

You laugh, wetly. “It felt important.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

You sit in silence for a moment longer.

“Are people mad?” You ask. “That you left?”

Oscar shrugs. “Probably.”

“Are you mad?”

He turns to you fully. “I’ve known you for eight years. I watched you line up your pencils at boarding school until your hands hurt. I listened to you explain how you couldn’t eat dinner until you’d washed your hands exactly four times. I fell in love with that girl.”

You blink at him. “Why?”

“Because she never gave up. Even when her brain told her the world would burn if she blinked wrong.”

He pauses. Takes your hand.

“And because she saw me. Not the driver. Just me.”

You stare at your joined fingers.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He kisses your knuckles. “Okay.”

***

Later, in the hotel room, he brings you sushi in a to-go box and lets you rearrange the soy sauce packets until it feels right.

You eat sitting cross-legged on the floor.

No counting.

Not tonight.

Not here.

***

Rain slicks the track like oil.

The kind of cold, wet weekend where nothing dries, not even your bones. Where you feel damp under your hoodie, in your socks, in your lungs. It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to retreat somewhere soft and warm, and not come out until August.

But you’re in the paddock.

And Silverstone doesn’t care how cold your fingers are.

The air smells like diesel and coffee and nerves. Fans press up against barriers in plastic ponchos, teeth chattering, makeup smudging, still screaming for photos.

Oscar waves as he walks past. You trail a few paces behind him, hood up, hands shoved deep into your coat pockets.

He’s already soaked. Hair curling at the edges. The drops slick down his race suit like they belong there.

You pretend you're fine.

You smile when Lando jokes about the weather.

You sip the tea someone offers in hospitality.

You kiss Oscar goodbye before FP1 and tell him to drive safe.

But your fingertips ache from being scrubbed raw under the bathroom faucet, and your left wrist still has a faint red mark from the band of your watch — tightened, loosened, tightened again until the numbers added up to eight.

***

You wash your hands again after FP1.

Twice after FP2.

Four times before dinner.

You pack and repack your overnight bag even though you're not going anywhere. Move your toothbrush from one pocket to another. Align the zippers. Count them.

Oscar notices.

He doesn’t say anything, not at first.

But you feel it — the way his eyes stay on you a second longer, the way he sets down the takeaway containers a little more gently, the way he exhales when he thinks you won’t hear.

You sit on the edge of the bed that night, brushing your hair with a plastic comb you almost threw away this morning. The bristles aren't even, but the sound is soft and repetitive and helps you think.

Oscar’s on the other side of the room, scrolling through weather updates.

“I don’t think quali’s even gonna happen tomorrow,” he mutters. “They’re saying 80% chance of thunderstorms.”

You hum a reply.

Keep brushing.

He sets down his phone. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You force a smile. “Just tired.”

But your voice is off. You know it. He knows it.

He gets up slowly, walks over, and crouches in front of you.

You pause the brush.

“I can tell when you’re not okay,” he says softly.

You look away. “I said I’m fine.”

He doesn’t move.

You hate how kind his face is.

“Please don’t hide from me,” he says. “I want all of it. Even the hard.”

The comb slips from your hand. It clatters on the floor.

You don't reach for it.

“What if all I am is the hard?” You whisper.

He swallows. “You’re not.”

“You don’t know what it’s like.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you mean. But now it’s out, and you can’t stop.

“You don’t know how exhausting it is to be terrified all the time,” you say. “To feel like if you look the wrong way, or touch the wrong thing, or think the wrong thought, someone dies.”

“I know it’s not easy-”

“No, you don’t.” You stand. “You get in that car and everyone’s scared for you. But you’re ready. You choose it. I don’t choose this. I don’t want this.”

“I didn’t say you did-”

“I feel insane half the time,” you snap. “And the other half I’m pretending I’m fine so I don’t drag you down with me.”

“You’re not dragging me-”

“Yes, I am!”

The words echo. Not loud, but final.

You stand there, hands shaking, breath shallow, eyes burning.

Oscar doesn’t yell back. He just looks at you.

“I never said you had to protect me,” he says quietly. “I never asked you to.”

The silence between you stretches.

“I know I can’t understand exactly what it feels like,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

You wrap your arms around yourself. “Helping me means watching me fall apart.”

“No,” he says. “Helping you means holding your hand while you put yourself back together.”

You don’t say anything. You walk into the bathroom and close the door.

***

You don’t cry, not really.

But you stand under the hot water until it runs cold, and when you crawl into bed later, you don’t say a word.

Oscar's already under the covers. Facing the other way.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling, counting the shadows.

Eight. Sixteen. Twenty-four.

The numbers don’t fix anything. They don’t stop the ache in your chest. They don’t bring him closer.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

***

At some point in the early hours, you feel the mattress shift.

He’s turned toward you now. Closer.

You feel his hand brush yours under the duvet.

“I don’t need you to protect me,” he whispers.

His voice is hoarse. Sleep-rough.

“I just need you to be with me.”

You don’t say anything. But you curl toward him, just a little. And he wraps his arm around you, just enough.

***

The next morning, the rain’s still coming down sideways.

Oscar has meetings.

You have a session on Zoom with your therapist.

You sit on the floor of the hotel closet — because it’s quiet, and dark, and small enough to feel safe — and talk about shame.

Not about fear. You’ve done fear. This one’s newer. This one's sharper.

“I hate that I still struggle with this,” you admit. “I hate that I can’t just … fix it.”

Your therapist nods slowly. “What would being fixed look like?”

You blink. “I don’t know. Quiet?”

“Do you think Oscar wants you quiet?”

“I think he wants me better.”

“Has he said that?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

***

That night, you leave a note on his pillow.

It’s on the back of a receipt from a sushi place in London.

You write:

I don’t know how to be better yet.

But I want to be.

And I want to do that with you.

If you’ll still have me.

When you come out of the bathroom, Oscar’s holding the note.

He doesn’t say anything. Just opens the covers and waits.

You slide in beside him. He doesn’t let go of your hand once.

***

ERP sounds gentle.

Exposure and Response Prevention.

Like a soft wind brushing against a windowpane.

But it’s not gentle. It’s brutal.

It’s standing in the middle of a war zone and refusing to put your armor on.

It’s choosing not to do the thing that makes your chest stop clenching … on purpose.

It’s sitting still while your mind screams.

And today, your therapist wants you to watch Oscar leave the garage without doing anything.

No numbers. No taps. No whispered names, no aligned bracelets, no rearranged backpack straps.

“Let the thought come,” your therapist says calmly, over Zoom, earbuds tucked in. “Let it exist. Don’t push it away. Don’t answer it. Just … sit with it.”

You nod.

Because logically, you understand. The rituals don't actually keep Oscar safe. They just give the illusion of control.

But logic and compulsion do not live in the same house. They barely exist on the same continent.

So you sit there, perched on a low stool beside the monitors in the McLaren garage, heart clawing at your ribs, and you don’t tap your fingers against your knee. You don’t whisper his name seven times under your breath.

You just watch.

Oscar gives you a thumbs up before putting on his helmet.

He doesn’t know what you’re doing.

Or maybe he does. Maybe the way your hands are clenched and your breathing is off is enough for him to guess.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just gives you that quiet little nod — I see you.

Then he’s gone.

The car whines out of the garage and into the pit lane.

Your vision blurs.

You keep breathing.

You count each second until the radio crackles with his voice: “Car feels good.”

And then … nothing happens.

He’s okay. He’s okay.

You don’t unclench right away. You sit there through all of FP2, sweat prickling down your spine, nails digging into your palms. But you don’t give in.

***

That night, you go out for dinner.

It’s nothing fancy. A little tapas place near the hotel, wood-paneled walls and pitchers of sangria, tables squished too close together.

Oscar lets you pick the table.

You choose the one by the window.

You don’t swap the silverware. You don’t ask him to move the glass an inch to the left. You don’t tap your wine glass before drinking. Your hand trembles a little when you lift it, but you do it.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Just nudges the plate of croquetas closer to you and smiles.

You eat one.

You don’t count your bites. You chew. You swallow.

You’re still alive. He’s still alive.

***

On the balcony later, you pull your legs up to your chest and wrap your hoodie tighter.

Oscar sits beside you, ankles crossed, drink in hand.

The sky is a watercolor blur — deep blue bleeding into velvet black. You watch a plane pass overhead.

“I didn’t do it,” you say quietly.

He turns his head toward you.

“The thing,” you clarify. “I didn’t tap. I didn’t whisper. I didn’t check the floor tiles in the garage before he left.”

Oscar’s quiet for a second.

“Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”

“You did?”

He nods. “You were shaking so hard I thought you might bite through your tongue.”

You laugh, startled.

He grins. “Not that I blame you. Watching me drive is terrifying even without OCD.”

You swat his arm. “You’re an excellent driver.”

“Lando says that’s debatable.”

“You are.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “you’re braver than me.”

You snort. “You drive a car at 300 km/h.”

“And you sat still while your brain told you I might die.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

“You’re brave,” he says. “Not because you keep the thoughts out. Because you let them in, and still stay.”

Your throat goes tight.

“That’s not how it feels.”

“I know.”

He shifts, slides a little closer, shoulder brushing yours.

“But I saw you tonight,” he murmurs. “You didn’t tap. You didn’t check. You didn’t sit facing the door, which I know you usually want.”

“I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I was scared.”

“I know.”

He nudges your leg with his knee.

“I’m proud of you.”

Your eyes sting. You look away.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance back.

He’s watching you with that same look he gave you during that second-to-last boarding school dance — the one where you wore that ugly purple dress with the uneven hem and he said, quietly, like it was a secret I like this version of you best.

Not the polished one. Not the presentable one. Just you.

“I don’t want perfect,” he says.

You whisper, “What do you want?”

“You.”

His voice is firm. Simple. Undeniable.

“I want you. Even when your hands shake. Even when you’re afraid. Even when you’re angry with me for not understanding something I’ll never fully live.”

You blink fast.

“I don’t want to be hard to love.”

“You’re not hard to love,” he says. “You’re hard on yourself. That’s different.”

***

You lie in bed later that night, curled under the blanket he tucked around you.

Sleep doesn’t come easy. It hasn’t for a while. But it comes. Eventually.

Without a single ritual.

Without a single tap.

And when you dream, it isn’t of the car crashing.

It’s of rain on the window, Oscar’s hand in yours, and your own voice whispering, not out of fear, but faith.

You are safe. He is safe. You are safe.

***

The sky over Spa is angry.

Charcoal clouds roll over the hills like they're in a rush to be somewhere else. The forest holds its breath. The grandstands hum with tension. And in the paddock, everything feels slower. Heavier.

You always forget how much this place looms — how the trees crowd the circuit, like spectators themselves. Spa has history in its bones. And ghosts in its corners.

Oscar says, “Weird energy, yeah?”

You nod, fingers tightening around your coffee cup.

“Want to skip the garage today?” He offers, already knowing the answer.

“No,” you say. “I’m okay.”

You’re not sure if that’s a promise or a hope.

***

It’s FP2 when it happens.

Not Oscar.

Someone else.

A pink car. A snap. A spin. The wall.

The crash is hard enough that everyone on the pit wall stands. Hard enough that your stomach drops and you forget how to breathe for a second.

You don’t even realize you’ve stood up until Oscar’s hand brushes your elbow.

He’s out of the car already. Session red-flagged.

“They’re saying he’s okay,” he says, voice low. “Shaken up. But talking.”

You nod. Swallow. Your pulse still drums in your ears.

“I know that was scary,” Oscar adds, gently. “You want to step outside?”

You look down at your hands. They’re steady.

Your thoughts are loud — God, they’re so loud — but they’re not screaming. Not like before.

You don’t need to count. You don’t need to tap your thigh seven times. You don’t need to start the prayer, or walk out on only even tiles, or hold your breath and close your eyes until the silence passes.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I’m okay.”

Oscar just nods, eyes warm. He doesn’t call it progress. You don’t want him to. But he squeezes your hand once — tight and sure — and doesn’t let go.

***

That night, the paddock is quieter than usual.

No one likes to see a crash, even if it ends with thumbs up and waving arms. Everyone’s reminded. How fragile this is. How fast it can go wrong.

You and Oscar eat dinner in the motorhome. Leftover pasta, half-warm, eaten cross-legged on the little couch with Netflix playing softly in the background.

You rest your chin on your knees, fork dangling from your hand.

He nudges your ankle. “You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking.”

“About?”

You shrug. “Everything.”

“Wanna share with the class?”

You glance at him. He’s got sauce on his cheek.

You wipe it away with your sleeve before answering. “I think … I stopped counting.”

He tilts his head. “Like today?”

“Like … this week. I don’t know when. But I didn’t realize it until now. There wasn’t a number in my head when he crashed. There wasn’t a ritual I forgot. I just felt scared. And then I didn’t.”

Oscar watches you, patient and careful.

“I’m not saying it’s gone,” you add quickly. “The thoughts are still there. But I didn’t obey them. That’s a win, right?”

He smiles. “That’s a huge win.”

You laugh, a little surprised. “I kind of want to cry.”

“That’s allowed.”

“But I also want cake.”

“That’s especially allowed.”

You set the plate down on the floor. He stretches his legs until his toes bump yours.

“So,” he says, tone casual, “what else have you been thinking about?”

You hesitate. “I think I want to go back to school.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Not right away. Next year, maybe. My therapist says the structure could help. And I miss it. I miss the library. The lectures. The … I don’t know. The me I used to be, when I wasn’t just surviving.”

“What would you study?”

You pause. “Psych. Maybe. Or public health. Or something with writing. I want to help people who think the way I do. Maybe not as a therapist. But … something adjacent.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he smiles. “That sounds like you.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

He nods. “You’re good at seeing people. Even when they don’t want to be seen.”

“Must be all the years I spent hiding.”

“I don’t think you were hiding,” he says. “I think you were surviving. And now, maybe, you get to do more than that.”

You feel tears prick again. You press your palm against your cheek.

Oscar leans closer. “Whatever you want,” he says. ���I’m here.”

You whisper, “Even if I go back to school?”

“Even if you move to the other side of the world.”

“Even if I’m not on the circuit every weekend?”

“I’ll FaceTime you from parc fermé.”

You smile. “I might get boring.”

“You’ve never been boring a day in your life.”

***

Later, you sit on the hotel balcony.

It’s cooler than usual. The wind rustles the edge of the curtain behind you. Oscar’s inside, brushing his teeth, humming something off-key.

You hold your tea in both hands and breathe.

No counting. No compulsions. Just a breath. A moment. A you.

You’re still not fixed. But maybe that was never the point. Maybe you don’t have to be perfect to be whole. Maybe being human is messy and uneven and a little cracked.

And maybe love is what happens in the spaces between.

The sliding doors open. Oscar steps out, barefoot and sleepy.

“You,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Me?”

He grins. “You’re my favorite part of all of this.”

You laugh. “Even when I rearrange your backpack contents for the third time?”

“Especially then.”

He pulls a chair closer and plops down beside you, hair damp from the shower, skin warm from the room. You rest your head on his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, again.

You don’t respond right away. But you reach for his hand. And this time, yours isn’t shaking.

***

The air smells like engine heat and sunscreen. The paddock hums with end-of-season energy — tired mechanics, championship points being tallied in real time, drivers swapping hats and handshakes. This is where everything ends and begins again.

You lace your fingers through Oscar’s as you step out of the car.

It’s nothing dramatic. No stage directions. No swells of music. You just walk next to him, flats hitting the concrete like you belong there. Because you do.

You don’t walk beside him because the compulsion told you to. You walk beside him because you love him. And because he loves you.

“First one to hospitality gets control of the Spotify queue tonight,” Oscar says, trying to jostle ahead.

You deadpan, “Do you really want to lose that badly?”

He shoots you a look. “I’m sorry, who introduced you to German techno at 3 a.m. in Singapore?”

You arch a brow. “I believe I blacked that out for my own wellbeing.”

Oscar grins. “Sure you did. But if I win, it’s five hours of vibraphone jazz.”

You pretend to gag. “You’re a menace.”

He kisses your temple. “A menace with good taste.”

And then he lets go of your hand just long enough to jog ahead. You roll your eyes and walk slower, the early morning sun warm on your back.

You’re not racing anymore. You don’t have to.

***

The garage is a tangle of nerves.

Oscar straps in for the final qualifying of the season with calm precision. You sit just outside the chaos, headset looped around your neck, not because you have to be close, but because you want to. You sip water and trace your finger along the seam of your jeans.

Your therapist calls it a “grounding gesture.”

It’s a better alternative than the numbers.

He goes out. He flies.

You breathe. You do not count.

***

P3.

It’s not a win. But it’s enough.

He comes back beaming, helmet off, suit unzipped to his waist. His smile splits his face in half, flushed and real and bright.

You run straight to him. He catches you easily, arms slung low around your waist, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m proud of you,” you say, before he can.

He laughs. “I’m proud of you too.”

You don’t have champagne. You don’t have fireworks. You just have a hotel suite where the lights are low, and the room service is still warm, and his socks are mismatched, and you’re both slightly delirious with exhaustion.

But it’s perfect.

***

“Do you remember,” you say, voice soft, legs tangled with his beneath the sheets, “when you made that binder?”

Oscar feigns offense. “You mean my meticulously curated romantic gesture?”

“Yes,” you murmur, smiling. “That one.”

“You mean the one with the tabs labeled ‘Y/N’s Favorite Snacks by Country’ and ‘How to Spot When She Needs a Break But Won’t Say It’?”

Your throat tightens.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “That one.”

He squeezes your fingers. “Still carry it in my backpack.”

You blink. “You don’t.”

“I absolutely do.”

“That’s so-” You break off, covering your face with a pillow. “God, I love you.”

His voice is steady. “Good. Because I love you too.”

You drop the pillow slowly. “I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t come this year.”

“You’d still be you,” he says. “Maybe not the same version. But still you.”

You press your cheek to his shoulder. “You know it’s not over, right?”

“I know.”

“I’ll still have days when it’s hard to touch doorknobs. Or leave the house. Or when I’ll cry because I saw a number I don’t like and convinced myself it means something bad.”

“I know.”

“I’ll still panic. And count. And spin. Even if I try not to.”

“Yeah,” he says gently. “I figured.”

“But I’m trying,” you say, voice cracking.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate. “You don’t have to try to be lovable. You already are.”

You blink fast.

“You’re not my problem,” he adds. “You’re my person.”

The tears fall, warm and quiet.

“Come here,” he says, and pulls you against his chest. “I’ve got you.”

***

Later, when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth and making obnoxiously loud slurping sounds just to make you laugh, you sit on the edge of the bed, phone in hand.

A message from your therapist buzzes through.

How did the weekend feel?

You start typing.

Loud. But not terrifying. Beautiful, actually. Still had the thoughts. Didn’t follow all of them. Still me. Still learning. But better. I think.

You hesitate. Then send.

Oscar flops onto the bed beside you, fresh from the shower, towel draped over his head like a cartoon ghost.

“Boo,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “You're ridiculous.”

He peeks out from under the towel. “I’m adorable and you know it.”

“You’re something.”

You lean over to kiss him, soft and slow. He kisses back like there’s no hurry. Because there isn’t.

***

The next morning, your suitcase is packed. The flight home is in five hours. The sky outside is pink and pale gold. You stand at the window, watching the light change.

Oscar’s still in bed, one leg thrown dramatically across the blankets, face smushed into a pillow.

You reach for your bag. Your ring — just costume jewelry, something you found in a Azerbaijani flea market and now wear on instinct — is on the table.

You slip it on. And you tap it twice.

Habit.

Your brain registers it, but not as danger. Not as control.

You pause. You exhale.

Then you whisper, almost to yourself, “You’re safe.”

You close your eyes.

“Even if I don’t do anything.”

And for the first time, you believe it. The fear doesn’t vanish. It just … takes a back seat.

You walk back to the bed. Slide under the covers.

Oscar stirs, barely awake.

“Hey,” he mumbles, reaching for you. “You okay?”

You press your nose into the crook of his neck.

“Yeah,” you say.

And this time, it’s not just a hope. It’s the truth.

[isabelckl]

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 4

nerdy loser!ellie x popular mean fem!reader

bored in english, you reply to a girl named E you’ve been talking to on an anonymous gay dating app—without knowing it’s that lesbian nerd girl, ellie williams.

texting loser!ellie that you have nipple piercing in class 3

You were already home when you opened your conversation with her.

E:

i have to tell you something.

You frowned the second your eyes landed on it.

You were already curled into bed—fresh from the shower, hair damp against your neck, oversized shirt slouching soft over your thighs. The room was dim, lit only by the weak orange buzz of your fairy lights. That Friday exhaustion still clung to your bones, but none of it mattered.

You were settled. Cozy. Warm.

There was nothing better than the thought of spending the whole weekend like this—no plans, no noise. Just your room, your phone, and her.

Something about the message hit different. Not her usual caps-locked chaos or horny emoji spiral. Just plain. Sharp. Hanging in the air like a loaded pause.

You stared at it longer than you meant to, thumb hovering.

You:

heyyyy

yeah?

what is it

You watched the read receipt appear, vanish, then return—followed by the word Typing, then nothing, then Typing again, like she was wrestling with whatever it was she couldn’t quite say.

E:

nevermind lol it’s dumb

just had a brain moment

u ever think a thing and go wait no i’m actually insane?

that was me. carry on.

You stared and your frown lingered.

There was something in it. Something unfinished, like she’d swallowed the thought halfway. It pressed at your chest—not hard, but enough to make you pause.

You let it sit there and tapped your thumb slow against the screen.

You:

don’t do that

if it mattered to you, it’s not dumb.

A beat and you double texted her.

You:

but fine. i’ll stop bugging

just tell me when ur ready

even if it’s weird

i like weird

E:

okay but what if it was like “i was possessed by a sexy ghost” weird

or “i’ve been thinking about ur mouth for 5 days straight” weird

bc that’s the category i’m working in rn

You snorted, the knot in your chest loosening instantly.

You:

girl what

E:

this is ur fault.

ur criminally hot and i’m emotionally unstable.

i almost sent u a poem today and had to physically restrain myself

You:

wait u wrote me a poem???

E:

no one’s ever gonna see it

unless i die then u can publish it posthumously

You rolled onto your side, laughing into your pillow, smiling so hard it made your face ache.

You:

SO how was ur day, poet

other than spiraling over my mouth

did the tragic lesbian survive algebra?

E:

barely

i almost died. they tried to silence me.

i doodled boobs on my notes again. staying humble.

You:

u say that like it’s a coping mechanism

E:

it is. ur boobs specifically

You snorted again, tension bleeding out of you with every stupid message that followed.

You:

do u miss them ??

should i send u some again so u can cope better?

E:

don’t tempt me rn i’m weak and unsupervised

You:

so that’s a yes

E:

that’s an always

You bit your lip, grinning into your pillow like an idiot.

She was back to herself—unhinged and dramatic, talking about how her math teacher was probably a demon who fed on the dreams of students. Complete with all-caps outbursts and at least two conspiracy theories. You kept laughing. Kept typing.

Eventually, your thumbs started to cramp.

You:

i swear my thumbs are buff now bc of u

E:

hot

You:

everything i say u turn into gay

E:

it's given

You bit your lip. Your heart thumped—stupid and full.

You didn’t ask again about the message. You didn’t have to. Whatever she’d meant to say, she clearly couldn’t yet.

You stayed texting until your phone went warm in your palm, until your eyes stung from grinning too long. By the time you checked the clock, it was 3AM.

You didn’t mean to stay up that late, but that’s what always happened with her. The later it got, the more chaotic the messages became. If it wasn’t full-blown unhinged, it was weirdly horny. And if it wasn’t horny, it got accidentally deep—like two sleep-deprived idiots trying to figure out the meaning of life between memes and finger-smash typing.

You:

do u ever wonder what we’d be like if we met in real life?

or would we combust instantly?

You barely had time to brace for whatever ridiculous answer that would get when your phone buzzed again—this time from a different notification.

From Ellie.

You blinked at the name—Ellie, already saved in your phone—and still typed:

You:

who is this?

Ellie:

It’s Ellie. From school.

A faint smirk tugged at your lips.

You:

i know

Ellie:

Just wanted to let you know I’m starting the draft for our project. It’s nothing serious, just bullet points. I figured I’d organize ideas before Monday.

You stared at her message, already smiling.

You:

you couldn’t tell me that earlier in class??

Ellie:

I didn’t think of it until now.

Also I'm still awake, so.

You:

why r u still up anyway ?

Ellie:

I wanted to be productive while the ideas were still fresh.

You snorted.

You:

nerd.

Ellie:

Sure.

You paused, glancing at your other chat. E hadn’t replied yet. Your thumb hovered, tempted to double text.

But right before you did—

E:

sorry went blank for a sec i was picturing how u say my name in a whisper lol anyway what were we even talking about

You laughed out loud, the sound muffled into your pillow.

You:

do u want me dead

E:

yes but like sexily

Another buzz.

Ellie:

Let me know if you’d rather read the notes now or wait for Monday. Either way works.

You laid your phone on your chest for a second, staring at the ceiling. One of them wanted to die at your hands. The other was politely offering to share bullet points at 3AM.

And just like that—when you’re happy, when it’s fun—time moved stupidly fast.

The hallway pulsed with the usual Monday mess—shuffling sneakers, lockers clanging shut, someone already yelling, and of course, that one kid running like it’s a sport.

You felt obnoxiously good for a Monday. The kind of good that only came from two straight days of texting someone who made your brain feel like soda bubbles. You were still carrying a smile that hadn’t fully faded since 3AM.

You suddenly spotted Ellie.

Standing at her locker, blue flannel shrugged over her usual black tee, one side of her hair still sleep-creased. Headphones rested around her neck. She looked a little worn—like sleep hadn’t been a priority. Like someone who’d stayed up too late doing something they didn’t regret.

You didn’t stop walking. Just drifted right up beside her locker, leaned against the one next to it like you had all the time in the world.

She didn’t look at you at first—just shifted her books with one hand, nudging her sketchpad into place. Her fingers lingered at the edge of a notebook you knew too well now. The one she said she started drafting in.

Finally, a glance. Quick and dry.

Then a sigh.

You smirked at her reaction. Tilted your head like you were observing something mildly amusing.

“So,” you said. “How was your weekend?”

Ellie didn’t answer right away. Just reached deeper into the locker like she was debating throwing herself inside it.

“Quiet,” she said without looking at you.

You raised your brows. “That’s it?”

She shoved a pencil case into her bag and shut the locker with a dull thud. “What do you want me to say? I spent it drafting our project.”

You leaned in slightly, voice lowering. “Mm. So productive.”

She rolled her eyes. “I can’t help it if you’re easily impressed.”

“Who said I was impressed?” you shot back, one brow raised. “I’m just asking.”

Ellie adjusted the strap of her guitar case on her shoulder, finally meeting your eyes. “Right. You’re just asking. Because you care deeply about how I spent my weekend.”

You shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe I do.”

That got you a blink. A pause. Her gaze flicked over your face—just for a second too long.

You smiled, all teeth.

“Wanna guess how I spent mine?”

Ellie didn’t say anything—just glanced away, too fast to be casual.

You tapped the locker with your knuckles, straightened up slowly. “See you in class, Williams.”

And with that, you walked off and didn’t look back.

But if you had, you might’ve caught the exact moment Ellie muttered under her breath—barely audible over the hallway noise.

“Jesus Christ.”

You slipped into your usual seat, still warm from your walk through the halls and encounter with Ellie. One of your friends tossed a lazy “hey,” but you barely glanced up—already pulling your phone out, screen lighting up with that soft blue glow.

You:

wakey wakey

i’m already in class

don’t blame me again if you end up being late, poet

Your grin was immediate. Unchecked. You bit it back behind your palm, thumbs still hovering when someone cleared their throat right beside you.

You looked up.

Ellie.

You didn’t hide your expression—still smiling like a dumbass, phone in hand.

“Yeah?” you asked, one brow raised.

She was holding out the notebook. The one she told you about. She didn’t quite meet your eyes.

“Just—here,” she muttered, placing it down in front of you.

Your gaze dropped to the familiar cover, then back to her.

You smiled wider. “Thanks. I’ll look over it later.”

She nodded, quiet. “Cool.”

She turned without another word and made her way to her own seat. You tapped the corner of the notebook with your fingers, still smiling.

Your phone buzzed.

E:

why are u like this

i was gonna be late but now i’m getting up just to annoy u

also maybe to see what u look like in class all smug and pretty

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

You:

haha u wish

i wish u were my classmate for real tho

i can only think of many things 👀

E:

what things ??

You:

idk

maybe like… we’d be seatmates

and i wouldn’t wear any undies on purpose

Three dots appeared immediately. It vanished and came back again.

E:

ok well. i just flatlined in my desk chair.

thanks a lot

You:

just trying to motivate u to get to school on time

E:

I'M ALREADY AT SCHOOL BRUH

i am not responsible for the thoughts i’m having rn

You grinned, legs curled up in your chair, heart stupidly light.

You:

am i making u…?

right now?

Another pause.

Typing..

E:

ma’am this is a public institution

You:

answer the question :)

E:

let’s just say i’m sitting very still rn

and ur going to hell. congrats.

You bit back another grin so hard your cheeks hurt.

You:

worth it.

E:

i hate u

Your thumb hovered over the screen, still smiling like a complete idiot as the bell rang.

You:

ur really gonna hate me when i say

i’m not even wearing a bra rn

E:

YOU’RE A MENACE

i hope you’re proud of yourself for what you're doing to me

You:

just a little

E:

really huh

if i were ur seatmate

i’d sit too close

thighs touching, shoulder to shoulder

and i’d keep dropping my pen just to bend down and grab it

and yk

You:

AND I KNOW WHAT?

GO ON I BEG U

okay actually u don’t need to

because i already am..

E:

good.

that’s what you deserve.

you wanna play? let’s play.

You:

worth it again

every damn single time

Your phone buzzed again, and you bit back another grin.

E:

UR INSANE

You:

okay well tytl nerd

class starts

but thank u i guess for giving me something to think about while i touch myself tonight

or maybe right after this class ;)

Time blurred.

Class, lunch, class again—standard Monday drag. Nothing special. Just the usual shuffle between subjects and half-awake conversations that barely counted as human interaction.

Now, you were in the library for your last period. Final class of the day. The room was quiet in that stiff, almost sacred way libraries get—like if you breathed too loud, someone would smite you.

Ms. Alvarez, who walked in balancing a thick binder and a tired expression. She barely made it past the first five minutes before clearing her throat and announcing, “Alright, class. I have a faculty meeting in ten. You’re allowed to continue working on your project in pairs, but you must stay in the classroom or within school premises. No one leaves early. Understood?”

You were sitting across from Ellie. She was fully immersed in whatever she was typing on her laptop—jaw tight, brows drawn, fingers moving like she was coding national security protocols instead of organizing character arcs.

You tried to match her energy for a grand total of three minutes before your attention span gave out completely.

Your gaze dropped to the window. From the second-floor view, you could see a couple of students loitering around the quad, stretched out across benches and grass. Someone was dramatically eating a banana. You didn’t know why that annoyed you.

Without thinking, you reached for your phone.

One unread message.

E:

WHAT THE FUCK

IF UR GOING TO TELL ME SOMETHING LIKE THAT IN CLASS AT LEAST LET ME WATCH

FOR COMPENSATION

jk

but yes?

You bit your lip hard—so hard it almost hurt—not wanting to smile in front of Ellie. You slipped the phone away like it burned, then reached toward her side of the table.

She didn’t look up when you slid her notebook over, flipping straight to the page.

Possible Story Structure – v1.0

You stared at it for a beat. Then made a face.

“This is so boring,” you muttered.

Ellie kept typing. “Don’t start.”

“I’m serious. This is criminal. Look at this—no dramatic kisses? No one cries? This is actual villain behavior.”

“They’re just notes,” she said without looking up.

“They’re rules. And they suck.”

“They’re guidelines,” she corrected, finally glancing your way. “And they exist because someone—you—suggested glitter-induced closet sex as a turning point.”

“And yet, you wrote it down.”

Ellie sighed through her nose. “So you’d shut up.”

You jabbed your pen at the “Maybe a forehead touch??” line. “This. Right here. What is this. This is loser behavior.”

“It’s called restraint.”

You let out the fakest gasp imaginable. “Loser and pretentious.”

Ellie leaned back in her chair, folding her arms. “You want them crying in the rain after a juice box incident.”

“Because that’s real storytelling, Ellie.”

“You literally renamed the central conflict The Tragic Juice Box Betrayal of 7th Grade.”

“It was a betrayal. And it was orange. It stained. It’s metaphorical. You just don't understand.”

You were staring back at each other.

You leaned forward just a little. “Also, I know you sketched the supply closet scene in the margin of your algebra notebook.”

“That was a box,” she said flatly. “It was a literal box.”

“Sure,” you said, unconvinced.

Ellie pinched the bridge of her nose like she was trying to summon patience from another plane of existence.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

“You’re just repressed.”

She blinked. “Says the girl blushing at her phone two minutes ago.”

You froze.

Ellie tilted her head, a little too smug. “Hmm?”

You cleared your throat. “That’s classified.”

She smirked—barely. “Suspicious.”

You slid the notebook back toward her. “Fix your outline before I submit a new draft with a title you won't really like.”

She rolled her eyes casually, shaking her head as she went back to her laptop.

You leaned back in your chair—annoyed, stretching a little before grabbing your phone again—this time not even pretending to be sneaky about it.

Ellie didn’t look up, but you could feel her noticing.

You opened your chat with E, thumb already moving.

You:

i’m literally sitting across from the most insufferable person alive

she’s so bossy and uptight and acts like she’s above dramatic plotlines

like okay sorry i want EMOTION in my fake scenarios??? sue me???

she actually said “restraint” like it was a flex. loser behavior actually.

You smirked, shot a glance up, then kept typing.

You:

also she keeps pretending she didn’t sketch the closet scene

it was OBVIOUSLY not just a box

You huffed quietly, shifting in your seat. Ellie was still typing—completely zoned in, not looking at you.

You looked back down at your screen.

You:

she’s doing that thing again

getting all serious like we’re submitting this to sundance

like relax. it’s two fictional lesbians and a tragic juice box. let me work.

You paused for a beat, then kept going.

You:

WHATEVER

idk. don’t wanna argue about it

i just wanna talk to you

remember what i said before about making out in the nonfiction aisle?

i’m here at the library ;)

i can imagine our kiss

HOT

i'll have you finger me 'till I cum and my legs shake

and we go back to class like nothing happened

You stared at the message for a second, then laughed under your breath and set your phone down on the table, face-down. You suddenly felt silly—teasing, sure, but also a little giddy. Like you were getting away with something. Especially with Ellie right in front of you, looking like the literal opposite of whatever that text had just suggested.

She was still focused. Still typing. Her MacBook open, her hand flicking her pen across the margins of her notebook. The light hit her rings again. She was chewing her bottom lip.

You grabbed your pen and started doodling in the corner of your notes. Hearts, stars, little lesbian stick figures making out beside bookshelves.

Out of the corner of your eye, you caught something—Ellie’s posture had shifted. Her brow furrowed deeper, her eyes narrowed at the screen.

Then she bit her lip again, harder this time. Her hand came up, fingers scratching just above her eyebrow like she was trying to stay grounded. Her expression pinched for a second—like she was trying to keep her face neutral and failing.

You glanced out the window instead. Golden light, slow-moving clouds. You imagined E, imagined her standing on the other side of this table, all smirking confidence and chaos. You smiled to yourself, tapping your pen twice before reaching back for your phone.

Still no reply.

You frowned a little. Refreshed the app. Nothing.

Right then, Ellie stood up.

You looked up immediately. “Where are you going?”

She didn’t meet your eyes. Just grabbed the edge of her chair like she needed to move. “Getting a book,” she muttered, already walking.

You blinked, confused. “You already have like, four.”

She didn’t answer and just walked off. You watched her disappear down the aisle, your phone still in your hand.Still no message from E.

The empty screen felt louder than it should’ve.

A few minutes passed. Ellie didn’t come back.

You tapped your fingers once against the table, then got up, quietly making your way until the nonfiction aidle, farthest row in the back, where no one really went.

You found her there, tucked at the very end of the aisle, half-hidden behind the shelves. She was leaning slightly against them, phone in hand, her eyes fixed on the screen—expression unreadable, but her ears flushed just a little too pink to ignore.

She didn’t notice you right away.

But the second she did, she quickly lowered her phone and reached for a nearby book, flipping it open like she’d been studying the whole time.

You raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything.

Instead, you glanced at the shelves around you, trying not to smile—because of course it had to be this aisle. The same one you’d texted E about, half-joking, half-not.

“What’s funny?” Ellie asked without looking up, now looking so serious.

“Nothing,” you said, too fast.

“Really?” Her tone was dry, eyes still on the page.

You grabbed a random book from the shelf and flipped it open. “I just remembered something.”

“Uh huh.” She said it flatly, like she didn’t buy it.

You sighed and rolled your eyes. But you didn’t answer her. Just turned another page, pretending to read.

Ellie shifted beside you, thumbing through her own book.

“What are you even doing in the nonfiction aisle?” you asked, still not looking up. “It’s not like we’re writing nonfiction.”

She didn’t miss a beat. “Well, actually… sometimes good fiction pulls from nonfiction. Real stories. Background stuff. It makes things feel more grounded.”

You peeked over the edge of your book. “Okay, nerd.”

She shrugged. “Just saying.”

You didn’t respond, but your thoughts were anything but neutral.

Okay sorry I'm just here because I’ve been thinking about making out with someone against these shelves for three days straight.

You stared down at the page—something about memory and neural pathways—but none of it stuck.

Your mouth twitched into a grin again. E’s dumb chaotic message echoed in your head.

You couldn’t wait to talk to her again tonight.

You glanced up.

Ellie was still there, head tilted slightly, lips parted in concentration, bathed in soft afternoon light spilling through the high windows.

She looked unreal. Sharp in some ways. Gentle in others.

She wasn’t even trying. Her flannel sleeves were rolled up to her elbows, and her hair was half-messy like she’d forgotten to fix it after leaning against her hand too long. A strand curled near her cheek. Her rings caught the light again when she shifted the book. And her mouth—soft, slightly parted as she read—moved just a little when she wet her lips without thinking.

“Actually…” you started, voice light. “Can I ask you something?”

Ellie didn’t look up. “What?”

You waited a beat. “Have you ever thought about making out with someone in the library?”

That got her attention.

Her head lifted slowly, like she wasn’t sure she heard you right. “What?”

You grinned. Tilted your head. “I mean—have you ever thought about it? Like. Right here. This exact aisle.”

Ellie blinked once. “Do you mean making out with someone who’s… here in the library?”

Her voice had a weird edge. Something unreadable.

You scoffed, playful. “No. Just—like. Making out with someone in a library. Someone you like. A girl or whatever.”

She blinked again. Then scoffed lightly, like you’re ridiculous.

“No.”

You frowned. “Why not?”

She leaned her shoulder against the shelf. “Why would I make out with someone here?” she said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It’s the library.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, well—where would you bring them if you wanted to make out with them?”

That made her pause.

You watched her carefully.

She stared at you, then down at the book in your hands.

“You’re impossible,” she muttered.

You grinned. “That’s not an answer.”

She sighed and turned the page, trying to ignore you. “Not everyone makes out in public places, you know.”

“Yeah,” you said, shutting your book and letting it hang at your side. “But it’s fun to think about.”

She looked at you again.

“And you think about it a lot?” she asked, voice casual—but not quite.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “I do.” You added, a smirk playing in your lips.

Ellie exhaled slowly, her eyes flicking up to your face—and lingering. You could almost feel her gaze pause on your mouth for a second too long.

Then she shook her head, barely, like she was trying to snap herself out of it.

Without another word, she turned and walked off, heading back toward your table with quick, quiet steps—like she needed to leave before she did something she’d regret.

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[lysarion]

━━━━━━ i knew you from another life ⟢

♱    |    your first meeting with phainon was nothing short of strange. after all, crying when your eyes first meet is not an everyday reaction.

𖤝 including  ⠀! ⠀phainon          ◟          𖤝 warnings ⠀! ⠀crying, phainon is a bit of mess, mentions of reincarnation ( can be read as a part 2 to "goodbyes and see you later" ), no beta we die like mydei

❝      tags     ⚜     .   if you'd like to be tagged please send me an ask off-anon or interact with this post!!

when you first got introduced to phainon, he was crying.

you remembered that moment like a clear afternoon day. after all, it wasn’t everyday some attractive stranger burst into tears the moment your eyes met. you were partly worried, partly weirded out — you didn’t know this stranger, or at least, you think you don’t know him.

your free hand clutched the fabric over your chest as castorice raced to his side, leaving you alone with your swirling thoughts. the stranger with white hair eventually ceased his crying after mydei started lecturing him — you’re too far away to catch a word, but you do see how your name tumbled out of the blonde man’s lips. suddenly you’re too aware of what’s happening when blue eyes meet your own gaze.

there was a slight startle in your shoulders when the weird but attractive stranger began walking. he stood right in front of you, a small smile on his lips while one hand rubbed at the back of his neck in a bashful manner. his lips part, but it wasn’t long before they wobbled and tears began to flow again.

“ah shit, hold on—i’m so sorry,” he hurriedly apologised. his hands roughly wiped at his eyes as his head ducked lower. 

you stood there, unsure of what to do. you peek over his shoulders to try and ask for help from castorice or even mydei, but they both looked equally dumbfounded — castorice held her hands tightly in confusion while mydei let out a heavy sigh in anguish. when your gaze returned to the crying boy in front of you, your heart was sent on a rollercoaster ride when you noticed him peeking from his cracked fingers. he let out an embarrassed laugh and looked away. 

truly, what were you to do in this situation?

“seems like i’ve blown my first impression, huh?” 

well, you give the benefit of the doubt for now. not everyone can wipe away their tears and crack a harmless joke like nothing had just transpired.

you let out a strained laugh and shook your head, “not fully, i guess? do you always cry when you meet strangers?”

he laughed, wiped away stray tears from his face with a smile, “no, not really. do you?”

“why would i cry from meeting a weird stranger?”

the weird stranger in question only smiled, chuckled under his breath, and took out a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to you. he pointed a finger to his cheek, “i’d beg to differ. i guess we’re both strange.”

when your fingers met your cheek, you were mortified when you realized that he was right—you, too, were crying for some reason. “i—huh?”

he only shook his head and started wiping away your tears with his handkerchief himself. you stood there, frozen mid-sentence. you resigned your fate in his hands just like that. with furrowed brows, you followed his movements closely.

“do… do i know you?” you asked.

“my name is phainon,” he replied with a smile. “and yeah, you do. if you believe in reincarnation, at least.”

�� 𝓵ysarion 2025 — do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.

[femmesport]

Connected

warnings: mature themes, language, underage drinking wc: 6.5k an: in this story Azzi is Aubrey's little sister who is also a little in love with Paige. This is part 1 with part 2 coming soon. Also please note this is unedited because did we expect anything else prompt: Azzi has a sister named Aubrey. prompt: Aubrey and Paige became best friends during their time playing basketball together. Being best friends, they knew that family was off limits. Eventually, Azzi’s crush on Paige becomes obvious and Paige realizes Azzi is more than her best friend’s little sister. 

Growing up, Azzi always thought it was great having a sister so close in age. They were barely a year apart in age and did everything together. It was the person she could trust the most, and one of her closest friends.

Despite being so close in age, Azzi and her sister had always had different interests. Azzi was into soccer, reading, and staying in. Aubrey was more outgoing and played basketball. In these different areas, they excelled and made friends that allowed them to develop into individuals.

When it came time to really think about the future, Azzi knew she wanted to continue with soccer. This desire led to her signing to play soccer at the same college her sister had played basketball, UCONN.

It was the perfect situation! They both could grow and develop into individuals but also have someone to have their back when they were away from home. Except, right now it was not so great.

Aubrey had been giving Azzi the unofficial welcome tour of campus. She decided to bring Azzi to the basketball facilities to bring her around some familiar faces. While all of this seemed to be kind and helpful, Azzi couldn’t help the pit forming in her stomach.

Growing up, there were a few of Aubrey’s teammates that have continued to come around and be strong fixtures in their life. One of those was Paige Bueckers. Paige Bueckers was a basketball legend, the current face of UCONN’s women’s basketball team, and the object of an embarrassing crush Azzi had been harboring for more than ten years now.

Azzi liked to consider herself to be confident, smooth, and composed. Instead, around Paige she became a bumbling fool who couldn’t stop flushing. She was pretty sure Paige knew but never said anything. Azzi was always the little sister figure to Paige.

Paige also never said anything because Azzi wasn’t out. Not to her family at least. She knew her family had been supportive of Aubrey, or at least they tried. But she also saw that her mom then placed the faith in Azzi to live normally. 

Azzi’s heart rate quickened as Aubrey held open the locker room door for her.

She took a deep breath in. All she had to do was make it through this encounter and then they’ll go their separate ways. She’ll be busy with the start of the soccer season and Aubrey and her team will be swept up in the madness that is UCONN basketball.

The voices slowly filter into Azzi’s ears with an intense volume. Through all the laughter, shouting, and boisterousness, Azzi could only hear one laugh. The laugh she has been smitten with since before it was the object of every social media edit posted in the last year.

“Azzi!” KK’s voice rings through the players and a figure is running and wrapping her arms around Azzi before she could even process what was happening.

Azzi’s breath is caught for a moment before she laughs and returns the hug to KK.

“Hi,” her voice is breathy in laughter.

“Oh my goodness you are my favorite between you and your sister, you know that right” KK is pulling out of the hug and squeezing Azzi’s cheeks between her palms.

Azzi just laughs, stepping back while Aubrey shoves KK slightly. Azzi takes a moment to look around. She sees many of the players laughing at the moment and waving in her direction.

The last set of eyes she meets are the piercing blue ones that glint with a smirk. Azzi’s smile falters for a split second at the approaching girl. She quickly returns the smile brightly as KK steps back letting Paige step into Azzi’s space instead.

“What’s up little princess?” Paige says, wrapping her arms around Azzi and referring to her by the god awful nickname she has used as long as she had known her.

Azzi wraps her arms around Paige with a soft smile. “Currently interacting with my sister’s most insufferable teammate.”

“Whatever, you love me” Paige chuckles and releases Azzi taking a step back.

You have no idea, Azzi thinks.

“So, what are you guys up to?” Azzi asks after a moment, taking a step back to look around at the team.

“Well, some of us just finished up strength training and others are getting ready to head in” Aubrey starts, “since I was giving you the official tour, I switched to the later training. I am going to have to go now, but Paige can take you back to your dorm.”

Azzi's heart drops as she swivels her head quickly to meet the blonde’s eyes. She just smiled but Azzi senses this is just as much of a surprise to her as it was to Azzi.

“What if I had plans?” Paige turns to Aubrey who just shrugs.

“You would figure it out” Aubrey pats Paige’s shoulder and heads to her locker.

“Azzi, don’t let her fool you, her post work out plans include napping” Aubrey looks up at Azzi with a smirk and Azzi just lets out a small laugh trying to seem more calm than she was.

“Alright, well, give me like five minutes and I’ll be ready” Paige turns to Azzi in explanation. Azzi just nods as Paige turns back to her locker.

KK finally returned in front of Azzi as Paige stepped away. “Okay, so there is this party you should definitely come to with us! It is your first real night here, and we need to make sure you’re shown the ropes of college. Plus, your sister would actually go out with us if it meant hanging out with you.”

KK is beaming and Azzi smiles in return with a small laugh, “I’d be down.”

“Just so we are clear, you will not be drinking though” Aubrey doesn’t look up from the shoes she was messing with.

“Okay, mom,” Azzi rolls her eyes.

“We’ll work on that one” KK whispers dramatically and Azzi nods with a giggle.

“Alright, but you should be ready by like eight-ish tonight. We’ll pick you up,” Jana explains, stepping up to join their conversation.

They continue like this in a smooth flow of conversation. 

After a few moments a soft touch settles on her shoulder. Azzi tenses up knowing Paige had stepped up beside them.

“You ready,” her voice was soft and Azzi swears to God she almost melted in that moment. Instead, she nods, not trusting her knees to not give out.

“Alright, I’ll see you guys later” Azzi reaches forward hugging KK and Jana who smile and wave her off.

It is only when they are outside the locker room and the voices have faded that Azzi realizes she would have to be alone with Paige. The silence hits Azzi like a freight train and wraps around the two of them in a heavy weight.

They stay silent until they reach Paige’s car. Paige walks to the passenger side and opens the door up for Azzi. It wasn’t anything new, it was a product of the manners her parents had taught her, but it made Azzi’s heart skip a beat all the same.

“You hungry” Paige asks as Azzi was buckling in, she stood outside the door having not yet shut it.

“A bit, yeah” Azzi softly says, turning to face Paige who smiles and nods.

“I’m sure all the moving and campus tours have been exhausting. Let’s go grab something to eat” Paige offers and Azzi just nods.

Paige shuts the door and heads around the car to the driver’s side. As she gets in starting the car, Azzi grabs onto her seatbelt with a squeeze. She had been alone with Paige more times than she could ever remember, but it didn’t make it any easier.

“You want aux?” Paige asks as she looks over to Azzi. Azzi just shakes her head and looks back ahead trying to avoid eye contact.

“Alright, SZA good?” Paige asks, looking down at her own phone connecting it to the car.

“Sure,” Azzi whispers out and Paige pauses looking up at her with a knowing smirk.

“Since when are you so shy around me?” she asks and Azzi flushes, “I know I am irresistible, but we can’t communicate only in head motions and one word responses.”

Azzi leans her head back with a groan, “oh my god, Paige. You are ridiculous.” Paige laughs and Azzi feels the tension leaving her body. She knew that was probably the intention, but couldn’t help feeling appreciation at the small moment.

Paige smirks and returns to her phone. Eventually Take You Down by SZA is flowing through the speakers and Paige is doing the stupidly attractive one hand on the wheel drive. Azzi has long since accepted that she finds her sister’s best friend attractive, but it doesn’t make it any less mortifying each time they are this close to each other.

“So, where are we eating?” Azzi asks and Paige turns down that music to offer up even more of her attention to the conversation.

“There is this little café that has some good food with even better smoothies and protein shakes, figured we could go there” Paige shrugs and Azzi just nods in her direction letting the silence fill the car again.

After a few moments and Paige’s tapping on the steering wheel, they pull into a parking lot of what looks like a little cottage. There was a sign out front claiming it to be a cozy café. Paige pulls into an empty spot and turns the car off. They sit still for a moment.

“Your sister is really excited for you to be here…and she is, like, fiercely proud of you” Paige’s voice is soft.

Her voice is soft in the way that touches the insecurities that Azzi lets fester. The insecurities that have settled into her bones and rooted so deeply she can hardly believe it when anyone says she deserves anything. Azzi has always struggled with feeling inadequate and trying to get the approval of those around her.

“I am excited to be here, I just really hope I make her proud,” Azzi’s voice is soft and quiet. Her head is focused down and her hands folded in her lap.

“You do everyday” Paige says simply and Azzi lets out a shaky breath at that.

Paige gives Azzi a moment as she steps out of the car and walks around to open the door for her. Azzi unbuckles and avoids eye contact as she steps out of the car and follows behind Paige into the little cottage.

They get seated and handed menus. Azzi hated going to new places without enough time and prep to think about a plan for what to get ahead of time.

“I think you would really like their veggie omelette," Paige says, not looking up from her own menu.

Azzi pauses and looks up at the girl across from her, “huh?”

“Remember the omelettes your mom used to make and load up with all that nasty stuff for you?” Paige looks up to meet Azzi’s eyes, “they have something like that here.”

Azzi pauses and flushes. The embarrassing kind of flush that resembles a middle schooler finding out their crush knows who they are.

“Oh, uhm, okay, thanks” Azzi gets out and looks back down at the menu hoping to hide her face.

“Hello ladies, how are we doing today?” an older lady steps up to their table with a small notebook and pen pad.

“We’re doing well, thank you. How about you?” Paige responds so politely that Azzi is pretty sure she melted into the torn cushion of the booth they were sitting in.

“Doing just fine, thank you. What can I get for you ladies today?” The older woman looked at Paige.

“I will do the chocolate protein shake and then could I have the steak, egg, and cheese bagel” Paige smiles up at the older woman and Azzi melts at the sight.

“Sure thing, and for you?” the older woman shifts her focus to Azzi who sputters forgetting she would have to order.

“Oh, uh, I’ll just have a water and the veggie omelette” Azzi sputters out handing the lady their menus.

“Alright, I will get that going,” the lady grabs the menus and walks away.

Paige smirks at her, “you’re going to love it, swear.”

“I really hope so, I didn’t have enough time to look at the menu and actually think” Azzi playfully retorts and Paige’s smirk just grows.

“How are you feeling about UCONN so far?” Paige asks sincerely and her smirk shifts into more of a smile.

“It’s been really good! Everyone has been super helpful and nice,” Azzi explains and Paige’s eyes don’t leave her once. When she listens, she has a face of intense concentration holding onto every word Azzi is saying.

Paige listens attentively as Azzi describes her excitement for the soccer season and training. She doesn’t interrupt when Azzi is describing her concerns and feelings of inadequacy compared to the older players on the team. Paige listened and held onto every word while Azzi spoke.

As the food arrived, Azzi had finished expressing her concerns and settled into the silence. Paige let the words hang before responding. She gave Azzi the space to continue if needed.

“While I am sure that some of these older players have settled into the routine of playing soccer here, I think they are probably just as intimidated by you,” Paige pauses making eye contact with Azzi.

“You were one of the top recruits in the country and you went to a school not even notorious for the sport. You had offers from the top soccer schools in the country and yet you chose to a school that held a stronger sentimental value. Owning that at your age is something the older players wish they could have” Paige shrugs as if she isn’t providing some of the best insights Azzi has heard.

“You’ve earned your spot, now prove it. Show them what you’re about Az,” Paige shrugs looking back down at her food and Azzi does the same.

“Thank you, Paige” Azzi says softly and while Paige doesn’t look up, she does smile down at her food.

The rest of their meal is spent in quiet conversations about college and the expectations. The two share training schedules and discuss season starts. By the time they had finished, they had been so engrossed in conversation, Azzi hadn’t even had time to object as Paige handed her card to the waitress.

“You do not have to pay” Azzi pouts and Paige just shrugs with a laugh.

“Your sister would kill me if I didn’t” Paige smiles and Azzi pauses.

Right. This was simple and easy, but at the end of the day Paige was Aubrey’s best friend.

“Right,” Azzi starts, “well thank you.”

The waitress returns and Paige quickly signs the receipt before leading them back to the car. She opens the door again and Azzi buckles in quietly feeling a lot more at ease than she had earlier.

The rest of the ride is mostly quiet without incident. Paige pulls into the athletic apartment complex and hurries around to let Azzi out.

“Which building are you in?” Paige asks and Azzi can hear the question of ‘can I see’ in her voice.

Instead, Azzi points, “oh, uhm, I am in this one. I think I am going to try to unpack before tonight” Azzi explains, pointing in the direction of the building on the left.

“Well, I am in that building too, I guess I’ll be seeing you around” Paige smiles and bumps Azzi’s shoulder. Azzi just smiles in return.

Once they make it to the building, Azzi heads to the elevator. The basketball team monopolized the first floor and her dorm was pushed to an upper floor.

“Thanks again for lunch, Paige” Azzi stops and turns to smile at Paige.

“Hey, no problem, any time” Paige puts her hands in her pockets and nods at Azzi.

Azzi was quick to turn around and head to the elevator. As she stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor, she took one last look at Paige who was still standing there. They held eye contact.

As the doors closed, Azzi let out a breath she didn’t know she had been holding.

Being in love with someone so close to your family isn’t nearly as fun as the media made it out to be. You are around them all the time and they look at you the same way they look at their little siblings. Azzi accepted a long time ago that Paige can find a crush funny and think of it as childish. She also accepted that Paige was too nice to ever make fun of her or be rude about it.

The doors opened and Azzi pushed herself off the back wall of the elevator and towards her dorm door. Her roommate had been unpacking with her family when Azzi had left hours ago. Now that she had spent some time away, she saw a majority of the things in the living room unpacked and organized.

Her roommate Lauren was sitting on the couch scrolling on her computer. Her and Lauren were both new recruits this year for soccer. They had been to most recruitment events and practices together. They bonded quickly at their shared love for UCONN.

“Hey, how was your tour?” Lauren asked, looking up briefly from her computer. Azzi fell into the couch beside her roommate with a groan.

“Meh, it was fine. Aubrey likes to act like I haven’t been here for her before and recruitment doesn’t cover all of it,” Azzi leans back, closing her eyes.

“Yeah, but I’m sure she still pointed out some new stuff,” Lauren offers and Azzi just hums in acknowledgement.

The two sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, “my sister and her teammates invited me to this party thing tonight, would you want to go?”

“A party with the UCONN women’s basketball team, uhm, yes!” Lauren shrieks out excitedly.

Azzi snorts and opens her eyes, leaning up, “I cannot wait for you to be severely disappointed in how lame they are.”

“Listen, they could be a brick wall, but if they look like Paige Bueckers or Caroline Ducharme, I think I can put up with it” Lauren is fully facing Azzi at this point with way too much excitement.

Azzi flushes at the mention of Paige. She had yet to tell Lauren the history there and doubted that would ever be something she would willingly reveal. Instead, she just laughs at the antics and shrugs.

“We need to be ready by eight-ish,” Azzi offers and Lauren quickly stands up.

“Okay, I need to take a shower, I think I can make the little time we have work” Azzi laughs.

“What do you mean? It is only four.”

“Azzi, be so for real right now, I need to shave EVERYTHING.”

Azzi rolls her eyes and heads to her own room. She looked around at the boxes and decided very quickly that her freshman year would likely be spent living out of boxes. She had what she needed out and that would be enough.

She sighed and began picking through her clothes. She figured by the time Lauren was done with her everything shower she would be right at the time she needed to begin getting ready.

She began picking through the closet and was quick to fall victim to her usual indecisiveness. She had so many clothes and nothing that seemed appropriate to wear to her first college party. 

It took her about an hour and a half to settle on some cargo style jeans and a buttoned black cropped tank top. In that time, Lauren had finished her shower and let Azzi go in to take her own.

Deciding to do a full skin care and hair wash routine, Azzi was left with an hour and a half once she was done. She spent that time doing her hair and looking at her makeup for a good thirty minutes before settling on a look. She decided to go with simple coverage and lip gloss.

Her outfit was simple but she looked good. Good in the way that she hoped no one could tell she was a nervous freshman at her first party. 

She joined Lauren in the living room who had on dark cargo jeans as well with a cream colored sports bra styled cropped tank top. They had very similar outfits, but Lauren was definitely carrying all of the confidence to cover her and what Azzi was lacking.

By the time it was eight, Azzi had become so anxious.

The knock on the door drew Azzi from her thoughts and she got up with a sigh. She reached the door and opened it to see her sister and Paige. Her sister was standing with a smile while Paige was leaning on the wall right outside her door.

“Aw, Azzi, you look so cute!” Aubrey says pushing past her and into her dorm. Paige smiled at her with her eyes running up and down her body before stepping into her dorm.

Paige looked good. Like the type of good that made Azzi’s heart and stomach drop and flip. She had her hair down which was already Azzi’s kryptonite. She had on baggy camo pants that fell low on her hips. On top she had a white top that fit snuggly ending just below her chest.

Azzi took a deep breath before shutting the door behind the two girls.

“Hey, Lauren” Aubrey said to the girl who was standing in front of the kitchen counter looking so calm and collected. Azzi was impressed by her ability to shift between thirsting over a girl to acting like seeing her in the dorm was the most normal thing ever.

“Oh, hey Aubrey,” Lauren smiles at Aubrey and looks past her to Paige, “I’m Lauren, Azzi’s teammate.” She offers her hand up and Paige smiles offering hers back with a soft shake.

“I am Paige, Aubrey’s teammate” Paige says smiling and Lauren giggles.

“Do you want me to pretend I didn’t know that?” Lauren asks and Paige dips her head with a small laugh.

“Alright, so Paige is going to drive us there. She is staying sober tonight and so are you,” Aubrey pauses pointing at Azzi, “Lauren, respectfully, I don’t care what you do. Just be safe and don’t drag me into it.”

Lauren mock salutes Aubrey with a laugh. Azzi hears her sister but knows KK will find a way to get her a drink or two. Instead of pointing that out, she just nods and lets her sister lead them out of their dorm.

They head down and all find their way into Paige’s car. Aubrey sat up front with Lauren and Azzi in the backseat. Paige doesn’t give anyone a chance to suggest music before playing her own.

The car ride is mostly filled with music and side conversations from Aubrey asking everyone about their class schedules and strength training. Azzi does her part to answer the best she can, but occasionally stumbles over words as she would meet Paige’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

Beyond her inability to form fully coherent sentences when making eye contact with Paige, Azzi would consider the car ride an overall success. They pull into the parking lot of a large campus house and see a bunch of people sitting on the porch with the door wide open exposing even more people inside.

Paige leads the way and the three other girls follow her in. Once they spot the rest of the team, they find their way over. KK immediately yells as she spots them.

“Alright, lucky for you all I have four shots with your names on them,” KK wiggles her eyebrows and reaches to hand them out.

“Make it two, I am driving and Azzi is not allowed,” Paige explains and Azzi rolls her eyes. She reaches out and grabs the shot, throwing it back before Paige or her sister have time to stop her.

“Azzi!” Aubrey groans and Paige just looks at her with a small smirk.

“What? Would you rather I drink without you and risk putting myself in danger,” Azzi bats her eyes pulling out all the cards she knows to make Aubrey fold.

Aubrey just rolls her eyes and grabs the shots for her and Lauren before throwing them back as well.

“Okay, little Aubrey, who is she?” KK asks, nudging her chin in Lauren’s direction.

“Oh, right, this is Lauren. She is my teammate and roommate” Azzi explains and KK is quick to pull Lauren over and into the group.

“Hey, if I wanted to get an actual drink that wasn’t like a burst of lighter fluid, where would I find that?” Azzi asks to no one in particular.

Paige looks at Aubrey who just shrugs, “follow me.”

Azzi followed Paige through the crowd of bodies and out the back door. There were less people out here making the volume a lot more manageable. Paige leads Azzi to a folding table someone had set up in the back year. On it were various seltzer cans, bottles, and cups with random mixtures.

“You should get something in a can or bottle,” Paige offers, “it’s hard to tell what people are putting in those cups.”

“Any recommendations?” Azzi asks, looking out over the options of cans and bottles.

Paige just looks at Azzi for a moment before reaching out and grabbing a random seltzer and opening it for Azzi. She hands it to Azzi who takes a sip.

“Slightly better than rubbing alcohol, thanks Paige” Azzi laughs and Paige laughs as well.

The two stay outside for a bit enjoying the quiet reprieve from the group of people who seem to be growing louder inside. Azzi had never been big on crowds and was going to need at least a bit of a buzz before heading back in. Paige kept her eyes on Azzi the whole time. It was the type of protective look she always wore around her family and the people she cared about.

“Az,” Paige said suddenly with a softness in her voice.

“Yeah?”

Paige hesitated, “you look really good.”

Azzi feels her whole body heat at the words, “thanks Paige. I didn’t want to embarrass you guys” Azzi jokes, attempting to hide how the words made her feel.

Paige laughs and turns to fully face Azzi, “you couldn’t embarrass us.”

Azzi turns her body to face Paige with a soft grin, “you’re not embarrassed to be seen with a baby freshman.”

Paige laughs a bit at that, “not when the baby freshman looks like that.”

Azzi’s insides were probably all melted goo at this point. But still, she smiled up at Paige.

“You look really good too, P” Azzi says softly trying to keep her voice steady.

Paige shrugs and smirks, “you have to if you want to even be looked at next to you.”

Azzi freezes at the words and quickly shrugs it off with a laugh, “something tells me Paige Bueckers stands out no matter who she is with.”

Paige takes a small step closer, “not trying to stand out.” Azzi lets out a soft breath before looking up at Paige. Paige is looking down at Azzi with an unreadable expression. One Azzi has certainly never seen before.

“I should, uh, I should get back to Lauren” Azzi sputters out but her eyes don’t shift away from Paige.

Paige doesn’t move, she just hums at Azzi. “Probably,” she says and before she could take another step forward, Azzi is turning around and hurrying back to the house with the seltzer slightly crushing in her hand.

She quickly finds the group and sees everyone laughing and conversing as if Azzi’s world wasn’t spinning at what had just happened. They hardly notice her settling back into the group and that unnerves Azzi.

After a few moments, Paige joins the group. She walks around to stand near Aubrey and brushes shoulders with Azzi on her way over to her friend. Azzi feels goosebumps rise on her skin and lets out a shaky breath.

Her face must give her away because Lauren gives her a questioning look before Azzi just shrugs her off.

“Azzi, let’s go dance” KK and Jana are beside Azzi and making pleading faces to Azzi who just laughs.

“Ooh, yes, let’s dance” Lauren is standing up and by Azzi’s side quickly.

Azzi nods and is following the three girls more towards the middle of the floor to start dancing. KK and Jana had clearly had more to drink as they were singing wildly and moving their bodies in every direction.

Lauren joins in on their antics and Azzi is quick to join in swaying her hips and singing along. This was the type of fun that let Azzi forget what just happened and enjoy the moment. She would look up occasionally and see the group talking, laughing, and completely oblivious to them.

Azzi continues and throws back more of the seltzer in her hand.

“Damn, Azzi” KK pauses, stepping closer to Azzi pushing between the other two girls who were dancing on each other, “you good?”

“Yeah, all good” Azzi shrugs and continues dancing.

KK gives Azzi a look. Azzi maintains her calm composure and KK just sighs.

“P seems to really like your outfit,” KK offers with a smirk and Azzi freezes.

“Okay, and?” Azzi asks after a moment of silence.

“Listen, your sister might be blind as hell, but we aren’t,” KK explains with a shrug, “Paige has eyes for you and you for her, what are you going to do about it?”

“That’s not a thing,” Azzi is fully standing still now with a hand on her hip facing KK.

“It is, and no judgement here” KK puts her hands up and Azzi just sighs.

“Whatever I may or may not feel doesn’t matter, Paige sees me like a little sister. Period. End of story,” Azzi offers. It was the closest she had ever been to fully admitting things out loud.

KK laughs at Azzi, “has she said this to you?” Her eyebrow is raised.

“In those words? No. But in others? Yes. She all the time calls me a childhood nickname, she is always mentioning my sister, and she treats me the same way she treats Drew.”

“A meaningful nickname, consideration for the people who matter most to you, and treating you like the people she cares most about?” KK raises her eyebrow, “C’mon Azzi.”

“KK, I really don’t want to have this conversation,” Azzi just sighs.

KK sighs and shakes her head, “whatever.”

They’re back to dancing and Azzi finds her eyes trailing back to Paige more and more. She sees various people approaching her with some staying longer than others. She ignores the growing feeling in her stomach that wanted to be near Paige.

At some point, Paige started meeting the eye contact. For some reason, Azzi didn’t look away. She held Paige’s eyes with a curious look. Paige eventually smiled before turning and walking away. Azzi sighed, turning back to the group she was dancing with.

A few moments later there is a hand on her back and a body pressed closely. KK and Jana smirk before pulling Lauren away.

“You look like you needed another drink” Paige’s voice was in Azzi’s ear. Azzi freezes and turns around slowly seeing how close she and Paige were.

“Thanks” Azzi gets out grabbing the drink in Paige’s hand. The other hand stayed on Azzi’s back.

Azzi looked around and realized Paige was using her body to block the view from her sister. Her heart lurches knowing that her sister would most definitely be upset if she saw this.

“Azzi,” Paige starts and Azzi’s eyes meet Paige’s. They were so close to each other that Azzi felt Paige’s breath on her face with Paige’s whispered word.

“Yeah?” Azzi whispers back.

“I have a question,” Paige’s voice is low and her face is only inches away from Azzi’s, “you know how I said you looked really good? What would you do if I kissed you right now?”

Azzi’s heart lurched at the question. What would she do? Well she would definitely kiss back and then go through a full blown crisis. In that order. Paige looked between Azzi’s eyes and Azzi’s mouth was opened slightly in shock.

“If you say the words, I will walk away and we can pretend this never happened. Or…” Azzi’s hands reached out to grab Paige’s waist pulling her closer.

Before she could rationally talk herself out of it, Azzi was leaning forward pressing her mouth onto Paige’s.

Paige groaned almost immediately into Azzi’s mouth. The kiss was heavy and quick with both girls trying to press their bodies closer.

Hearing someone whoop from beside them Azzi pulled back and used her hands to push Paige slightly.

“We can't,” she whispered and Paige’s face fell.

“Not here,” she continued and Paige perked up at that, “my sister is right over there Paige.”

Paige looked over her shoulder and then sighed, turning back around to face Azzi.

“Give me two minutes and then meet me at my car,” Paige whispers before pressing a quick peck to Azzi’s lips and turning around to walk towards the group.

Azzi’s eyes follow Paige’s form for a few seconds. She was stunned. Her whole body was in a state of shock. She was confused and hot all over. She took a second to look around and saw no one looking in her direction. She took a deep breath and then let her feet slowly head in the direction of the front door.

She spotted Paige’s car and walked near it standing and waiting. Within a few moments, Paige was outside and heading over to open the door for Azzi. As Azzi got in the seat, Paige put two fingers under her chin and turned Azzi’s face, pressing another kiss onto Azzi’s mouth.

She pulls back and looks between Azzi’s eyes. She shakes her head slightly with a smile of disbelief, “Jesus.”

The door is shutting behind her and she is heading around the car and getting into the driver’s seat. Paige sits down and looks at Azzi before settling in.

“I want you to know, I am really into you. When I said you look good, I meant it, Azzi” Paige starts driving back towards the dorms.

“Oh,” Azzi says dumbly, “since when?”

“Do you remember when we were in high school and Aubrey and I made fun of you for getting all dressed up for formal?” Paige asks after a second.

“Oh my God, that was my freshman year” Azzi responds and Paige nods though her ears flush red.

“Why haven’t you said anything? I know you knew how I felt,” Azzi turns her head to face Paige.

“I thought it was a silly little crush or infatuation because I was your sister’s friend,” Paige let out a breath turning her head to the side to look at Azzi for a moment, “I didn’t know you liked girls like that.”

Azzi nods and looks down at her hands. She was picking at the skin around hair nails. Paige noticed quickly and put her hand over Azzi's, effectively stopping the girl.

“I still don’t know,” Azzi sighs, “I know I like you. I always have and it is so hard because I cannot get past liking you to figure out what I am.”

Paige turns to Azzi and smiles, “you don’t have to know what you are. If you want this, that is enough for me.” Paige squeezes Azzi’s hand and suddenly they are pulling into the dorm parking lot.

Paige parks and turns off the car. She sits for a second and then looks over to Azzi.

“I want you to know, I didn’t leave to bring you back and just have sex or whatever,” Azzi flushes at her words, “I am fine if we go back and then just talk. I think we probably should do some of that actually,” Paige is looking so intensely at Azzi.

Azzi looks at Paige and then is leaning forward across the gearshift pressing her mouth into Paige’s. Her hands are on either side of Paige’s face when she pulls away.

“I want this, I want you. Whatever you have to offer. I want it all,” Azzi has never said words like this but she knew she meant them in every capacity. She wanted Paige in a way that left her disoriented and confused. It was an all consuming want.

“Okay,” Paige whispers back before unbuckling and getting out of the car, walking around, and holding the door open for Azzi.

She holds a hand out for Azzi. Azzi takes the hands and follows closely beside Paige. Paige leads the way into the building and leads Azzi down the first floor hallway to her own dorm. Azzi stands beside Paige as she unlocks and opens her door and leads her back to her bedroom.

Azzi had never been in Paige’s apartment before. Aubrey and Paige were in separate ones and on her visits, they stayed at Aubrey’s. Azzi was quick to push any thoughts of her sister out of her head as Paige shut the door behind them.

Azzi walked towards Paige at the door. Paige turned around and took the final steps to meet Azzi. When Paige kissed Azzi this time, it was slower and more drawn out. Azzi put her hands up against Paige’s chest and let them rest there. Paige’s hands found their spot on Azzi’s hips.

This kiss was hungrier. It was all mouth and harsh collisions of tongue. The two were pressed so tightly to each other that there was no room for breathing. Eventually, Azzi pulled back for a breath. Paige’s mouth made quick work down Azzi’s jaw. Her kisses were open mouthed and needy.

Azzi sighed at the feeling of Paige’s breath on neck, “Paige.” Azzi whimpered softly.

Paige groaned into Azzi’s neck and pressed a kiss firmer into the area she had been working at. Azzi did nothing to stop this, she just let her.

Azzi quickly realized she would let Paige do whatever she wanted. She let her touch, taste, and feel the most intimate parts of her. She let Paige take and take and tear her apart to bring it all back together. 

Azzi had never felt so worshipped and valued. Paige’s touch was gentle yet claiming in a way Azzi couldn’t describe. Paige was everything Azzi had ever hoped for.

feedback would be appreciated!! tysm <3 -- tea ★’*•.¸♡

[strnilolover]

Special birthday request hehe

Ride or Die Matt - reader ignores Matt after he hasn't fucked her in a while and gets bratty whenever he speaks to her. Matt sees her sexual frustration and draws it out a lil until she begs for it. The actual smut is yours to create and imagine. LOVE YOUUU

⌗ . . . A GOOD FUCK

WARNINGS : DOM!MATT. MEAN!MATT. BRATTY!READER. SMUT. PNV. DEGRADING. TEASING. SEXUAL FRUSTRATION!

for my lovely kay!! @endereies happy happy birthday!! <3

you knew matt wasn’t intentionally meaning to ignore you—you knew he had a big race coming up in a week and he just wanted to make sure everything was perfect and ready for himself to win.

but it was getting to you.

sitting in the hot garage day after day just to watch him work on his car with chris—his attention barely on you day after day. you were growing frustrated—needy—the tension in your body so tight you felt like you were going to burst.

and really today was no different than the last few. you were in the garage again—sitting on the empty tool bench in the far corner with your legs crossed. you were doing everything in your power not to look at him. you wanted to be mad at him—you were mad at him. but it was like your body just didn’t care what your mind thought.

matt was bent over the open engine bay of his race car, sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his hands buried deep inside the guts of the machine. chris was next to him, his sleeves rolled up with grease on his jaw, and tossing tools between his fingers while reading torque specs off his phone.

“she’s still knocking on the left side. probably a valve lash issue.” chris muttered, reaching for a socket wrench. “did you tighten these already?” you overheard him ask and matt grunted, reaching back and pulling a rag from his back pocket to wipe his hands. he nodded, sighing. “twice. and she’s still not settling.”

“You think it’s the camshaft?” chris asked, trying to help matt figure out what could be wrong with the car. he hummed. “could be.” matt replied before he stood straight for a moment, cracked his neck, and swiped sweat from his brow. his half-zipped suit hung low on his hips, exposing the white tank under it, stained with grease from the car and whatever else.

you didn’t even blink. chris noticed your behavior—and you were sure matt did too—and shot you a quick look, raising a brow at the way you sat there all stiff and silent, but didn’t say anything. he knew better.

matt had already tried to make conversation with you three times already today.

“did y’see the new tires?”

no reply.

“you wanna help baby? or just pout all day?”

still nothing.

“you’re not mad at me right?”

you were. but you smiled sweetly at your phone like he didn’t even exist. and matt scoffed low under his breath and leaned against the hood while chris ducked back under it. he was watching you and that made you twitch, but didn’t look up. he definitely noticed.

chris glanced up from under the hood of the car with a smirk like he was used to tuning you both out when you got like this. he himself could feel the tension between you two now beginning to grow rapidly. “i’m gonna..go grab the plugs.” he muttered, suddenly disappearing toward the supply shelf in the back.

as soon as he was gone, matt tilted his head at you and smirked like he was going to say something, but instead he gave you one last knowing look before he turned back to the car with that same smug little shake of his head.

matt definitely knew. it was like he could read you like an open book even if you didn’t want to be read. you were needy—throbbing and pent up. and you hated that he knew. hated how cocky he was about it. like he could feel it on you.

you could feel how flushed your face was, how hot you were just from him staring at you. it had been days since he’d touched you—fucked you. and it felt as if every little thing he did just served to rile you up more. you just turned yourself away from them once chris returned, keeping silent.

you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. not another glance or sound. you crossed your arms over your chest, your lips tight as you just stared away from them. your phone was still in your lap, but you’d scrolled past the same tiktok five times. you couldn’t focus.

you hadn’t realized that matt started to watch you again until he spoke—too wrapped up into your own head and trying to be mad at him. “baby.” matt called again, from across the garage after chris walked off again—this time taking his sweet time at the far end of the room. “you’re not even gonna look at me?”

you didn’t. you were barely breathing at this point.

there was a long pause—nothing but the sound of chris messing around somewhere in the back room could be heard. but the the sound of his boots coming toward you echoed through the garage.

you didn’t bother to move. but your stomach dropped and your cunt clenched—it didn’t take long before your eyes flicked up in spite of yourself just as he reached the tool bench you were sitting on. his frame was towering over you, arms crossed as he looked down at you.

“you’re actin’ like a fuckin’ brat.” he muttered, voice low enough to be for you only. “and honestly, it’s cute.” and you just blinked, like you didn’t hear him, but your nails dug into your arms. “don’t give me that.” he said with a chuckle, dropping his voice lower as he leaned in closer. his hands came to rest on the side of the bench, right by your thigh. “you’ve been sittin’ there all day with that little attitude. like i don’t know exactly why you’re so quiet.”

you still didn’t say anything—but it was becoming increasingly hard to stay quiet. to not just give in right now and drop your whole bratty act. you knew what you were doing—you did this every time you wanted his attention. he was so close. too close.

“poor baby.” he said, the mock sympathy dripping from his words as he cocked his head. “so neglected. must be real hard not getting my cock for a few days, huh?” and you clenched your jaw, exhaling slowly. your thighs pressing together. of course he knew—but you weren’t expecting him to say it out loud. not here at least.

“bet you been touchin’ yourself when I’m not around. whining into your pillow.” he sneered, his fingers barely brushing the top of your knee as his hand moved slowly. “but it’s not the same, is it?” and that’s what got you to finally look at him. finally. and he grinned.

“m’not a brat.” you mumbled, crossing your legs the other way, trying to move away so he wouldn’t make your walls crumple anymore than they already were. “oh, sweetheart.” he said, now dragging his thumb across your thigh. “you’re the fuckin’ definition of one.” he leaned down now, his lips right against your ear. “but i love when you act like this. makes it more fun to break you down later.” and then he pulled away, giving your thigh a light squeeze then and tap before turning away to go back to his car.

your heart was racing now, and you swallowed—your stomach already twisting and turning—mind running with so many thoughts of what he just might do.

-

the next day was worse. you were so much more worse.

you didn’t even say hi when you walked into the garage—and honestly you weren’t even sure why you kept coming back in here when you knew you didn’t have to. but you just strutted in anyways in a pair of tight little shorts and a cropped tee.

you made it a point not to look at matt when he glanced up, watching the way you climbed up onto that same tool bench and crossed your legs. but your whole body was stiff—because you could feel the way he looked at you.

chris was underneath the car, his legs sticking out like some cartoon, which honestly made you crack a small smile. but you wiped it away quickly as you started to peel open a popsicle you had brought with you and stuck it between your lips without a word.

matt shook his head and chuckled under his breath—he knew what you were doing. and you knew that he knew. it was on purpose, what you were doing. every little slurp you made on the red popsicle was for him. even the eye-roll you did every time you moved your head down was meant to test him. to tease him—just to see how far he’d let this go.

but he just kept working, even if you were staring to become distracting. his eyes flicking over to you every few minutes, watching the way some of the juice from the popsicle was dripping down the sides of your mouth. and how your nipples were poking through that shirt of yours. of course you weren’t wearing a fucking bra—matt didn’t like the thought of chris’ eyes landing on you and seeing it.

you sat there for a while, not watching the boys, just scrolling on your phone and eating your popsicle until it was finished. but at some point chris had left to “take a call.” he knew how you guys got, and really he wish he didn’t, but he was around be too often to where he started picking up on little details. and so he shoot a knowing glance between you both before heading out. the door swung shut behind him.

and that’s when the air seemed to change. it became more tense—so thick you could probably cut it with a knife. you and matt were both on edge, but it wasn’t going to be him who was going to snap first.

you didn’t hear mat move right away, just the sound of tools being set down gently in the tool boxes where they went before the sound of a rag was heard. and then his shadow was being casted over your legs. he didn’t give you time to react before he was already speaking to you.

“i should bend you over that hood.” he murmured, not even giving you the satisfaction of looking directly at you, instead he was looking else where. his hand rested on the edge of the bench beside you, fingers slowly curling just like they had yesterday.

he startled you to say the least but all you did was blink slowly before your lips parted, taking little breaths in and out. your heart hammering.

when he finally looked at you, he moved to step between your knees. “don’t look so shocked sweetheart. done nothin’ but try to provoke me today.” and you couldn’t stop the next words from slipping past your lips. “fuck you.” you mumbled, though it came out breathy.

he hummed, his hands moving slow—up your thighs, spreading them apart just a little as he leaned it towards you. “i like this version of you. all pouty. all worked up.” your breath hitched as his fingers ghosted over your core—so close you could feel the heat radiating off his knuckles.

but he didn’t touch you. not in the way you wanted him to—and that make your head spin, your walls crumbling down in an instant. “please.” you whispered without thinking and matt tilted his head, smirking to himself. he had you exactly where he wanted you. “please?” he echoed mockingly. “that’s it?”

he tsked, leaning in so close to you that his lips brushed your ear, just like they had done yesterday. and you could feel the way your breath caught in your throat. “nah, baby. you’re not gettin’ my cock until you’re begging for it. i wanna hear how bad it hurts not having your pussy stuffed after a few days.”

you whined, your hips shifting forward. he hadn’t even done anything to you yet—but yet here you were—your body already on fire and your mind already beginning to turn to mush just from how he was talking to you. “it hurts,” you whispered. “been hurting all week.” your words were breathless, almost inaudible as you spoke.

matt shifted just slightly, moving his palm to suddenly press flat against your cunt over your shorts—your legs parted more for him as you gasped at the contact. it was such a small move, but fuck did it feel amazing.

“oh, I fuckin’ bet.” he growled, his fingers now moving to rubbing slow, firm circles over your clothed clit. he was focused on the fact that chris could come back into the garage and see you both like this—no—he was focused on making you pay for how you had been acting towards him. “this little pussy’s been neglected, huh? bet she’s been so fuckin’ soaked for me, isn’t she?”

you nodded so fast you thought you’d get whiplash, your breath catching. he was always so hot when he spoke to you like this. it was exactly what you needed—and you were so so close to getting what you wanted, it was like you could taste it. “mhm—yes. fuck, matt please.” you begged just slightly, but it obviously wasn’t enough. because just as your hips started to grin against his fingers, he pulled back and just stepped away.

just like that.

and you stared at him with your lips parted in disbelief. he touched you and then backed off—why would he just do that?

“mm-mm. that’s not what i asked for.” he said, reaching out and wiping his hands with a clean rag, turning back toward the car with a smirk. “i said to beg. not whimper. makes you sound desperate baby.”

you were seething. your eyes turning to slits as your voice started before your brain could catch up. “matt!” you slid off the bench, storming over to where he way by his car, your voice beginning to raise. “you’re such a—” and before you could get the rest of the words out, matt was spinning quick to pin you back against the edge of the car with a hand against your stomach. “careful. sat the wrong thing and i’ll edge you on my tongue for an hour just to send you home without my cock.”

your eyes widened—welling just slightly as your whole body began to throb even more. it wasn’t fair how he was acting—he would’ve just given into you by now. you felt as if you’d cry right here and now with how much you needed him.

“now be a good girl,” he whispered, one hand coming out to grab at your hip as the one on your stomach began sliding down and into your shorts. his fingers dancing along the outside of your panties, tracing faint lines over your pussy. “and tell me what you want.” you were warm—everywhere—the wet patch on your panties growing by the second, sticking to you.

“want your cock,” you gasped, the words being mumbled, your pride crumbling. your body basically shrinking in front of him. “please—want it so bad—been aching for days.”

“yeah? what, you want it—here?” his fingers moved and pressed hard over your clit. you nodded desperately, lips parting as your eyes fluttered shut for just a moment. “c’mon baby, say it. tell me what filthy little thoughts have been swimming around in that pretty head of yours.” your hips twitched at his words, eyes fluttering back open.

“I want you to bend me over and fuck me like i’m nothing.” your voice cracked just slightly—you felt so embarrassed. “want you to use me. make me cum so hard i forget how long i waited.” matt groaned out a noise of approval before he leaned down, his mouth connecting to yours in a heated kiss.

his hand moved out of your shorts, coming up to land on your other hip as his lips broke away from your own, quickly spinning you around—pressing you against his car. the hood was down now, and you hadn’t even realized it was. almost like he planned for it to end like this.

he pressed a hand up between your shoulder blades, a quiet signal for you to go down. and you listened—bending yourself forward and arching the best you could, letting your legs spread more for him.

you let yourself lay flat, your cheek pressed to the metal of the hood. matts hands grabbed at the waist band of your shorts and yanked them down to your knees—your panties now on full display for him, absolutely soaked through. “look at you, soaked through your fuckin’ panties,” he muttered. “how pathetic is that?”

you turned your head slightly to look over one of your shoulders the best you could—catching a small glimpse of him before you let your head fall back down. “please.” you whined, pushing your hips back against him. you could feel how hard he was already, his cock straining against the material of his pants.

he thought about teasing you more—letting you grind yourself back into him like a needy girl—but he decided not to waste anymore time. after all, he was getting impatient himself.

so he just reached down and slid your panties to the side, his other hand coming down and undoing his pants, pulling his cock out as quickly as he could. he pulled back slightly so he could spit down onto his hand, reaching down to fist himself until he was slick enough. the loss of contact made you whimper, your desperation growing more by the second.

he chuckled when he noticed, tsking before grabbing your hip and lining himself up. “so fuckin’ impatient baby. you want it so bad? then fucking take it.” and with that his hips pushed forward rather rough, his cock burying itself so deep inside you, it nearly knocked the wind out of you.

you moaned loud—the sound almost between a cry and a scream—but he reached around and clamped a hand over your mouth rather quickly, shutting you up as his hips snapped forward. “shh, baby. y’gotta keep it down. wouldn’t want chris hearing what a needy little whore you are, hm?”

you shook your head, small “no’s” slipping past your lips as your nails scraped against the hood of his car. he started fucking you rough and deep, one of his hands tangling itself in your hair as the other stayed over your mouth.

“five days without my cock and look at you,” he hissed. “takin’ it like you’re starved for it. you are, aren’t you? so upset that my attention hasn’t been on you, you greedy girl.” your moans we’re muffled against his hand, drool pooling in the palm of it as he tried to keep you quiet.

“say it.” he growled, the hand in your hair yanking your head back and away from his hand that covered your mouth. your moans echoing through the garage now as his cock kisses that sweet spot inside you over and over again. the drool now trailing down the sides of your mouth, pool against your shirt.

“I—i was upset!” you gasped, a hand reaching back to grab at him every time he rammed inside you. your scalp starting to burn slightly from the grip he had on your hair. “just—just wanted your attention matt—missed it—please!” he cursed under his breath, his own eyes rolling back from how good you were behaving now. “there’s my good girl.” he murmured. “all that attitude just cause you needed what? a good fuck?, hm?.”

you nodded, the words dying on your tongue as he fucked you faster. the car under you was shaking and neither of you cared if chris heard you—both of you were just focused on the moment and how good you both felt.

every part of you felt on fire—from the heat or from matt you weren’t sure. but your stomach was becoming tighter, your orgasm building. you were crying by now, you were sure of it—your eyes all watery and nose sniffling as matt’s hips didn’t stop. he could feel the way you clenched around him, drawing him in every time he pulled out—it was like you were milking him.

“c’mon sweetheart, i can feel you clenching around me. you gonna cum already? missed my cock so much that you can’t even last?” your body shuttered at his words. he was mocking you—and you tried to deny it, tried to lift your head to say no but it was no use. he wasn’t lying.

the hand tangled in your hair pushed your face back down to the hood of the car, sliding down to grab at the back of your neck. holding you there. “cum on my cock baby. show me how bad you missed me.” hips get kicked your legs wider as he thrusted forward, the new angle making your eyes rolling back as you clenched around him again.

“ah—ah—oh fuck!” your body shook and tensed, walls fluttering around matt’s cock as you let go. you came with a loud cry, your juices beginning to rush out and down his cock. soaking the back of your thighs and the front of his pants. your legs almost threatened to give out on you, but matt just held you up as he fucked you through your high. his own not too far behind.

it wasn’t long before you body started to become over sensitive, twitching slightly in his hold as you started to babble. “matt—fuckfuckfuck—ohmygod—“ his hand on your neck decided to move again, this time trailing down your body and pressing to your clit, rubbing it quickly as his thrusts started to become sloppy.

“y’gonna cum again baby. c’mon, want you to cum again—you can do it f’me.” he groaned, his body leaning forward to press his chest flush to your back, his teeth sinking into the flesh of your shoulder as his hips stuttered. he stilled moments later, his balls drawing tight as he spilled himself inside you. thick ropes of cum painted your walls, some even leaking around the sides of him as he tried to bury himself deeper into your cunt.

the feeling of it triggered your second orgasm—your cunt clenching down around him once again as you came. your vision blurred for just a moment as small gasps slipped out of you. matt continued to empty himself inside you, making sure to fill you to the brim before his body relaxed on top of yours basically.

“this what you wanted, huh?” he muttered, turning his head two press a kiss where his teeth bit into your flesh. light purple marks already blossoming around the bite. and you nodded, your body half-limp and your mind absolutely gone. your breath catching.

“good.” he whispered—his arms moving to peel himself off of you gently. he was being gentle now. this was your favorite part after it all—how gentle he is with you, knowing he pushed your limits just a little. “stay right here for a sec while i get stuff to clean us up baby.”

you whined as he started to pull away—not wanting him to go. you just wanted him close now. “matttt.” but he just shushed you as his hips pulled back, his cock slipping from your now spent and full cunt. he watched as a mixture of his cum and yours leaked out of you, giving just a small smirk before he wandered off to get some clean rags.

matt had managed to get you both cleaned up in time and dressed before chris came back inside. matt had been situating you on his lap, your head snuggled into his neck, before chris came back into the building. you yourself were already starting to doze off in his arms, your body tired and weak.

and chris glared at you both—knowing just from how calm you were and how smug matt looked—that something went on in here that he’d rather not think about. a quite “you guys are disgusting.” muttered from him as matt just laughed.

a/n : this was supposed to be posted on june 28th but i’m very bad at sticking to a schedule obviously. but happy birthday kay!! my sweetest and bestest friend ever. i love you so so much and i hope your day was fantastic and just know that you are stuck with me forever 🤗

this also isn’t proofread so if there’s any spelling mistakes, i apologize

[applecaviar]

Hiii, you've become one of my favorite Lads writers and I absolutely love when you come across my feed, even with your reblogged recs. So firstly, thank you for all you do and practically spoiling us 🥹💖🫶🏾🫶🏾.

I think one of my favorites was your Unholy Trinity story (I read it like 4 times and even shared it with my best friend), and I was wondering if it would be possible to do another story with them but they all plan a night for MC or reader without her knowing? Like MC falls into their trap almost as if they're hunting and cornering her (consensually), leading to a long night of fun? I hope this makes sense 😅

Ten out of ten 🍎❄️🐦‍⬛

The (un)holy Trinity Part #2

Sorry this took me such a long time. I've been really busy and requests are taking longer. 😮‍💨😮‍💨.

I hope this is what you were looking for, if it isn't send me a message and I'll see what I can do. 😀

"In the name of the doctor, the crow and the unholy step bro."

TW:Smut

Art: omi-resources

Ps. Pls don't send hate messages 🙏🏻.

Lost in thought, your mind drifts back to that night four months ago. The memory of being with Caleb, Sylus, and Zayne simultaneously, of feeling their hands on your body and their lips on your skin, sends a shiver down your spine. It was a night of raw passion and intimacy that you can't seem to forget.

So you sit there, contemplating the logistics of broaching the subject of a repeat performance, but you realize that it's not as simple as just coming out and saying it. How do you put into words the desire to feel that intoxicating mix of jealousy, possessiveness, and insatiable lust all over again? How do you express the craving to be the center of attention for three strong, dominant men, without sounding shameless?

You know all too well the personalities that come with each of them. Caleb's jealousy, a side of him that he rarely shows but becomes so evident in the bedroom. Zayne's possessiveness, his need to claim and own every inch of you. And Sylus, with his insatiable libido and ability to turn even the simplest of touches into a sensual experience. Putting them all together is like mixing fire, ice, and electricity, it's dangerous, but the thrill of it all is impossible to resist.

No, you can't just come out and say "Hey, God gave me three holes for a reason, let's fuck." That would be too crass. Besides, their individual personalities would likely complicate matters.

For the past month, you've been going on separate dates with them, all of which were pleasant enough, but left you wanting so much more. The sexual tension that once crackled between you was replaced by polite conversation and gentle hand holding. It was maddening.

Zayne, he'd take you out, treat you to delicious meals at posh restaurants, and engage you in witty banter, only to drop you off at home with a quick peck on the cheek. It was as if he was teasing you, dangling the carrot of his touch, only to snatch it away at the last second.

Caleb, you met him for a couple of lunch dates, his uniform crisp and sharp, that damn, sexy uniform always present. You'd tried to focus on his words, on the conversation, but your mind kept drifting to the strength of his hands, the power they held as they gripped the utensils, or as you imagined them gripping your hips, your thighs, your...damnit. He always seemed oblivious to your internal turmoil, chatting away about his duties.

Sylus, too, had been a fleeting presence, always rushing, always distracted by the chaos in the N109 zone. He'd catch you when he could, stealing a quick kiss in the hallways of his home, his hands gripping your waist with a desperation that spoke of his own frustration.

In the privacy of your own space, you found yourself turning to synthetic companionship, your vibrator becoming a familiar friend as you laid awake at night, your body crying out for their touch. The toy left you satisfied enough to sleep, but always craving more, always yearning for the real thing.

Right now, feeling the weight of four weeks worth of pent up desire, you make a decision as you stand up from your bed. Your body thrums with determination to put an end to your sexual misery. You stride over to your drawer, rummaging through the delicate fabrics until you find the most shameless set of lingerie you own, one that screams sin and indulgence.

You slip it on, the cool lace sending tingles across your heated skin. You take a moment to admire yourself in the mirror, noting how the black contrast against your skin makes you look like a dark fantasy come to life. You're not usually one for such bold displays, but today feels different, urgent. 

Your hands tremble slightly as you apply your makeup, going for a smoky eye that emphasizes the desire burning in your eyes. You paint your lips a deep red the color of seduction. By the time you're done, you hardly recognize yourself. Gone is the usually put together, reserved you. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the night ahead as you grab your coat and head for the door.

As you settle into the passenger seat of Zayne's car, you feel a thrill of anticipation. Tonight, he's taking you back to his place. Fucking finally! (No pun intended lol)

You're wearing a dress a shade shorter than usual, and as you sit, the fabric rides up, exposing a teasing glimpse of your thighs. Zayne's eyes flicker to your exposed skin before he starts the engine and the whole drive to his home you catch him stealing glances, his grip tightening on the steering wheel as if trying to maintain focus.

When you arrive at his house and the front door closes behind you, you waste no time, unable to contain yourself any longer, you throw your arms around his neck, pulling him into a kiss. Your lips move against his with a fervor that takes your breath away, a few seconds stretching into an eternity of blissful connection.

Just as you're losing yourself in the sensation, a voice cuts through the haze, Calebs voice, laced with a joking tone that can't quite mask the tension.

"If you guys needed some time alone, you could have just said so, Zayne"

There's a sharpness to his words, a possessive edge that makes it clear he's not amused by the sight of you kissing Zayne. 

You reluctantly break away from Zayne's embrace, the heat of his lips still tingling on yours as you turn to face Caleb. "What are you doing here?"

"Are you not happy to see me, Pips?"

"It's not that, I just didn't expect to see you here" you admit, a faint blush coloring your cheeks.

"Well then, I guess she won't be happy to see me either."

You recognize that voice instantly, the rich, velvety timbre unmistakable. Your eyes widen as you turn to see Sylus leaning casually against the wall.

You look from one man to the next, your brow furrowed in confusion as you try to make sense of this unexpected gathering.

"I must be missing something here, was there supposed to be a party going on tonight? Because no one mentioned anything about this to me."

You direct your question at all three of them, but your eyes linger on Caleb and Sylus. A part of you can't help but wonder if this was planned, if they conspired to catch you off guard. And if so, to what end?

Zayne steps forward, breaking the silence that followed your question. He places a comforting hand on the small of your back.

"They came over to spend some time with us"

"Unless you wanted to spend the night with just Zayne..." Caleb says, a hint of accusation coloring his words.

You quickly cut him off, not wanting to entertain that particular line of thought. You take a deep breath, looking at each of them in turn before settling your eyes on Caleb. "It's fine, we've all been pretty busy, so I guess we can all spend a few hours together... in peace."

You emphasize the last word, a silent plea for the tension to dissipate. Despite the unexpected turn of events, you're hopeful that these precious moments can still be enjoyed by all of you.

The evening proved to be enjoyable despite the rocky start. Caleb showcased his culinary skills, preparing a delicious meal that had everyone savoring each bite. To complement the food, Sylus contributed one of his finest wines, one of your personal favorites. As the night wore on, laughter and conversation flowed freely, the initial tension melting away into a warm, fuzzy atmosphere.

Hours slipped by unnoticed, and it was nearly midnight when you decided to call it a night. You stood up from the sofa in front of them, stretching slightly as you prepared to retire to the guest bedroom. The three handsome men in the living room with you, combined with the alcohol coursing through your system, made the temptation to linger almost irresistible.

But as you took a step towards the hallway, Sylus's voice stopped you in your tracks. "So you're really not going to tell us what you want?"

His words hung heavy in the air, the unspoken meaning crystal clear to everyone present.

You turned around slowly, your heart pounding as you found yourself the center of attention. All eyes were fixed on you, three pairs of intense gazes boring into your very soul.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice coming out softer than intended. Inside, you knew exactly what Sylus was implying, but a part of you couldn't believe he was being so blatant about it.

Zayne and Caleb exchanged glances, chuckles escaping their lips as they watched the exchange unfold.

"You have been eye fucking us all night, kitten. And if I were to slip my hand under that dress of yours and touch your pretty little pussy right now, I'd bet my life it's absolutely soaking wet. So the real question is, why are you leaving?"

His words were crude, vulgar even, but the way he said them, the desire dripping from every syllable, made your knees feel weak. You gripped the back of a nearby chair for support, suddenly feeling like you needed something solid to keep you upright. The room spun slightly, and you weren't sure if it was from the wine or Sylus's words.

"Why don't you sit back down and tell us what you want, Pips? We're here to give you what you want, all you need to do is ask"

Feeling like you were in a trance, you took a few steps towards the sofa "I don't know what you guys are talking about..." 

Zayne cut through your hesitation "Sit... down" he ordered, his voice leaving no room for disobedience. It was the same tone he used when he needed you to focus on something important, and it worked just as well now.

As if pulled by an invisible string, you sank back into the sofa, the plush cushions enveloping you. The sensation of sinking down felt like surrender, like giving in to the inevitable.

Sylus's voice drifted over to you, his praise making your heart flutter. "Good girl" he said, his words dripping with approval. You felt a rush of warmth spread through you at his words, your core clenching at the simple praise.

Zayne drained the last of the wine from his glass and set the empty tumbler down on the small table beside the sofa. He leaned back, his posture relaxed yet attentive as he fixed his eyes on you.

"Now," he began, "how long have you been craving the three of us again? And why didn't you say anything?"

You felt your cheeks burn as you processed Zayne's question. A wave of embarrassment crashed over you, realizing you had walked straight into their trap. It was so obvious now, the way they had been watching you, the loaded comments and the charged atmosphere. You cursed yourself for not seeing it sooner.

Trying to hide your flustered expression, you averted your eyes, turning your face away from their stares. A pretty blush colored your cheeks a deep pink, mirroring the wine you had enjoyed throughout the night.

"How did you...?" You asked, but you already knew the answer. The way you had been eyeing them all evening, the lingering glances, the flushed cheeks, it was all the evidence they needed to put the pieces together.

"Tsk, don't try to act so shy, sweety. Answer the question." There was no use pretending anymore, no more feigning innocence. You were well and truly caught.

Your voice came out as a breathy whisper " A while..."

"We've ruined you forever, haven't we?" Sylus asked, and there was a note of smugness in his tone. He knew the power they held over you, the effect their presence had on your senses and your desires.

Unable to deny it any longer, you nodded slowly, the movement almost imperceptible. 

Zayne, never one to miss an opportunity to take control, leaned in and voiced the unspoken desire that hung heavy in the room. "Take off your dress Y/N" he ordered. It was a demand for you to bare yourself to them, to offer yourself up willingly.

You stood again and reached for the zipper at the back of the dress, the metal tab cool against your fingertips. You could feel all three pairs of eyes watching your every move, their attention a physical weight that made your skin prickle. Slowly, you dragged the zipper down, the sound of the teeth parting echoing in the stillness of the room.

The dress loosened around you as the zipper reached the bottom, and with a gentle shrug of your shoulders, you let the garment slip off your body. The soft fabric whispered as it slid down your curves, the dress pooling at your feet.

As the dress hit the floor with a soft rustle, a united groan echoed through the room. It was as if they had been so in sync, so attuned to each other's thoughts and desires, that they reacted as one.

Suddenly self conscious, a surge of heat rushed to your face, painting your cheeks a deeper, more vivid shade of red. You remembered the lingerie you had chosen to wear beneath the dress, a lacy set of delicate fabric and provocative design. The matching bra and panties were made of a thin material, the lace so sheer that it left little to the imagination. They were a secret indulgence, a private fantasy that you had dared to wear, hoping that perhaps, just maybe, one of them might catch a glimpse and appreciate the effort.

The way their eyes moved over your nearly naked body, taking in every curve, made your heart race. You could see the effect your near nudity was having on them, the way their pupils dilated, the slight parting of their lips as they drank in the sight of you.

 You sank back down onto the plush sofa, the soft fabric cool against your newly exposed skin. The weight of their eyes made you acutely aware of every inch of your body and you hugged your arms around yourself, a instinctive gesture of modesty that only served to draw their attention to the swell of your breasts

Just as you settled into the cushions, you saw Zayne rise from his seat with fluid grace. He moved towards you, each step purposeful until he stood before you, close enough that you could feel the tension radiating off his body. Then he knelt down on one knee, bringing himself to your level, his eyes never leaving yours.

He posed his question softly, politely, ever the gentleman despite the charged atmosphere. "May I?"

In response, you nodded, a small movement, but one that held a world of unspoken permission.

Slowly, he gathered your long hair in one fist, his fingers sifting through the strands until he had a handful. He pulled it to the side, baring the column of your neck and shoulder, and granting himself access to the skin of your chest.

You felt his warm fingers reach for the delicate lace of your bra. With a gentle tug, he peeled the cups down, the material slipping away to reveal the soft, rounded curves of your breasts. A soft gasp escaped your lips at the sensation, your nipples pebbling in the cooler air.

His hands were warm and sure as he cupped the weight of your breasts, his long, elegant fingers easily enveloping the soft mounds. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, the fleeting touch making you arch into his hands instinctively. Then he began to tease your nipples, rolling the sensitive peaks between his fingers.

Each pinch, each tug, each gentle twist sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body, making your back arch and your toes curl.

The sensation was glorious, it was as if every nerve ending in your breasts had come alive firing with electric pleasure as he played your body like an instrument.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of the sofa cushion, gripping the soft material as you struggled to anchor yourself against the overwhelming onslaught of sensation. Your chest heaved with each breath, your breasts pushing into Zayne's palms as if begging for more of his touch. The heat between your legs intensified, your core clenched and fluttered around nothing as the ache for fulfillment grew more urgent with each passing second.

"We have a little bit of time to do this the way we wanted to from the beginning," he murmured as his fingers found the clasp of your bra, and with a single flick, he unhooked it, allowing the delicate garment to fall away.

But just as suddenly, he paused, a flicker of sense amidst the haze of lust. His eyes met yours, and with a decisive movement, he scooped you up into his arms, your body molding against the hard planes of his chest. The sudden shift in position made you gasp, your arms instinctively looping around his neck for support.

He stood, holding you effortlessly against him. With a nod towards the others, a silent communication passing between the three men, he began to carry you towards his bedroom.

He shouldered open the door to his bedroom, the heavy wood swinging inward to reveal the spacious, dimly lit room. The bed loomed before you, the dark sheets inviting and enticing. He carried you to the edge of the mattress, his fingers tightening on your thighs as he slowly lowered you down. Your body sank into the soft comforter, the luxurious fabric a sensual caress against your bare skin.

"Wrap your legs around my shoulders"

You hesitated, a sudden wave of shyness washing over you. Your legs remained draped over the edge of the bed, your ankles crossed as you resisted his silent command.

"What's wrong, kitten? If I remember well, you really like it when he eats your pussy," Sylus remarked, a smirk on his lips as he leaned back against the doorframe, watching the scene unfold with keen interest.

But that wasn't the reason for your hesitation. Far from it. 

Rising to his feet, Zayne adjusted your position, gently maneuvering you until you were straddling his face. Your hips hovered just above his mouth, close enough to feel his warm breath ghosting over your folds.

"Oh...oh, I see," Zayne murmured, his fingers tightened on your hips, tugging you a little closer. "They're crotchless."

"Naughty kitten," Sylus purred and moved closer, drawn by the sight of you poised above Zayne. "You ready to let her fuck your face, Zayne?" 

You cried out as Zayne tugged you down, pressing your nearly bare pussy against his mouth. Throwing your head back, you instinctively raised your hips, overwhelmed by the sudden contact.

Caleb was quick to intervene, using his evol he pulled you down slightly "Don't pull away from him, princess. Smother him, sit on his face."

Zayne, his head now resting flat on the mattress, looked up at you "Sweet girl, I've got you, now stop hovering and sit on my damn face." His fingers moved impatiently as he urged you to take full advantage of your position.

The moment your hips settled against his mouth, he set to work, his tongue swiping hot and firm over your sensitive clit. You couldn't hold back the sharp gasp that escaped your lips. Your fingers instinctively reached out behind you, grasping at the firm muscles of Zayne's chest for support.

Your hips began to move on their own, undulating and grinding against Zayne's mouth as waves of pleasure crashed over you, making your core throb and ache with a desperate need for release.

Zayne's hands gripped your buttocks tightly, spreading your cheeks apart as he delved deeper, his tongue plunging into your dripping entrance.

You felt Sylus settle in behind you. Somehow, in your haze, you didn't notice he was undressing. Now, his naked body pressed against your back and his stiff cock nestled between your ass.

His hands came around to cup your breasts. His thumbs and forefingers rolling and tugging at your nipples until they stiffened into peaks. Pleasure sparked from your breasts, adding to the growing inferno building between your thighs.

You leaned back against Sylus, resting your head on his chest as he toyed with your breasts. Your body was a live wire of sensation, every nerve ending alight and singing with bliss. Sylus's lips brushed your ear as he spoke.

"Did you know, Colonel, that our girl here is a messy squirter? You just have to press the right buttons at the same time. Our sweet kitten is sensitive to our touch, in all the right places." 

As if to demonstrate his point, Sylus's hands left your breast, trailing down the valley of your spine until it reached the apex of your thighs. His fingers brushed against your folds, parting them gently to allow the thick head of his cock to nestle between them. The heat of him radiated against your sensitive flesh, making your walls clench and flutter in anticipation.

Zayne's mouth shifted its focus, his tongue working that aching, throbbing bud at the apex of your sex. He suckled it gently, drawing it into his mouth as he laved it with the flat of his tongue.

Sylus let out an appreciative groan as he began to slowly sink himself inside you "Biiiiig stretch, baby," he murmured, his voice strained with pleasure "Fuck sweety, how are you still this fucking tight?"

A moan spilled from your lips as you felt Sylus bottom out inside you, his hips flush against your ass. The stretch was intense, your body struggling to accommodate his size, even as your slick walls pulsed and rippled around him, trying to draw him deeper.

Lost in the feeling of being so utterly filled, your eyes had drifted shut. But as the pleasure crested, your lids fluttered open, and you found yourself staring into Caleb's intense, dark eyes. He stood before you, his own arousal evident in the tightness of his jaw and the prominent bulge straining against his pants.

He couldn't look away, he watched the way you moved your hips shamelessly, chasing your pleasure without restraint. He saw the way Zayne's flat tongue licked Sylus's heavy balls, before continuing its journey to lave over your puffy clit. The lewd display hinted at a familiarity, a practiced ease between the two men. It was clear they had done this before, had pleasured and been pleasured by each other in countless intimate ways.

Sylus let out a sharp, breathy curse, his hips jerking involuntarily as he felt the slick glide of Zayne's tongue over his sensitive sack again. "Fuck, Zayne!"

Caleb moved closer to your side, drawn by the bounce and sway of your breasts. Unable to resist the alluring sight, he leaned in, his warm breath ghosting over the sensitive peak of your nipple before he took it into his mouth.

His tongue swirled around the stiff bud, twisting and flicking in a way that sent electric sparks straight to your cunt. The added stimulation was too much, and with a sharp cry, your orgasm crashed over you.

You felt Sylus's fat cock head slam into that spot deep inside you, and your body responded with a gush of fluid. Your walls clamped down viciously around his length, rippling and squeezing as your arousal gushed out around his shaft.

"Shit, she squirts so hard," Caleb groaned, pulling back to watch with hooded, appreciative eyes.

"Told you, she is a messy squirter" said Sylus as he pulled out.

Blinking away the haze of pleasure, you found Caleb no longer beside you, but sitting back against the headboard of the large bed. To your surprise and delight, you saw that his cock had been freed from the confines of his pants. He was stroking it slowly, his fingers wrapped around it, the movement deliberate and enticing.

"Come here, princess" The timbre of his tone left no doubt that he wanted...no, needed you.

Still trembling slightly from your recent climax, you crawled towards Caleb without hesitation. Your body moved on instinct, already knowing what he craved, what he was silently begging for. You nestled yourself between his spread legs, your hands grasping his thighs as you leaned in, taking his thick, hard length into your mouth.

His head fell back against the headboard with a guttural moan. "Fuck, Y/N," his fingers moved through your hair, holding you close.

"Your mouth feels like a goddamn dream..."

You loved the way his hips twitched, his body responding instinctively to the feel of your tongue swirling around the sensitive crown of his cock.

Suddenly, a sharp slap rang out, the sound of skin connecting with skin echoing through the room. The stinging slap on your ass made you gasp around Caleb's shaft, the sound muffled and choppy.

"Ass up, love," Zayne ordered

Your body tensed for a moment when you felt Zayne's heavy cock press against your cunt, anticipating the impending intrusion, before you felt him thrust forward, sheathing himself inside you with one stroke.

"Fuck, you clench me like you were made for me" he rasped, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips as he began to move.

At first, his thrusts were fast and shallow, you felt yourself starting to adjust, your body falling into sync with his urgent pace, when suddenly, he changed tactics.

His thrusts slowed to a deep, sensual roll that had you seeing stars. The glide of his cock along your walls was exquisite torture, stoking the embers of your arousal into a raging inferno once more. Unable to help yourself, you let out a desperate, muffled plea around Caleb's cock.

"Pleaseeee..."

The sound was garbled, barely intelligible, but the meaning was clear. You needed more, craved the stimulation of his hard flesh splitting you open.

"That's it, Pips," Caleb fisted his hand in your hair, guiding your head as he began to use your mouth "Take it deeper. You love having your throat fucked, don't you?"

You could only nod, your jaw relaxing, allowing Caleb to sink even deeper into your mouth. Drool leaked from the corners of your stretched lips as you gagged and sputtered around him, tears springing to your eyes from the intensity of the deep throat fucking.

His dick pulsed and throbbed against your tongue, the thick vein on the underside catching your attention. You ran the flat of your tongue along the ridged flesh, feeling it jump and twitch in response

Caleb let out a strangled curse, his head thrown back against the headboard as your mouth worked wonders on his cock. "Goddamn it!" he growled "Who taught her this?

"Who do you think, Colonel?" Sylus asked, a note of pride evident in his tone. "Our feisty little kitten has had plenty of one on one lessons from yours truly."

You moved your head lower, taking Caleb's cock deeper into your throat until your nose pressed against his pelvis. The musky scent of his arousal filled your nostrils as you swallowed around his length, your throat constricting deliciously around him.

His reaction was immediate and intense. His arms shot up to the headboard above him, grasping the wood as if seeking an anchor amidst the storm of sensation.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" he groaned, his eyes squeezing shut.

You began to bob your head up and down in the same relentless rhythm that Zayne was pounding into your core from behind. 

"Is it too much for you, sweety? You look like you're drowning in cock, kitten."

You tried valiantly to continue sucking Caleb, to bring him the same pleasure Zayne was giving you. But your orgasm crested and your body seized. The scream that tore from your throat was muffled by the cock lodged deep in your throat, your voice vibrating around Caleb's flesh.

The way your pussy clenched and rippled around Zayne was too much for him to resist. He slammed into you one final time, his cock pulsing as he found his release. His hot cum flooded your core, painting your walls as he ground his pelvis against your ass, pushing his cock as deep as it would go.

Sylus watched as Zayne continued to move, his cum dripping out of your pussy. "Would you look at that, she takes you beautifully, doesn't she, doctor?"

Before either of you could say something, Sylus was moving. He wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you effortlessly as if you weighed nothing at all. He positioned you to straddle Caleb's hips, your back pressed against his chest, your ass hovering just above his cock.

And then he moved to kneel between your splayed thighs, his fingers gripping your pussy lips and spreading them wide. He watched as Zayne's release began to dribble out of your puffy hole.

Your head lolled back against Caleb's chest, your hair tickling his chin as you gasped for breath. Suddenly you felt something soft and silky being wrapped around your eyes, plunging you into darkness.

"Do you think she'll be able to take us both just as well, Colonel?"

Your other senses, already heightened from the intense pleasure, seemed to sharpen in response, your skin tingling with anticipation.

"This is my favorite part, when she gives me that little gasp and then she squeezes me sooo tight" Caleb was thrusting his hips upward, sinking slowly into your core.

Your body instinctively reacted, your walls clenching around the thick cock stretching you open. A gasp escaped your lips and your back arched slightly.

"That's it, baby. Just like that," Caleb praised you as he began to move beneath you.

Just as you were losing yourself in the friction of Caleb's thrusts, you felt Sylus's fingers tighten on your hips, holding you in place. Your breath hitched as you felt the head of his cock nudge against your entrance, still slick with Zayne's release.

"Not so fast, I have to get in there too" 

"Are you fucking crazy?" Caleb asked, his body going rigid beneath you at the thought of Sylus joining in.

Zayne's calm voice cut through the air, reassuring Caleb  "She can handle it, she has done it before."

Before anyone could argue further, you took matters into your own hands, literally. Sylus had barely begun to speak when you reached down, your fingers wrapping around his cock. With a determined grip, you guided him to your entrance, the swollen head pushing insistently against your stretched folds.

Caleb gasped, his body tensing again as he felt Sylus's cock nestle against his own. He bit back a curse, his fingers digging into the soft globes of your ass as he struggled to process the intense sensation. "I don't think we'll both fit," he said, his voice strained with concern.

But Sylus was already in motion, your eager guidance spurring him on. He began to push forward and your body yielded to the pressure, your walls stretching even wider.

Your arms moved back automatically, wrapping around Caleb's neck as you braced yourself for what was about to come.

It was pure bliss. As Sylus's cock sank deeper, you felt a rush of sensation that stole your breath away. The stimulation of having both men inside you, their cocks rubbing and throbbing against each other was indescribable.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, your head falling back against Caleb's shoulder as Sylus's hips met yours. In that moment, you knew you had found a new level of ecstasy, a feeling you would be chasing for the rest of your life. These men had ruined you for anyone else, had set a new standard for pleasure that you knew you could never do without.

"Yes," you hissed. "Use me. Fill me up. I want to feel you both."

Sylus flicked his gaze up to meet Caleb's hooded eyes. He found Caleb staring back at him, his chest heaving with labored breaths, his expression a mirror of the overwhelming pleasure etched on Sylus's own face.

Without a word spoken between them, the two men seemed to reach an unspoken agreement. They began to move in tandem, their hips rolling in a devastating rhythm that had your mind reeling. Sylus would pull back slowly, his cock dragging against Caleb's as he retreated, only to surge forward once more.

Caleb matched him, stroke for stroke, the two men working in perfect sync. The feeling of having not one, but two cocks pumping in and out of your was almost too much to bear. Your body was no longer your own, but a vessel for their shared desire, a playground for them to use for their mutual pleasure.

As they moved, their lengths rubbed and slid against each other. The drag of skin on skin, the press of their shafts pulsing in time with your racing heartbeat, pushed you closer and closer to the edge of a mind shattering climax.

Just as you thought you might shatter from the sheer intensity, Caleb surged forward particularly hard and fast, his cock driving into you with a force that stole your breath away.

"Ooooh my god..." you moaned, back arching as you clung desperately to Caleb's shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

"Gods, kitten," he purred, his hips never faltering in their rhythm. "There are two of us fucking you right now."

Your arms remained wrapped tightly around Caleb's shoulders and neck, anchoring yourself to him as your body rocked and bounced with the force of their thrusts. 

"You were made for this, love. Made for us," Zayne murmured, his breath hot against your ear. His words confirmed what your body already knew, that you were destined to be the center of their shared desire.

Even as your world narrowed down to the exquisite sensations assaulting your senses, you somehow managed to turn your head towards Zayne's voice. Guided by instinct and the heat of his breath, you found his lips in the darkness, your mouth fusing with his in a desperate, hungry kiss. He drank your moans of pleasure like a man starved, his tongue delving deep.

The stimulation of Sylus's fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing and circling the sensitive nub in time with his thrusts, and Caleb's fingers pinching and tugging your nipples, sent you hurtling towards a devastating climax.. But it was the feeling of Zayne's lips wrapped around the tip of your tongue, suckling gently, that finally pushed you over the edge.

The orgasm that crashed over you was so intense, that you swore you lost consciousness for a few seconds. Your vision went white, your mind blanking out as undiluted ecstasy flooded every nerve ending. Pleasure so intense that it temporarily stole your grip on reality.

Caleb was the first to succumb, his hips slamming forward one last time before he stilled, buried to the hilt inside your clutching heat. A guttural, almost feral growl tore from his throat as his cock jerked and pulsed, spilling thick ropes of his hot seed deep into you. The sensation of his release triggered Sylus's own, and he followed suit a few seconds later, his shaft throbbing and twitching as he emptied himself inside you, his release mixing with Caleb's.

The silk blindfold was removed from your eyes, and you blinked in the sudden light, your vision slowly adjusting as they pulled their softening cocks from your thoroughly used and dripping pussy.

Instinctively you tried to close your legs, feeling a sudden surge of sensitivity and vulnerability. The movement caused a gush of their releases to spill out, the pearly fluid trickling down the curve of your ass and on the sheets beneath you.

But before you could find any relief in the soothing warmth of your own thighs pressed together, you felt Zayne's firm grip on your knees. He held your legs spread wide, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as he kept you exposed.

"Oh no, Y/N," Zayne said  "Keep those legs spread open. We aren't done with you yet."

[enwoso]

left with you | alessia russo x aussie!reader

due to popular demand by the people, here is a part two of right swipe, right time.

masterlist | read first -> right swipe, right time

alessia had timed it perfectly. or at least, in her mind, she thought she had.

the plan was simple, slip out of the changing room while most of the girls were still showering or dissecting tactics with the coaches, hoodie on, bag slung over her shoulder, eyes low and innocent.

the blonde looked casual. invisible. not like someone desperate to avoid being caught sneaking out for a post-training date.

alessia pushed through the side door into the open air and smiled, until she saw you.

you were already there, leaning against your car like some smug daydream, sunglasses perched on your nose which weren't really necessary as it wasn't the sunniest of days in london, one foot crossed over the other as you stood with two coffees in hand. roo sat half-asleep across the back seat, his back lying in direct hit of the sun through the window as his tail thumped lazily.

alessia narrowed her eyes, a small smile on her lips. "subtle."

you grinned the same lovesick smile you got every time you saw her. "i thought i was being subtle."

"you're literally posing like you're waiting to shoot an ad for oat milk." alessia got closer, your eyes scanning her outfit. her toned legs on show with the adidas shorts she wore paired with a crisp white t-shirt.

"maybe i am." you shrugged as you held out a cup. "iced latte, extra shot, one pump of vanilla. i figured you'd need the energy."

alessia nodding, a small pang in her chest at you getting her order spot on as she took the coffee, smirking. "you think i'm sneaking out to go nap?"

you leaned in as alessia took a sip of the coffee, just close enough that if there was anyone around they wouldnt hear your words. "i was hoping you were sneaking out to make out with me in your car."

alessia slightly choked on her coffee as she raised an eyebrow. "you really just say things, huh?"

"hey, blame your pretty face, russo. not me." you shrugged, a tight smirk on your lips. "i'm just reacting.”

"mhm i've noticed," alessia said, but her voice had gone all soft as she glanced down at the coffee, then back up. "you know this is the best part of my day, right?"

you tilted your head, pleased. "even better than scoring a screamer against chelsea?"

"i said what i said."

the two of you were close now, toe to toe, and alessia let herself lean in, eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again. "you gonna kiss me, or are you just gonna keep standing there looking like you belong in a bad netflix rom-com?"

you grinned a small laugh leaving your lips. "babe, i am the bad netflix rom-com."

and just as their lips met. soft, a little cocky, a little finally—a voice broke through the air.

"are you joking?! that's her?!" "it's tinder girl!"

alessia nearly dropped her coffee as she turned just in time to see kyra stop dead outside the training building, mouth wide, finger pointed directly at the two of you.

behind the young australian, a few others all wrapped in their own conversations to even notice kyra's outburst. steph, caitlin, katie, and vic, all fresh from training and clearly having caught the whole show much to their unknown.

caitlin was the first to see what kyra was making a fuss about, her jaw dropping in shock. "now way. it's the tinder aussie?!"

steph was squinting, already walking over. "so less she's brought you coffee and a dog. yeah, she's real."

katie looked like christmas had come early. "russo. you've been sneaking out for this?!"

alessia groaned as she leaned her head against your chest as you stood with a smug grin, enjoying seeing alessia squirm just that little bit. "can i not have one private moment?"

vic smirked. "not when your standing in a public car park, no."

kyra was now practically vibrating. "okay so, we need introductions. like now."

you straightened, clearly enjoying yourself, and held up a hand. "y/n. from sydney. flat white enthusiast. owner of roo. in love with your star striker."

steph gave you an approving nod, like a proud parent. "you've got guts. i like it."

"she's hot," kyra whispered too loudly to steph as everyone there heard.

"oi," alessia warned, stepping between them and you. "back off. she's mine."

you raised an eyebrow, visibly amused. "mine, huh?"

"like you don't already know"

caitlin stepped forward, all business. "alright. so, when's brunch? because now that we know you exist, you're officially one of us. aussie crew rules."

kyra nodded. "there's a group chat for us that's in london. you're getting added"

you gave alessia a smug little nudge. alessia crossed her arms. "you realise this is all going in the group chat, right?"

katie had already pulled out her phone. "oh it's already in the group chat."

vic peeked over her shoulder. "and steph's calling it 'russo's soft launch."

alessia groaned. you leaned in again, lips brushing her ear. "if this is the soft launch, imagine what the hard one looks like."

alessia flushed scarlet as she tried to bury her face in your shoulder once again as katie let out a howl of a laugh "oh my god, she's wheezing."

you reached for the door and opened it, gesturing grandly. "shall we?"

alessia climbed in, but not before looking at her teammates, all of them staring, laughing, taking pictures and notes like this was the most entertainment they'd had all week.

"y'know what," alessia said, "fine. gossip away. but my girl brought me coffee and a dog and looks like that."

you winked, arm leaning on the open door. "you forgot the part where i'm amazing in bed."

"oh my god," caitlin choked as a few sniggers could be heard from the group.

steph put her hands up. "your a good egg, y/n. the aussie's are definitely having brunch."

alessia shut the car door before anyone else could speak, face burning, heart racing and couldn't stop smiling.

[brookghaib-blog]

Almost Loved - IV

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: Four months of dates, gave Y/N hope that she found the one after hopeless years, Bob looks in love, treats beautiful. There's one step that looks like it's coming. Until Bob breaks it off with her. Encountering each other a year and an half later. What happened ?

Word count: 7,3k

--

Bob hadn’t stopped searching.

Not after seeing her in that grocery store aisle. Not after watching her run from him like he was something cruel. Something venomous. Not after Serena’s glare—sharp enough to slice open his chest—and definitely not after the sleepless nights that followed, where he lay in his cot at the Watchtower with her name echoing through his thoughts like a ghost he couldn’t exorcize.

He’d ruined everything.

But even if she never wanted to see him again, even if she screamed in his face and told him she hated him, he just wanted—needed—to see her one more time. Just one more time. He told himself it was just to apologize. Just to explain. Just to say goodbye properly, even if she didn’t owe him the time of day.

It started with him walking blocks around the neighborhood where the market was. He kept hoping maybe she lived nearby. Maybe she was just walking home, or grabbing coffee, or picking up dry cleaning—anything that would bring her into his line of sight again.

Days passed. Nothing.

He sat in cafes longer than any sane person would. Tried bookstores. Rooftop bars. Vintage markets on the weekends. Coffee spots with house plants and sad jazz playing on vinyl—places he remembered she liked in Florida. Places that felt like her. Warm and soft and kind.

Nothing.

Bob would return to the Watchtower most nights with sore feet and raw hope. And each night, he’d open his notes app, just in case he got lucky. Just in case he could jot down what he’d say if he saw her.

It always started the same.

"Hi. I'm sorry."

But after that, the words collapsed into dust. What could he say? That he had been so deep in addiction, he didn’t even trust himself around her anymore? That every time she held him, he felt both loved and unworthy? That he’d convinced himself that walking away would protect her—even when it tore him to pieces?

He thought about texting Serena. Or even Yelena again—maybe she’d found something, anything. But after Serena’s reaction, after the way her eyes had narrowed with so much fury, like he wasn’t even worth speaking to, he didn’t dare.

Instead, he’d started writing. Tiny pieces of her etched into scraps of paper, coffee receipts, his palm sometimes. He wrote down the way she used to hum while pouring her coffee. The way her head tilted when she was reading and completely immersed. The smell of her shampoo on his pillow. The sound of her laughter when he told the dumbest joke and it still landed.

All those tiny things that made a person real—and now felt impossibly far away.

He kept searching.

One day, while walking past a library tucked into a quiet street, he paused. It had vines curling up the stone and a wooden sign that swayed in the breeze. It looked like the kind of place Y/N would fall in love with.

He stepped inside, scanning the aisles like a ghost searching for a memory.

She wasn’t there.

But he stood still for a long time anyway, hand resting on the spine of a book she would’ve picked. Something poetic. Something sad. Maybe she wasn’t in New York for books or coffee or parties or exploration at all. Maybe she was here for work. School. Something he never asked about. Because back then, he was too busy hiding everything about himself.

He never asked what she wanted to be.

And that thought hit him like a truck.

How much he never got to know.

The last time they spoke, really spoke, was the night she’d kissed his forehead and told him she believed in him.

And he repaid her with silence. With a block. With a void.

She had looked at him like he was the sun.

And he had convinced himself he was the eclipse.

He ran from her. And now he didn’t even know where to look anymore.

Still, he kept walking. Past bakeries and bookstores and the kinds of flower shops she would’ve dragged him into just to smell the peonies. Every time he saw a scarf that looked like hers, or a shape of her in a crowd, his heart would thud painfully against his ribs.

Every woman with soft eyes and tired shoulders felt like her. And none of them were.

And yet…

He kept hoping.

Because he needed to see her one more time. Just once.

Even if she only gave him a single second. Even if she looked through him like he was a ghost.

He would take it.

He would take anything.

--

They had been walking for hours.

Another Sunday slipping through the cracks of Bob’s tired fingers—another day swallowed whole by the noise and endless streets of New York City. It had rained that morning, and the sidewalks were still damp, reflecting the sky like mirrors. The weight of failure clung to Bob’s shoulders like a soaked coat.

Yelena walked a few steps ahead of him, scanning every face they passed. She was still hopeful, still talking, still asking questions. But Bob’s pace had slowed. He kept looking at the ground, like maybe she'd appear there in a reflection or footprint.

"Come on," Yelena said gently, tossing him a look over her shoulder. “We’ll try the upper side next.”

Bob sighed, stuffing his cold hands into his coat pockets. “She’s not up there, either.”

“You don’t know that,” she replied, nudging him. “We haven’t even tried half the neighborhoods yet.”

Bob shook his head, jaw tightening. “Yelena… she’s gone. She left Florida. Left me. She probably found someone else. Someone who isn’t a disaster.”

Yelena stopped walking, standing in front of him. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Quit when it’s hard.” Her voice dropped lower. “She didn’t quit on you, Bob. You left her. You walked away.”

He winced. She wasn’t wrong.

“I just…” Bob swallowed, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t want her to watch me kill myself slowly. And I was. Back then, I didn’t care if I woke up the next morning.”

Yelena’s face softened.

“She looked at me like I was something good. And every time I used, it felt like I was spitting on that. I didn’t want her to see me fall apart.”

He leaned against the edge of a brick wall near a deli, staring across the street without really seeing it.

“I thought if I could just look at her one more time—just once—I could explain. Or apologize. Or I don’t know… get closure. But now? Now I think I just wanted to see if she was okay. If she was happier without me. Because part of me…” He hesitated. “Part of me thinks she moved here to be with someone else. That maybe she found what she deserved.”

Yelena folded her arms. “Do you think she would’ve run from you at the store if she was so happy?”

That shut him up.

“She looked at you like she’d seen a ghost, Bob,” Yelena continued, gentler now. “Not like someone who’s over you.”

He glanced away.

Yelena kept pressing, thoughtful. “You said she liked books. Art. Thai food. That little bakery with the painted walls. You said she used to paint when she was anxious.”

“Yeah,” Bob said quietly, a smile flickering and dying on his face. “She used to come home with paint under her nails. She’d say she blacked out for hours doing landscapes or trying to recreate old family photos. She had this thing for recreating old photos in color…”

“And places?” Yelena asked. “What kind of places did she love? Where did she go when she wanted to be alone?”

Bob blinked. “That could be anywhere.”

Yelena frowned. “Come on. Something that made her happy. Something that was hers.”

Bob thought for a moment, raking a hand through his hair.

“Well, she loved skating.”

Yelena looked up. “Like ice skating?”

“Yeah. She was good. Like… really good. She used to dream about going pro. But money was always tight growing up, and she didn’t have the connections, so it never happened. She gave it up… but every winter, every time there was an open rink, she’d go. Even alone. She said the cold air made her feel weightless. Free. She loved the way it made time stop.”

Yelena’s eyes lit up.

Bob noticed. “What?”

“Why the hell haven’t we been looking at skating rinks?”

He blinked. “I don’t—”

“She’s someone who holds onto things. Old dreams. Old love. She’s sentimental.” Yelena snapped her fingers. “It’s winter. It’s Sunday. She’s not at home. And she’s sad. Where would you go if you were trying to find a piece of yourself again?”

Bob’s stomach tightened.

The rink.

Maybe she would be there, just skating in circles, trying to outrun the noise in her head.

“Let’s go,” Yelena said, already walking again. “There are at least four rinks within twenty blocks. We’ll start with the biggest one.”

Bob hesitated.

His heart was pounding now. Hope was dangerous.

But he started moving anyway.

At the first rink, she wasn’t there. Just kids with red noses and giggling parents trying to balance on skates.

The second was a smaller indoor one. Couples. Teenagers. No one with soft hair and lonely eyes.

The third was closed.

Yelena cursed in Russian under her breath.

They walked quietly to the fourth.

The sun was setting. The air colder. Bob’s stomach ached, nerves twisting through him like barbed wire.

“What if we don’t find her?” he asked softly.

Yelena looked at him.

“Then we try again next weekend.”

--

The rink was nearly empty.

It was late—past the hour when families came to laugh and fall together, past the time when teenagers came to flirt and skate clumsily under string lights. Now, it was just a scattering of people: a couple holding hands near the center, two friends taking selfies by the sideboards, a father showing his little girl how to glide.

And her.

Bob stopped walking the moment he saw her.

She was alone in the center, weaving through slow, careful turns, arms curved in practiced precision. Her body moved like muscle memory—graceful, sharp, elegant. She wore all black: a tight-fitting jumpsuit that hugged her frame, hair pulled back into a bun, face glowing with the heat of focus. Headphones covered her ears, and whatever music she was listening to seemed to be pulling her into another world entirely.

A world he wasn’t part of.

Yelena, beside him, stopped too. She looked at Bob and saw the way his face changed—how something in his chest cracked, right there in front of her. Without a word, she nudged him gently toward the stands.

He obeyed.

Bob took a seat on the second row, cold metal under him. He didn’t notice. His eyes were glued to the ice.

To her.

She skated in circles, sometimes faster, sometimes slow—spinning once, catching herself, correcting. She didn’t notice them at all. She was deep in it—whatever rhythm, whatever pain, whatever escape she’d come here to find, it had swallowed her whole.

Bob watched her with the ache of someone who used to know that body. Who used to trace the line of her back as she curled into sleep. Who used to kiss the spot on her shoulder where the freckles started. Who used to come home to her, used to make her laugh, used to believe he had all the time in the world.

Now she was just… skating.

Free. Untouchable. Like a memory too beautiful to hold.

His throat tightened. His eyes burned.

“I used to watch her do this,” he whispered to Yelena, not taking his eyes off the rink. “Back in Florida, whenever it got cold enough for the seasonal rink, she’d go. Alone. She said the ice was the only place her body didn’t feel heavy. Like she didn’t have to carry anything.”

Yelena was quiet beside him.

Bob let out a breath.

“She told me once she felt like she was made for it. That if life had been fair, if she hadn’t been through everything she had, she would’ve been a skater. A real one. Olympic-level. But… she never had the chance. So she skated alone. In empty rinks. Like this.”

Another tear slipped down his cheek.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to pull himself back together. Trying not to fall apart.

Yelena placed a silent hand on his arm.

Bob looked up again, and she was still there—gliding, spinning. Completely unaware.

“She looks okay,” he murmured.

“She looks alone,” Yelena corrected.

Bob’s stomach twisted. “Do you think she’s happy?”

“I think she’s trying to be,” she said softly. “Just like you.”

He nodded, lips pressed tight.

Then—almost like it was part of the music only she could hear—Y/N slowed. Her body eased into a graceful stop. She exhaled, pushing a hand through the top of her bun to wipe sweat from her temple. She turned, breathing heavily, taking in the now mostly empty rink with a kind of detachment. The kind of glance people give a room when they aren’t really expecting to find anything in it.

But then her eyes met his.

Bob froze.

Everything else in the rink—the lights, the cold, the chatter of skates on ice—disappeared.

Her eyes widened. Her lips parted just slightly.

She ripped her headphones off.

She didn’t move at first. Didn’t speak. Just stood there, skates rooted, like the ice had locked her in place.

He stood up slowly, not knowing what to do with his hands. They trembled at his sides.

Her expression was unreadable—shock, disbelief, maybe even fear. Her chest rose and fell fast from the exertion of skating, or maybe from the way her heart was racing.

Bob tried to breathe.

He had rehearsed this in his head a thousand times.

But now? Now there were no words.

Only her.

The girl he left behind. The girl he loved.

The girl who looked at him now like a ghost had walked into her sanctuary and shattered the quiet peace she had fought tooth and nail to build.

Her hand flew to her chest.

And then she turned.

She skated off the ice as fast as she could.

Bob panicked. “Y/N—!”

She grabbed her coat, not bothering to untie her skates, slipping off into the locker area.

Bob moved instinctively. But Yelena grabbed his arm.

“Give her a second,” she said gently. “Just a second.”

He stood there, heart thudding, hands shaking.

Was this it? Had he just ruined the one place she had left that felt like hers?

“I just needed to see her,” Bob whispered.

--

Y/N staggered into the locker room, the skates clattering awkwardly on the rubber floor beneath her feet. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps as she collapsed against the wall, back pressed hard to the cool tile.

Her heart was racing.

Her fingers clawed at the zipper of her jacket, pulling it halfway down before she stopped. Her eyes were burning. Her throat was tight.

She had seen him.

Bob.

After everything—after nights spent crying on the kitchen floor, after burning every picture, after the endless therapy sessions and bitter silences and “I’m fine” lies—he just showed up. Just like that.

Her knees buckled, and she slid down the wall until she was sitting on the floor, pulling her knees to her chest, arms locked around them. Her forehead rested there, her breath still ragged, like she’d just skated for her life and lost.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to run back out there and hit him. Or kiss him. Or beg him to explain why he left. All of it. But she stayed where she was, paralyzed between rage and longing, spiraling like the blade of her skate.

She didn’t hear him at first—not until his quiet footsteps echoed through the tiled room.

She looked up.

And there he was.

Bob stood in the doorway of the women's locker room, tall, nervous, small in a way he never looked before. The kind of small that came from shame, not size. He wasn’t wearing a suit or his usual jacket—just a hoodie, the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. He looked older, somehow. Softer. A little broken around the edges.

“I know I shouldn’t be in here,” he said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “But I… I couldn’t leave.”

Y/N didn’t say anything. Her throat clenched.

“I saw you out there, and—I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” he continued, stepping further in, cautious like he might scare her off.

She stayed curled up on the floor, eyes locked on him with a look that could melt concrete. He didn’t flinch. He deserved that.

“I didn’t plan this,” he said. “I didn’t even know you were in New York. But when I saw you in that grocery store a few weeks ago, I—I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”

He swallowed, hands trembling at his sides.

“I messed up, Y/N. I messed up everything.”

She finally spoke, her voice sharp and raw. “No shit.”

Bob nodded, absorbing the venom like he expected it. Maybe even needed it.

“I owe you more than an apology,” he said. “But that’s all I have right now. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “You left me, Bob. No explanation. No warning. You just… disappeared.”

He took a shaky step closer, hands out like he was trying not to startle her. “I know.”

“You broke me,” she hissed, the tears finally spilling over. “You made me believe I was finally safe. That someone could love me without taking something from me. And then you took everything.”

Bob’s lip trembled. “I was using. Heavily. I was spiraling and lying and hiding it from you because I didn’t want you to see me like that. I couldn’t hold a job. I was stealing. I was close to doing things I can’t even speak aloud. And you… you were clean. You were trying. You were building something. I felt like a stain on your life.”

“You were my life,” she whispered.

Bob’s breath caught.

Y/N wiped her face with the sleeve of her jacket. “I thought I did something wrong. I stayed on that couch for hours, waiting for a call or a message—anything. I thought maybe you got hurt, maybe something happened. But no. You just blocked me. Like I was nothing.”

“You were never nothing,” he said immediately. “You were the only good thing I ever had. But I didn’t think I deserved you. I didn’t think I ever would.”

Y/N stood up slowly, arms still wrapped around herself, skates making her posture unsteady. “You don’t get to decide that. You don’t get to take me from me.”

He didn’t speak. He just nodded again, eyes brimming with pain.

“I spent months trying to rebuild myself,” she said. “And you know what made it worse? I didn’t even get to hate you properly. I missed you. I still miss you. Even after all of it.”

“I missed you too,” Bob whispered. “Every second. Every day. I kept telling myself I was doing the right thing. That you were better off. But I was lying.”

He took another step closer.

“I got clean,” he said. “I’ve been clean for a while now. I’m not who I was. I don’t expect you to forgive me. I don’t even know why I’m here, other than… I couldn’t go one more day not telling you how sorry I am. Not telling you I never stopped loving you.”

Y/N’s voice cracked. “Do you think that makes it better?”

“No,” he said. “But I hope it means something.”

She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in years. He was different. Older. Sober. Tired. But the eyes were the same. The mouth that had kissed every inch of her skin. The hands that used to hold her like a lifeline.

And she was still angry. Still shattered.

But she was also still in love.

She didn’t know what to say.

So she just asked, softly: “Why now?”

Bob stepped closer, now just feet away.

“Because you were the only thing in my life I ever got right. And I couldn’t let you be the one thing I also gave up on.”

She closed her eyes, tears spilling again.

And then, slowly, she leaned forward and let her forehead rest against his chest.

He didn’t move. Just breathed her in, one hand hovering near her back like he was scared to touch her, like he was scared she’d disappear if he held too tight.

“I don’t know what this means,” she whispered.

“Me neither,” he whispered back. “But I’m here. I’m really here.”

She let herself cry there—silent, trembling, wrapped in the scent of the man she had loved and lost.

They stayed there in silence for a long time—Y/N pressed against Bob’s chest, his heartbeat thudding softly beneath her ear like it was trying to speak the words he hadn’t yet said. She wasn’t sure how long she let herself rest there, taking in the familiarity of him, the warmth she hadn’t felt in so long. But then the silence grew heavy. And the questions, the ones that had lived rent-free in her chest for over a year, started clawing their way out.

She stepped back.

He looked at her—worried, gentle, waiting.

Y/N’s voice cracked, her words hushed but sharp: “Why didn’t you tell me, Bob?”

His mouth parted slightly, but no sound came. She pressed on.

“You were using. Fine. I didn’t know. I get that. But why didn’t you tell me? Why did I have to find out from someone else?”

He looked down at the ground, swallowing hard.

“Because I was ashamed,” he said. “Because I thought if you knew, you’d see me differently. You’d look at me like I was broken. Like everyone else always had.”

“I never saw you like that,” she snapped. “You were the one good thing in my life too. And you didn’t trust me enough to let me in?”

“It wasn’t about trust,” he said, eyes rising to meet hers, pleading. “It was about me. I couldn’t face it. I couldn’t face what I was becoming. I was spiraling, Y/N. Lying, stealing, taking pills just to function. I looked in the mirror and didn’t see someone you could love. I saw someone who was going to ruin you.”

Her jaw clenched. “But you did ruin me, Bob. Just in a different way.”

He looked shattered, like her words had physically knocked the wind out of him.

“I was fighting so hard to stay sober,” she said. “For you. For us. I thought we were building something—something real. You could’ve told me the truth. I wouldn’t have run.”

Bob’s hands balled into fists at his sides. “I know. I know that now. But I didn’t back then. I wasn’t sober. I wasn’t rational. I was drowning. And I thought if I held onto you any longer, I’d drag you down with me.”

“And now?” Her voice was quieter now, rawer. “Why are you here now, after all this time? Why didn’t you call before? Why not when you got clean? Why not when you moved to New York—”

Bob flinched.

She stared at him. “You moved to New York, and you never once tried to find me?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” he admitted, voice hoarse. “After what I did. I figured… you were better off. And then I saw you again, and—God, Y/N, I panicked. I wasn’t ready.”

“And you’re ready now?” she asked, her arms folding tightly around herself. “Now that I’ve spent a year trying to glue myself back together without you? Now that I’m almost okay?”

Bob’s eyes were red now. His breathing uneven. “I don’t know if I’m ready. But I know I can’t keep pretending like you don’t exist. Like I didn’t leave the best thing that ever happened to me because I was a coward.”

Y/N turned away from him, biting down on the inside of her cheek.

“I needed you,” she whispered. “Back then, I needed you. And you left. Without even giving me the chance to fight for you.”

Bob stepped forward, slowly, like every inch hurt. “I know. And I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

She stayed facing the wall, still trembling. “You don’t get to walk back into my life like nothing happened.”

“I’m not asking to.”

“Then why are you here, Bob?”

His voice cracked. “Because I still love you.”

She closed her eyes. A single tear slipped down her cheek.

“I still love you,” he repeated. “And maybe I don’t deserve to say that. Maybe I never will. But I had to try. I had to see you again. I had to look in your eyes one more time and tell you what I should’ve said a year ago.”

She turned around, slow and shaky, her eyes red and wet and tired.

“You should’ve said, ‘I need help.’ Not, ‘Goodbye.’”

Bob’s shoulders sank like a weight had been dropped on him. “I know.”

They stood there, staring at each other across the space that still separated them—close enough to touch, but far enough that everything unsaid echoed in the air between them.

“I don’t know what happens now,” she whispered.

“Me neither,” he said. “But I’ll wait. However long it takes. If all I can be is someone who reminds you that you were loved, I’ll take that.”

She didn’t answer.

--

Y/N sat curled up on the couch, blanket over her legs, a mug of untouched tea in her hands. The late evening sun filtered through the curtains, casting golden lines across her face — but her eyes were glassy, far away. She’d told Serena everything. Every word Bob said. Every tear. Every tremble in his voice. Every I still love you that shattered her to her core.

And now, silence.

Serena sat beside her, one leg tucked under the other, still trying to process it all.

“So,” Serena finally said, her voice gentle, “he really said all that?”

Y/N nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the tea she hadn’t sipped.

Serena let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

“I know.”

“I mean… I didn’t even know the man could be that honest.”

Y/N gave a weak, humorless smile. “Me neither.”

Serena sat back against the cushion, arms crossed loosely, eyes on her best friend. “So. What now?”

Y/N blinked. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want him back?”

“I don’t know.”

Serena tilted her head. “Y/N…”

“I don’t know,” she said, louder this time. Her hands trembled around the mug. “Part of me wants to scream at him until my throat goes raw. For leaving. For lying. For making me think I did something wrong. But then—” she swallowed thickly, “then there’s this other part that… that wants to forgive him. That wants to believe he meant it. That he’s really changed.”

Serena stayed quiet, giving her space.

“I mean, he’s sober now,” Y/N murmured. “He looked better. He sounded like himself. The version of him I fell in love with. But I don’t know if that’s real. Or if I’m just projecting the version I want to see again.”

Serena’s voice was soft. “Y/N, you don’t owe him anything.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to set yourself on fire just because he found his match again.”

Y/N let out a sharp exhale, and the tears finally spilled.

“It’s not that simple,” she whispered. “I loved him. God, I loved him. I still do. And yeah, I didn’t know what he was going through, but how could I have? He didn’t let me in. He made that choice for both of us. He walked away and took the closure with him.”

Serena’s eyes softened. “And now he’s handing it back to you?”

Y/N shook her head. “Now he’s giving me more questions. Now I’m stuck between forgiving him or protecting myself. Do I trust that this new version of him is going to stay? Or do I walk away and spend the rest of my life wondering what might’ve happened if I’d just said yes?”

Serena placed a hand over hers. “You don’t have to decide tonight.”

“But it feels like I do,” Y/N whispered. “Because I know Bob. I know how much shame he carries. If I don’t reach out soon, he’ll think I’m done. And maybe I should be done. But then I think of him standing there, crying, saying he still loved me and—God, Serena—it’s like my heart is screaming.”

Her voice broke. “But I’m tired of breaking first. I’m tired of loving people who leave. And if I let him back in and he walks away again… I don’t think I could survive that.”

Serena squeezed her hand, her eyes damp too. “Then don’t do it for him. Do it for you. Whatever choice brings you peace.”

Y/N stared ahead, jaw tight, heart thudding.

“I don’t know what peace looks like anymore.”

“It’ll come,” Serena whispered. “Maybe not tonight. But soon.”

Y/N closed her eyes and leaned her head against Serena’s shoulder, tears still slipping quietly down her cheeks.

The silence lingered between them for a few minutes, broken only by the soft ticking of the kitchen clock and the occasional clink of Y/N’s spoon against her mug. Serena kept watching her, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the edge of the throw blanket covering their legs.

Then, with a slow grin tugging at the corner of her lips, she said, “Hey… do you remember that night out in Florida? When we all went to that shitty karaoke bar on the beach?”

Y/N blinked and looked up, her brows furrowed.

Serena smirked. “You were wearing that red sundress, the one that made Bob forget how to function. I swear, the man looked like he had just been tasered.”

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, lips twitching. “Oh my God, yes. He walked into a pole.”

Serena snorted. “Deadass. We were all watching that bachelorette party doing shots, and Bob just… bam. Forehead to metal. And then pretended he meant to lean on it.”

Y/N giggled despite herself, eyes gleaming with the shimmer of past joy and fresh sadness. “And then he tried to sing that Elton John song, remember? Your Song. His voice cracked halfway through, but he kept going, looking right at me.”

“Yeah,” Serena said softly, “and you were crying. Right there. Happy tears. I remember because I had to pretend I had sand in my eye just so I wouldn’t ruin the moment.”

Y/N smiled, but it was tinted with grief. “It was the first time I thought, ‘Maybe I’m going to marry this man.’”

Serena’s expression sobered too. She reached over, brushing a strand of hair from Y/N’s face gently. “Look… I hated seeing you like that after he left. I hated that he broke your heart so completely. I won’t pretend I don’t still kind of want to punch him for it.”

Y/N gave her a weak smile. “Fair.”

“But,” Serena went on, her voice low and sincere, “that night, that version of Bob—the one who looked at you like the rest of the world disappeared? The one who memorized your coffee order and stood outside with your keys when you locked yourself out in the rain?” She paused. “That Bob was real too.”

Y/N’s throat tightened.

Serena sighed. “And I don’t know what he went through. Addiction is dark. Ugly. But if what he told you is true… if he’s really better now… if he meant all that? Then maybe… just maybe… you and him still have something real.”

Y/N stayed quiet for a long time, staring down at her hands in her lap.

“It’s just,” she whispered, “how do I know he won’t break me again?”

“You don’t,” Serena admitted gently. “But the fact that you still care so much? That means something. And I’d rather you be honest about still loving him than spend your whole life pretending you’re over it.”

Y/N nodded slowly, her voice breaking. “I hate that he still makes my heart feel like this. That no matter how much it hurt… it never really stopped loving him.”

Serena pulled her into a side hug. “I know. But maybe that’s not weakness. Maybe that’s just… love. The real kind. The messy, painful, beautiful kind.”

“And if he is the love of my life?” Y/N asked, eyes glossy. “How fair is it to be too scared to find out?”

--

The night air was cold but not harsh, a breeze skimming off the bay and lifting strands of Y/N’s hair as she stood near the railing, watching the water move under the moonlight. Her hands were in the pockets of her coat, and her heart was thudding harder than she thought it would. It had been almost two hours since she texted him.

Just five words.

“Can we talk? By the bay.”

She hadn’t expected a reply. Maybe he wouldn’t come. Maybe she’d stand here alone all night long, foolish and aching, blaming herself for even hoping again. But something inside her had shifted — maybe it was Serena’s voice echoing in her ear, or maybe it was her own heart, whispering that there were still things left unsaid. Still threads uncut.

A shuffle of footsteps behind her made her body freeze.

Then, slowly, she turned.

And there he was.

Bob.

Standing just a few feet away, hands in his jacket pockets, beanie pulled over his curls, blue eyes heavy and uncertain but unmistakably emotional. As soon as their eyes met, something passed between them — something old and broken and tender and still breathing.

“…Hey,” he said, voice low and rough.

Y/N nodded. “Hey.”

He took a step closer, not touching her, just looking. Studying her like she might disappear if he blinked. “I didn’t know if you’d ever… want to see me again.”

“I didn’t know either,” she admitted quietly, her voice trembling. “But I do.”

He swallowed hard. “I’ve thought about this. A thousand times. What I’d say. What you’d say. I played it over and over in my head like it would make it hurt less.”

“Did it?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No.”

There was a long pause between them, broken only by the sound of the water and a distant ship horn. Bob looked at her, eyes glossy. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “For leaving. For not saying goodbye. For making you think it was your fault.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I thought I wasn’t enough.”

“You were everything,” he said, voice cracking. “That was the problem. You were everything I wanted and didn’t think I deserved. I was ashamed. And scared. And instead of being honest with you, I just… I ran.”

Y/N stepped closer now, breath fogging in the cold. “You don’t get to decide what you deserve. You could’ve told me. You should have trusted me.”

“I know,” he whispered, guilt rolling off him like a wave.

Her eyes searched his. “I had to pick up all the pieces alone, Bob. I cried on the floor for weeks. I screamed into pillows. I hated you. I still…” She paused. “Some days, I don’t know if I hate you or miss you more.”

Bob’s face twisted in pain. “I miss you every day. I wanted to get clean for you… but I had to want it for me too. And I do now. I’m not perfect, but I’m clean. I go to meetings. I work. I try. Every day.”

Y/N looked at him, something softer in her gaze now. “Why’d you come tonight?”

He took a shaky breath. “Because I’d rather stand here and have you scream at me, throw something at me, anything—than keep wondering if you’ll ever forgive me.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she said honestly, voice cracking.

“I understand,” he whispered.

She looked away, at the water, at the skyline in the distance.

And then, after a long moment, she asked, “Do you still love me?”

Bob stepped closer, almost afraid to breathe. “Yes. I never stopped.”

Y/N turned to him again, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Then… show me. Show me you’ve changed. Show me you’re not going to disappear again.”

Bob nodded slowly, his hand reaching for hers — tentative, almost reverent. When their fingers touched, it felt like a live wire connecting them again, years of distance melting in a single spark.

“I’m here,” he said softly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Y/N looked at their joined hands, then up at him.

“…Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s see what’s left of us.”

They were quiet for a long while after Bob’s hand found hers. Neither of them dared to move much, afraid the moment might collapse if they shifted too quickly. There was something sacred about it — the silence, the air between them, the rawness of just being there, together again.

Y/N let out a breath that had been caught in her chest for what felt like a year and a half.

“I’ve thought about this too, you know,” she said, her voice softer now, more vulnerable. “Not just the apology, or the reasons why… but what would happen if we ever saw each other again.”

Bob’s thumb moved gently across her hand. “And what did you think?”

She gave a breathy, ironic laugh. “That I’d scream at you. Throw a drink in your face. That I’d feel powerful… or indifferent. But I don’t.”

“What do you feel?” he asked, barely above a whisper.

“Everything,” she admitted. “Grief. Anger. Love. All jumbled up. I feel like I never got to mourn us properly, because you just vanished.”

Bob’s head dropped slightly, eyes filled with guilt. “I deserve that.”

“But,” she continued gently, tugging his hand just a bit, “I also feel like maybe… maybe we get a do-over.”

His brows lifted slightly, surprised. Hope flickered in his eyes, so raw it almost hurt to see.

“You mean…?”

“I mean,” Y/N said carefully, “not pretending the past didn’t happen. But also not rushing into it like we’re picking up where we left off. Because we’re not the same people anymore. I’m not the same girl who waited for you at that coffee shop in Florida. And you’re not the same man who ran away.”

Bob blinked, heart in his throat. “So what do we do?”

“We start over,” she said softly, firmly. “We take it slow. We talk. We really talk. We ask the dumb questions we never asked. We go for coffee, or walks, or movies, or whatever normal people do when they’re figuring each other out.”

He nodded, not trusting his voice just yet. His chest was tight, but not from fear — from the fragile, growing weight of hope.

“And if we fall in love again,” she said, her voice trembling now, “we do it right this time. With boundaries. With honesty. With all the parts of us exposed. No secrets. No hiding.”

Bob’s eyes were wet again. “You’d want to fall in love with me again?”

She gave him a tiny, wistful smile. “I never really stopped. I just… packed it away somewhere dark so it wouldn’t hurt.”

He laughed — a broken, breathy sound. “God, I was so stupid. I lost everything because I was too afraid to let you see me when I was at my worst.”

“You were sick,” she reminded him gently. “You didn’t know how to let yourself be loved. But maybe now you can learn.”

Bob looked at her like she was the sun rising again after the longest, blackest night. He leaned forward, forehead against hers, just breathing her in.

“I’ll learn,” he whispered. “I promise I’ll learn.”

--

They sat on the stone edge of the bay, the city lights flickering off the water like a secret neither of them wanted to say out loud. It was late. Quiet. The kind of quiet that makes everything feel like it might be okay, just for a moment.

Y/N had her arms wrapped around her knees, chin resting on them as she looked out at the slow, rhythmic waves. Bob was next to her, a bit hunched, nervously peeling back the foil on a burrito he’d grabbed from a food truck behind them.

They weren’t saying much. But they were there. Together. Breathing the same air again.

“This is nice,” Y/N said softly, voice barely above a whisper. “Feels like something from before.”

Bob nodded, then took a bite of the burrito. A messy, overfilled mess of something-too-hot with way too much sauce.

She glanced over at him, and for a second, she smiled. Not the full, glowing kind she used to give him — but a small one. Careful.

“Still ordering food that’s way too big for your mouth, I see.”

He looked at her, mouth full, eyes wide with guilt. “I panicked,” he said after a swallow. “I asked the guy for whatever he liked best and now I’m holding a food truck’s entire inventory.”

Y/N snorted. “You’re gonna drop it.”

“No I won’t.”

“You always drop food when you try to eat and talk at the same time.”

“I do not—”

And just as he lifted the burrito for another bite… a seagull screeched.

Y/N saw it first.

“Oh my god,” she gasped. “Bob.”

“What?”

She pointed. “Behind you.”

Bob turned — too late.

The bird descended like a demon on wings, smacking straight into him and snatching the burrito right out of his hands in a blur of feathers, foil, and absolute chaos.

“WHAT THE—HEY!!” Bob shouted, stumbling back as salsa dripped down his shirt. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

Y/N broke into full-blown laughter. Not polite laughter. Not restrained laughter.

It was ugly, wheezing, nearly-crying laughter.

Bob just stood there in stunned silence, staring after the bird like it had just ruined his entire career. “That thing was huge! That’s not a seagull. That’s a government drone! That’s a federal bird!”

“Bob—!” she gasped between fits, holding her stomach.

He turned to her, dead serious. “You saw that, right? That was attempted manslaughter. That was aggravated burrito theft.”

She laughed even harder, wiping her eyes. “You’re so dramatic.”

He grumbled, looking down at his sauce-covered shirt. “Great. Amazing. I haven’t even seen you in a year and a half and this is what I bring to the table. Literal bird bait.”

Y/N, still giggling, looked at him — really looked at him. Disheveled, embarrassed, and covered in sour cream.

And something tugged deep in her chest.

Because despite everything — despite the heartache, the silence, the questions — this was him. Still the same man who once fell off a park bench while trying to kiss her goodnight. The same one who used to eat ice cream with his eyes closed like it was a religious experience. The one who called her just to hear her talk about her day.

“I missed this,” she said suddenly, her voice quieter now. Sincere.

He looked at her, startled.

“This part of you,” she added. “The part that’s… weird. And funny. And honest. I didn’t realize how much I missed it until just now.”

Bob was silent for a moment, like he didn’t know where to store her words inside him.

Then: “I’ve missed everything about you.”

She looked back out at the water, her smile fading a little. “So why did you leave me like that?”

His throat tightened. “Because I was a dumbass and I couldn't possibly deserve even a hair from you.”

“I would have restart my whole life to make you alive again.”

A pause.

“I know,” he whispered. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

She reached into the bag beside them and pulled out the second burrito.

Without a word, she held it out to him.

He blinked.

“…This one doesn’t have shrimp, does it?”

She smirked. “You’ll have to take your chances, bird boy.”

[dontrllycaretbh]

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Title: Mine to Know (pt.1?)

Pairing: Paige bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary:

Azzi, a tough basketball player, notices a mysterious girl, Paige, following her. Paige admits she’s been obsessively watching Azzi. Though Azzi feels uneasy and angry, a tense connection forms between them.

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Azzi wasn’t the type to spook easy.

She’d walked home after late practices since high school, earbuds in, shoulders squared, hoodie up. Nearly six feet tall, built like the game she loved, and with a face that didn’t invite small talk — no one followed her. If they did, they didn’t keep up long.

So when she noticed the pattern, it wasn’t fear that hit first. It was irritation.

At first it was just… presence. Background noise. Someone behind her on campus taking the same turns a few too many times. Too close in the mirror of a shop window. A flash of movement outside the gym exit, there and gone when she looked again.

Then it started to tighten.

The same girl at three different pick-up games. Always watching, never subbing in.

Always there early. Never stayed after.

Azzi noticed.

The girl was tall — six foot maybe. Long legs, blonde braid swinging out of a hoodie. Blue eyes that didn’t flinch when Azzi caught her looking. The kind of girl you notice twice: first because she’s pretty, second because she doesn’t blink when you do.

Azzi didn’t say anything. Yet.

But she started checking behind her more. Switching routes. Not because she was scared — she just hated unknowns. And this girl? This quiet shadow with a staring problem? She was starting to piss her off.

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The first message came after practice.

Azzi was stretching out on the locker room bench, sweat still drying on her collarbones, when her phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Unknown:

“Left-handed crossover into the pull-up midrange? Filthy. You cook when you’re mad.”

Azzi froze mid-reach.

She reread it. Once. Twice. Jaw clenched.

She didn’t respond. Didn’t block it either.

She walked home that night with her hood down, headphones off. Eyes sharp. Shoulders set.

Two blocks from her house , someone behind her laughed.

Low. Female. Familiar.

She turned — fast — but the street was empty except for the hum of streetlamps and a fox darting into an alley.

She made it upstairs without breaking pace.

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The next note wasn’t a text.

It was waiting in her locker. Folded once, plain white paper.

“You lead with your left but lie with your eyes.”

Azzi crushed it without reading it twice.

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She wasn’t scared. Not exactly. Just on edge.

She still shot hoops solo after dark. Still took solo walks when her thoughts got too loud. But now, sometimes, she’d stop mid-shot and turn like someone was behind her — and half the time, there was movement. The other half? The air just felt wrong.

It was like being full-court pressed by someone who wasn’t touching you yet — but you felt them. Inches off. Reading you too well.

And the worst part?

Sometimes she liked it.

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It came to a head the night she saw her again — the blonde.

Campus café. 11:43 PM. Almost empty. Azzi had posted up in the back, scrolling through scouting reports, long legs kicked up on the second chair.

That’s when she saw her. Across the room. Hoodie half-zipped, blonde braid tucked under a cap, nursing a coffee she clearly didn’t order. Sitting like she belonged there — but watching Azzi like she was reading her stat line.

Azzi stared.

And the girl smiled.

Not big. Not threatening.

Just calm. Too calm.

Azzi stood. Crossed the café in three strides.

“Okay,” she said flatly. “What’s your deal?”

The girl’s smile widened, subtle and amused. She didn’t move.

“Azzi, right?”

Azzi didn’t answer. She just waited.

The girl sipped her coffee and blinked slowly, like Azzi was right on schedule.

“I’m Paige.”

Azzi’s pulse didn’t spike — but her jaw did lock.

“I didn’t ask.”

“No,” Paige said, voice low. “But you’ve been wondering.”

“What the hell is your problem?”

Paige leaned back slowly, eyes trailing up Azzi’s frame like she was sizing her up — not with fear, but curiosity. Interest. A smirk flickered, lazy and sharp.

“Problem?”

She tilted her head.

“What makes you think I have a problem, huh?”

“How’d you even get my number?”

Paige laughed softly. It wasn’t nervous. It wasn’t normal either. It was the kind of laugh people do when they’re already two steps ahead.

“Oh, Az, you’d be surprised how easy it is to find someone when you’re looking hard enough.”

She sipped her coffee. Calm. Measured.

“A little digging, a few favors here and there… voilà. You were mine.”

Azzi blinked, but didn’t back down. She’d been guarded since the moment she picked up a basketball — you had to be, when people only noticed you after your points went double digits.

Still, something about this girl — this cool, unbothered, too-present Paige — got under her skin.

“Why are you doing this?”

The question landed. Paige’s smirk dropped, but not out of guilt. She just shifted.

Her voice lowered, like they were alone in a confession booth.

“Why?”

She studied Azzi’s face like she already knew it by heart.

“Because you’re not like the rest of them. You’re sharp. Quick. You think no one sees what’s behind your eyes, but I do.”

Her fingers tapped against the side of the mug. Same rhythm Azzi used to use dribbling in the hallway as a kid, just to feel something steady.

“I want to understand you. Watch you. Get inside your head.”

Azzi stood.

“Fuck off and leave me alone.”

She turned and walked out. No hesitation.

But before the door closed behind her, Paige called after her — voice light, teasing, cutting through the dark like a thread.

“Aw, come on, sweetheart. Don’t be like that. We were just getting to know each other.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

The next few days were quiet — surface-level quiet. The kind that almost tricks you into feeling safe.

But Azzi wasn’t fooled.

She felt it in the shift of air behind her neck. In the near-silent footsteps she sometimes heard but could never trace. The way every reflection — storefront, bus window, dorm glass — looked wrong.

The texts came back.

From different numbers now.

They weren’t threatening. That would’ve been easier. No — they were worse. Familiar. Intimate. Like Paige was narrating her day from three feet behind her.

“Blue hoodie again today. You wear it when you’re trying to disappear, huh?”

“You skipped lunch. Don’t starve on my account.”

And then, one night at 2:03 AM:

📱 Messages

2:03 AM

Unknown

Unknown:

can’t sleep huh?

tossing & turning

trying to shut your thoughts off?

adorable.

⸻

Azzi:

wtf

⸻

Unknown:

language, darling.

it’s late.

you should be asleep.

me? wide awake.

and bored.

⸻

Azzi:

are you outside my house

⸻

Unknown:

wouldn’t you like to know?

maybe i am

maybe i’m not

either way…

you’re not imagining me

⸻

Azzi:

bro go home

it’s literally night time

and ur a girl

⸻

Unknown:

awww you’re worried about me?

that’s so cute

don’t worry, darling

i can handle myself

besides…

you’re still awake, aren’t you?

⸻

Azzi:

i’ll block you

⸻

Unknown:

ohhh

so it’s like that?

do it.

i dare you.

⸻

🛑 Number blocked

⸻

5 minutes later

Unknown

Unknown:

nice try sweetheart

but you can’t get rid of me that easily love

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

She got up. Walked to the window. Opened it.

There.

Leaning against the tree outside her building — Paige. Hoodie low. Arms crossed. Same relaxed stance like they were mid-conversation. Like this was normal.

That smile was still there.

“Miss me?” she called softly.

Azzi clenched her jaw.

“…Come inside,” she muttered. “It’s 2 AM. You’re still a girl, and we’re both barely twenty. You’ll get jumped or something.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

Paige sat on Azzi’s bed like she’d been there before.

Leg crossed over knee. Calm. Eyes trailing the posters on the wall, the cluttered desk, the basketball wedged between a laundry pile and a backpack. Everything about her said: I belong here.

Azzi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.

“What do you want from me?”

Paige looked at her, slow and deliberate — like she was watching a highlight reel only she had access to.

“Oh, az. Everything.”

She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward.

“I want your attention. Your time. Your thoughts. Your heart. Every little piece.”

Azzi shifted, uncomfortable for the first time in weeks.

“And since when?”

Paige’s smile deepened. Not playful. Not kind.

“Since the first time I saw you.”

Her voice wasn’t teasing anymore. It had thinned out — stretched between obsession and honesty, like she didn’t know where one ended and the other began.

“It was like a switch flipped,” she said, quieter now. “Like something in me just… chose you.”

She stood. Her movements slow, deliberate. Like she was trying not to scare Azzi — or like she knew she already had, and it didn’t matter.

She crossed the space between them in seconds. Bare feet soft against the floor, posture loose but eyes sharp.

Stopped just inches away — close enough that Azzi could see the faint ring of darker blue around her irises. Close enough that her breath hit Azzi’s cheek, warm and steady.

“You’re my favorite story,” Paige whispered. “And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

She felt it — that heavy, awful ache in her chest. The kind that comes when you want to run, but some sick part of you also wants to stay. Just to see how far someone like Paige is willing to go.

Azzi swallowed hard, jaw flexing. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough,” Paige said. “You talk shit on court but never mean it. You pretend not to care but watch everyone closer than they realize. You wear that blue hoodie when you’re overwhelmed. You get quiet when you’re angry, not loud.”

She stepped even closer. Her voice dropped.

“And you sleep with your window cracked open. Even in the cold.”

Azzi flinched.

“Stop.” Her voice came out sharp. Too loud for the quiet.

Paige didn’t move. She looked at Azzi like she was memorizing her — every muscle shift, every flicker of fear or defiance.

“I see you,” she said simply. “That’s all I’ve ever done.”

Azzi turned her face away, breathing hard through her nose. The heat in her throat burned. It wasn’t fear anymore. It was something uglier. Shame, maybe. Or recognition.

Because part of her — the part she hated — believed her.

She felt Paige watching her.

Waiting.

“You don’t get to claim me,” Azzi said eventually, voice low and tight. “You don’t get to decide I’m yours just because you’re… lonely. Or sick.”

Something flickered behind Paige’s eyes. Not anger. Not hurt.

Grief.

“You think I wanted this?” she said, barely above a whisper. “You think I like feeling like this? Like I’m starving every time you walk away?”

Azzi turned to face her fully, heart jackhammering. “Then stop.”

“I can’t,” Paige said. “I tried. I did. You think I don’t know this is wrong? That I’m wrong?”

Silence.

Azzi hated the part of her that was still standing there. The part that hadn’t thrown her out. The part that remembered every glance Paige gave her across the court, every time their elbows brushed going for the same rebound. The part that wanted to ask why me? and hated that she cared about the answer.

Paige exhaled shakily. “I don’t need you to love me back. I just need you to see me.”

“I see you,” Azzi said, voice flat. “That’s the problem.”

And then Paige smiled. Not her usual grin. Something sadder. Defeated.

“I can work with that.”

Azzi’s back hit the wall.

She didn’t remember moving — just needed distance. Something solid behind her. Her arms were crossed again, not for protection, but because her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Paige stayed near the bed, watching her.

“You followed me,” Azzi said, her voice low. Firm. “Not just once. Not for fun. This was… deliberate.”

Paige didn’t deny it.

Azzi blinked at her. Hard.

“So how far did it go?”

Paige tilted her head slightly. Said nothing.

“I’m serious,” Azzi pressed. “How long were you tracking me? What did you do?”

Paige looked like she wanted to say something clever — something smug and deflective — but Azzi cut her off.

“No games. You want me to see you? Fine. Show me. All of it.”

A beat passed. Then another.

Paige’s smile fell away. She sat again, hands in her lap, fingers tangled tight.

“Two months,” she said finally. “Give or take.”

Azzi’s chest tightened. “Two months of what?”

“Watching. Figuring out your schedule. Checking your socials. Walking the same route home a few times to see if you noticed.”

Azzi flinched. “Jesus.”

“I never touched your stuff,” Paige said quickly, eyes wide. “I didn’t break in. I didn’t go through your things. I just… wanted proximity. I just needed to know what kind of world you lived in.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“I know.”

Azzi studied her, jaw clenched. “So what else?”

Paige hesitated. Then, like a breath she didn’t want to exhale:

“Sometimes I followed you to practice. Sat in the stands. Pretended to scroll while watching you run drills. I even came early to one of your games. Bought the same energy drink you always carry.”

Her voice softened, almost embarrassed.

“I liked knowing things no one else noticed.”

Azzi’s stomach churned. “That’s not knowing me. That’s collecting me.”

“I know,” Paige whispered.

Azzi stepped closer, her tone sharpening. “Did you ever touch yourself to me?”

The room went still.

Paige didn’t look surprised. Just… exposed.

“Yeah.”

Azzi swallowed, hard. “While following me?”

“No,” Paige said quickly. “Not while I was near you. But… after. When I’d remember things. How your shoulders looked in that grey tank. How you wiped sweat from your lip. The way your voice sounded when you yelled for a switch.”

Azzi’s heart thudded painfully in her chest.

Paige looked down, ashamed — for the first time since she got here.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” she said quietly. “I’m just being honest. You wanted to know.”

Azzi pressed her palm to her forehead, tried to breathe.

There was nothing romantic about this. Nothing safe. But it was real. Brutally, disturbingly real.

“You’re not well,” she said.

Paige met her eyes.

“I know. But you’re the only thing that makes me feel like I could be.”

Silence.

Azzi hated how much that sentence hurt.

She should’ve screamed. Should’ve kicked her out. Called someone. Done something that made sense.

Instead, she stood there, letting the truth bleed out between them like smoke.

“Why me?” she asked. “Out of everyone. Why me?”

Paige’s voice broke. Just a little.

“Because you were the first person I couldn’t figure out.”

“Since the first time I saw you.”

Her voice had shifted — softer now, conspiratorial. Intimate in a way that made Azzi’s throat tighten.

“It was like a switch flipped. Like something inside me decided you were it.”

Then Paige stood.

Closed the space between them without hesitation, until she was just inches away. Close enough that Azzi could feel the warmth rolling off her, close enough to count the pulse at her neck.

“You’re my favorite story,” Paige murmured. “And I haven’t even gotten to the good part yet.”

Azzi didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Her body had gone still in the worst way — not frozen with fear, but with something heavier. Hotter. Her skin felt tight, flushed. And that was the worst part.

She should be pissed. She was pissed. But her body was betraying her — heart racing, breath shallow, heat pooling low in her stomach like something she didn’t want to name.

She backed up, finally — not far, just enough to breathe.

“You followed me.”

“Yes.”

“You watched me.”

“I still do.”

Her mouth went dry.

Azzi narrowed her eyes, trying to keep her tone sharp. “You ever do anything… else?”

Paige tilted her head, knowing exactly what she meant.

“To you?” she asked, innocently.

Azzi’s jaw clenched. “Don’t play dumb.”

Paige didn’t.

Her voice dropped — hard and strict.

“No. I never touched you. But I touched myself. Thinking about you.”

Azzi’s stomach flipped.

Her fingers twitched at her sides, unsure what they wanted — to shove Paige out the door, or pull her even closer just to make it stop.

“You’re sick.”

Paige didn’t argue.

Azzi took a step forward. Too close now. She didn’t know why she did it, just that something in her wanted control back — and maybe wanted to see how far Paige would go.

“Tell me what you thought about,” Azzi said, low.

Paige blinked. Her voice came out breathless, but steady.

“You. At practice. In those compression shorts. The way your jersey rides up when you stretch.”

Azzi’s breath stuttered.

Paige noticed — of course she did.

“I thought about your hands. How strong they are. What they’d feel like around my waist. On my hips. How rough you’d be if you ever let yourself stop pretending.”

Azzi’s chest rose and fell — too fast.

She hated this. Hated her.

But her thighs were tense, her pulse was climbing, and she didn’t stop her.

“I thought about your mouth,” Paige went on. “How serious it always looks. I wanted to ruin that expression. Make it soft. Messy. Loud.”

Azzi turned away — but didn’t tell her to shut up. Didn’t kick her out.

“You want me to say I’m sorry?” Paige asked. “I’m not.”

Azzi dragged a hand over her face.

“God, what is wrong with me…”

“You feel it too.”

“No, I don’t.”

Paige smiled, slow. “You’re breathing like you do.”

Azzi’s hand hit the wall beside her, hard — just to do something. Just to let the air out.

“I don’t want this.”

“But you do want me,” Paige whispered.

Silence.

Azzi turned her head, just slightly — met Paige’s gaze, eyes burning.

“…Say it again.”

Paige stepped in, soft and sure, voice like a match to dry skin.

“I touched myself to you.”

Azzi closed her eyes.

And didn’t move away.

Didn’t speak.

But her eyes stayed locked on Paige like she was trying to burn her out of existence — or pull her closer. Maybe both.

The words came low, tight, unrecognizable in her own mouth.

“Show me.”

Paige blinked. “What?”

Azzi’s voice dropped.

“Show me how you touched yourself.”

The air in the room shifted — like all the oxygen got sucked out at once and left heat behind.

Paige didn’t speak at first. Her lips parted, then closed again.

Her eyes flicked to Azzi’s face — searching. For a joke. A trap. A flicker of regret.

There wasn’t one.

Just Azzi, flushed and furious and breathing hard, like she hated herself already for asking.

Paige stepped back once. Just enough to sit on the edge of the bed again.

Paige’s hands moved to the hem of her hoodie.

Azzi didn’t stop her.

The fabric peeled up slowly — deliberate, quiet — revealing pale skin, ribs that moved gently with breath. Paige let the hoodie drop to the floor. Sat there in her sports bra, her eyes locked on Azzi’s the entire time.

Azzi’s chest tightened. Her arms crossed — not out of defiance now, but to keep her hands to herself.

“You always do it this slow?” she asked.

Paige’s mouth curved faintly. “Only when I want it to last.”

Azzi looked away, then back again. Her voice lowered — curious, taunting, dangerous.

“What do you even use?”

Paige blinked, just once. Her posture didn’t change — but her eyes sharpened.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” Azzi’s tongue flicked across her bottom lip before she caught herself. “When you think about me. What do you use?”

Paige didn’t smile.

Didn’t smirk.

She leaned back on her palms, slow and graceful, like she wasn’t the one being watched.

“Depends on the night.”

“Pick one.”

“Sometimes my fingers,” Paige said, voice like warm honey. “Just enough pressure to pretend it’s you.”

Azzi swallowed.

“And sometimes…” Paige looked down at herself, then up again, steady. “Sometimes I use the toy I keep under my bed. Thick. Heavy. I imagine it’s you — rougher than I deserve. Not saying a word. Just using me ‘til I forget my name.”

Azzi’s breath caught.

She hated that her thighs pressed together instinctively. Hated the warmth curling low in her belly. Hated that Paige could feel it.

“That what you want from me?” she asked, hoarse. “To watch you get off?”

Paige tilted her head, slow. “I want everything from you.”

“And if I don’t give it?”

Paige stood.

Now in just her bra and shorts — tall and soft and terrifyingly calm.

“You already are,” she whispered.

Azzi stared at her. Every nerve lit. Every wall she’d built cracking.

Paige leaned forward now, hand still frozen just at the waistband of her shorts.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

Azzi stared.

Long enough that Paige’s confidence almost cracked.

But then Azzi said, voice low and strained:

“…No. I want you to stop.”

Paige froze.

Azzi pushed off the wall and walked over, until she was standing in front of her again.

“Because I’m the one who’s thinking about it now.”

Silence.

Then, without touching her, without giving her the satisfaction of a kiss or even a whisper — Azzi turned her back.

“I’m getting water,” she muttered. “If you’re still here when I get back, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

[norrisjpg]

── ☆ golf buggies & club cocktails

════════════════════════

series my kind of woman, LN⁴

content: swearing, the monaco grand prix, max being mean, cheek kisses, forehead kisses, charles & alexandra being icons!!

pairing: lando norris x fem!oc

rora's thoughts: this bitch was thirty-one pages long on google docs, absolutely crazy behaviour from myself here. and because it's so long, it's not proof-read so sorry for any typos. i hope you enjoy!!

════════════════════════

IT WAS UNEXPECTED to say the least, lily hadn’t expected to hear from lando for a couple months at least – between travel and sponsor dinners, his schedule didn’t exactly leave time for spontaneous invitations, especially to his best friend’s younger sister.

but, the notification arrived on friday evening, just as she was curled up in her flat watching reruns of would i lie to you? and trying to forget the awkward voicemail harry had left her earlier.

lando sent a voice note.

voicenote [0.28] “hellooo, i’m driving so this is easier for me to do rather than message you – sorry if you hate voice notes. [pause] uh, anyway, are you still coming here for that movie premiere? ‘cause i’m just saying, if you need somewhere to stay, you can stay with me if you want. [indicator clicking] what the fuck is this guy doing– anyway, sorry, yeah the hotels here are so expensive, so you may as well stay with me, if you want, no pressure. [pause] yeah, that’s all, let me know, bye lala.”

she smiled down at her phone, the warmth blooming quickly in her chest.

lily sent a voice note.

voicenote [0.36] “um…hi. i don’t usually do voice notes, i hate the sound of my own voice [laughs]. but yeah, thankyou for the offer, i’d– [pause] i’d like that, yeah, thankyou, lando. i get in at nine on tuesday morning, and the premiere is on wednesday evening, so [pause] yeah, i haven’t booked a flight back yet, but i’ll probably leave on thursday morning or something. [pause] okay, yeah, i’ll get an uber booked for tuesday, so if you could send me your address that would be helpful. thankyou, bye lan.”

her voice softly echoed around his mclaren, and he smiled, almost taking his concentration off of the road for a moment. 

lando sent a voice note.

voicenote [0.37] “ah, well i feel privileged then, la. don’t worry about booking an uber, i’ll come and pick you up from the airport. and it’s monaco this weekend, so if you’re not busy [pause] would you maybe like to come for the weekend? you can come in the garage and stuff, plus you know cam and jon and everyone now, so yeah. [pause] i mean, i’m not really giving you an option, unless you hate the idea of it. oh and then you can fly back with me on tuesday, we’re going back to the factory for a few days, so don’t worry about booking a flight back [pause] let me know.”

his voice, relaxed, boyish, and slightly muffled like he was speaking into his hoodie sleeve. it filled the space like warmth curling around her ribs.

lily sent a voice note.

voicenote [0.14] “oh, yeah, okay that sounds good. thankyou, lando. i obviously would never turn down coming to a race weekend, but yeah, if you’re willing to put up with me for that long, i’d really like that, so thankyou, again – cool, bye.”

lando sent a message. oh and pack some golfing appropriate clothes :)

• • • •

TUESDAY arrived quickly, and with it, a blinding mediterranean sun that lit up monaco like a dream. lily stepped off of the plane, dark sunglasses perched on her head, blue & white linen draped around her hips, paired with a navy tank top. nice always made her feel like she was in some sort of perfume ad, soft clouds cutting across the sky, and water that looked photoshopped. lando was waiting just outside of arrivals, sunglasses over his eyes, with a less-than-discreet quadrant cap pulled low over his forehead. 

“you came.” the mclaren driver smiled as he hugged the girl. 

“you asked me to,” lily replied softly. “plus, i never turn down free accommodation.”

“you didn’t reply for an hour, thought you’d ghosted me.” he laughed, and took her bag without asking, effortlessly sliding it into the boot, before opening the passenger side door. 

“ever heard of airplane mode?” she laughed, slipping into the car and clipping her seatbelt on. “thankyou.”

he rolled his eyes with a gentle chuckle, flicking the door shut and heading to the driver’s seat.

they made the drive back to monaco with the windows cracked open, music drifting between the two of them. lando didn’t talk much – not because he was tired or didn’t want to, he just didn’t need to fill the silence. instead, he looked over at her occasionally with a half-smile, like he was still a little in awe that she was actually there.

his apartment hadn’t changed. it was still warm-toned, a little messy in a charming way. shoes in a pile by the front door, a random golf club next to the coat rack, as if it had been forgotten mid-practice swing. it was him, cedarwood and lemon, soft around the edges. sunlight spilled in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the cozy accents of the apartment. 

“you’re in here,” lando said, opening his bedroom door. “clean sheets, the whole lot.”

“where are you sleeping?” she asked as lando lifted her suitcase onto the bed.

“couch.”

“lando–”

“i’m not arguing with you about this,” he shook his head. “you’ll lose.”

lily rolled her eyes, but smiled. “okay, but i don’t like this.”

“you’ll live, won’t you?” he quipped. 

• • • •

BY EARLY AFTERNOON, they were pulling into a quiet, palm-lined golf course just outside of the principality. carlos and rebecca were waiting at the club’s edge, both in stylish sunglasses and crisp clothes. carlos waved dramatically the moment he spotted them.

“buenas mañanas!” carlos called, “finally, the recluse is here.”

lando rolled his eyes, “i’ve literally been outside for like twelve hours this week, shut up.”

rebecca laughed, stepping in to hug lily, her arms cool from the breeze and her perfume like white flowers and sunscreen. “so nice to finally meet you,” she said warmly. “i’ve been waiting for lando to introduce us.”

“same here,” lily replied, surprised at how natural it already felt. “you look like you belong in a magazine, by the way.”

carlos scoffed, “tell her again, she spent twenty minutes looking for the shoes.”

“i’m committed to the cause.” the taller girl shrugged. 

“respect.” the british girl replied with a grin.

they teed off just after two, the sun blazing down over the monaco cliffs, heat radiating off the green in shimmering waves. lando and carlos jumped into the front of the buggy, arguing about who got to drive, while lily and rebecca quietly slipped into the back. carlos ended up winning said argument, and accelerated quite quickly toward the first hole.

“does she know?” carlos asked casually, swinging the club next to him mindlessly as they walked away from the cart.

“does who know what?”

the williams driver raised an eyebrow, “lily, that you’re head-over-heels.”

lando nearly dropped the club in his hand. “what–no, i’m not–”

“she’s sleeping in your bed, mate.” carlos said, amused. “you picked her up from the airport, you’re practically writing her poetry–”

“you’re reading too much into it.” the brit shook his head, trying not to smile. “and poetry, seriously?”

carlos just smiled knowingly. “you keep telling yourself that, i’ll just ignore the way you looked at her when she fixed her hair in the buggy mirror.”

lando said nothing, because honestly, he had nothing to say. he had noticed. she’d tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and he’d caught himself staring for a little longer than was friendly, and a lot longer than was smart.

“she’s max’s sister.” he muttered, hitting the ball a little harder than necessary. 

carlos hummed, “if it keeps you warm at night.”

by the third hole, rebecca and lily had opted to walk the stretch between shots, after lando had hit his ball into a pond by accident. 

“lando wouldn’t shut up about you after miami, you know?” rebecca said out of the blue.

lily blinked, “what?”

“he was being all casual about it, but every other word was ‘lily thinks’ or something to do with you.” the scottish girl grinned. “and that boy doesn’t usually talk that much about anything.”

the younger girl looked down at her flats, a flush she was so desperately trying to fight rising to her cheeks.

“he’s comfortable around you,” she said more gently. “that’s rare with the drivers, they may as well live in a pressure cooker.”

lily smiled, “he’s easy to be around, i guess.”

“yeah, especially when he’s pretending not to stare.”

when the seventh hole came around, lando had finally convinced lily to tee up. but, he didn’t get to see it, as his ball flew off near the trees, so he had to go and find it. 

“relax your grip, lils.” carlos said, “you’re overcorrecting.”

“since when are you a coach?”

“since lando slices his shot every time you smile at him.”

lily turned, stunned into laughter, but carlos just grinned, “you didn’t hear it from me, though.”

the sun had dipped lower by the time carlos had won at the final hole, casting gold across the hills. everyone had loosened up – laughter was easy, and the teasing was relentless. lando had finally stopped trying to hide how he was looking at lily, from carlos at least.

“you’ve got it bad.” rebecca said, nudging lando’s shoulder.

lando didn’t argue this time. he just looked at lily, walking ahead with carlos – laughter floating on the breeze – and nodded once.

“whatever you say.”

• • • •

AFTER DINNER, back at the apartment, the streets of monaco had quieted into something soft and still – the kind of quiet only a coastal city could offer. the streets below glimmered with the last of the marina lights, and the only sounds inside were the low hum of the fridge and the creak of lando’s floorboards as they both moved around. 

lily had changed into one of her oversized shirts – one of max’s old karting sponsor t-shirts she’d stolen a few years ago – and padded into the kitchen, quietly due to the material of the fluffy socks on her feet. lando was stood there, boiling the kettle, barefoot and hoodie-clad, curls slightly damp from the quick shower he’d had.

the driver looked up when she appeared, eyebrows raised. “tea?”

“please,” she nodded, walking closer. “peppermint, if you have it.”

“what do you take me for?” lando replied, mock-offended. “of course i’ve got it.”

she laughed and leant against the counter beside him, the stretch of space between them warm but unspoken. the kind of closeness that felt domestic, familiar. not unusual, but newly charged.

their fingers brushed together when he handed her the mug a minute or so later, and she smiled, “thanks.”

“always,” he nodded, the two of them falling in-step toward the couch. “movie?”

the pair plopped down on the couch, lily stretching her legs out, and lando letting her rest her feet on his lap. without speaking, he pulled the blanket over her lower body, and switched the tv on. it smelled like washing powder and sea salt, warm and inviting. 

“looking forward to your premiere tomorrow night?” the mclaren driver asked, pressing play on some cheesy rom-com. 

“i guess.” she shrugged, “actually, i wanted to ask you, do you want to come as my plus-one? platonically, of course, no pressure.”

“awh, afraid you’ll miss me too much?”

“yep, that’s the number one reason.” she retorted, voice laced with sarcasm. 

“then of course i’ll go with you.” he shot back with a soft laugh. “it’s black tie, right? what colour is your dress?”

“navy, it’s like my go-to colour.”

lando smiled, naturally resting his hand on her ankle, rubbing small circles across the skin – soft, thoughtless, familiar. 

she didn’t say a word.

she just smiled and nodded – while her brain seemed to melt. 

• • • •

THE RED CARPET was filled with flashes and shouting, and the theatre steps under lily’s heels glittered like a mirrorball. monaco never did subtle, especially not on nights like this – the air shimmered with perfume, heat, and the weight of too many egos trying not to look impressed.

lily held her chin high, a soft smile fixed on her face as lando fell into step beside her. his hand hovered gently at her lower back, not touching, but enough to feel the static electricity radiating off of his palm. she glanced at him, and he smiled – boyish and slightly nervous, as if this sort of thing wasn’t second nature to him by now. 

“you okay?” he murmured under his breath. 

“peachy,” she breathed. “you?”

“terrified,” lando smiled for the cameras. “i’m not used to being the plus-one, but it’s nice to not be asked questions.”

“well, you make a very pretty accessory, mr. norris.” she teased, glancing upward at him as the cameras captured the moment.

he looked at her then, properly – slow and deliberate, eyes dragging across her face, her earrings, the sweep of her collarbone – and sighed.

“you look–” the driver paused, lips parting slightly. “you look gorgeous, lala.”

she laughed in an attempt to prevent the heat rising up to her neck. “thankyou, but you’re just saying that because i let you pick the playlist in the car.”

the brit was about to reply, but photographers started calling their names. they posed briefly for media photos and the camera – lando standing just a little too close, lily’s smile softening whenever he leant in to speak to her. journalists yelled, but they didn’t stop long enough for a full interview. they slipped inside together, through the lobby and into the hush of the velvet-curtain theatre, where the music from the foyer faded into a quiet that felt like relief. 

their seats were front-row-adjacent, tucked into a plush middle row surrounded by industry people lily half-recognised from magazines. she scanned the programme as they sat. 

“so, what’s the plot?” lando leaned in closer, speaking quietly.

“something about a long-lost daughter reconnecting with her mother, a bit emotional.”

he blinked, “and you invited me to this?”

“you like crying.” she deadpanned.

he nudged her foot with his own, shaking his head. “hey, only when i die in tarkov.”

the movie began, and lily expected lando to fidget, whisper snide little comments and complain halfway through, but he was strangely stuff. he only really shifted once, when she tried to pull the large slit on her dress closed, and he draped his suit jacket over her legs without a word. their arms pressed against each other in the midst of the film, skin warm where they touched, and even in the flicker of the screenlight, she could feel his gaze drift to her sometimes.

by the time the credits rolled, her throat was a little thick. she blinked quickly, brushing under her eyes as the lights came up.

lando glanced over, “you cried.”

she shook her head, “so did you.”

“did not.”

“you’re sniffling?” lily laughed softly.

“shut up,” he rolled his eyes with a smile. “come on, let’s go be fake celebrities at the afterparty.”

he grabbed her hand and gently pulled her along behind him, while she was laughing at him.

“you are a celebrity?”

 • • • •

THE ROOFTOP AFTER-PARTY shimmered with the kind of effortless opulence monaco seemed to do best – glass railings framed by fairy lights, flickering candle-lit tables tucked between oversized potted plants, and a panoramic view of the marina where yachts glowed like floating constellations. the music was soft but rhythmic – a quite bassline pulsing under the clinking of glasses and easy laughter of film producers, models and industry stars.

lily stood near the edge, one hand curled around a coupe glass, the other resting lightly on the railing as she took it all in. the dress she wore – a floor-length slip of navy silk – caught the warm light with every movement, clinging just enough to hint at the silhouette beneath. the halter neckline left her shoulders practically bare, a low, open back dipped to just above her waist. her hair was pinned loosely, strands falling in soft waves around her face, and small sapphire earrings glinted against her skin. 

lando, beside her, donned a sharp, black suit tailored to perfection – the kind that moved with him, soft-shouldered and just a little undone in a way that felt intentional. his tie matched her dress perfectly, almost down to the colour-swatch – a deep, navy silk, he’d had delivered to his apartment when he’d seen the colour of her dress after her arrival.

he’d looked at her differently the moment she’d stepped out of his bedroom, adjusting the clasp of her necklace. nothing was said at first – he just stared, one hand stuffed in his pocket while the other tightened around the doorframe, like he needed something to keep himself upright.

“you–” he’d started, then blinked, and laughed once under his breath. “yeah. okay. wow.”

she’d smiled, brushing the invisible lint off of the silk. “thankyou, i think.”

now, hours later, he hadn’t drifted more than two feet from her since they arrived in his car. always within reach. always with a hand wrapped loosely around a drink he didn’t have any interest in actually drinking. she introduced him with casual pride, and he let his gaze linger when he thought she wasn’t looking, and innocently adjusted her necklace once when the clasp shifted – his fingers brushing the nape of her neck, warm and careful.

“you alright?” he asked softly, leaning toward her as another tray of champagne floated past.

“i’m all good.” lily nodded, glancing at him briefly. “you?”

“trying to not look like a bodyguard,” he shrugged. “thankyou for inviting me, too.”

“thankyou for coming. i don’t know what i’d have done on my own.”

the words were about to come out of his mouth, but then it happened.

“lils?”

her smile faltered before she turned, lando saw it. her posture shifted, a little more reserved and precise than previous. 

he walked toward them, navy shirt unbuttoned just a little too far, hair styled to look like he hadn’t tried (but absolutely had), and with the easy swagger of someone used to being in the centre of the room.

“harry, hi.” lily met him with a half-polite hug.

“you look–” he paused, letting his eyes sweep over her in a way she didn’t appreciate. “incredible.”

“thanks. um– this is lando,” she said quickly, stepping back slightly toward the driver. “lando, this is harry.”

lando extended a hand, short and clean. “nice to meet you.”

harry shook it like he’d been asked to participate in a game he didn’t want to play. “didn’t know you were into the whole formula 1 thing, lils.”

“oh, yeah, i am.” she replied, breezy but pointed. “but i’m into good company too.”

his grin thinned slightly, “right.”

he turned away a few moments later, drifting toward the bar like a man who’d realised he was playing second fiddle all of a sudden.

“that’s the guy max is always moaning about?” lando shifted his stance, speaking a little less softly than before.

“yeah.” lily, for some reason, felt the need to avoid his gaze, so she did. 

he didn’t say anything else, he didn’t need to. because, lily felt the shift. like a nozzle had turned ever-so-slightly, turning his temperature just a little colder. the quiet withdrawal, the shortness in his tone, the way his smile looked a tiny bit more forced. but he didn’t move away, didn’t act cold, but he was just less present. as if he’d realised that maybe he shouldn’t be acting the way he was, when she had another man in her life. it didn’t matter, she was max’s sister, he shouldn’t be behaving in that manner anyway. 

but, he stayed polite. attentive, even. but the teasing stopped, the closeness they’d been circling all evening retreated, not massively, but just enough to feel like something was missing.

lily noticed.

and, for the first time in a long time, she found herself wishing that harry had never shown up. 

• • • •

THURSDAY MORNING brought around a normality that lily could definitely get used to. there was just something about the monaco paddock that made the air feel charged – like it buzzed just beneath the skin. the narrow pathways, the glittering harbour at its edge, the low hum of media crews and team radios echoing against polished motorhomes – it was all tightly wound, glamorous chaos. lily had never seen anything like it, even after miami. 

the mclaren garage was a different kind of buzz though – cooler in tone, louder in sound. compressed air hissed from wheel guns, laptops blinked with data streams, and mechanics moved like they were conducting some invisible orchestra. it smelled faintly of tyre rubber and motor oil, sharp and sterile but somehow comforting too.

lando walked beside her, already in his media gear – papaya polo and black shorts, lanyard dangling around his neck, along with the double-ringed necklace he always seemed to wear. his curls were still damp, from the ridiculously quick shower he’d taken before they’d left the apartment together. there was this energy to him – maybe it was kinetic, she wasn’t sure – but he was sharper than usual, as if he was mentally in the car already.

“you really don’t have to give me a tour, lan.” lily told him as they entered the hospitality. “you gave me one in miami.”

“but you haven’t had the monaco edition.” lando replied with a grin, adjusting the pass around his neck. “monaco always hits different.”

he walked past the engineers’ station – desks lined with monitors, headphones slung over chair backs, screens flickering with telemetry data. he explained everything again, half because he loved the sport, half because he clearly liked having her there.

“lando, media pen in two minutes!” a ginger-haired girl called, beckoning lando over to her. 

“go, i’ll survive.” lily nodded, ushering him away and earning a thankful smile from the girl. 

he nodded, gently squeezing her waist as he slipped past. she watched as he walked off toward the pen – a little stiff in the shoulders, a little quieter in his steps than usual.

she turned her gaze back to the garage – only to find a familiar figure watching her with a mild curiosity from a few feet away – who then pushed himself off of the wall and stepped toward her.

“lily, right?” the australian asked, holding out his hand. “i’m oscar.”

“i know,” she laughed, shaking it. “not in a weird way, lando’s mentioned you.”

“could say the same.” oscar nodded. “that’s either good or bad, that he’s mentioned me.”

“all good, he likes you.” 

he smiled, rare – soft and genuine. “that’s nice to hear, and again, i could say the same.”

they chatted easily – about the weather, monaco’s unique energy, and about how exhausting media day actually was. oscar had a dry, understated sense of humour that kept her laughing for longer than she’d expected.

in all honesty, oscar hadn’t expected to like her so quickly. he and lando were almost complete opposites, but there was something disarmingly warm about lily fewtrell. she wasn’t loud or overly confident – the way some people in the paddock pretended to be – she had this calm kind of presence that settled in naturally, like she belonged without ever trying to. she asked questions, but soft ones, ones that didn’t feel pressure-filled or forced. she listened more than she spoke too, but when she did speak, there was a subtle sharpness behind her humour that made him laugh for longer than he’d intended to. 

and the way she said lando talked about him – with that easy smile, like it was obvious lando respected him – made oscar quietly soften, letting his guard down. the driver had expected her to be gorgeous, she was max’s sister, and lando had hovered around her name for a couple weeks now – but really? he’d expected an empty model with no real knowledge of the sport.

he hadn’t expected honesty, or the quiet charm, or how she seemed to beam when oscar brought up his teammate.

“oi,” lando called with a grin. “what are you two conspiring about?”

“your dramatic relationship with… everything.” oscar teased, waving at the papaya driver.

he rolled his eyes, “please don’t scare her off.”

“too late for that.” lily quipped with a laugh.

later in the evening, the paddock transformed into something golden – soft with twilight, the light catching on camera lenses and sunglass frames, everything washed in a golden-blue haze. the pair walked beside each other, lando still clad in papaya and complaining about how uncomfortable the press conference sofa was. her trainers were quiet on the painted walkways, padding along beside him as he casually greeted people – nodding to a mechanic there, fist-bumping a junior driver there.

“there you are,” charles called, waving as they spotted the pair rounding the corner toward them. “thought you were hiding from us.”

“we were.” lando grinned, shaking charles’ hand.

the woman stood behind charles looked like she’d stepped off the pages of vogue itself – effortlessly elegant in a blush-pink tweed co-ord that felt both vintage chanel and distinctly modern at the same time. the cropped jacket hugged her waist, just above the matching mini-skirt that hit mid-thigh and showcased her with unapologetic confidence. even in a paddock full of stylists, models and celebrities – she drew attention, easy and unbothered in the way she carried herself, because she belonged there.

so, when she hugged lily with that warm, familiar smile, she did it like they’d been friends for years, and from the outside it’d have easy to assume just that. 

“i’m alexandra, lovely to meet you,” alexandra smiled, her voice warm and light with an accent that softened all her vowels. “i’ve heard so much about you.”

“i’ve heard that a lot today,” lily laughed softly. “nice to meet you too.”

“i’m stealing her,” the french woman added, looping her arm through lily’s. “go away, boys.”

“wait, where are we going?”

“to get coffee,” she replied cheerfully. “and i’ll give you the girlfriend tour.”

“oh, we’re not–”

“–bye, you two!”

alexandra had picked up on it immediately. she could see it in the way lando leaned in slightly whenever lily spoke. the way he always seemed aware of where she was standing, what expression she was making, if she was too warm, too quiet, too crowded. she’d never seen that look on him before, but it wasn’t one a man wore casually.

charles noticed too. lando, who could be jittery and a little anxious during race weekends, looked anchored. grounded, even. not overly affectionate, not overcompensating, not distracting himself. just calm. attentive in a way charles had never seen before, like someone quiet in him had softly awoken for the time being.

“at least she’ll get to know what she’s dealing with.” charles shrugged as the two girls disappeared together.

lando muttered something under his breath, but the monegasque just grinned. “i like her,” the ferrari driver said quietly. “she’s good for you.”

“i know,” the other driver sighed, pursing his lips. “but she’s max’s sister, so… yeah.”

“and?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “you’re allowed to like someone who’s good for you, you know? no matter who they are.”

lando didn’t reply, just gave charles a look. 

but he didn’t disagree either.

• • • •

THE SCENT of grilled chicken and caesar sauce filled lando’s monaco apartment, rich with garlic, olive oil, and lemon. lily stood in the sleek kitchen, socks on her feet and humming under her breath as she chopped crisp romaine lettuce and tossed it into a bowl beside the halved cherry tomatoes and freshly-shaved parmesan. the girl moved with ease, sleeves rolled-up, hair pinned back into a loose bun as she layered the wraps she’d insisted on making lando. 

“you’re telling me that you just whip this up?” lando leaned against the kitchen island, clad in a matching hoodie and joggers, looking mildly scandalised as he watched her work. “like, casually?”

“i cook for myself all the time, lando.” lily replied, amused. “i don’t live off of uber eats, like some people i know.”

“hey, that’s slander.” he held up his hands.

she smirked, “yes, but is it wrong?”

lando paused, looking down at his feet. “no.”

she placed the wrap on a plate and slid it over to lando, before sitting on the barstool at the kitchen island, nursing a glass of water. he took a bite – a big one – and his eyes widened mid-chew.

“oh my god,” he practically moaned, muffled. “you’re joking.”

lily blinked with a laugh. “in a good way?”

“the best way,” he said, finished the bite and already reaching for more. “you have to send me the recipe for this, please.”

“secret.” she said, smugly.

“i’m marrying you.”

she laughed, trying to hide the fact that she was blushing slightly. “bit forward, norris.”

he chuckled, but didn’t double down. “seriously, you could open a restaurant.”

“or just keep cooking for you?”

“i wouldn’t complain.” he looked at her then – really looked. and for a moment, something she didn’t want to read flickered in his eyes. but, he just smiled.

they ate in comfortable silence for a while, both perched at the island with the quiet hum of monaco nightlife filtering in through the open balcony doors. the city sounded softer from above – car engines humming in the distance, the faint call of seagulls, a burst of laughter from somewhere down below. 

the pair were interrupted though, by the rhythmic buzzing of lily’s phone on the side, and her smile slipped a little the second she saw the name on her screen.

max.

lando, sensing and witnessing her change in demeanour. “you okay?”

“yeah, it’s just max.” she nodded, pursing her lips. “be back in a minute.”

he gave her a subtle nod, then turned back to the kitchen, pretending to be interested in loading the dishwasher as she slipped away – and the door to his bedroom clicked shut behind her.

“hey,” she said, softly.

“you’re all over getty.” max didn’t waste time, apparently.

lily frowned, almost laughing at his bluntness. “hi max, nice to speak to you too, how are you?”

“i’m serious, lily. what the fuck were you doing at the premiere with lando?”

“i invited him.” she replied casually. “i’m staying with him, and i thought he might like to go.”

“you’re what– you know what, nevermind.” her older brother mumbled. “do you know what people are saying?”

“why do you care so much, max?” lily’s stomach turned a little. “you’re the one who brought me to surrey to see him, you’re the one who brought me to miami with you – you don’t expect us to only hang out when you’re around, do you?”

“you’re my sister.” max snapped. “and he’s my best friend. there’s boundaries, lils. and it’s not like lando is ready to settle down like you are–”

“do you not trust me or something?” lily’s voice came quietly, almost hurt. “lando and i are just friends.”

on the other side of the door, lando had paused mid-step to the laundry room, now frozen in the hallway. he hadn’t meant to listen, but lily’s gentle voice carried through the thin walls, and glimpses of max’s more frustrated tone seeped through into the background too. 

“that’s not what this is about, lily.”

“isn’t it? i don’t understand what your issue with this is.”

“just–” he sighed. “just be careful with him, okay? he’s not like… harry, which is probably a good thing– but just… go careful, alright?”

“i’m not a child, max.”

“i know, but you seem to act like one sometimes.”

lily ended the call without saying goodbye. 

she sat on the edge of his bed for a minute, staring at the carpet. her chest felt tight, like every word she so badly wanted to scream at him had tangled up in her throat and left her heart aching. 

outside, lando moved back into the kitchen, pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. a few moments later, she emerged, composed but quiet, her eyes avoiding him.

“everything okay?” he asked gently, shutting the dishwasher.

lily nodded, forcing a smile. “yeah, just… brother things.”

he didn’t push, just hummed and started moving toward the fridge.

“dessert?”

that made her laugh, even if only a little. “all you have in your fridge is three-day-old pizza and protein shakes.”

“i’ll find something.”

“if you bring me out an old easter egg–”

he was already halfway to the pantry.

• • • •

FRIDAY MORNING came with the thrum of excitement and lots of anticipation. lily woke early to the smell of coffee and the far-off buzz of drones circling the coastline. the streets of monaco were already alive below the balcony – winding roads closed off, marshals in fluorescent orange guiding teams and fans into position, and the soft, intermittent roar of engines as pit lanes systems checks began. 

she stretched in lando’s bed, the morning sun pouring through the half-closed curtains, and felt a weird mixture of nerves and peace. the kind of quiet waiting that came with feeling completely out of place and entirely at home all at once.

by the time she padded into the kitchen, the apartment was already quietly humming with movement. lando had one airpod in, pacing lightly between sips of coffee and gulping down the protein shake on the countertop, wearing his mclaren team shirt and loose jeans, but no shoes – hair still damp from the shower.

“morning,” he spoke, glancing up and immediately softening when he saw her. “sleep alright?”

“like a baby,” she yawned, leaning on the counter beside him. “you?”

“pretty good, actually.” he shrugged. “breakfast?”

“i can cook some, if you want.” lily smiled.

“you do and i’ll fall in love.”

he said it so casually that it made her heart skip, though she couldn’t tell if he noticed – probably not.

“i’ll take that as a yes.” she teased.

the paddock felt different on practice day. louder, tighter. the air buzzed with heat and pressure, reporters already prowling for quotes and engineers frowning at data tablets like their lives depended on it. lily stayed close to the mclaren garage, tucked out of the way but still within view. lando had essentially told her to hang out wherever she liked, but she didn’t want to be a distraction. she was content with people-watching, sipping her to-go coffee, and soaking up the atmosphere.

jon found her first – she didn’t look out of place anymore, so she was a little more difficult to spot – if anything, she looked like she belonged. confident in her quiet way, comfortable on the soft edges of chaos. he stopped beside her with an easy nod, the same unhurried presence she remembered from miami. 

“thought i’d see you around here,” she smiled. 

jon smiled back, pleased to see the girl. “i didn’t scare you off last time, then.”

“hardly.” she replied, shaking her head.

“lando’s been a lot less… unbearable since you arrived.”

she laughed, a little surprised. “i’ll take that as a compliment, i think.”

“it was meant as one.” he paused, glancing into the garage to see lando deep in conversation with his race engineer. “he’s good when you’re here, less anxious.”

“really?” lily blinked, caught off-guard.

“yeah,” the performance coach said simply. “he’s not an easy person to read, but the difference is obvious.”

her heart gave a small, traitorous flutter.

“i don’t think i do much,” she admitted.

“you do more than you realise,” jon replied, nodding honestly.

she looked down at her coffee cup, unsure of what to reply to that with. no one had ever said something like that to her before – not in a way that felt so steady or sure.

he didn’t press – just nodded and added, “whatever’s going on between you two, it’s good for him.”

she glanced at lando again, who was still listening to his engineer intently, brow furrowed in concentration. but, then he glanced back at her – just briefly – but long enough for his expression to soften.

“i think he’s good for me, too.”

after the chaos of practices and media had settled, the sun had dipped low over the monaco skyline, turning the air golden as shadows stretched long across the paddock. the end of the second free practice session brought a slower rhythm to the once-frantic corridors, crew members wheeling equipment back into trucks, admin staff tapping restlessly at their phones, and a few remaining drivers giving rushed interviews before disappearing into the team motorhomes.

lily walked beside lando, her badge swinging gently at her chest, a navy mclaren hoodie draped loosely around her shoulders – his, oversized and soft. he’d tossed it to her earlier when the breeze had picked up and made a quiet joke about her team loyalty. it hadn’t left her body since.

“hey, lovebirds!”

lando groaned quietly before he turned. “why do i regret this already?”

alexandra was arm-in-arm with charles, who looked way to happy for a man who’d been losing his mind over brake issues all afternoon. they caught up quickly, alexandra slipping in beside lily, charles slinging an arm over lando’s shoulders.

“we were just talking about you two.” he said, squeezing the driver’s shoulder.

“oh no,” lily said, mock-horror blooming across her face. “should i be worried?”

“deeply.” alexandra quipped, sliding her arm through lily’s.

“alex thought you lived here.” charles chimed in.

“not quite.” the british girl laughed.

the french girl tilted her head, smiling. “but you could, couldn’t you?”

there was something light in her voice, curious too – a gentle nudge. lando didn’t say anything, just turned a pretty pink colour and averted his gaze. 

“you’re adjusting to the paddock well,” charles pointed out. “mclaren hoodie, i see? it looks a lot like lando’s.”

“she was cold.” lando, who had up until that point looked like he was begging the ground to swallow him whole, finally looked up. 

“sure,” alexandra said sweetly. “that’s why it’s been doused in your aftershave.”

lando glanced at the fewtrell girl, and something flickered behind his eyes – a little too intent, a little too sharp. then he cleared his throat and looked at charles.

“are we done here, or do you have more embarrassing things to say to me?”

“not even close,” the monegasque laughed. “but we’re going out for dinner, if you want to join?”

“we have dinner plans, sorry.” the mclaren driver thinned his lips into a line, shrugging – to which lily furrowed her eyebrows, as this was also news to her.

alexandra gently took lily’s phone out of her hand and pressed the top of her phone to lily’s, the other’s contact and number drifting onto their screens. 

“there’s my number, text me.” she said, handing the device back to her.

charles and alexandra disappeared down the street, presumably toward the ferrari driver’s home – and lando reached for his car keys. 

“they like you.” he said quietly as they approached the jeep they’d travelled to the track in.

“well, i am wearing your brand.” she laughed, tugging the sleeves of his hoodie over her hands.

lando looked at her for a beat longer than he needed to – than he should of. “you wear it well.”

• • • •

QUALIFYING DAY had the mclaren garage humming with tension by the time lando and lily arrived. she walked a step behind him, her paddock pass swinging gently at her chest, sunglasses tucked into the side of her bag. lando glanced back every now and then, like he was checking she was still there – as if they day would go sideways if she wasn’t.

the air was electric – tight with humming anticipation that lived in the sharp corners of formula 1 weekends. engineers muttered over headsets, mechanics moved like clockwork, cameramen trailed journalists like shadows, and the smell of oil and rubber lingered beneath the faint whiff of suncream from the grandstands above.

lily knew better than to hover too close during these moments. so, she hung back near the hospitality, while lando peeled away to change into his papaya race-suit. the british girl sipped a smoothie someone from the kitchen had pressed into her hands, watching as lando didn’t seem to talk much, not even to jon. just nodding, listening, eyes slightly glassy the way they always got when he was thinking too far ahead.

“bit early for the serious face.” she teased when he walked past again.

lando stopped mid-stride and almost laughed. “i can’t help it, it’s monaco.” he shrugged, a soft smile that touched all the corners of his mouth gracing his lips. “does something to me.”

lily tilted her head, “like what?”

“turns my stomach inside out,” he mumbled, then added quieter. “but i like it, i guess.”

before she could reply, a nostalgic, familiar voice called out from behind them. “there’s my boy!”

she turned just as adam norris strode into view, his grin wide and unforgettable. cisca wauman followed close behind, sunglasses perches atop her head and a tote bag slung over her shoulder.

“oh my, lily!” cisca smiled, hugging the girl before her own son.

“cisca!” the girl laughed, embracing the older woman in a hug that came easily. “i didn’t know you two were coming!”

“flight got delayed,” adam added, kissing her cheek briefly. “you’re taller than i remember.”

“you say that every time.” the driver rolled his eyes, hugging both parents briefly. 

lily’s heart did an odd little flutter at the familiarity of it all. she’d grown up in the same social circles, at the same junior karting weekends, family barbeques – she was the girl who used to steal lando’s kinder bars during post-race debriefs, and chased max around with a garden hose in their teens.

adam turned to his son, “you didn’t tell us that lily was coming.”

lando shrugged, “it was sort of last minute.”

“so where are you staying, lily? our hotels might be close together.” cisca asked, looping her arm through the younger girl’s.

“oh, lando’s letting me stay with him.”

adam raised an eyebrow. “we don’t even get that treatment.”

lando’s face went a little pink, but luckily, his mother whisked lily away, demanding all of her life updates since the last time they’d seen each other. “come on, i want to hear everything.”

behind them, adam clapped a hand onto lando’s shoulders. “she’s a good one, you know?”

the driver found himself reddening again. “i know.”

back in the garage, everything had shifted into a tighter rhythm as qualifying loomed closer. lily sat beside cisca, watching the team buzz around lando’s car like bees in a hive, everyone moving to a beat only they could hear. lando passed by one last time, helmet tucked under his arm, before getting in the car. he paused by the two women, as if it was muscle memory.

“wish me luck?” he asked, gaze flitting between the two of them.

“you’ll do amazing, sweetheart.” cisca reassured him, nodding her head.

“you don’t need it.” lily shook her head, tilting it up to look at him.

“still want it, though.”

she smiled, gentle and grounding. “go be brilliant.”

and for a second – just a second – his whole face softened, like he believed her more than he believed anyone else.

as he disappeared into the garage, cisca nudged lily gently. “you know,” she began, gesturing toward her son. “i haven’t seen him like this in forever.”

“like what?”

“he seems settled,” she said simply. “with himself, not with the car or anything.”

lily wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that, so she smiled shyly. her stomach turned over, slow and heavy. because, the thing was – she didn’t know what any of this was. but, lando made her feel steady in a world that spun way too fast. and, maybe that meant something.

or maybe it would later.

she would have thought about it more, if the final few seconds of Q3 weren’t ticking down to zero so soon. qualifying had flickered down to a blur of engine notes and blinking timing screens. lily stood shoulder-to-shoulder with cisca, eyes glued to the television screen inside the mclaren garage. lando had gone green, green, yellow – not his best lap, but it looked well put-together.

the last corner. the line.

the time flashed up.

1:09.954

the noise was instant – a rush of celebration and disbelief colliding as team personnel leapt to their feet. mechanics hugging, engineers high-fiving. zak was already out of his chair, jon’s face cracked wide into a grin. and lando – through the screen – was surprisingly nonchalant about it all, thanking the team.

cisca clapped, “he did it!”

lily blinked at the screen, heart racing. 

sub-seventy seconds.

no one had ever done that.

in monaco, of all places.

she couldn’t stop smiling as she followed the norris parents into parc fermé. lando had already jumped out of the car and launched into his team, hugging them with happiness. his fireproofs were half-unzipped, his curly hair damp with sweat, face flushed and beaming. 

he spotted lily just as she reached the edge of the swarm. 

and she could have sworn – just for a second – the crowd faded around him.

“come here,” he grinned wide, holding out a hand.

she hesitated, only for a moment, before stepping into him, and he wrapped an arm around her waist, lifting her a little off the ground in a brief, adrenaline-high, giddy squeeze. 

“you were unreal,” she said into his shoulder. 

“i’m convinced you’re a good luck charm,” he said, pulling back. “you’re not allowed to leave, ever.”

she laughed and softly rolled her eyes, but before she could reply, a mclaren media girl appeared beside them – “sorry! lando, quick photo with the trophy?”

lando nodded, still catching his breath, and reached for the tyre-shaped pole position trophy with one hand – the engraved cylinder gleaming under the sun – before gesturing for lily to stay put.

“you’re in it,” he said simply, tugging her a little closer.

“wait–what?”

“count yourself lucky,” he said, glancing down at her briefly. “i hardly let anyone in the mclaren photos with me.”

she laughed, cheeks flushing a pretty pink. “i’m honoured.”

so there they stood, side-by-side in the middle of the chaos. lily could feel the weight of eyes around her – the lens clicking, the buzz of the paddock still rippling with his record-breaking lap.

and just before the shutter went off, lando turned. his nose brushed her temple briefly, before his lips pressed a soft, warm kiss to her cheek – “for the cameras,” he mumbled against her skin.

she couldn’t feel her legs for a moment.

lily barely had time to process the gesture before the photographer snapped the photo. a quick flutter of camera clicks, the sound sharp above the murmur of the garage.

she turned to lando, brows raised and smile tugging at her lips. 

“PR is going to hate me.” lando grinned, all boyish mischief and adrenaline. 

the media team thanked them and wandered off, while the driver’s engineer called him back over to look at the run plan for tomorrow’s race. he squeezed lily’s hand quickly, before disappearing – palm still warm from the gloves, fingers rough from years of wear and tear.

she didn’t even try and pretend like her stomach hadn’t just turned itself inside out, twice.

• • • •

LATER IN THE EVENING, the energy had finally begun to simmer down. they left the track just before sundown, slipping out the side entrance after his tedious debriefs. monaco glowed golden under the fading sun, the whole place shimmering with a kind of magic that only came at this time of day. 

in the passenger seat of his black mclaren artura, lily sat with the window cracked, the warm breeze brushing past her hair as they wound back through the narrow streets. lando had the radio low – just enough to fill the silence with something soft and base-heavy.

“you seemed quieter than normal,” she spoke up, not looking at him. “when you were talking to zak.”

he sighed, “i think i scared myself today.”

“how so?” she glanced over.

“i’ve dreamed about getting pole in monaco since i was a kid. and now i’ve done it, but never thought i’d break a record doing it – and now i’m sort of like shit, i need to back it up tomorrow.”

“you will.” lily replied immediately.

he looked at her – brief and fleeting – something unreadable in his eyes. “you always sound so sure.”

“i am sure.”

and maybe it was her certainty that made him soften, feel better about his worries, just a little. as if he could lean into it. just for a moment.

back at the apartment, everything felt a little unreal. 

the award sat casually on the kitchen island like it was a vase or a fruit bowl, the number – 1:09.954 – engraved along the surface in small, elegant print. lily ran her fingers over it while lando changed in the bedroom, trailing the pads of her fingers along the cool material.

“keep touching it and you’ll have to polish it,” came his voice from the hallway.

she looked up. he’d changed into a soft grey t-shirt and navy sweats, his curls still damp and a little unruly. he looked younger like this – softer than the podium pictures and behind-the-scenes snaps ever seemed to show. 

“you should put it with the rest of your trophies and stuff,” she said, nodding at the pole position tyre.

“i’m putting it in the bathroom.” he deadpanned.

she laughed, short and loud. “next to your mouthwash?”

“yeah, real humbling for guests – especially oscar.”

they ended up on the sofa, sharing a packet of lando’s final protein bites, some mindless rerun of love island playing on the television. he sat with one foot tucked underneath him, head tipped slightly toward her, more comfortable than he ever seemed to be in front of cameras or crowds. his energy was different here – not dialled down, but warmer, looser.

at one point, he shuffled a little closer, letting his arm slip behind her shoulders on the couch, letting his hand curl around her upper arm and trace little circles into the skin with his thumb.

she looked up at him, speaking softly – “you good?”

he didn’t answer straight away. just looked at her for a moment too long, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was seeing. or maybe what he was feeling.

then, so quietly she almost missed it, he said, “thanks for today.”

lily nudged his knee with her own. “you’re the one who broke the track record, you should thank yourself.”

“i know,” he smiled, internally proud. “but thankyou for being there, i felt calmer than usual.”

she didn’t know what to say to that.

so, she just leaned her head into his shoulder – gently, tentatively, as if she was afraid he’d pull away – and closed her eyes briefly. he didn’t say anything, just rested his head on hers, cheek pressed against her soft brunette roots. just looked down at her hand resting beside his, and laced their pinkies together without thinking.

it meant nothing.

it meant everything.

and yet, neither of them said a word.

• • • •

MONACO on race day was different.

the air was heavier, more expectant. the streets buzzed as if they were holding their breath, and from the second they left the apartment, lily could feel it in lando’s silence – not tense, but focused. tunnel-visioned. like his world had narrowed to seventy-eight laps and nothing else.

they arrived at the paddock just after nine. the sun was already high in the sky and the air was thick with anticipation – teams bustling, mechanics sprinting between trailers, journalists scrambling for interviews. the scent of espresso mixed with burnt rubber and high-octane fuel lingered, a potent perfume that only race day could offer.

lily stood inside of the upstairs hospitality, accompanied by cisca and adam once again, hands tucked lightly into the pockets of the mclaren jacket lando had lended her for the morning – claiming he’d win if she was in papaya. her eyes were glued to the pitlane, watching lando scamper off down the track in the sleek black and orange vehicle, as the hum of radio chatter crackled softly in her ears, punctuated by the thundering roar of engines schooling through the narrow streets below. it was loud, chaotic, yet somehow intimate – like stepping into a world where every heartbeat counted.

the moments stretched. the countdown began. 

five lights on, five lights out. 

she thought she had started going into cardiac arrest when lando locked up into turn one, but he managed to save it and her heartbeat settled somewhat – not really, but she thought that if she told herself that, maybe it would.

lap after lap, he started to edge out a gap. his pace was untouchable, pushing the car to its limits with the grace of a ballet dancer and the ferocity of a future world champion. her breath caught when he clocked in fastest lap after fastest lap, dominating monaco’s winding streets like he was born to race them.

and then, the moment that everyone waited for – some celebrity waving the chequered flag.

lando norris had won the monaco grand prix.

to say the garage exploded would have been an understatement. cheers shrieked, engineers clapped each other on the back, and zak & andrea rushed down to parc ferme, the norris family in tow, lily hurrying along beside adam.

his helmet was off now, hair damp and a little squat from the balaclava, smile breaking free like the sun behind clouds. his exhaustion seemed to melt away when he saw his team, and with a few rushed steps, he was at the barriers, jumping into his crew. 

jon was the one who shoved her to the forefront, letting her stand with her hands curled around the railing for dear life. he spotted her a couple seconds later, and within the blink of an eye, he’d pulled her into a tight, sweaty hug.

“i did it, lala!” he grinned, pressing his face into her shoulder.

“told you so.” lily laughed softly, fingers tracing the sweat on the back of his neck.

flushed and triumphant, lando turned and leant in – pressing a soft, genuine kiss to lily’s cheek, nose brushing her temple. 

“for real this time,” he whispered – no teasing, no fanfare, for real.

the team gathered, ushering him off to the cooldown room, and he whispered something inaudible in her ear, breath fanning her neck before he pulled away, squeezing her hand and rushing off. 

lily’s heart fluttered in her chest, and just grinned, feeling like she belonged – right here, right now, with him – but boy, max was going to kill her, and maybe lando too this time.

the anthem played above them, the hum of ‘god save our king’ echoing out through the french streets. monaco’s harbour glimmered under the late-afternoon sun, champagne bottles waited patiently to be sprayed over the cheering crowd – and lando stood in the centre of it all, victor of the most glamorous race in formula 1, if not, the world.

the british girl craned her neck from below the stage, tucked between jon and will, her eyes never leaving him. she was sure she had caverns in her cheeks from smiling.

and then, he looked down – right at her.

and winked.

smooth and teasing, subtle enough that it could mean nothing, but obvious enough that the media would eat it up. nevertheless, it send a jolt through her chest that made her feel sixteen again, and her stomach flipped as she tried to play it cool, softly rolling her eyes and smiling at him. it should mean nothing, but it definitely meant everything.

one of monaco’s rooftop lounges hosted the afterparty. the terrace overlooked the glowing curve of the coastline, and the entire paddock scene had shown up to celebrate lando’s glorious win. music pulsed through the velvet night, champagne flowed like water, and the principality around them sparkled like it had stepped out of a dream he’d not quite finished with.

lando leaned against the balcony railing, dressed down in a simple white shirt and black slacks, sipping on a red bull while everyone else laughed with cocktails in hand. his face was a little flushed, partly post-race-win glow – though the adrenaline had finally started to settle – but partially from the hazy heat of the night.

lily was by the bar getting a drink, stood in a black satin slip dress, the mclaren lanyard from earlier stuffed into her clutch, hair tousled from the sea breeze. 

“no champagne?” lily stepped up beside him, the sea breeze catching her fly-aways. 

he smiled sideways. “not drinking this season,” he shrugged. “gotta focus on racing.”

she looked down at her own glass – of lemonade – and tapped it gently against the side of his can. “i figured, didn’t want you to be the only sober one.”

lando’s eyes softened instantly. “you didn’t have to–”

“–i wanted to, though.” she interrupted simply.

the music faded beneath them, drowned out by the sound of the waves far below and the soft thrum of their own silence. for a moment, lily swore the whole world narrowed to just this balcony, just this view, just him – just them.

lando thought to himself – maybe still high on that winning feeling – that this could be what winning really felt like.

but they just kept getting interrupted – every few minutes, someone came over, a driver, brand rep, team member with a drink in one hand and a congratulations on their lips.

he smiled. said thanks. took photos.

but, he didn’t let go of her, not once.

not in an obvious way – he wasn’t clingy, never possessive – but every time someone new approached, he’d glance sideways briefly to check she hadn’t slipped away. his fingers occasionally brushed her arm, lower back, wrist – like gravity.

after a while – and after lily had muttered something about being cold – they made their way into the booths just inside of the club. the music was louder, thumped a little deeper in their ears. lily leaned against the wall, and lando stood beside her, definitely closer than he needed to be.

“home?” he asked, leaning closer to her.

“yeah, home.”

• • • •

THE MORNING brought about a soft quietness that only muted light could offer.

for a moment, she lay still, cocooned in the aftermath of yesterday’s glory – the champagne, the cheers, the warmth of lando’s lips on her cheek, his hand on her waist as they snuck out of the party thrown for him.

her phone buzzed faintly on the bedside table, so she reached for it, blinking at the screen in the dim visibility of the room.

you have 5 missed calls from max.

her stomach dipped.

lily padded out of the bedroom, clad in some loose navy shorts and a matching tank top. the apartment was still and warm with the morning haze – the sliding glass doors open, the sea breeze drifting in, and lando was already seated at the breakfast bar, sipping apple juice in grey sweats and a black t-shirt.

“good morning,” he smiled, eyes crinkling. 

“morning,” she echoed, voice a little scratchy.

her phone buzzed. again, rhythmic and annoying.

“everything okay?” lando asked, catching the look she gave the device as she pulled it out of her pocket.

“max,” lily sighed. “five missed calls this morning.”

he scrunched his nose, breathing out in sympathy. 

she slipped onto a chair and pulled her knees up to her chest. lando didn’t say anything as she pressed the phone to her ear – just gave a small supportive nod as he reached for a banana. 

“finally,” max’s voice rang sharply through the speakers – loud enough for lando to hear it. “i’ve been trying to get through for hours.”

“sorry, i was asleep.” she replied quietly.

“recovering from all that champagne and having your tongue down lando’s throat?” 

lily froze, eyebrows furrowing. “what?”

“i saw you in parc fermé, and on mclaren’s instagram.” her brother said, cold in tone.

her mouth went dry, throat tightened as if there was actually something wrong with it all. “it’s not like that, max.”

“you’re so fucking naive,” he groaned. “you always do this, lily. lando isn’t like all the other guys you meet back in london, he’s busy and he doesn’t have time for you.”

“he’s nice to you when it suits him – you’re just convenient for him.” max continued. “you’re going to get hurt, lils, he doesn’t actually like you like that.”

“i know he doesn’t – it’s not like that, we’re just friends.”

“i know him, and i know you.” he sighed. “it looks like you’re playing happy families with someone who has a whole roster of girls he forgets about the second he gets on a plane.”

“why are you being so mean?” her voice wobbled a little, resting her head on her knees.

“you just think you’re different, lils. you’re not, you’re just next.”

there was silence on the line – not tension, not regret, just silence.

the warm device was gently pulled from her fingers within a few seconds, and she looked up at the driver, who now had her phone at his ear.

“max?” lando said into the receiver, tone clipped. “don’t speak to her like that ever again”

another pause. lando’s jaw flexed.

“yeah, hi buddy.” he pursed his lips, speaking sarcastically. 

she heard max’s voice on the other end of the line, but she couldn’t make out what he was actually saying; her heart thumping in her ears was just too loud.

“i don’t care, max.” lando raised his voice, firm but still calm. “for one, you can’t police her life, so back the fuck off. and you can’t tell me what to do either.”

more silence. lando’s eyes flitted to meet her own for a second.

“you’re fucked off?” he laughed. “you’ve essentially just said you don’t trust me, behind my back – how the fuck do you think i feel, max?”

silence, again. max must have calmed down a bit now.

“alright, see you in london.” lando mumbled, before ending the call.

she was just sitting there, gazing at the british man as he looked back at her.

“i’m sorry,” the driver said, immediately softer as he turned to her. “i didn’t mean to take over or anything–”

“no,” she whispered, getting up. “thankyou.”

he stepped toward her quickly, pulling her into his arms without hesitation. she sank into him instantly, hands curling into the back of his hoodie. lando pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her head, arms circling her waist, murmuring. “he was out of line, lala.”

“he’s my brother,” she mumbled against his chest.

“he’s an arsehole.”

she didn’t argue, just stayed there for a long moment, just breathing. 

eventually, he pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against hers. 

“you okay?” lando asked.

his fingers traced just under her jaw – way too intimate to mean nothing. “good.”

she smiled – barely – and leant into him again.

outside, monaco carried on with its monday morning, glittering and loud and golden.

but in lando’s apartment, they were in their own little world, wrapped up in each other and quiet.

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