#that if you know who you are and do what you feel is right and stand by your own humanity and decision making

[luvsicktyun]

OFF THE ICE s.jy

synopsis ⤑ You were having fun. That’s all. You were young, in college, readying yourself for true adulthood. You didn’t know adulthood would come so quick, in the form of a baby you didn’t plan for. With a man who was more in love with Hockey than anything else. This wasn’t supposed to happen, and it definitely wasn’t supposed to happen with him.

pairings ⤑ hockey player!Jake x pregnant!reader word count ⤑ 18k

warnings ⤑ pregnancy trope, smut, friends with benefits, angst , depictions of hockey injuries , probably more

crossing the line series.

read heeseung's story here.

Two pink lines. 

They stare back at you, unwavering. Bold. Permanent. 

Your breath catches in your throat. A dull roaring fills your ears, like the moment before a crash, when you see the impact coming but there’s nothing you can do to stop it. You blink once, twice, waiting for the second line to disappear, for reality to snap back into place. It doesn’t. It stays. Pregnant. A hollow, sinking feeling settles in your stomach. No. No, no, no. This can’t be real. Your fingers tighten around the plastic stick, your knuckles aching from the grip. You were careful. You were always careful. Birth control, condoms, every precaution. You did everything right. So how the hell did this happen? 

You shake your head, your breathing ragged. Maybe it’s a mistake. Maybe the test is faulty. They mess up sometimes, right? You should take another one. Five more. Ten. You should drive to the store right now and buy every test on the shelf, because this? This can’t be happening. Your legs feel unsteady beneath you as you sink onto the closed toilet lid, one hand gripping the edge of the sink to ground yourself. 

Jake. His name crashes through your thoughts, and a fresh wave of nausea rises up in your throat. Oh my god. There’s only one person it could be. Jake. Your friend. Your friend with benefits. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your palms against them. Your mind flickers through the memories—late nights tangled in sheets, whispered jokes between kisses, the unspoken agreement that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. It was fun. Easy. No strings attached. Except now, there are strings. Big, life-altering, impossible-to-ignore strings. 

Your stomach lurches. You press a hand to it instinctively, but it’s still just you. Just your body, your life—except it’s not just yours anymore, is it? A shuddering breath leaves you, and suddenly, you feel so, so small. What are you supposed to do? You’re in your second year of college. You have plans, dreams, a future that doesn’t include cribs and lullabies and tiny fingers clutching at yours. You can’t be a mother. Not now. Maybe not ever. And Jake? 

Jake has hockey. The game is his whole world—the early-morning practices, the late-night workouts, the way his eyes light up when he steps onto the ice. He has a career to chase, a future that doesn’t include this. 

This will ruin everything. Tears burn at the edges of your vision, but you blink them away. You can’t cry. Not yet. Not until you’re sure, not until you go to the doctor and they tell you this is all some cruel mistake. Because if it’s not… You swallow hard, gripping the test so tightly it feels like it might snap in half. You can’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe not ever. If you don’t say it out loud, if you don’t give it weight, maybe it won’t be real. Maybe you can find a way to make this all go away. But deep down, beneath the panic, beneath the sheer, suffocating terror— You already know. This is real. And there’s no undoing it. 

Your breath shudders as you stare at the test, the past clawing its way back to you. You’re racking your brain trying to find when the two of you went wrong, when you stopped being careful. You know exactly how. The memory slams into you, sharp and unforgiving—that night. 

Two months ago. 

The house was packed. Bodies pressed together, the air thick with heat and sweat and the sharp bite of liquor. Music pounded through the speakers, rattling the walls, the bass thrumming through your chest. The whole hockey team was celebrating their win, and Jake was at the center of it all, grinning like he owned the night. Heeseung had won it all, again. Except he was too busy pulling his girlfriend into a random room to really celebrate much. 

You weren’t even supposed to be here—you had a paper due, an exam creeping up—but when Jake texted “Where are you? We won. Get your ass over here,” you rolled your eyes, threw on something half-decent, and showed up anyway. And now you were here. Back pressed against a bathroom door, your fingers tangled in Jake’s hoodie, his mouth hot against yours. A breathless laugh escaped you between kisses, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in your veins. “I just came to say congrats.” 

Jake grinned against your lips. “This is how you say congrats?” You smirked. “I was gonna buy you a beer, but—” 

His hands slid down your sides, rough and familiar, pulling you flush against him. “This is better.” And god, it was. You had always liked this about Jake—how easy it was, how uncomplicated. No messy feelings, no awkward expectations. Just heat, just want, just the press of his body against yours as he backed you up against the bathroom sink. Your fingers curled into his shirt, tugging it up, your mouths moving together in that frantic, greedy way they always did when neither of you could be bothered to make it back to one of your apartments. 

“Quickie?” you breathed against his lips, teasing. Jake groaned, already fumbling with your jeans. “Fuck, yeah.” It was fast. Dizzying. His hands were everywhere, pushing, pulling, unzipping. Your back hit the counter, your fingers in his hair, his mouth tracing fire along your throat. Your skin was hot, your pulse erratic, and nothing else mattered—not the party raging outside the door, not the alcohol humming through your system, not the fact that you weren’t exactly thinking. 

It wasn’t until he was pressed against you, skin to skin, that something in the back of your mind lurched. You blinked up at him, breathless. “Wait—do you have a—” 

Jake cursed under his breath. “Shit. No. I didn’t—” He moved like he was about to pull back, but god, you wanted him. The ache was unbearable, your body screaming at you to just— “It’s fine,” you whispered. You’re on the pill. It’s just one time. Jake hesitated, his hands gripping your waist like he was giving himself a second to think, but then your mouth was on his again, and whatever sliver of self-restraint he had vanished. 

With one delicious roll of his hips against yours he was a goner. “Holy- f-fuck.” Jake hissed, his mouth agape and eyes heavy lidded as he looked down at where the two of you were perfectly intertwined. “Fuck. Fuck.” 

“How’s that feeling, champion?” You purred in his ear, your hands playing in his hair as he continued his assault on your pussy. 

“Such a pretty pussy..” Jake groaned. His grip on your thighs was almost bruising but you didn't care, you welcomed the pain. Your head leaned back, hitting the mirror as moans fell from your lips like a mantra. Jake’s lips found the column of your neck sucking and biting at the skin. “You like that, baby?” 

“Uh-huh” You nodded your head finding it hard to find the ability to speak when Jake was doing unspeakable things to you. Jake’s thrusts were starting to become frantic, his moans higher and more frequent as it became apparent he was closer and closer to the edge. The music outside the door thumped, sounds of muffled voices passing by the door fell on deaf ears. You were too wrapped up in the way Jake was making you feel, coupled with the buzz of alcohol flowing through your veins. It was almost euphoric when your orgasm hit. Your legs shaking in Jake’s grip. 

“God-” Jake breathed. Your orgasm served as a catalyst for his own. His hips slamming against yours with finality. It was reckless. It was careless. It was just once. Except once was enough. 

Present day. 

Your stomach lurches. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the memory away, willing yourself back into the safety of denial. But it’s useless. The test is still in your hands. The two pink lines are still staring back at you. And no matter how much you wish you could undo it— You can’t. 

Your hands are still trembling. Your fingers ache from how hard you’re clutching the test, but you can’t let go. If you set it down, if you let it slip from your grasp, that means you’re accepting it. That means this is real.A choked sound slips past your lips before you can stop it. Your vision blurs. Then it happens—you break. 

A sob rips through your chest, raw and unrestrained. You fold in on yourself, pressing a hand over your mouth to smother the sounds, but it doesn’t stop the tears from coming. They fall in hot, messy streaks, slipping down your cheeks, soaking into your shirt. Your whole body shakes with it, shoulders curled forward, knees pulled up as if making yourself smaller might make this moment disappear. But nothing disappears. Nothing changes. You’re still here. Still alone in this room. Still pregnant. 

The word echoes inside your skull, over and over, until it drowns out everything else. Pregnant. Pregnant. Pregnant. The panic tightens around your ribs like a vice, and suddenly, you can’t breathe. You gasp, swallowing down air, trying to steady yourself, but it’s like you’re stuck underwater. Like you’re drowning. You don’t know how long you sit there—minutes? Hours? Time blurs, slipping through your fingers like sand. All you know is that you can’t do this. 

You can’t be pregnant. You can’t be a mom. You can’t tell Jake. A fresh wave of nausea churns in your stomach at the thought of him. Of his reaction. Of what this will do to him. To you. Jake, with his whole future mapped out in skates and ice and championships. Jake, who has never even hinted at wanting something serious with you—because this wasn’t supposed to mean anything. Because it never has. And now, you’re carrying something that means everything. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing the heels of your hands against them. If you don’t see the test, if you don’t look at it, maybe—maybe—No.

You inhale sharply, forcing your mind through the fog of panic. There’s only one thing you can do right now. Only one thing that makes sense. Before you tell Jake—before you even let yourself fully believe this—you need to be sure. A pregnancy test is just plastic and dye. It could be wrong. It could be wrong. A doctor. You need a doctor. 

The thought latches onto you like a lifeline. If you go to the doctor and they tell you this is a mistake—if they tell you that somehow, someway, those pink lines don’t mean what you think they mean—then you can pretend this moment never happened. You can wipe it from existence. You have to know. Your phone is on your nightstand, facedown, dark. You force yourself to move, to function. Your limbs feel heavy, weighed down by exhaustion and fear and the sheer impossibility of what’s happening, but somehow, you grab it. Your fingers are still shaking when you pull up the campus clinic’s number. 

You hesitate. Your thumb hovers over the call button, the moment stretching out in front of you. Because if you make this appointment—if you hear a doctor say the words out loud— Then it’s real. And once it’s real, you can never go back. A single tear drips onto the phone screen, smudging the numbers. You close your eyes. And you press call. 

The next day feels like a fever dream. You go through the motions, pretending your world hasn’t tilted off its axis. But every breath, every step, every blink reminds you that something is different. That there’s something inside you—growing, forming, changing everything. You haven’t said a word to anyone. 

Yuna had texted this morning to let you know she was crashing at her friend’s place again. You almost told her. You almost begged her to come home, to sit with you, to make you feel like you weren’t completely alone in this—but you couldn’t do it. Not yet. Not until the doctor confirms what you already know deep in your bones. So, you’ve spent the entire day in silence. Sitting with this information like a stone in your gut, waiting for the inevitable unraveling. 

You didn’t sleep last night. Every time you closed your eyes, the thoughts crept in—images of Jake, of your future, of what this means for the rest of your life. Of every possibility, every terrible outcome. You’ve always thought of pregnancy as some far-off, abstract concept—something that happened to other people, to people who were ready, to people who wanted it. But not you. Never you. 

And now, in just a few hours, you’ll be lying on an exam table, hearing a doctor tell you how far along you are. How long ago your life changed without you even knowing. The thought makes your stomach twist, nausea curling in your throat. You’re so lost in your thoughts that when your phone rings, the sudden sound makes you jump. It’s Jake. Your heart stops. His name flashes on the screen, bold and unmistakable, and for a second, you consider letting it ring. But that’s suspicious. You never ignore Jake’s calls. That would only make him ask questions.

So, you force yourself to breathe, force yourself to steady your voice, and answer. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” he echoes, his voice easy, warm. There’s the faint sound of voices and clattering sticks in the background, and you picture him in the locker room, probably shoving his gear into his bag while talking to you. The image is so painfully normal that it makes your chest ache. “What are you up to tonight?” he asks, casual, unaware of the chaos inside you. “Practice should be done around eight. You wanna come over?” 

Your grip tightens around the phone. It’s a simple question. A question you’ve answered a hundred times before with some variation of yeah, sure or your place or mine? But tonight, everything is different, and Jake has no idea. You swallow hard, throat dry. “I—I can’t.” 

He pauses. “Why not?” Because in less than two hours, I’ll be staring at an ultrasound screen, listening to a doctor tell me how many weeks pregnant I am. Because I don’t know how to look you in the eye, knowing that inside me—inside us—something is changing, something we never planned for, never wanted. “I'm sick,” you say instead. It’s a rushed excuse, flimsy and weak. “I think I caught something.” 

Jake hums, like he doesn’t quite buy it but isn’t ready to push. “You okay?” No. Not even close. 

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just tired. I think I just need to sleep it off.” Another pause. You know Jake well enough to know he’s debating whether or not to call you out. But finally, he just sighs. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything.” 

His voice is so normal. So Jake. And for a moment, you almost break. You almost say, Actually, there is something I need. I need you to know. I need you to tell me what the hell we’re supposed to do now. I need you to promise that I’m not in this alone. But the words don’t come. Instead, you rush out, “I gotta go,” before he can say anything else. You don’t wait for his response. You hang up, your hand shaking as you set your phone facedown beside you. 

The room is too quiet again. Your heart is pounding, adrenaline making your whole body feel light and untethered. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep pretending you’re fine when everything inside you is breaking apart. And yet, that’s exactly what you do. You wipe at your face, stand up, and grab your coat. The appointment is waiting. And whether you’re ready or not— You’re about to find out exactly how much time you have left before you have to tell Jake the truth. 

The air outside is sharp, biting against your skin as you step out of your dorm. It’s early evening, but the sky is already dark, winter pressing its cold fingers into everything it touches. Streetlights flicker to life, their glow hazy against the fog of your breath as you exhale, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. The clinic isn’t far. Just a short walk across campus. Still, every step feels heavier than the last. 

Your stomach churns with nerves, your hands stuffed deep in your pockets to hide their trembling. The closer you get, the more the reality of what you’re about to do sinks in. There’s no turning back after this. Once the doctor confirms it—once they tell you exactly how far along you are—you’ll have no choice but to face this head-on. No more pretending. No more hoping the test was wrong. You wish Yuna were here. You wish someone was here. 

But instead, you walk into the clinic alone, head ducked, shoulders curled in like you can make yourself disappear. The receptionist barely looks up as you check in, only nodding before motioning toward the chairs in the waiting area. You sit. The room smells like antiseptic and old magazines, too-bright lights buzzing overhead. Your legs bounce restlessly, fingers twisting in your lap. The other people waiting don’t even spare you a glance, but you still feel exposed, like someone could look at you and just know. Your name is called. 

Your body moves on autopilot, following the nurse down the hall, into a room. She asks questions. You answer without really hearing yourself, your voice robotic, like you’re reciting lines for a role you never wanted. Then the real part begins. You lie back on the table, cold gel spread across your stomach. The machine hums to life, and your heart pounds. You don’t know if you want to look. You don’t know if you can. But then the doctor says, “There it is.” And you do. You look. 

The screen is grainy, shifting black and white, impossible to make sense of at first. Then she moves the wand, adjusting the angle, and— Your breath catches. A tiny flicker. Your whole body freezes. “That’s the heartbeat,” the doctor says softly. “Would you like to hear it?” 

Your throat is too tight to answer. You don’t know what you expected, but not this. Not something so small, so fragile, so real. You nod. And then—sound. A rapid, steady rhythm, impossibly fast but undeniably there. Your vision blurs, and it takes you a second to realize you’re crying. 

Because this isn’t just a concept anymore. This isn’t just two pink lines or a mistake or a problem you don’t know how to solve. This is real. And whether you’re ready or not, this is happening. The doctor speaks again, gentle but firm. “You’re about seven weeks along.” 

Seven weeks. You squeeze your eyes shut. Because now there’s a heartbeat. Now there’s a timeline. Now there’s no way out of this moment, no way to pretend it hasn’t already changed you. You leave the clinic with a small printout in your hands, the black-and-white ultrasound photo pressed between your fingers. You don’t even know why you took it. Maybe because part of you knows that after tonight, everything is going to change. And Jake still has no idea. 

Back in the dorm you're still alone, Yuna not having come back yet. You were grateful for that as you just needed the time alone to process. Your phone buzzes. You flinch at the sudden vibration, your fingers tightening around the ultrasound printout still resting in your lap. It takes a second for you to move, to blink, to tear your gaze away from the tiny, grainy image on the paper. Another buzz. Your stomach twists. 

Slowly, like you already know what you’ll see, you reach for your phone and tilt the screen toward you. 

Jake: You feeling any better? 

You stare at the message, your pulse hammering in your throat. A third buzz. 

Jake: Practice just ended. Thinking about you. 

You suck in a sharp breath, a lump forming in your throat so quickly it nearly chokes you. Thinking about you. He doesn’t even realize what those words do to you right now, how they cut straight through your ribs, cracking something open inside you. You can picture him perfectly—his damp hair, his flushed cheeks, the easy way he leans against his locker while texting you, probably half-distracted, expecting you to reply with something simple. Something normal. But nothing is normal. Not anymore. The screen glares up at you, demanding an answer, but your fingers won’t move. 

What could you even say? Actually, I’m in my dorm having just left the doctor, staring at an ultrasound of the baby I never meant to have with you. But don’t worry, I’ll get back to you when I figure out how the hell to tell you. Another buzz. This time, it’s a call and you panic. Your heart slams against your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you flip the phone over, screen-down, silencing it. The call cuts off. A few seconds later, another text comes through. 

Jake: You good? 

Your breathing is uneven. Your hands are shaking. You can’t do this. Not right now. You toss your phone away on the bed, like that will somehow make it all go away. Like that will somehow delay the inevitable. But you know it won’t you have to tell him soon, or it will eat you alive. 

For the next few hours you sit in silence, still not having left the dorm. The room is quiet, save for the faint ticking of the clock above your desk.  You’re curled up beneath your blankets, exhaustion pressing down on you like a weight. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep after getting back from the clinic, but your body had other plans. It wasn’t restful, though. Even in sleep, your mind wouldn’t stop spinning, replaying the sound of that tiny heartbeat over and over and over again. 

Suddenly a soft click of the door was heard. You stir, blinking blearily as the light flicks on. “Hey, are you awake?” Yuna’s voice is gentle, cautious. You push yourself up, rubbing at your eyes as you watch her drop her bag by the door. She looks guilty. “I’m sorry for being gone so long,” she says, brushing a hand through her dark hair. “Our study session ran late, and we figured, why not just turn it into a sleepover? I should’ve texted you more. I feel bad.” 

You shake your head, forcing a small, tired smile. “It’s fine. You don’t have to check in with me every second.” Yuna eyes you for a beat, like she’s trying to gauge if you really mean it. Then she sighs, kicking off her shoes before flopping onto the bed beside you. “I missed anything exciting?” Yes. No. everything. 

You swallow, shaking your head again. “Not really.” Yuna shifts, turning onto her side to face you. Then, her brows furrow. Her eyes scan your face, tracing the dark circles beneath your eyes, the tension in your jaw, the way you keep fidgeting with the edge of your blanket. “Okay, what’s wrong?” she asks, blunt as ever. 

Your heart stutters. “What? Nothing’s wrong.” 

Yuna doesn’t buy it for a second. She gives you a look, her sharp, knowing gaze cutting right through your weak attempt at indifference. “Don’t lie to me.” You open your mouth—ready to deny, to deflect, to do anything but tell the truth—but something inside you breaks. The weight of it all, the sheer impossibility of holding it in any longer, crushes you. You don’t say a word. You just reach under your pillow, where the crumpled ultrasound printout is still hidden, and pull it out with trembling fingers. 

Then, without looking at her, you hold it out. Yuna blinks, confused for a second—until she takes the paper from your hand and sees. Her entire body goes still. Silence. She stares down at the black-and-white image, her lips parting slightly. Her throat works like she wants to say something, but no words come out. Seconds stretch, heavy and suffocating. 

Finally, she looks at you. Her voice is quiet, but sharp with shock. “Is this…?” You nod, your chest tight. Yuna inhales sharply. “Holy shit.” She sits up straighter, like the weight of the moment is finally hitting her. She looks at the ultrasound again, like if she stares long enough, it’ll make sense. Then, eyes wide—voice barely above a whisper—she asks, “…It’s Jake’s? Right?” You let out a dry, humorless laugh, wiping at your face. “Of course, it is.” 

She looks up at you, eyes still wide with shock. “He’s the only one I’ve been with in a year,” you add quietly, voice almost getting lost in the space between you. Yuna swallows, nodding slowly, like she’s just now processing how real this is. Like she’s flipping through all the memories she has of you and Jake—of the nights you’d leave your dorm with a smirk and come back in one of his hoodies, of the way you never quite called him your boyfriend, of the way he was always just there. Her gaze sharpens. “How did he take it?” 

Your stomach twists. You hesitate just a second too long. Yuna’s face drops. “Oh my god.” She leans forward. “You didn’t tell him?” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, inhaling deeply before shaking your head. Yuna groans, throwing her head back against the headboard. “You have got to be kidding me.” 

“Yuna—” 

“No.” She sits up straight again, looking at you with something between exasperation and concern. “You have to tell him.” 

“I know,” you say, voice tight. “I just—” 

“No,” she interrupts. “Not later, not eventually—you need to tell him now.” You shake your head quickly, wrapping your arms around yourself. Your whole body feels cold, like the weight of this conversation is seeping into your bones. “You don’t get it,” you say, your voice almost breaking. “Jake loves hockey. More than anything. More than school, more than his own goddamn life sometimes.” You sniffle, shaking your head again. “If I tell him this, he’ll—” You stop, choking on the words. 

He’ll what? Walk away? Shut down? Look at you like you’ve just ruined his entire world? You don’t even know. That’s the problem. Yuna softens. She reaches out, placing a warm hand over yours. “Jake is a good guy,” she says gently. “He would never do that to you.” You stare down at your lap, at your fingers twisting in your hoodie sleeves. She says it like it's a fact. Like there’s no question, no possibility of anything else. But she doesn’t know what you know. 

She doesn’t know how much Jake lives for the game, how hockey is the thing that keeps his blood pumping, how he lights up when he talks about it in a way he never has about anything—or anyone—else. She doesn’t know that you’re terrified. Because if you tell Jake, if you say the words out loud— it’s real and it’s scary. 

The tears come fast. Faster than you expect. One second, you’re staring at your lap, chest too tight to breathe. The next, your vision is blurring, and your shoulders shake, and a broken sound rips from your throat before you can stop it. Yuna reacts instantly. “Hey—hey, no, don’t cry,” she says, shifting closer. Her arms wrap around you before you even realize what’s happening, pulling you into the warmth of her embrace. “I got you. It’s okay.” but it’s not okay. Nothing about this is okay. You bury your face into her shoulder, gripping the fabric of her sweatshirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to the earth. She doesn’t let go, just rubs circles into your back as you fall apart. 

“I—I don’t know what to do,” you admit, voice muffled. “I’m so scared, Yuna.” She sighs, resting her chin atop your head. “I know.” A fresh wave of tears spills over. You wish you didn’t feel like this. Wish you could be stronger, steadier, more in control. But right now, you’re none of those things. Right now, you’re just a girl who made a mistake and is staring down the consequences. Yuna squeezes you a little tighter. “Listen, whatever happens, you won’t be alone in this, okay? You have me. And when you tell Jake, you’ll have him too. And even if—even if he’s an idiot about it at first, I’ll kick his ass into shape.” That actually makes you let out a weak, teary laugh. 

Yuna gasps, dramatic as always. “Did you just laugh? Oh my god, it’s a miracle.” You sniffle. “Shut up.” She pulls back just enough to grin at you, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “I’m serious, though. If worst comes to worst, you and I will just get married and raise the baby together. Two badass moms against the world.” 

A laugh bubbles out of you, real this time. “You’d hate being married to me.” 

“Yeah, but I’d do it out of love. I’d be the hot, rich, wine-drunk mom. You’d be the stressed one who has to actually parent.” You roll your eyes, but the weight in your chest feels just a little bit lighter. Yuna smiles. “See? You’re gonna be okay.” and you think, maybe she’s right, maybe you will be okay. 

The next day feels like a blur. Again. Like you’re going through the motions of life with no real end goal. You know you have to get up, do something. Tell Jake that he’s going to be a fucking father because the longer you keep this a secret the more its eating you up inside out. 

You spend most of your day in the dorm, curled up on the couch with the TV playing some random show you’re not even paying attention to. The volume is low, just background noise to fill the silence, but it doesn’t stop your mind from racing. Jake has been calling all day. Text after text, call after call—his name keeps flashing on your screen, but you can’t bring yourself to answer. You know you should. You know avoiding him won’t make this easier. But every time you reach for your phone, your stomach twists, and your fingers freeze, and the weight of what you have to tell him slams into you all over again. So you do nothing. 

You let the calls go to voicemail. You leave the texts unread. And now, as the sun sets and the room is cast in a dim, golden glow, you’re still here—still stuck, still waiting, still pretending for just a little longer that none of this is happening. But then there's a knock on your door. And you're scared shitless because you think you know who it is. For a second, you don’t move, barely even breathe. Then another knock—firmer this time. 

Slowly, legs unsteady beneath you, you rise from the couch. Your hands feel cold as you grip the doorknob, pulse hammering in your ears as you turn it and pull the door open. And there he is. Jake. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, his hair still damp from a shower, his brows drawn together in confusion and concern. His eyes—those warm, familiar eyes—scan over you, taking in your messy hair, the exhaustion written all over your face, the way you’re not meeting his gaze. 

He shifts his weight, tilting his head. “…What’s going on with you?” You grip the edge of the door tighter. Your throat closes. Jake exhales, his expression softening as he reaches up, brushing his fingers over the side of your face like he’s trying to pull you back to him, trying to figure out what’s wrong. “You’ve been ignoring me all day.” 

His voice is quieter now, tinged with something almost like worry. You swallow hard and your chest tightens, because this is it. There's no more running because Jake is right here in front of you. Jake doesn’t wait for permission. The second you hesitate, the second you shift like you might try to close the door on him, he pushes inside. 

The door clicks shut behind him, sealing you both in. He stands there, shoulders tense, his eyes scanning over you like he’s trying to read your mind. His brows are furrowed, frustration flickering behind his gaze. “What the hell is going on with you?” he demands. 

Your stomach knots. “Jake—” 

“No, seriously,” he cuts in, voice sharp. “Why the hell have you been ignoring me all day? You haven’t answered a single one of my texts, didn’t pick up any of my calls. I had to come here just to get you to look at me.” You take a step back, wrapping your arms around yourself. The room feels too small, the air too thick. “I told you. I’m sick.” 

Jake scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s bullshit.” Your breath catches. He shakes his head, eyes narrowing as he watches you. “You don’t just disappear like that. You don’t just cut me off without a reason.” He exhales sharply, like he’s trying to keep his temper in check. “Did I… do something?” His voice is quieter now, more cautious. 

“Because if I did, just—tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.” His jaw clenches. “I just—fuck, I don’t know—I miss you.” Your heart stutters. You stare at him, the weight of his words pressing into your ribs, making it even harder to breathe. “I’ve wanted to run here to you all week, tell you about my game, watch movies with you. Anything, but you're shutting me out.” This is Jake. You’re jake. And suddenly all of it feels so much worse. 

Your voice is small when you finally speak. “You didn’t do anything.” Jake takes a step closer, searching your face. “Then what is it?” You inhale shakily. Your hands tremble at your sides. Your throat burns. It’s time. There’s no easy way to do this. No way to soften it. 

So you just say it. “I’m pregnant.” 

Silence. It crashes over the room like a tidal wave. Jake doesn’t move, for a moment it looks like he doesn’t even breathe. Completely still. His face goes blank, his lips parting slightly like the words haven’t fully registered. His fingers twitch at his sides, his whole body stiff with shock. You stare at him, heart pounding, waiting—waiting for something. Some kind of reaction. Some kind of response. But he doesn’t say a word. Your stomach twists. He just keeps standing there, frozen, staring at you like you’ve just rewritten his entire reality. And maybe you had. 

You bite your lip, blinking back the burn in your eyes. When you finally speak again, your voice is quieter. Sharper. “This is your only chance to take the out.” Jake’s brows pull together slightly, but he still says nothing. You swallow the lump in your throat. “If you don’t want this, if you don’t want to be responsible for a baby, you can walk away. Right now.” Your voice shakes. “No one would blame you. I won’t blame you.” Jake blinks. Still silent. Still motionless. Your heart slams against your ribs. You hate this. Hate this. Hate that you don’t know what’s going through his head. Hate that you feel this vulnerable, this exposed, this small. 

You force yourself to look him in the eyes. “I know hockey is your life..” You trail. “ I know that’s what you’re thinking about right now. You forget that before..this, we were friends. good friends. I know what hockey means to you and I would never in a million years ask for you to choose. So I'm giving you a choice. be a dad or walk away. Neither of those involve not playing hockey. but i’m telling you right now. if you choose this, if you’re all in you better be all in because this is your only time to tap out. don’t get my hopes up then crush them when it gets too hard because i’ll never forgive you for that.” 

Jake just stands there. Still silent. Still unreadable. 

“Why are you not saying anything?” You whispered brokenly, the silence almost too much to bear. “Please say something.” 

Finally, Jake’s mouth opens but then it shuts again like he’s trying to find the ability to speak. Like a failing fish out of water. It’s nerve wracking, your body feels like it's on fire. “Please Jake.” You beg, at your wits end. 

“You’re giving me an out..” He trailed off, and your heart sank at the words. Was he really going to walk away and leave you to raise a baby alone? The thought terrified you to no end. “You’re giving me an out and a very big part of me is screaming at me to take it. it would be the smart thing, the easy thing and maybe the best thing for my career. My brain is ticking, yelling over and over ‘take the out, take the out. but there is a small part of me that outways the rest, a part that won’t let me be like the man who didn’t have the guts to raise me. that refuses to leave this kid, my kid, without a father. so, yes I'm quiet and yes I'm not saying anything. because my mind is going to war trying to think of a way to be a dad and a damn good hockey player at the sametime.” 

“Okay.” You said simply. And for a while you both sat in silence, neither of you finding the right words to say. Until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

“Did you figure it out?” You asked him. Jake’s eyes closed, a deep breath falling from his lips. 

“No.” He said simply, “but I will.” Your head shot up in surprise, your eyes wide and glassy with tears threatening to spill. 

“You’re in?” You ask with a strained voice. 

“I’m in.” 

Jake and yourself had a lot more that you had to talk about, that was for sure. But the confirmation of him staying and raising this baby with you had definitely lifted a large weight off your shoulders and although you were less terrified it didn’t mean you were prepared. You were having a baby for god's sake. That scared you to death. And you weren't sure if you were entirely ready for it. 

Over the next few weeks Jake does things that prove he's all in. The first time Jake shows up, you don’t expect it. You step out of the campus doors, arms wrapped around yourself, still shaken from your last appointment. The air is crisp, biting at your skin as you take a deep breath, trying to center yourself. And then you hear it. The sound of footsteps. The rustling of fabric. And then - “Hey.” Your head snaps up. Jake is there, leaning against the side of his car, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. His hair is messy like he’s been running his hands through it all day, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder like he just came from practice. 

Your stomach flips. “What are you doing here?” you ask. Jake shrugs, pushing off the car. “Thought you might need a ride.” 

​​You hesitate, tightening your grip on the sleeve of your hoodie. “I can take the bus,” you say, voice quiet. Jake raises a brow. “You could. Or you could let me drive you home.” You don’t have the energy to argue. Not today. So you nod. Jake doesn’t say much on the ride back. He keeps his eyes on the road, hands gripping the wheel, but every so often, his gaze flickers toward you — like he’s checking to make sure you’re still there. 

It keeps happening. 

A few days later, a jersey appears on the back of your desk chair. One of Jake’s, the fabric worn in places, his last name sprawled across the back in bold letters. You pick it up, running your fingers over the lettering. There’s a note tucked into the sleeve. "Just in case you need something warm." Your breath catches. 

The next time you see him, you don’t bring it up. But when you wear the jersey around your dorm, you pretend not to notice the way Yuna raises a knowing brow. Jake keeps showing up. Not in the obvious ways, not in ways that force anything. But in the background. In the small things. A decaf coffee left on your desk when you step out of class. A text asking if you’ve eaten. A moment at the rink where he catches your eyes before disappearing into the locker room. He doesn’t say anything about the pregnancy. Not yet. But he’s there. And that terrifies you just as much as it comforts you. 

Jake isn’t there. Not really. His body is on the ice, his skates cutting across the surface, his hands gripping his stick, but his mind—his mind is still sitting in that sterile doctor’s office, staring at a screen where a tiny, flickering heartbeat had filled the room. "There’s your baby."  He can still hear the doctor’s voice, still feel the way his stomach had plummeted as the reality of it settled in, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. "Your baby."  Jake clenches his jaw, gripping his stick tighter. 

“Jake!” The sharp bark of his name barely registers before — CRACK. The puck flies past him, a blur of black and white as it slams into the boards. “Jesus Christ, Sim!” Jake blinks, snapping back into focus just in time to see his coach skating toward him, fuming. His teammates shift uncomfortably, casting wary glances between them as Coach Bennet stops in front of Jake, eyes blazing. 

​​“You wanna tell me where the hell your head is at today?” Coach snaps. “Because it sure as hell isn’t here.” Jake swallows hard. His grip on his stick tightens, knuckles going white. “I—” Coach doesn’t let him finish. 

“You’ve been slow all practice. Missing passes, losing pucks—you’re a vital part of this team, Sim. You don’t get to check out like this.” His voice drops slightly, but it only makes the words hit harder. “Get it together. Now.” Jake nods stiffly.  He doesn’t say anything. Because what the hell is he supposed to say? That he can’t focus because his whole life changed forever? That there’s a baby now—a real, growing baby—and he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that? That every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is that ultrasound? 

Coach exhales sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Take five.” Jake doesn’t argue. He skates off the ice, his heart pounding. He needs to get his head straight. Now. Because if he doesn’t — He might just lose everything. 

Jake barely makes it through the rest of practice. He’s off. Way off. His passes are sloppy. His shots lack power. He’s slow to react, too caught up in his head to play the way he’s supposed to. By the time Coach blows the final whistle, Jake is drenched in sweat and running on empty. His entire body feels tense, like his muscles are wound so tight they might snap. He just needs to get out of here. 

He needs to shower, grab his stuff, and go check on you. But before he can make it out of the locker room — “Yo, Sim!” Jake glances up, spotting Jay, Heeseung, and Sunghoon making their way toward him. Jay slings an arm over his shoulders, still dripping wet from his shower. “We’re heading to a party tonight. You coming?” 

Jake doesn’t even hesitate. “No.” 

Jay pulls back slightly, raising a brow. “No?” 

“Dude,” Sunghoon snorts. “It’s a Friday night, and you’re passing up a party? Who are you?” Jake exhales, shaking his head as he shoves his gear into his bag. “I just—” He hesitates. “I have somewhere to be.” 

Heeseung leans against the lockers, crossing his arms. “You’ve been weird as hell all day, man.” Jay nods. “Yeah, what’s going on with you?” 

Jake grips the strap of his duffel so tight it hurts. He could make something up. Should make something up. But instead — it just spills out, before Jake could stop it. “She’s pregnant.” The words hang heavy in the air. None of them move. None of them speak. Jay blinks. “Wait. What?” and Jake laughs.

Or at least, he tries to. It comes out more like a broken, choked sound. His throat feels tight, his chest squeezed so hard it physically hurts. “She’s pregnant,” he says again, voice cracking. And then, before he can even stop it — He’s crying. Right there, in the middle of the locker room, surrounded by his teammates, Jake fucking breaks. 

His head falls into his hands, his shoulders shaking as he lets it out. Because he’s scared. Because he doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. Because this isn’t part of the plan. And for the first time in his entire life, he doesn’t know how to fix it. “Fuck, man,” Heeseung breathes. Jay is the first to move, stepping closer and clamping a firm hand on Jake’s back. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Jake shakes his head. “No, it’s not.” His voice is raw, shaky. “I don’t—I don’t know what to do.” 

Sunghoon exhales through his nose. “Okay, first? Breathe.” Jake tries. And fails. He sucks in a breath, but it feels like nothing is getting in. His heart is racing, his mind spinning, and everything is just — “Jake.” Jay squeezes his shoulder. “You’re not alone in this.” Jake lifts his head, eyes red, glassy. 

“We got you, man,” Heeseung says quietly. “No matter what.” Sunghoon nods. “Yeah. And, I mean—” He gestures around. “This isn’t exactly news you should be dealing with alone.” 

Jay nudges him lightly. “Have you told her how you feel?” Jake wipes at his face, sniffing. “I don’t even know how I feel.” His voice wobbles. “I just—I need to see her.” Jay exchanges a glance with Heeseung before looking back at him. “Then go” 

Jake doesn’t wait. He grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder, and leaves. 

The knock at your door startles you. You freeze mid-reach for your phone, heart suddenly hammering in your chest. You already know who it is. For a second, you consider ignoring it. Pretending you’re asleep. Pretending you’re busy. You’re not sure you want any company. But you can’t do that forever. 

So you force yourself up, smoothing down the front of your sweater as you cross the room. You take a steadying breath, gripping the doorknob with fingers that tremble just slightly, and pull it open. Jake stands there. The first thing you notice is the hoodie—dark gray, pulled up over his head, casting a shadow over his face. His duffel bag is slung over one shoulder, his hockey gear probably stuffed inside. His posture is a little tense, like he had to talk himself into coming here. But the real thing that catches your attention is what he’s holding. 

A takeout bag. Your throat tightens. “I, uh…” Jake shifts on his feet, glancing down at the bag like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with it. “I remembered you said you were craving this, so I thought—” He hesitates, clears his throat, then lifts the bag slightly. “I figured I’d bring you some.” Something cracks inside you. Because it’s such a small thing—just food, just a meal—but the fact that he remembered that he went out of his way after practice when he was probably exhausted, when he could have avoided all of this — You swallow hard and step aside, voice softer than you mean for it to be. “Come in.” 

Jake hesitates for just a second before stepping inside. The door clicks shut behind him. He doesn’t look around, doesn’t hesitate, just walks straight over to your desk and sets the bag down before collapsing onto your bed like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like this is normal. Like nothing between you has changed. He stretches out slightly, fingers drumming against his thigh before he looks at you. 

“So,” he says, voice easy, like he’s not breaking some invisible barrier by being here. “How was your day?” You blink. It’s such a simple question, but it feels heavier than it should. Because what does he want to hear? That you spent most of it overthinking? That you barely slept last night, kept up by the thought of everything crashing down around you? That every time you close your eyes, you see your own future in a way you never imagined it before? Instead, you inhale deeply and say, “It was fine.” Jake gives you a look. You fidget slightly under his gaze before sighing and elaborating. 

“I had class this morning,” you start, perching on the edge of your chair. “Yuna and I grabbed coffee after, but the barista completely messed up my order, so I ended up drinking the strongest espresso of my life. I swear I could hear colors after that.” Jake snorts, shaking his head. “Then I came back to my room, tried to take a nap, but the guys across the hall decided to have a full-on garage band session at, like, peak volume.” You groan, rubbing your temples. “It sounded like someone was murdering an electric guitar.” 

Jake tilts his head. “Were they at least good?” 

You deadpan. “No.” He chuckles, the sound low and familiar, something that almost makes you feel lighter. So you keep talking. You tell him about your classes, about how Yuna dragged you into watching some new drama that she’s absolutely obsessed with. About how you got sucked into a rabbit hole of cat videos on your phone, and one was so funny that you laughed until you cried. And the whole time, Jake listens. Not just in the polite, half-distracted way people sometimes do. No—he really listens. He nods at the right moments. Asks questions. Throws in sarcastic comments that make you roll your eyes but also bite back a smile. And it’s so… easy. 

For a few minutes, it’s like things are the way they used to be. Like there’s no giant, life-changing revelation hanging over your heads. Like it’s just you and him. Like it’s always been. But that’s the thing about pretending. Eventually, reality always catches up. 

You shouldn’t be staring at Jake. But you are. It’s not your fault, really. He’s sitting on your bed like he belongs there, hoodie still pulled up, fingers absentmindedly picking at a loose thread on your blanket. The room is dim, just your bedside lamp casting a soft glow, making everything feel warmer. Closer. And maybe it’s the lighting, or maybe it’s just the fact that he’s here, but — he looks good. Really, good. You could blame it on the hormones but you know that’s not entirely true, you were attracted to Jake enough to fuck him on the regular. 

Which is so not what you should be thinking about right now. Especially when everything between you is so much bigger than it used to be. Still, you can’t help but glance at him as you chew your food, watching the way his jaw tenses like he’s caught up in his own head. So, to fill the silence, you ask, “What about you? What did you do today?” 

Jake blinks, like you’ve just pulled him out of a thought he wasn’t ready to leave. Then he sighs. “Practice.” You raise a brow. “That’s it?” He huffs out a soft laugh. “That’s pretty much all I do.” 

You roll your eyes, leaning back against your pillows. “Yeah, yeah. Hockey is life.” Jake smirks. “Glad you’re finally getting it.” You nudge him lightly with your foot, and for the first time in days, something feels normal. But then you see the way his smirk fades slightly, the way his fingers keep fidgeting. 

“How was practice?” you ask. Jake hesitates. And you can tell — whatever it is, he doesn’t want to say it. But after a moment, he sighs. “It sucked.” That makes you pause. Jake never complains about practice. Even when he’s exhausted, even when he’s been chewed out by his coach, even when he’s sore and bruised—he always shrugs it off. It’s just part of the game. So the fact that he’s saying it now means something. 

“Why?” you ask, setting your food down. Jake drags a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I don’t know. I couldn’t focus. Coach was on my ass all day. Kept telling me to get my head in the game.” He shakes his head, voice quieter now. “I just… couldn’t.” Your chest tightens. Because you know. You know why he couldn’t focus. And it hits you, suddenly — Jake is scared. Maybe not in the same way you are. Maybe not in the overwhelming, spiraling, how-will-I-ever-handle-this way that’s been sitting heavy in your chest since you saw that test. 

But still—Jake is scared. And for the first time since this whole thing started, you realize, You’re not the only one whose world is changing. Jake won’t look at you. His eyes stay fixed on some invisible point in the room, his jaw tense, fingers still picking at the frayed thread on your blanket. He looks like he wants to say something, like there’s too much sitting on his tongue, but he doesn’t know where to start. And for some reason, that makes your chest ache. 

“Jake…” you start carefully. His head tilts slightly, but he still doesn’t meet your gaze. You swallow. “Is it because of—”

“You,” Jake says suddenly. The word is soft. Quiet. But it still punches the air right out of your lungs. Your breath catches. “Me?” Jake finally lifts his eyes to yours, and god, they’re unreadable. Dark, searching—like he’s trying to figure out what the hell to do with everything inside him.

“Yeah,” he mutters. His voice is rough, like he’s only just now admitting it to himself. “It’s you. It’s… this.” He gestures vaguely, and you know he means all of it. The pregnancy. The secret you held onto for weeks. The way everything between you is shifting, unsteady, the ground cracking beneath both of you in real time. And it’s weird. Because part of you has spent so long thinking about how this will change your life—how everything is unraveling for you—that it didn’t even occur to you that Jake is unraveling too.

That he’s scared. Just like you. The thought makes something twist deep in your stomach. You exhale, shifting slightly so you’re facing him completely. “I didn’t mean to mess everything up for you.” Jake’s brows knit together immediately. “What?” You glance down at your hands. “I know hockey is your whole life, Jake. I know you’ve got… plans, and dreams, and this wasn’t supposed to happen. And now it’s just—” You trail off, biting the inside of your cheek before whispering, “I don’t want you to hate me for it.”

Jake stiffens. The room is silent for a long, painful moment. Then, suddenly, he shifts—pushing himself off the bed and moving toward you so fast that your breath stumbles. He doesn’t touch you, but he’s closer now. Close enough that you can see the way his knuckles are white from how hard he’s gripping his hoodie sleeves.

“Don’t say that,” he says, voice low. “Don’t ever say that.” You blink up at him, startled by the sudden intensity in his eyes. Jake shakes his head, exhaling sharply. “I could never hate you.” Your throat tightens. “But I—”

“You didn’t do this alone.” His voice is firm, certain. “You didn’t just wake up one day and decide to flip my life upside down. I was there, too.” You let out a weak, humorless laugh. “Yeah, well, I’m the one carrying it.” Jake flinches slightly at the word carrying, but he doesn’t look away.

“I know,” he says. His voice is softer now. “And I know it’s different for you. I know I’ll never fully get what that feels like.” He swallows hard. “But this isn’t just on you, okay? I’m scared too.” Your heart stutters. Because this is Jake. The Jake who’s always been so steady. So sure of himself. Who skates like nothing in the world could shake him. And now he’s sitting in front of you, looking like he’s the one who can’t find his footing.

You don’t know what to say. So you just nod. Jake exhales, dragging a hand through his hair before falling back onto your bed. He stares at the ceiling for a long second, letting the silence settle between you again. Then, with a small, almost bitter laugh, he says, “God, no wonder Coach was on my ass all day.”

That startles a laugh out of you. It’s small, barely there, but Jake notices. His lips twitch. “Oh, so now it’s funny?”

You sniffle, shaking your head. “I mean… kinda.” Jake groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Glad you’re enjoying my suffering.” You roll your eyes, nudging his foot lightly with yours. “It’s not suffering, it’s called consequences.” Jake drops his arm, lifting his head to give you a flat look. “I don’t like that word.”

You smirk. “Well, get used to it.” For a moment, you just sit there, looking at each other. And something settles. The air is still heavy, the weight of everything still pressing down on both of you. But… It doesn’t feel so suffocating anymore. 

The rest of the night kept going just like that, sat next together watching reruns, laughing about everything. You’re trying to focus on the show playing in front of you. Really, you are. But it’s hard—and not just because Jake keeps making little comments about the plot, half-serious, half to mess with you. It’s because you can’t stop thinking about it. Something that has been plaguing you these past few weeks. The feeling has been creeping up on you for weeks now, an itch under your skin that only seems to get worse. At first, you thought it was just stress, or maybe a weird symptom of everything your body was going through. But now, sitting here next to Jake, your legs tucked up under you, his thigh warm where it brushes against yours — 

You know exactly what it is. And god, it’s humiliating. Because there’s no good way to say it. Hey, Jake, I know our lives are changing forever, but by the way, I’m really, really horny. You press your lips together, eyes flickering toward him. He looks relaxed, his arm slung lazily over the back of your bed, fingers occasionally tapping against the blanket. His hoodie has shifted slightly, revealing a strip of skin above the waistband of his sweats, and why are you even looking at that? 

You force yourself to look back at the screen, gripping your blanket like it might physically restrain you from saying something stupid. But then Jake shifts, turning toward you slightly. “You good?” You freeze. “What?” 

Jake gives you a look. “You keep making weird faces.” Shit. You clear your throat, shaking your head quickly. “I’m fine.” Jake raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You sure?” 

No. “Yeah.” but he doesn’t look away, god can he just look away. “Because if something’s wrong—” 

“I said I’m fine,” you blurt, a little too quickly, a little too defensive. Jake blinks. You clamp your mouth shut. Then, slowly, his expression shifts. Like he’s figuring something out. Like he’s putting a puzzle together, piece by piece. And suddenly, you regret everything. Because this is Jake.

Jake, who knows your body better than anyone. Jake, who has spent the last year reading your little shifts and signals, knowing exactly when you wanted him—when you needed him—even before you ever said a word. And now he’s looking at you like he knows exactly what’s on your mind. Your stomach flips. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something — But you panic, snatching the remote and turning the volume up way too high.

Jake flinches at the sudden blare of noise. “Jesus—”

“Sorry!” You fumble with the remote, lowering it again. “My hand slipped.” Jake stares at you. Then—slowly—he smirks. Your stomach plummets. “Your hand slipped?” he repeats, amusement dripping from his tone. You nod quickly. “Yep.” Jake tilts his head, still watching you. Your heart is pounding. And you realize, with absolute horror, that there is no way you’re getting out of this.

Jake is still watching you. And you can tell by the glint in his eyes, the way his smirk is growing, that he knows something’s up. So, before he can start teasing you, you blurt out the first thing on your mind. “Are you gonna sleep with other girls?”

Jake stills. His smirk drops instantly. His whole expression shifts from amused to completely caught off guard. “What?” You don’t back down. You cross your arms, looking straight at him. “Now that I’m, you know…” You gesture vaguely toward your stomach. “Are you still gonna sleep with other people?”

Jake’s eyebrows furrow, like the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “No.” Just that. No. No hesitation, no confusion, just a simple, matter-of-fact no. And that does something to you. Because you weren’t even sure why you asked it. Maybe because you never really talked about exclusivity before. Maybe because things between you have felt so different lately, and you needed to know. Or maybe because part of you was scared that nothing was different for Jake  that he’d still be going out, still be with other girls, while you were here, pregnant with his child.

But now, sitting here, watching the way his brows are still pulled together like he can’t believe you even asked  Something inside you loosens. You exhale. “Good.” Then, before you can overthink it, before Jake can even process what’s happening You lean in and kiss him.

Jake freezes. It’s so different from the way things used to be. Before, your kisses were quick, hungry, never filled with anything but need. But this is slow. This is intentional. And it’s Jake who responds first.

He melts into you, his hand reaching up to cup your jaw, tilting your face just right as he deepens the kiss. His lips are warm, familiar, but there’s something new in the way he kisses you now, something softer, something that lingers. And god, you need him. Every built-up thought, every moment of tension from the last few weeks, crashes into you all at once. You press closer, hands fisting into his hoodie, pulling him in.

Jake makes a low sound in his throat, his grip tightening slightly, his other hand sliding down to your waist. His fingers skim the hem of your shirt, hesitate — Then he pulls away just slightly, forehead resting against yours, breathing hard. “Are you—” His voice is hoarse, strained. “Are you sure?” You nod. Jake studies you for a moment, searching your face for any sign of hesitation. But when he finds none, his lips crash into yours again. And this time  Neither of you stop. Jake kisses you like he’s making up for lost time.

Like he’s been waiting for this, just as much as you have. His hands slide up your sides, slow and careful, like he’s still giving you a chance to change your mind but you don’t. You can’t. You press closer, your fingers tangling in the fabric of his hoodie, and that’s all it takes. A low curse slips from his lips as he pulls the hoodie over his head, tossing it aside. The sight of him, his flushed skin, his rapid breathing sends a shiver through you. He’s so warm, and when his hands find your hips, you let him guide you back against the pillows, your body reacting on instinct.

Everything feels different. Not in a bad way. Not in a way that makes you hesitate. Just in a way that makes you aware of the weight of his body, the way he touches you, the way he looks at you. Because for the first time, it’s not just mindless. For the first time, Jake is looking at you like he actually sees you. And god, you want him.

His lips trail down, pressing soft kisses along your jaw, your neck, your shoulder everywhere. His hands are careful, slower than usual, like he’s savoring the moment instead of rushing through it. And that’s the thing there’s no rush. Because tonight isn’t about just getting lost in each other. Tonight is something else. Something neither of you have had before. And as Jake’s lips find yours again, breathless, desperate, needing you let yourself fall. 

He took his time peeling off every layer of clothing that stood in your way, his sensual kisses leaving butterfly like feelings in his wake as he moved them up and down the expanse of your neck. It was more romantic than you had ever experienced. He was taking his time with you, cherishing your body as he helped you, cradled you. There was beauty in the way the two of you were finally joined, again. 

You are on top of him, your knees on either side of his hips, lifting yourself up than crashing down to the tune of your own heartbeat in your ears. Jake drank in the sight of you, his hands running up and down your body, squeezing at your breasts like a vice. They were noticeably bigger and it was apparent that Jake loved it. 

Your moans and groans grew in tandem as Jake whispered dirty things into your ear. The gasps he let out everytime your hips slapped against yours served as a catalyst to your already awaiting orgasm. It hit you like a tidal wave, washing over your body in its wake. Jake followed not long after. His body is shaking along with yours. And when it was over, you sat atop him with him still nestled deep inside of you and fell asleep. Feeling more peaceful than you have in weeks. 

The next morning, the first thing you register is warmth. It’s different from the usual comfort of your blankets or the lingering haze of sleep. It’s heavier, grounding, and when you blink your eyes open, it takes you a second to realize why. Jake is still next to you. He’s lying on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm stretched lazily across your waist. His breathing is slow, deep, even, and in the soft morning light filtering through your curtains, he looks so peaceful. So different.

Jake is always moving, always carrying some kind of restless energy on the ice, at parties, even just sitting next to you. But right now, he’s still. His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles, his lips parted slightly as he sleeps. You can feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the subtle weight of his arm over you, and for a brief, fragile moment, you let yourself just exist here. In this sliver of morning where nothing has to be said. Where nothing has to change. But eventually, Jake stirs.

He shifts against the pillow, letting out a low hum as his lashes flutter open, still heavy with sleep. His grip on you tightens for a second before he pulls away, rubbing at his face. You watch as he blinks a few times, clearly still waking up, before his gaze finally settles on you. A small, lazy smile.

"Mornin’," he murmurs, his voice low, hoarse. You swallow, forcing yourself to look away from the mess of his hair, the sleep-drunk warmth in his eyes. "Morning." Jake shifts onto his side, his movements slower than usual, more relaxed. His eyes flicker toward the bedside table, where his phone buzzes quietly, before he turns back to you.

"The frat’s having a thing tonight," he says, voice still rough from sleep. "Not a party, just a small get-together. You should come." You hesitate. "A get-together?"

Jake nods, stretching one arm above his head before letting it drop back onto the pillow. "Yeah. Just the guys, Yunjin, Yuna, Heeseung’s girl. No crazy shit." He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “It might be good for you.” There’s something careful in the way he says it. Like he’s watching for your reaction. And the truth is, you don’t know how to feel. You haven’t really been out since everything happened. The idea of being around everyone again of feeling like things are normal when they’re so clearly not makes something twist in your chest.

Jake notices. "You don’t have to," he says, quieter now. “I just thought—" He stops, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I just thought you might wanna get out for a bit. Clear your head.” And the way he says it, the way his eyes flicker to your stomach for the briefest second before meeting yours again.  You know what he means. He’s giving you an out. If you don’t want to go, he won’t push. If you say no, he won’t mention it again. But the idea lingers.

Because part of you does miss it. Misses laughing with Yuna and Yunjin, miss sitting around and watching Heeseung get bullied by the guys, miss feeling like yourself. Even if things aren’t the same anymore. You exhale slowly, biting the inside of your cheek. “…Okay.” Jake blinks, like he wasn’t expecting you to actually agree. Then slowly, a small smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah?” You nod, and something inside you eases. This could be fun and god knows you need that in your life right about now. 

That night, air is crisp as you step outside, carrying the first whispers of winter on its breath. You tug your coat tighter around you, relishing in the warmth as you walk alongside Jake. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, the fabric pulled over his head, but you can still see the easy grin playing at his lips. There’s something light about tonight, something you hadn’t expected. It’s been weeks of suffocating thoughts, of holding your breath, of feeling like the weight of the world was pressing down on your chest. But tonight, for the first time, that pressure isn’t there. Maybe it’s because you’re choosing this. Or maybe it’s because Jake's here with you. 

Jake glances at you as you walk. “You good?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“You sure?” He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow, playful, teasing. “Because I don’t wanna show up and have you ditch me two minutes in. That’d be kinda embarrassing.” You roll your eyes but can’t fight the small laugh that escapes you. “I’m not gonna ditch you.” Jake hums, side-eyeing you like he doesn’t quite believe you. “I dunno. You’ve been real unpredictable lately.”  You nudge him back, a little harder this time, and he lets out a soft chuckle.

The sidewalk stretches ahead, illuminated by the golden glow of streetlights. It’s late enough that campus is quiet, the usual bustle of students reduced to only the occasional passing group, muffled laughter carrying through the air. The night feels calm. Jake walks beside you in that familiar, effortless way—like being near you is second nature. And maybe it is. Maybe, despite everything, it always has been You glance over at him. “So, what exactly is this get-together?”

Jake shrugs. “Just a small thing. Heeseung and Jay wanted to do something before our next away game. No crazy party, just hanging out.”

“And you’re sure about that?”

“Swear on my life.” He presses a hand over his heart. “No surprise kegs, no random strangers passing out in the hall. Just us.” It sounds… nice. Like the kind of normalcy you hadn’t realized you missed until now. The thought makes you exhale softly, your steps slowing just a fraction. You hadn’t expected to feel good tonight. Hadn’t expected to look forward to anything, let alone this. Jake notices your pause and turns slightly, walking backward now so he can face you. “Hey,” he says, tilting his head, “we can still turn around, you know. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.” But you do.

So you shake your head. “I wanna go.” Jake studies you for a second, like he’s searching for any hesitation. But there isn’t any. Not tonight. Eventually, he nods. “Okay,” he says. Then, his lips twitch into something softer. “Good.” And as you near the house, the sound of laughter spilling out onto the porch, the glow of string lights hanging from the windows, You realize you’re glad you came. 

The warmth of the frat house greets you the moment you step inside, a stark contrast to the chill outside. The air is thick with the scent of garlic bread and pasta, something home-cooked and rich, filling the space with a kind of comfort you hadn’t expected. Laughter hums in the background, the low murmur of conversation weaving between the sound of utensils clinking against plates. It’s not the kind of party you’d grown used to at this house. No booming music rattling the walls, no overwhelming crush of bodies moving in tandem, no spilled drinks coating the floor in sticky regret. Instead, it feels warm, familiar. Like a gathering of people who actually care about each other. Jake’s friends greet him instantly, throwing easy nods and teasing jabs his way. Jay claps him on the shoulder, Heeseung tosses some offhand comment about how “Wow, Sim, you actually showed up for once?” but then their attention shifts to you.

“Hey!” Yunjin grins, pulling you into a quick hug. “We were wondering if you’d come.” You smile. “Yeah, Jake convinced me.”

“Good. You needed to get out,” Yuna says, appearing at your side with her usual knowing smirk. “You can’t just sit in the dorm watching Netflix and eating fruit snacks for the next few months.”

You narrow your eyes. “That was one time.”

Yunjin snickers. “Sure, babe.”

There’s no judgment in their words, though, just familiarity. That easy friendship that makes your chest loosen. Everyone settles into a comfortable rhythm as the night unfolds, plates passed around, laughter spilling over casual conversation, Jake leaning back into the couch beside you, his arm draped along the back of it, close but not quite touching. And then, at some point, the conversation shifts.

“So,” Yunjin says, sitting forward, her eyes flickering between you and Jake. “We have to talk about something important.” You blink. “Uh… okay?”

Yuna grins. “A baby shower.” You choke on your drink. “A what?”

“A baby shower!” Heeseung’s girlfriend nods eagerly. “Come on, you have to have one! It’ll be so cute!” You stare at them. “I mean, I—”

“It’s not really up to you,” Yunjin interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “We’ve already decided. We’re throwing one.” Jake huffs a small laugh beside you, shaking his head. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“You’re having a baby, dude. This is happening.” Jay gestures between the two of you. “You might as well have a party for it.” You glance at Jake, unsure what to say. The idea of a baby shower hadn’t even crossed your mind yet. There’s been so much to think about. doctor’s appointments, your classes, the slow, terrifying reality of your life shifting that something as normal as a baby shower hadn’t even made it onto the list. But the way everyone is looking at you excited, hopeful, like they genuinely want to do this for you makes something warm settle in your chest.

Jake’s knee bumps against yours as he shifts beside you. “What do you think?” he asks, voice low enough that it’s meant just for you. You hesitate for only a second before nodding. “I think…” You exhale, looking back at your friends. “I think it sounds exciting.” The girls cheer. Heeseung claps Jake on the back. “Guess you better start making a registry, man.” Jake groans, but there’s something soft in his expression, something light. Something you’d love to see over and over again until you die. 

The conversation drifts naturally, flowing from one topic to the next like the rise and fall of a tide. The laughter still lingers in the air, the warmth of it curling around you like a blanket, but then the topic shifts. Jay leans back in his chair, stretching his arms above his head. “Man, this schedule is gonna kill me.”

Heeseung snorts. “You say that every year.”

“Yeah, and I mean it every year.” Jay groans, letting his head fall back against the couch. “Back-to-back away games? We barely get time to breathe.” Jake lets out a low chuckle beside you. “You’re so dramatic.”

Jay lifts his head just enough to glare at him. “Shut up, Sim. You love this shit.” Jake shrugs, unbothered. “I mean, yeah. It’s hockey. What’s not to love?” And just like that, the floodgates open. The guys dive into a conversation that feels almost foreign to you, play schedules, practice drills, strategies for upcoming games. They speak in a language that’s second nature to them, that thrives in their bones, their voices animated, hands gesturing wildly as they argue over stats and game plans. And at first, it’s nothing. At first, you just sit there, listening. But then — Then it starts to settle.

Jake does love this. It’s not just a hobby, not just a college sport—it’s his life. The hours, the dedication, the grueling schedule—it doesn’t seem to weigh on him the way it does the others. He thrives in it. He needs it. And this is just college. If he’s this busy now…

The thought creeps in, slow but merciless. If this is what his schedule looks like now—morning practices, late-night workouts, weekend-long away games—what the hell is it going to look like when he goes pro? Because he will. You know it as sure as you know the sun will rise in the morning. Jake was built for this. It’s what he’s worked for, what he’s bled for. Hockey isn’t just something he loves. It’s his future. And where the hell do you fit into that?

You blink, barely registering that the conversation is still going, that the guys are still talking and laughing and teasing each other, that the warmth of the room hasn’t faded—but suddenly, it feels distant. A dull, steady ache starts in your chest, creeping up your throat, tightening around your ribs. You stare at the flickering candle on the table, at the way the wax pools and hardens, melting and reforming in an endless cycle. They keep talking. And you go quiet.

You don’t even realize how still you’ve gone until Jake nudges your knee with his own. “Hey.” His voice is softer now, pulling you out of your spiraling thoughts. You look up, meeting his gaze, and there’s a slight furrow between his brows, that subtle shift that tells you he notices. “You okay?” he murmurs, low enough that the others don’t hear. You should say yes. Should push down the thoughts clawing at your chest, the creeping fear that tells you this is a mistake, that you’re deluding yourself into thinking this can work, that you won’t get left behind in the wake of his future.

But your throat is tight. So you just force a smile, nodding once. Jake doesn’t buy it. His gaze lingers, sharp and searching, like he’s trying to figure you out. But before he can press, someone calls his name, dragging him back into the conversation, and you take the out for what it is. You breathe. And the doubt lingers. The room is still alive with conversation, laughter curling at the edges of words, but your mind is somewhere else. Distant. Tangled.

Jake is talking again something about next week’s game, about how they need to tighten their defense but the words barely reach you. They swirl around the room, carried by voices that belong in this world, that fit. And then there’s you. Sitting here, stomach heavy with something that feels like lead, pressing against your ribs, against your lungs. Because how does this work? How do you fit?

You glance at Jake from the corner of your eye. He’s leaning forward now, elbows resting on his knees, brows furrowed as he listens to Heeseung explain something about their last game. He’s so focused. So in his element, like this is exactly where he’s meant to be. And then there’s the baby. And you. Where do you fit in all of this? It was easy, easier when the thought of being pregnant was still something distant, something you were still getting used to. But now it’s real. You’ve seen the ultrasound. Heard the heartbeat. There’s something inside you, someone that’s growing, changing, becoming more real every single day. And Jake..

Jake is here. He’s showing up. He’s bringing you food and taking you to appointments and rubbing the back of his neck in that nervous way every time he catches himself looking at you for too long. But for how long? Because this is just college. This is before the contracts, before the NHL scouts come knocking, before his entire life shifts into something so much bigger than campus arenas and team dinners. You bite your lip, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. Jake loves hockey. It’s the one thing he’s never wavered on, the one thing that’s been steady, unwavering, untouchable.

And you, You’re just a detour. A pause in his story. A moment in time that he never planned for. He’s already stretched so thin. His schedule is already brutal. Morning practices, games, travel, training when would he even have time for you? For a baby? For late-night feedings and diaper changes and God, what were you thinking? This isn’t sustainable. This isn’t something that fits neatly into his world.

The realization crashes into you all at once, so heavy you almost feel sick. You need to talk to him. But then Jake laughs beside you, head thrown back, voice warm and unbothered, and when he looks at you, his smile is easy, soft. And for a second, just a second you wonder if maybe you’re wrong. Maybe he’s trying. Maybe he wants this. Maybe…

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, meant only for you. “You’re quiet.” You blink, jolted from your thoughts, your heart hammering against your ribs. You force a small smile. “Just tired.” Jake’s eyes linger for a second longer, like he doesn’t quite believe you. But then Jay nudges him, pulling him back into the conversation, and the moment is gone. And you, You’re still stuck wondering.

The night air is crisp when Jake pulls up in front of your dorm, the distant hum of campus life still lingering in the background, laughter from passing students, the occasional roar of a car engine down the street, the muffled bass of music from a party somewhere nearby. But inside the car, it’s just you and him.

The warmth of the heater hums softly, filling the silence that has stretched between you since you left the frat house. Jake’s hands are still wrapped loosely around the steering wheel, but he’s not in any rush to move. His eyes flick to you as you shift in your seat, your fingers curling and uncurling in your lap. “You want me to come in?” His voice is careful. Not forceful, not overbearing gentle. An offer. A quiet attempt to be there, to be with you.

You shake your head almost immediately. “No, it’s okay. I think I just wanna sleep.” The words leave your lips too quickly, too practiced, and you can tell by the way Jake’s brows furrow slightly that he catches it. That he knows you’re lying. He doesn’t call you out on it. He just exhales slowly, watching you for a long moment before nodding once. “Alright.” His fingers tap against the steering wheel, a restless little rhythm, like he wants to say more but doesn’t know how.

You push the car door open before he can change his mind and insist, before he can see through you too much. The cold air bites at your skin as you step out, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself. You feel Jake’s gaze on you as you turn back toward the car, gripping the edge of the door. “Thanks for the ride.” Jake gives a small nod, his lips pressing together. “Yeah. Of course.”

You linger. For some reason, you linger. Your fingers tighten around the door, the weight in your chest heavy and pulling.Like there’s something that wants to slip out, some small confession that’s buried too deep for you to name just yet. But then Jake shifts in his seat, glancing toward the windshield, and the moment shatters. You clear your throat, forcing a small smile. “Night, Jake.”

His lips twitch slightly, but the worry in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Night.” You shut the door and walk away before the doubt in your head can make you turn back.

Inside your dorm, it’s quiet. Too quiet. The air is still, untouched by Yuna’s usual presence—her music, her laughter, her constant, grounding presence that keeps you from feeling like you’re alone with your thoughts. But tonight, you are alone. You toe off your shoes and drop your bag by the door, shrugging off your jacket and letting it slip from your fingers onto the chair nearby. The room feels colder than usual, or maybe that’s just you.

You sit on the edge of your bed, fingers threading through your hair as you stare at the floor. The doubt is back. That creeping, suffocating feeling that has latched onto you ever since the conversation about hockey at dinner. How does this work? You feel like you’re standing at the edge of something. A reality you’re not prepared for, a future that you don’t know how to step into. Jake is here now. But what about when the season gets more intense? What about when the scouts come, when contracts are on the table, when suddenly he’s got offers from teams that are miles and miles away?

What about when the NHL swallows him whole and you and this baby become nothing more than a footnote in his history? Your fingers tremble slightly as you rest them against your stomach. It’s still flat, still unchanged, but you know you know something is growing, shifting, taking root inside you. And yet, you still don’t know where you fit in Jake’s life. Maybe he’s showing up now. Maybe he’s trying. But what if this, this thing between you was never meant to last? You press your lips together, blinking rapidly against the sting behind your eyes. You’re exhausted, your body heavy with the weight of your thoughts, but sleep won’t come easy tonight. 

It’s been a week. Seven days of silence. Seven days of unanswered texts, of ignored calls, of messages left on read. You knew it wouldn’t last forever, that eventually, Jake would force his way in. That he’d demand answers, refuse to let you keep pushing him away. But still, when the knock comes; sharp and insistent against your dorm door and  your stomach drops.

For a second, you think about pretending you’re not home. But then his voice comes through, firm but edged with something else. Something raw. “Open the door, please.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, fingers curling against the fabric of your hoodie. There’s no running from this. No delaying the inevitable. So you inhale, force your hands to stop shaking, and pull the door open. Jake is standing there, still in his practice gear, sweat dampening the strands of hair curling against his forehead, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder. He must’ve come straight from the rink, must’ve been thinking about this the entire time because his eyes are already burning with frustration. “What the hell is going on?” he demands.

You cross your arms over your chest, stepping back just enough for him to push past you into the dorm. He does, kicking the door shut behind him, and suddenly the room feels too small. Too full of him. He turns to you, brows furrowed, jaw tight. “You’ve been ignoring me.” You scoff, arms tightening around yourself. “Yeah, well. Maybe that’s because I needed some space.”

Jake shakes his head, running a hand down his face. “Space from what? Me? The baby? This whole situation?” He exhales, something heavy behind it. “You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t know when something’s wrong with you?” You look away, fixing your gaze on the floor. “Jake—”

“No.” His voice cuts through the room, not loud, but firm. “Don’t do that. Don’t shut me out.” Your throat tightens. “I’m not shutting you out.”

“Then tell me what’s going on,” he says, stepping closer. “Tell me why you suddenly don’t want me around. Why are you acting like I’m already failing at something I haven’t even gotten the chance to do yet.” The words hit you like a blow, knocking the air from your lungs. You don’t mean to let it slip out, but suddenly, it’s there.The fear that’s been clawing at you, the doubt that’s been growing like a weed. “Because I don’t know if you can do it, Jake.” Silence.

His expression shifts, the frustration flickering into something else—hurt. You swallow hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. “You might think you can handle it, but… this isn’t just a game, Jake. This isn’t a season, or a practice, or something you can walk away from if it gets too hard.” Your voice shakes, but you push forward. “This is a baby. A whole life. And you’re already stretched so thin. Your schedule is insane, your life is already moving in a direction that—” You shake your head, looking away. “What if I’m just setting myself up for disappointment?”

Jake exhales sharply, stepping closer again, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are stormy, filled with something desperate, something pleading. “I don’t know how to convince you,” he says, voice rough. “I don’t know how to make you believe me when I tell you that I want this. That I want to be here.” Your lip trembles, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “You can’t just say it, Jake. You have to prove it.” Jake flinches like the words sting, like they land somewhere deep inside him. He presses his lips together, dragging a hand through his hair. “And how am I supposed to do that if you won’t even let me try?” The words linger between you, thick and heavy, suffocating the space between breaths. You don’t have an answer.

So you just whisper, “I need space.” Jake’s shoulders rise and fall with a slow, controlled breath, like he’s forcing himself to accept it. He nods once, lips pressing into a thin line. “Fine.” But then his voice softens, just barely. “I have an away game this weekend. I’ll be gone until Monday.” His eyes search yours, like he’s looking for something, anything to tell him you’re not slipping too far away. “But I’ll be back. And when I am, we’re talking about this.”

You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat. “Okay.” Jake lingers for a moment, like there’s something else he wants to say. But instead, he just exhales, shoulders still tight with tension as he steps back toward the door. And then he’s gone. And the second the door clicks shut behind him, the weight in your chest pulls you under. 

The dorm is cloaked in darkness, save for the faint blue light spilling from the television screen. The glow flickers across the walls, illuminating the mess of blankets you’ve curled yourself into on the couch. The volume isn’t high, but it doesn’t need to be. The sound of the game filters in clearly, the scrape of skates on ice, the sharp whistles, the distant roar of the crowd.

You’d told yourself you wouldn’t watch. That you’d let the game pass without so much as checking the score. But now you’re here, heart hammering against your ribs, watching him. Jake. The camera zooms in as he weaves through the defense, his body moving like something fluid, something effortless. His hair is damp with sweat beneath his helmet, strands sticking to his forehead as he skates into position. He’s good. He’s so good.

You can see it in the way he moves, in the way the opposing team struggles to keep up. They’re aggressive, irritated because they know they can’t outplay him, so they’ll try to beat him down instead. And that’s exactly what they do. The hits tonight have been brutal. More than usual. It’s a grueling, ruthless game, bodies slamming against the boards with resounding cracks. The referees aren’t calling much, letting things slide, letting them play too rough.

And then, Sunghoon goes down. Your breath stutters as you watch him crash against the ice, his body crumpling on impact. He tries to get up, his gloved hands pressing against the rink, but something is wrong. His leg. You can tell immediately. The way he winces, the way his teammates circle him in concern, the way the trainer rushes onto the ice. The cameras cut in close. His face is tight with pain.

It takes two people to help him off the ice. Your stomach is twisted in knots, your hands clenched into fists. You hate this. You hate watching them get hurt like this. And then, Jake. He’s too fast, moving up the rink, his stick handling the puck with precision. The opposing team is trailing behind him, trying to keep up, trying to stop him.

They can’t. So one of them doesn’t even try. The moment it happens, you feel it, the wrongness. The guy comes in too fast. The check is too high, too hard, too reckless. And Jake never sees it coming. Your breath stops. Jake’s body is airborne before he crashes into the boards with a force that shakes the glass. The sound of it is sickening,a violent collision of bone, plexiglass, ice. His head snaps back. His helmet slams against the wall with a brutal crack. And then he slumps. He doesn’t move.

Your vision blurs. The game fades into the background, the commentators talking too calm, too casual as Jake remains still. His limbs are tangled awkwardly beneath him, his hand curled slightly over his side, his helmet tilted askew. He still hasn’t moved. Oh God. Move, Jake. Your stomach is in your throat, a sharp, rising panic clawing up your chest. Your hands are shaking. Your breath is coming too fast, too shallow, and you feel like you might be sick.

Then, slowly, he stirs. Not much, just a twitch of his fingers, a subtle shift in his shoulders. But it’s enough for the trainer to rush onto the ice, teammates circling him as he tries to push himself up. The camera zooms in, his face is twisted, his brows drawn together in pain.

His hand is gripping his ribs. Your throat tightens. You can see it, he’s hurting. Even as he shakes his head at the trainer, even as he tries to play it off. He’s trying to act fine, trying to prove he can keep going, but you know him. You can see through it. Jake’s not okay. Tears burn at your eyes, and you don’t even try to fight them. You don’t care that you’ve spent the last week avoiding him, don’t care that you’ve been drowning in doubts, don’t care that you still don’t have all the answers. Because none of it matters right now. Jake is hurt. You just want to be with him, you need to be with him. You have to get to him, and fast. 

You barely remember how you got there, your feet pounding the pavement in a haze, the world a blur of motion as you rushed toward the hospital. You’re too frantic to think, too scared to process anything more than the fact that Jake was hurt, hurt in a way you couldn’t ignore, couldn’t pretend didn’t matter. The lights from the hospital sign flicker above you as you stumble through the entrance, the sterile scent of antiseptic and disinfectant hitting you like a wall. Your heart is hammering, the fear sitting heavy in your chest as you make your way to the front desk, breath coming in short, sharp bursts.

"I—I’m looking for Jake Sim," you stutter, your voice shaky, too soft as you try to push past the thick knot of panic that clings to your throat. The receptionist eyes you, takes a moment to type something into her computer. “Room 214,” she says flatly, barely glancing up. “He’s being kept for observation.”

Room 214.

The number echoes in your head as you make your way down the hallway, the fluorescent lights overhead buzzing faintly. You can hear your pulse pounding in your ears, a steady thrum as you walk faster, too fast, the air around you seeming to constrict with every step. You reach the door. For a moment, you just stand there. Your hand is trembling as you push the door open, the sight of Jake in the bed almost too much to bear. His face is pale, too pale, and his eyes are closed, though he’s awake. He’s hooked up to an IV, his forehead glistening with a thin sheen of sweat.

He looks - fragile. Your breath catches in your throat as you step into the room, and it takes everything in you to swallow the rising lump of emotion that threatens to spill out. You’ve seen Jake take hits, seen him get back up from injury after injury. But this feels different. His head turns when he hears the door, his eyes opening slowly, a small smile curling on his lips when he sees you standing there.

“Hey,” he says, his voice rough but warm, like he’s trying to ease the tension in the air. His smile is weak, his usual confidence stripped away by the injury, but it’s still there. It’s still him.

“I’m so sorry, Jake,” you whisper, your throat tight. You move to his side, hovering for a second before reaching out to touch his hand, your fingers trembling against his. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, the solid reassurance you’ve been craving, yet his grip feels fragile in a way you can’t quite shake.

“I didn’t mean to freak out like I did,” you murmur, your voice cracking. “I know you love the baby, and I know you’ll be there for them. I—I know you’ll be a good dad.” He lets out a soft sigh, his eyes softening as he looks at you. There’s a faint wince on his face as he shifts his weight, but the way his lips curl into something resembling a smile makes your heart ache.

“Baby,” he says, his voice low but steady, cutting through the tension that’s been hanging between you for days. “I used to think hockey was the world, that I lived for it, breathed for it. that it was my life. That hockey was the reason I woke up in the morning. I love hockey, hockey will always be my passion and it will always be what I want to do, and who i want to be. But it’s not my life. you are. you two are my life, you and this baby and I wouldn't want it any other way.” 

The words hit you like a punch to the chest, and your breath catches in your throat. You don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until the air rushes out in one long, shaky exhale. Jake’s hand reaches up, brushing a few strands of hair from your face, his touch gentle despite the pain he’s in. “I’ve been an idiot,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve been so focused on everything else, and I didn’t stop to think about what you needed. What we needed.”

Tears sting your eyes, a sudden rush of emotion overwhelming you. You hadn’t known how badly you needed to hear those words until they were out in the open. “Jake—” But he’s not letting you finish. He pulls you closer, gently, not forcefully, as though he’s afraid you might break. And when his lips meet yours, it’s soft, soft in a way that makes the world feel like it’s finally falling into place.

You close your eyes, the weight of everything you’ve been carrying melting away in an instant. His kiss is tentative at first, just the brush of his lips against yours, a delicate reassurance that he’s here. That he’s not going anywhere. But then, as if the words he’s spoken have unlocked something inside both of you, the kiss deepens, slow and aching, full of the longing that’s been building between you for weeks. The warmth of his lips against yours is the grounding force you needed to remind yourself that everything was going to be okay. You were going to be okay. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze full of tenderness, full of something real.

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” he murmurs. “I’m staying. I’m gonna be here for you, for the baby… for us.” The words resonate deep inside you, a wave of warmth flooding your chest. You don’t know what the future holds, but in this moment, you believe him. You lean your forehead against his, closing your eyes as the world seems to slow down. The hurt, the uncertainty, all of it seems to fade into the background, replaced by the steady rhythm of your hearts beating in sync.

“I love you,” you whisper. And this time, it’s not a question. It’s not something you’re trying to convince yourself of. It’s just the truth. He smiles, the familiar glint of something unbreakable in his eyes. “I love you, too.” In that moment, you realize that everything’s been leading to this, a moment of vulnerability, of surrender, of knowing that no matter what comes next, you’ve got each other. And maybe that’s all you really need.

AFTER. 

The baby shower is a blur of light and warmth, laughter, and the soft hum of happy conversations filling the air. The room is decorated with soft blues and yellows, little stuffed animals and pastel balloons drifting lazily overhead. It’s a cozy, intimate gathering. more like a family get-together than a grand celebration, and everything feels perfect. The air smells faintly of sweet pastries and flowers, and there’s an undeniable sense of anticipation hanging in the air, as if everyone is waiting for the moment when you and Jake’s little one will finally arrive.

Yuna is by your side, her bright smile radiating as she hands you a piece of cake, teasing you about cravings you’d been indulging in the past few months. You laugh along with her, feeling lighter than you have in ages. There’s a sense of peace in this room — a fleeting, magical calmness that you don’t want to end. Every now and then, your hand drifts to your swollen belly, gently pressing against the soft curve of it, as if the little life inside is dancing along to the rhythm of the moment.

Jake, ever the protective figure, is right by your side, his hand resting on the small of your back, his gaze never straying too far from you. His face, always so expressive, is filled with an emotion you can’t quite name, something soft, something cherishing. It’s hard to imagine a time when things were uncertain, when you wondered if he could be the father you needed, the partner you dreamed of. Because now, standing here with him, you know the truth. He’s already there. Already doing everything he can to show you he’s in this for the long haul.

“Do you need anything?” Jake asks, his voice low, full of the kind of care that only someone who loves you like he does can muster. You shake your head, the warmth from his touch making your heart swell. It’s moments like these, quiet, simple moments that remind you how far you’ve come from the uncertainty you once felt. How far you’ve both come.

“Just you,” you smile up at him, the words coming out without a second thought, and he grins at you like it’s the best compliment he could ever receive.

The guests are all mingling now, with the occasional burst of laughter ringing out as the game ideas you and Yuna came up with take full effect. Everyone is gathered around, exchanging baby gifts, newborn clothes, soft blankets, bottles, stuffed animals. Your friends and family are here, laughing and celebrating this new chapter of your life. The people you love most are sharing this with you. And even though there’s a bittersweet ache in your chest, because Sunghoon is absent, recovering from that god-awful injury, there’s a deep sense of thankfulness that wraps around you like a warm blanket.

“Hey,” Jake says, breaking you from your thoughts. His voice is so gentle, his hand finding yours in the crowd. “I need to step outside for a minute. I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod, watching as he slips through the door. You know he’s been feeling the weight of everything lately, the pressure of balancing his career, school, and this new role as a soon-to-be father. You trust him to make it all work, to prove to you that he can handle the responsibilities. But there’s a piece of you, a vulnerable part, that still worries. The doubts always seem to rise like whispers in the back of your mind.

“Win or lose; I want to come home to you,” Jake had said to you not long ago, those words echoing in your memory like a melody. They settle in your heart like a promise, something real, something that matters. The door opens softly, and you look up to see Jake reentering the room, his eyes catching yours immediately. His smile, though small, is genuine, and you feel your breath catch in your chest. The way he looks at you, the way his hand rests against your back once more as he steps closer. it’s as if he’s still trying to wrap his mind around the miracle of everything that’s happening.

“We’re gonna be okay, right?” he asks, his voice full of tenderness, vulnerability slipping in beneath the surface. You nod slowly, your hand resting over your belly as you meet his gaze. “We already are, Jake. I already know we are.” The words settle between you both, and for a brief moment, the noise of the party fades into the background. All that matters is this. this feeling of being connected, being here, in this moment, together. The baby, the future, it’s all a little clearer now.

Jake’s hand slides to your waist, pulling you just a little closer as he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. The room seems to hum around you, the laughter and chatter distant, but in this small space between the two of you, the world feels as if it’s standing still. Everything has changed. The uncertainty, the doubts, the fear. it’s all been replaced by the certainty of one truth: You’re in this together. And when you see Jake’s face soften with that same familiar warmth, you know it’s true. He’s here. He’s home. “Win or lose,” he whispers, echoing the words he had said to you weeks ago. “I’ll always come home to you.”

Your heart swells in your chest, the weight of his promise settling deep inside you. And in that moment, you know it’s all going to be okay.

reg taglist. (★) @izzyy-stuff , @beomiracles , @filmnings , @dawngyu , @hyukascampfire , @saejinniestar , @notevenheretbh1 , @hwanghyunjinismybae, @ch4c0nnenh4, @kristynaaah

series taglist. (★) @saejinniestar , @chwesun , @vixialuvs , @slut4hee , @xylatox , @ghstzzn @skyearby @m1kkso @jakeswifez @heartheejake @hommyy-tommy @yunverie @lalalalawon

@strayy-kidz @wolfhardbby @kwiwin @immelissaaa @fancypeacepersona @starfallia @mariegalea @adoredbyjay @strxwbloody @lovingvoidgoatee @beeboobeebss @zyvlxqht @weyukinluv @flwwon

@guapgoddees @demigodmahash @cloud-lyy @heesky @ikaw-at-ikaw @shuichi-sama @shawnyle @kwhluv @iarainha @ikeuwoniee @mora134340

[demonic0angel]

Danny travels to Gotham to check out the university and to visit Jazz, when Shades starts approaching him, begging him, to kill a clown called Joker. Ever since Danny took down a GIW satellite that put Amity into a media black out and blocked their calls to the Justice League, Danny's been able to more easily look up information outside of what goes on in Amity Park. The Shades can feel the power Danny tries to keep hidden and can sense he's a protective spirit. Danny learns from the Shades that Batman refuses to kill even though the Joker has hurt him and his family, including killing the second Robin. Danny is conflicted since he knows that sometimes protecting means killing and that killing is wrong. Danny also has clown trauma, so maybe dragging the Joker to court in the Ghost Zone for a proper trial would work, especially since Gotham's a corrupt city. The next time Joker shows his face in Gotham, Danny is still in town by coincidence, Phantom appears before Joker's latest attack starts piling a body count and freezes him before hauling him to the infinite realms for trial. The Bats are stunned

(May I introduce you to this post?)

Tim leaned in close to Dick. “Shouldn’t we do something to help?”

“We don’t know what’s happening right now. And besides, Jason is up there with the king. We have to be careful,” Dick said carefully.

The Ghost King sat on his throne at the judge’s place, where two other guards stood near him, one wearing flowery motifs and the other looking like the Egyptian god Anubis. All three of them looked solemnly at the Joker, who was grinning like a loon as he sat in the defendant’s seat.

The courtroom they were in was crowded and bubbling with noise. Ghosts and monsters sat in the stands and jury. Dick was pretty sure he could recognize one of Tim’s Young Justice friends sitting amongst the jury, but he wasn’t too sure.

Multiple hero teams had also found their way inside of the Ghost Realm in order to be here for the Joker’s trial. Bruce sat next to them, stone faced and clenching his fists. Dick glanced at him but wasn’t able to say anything as the King then stood up, silencing the room.

“You have a choice,” the Ghost King said, addressing the Joker. “For this trial, we’ve decided to do something different for only one time. In this trial, you, the defendant, are allowed to choose the attorney for the plaintiff’s side. The plaintiffs are also able to choose the attorney for you.”

Immediately, multiple people from the audience stood up in protest.

Dick cried, “That’s not fair!”

He was immediately silenced by the Ghost King’s glare as the Joker’s smile widened. Dick ground his teeth together, about to speak up again, when Tim pulled him down.

“Shush, I think there’s a plan,” Tim said and Dick reluctantly sat back down, grimacing. He glanced in Jason’s direction, where he sat stiffly in a sea of victims. There were so many of them that they looked like another part of the audience, all pale faced and bloody, many of them crawling back from the gaping maw of the Dead to see Joker’s demise.

And now it was going to be ruined with this new random rule.

Dick had thought the Ghost King was fair and just, but had he been wrong?

The plaintiffs were allowed to choose the Joker’s attorney first, and they chose Impulse, who had been horrified to be chosen before he seemed to receive some sort of signal from Tim, because he then looked determined and sat in Joker’s space, although very far away.

“The person defending the plaintiffs’ case is Impulse, who’s last name is Allen, once Kid Flash, a hero within the team Young Justice,” the Ghost King announced.

There were some claps. Dick watched the proceedings nervously, almost wanting to throw up.

It was soon the Joker’s turn.

He hummed and his beady eyes scanned the room. He was still grinning when he zeroed in on a woman in the back.

Her red hair covered her face as she bent over her computer, trying to look small as she typed away. She was clearly some sort of court reporter and was keeping to herself, tucked into a corner.

Dick’s heart immediately dropped into his stomach.

“I choose her,” the Joker crooned and the crowd went silent, staring in horror.

The Ghost King said, “Are you sure?”

The Joker nodded, smirking.

There was silence as the plaintiffs immediately seemed to give up, some even bursting into tears.

The Ghost King, however, threw his head back and laughed loudly. He laughed so loudly and so humorously that it was almost funny, if not even more baffling. Even when looking at Bruce, he had no idea what was going on either. The room began to buzz again with confusion.

Finally, the Ghost King reached beneath his mask to wipe away a tear and called to the red haired woman, “Jazz! You’re up!”

She looked up and smiled. When she straightened and stood up, the room fell silent as she rose to her full height, smoothing down her pencil skirt as she tucked away her computer and chirped cheerfully, “Reporting for duty, Your Majesty.”

There was no worry or anxiety on her face. Instead, there was excitement in her eyes and smile as she walked down from where she had been sitting behind the throne to stand near the plaintiffs.

They too, fell silent, staring at her tall frame in awe. Dick was pretty sure he could see Jason’s jaw drop.

Which, real.

But the real shock was the Ghost King’s next words.

The Ghost King smiled as he gestured to the woman standing near the plaintiffs side. “May I introduce you to the person defending the plaintiffs’ case. Introducing Jazz Nightingale, sister of the Ghost King, the Attorney General of the Ghost Zone, a recent graduate of Yale University who graduated summa cum laude for both law and psychiatry, and former queen regent of the Infinite Realms.”

Jazz gave a wave and a small smile.

The Ghost King tipped his head at the Joker, whose smile fell off his face for the first time.

The volume inside of the room rose rapidly as everyone immediately burst into screams of either delight or shock. Dick wasn’t exempt from this either, gasping as his eyes widened. He stood up and planted his hands on the table in excitement, barely able to believe his eyes and ears. He was pretty sure Bruce and Tim were doing the same.

The Ghost King smirked as he gazed into the Joker’s terrified eyes.

“You’ve fucked up.”

[tomsparkyr]

𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋!

following episode three of 'inside' — george clarke x fem!reader

by any means i do not own 'inside' and all credit is theirs (!!)

and please no stealing of my work !!

(ps, i just wanna say thank you so so much to everyone helping me, i was so nervous to say something about it and had no idea how to handle it and i'm so grateful for every single one of you i genuinely love you and these chapters are for all of you, please enjoy🤍🤍🤍)

(pps, also anyone who’s requested stuff it will be written once i’ve finished this story!)

wc: 5.6K

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“Insiders, please gather in the living room.”

The blaring voice of Tobi rang out in the bedroom, startling you as you woke up from your slumber. You found yourself curled up into a bed you weren’t familiar with, it didn’t smell like you so you could definitely determine that it wasn’t yours; also the strong arms wrapped around you were definitely not your own.

Your back was pressed against someone’s hard chest, your figure hugged into them tightly. Their head was tucked into the space between your shoulder and your neck, their soft and slow snores tingling your skin. Your hair tickled their face, but they didn’t move as their hands were snuck underneath your bedtime shirt, fingers brushing the waistband of your shorts.

You groaned and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, shifting just enough for the person behind you to slip their hands to both sides of your waist, feeling their presence sit up behind you.

Turning around, you saw a shirtless George sitting upright and ruffling his bed hair. You couldn’t help but notice the lack of space between you two due to being squished into the twin bed, one of his arms was wrapped around you in case you fell off the bed.

You stared at him for a moment. Confused, you asked, “Why am I in your bed?” His tired gaze settled on you for a second before his eyes widened and memories from the night before came flooding back. “Oh! You fell asleep on my bed and I didn’t want to wake you and move you,” You nodded along. “So, I just let you stay in mine.” 

His cheeks grew a pink colour as he continued and gestured with his hands, “We fell asleep back to back so I also have no idea why we ended up… like this.” He laughed nervously, scratching the back of his neck.

“Morning, love birds!” PK shouted from across the room, an exaggerated wave being sent your way. You turned around and flipped PK off with a joking smile, hearing his cackle before looking back at George who was leaning over the bed to reach for his clothes. He maneuvered around you, resting a hand on your thigh for support as you sat cross legged on his bed. 

Holding his shirt, he stood up and continued the routine of holding a hand out for you to take, helping you stand up and out of the bed. 

Walking over to your bed, you couldn’t find your hoodie to put over your shirt and the room wasn’t getting any warmer at this time in the morning. Seeing your struggle, George walked your way and tapped you on the shoulder.

His black top was halfway on his body, his right hand offering you his navy hoodie. You went to shake your head and refuse but he took your hand and placed the hoodie in your arms, “Please, just take it.” He winked and passed you to go into the living room.

Leaving you behind clinging onto his hoodie, you tried to suppress a wide smile and rosy cheeks. Milli watched from across the room with a cheeky smile and stuck her tongue out at you, “Oh, George is so dreamy! I wish I could sleep in his bed every night!” She mocked your thoughts in a high pitched tone of voice.

Your mouth dropped open at her, leaning down to reach for the ‘horny beast’ that had fallen from the bed during the night and lobbed it at her. She laughed as it hit her face before flicking it away in disgust, “Ew! I don’t wanna know what that teddy saw last night in bed with you and George!”

“Milli!” You groaned as she skipped up to you and linked your arms, leading the pair of you out the room and whispering dirty jokes in your ear about how the name of the teddy lived up to its name.

The pair of you walked into the living room, greeted with the sight of Tobi standing behind a plinth with cards stacked on top of it. 

“Oh, fuck.” You mumbled making Tobi laugh. You cursed the game out as you settled yourself down on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder with Milli and sitting across from George, his leg brushing yours as he outstretched his own.

George smiled at you and you reciprocated the action. Farah next to you grumbled, “Jesus. Was cuddling all night not enough for you? Do you really need to eye-fuck each other from across the room?” 

You covered your face with your hands as the group bellowed in laughter, Jason slapping George on the back in congratulations (although nothing has happened between you two yet). Tobi’s eyebrows raised and pointed to the cameras in the room, “George and Y/N, there are cameras everywhere and I don’t wanna see any funny business that needs to be cut!” He flickered between the two of you.

You sunk into the couch more, “Tobi! Just ruin our morning and tell us what’s happening.” You laughed, Milli beside you wished she could take a picture of your embarrassed face right now.

Tobi chuckled and complied, “Good morning, Insiders.” Everyone responded with half-hearted replies. “Can I please ask you to clear the front of the sofa and line up in front of it, please?”

You grumbled, sleep still overtaking your body as you reluctantly peeled yourself off of your comfy position on the sofa. You naturally found yourself gravitating towards George and slipped out of Milli’s radar, her smirking at you as you unknowingly got closer to the boy.

George peered down at you as you stood next to him, he ruffled your bed hair with his hand before it slid down your body to settle on your lower back.

“One by one, you’re going to come and collect an envelope from this plinth here.” Tobi explained. However, you were too distracted by George’s completely tired look on his face, smiling to yourself as he stared absentmindedly into the distance. Of course, you wouldn’t admit to yourself that he looked insanely good and adorable here; because he was your best friend! Best friends don’t think about each other like that, although you feared all morals were out the window after you spooned each other in bed last night.

“Do not open it until I say so.” Tobi demanded, all of you still confused about the concept of this challenge, or if it was a challenge.

“George.” Tobi called him up, his hand drifting from its position on your back but still hovering over your figure. PK snorted a laugh and whispered to Whitney next to him, “Can’t let go of his girl for one second.” She laughed and slapped his chest, intensely watching the two of you.

After George picked up his envelope, your name was called. “Y/N.” You stepped forward and took the envelope with dread, a nervous feeling sitting in your stomach at what lies underneath the paper.

While everyone else collected their envelopes, you felt the lack of sleep catching up with you and swayed on the spot slightly, eyes staring ahead. On instinct, you leaned into George’s side and rested your head on his arm; sensing this, George crouched down slightly so you could rest your head comfortably on his shoulder, despite the awkward squatting position he was in, he valued your comfort more than his.

You weren’t aware of this gesture, but still appreciated his response to your touch as his fingers started tracing patterns on your back that was clad in his hoodie.

“I’m now going to ask you to open and reveal the content of your envelope.” Tobi looked at the cuddling pair, “George, please open your envelope.”

George slowly ripped open the envelope and turned the sheet around to reveal a blank canvas with a circle on it. Furrowing your brows, you did the same after to see you had the exact same result.

This continued down the line until it reached DDG, everyone looking around at each other to silently question if they had any idea what this meant. “As you can see, DDG is the only one to have an X.”

“Which means that you will have to pick someone to go home right now.” Your mouth dropped open and your heart fell into your stomach, you had just woken up and someone was immediately going home.

Slipping your hand into George’s, his grip tightened on you and pressed a kiss on top of your head due to the height difference. With your head resting on him, you could hear his heart pounding against his chest and toyed with his fingers to try and relieve his nerves.

DDG stood up and faced the group as Tobi said, “You must now choose someone to leave the Inside house.” Sighing, he looked at you and George.

“Last night we were all hanging out, having a good time and creating a nice bond together.” Your nerves faltered slightly, remembering (before you fell asleep) that DDG was conversing with you and George about how you should ‘cut the shit and just kiss already’.

“And one person just wasn’t vibing at all. I’m sorry, Dylan.” You cringed as Dylan nodded in acceptance and Tobi ordered him to say his goodbyes. 

DDG interview!

“I knew if I wanted to get George out, I needed to get Y/N out first. But it’s too soon to vote one of them out now because everyone could see what game I’m trying to play. So I went off initial vibes, and that’s why I voted out Dylan.”

You, George, Milli and Farah all walked Dylan out of the house, bidding your goodbyes and hugging him before he walked out the house. You knew it would feel different without a figure in the house; but it was all part of the game and you understood it.

As everyone gathered in the bedroom, you sat crossed legged on George’s bed whilst he stood behind you, his arms wrapped around your shoulders from behind and hugging you close. You looked up at George, “The elimination still hasn’t properly hit me,” He nodded along, “I’m still half asleep.” You grumbled and leaned into George’s touch.

You could hear him laugh from behind you, “Give her an hour and she’ll cry when she realises he’s actually gone.” The others laughed at him as you shook your head and rested your hands on his arms where they were situated around your shoulders.

PK spoke up, “Today is your birthday.” He pointed at Whitney. You all turned to look at her in surprise and all cheered, “Happy Birthday!” As the group sang to her, George swayed you two back and forth.

The sound of a bell chiming broke everyone out of their daze as a couple of people peered their heads around the door to read the screen, “Breakfast is ready!” They shouted. George slipped his arms off of your shoulders, switching his hold on you to lug you up in bridal style off of the bed, one arm underneath your legs. You yelped in surprise and he smiled at your reaction, “Let’s go get breakfast, beautiful.” He whispered to you as he strode down to the shop with you in his arms.

As you reached the shop, he settled you back into the floor but let his hands rest on your hips. “George can’t keep his hands off her for one minute!” Patrice laughed and looked towards DDG and Jason, then laughing and pointing at the pair of you and you stood oblivious to their nattering near you.

Looking at the items listed, George pointed one out. “Custom coffee’s two and a half grand today.” You shook your head, “Yeah, please no one buy that today.” You wanted to try and attempt to save money, the budget was dropping already less than two days in and if you were to win, you’d like some money to take home with you.

Whitney took a step towards you and her eyes flickered to the position you and George were in, “It’s my birthday and Y/N, stop defending your boyfriend. Have your own opinion!”

Your eyes widened and you turned to face George, stepping out of his hold in embarrassment. George felt his heart falter a little bit as you retracted from his touch, missing the feeling of you in his hold.

You saw George open his mouth to protest and snap back at Whitney for her uncalled for comment, but you quickly shook your head and whispered, “Leave it.” You wanted to avoid conflict on the third day, you couldn’t handle arguing with people you barely knew.

time skip!

“Why, hello there!” You jumped from your spot sat next to Milli in the living room, the discussion about the charity match halting as JJ’s voice rang out.

“Are you all good?” You opened your mouth to respond as well as the others, “Shut up! I don’t care.” JJ shouted back, causing you to suppress a laugh. 

Everyone walked into the living room as JJ continued through the loud speaker, “It’s time to go to the challenge arena. Get your asses changed and let’s go.”

You groaned and rolled your head back as you mentally prepared yourself for this challenge. As you walked towards the challenge arena, you spotted George a few steps ahead and in a slow walk. You picked up your step to stand behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist to rest your forehead on his back due to his height advantage against you.

You could practically see George’s eyebrows raise, “Well, hello there.” He lifted one arm around his back to stroke the back of your head and chuckled at your dread as you mumbled curses about the Sidemen; something along the lines of ‘God, why did I agree to this?’

The purple colour lights blinded your vision as you rounded the corner into the arena, “Here we are once more.” You heard George grumble, trying to sound somewhat enthusiastic but failing in doing so. “Ye old challenge arena.”

You retracted yourself from clinging onto George and stood on your tiptoes to see the room. Simon and JJ stood behind a circle table with trays scattered around it, and seats accompanying each side for spectators.

Simon and JJ urged you into the room, mocking greetings and laughing at your horror stricken face. You took a seat next to Milli, directly opposite George who winked at you in good luck. 

Simon and JJ listed off the rules of ‘The Wheel of Mystery’, the name not exactly helping soothe your nerves but you persisted otherwise. Milli looked over at you and laughed at your face, a sour look etched into your features as you watched Simon shuffle through his cue cards before landing on one and showing it to JJ, then proceeding to laugh with each other and glance in your direction; you just knew they had something up their sleeve for you.

Unfortunately, due to your positioning behind Patrice in the game and his determination to go first, you had to endure an entire game of him occasionally letting one rip. Each time he backed his own ass control, you put your head in your hands to cover your laugh as Milli groaned and rested her forehead on your shoulder with closed eyes.

Once it was PK’s turn, JJ smirked at the question he was given, “This is a juicy one.” He raised his brows, “Rank the girls inside from most to least attractive.”

PK immediately turned round to face Milli and pointed at her, “Least attractive!” You gasped in shock and looked at PK with a confused expression. Milli responded with just as much energy, “He’s just salty I didn’t say he was the fittest!” She laughed with you as PK started spewing facts that she was the most attractive yesterday, but according to his logic, it’s a new day.

He ranked Farah sixth, Mandi fifth, Whitney fourth and Cinna third. PK glanced back and forth between you and Mya, taking a good look at the pair of you and considering his options. 

George on the side had his lip tucked in between his teeth and his head tilted to the side, he stared at PK and silently willed him to stop as he watched his eyes trail over your sitting figure. George would never admit that he was jealous, because there was nothing to be jealous over. All friends feel a sick feeling in their stomach when another man practically hits on them when they’re right there, it’s normal! It’s a valid reaction because he is definitely not in love with you! He’d just curse PK out if he even tried to make a move on you; but the mischievous look in PK’s eyes told George that he wasn’t making it out of the challenge with any sense of dignity.

PK stood up and walked over to George, lifting a hand up to dap him up. “George, you’re my man. I’d never take your girl from you, brother.” You widen your eyes and look anywhere but George and PK, catching a glance of George’s mouth open and heat spreading through his cheeks.

George let out a nervous laugh and couldn’t form a witty response to that. Mya beside him could only laugh at his red face and the image of JJ laughing and pointing at him.

PK walked back to his seat, “So, Y/N second and my wife, Mya as first.” Everyone nodded along, still smiling from the previous interaction.

After a couple rounds and wishing you had your phone on you to take a picture of Milli’s unamused face in the banana costume, JJ called Mandi up into the hot seat and asked her, “Which Inside do you think will be the most boring to watch?”

You winced at the harsh question and watched her look between the group before her eyes landed on you, “Y/N.” You raised your brows in shock and swallowed a dry throat; were you really that boring? JJ and Simon exchanged confused glances and cleared their throat, “Why’s that, Mandi?”

She smiled a bit, “You know I love you, Y/N,” She started. You closed your eyes and whispered to Milli, “Fucking hell, here we go.” Milli grabbed your hand for comfort.

“I just think you’re a bit of a cling on to George,” Your face paled slightly, “Like, he has a career on YouTube, so do you but… it’s like you’re just there while he’s doing his own thing.” You stared at her in shock and tried to comprehend her words for a moment, catching eye contact with George as he held a pissed off facial expression.

Jason spoke up, “Wait, doesn’t she literally have more subs than George?” George nodded and pointed at Jason, “Y/N was doing her own thing before I even joined YouTube so I don’t know what the fuck that answer means.” He defended you from across the room.

You shook your head and tightened your grip on Mandi’s hand, “That was kind of uncalled for, Mandi.” You mumbled, looking directly at her. She laughed and turned back to JJ and Simon, “I was just answering the question!”

Whitney pointed at Mandi with a smile, “I’ve got you girl!” The pair laughed and the Sidemen behind them shut them down immediately, “Mandi, open your tray.” They demanded, no longer wanting to hear them slander you, being one of their closest friends and hearing them diminish you to nothing and acting as if they were more successful than you. 

Next it was your turn, “Y/N, please join us at the front.” Simon called out.

You ran your hands through your hair as you stood up, “Come on, Y/N!” You heard Milli shout from behind you, turning around and sticking your tongue out at her. You looked over at George to see him staring at you with a smile, nodding at you with encouragement.

You sat down and leaned back into the chair, crossing your arms over your chest as JJ read out his cue card. “Y/N, if you had to share a bed with any male Insider, who would it be?”

You sighed and looked down at the table, knowing exactly who they wanted you to say. You shrugged your shoulders, “Why are all my questions like this in challenges?” You laughed. 

JJ behind you cackled and leaned over you, “Maybe take the hint, Y/N.” You faced him with furrowed brows and mouth ajar, Simon laughed at you and nudged JJ in a signal to not give away too much of what they had planned for you.

You scanned the room, “Only male Insiders?” Simon nodded, “Only male.”

You sucked your teeth and sighed, “I mean I’ve already done it by accident, so I would go for George.” You tilted your head to see him trying to suppress a proud smile with his arms slung behind his head, showing off his biceps (ones that you definitely didn’t catch yourself staring at).

The group all awed at your answer, even hearing PK let out a wolf-whistle your way. You showed him the bird and heard his boisterous laugh in the background. 

Simon approved of your answer, “Thank you for your answer. You will see the consequences of your decision later.”

You whipped your head around to him, similar to George. “What the fuck does that mean?” You gasped, your heart dropped into your stomach as a cold flush fell over you. Simon only shrugged with a smirk, and ordered you to open your tray. You rubbed your face with your hands and groaned loudly into them, causing the others to laugh at you.

You lifted the lid off of your tray, revealing dead cockroaches laid out on the plate, the label reading ‘Crunchy Delight!” You looked away immediately and screamed, “Fuck off!”

Everyone around you gasped as they looked down at your plate, “That’s fucking rancid, mate!” You supressed a gag, leaning down to rest your forehead on the edge of the table, mumbling curses about how you weren’t getting paid enough to do this.

As the group cheered you on, you quickly lifted your head and grabbed one before stuffing it in your mouth. You wanted to throw up as soon as it entered your mouth and you quickly snatched your water bottle, only to realise you had left it in the bedroom.

Your eyes widened and you screamed with your mouth shut as your hands swiped for soemthing that wasn’t there. No one could understand your body language as you panicked slightly. However, George noticed you fear stricken face and suddenly reached down for his bottle and hopped from his seat, quickly appearing at your side.

He unscrewed the lid off for you and shoved it into your hands as you swallowed the ‘meal’, tilting the bottle back and drinking the cold water that was situated in it. You sighed in relief as the water drowned out any taste of the cockroach.

George was still squated next to you and gently brushed his fingers against your bare shoulder in the tank top you wore, whispering encouraging words and mumbling how he was proud of you. You turned to look at him and whispered back, “Thank you.” And patted his head with a chuckle.

Realising that everyone was watching you two, George stepped back from the interaction and coughed awkwardly, walking back to his seat as everyone congratulated you for not losing any money. Cinna spoke up, “That was cute, Y/N and George!” You swatted the back of her head as you passed her.

During George’s turn he was asked, “Which Insider would you most like to be eliminated and why?” 

To avoid conflict and general awkwardness within the house, George reasoned. “I don’t wanna risk my opinion being an actual vote and they go.” You all awed at him and smiled at his response, causing JJ behind him to mock us. “Shut the fuck up.” George groaned, but ultimately lost everyone £5,000.

time skip!

“Y/N, can I talk to you for a second?” You hear George ask you as he enters the living room. You were sitting around the table with your lunch situated infront of you, surrounded by multiple members of the house who were now also looking at George who stood awkwardly with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

Confused, you nodded. “Sure, what’s wrong?” George shook his head and looked at everyone around you, “Maybe… just us? Alone?” He asked with a wavering voice.

Your eyebrows shot up and stumbled over your words slightly, not expecting him to have a private conversation with you in such urgency. “Uh, yeah! I’ll come now.” You shuffled out of your stool and walked towards his as he held his arm out for you to link it with yours, knowing that was your usual instinct when it came to him.

The other insiders sitting at the table jeered at you and George, “Come on, Georgie!” You distinctly heard Jason’s voice; and Patrice shouted out, “Use protection!”

As you left the room, you stood in the main area. You looked up at George, “What did you want to tell me?”

He looked around and politely smiled at people walking past, his nerves growing even more which caused concern to grow in you. He sighed and took both of your hands into his, “Not here.”

He walked backwards towards the gym and started speaking to you, never breaking eye contact with you. “I need to tell you something, Y/N. In private.” You nodded and your breathing sped up as he edged closer to the door.

“I’ve been wanting to tell you this for ages and I figured since we’re living together for the next few days, this could be a good chance to tell you that--”

The door of the gym swung open and Mya and Whitney tumbled out laughing, messing with the pockets of their tracksuit. You yelped as they collided with George’s back before they burst into laughter and ran away, not missing the sound of a rustling packet tucked into their clothing.

You watched the run away with furrowed brows, feeling George slip from your hands and him striding over to a camera tucked into the corner of the room; “There’s no way they think I can’t hear a rusting packet of choccy, right?”

The girls passed you again, this time with composure. “Hello.” They sweetly said as you reciprocated the gesture, glancing at George with a knowing look. George scoffed and walked towards the living room, you hot on his trail. “They think they’re slick.”

You jogged up next to him and tapped his shoulder, “Wait, what were you saying back then before?”

George’s eyes widened and he swallowed, all the courage he worked up to before dispersed now. “Uh, that was-- that was nothing.” You bit your lip, “You sure?” He nodded quickly, walking past you before you could read the expression on his face, knowing him too well. “It’s fine.”

time skip!

You were all sitting in the bedroom awaiting Whitney’s fate as she entered the temptation room, but you couldn’t help but notice something was different about the room.

Sitting cross legged on the floor as you and George passed the jiggly ball between the pair of you, your eyes scanned the room. Nothing was out of place, everyone’s clothes stayed where they were in the morning, nothing had been added to the room and nothing had been altered in the room. Atleast you thought that until you noticed--

“Oh, my fucking God!” You jumped up off the floor, startling everyone in the room.

“What?” George called out from his position on the floor, chucking the ball between his hands.

“My fucking bed is gone!” You pointed at the vacant space that used to be occupied by your bed. All your items were tucked underneath someone else’s bed and your set of drawers had been moved. “Huh?” George hopped up and stood next to you.

“Holy shit!” He pointed out. You followed his finger to see where his bed was, it had been upgraded to a double bed with a note tucked into the pillows at the top of the bed. The pair of you sprinted over to retrieve the note.

Picking it up, you read its contents. “Your wish is our command, Y/N. Enjoy sharing a bed with George for the rest of the week.”

You covered your mouth in shock and dropped the note on the bed, George picking it up to read it himself to see if you were lying. In the meantime, you saw your drawers were settled on the right side of the bed, jumping towards it, you scanned the insides to see if they had messed with anything else of yours.

Seeing one new item, you slammed the draw shut and walked away from it, leaving the room and shouting, “I hate the Sidemen!”

George looked up from the note and furrowed his brows, lunging over to open the drawer you had reacted to. His mouth dropped open and he fell back onto the bed, looking directly at a camera in the room and pointing at it. “You lot are bastards, you know that?”

And as the camera zoomed into the room, more specifically the drawers. You could just make out a packet of condoms situated in the drawer with a sticky note on top of it saying, ‘No baby Clarkey’s on set please!’

time skip!

“Guys, they’ve got a harmonica on the list. Can I get it?” 

You turned around mid-drawing Milli a body on her banana outfit. George skipped into the room with a wide smile on his face. You nodded eagerly, “Yes! Get it!” You needed him to confirm his first purchase. 

“There’s a harmonica on the list.” He repeated. You dropped the pen you were using to draw on Milli and apologised to her, “Sorry, I have to be there to witness George lose his purchase virginity!” You skipped over to him as he awaited with open arms.

Milli scoffed jokingly, “Won’t be the first time.” You ignored her comment in ignorant bliss as George skipped in utter glee over to the shop.

“I’m gonna get myself a bloody harmonica!” George jumped into the room, his hand linked with yours as he swung your arms back and forth.

He hopped in front of the camera with a little noise, “Hello. Could I please confirm an harmonica? Please? And thank you.” He smirked into the camera.

You jumped onto his back and he tucked his hands under your thighs, hoisting you further up and you felt his back move with the way he laughed. “I’m gonna serenade you every night now, especially with those condoms in our--” “For fucks sake, George!” You pushed yourself off his back laughing, a smile spread across your face as you heard his giggles and him clapping his hands as the trap doors opened. “Open up, give me my--”

He cut himself off with a giggle, “Thank you!” He stared at you and started playing the harmonica, causing you to laugh and bury your head into your hands. He nudged you, “What? You don’t like it?” You opened your mouth to answer, “You don’t think it’s sexy? A guy playing an instrument?” He finished.

You laughed and pointed at the harmonica, “You think that’s an instrument?” George mocked the offense and snatched the item away from your reach, leaning down dangerously close to your face. “No serenading for you tonight!”

time skip!

“I feel like a side piece to George now.” You thought out loud.

Cinna, beside you, barked out in laughter as you stared at George from across the room. “What?”

You shook your head and gestured towards him, “Look how he’s always attached to that harmonica now. That used to be me a couple hours ago!”

Cinna put her head in her hands and continued laughing, “Y/N, you’re so funny.” She nudged you, seeing your mock hurt face as George repeatedly blew on the harmonica, sounding the same two notes over and over as you all patiently waited for Whitney to return with her present.

Cinna looked at you, “He’s literally sat there with party hats as breasts and you’re jealous of a fucking harmonica?” You looked at your lap in shame and tried to cover up a laugh, but Cinna leaned into you which broke you from your attempts to suppress any chuckles.

Whitney appeared back in the room holding a massive box and a card, she opened the card and started reading it out. “Okay, it says, ‘Happy birthday from the Sidemen.’” You nodded along, feeling George settle himself next to you on the sofa and his arms rest on the cushions behind you; his finger gently brushing your shoulder.

“The highest spender is PK Humble. And the lowest spender is Uncle P.” You all turned to glance at the respective people, nerves brewing at what the Sidemen had cooked up with this information

“The highest and lowest spender must make their way to room 19 and agree on someone to eliminate. They have 20 minutes.”

Your jaw dropped to the floor and your hand slipped into George’s, his fingers intertwining with your own as you looked at each other. You willed the other one to stay, neither of you could go home this early and there was a large risk that you could. Your lips trembled slightly as you could feel PK’s eyes on you, swallowing a large lump in your throat as you knew you would be considered an option.

George drew your head close to his, pressing a soft kiss on your temple. “I’m not letting you go.”

taglist (how are u all pookies):

@wherethezoes-at @sidemenslver @multifanxtvshows @bibissparkles @le-le-lea @tiamonetsworld @dopeysunflowers @viagracex @rebeccaw05-blog @sundarksposts @sabbrriiinnaa @lovingaphroditesworld @evisceratedmuke @youtubewag @happyclifford @liz140569 @addiemb8332 @isabellem2909 @madforgeorge @pookietv @georgeclarkeyscakeyass @marijas-stuff @maggie-readss @bambidollstar @lottiewills @lmaowhathaha @sukimoves @randomstufflol29 @isabelle-2934 @sophiexxclarkey @levidazai @smogballsstuff @loveheart-123 @alysbaby @octopusoptimusprime @mylillstuff @landoslvr @essieswurld @swaggerjagger2014 @isla-finke-blog @amyissocool @k0ul1ss @musicforsnoopy @heyitsmefall @fly-me-away @7leb-kakaw @je33123 @theresglittleronthefloor @geliophobias @w2sfever @grantgustluv @yourfavartistsfavartist12

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 5: July 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of the death of a parent, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families...I think that's it?

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

Max: Just a heads-up. I have a girlfriend.

Jos: …And you’re only telling me now?

Max: Yes.

Jos: How long?

Max: Four months.

Jos: Jesus, Max. Who is she?

Max: Isabelle.

Jos: Isabelle who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc.

Jos:

Jos: LECLERC??

Max: Yes.

Jos: You’re dating Charles Leclerc’s sister?!

Max: Yes.

Jos: And you didn’t think to mention this sooner?

Max: Why would I?

Jos: Because she’s a Leclerc.

Max: And?

Jos: And that’s complicated.

Max: No, it’s really not.

Jos: Do her brothers know?

Max: No.

Jos: They’re going to lose their minds.

Max: Probably.

Jos: And you don’t care?

Max: Not really.

Jos: …You’re serious about her.

Max: I am.

Jos: Huh.

Max: That’s all you have to say?

Jos: What do you want me to say?

Max: I don’t know. I expected more yelling.

Jos: Would it change anything?

Max: No.

Jos: Exactly.

Jos: Don’t let her distract you.

Max: She’s not a distraction.

***

There was something to say about Isabelle Leclerc in her element. 

High Heels clicking against the dark wood that now covered the floor of his penthouse (Walnut, as she had explained to him once, laid in a herringbone pattern), the cream dress she wore swishing around her calves, nearly the exact same colour as was on most of the walls (Max had realised that he was colour blind by the time she had shown him five different shades of cream, told him to pick one, and he had been certain that she was playing a practical joke on him because they all looked the exact same. Who knew that there was a different between Snow White, Skimmed Milk White, Shaded White, Strong White and New White?) and telling him all about the light fixtures that were now hung in the space. 

She walked ahead of him, soft voiced, giving a quiet tour of the apartment she’s spent the last few months designing. 

Max trailed behind her, hands in his pockets, watching her more than the rooms.

She was different here.

Not in a big, obvious way—Isabelle was always composed, always graceful—but here, in the space she had built from the ground up, she walked with ease. She fit into the light like she belonged to it. And the truth was, she did.

Isabelle stopped in the living room, where the late sunlight stretched across the wooden floors, and looked around.

“All that’s left is the furniture install,” she said, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. “It’ll be livable in a week or two.”

Max nodded, but didn’t answer right away.

Isabelle turned to him, mistaking his silence for something technical. “Unless there’s anything you want to change?”

He shook his head slowly. “No. It’s perfect.”

She gave him a small, pleased smile, and turned back to the windows. That’s when he said it.

“You should move in.”

She stilled.

“Belle.”

She looked back at him. Her smile didn’t vanish, but it wavered at the edges. “Max.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know,” she said softly. “That’s the problem.”

He stepped closer, gentle, careful—because he knew that look on her face. It was the look she wore whenever he offered her something she wasn’t sure she was allowed to accept. 

“You made this place feel like home,” he said. “Everything in it has your fingerprints on it. You already live in it, in every way except physically.”

She didn’t answer. Just looked around again—at the walls she’d chosen, the soft gold hardware, the faint echo in the emptiness.

“I don’t want to take up too much space,” she said finally, so quiet it hurt.

Max frowned. “I want you to take up space.”

She hesitated. He knew she would. She always thought twice before stepping forward, especially when it came to being wanted. He also knew that hesitation wasn’t about him—not really. It was about every time she’d been treated like an afterthought.

So he took a step back, and pulled out his phone.

She blinked. “What are you—”

“Exhibit A,” he said, tapping open a photo and turning it toward her. “Jimmy. Sitting by the front door. Waiting for you after you left last week.”

Isabelle’s lips twitched. “That’s just because I give him treats.”

“Exhibit B,” Max continued, swiping again. “Sassy. Nesting on the blanket you left on the couch. Will not accept substitutes.”

“Max…”

“And Exhibit C,” he said, putting the phone back into his pocket and walking over to her, eyes soft but unwavering. “Me. Also useless without you.”

She bit her lip, trying to hold back a smile. “Are you emotionally blackmailing me with your cats?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “And if this doesn’t work, I will start sending photos of Sassy looking depressed. I will weaponize her pout.”

She laughed, head dropping slightly as she shook it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m right,” he said. “And I’m not asking for something huge or scary. I just want you here. Where you already belong.”

She looked up at him, eyes glassy but smiling now.

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

“I know,” he said. “But I’ll be here. So will Jimmy. And Sassy. And we’ll all be very supportive and dramatic about it.”

She laughed, but the sound was splintering around the edges. 

“Are you sure?” Isabelle asked him, her voice shaky. 

Max reached for her hand, lacing their fingers together. “I’m sure,” he said firmly. “But if you’re not ready, that’s okay. I just—” He exhaled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “I just want you to know I want this. I want you.”

She stepped into his arms then, wrapping hers around his waist, burying her face in his chest. And when she whispered, “I think I want to say yes,” he smiled so wide it made his cheeks ache.

And if Jimmy and Sassy got extra treats that night when she came over?

Well. They’d earned it.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max asked me to move in.

Isabelle: Like. Officially. Into the penthouse. With him.

Isabelle: I said yes.

Emilie: YOU SAID YES??? YES TO WHAT??

Isabelle: Max. The penthouse. The cats. All of it.

Emilie: AAAAAAAAAAAA

Emilie: I knew it. I KNEW he was going to ask. He’s been treating you like a man who wants joint bills and matching key hooks.

Isabelle: He was so calm about it. Like he’d already pictured me there. Like it was obvious.

Emilie: Because it is obvious. You designed that penthouse and made it a love letter to your own taste. You’ve already moved in emotionally. Time to do it physically.

Emilie: So when do we pack?

Isabelle: That’s… actually why I texted. Can you come help? I need moral support.

Emilie: Say less. I’ll be there with wine. 

Isabelle: …perfect. Also, if I start backpedaling emotionally, please just throw a throw pillow at me.

Emilie: I’m bringing the heaviest one. You’re doing this, Belle. I am SO proud of you.

Isabelle: I’m scared. Like… what if I mess it up?

Emilie: You won’t. You don’t know how to be anything but steady and brilliant and thoughtful.

Emilie: And Max is completely in love with you.

Emilie: You’re building a life with someone who sees you.

Emilie: Not someone who just remembers you when they need a reservation booked.

Isabelle: That’s a little mean.

Emilie: I am your best friend. I am required to be mean on your behalf.

Emilie: Max loves you. He sees you. You get to have a gorgeous man AND a rooftop pool. This is the dream.

Emilie: Let’s pack your life, Belle. You’re going home.

***

Emilie Abadie had always believed that homes told stories.

Not just the curated kind you shared in design portfolios, or the kind Instagram filtered into perfection. The real ones. The stories that lived in cluttered drawers, forgotten shelves, and the boxes you avoided packing because they were full of things you didn’t want to explain.

Isabelle’s apartment told a quiet, thoughtful story—soft linens, deep greens and warm woods, books arranged by mood, not color. A ceramic cup collection that made no cohesive sense except to her. It was lived-in, and loved, but also… careful.

Emilie knew what careful looked like.

She’d watched Isabelle perfect the art of it for years.

Which was why it didn’t surprise her when, halfway through packing up the hallway cupboards, she found it. The collection of objects that could only be described as “well-meaning psychological warfare,” wrapped in tissue paper and reluctant affection.

Highlights included: 

A desk plaque that said Think Like a Leader.

A collection of self help books. 

A coffee mug that read Worlds Okayest Sister. 

A heavy coffee table book about golf. 

A Bluetooth speaker shaped like a race car that lit up in flashing LED colors.

A number of scented candles, all of them unburnt. All of them with the kind of sickly sweet scents that Emilie knew Isabelle would get headaches from. 

A bright red umbrella. Ferrari merchandise. 

A black pantsuit Isabelle had never worn and would never wear—tags still attached.

A Diet cookbook. Which pretty much exclusively featured recipes that involved red meat, which Isabelle never ate anyway. 

A pair of trainers in a garish neon yellow.  Two full size too big. 

It was Isabelle Leclerc’s version of a family scrapbook.

Emilie didn’t say anything at first. Just sat cross-legged on the floor and started lining them up like museum artifacts. Like evidence. And it made her blood boil.

“You kept all of them,” Emilie finally said, not bothering to mask her disgust.

Isabelle, predictably, didn’t flinch. Just looked over from where she was folding dish towels and sighed. “Please don’t start.”

Emilie snorted. “I’m not starting. I’m documenting.”

Isabelle walked over and perched on the armrest of the couch, staring at the collection like someone facing down a polite ghost.

“They’re not trying to hurt me,” she said, because of course she did.

“They’re not trying to see you either,” Emilie finally replied.

God, they had trained her to make excuses for them so well. 

And that was the thing about Isabelle.

Isabelle defended them. Always. Even when they ignored her. Even when they handed her a gift that said, in a thousand unspoken ways, we don’t know who you are, so here’s who we’d rather you be.

Emilie loved Isabelle for her grace. Respected her for her patience.

But sometimes she wanted to scream on her behalf.

Because Isabelle Leclerc was brilliant. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.

She could sketch out a space and see a life inside it before anyone else could.

She knew how to listen, how to hold space, how to fill a room without taking it over.

And yet, her family treated her like the placeholder sibling.

The support system.

The “how lucky we are to have you manage our chaos” afterthought.

Emilie wanted to shake her sometimes. 

“You’re allowed to admit it hurts,” she said, softer than she meant to.

Isabelle just hummed noncomittingly.

Emilie had watched this play out for years: birthdays where Isabelle got gifts that felt like HR perks, dinners where she was interrupted or talked over, family holidays where she played event planner and emotional buffer and never, not once, was asked what she wanted for herself.

And then Max Verstappen had shown up.

At first, Emilie had been skeptical. Who wouldn’t be? He was Max—F1 World Champion, known for being blunt to the point of rudeness.

But then… she saw the way Isabelle softened around him.

Or no—that wasn’t it.

Isabelle didn’t soften with Max. She just… relaxed.

Like for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to justify her existence. Max didn’t question her decisions, didn’t treat her like she was delicate or invisible. He watched her. Not with confusion, but with certainty. Like he already knew she was extraordinary.

And when he asked her to move in, Emilie saw the panic. But underneath it? The wonder.

The possibility of being seen. Fully. Without apology.

So as Emilie watched her best friend now—holding that terrible mug with a rueful smile, defending the people who had handed her metaphorical shrink-wrap year after year—she didn’t say the things she wanted to.

She didn’t say, They don’t deserve you.

She didn’t say, They never tried hard enough.

She didn’t even say, You don’t have to keep forgiving them just because it’s easier than facing the truth.

Instead, she handed Isabelle a roll of bubble wrap and said, “I’m glad you’re moving.”

Isabelle didn’t answer, just smiled faintly and kept folding.

But Emilie meant it. Not just because the apartment was too small for her, or too carefully arranged around other people’s expectations—but because Max had asked her to move in.

And Max—despite being the chaos of F1 incarnate—saw her.

He wasn’t perfect—God, no—but he made space for her. Real space.

And for someone like Isabelle, who had spent her whole life tucking herself into corners… that mattered.

Max didn’t just love her.

He made her feel unchallenged in her existence. Like it was safe to take up room. To bring her books and her silly teacups and her weird throw pillows and be.

Emilie looked around the apartment one last time. The walls felt like they were exhaling. Letting go.

And when Isabelle asked, softly, “Do you think I’ll miss it?”, Emilie didn’t hesitate.

“No,” she said. “You’ll be too busy building something better.”

With someone better.

And that made all the difference.

***

Isabelle didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The shopping trip was meant to be practical.

They had all the essentials, really—Max’s penthouse was fully furnished, a curated blend of sleek lines and soft warmth, every finish and fixture carefully chosen. By her. For him.

And now… for them.

Because Max had asked her to move in. And she’d said yes.

And suddenly, the things she used to walk past in shops—the towels, the sheets, the coffee mugs—meant something entirely different.

They weren’t just purchases.

They were choices.

Isabelle ran her fingers over the display of Egyptian cotton sheets, crisp and cloud-white, then turned to a soft beige set that made her think of sleepy mornings and Max’s warm skin under her fingertips. She held up the tag, inspected the thread count, and caught herself smiling.

It felt a little silly, how giddy she was. How young she felt. Like a teenager dreaming of her first apartment. But this was different. This wasn’t fantasy.

This was real.

She was going to live with him. Not just crash on weekends, not just brush her teeth beside his before tiptoeing out the next morning.

She would be there when he got home.

She would be there when he left.

She would be home.

That thought made her pause.

The nerves came creeping in—quiet but insistent.

Would she take up too much space? Would she somehow get in the way? What if she over-decorated, what if she made it feel less like his place?

What if she loved it more than she was allowed to?

She picked up towels next—thick ones, luxurious ones. One set in cream, one in a dusky grey-blue. Neutral. Calming. Shared.

Would Max care?

Probably not. He’d happily dry off with whatever was closest.

But Isabelle cared.

Because this wasn’t just shopping.

This was settling.

Belonging.

She carried the towels and duvet set to the counter and added a couple of throw pillows she hadn’t planned to buy, and still did, before she went to her favourite antique store. 

The store smelled like old books, wood polish, and dried lavender. Isabelle had always loved it—the quiet hush of it, the way everything creaked slightly underfoot, how time seemed to fold in around the edges. Nothing here rushed. Nothing here demanded.

Which was why she came.

When she needed to think.

When she needed to feel like she was choosing something entirely her own.

The console table caught her eye almost immediately. Oak, mid-century, solid but delicate somehow—slim legs, warm finish, brass drawer pulls that looked like little leaves. It wasn’t flashy, but it was hers. In the way certain pieces just are.

She stood in front of it for a while, her hand brushing over the edge.

They had space for it. Max had said she could pick what she wanted. He meant it. He’d said things like it’s your home too and whatever makes it feel like us, but Isabelle still felt the pull of hesitation in her chest. A quiet anxiety that came not from Max—but from all the years of not quite being allowed to take up space.

But she wanted this one.

This table. This little symbol of her taste, her joy, her voice.

She turned to the shopkeeper. “I’ll take it.”

The words were quiet, but steady.

A few minutes later, she stood at the counter, scribbling her name on the delivery slip. The butterflies were still there—flapping somewhere between her ribs—but so was something else. Something lighter.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: So hypothetically… if someone were to have bought a few things for the apartment while you were gone… would that be a problem?

Max: Define “a few things.”

Isabelle: …Towels. Throw pillows. A vintage console table I may have emotionally imprinted on.

Max: Was it whispering to you in the store?

Isabelle: It was practically begging to live in our hallway.

Max: Then obviously you had no choice.

Isabelle: Exactly. Also, I got a really pretty ceramic tray for the kitchen island. You know, for keys. Or snacks. 

Isabelle: You’ll love it. It’s very “Max doesn’t know what it’s for but agrees it looks nice.”

Max: My favorite kind of décor. You’re making this apartment ours. I love it.

Isabelle: You can thank me by letting me put  the throw pillows I just found on the couch. 

Max: Are the throw pillows neutral or secretly pink?

Isabelle: Neutral… ish. There’s texture. You’ll survive. I debated between “soft beige” and “almond stone.” I chose “soft beige”.

Max: That’s not even a real difference.

Isabelle: Says the man who can feel the difference between tire compounds while going 300 km/h.

Max:  Touché.

Max: Buy anything you want. Cover the couch in throw pillows. I miss you and imagining you decorating makes it feel closer to coming home.

Isabelle: That was dangerously sweet.

Max: I’m in a hotel room with bad lighting and no you. I’m weak.

Isabelle: I’ll save you a spot on the couch. And possibly hide the pillows until you’ve emotionally adjusted.

Max: Deal. Now send me a photo of that tray. I need to know what I’ve agreed to.

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

@f1fashionista93: where is this shop?? asking for a friend (the friend is me)

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s called Vintage Collection, at the Carré d’Or!

@emilie_abadie: You’re so lucky I wasn’t with you or that lion would be in my living room.

↳ @isabelleleclerc You would’ve named him and given him a tragic backstory. ↳ @emilie_abadie And he would’ve deserved it.

@paddockprincess: how is this not a painting???

@victoriaverstappen: “Something older than everyone in the room” is my new golden rule—thank you for this! ❤️

↳ @isabelleleclerc: It’s such a good trick!

@/F1GossipQueen: You’ve inspired me to go antiquing this weekend. Hoping to find my own weird lion.

***

Max wasn’t sure when it hit him exactly—somewhere between unrolling a rug Isabelle had ordered and setting it gently under the coffee table, or watching her rearrange the spice drawer for the third time like she was memorizing her own existence.

She was here. She had moved in. But somehow… she hadn’t arrived yet.

He watched from the doorway as she unpacked a box labeled “Books + misc. (bedside stuff?)” in her neat handwriting. Her movements were precise. Careful. Like every item she placed might be quietly retracted if it took up too much space.

It wasn’t the way she moved in his life. With him, she was steady. Present. Laughing softly in the kitchen or curled up with Jimmy or Sassy, or leaning into his touch like she belonged there—which, to him, she did.

But this… this looked like someone trying not to leave a mark.

“Hey,” Max said softly, leaning in the doorway.

Isabelle glanced up. “Sorry. I’m taking over the dresser—if you want the top drawer back—”

“I don’t,” he said, crossing the room. “I want you to take all the drawers. And the shelves. And the bathroom counter.”

She looked at him warily, like she didn’t quite believe it.

Max reached for her hand. “You’re not a guest, Belle. You live here. I want to see your things around the place.”

Isabelle hesitated, fingers curling slightly in his. “I just… I’ve never had space before. Not really. And I don’t want to—”

“Take up too much room,” he finished for her. Gently.

She nodded, eyes down.

Max cupped her cheek, making her look up. “Take up all the room. Please. I’ve seen this place without you in it. It’s beautiful and cold.”

She huffed a soft laugh, like it surprised her. “I just didn’t want to… clutter it.”

“You’re not clutter,” he said firmly. “You’re the heart of it.”

He tugged her into his chest, arms wrapping around her tightly, and pressed a kiss to her hair.

“I want to trip over your shoes in the hallway,” he murmured. “I want your throw blankets on every surface. I want the picture of Blanche in the living room and that stuffed bunny from your childhood sitting next to my championship trophies.”

She buried her face in his chest, breathing in deeply. “You’re sure?”

“I’m certain,” Max whispered. “Make it yours. Make it ours.”

There was a long silence—warm, safe.

Then Isabelle pulled back slightly and smiled, small but real.

“Okay,” she said softly.

And just like that, the penthouse began to feel like home.

***

Isabelle hadn’t meant to hide it.

The roll-up keyboard wasn’t a secret. It was just… something small. Something she kept. Tucked away behind art books and a folded throw blanket. She’d placed it there quietly, the way she placed most of her things in this space—carefully. As if she were still trying to make sure she belonged.

So when she heard him call from the living room—“You didn’t tell me you had this”—her stomach fluttered.

Isabelle padded out of the bedroom, barefoot, hair still damp from the shower, the sleeves of Max’s hoodie falling over her hands. He was crouched near the bookshelf, curiosity written across his face as he unzipped the worn canvas pouch she hadn’t touched in months.

The roll up keyboard.  That sad little silicone thing she’d used in university apartments and rental flats, when the idea of owning a real piano had felt laughable.

“Oh,” she said, voice faintly embarrassed. “Right. That thing.”

Max looked up at her, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth. “You actually play on this?”

“I did,” she admitted, sinking onto the rug beside him. Her legs folded under her easily, like muscle memory. “When there wasn’t room for anything else.”

There was a time when she’d pulled that keyboard out just to feel normal for five minutes. Between assignments, between shifts, between everyone forgetting she existed.

“You’re full of surprises,” Max murmured, watching her fingers hover above the keys, not quite touching them.

Isabelle shrugged, soft. “Not really. We had a piano growing up. At the country house.”

He glanced at her. “Do you write music too? Like Charles?”

She blinked, surprised that Max knew that…but then she remembered that her brother had actually released some of his compositions. Of course, Max would know.  “Do you?” Max asked again, gentler this time. Not pushing—inviting.

She shook her head. “No. I was never interested in writing anything new. I liked learning. Things people said were difficult. Pieces with layers. There’s something comforting about playing something that already exists. Like translating someone else’s thoughts.” Her voice dropped slightly. “It felt less scary than putting mine out there.”

Max watched her like he always did—closely, quietly, like he knew what she wasn’t saying.

“So you were more of a storyteller than a composer.”

She blinked. That was… accurate.

“It felt like less pressure,” she said. “I didn’t have to be brilliant. I just had to be present.”

And that, she thought, was the kind of safety she rarely felt in her family. But somehow, she found it here. In this penthouse she helped design. In this quiet space with the man who saw her entirely.

Max turned to glance at the empty corner by the window, where soft light spilled from the sconces she’d chosen herself. “We should get you a real piano.”

She looked at him quickly. “Max…”

He didn’t flinch. “I’m serious. You shouldn’t have to unroll your music out of a drawer. Not here. Not anymore.”

Her throat tightened. Not just at the gesture, but at what it meant. What he understood without her having to explain it.

“I don’t even know if I’d still be good,” she said quietly.

“I don’t care,” Max replied. “I just want to hear you play.”

She leaned in and kissed him—slow, grateful, still in disbelief that someone wanted this much of her. When she pulled away, her voice was soft and full of warmth.

“What kind?”

“You pick,” he said simply. “I’ll just be the guy who listens.”

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

Isabelle: Serious question: Am I allowed to touch your trophies?

Max: …What?

Isabelle: Your F1 trophies. The actual ones.  Like, are they sacred objects or can I move them?

Max: I’m sorry… what?

Isabelle: I want to move them into the built-in display we had made. The one with the custom lighting and matte black shelves you pretended not to care about but totally loved.

Max: I do love that wall.

Isabelle: It’s ready. And your trophies are going in. But I needed to check if you’re one of those people who’ll panic if I breathe too close to the 2021 Abu Dhabi trophy.

Max: What?? No. They’re trophies, not cursed artefacts.

Isabelle: You say that like it’s obvious.

Max: Why would it not be obvious??

Isabelle: Because Charles once lost his mind when I breathed too close to his karting trophies. Like—actual panic. Told me to “never touch the silver one from 2012,” because apparently my mortal fingerprints could destroy the legacy.

Isabelle: So I’m checking. Do I need gloves? Tongs? An FIA certification? Or can I just move them like a normal person?

Max: ...Your brother is completely insane. 

Isabelle: So can I move your trophies? Dust them? Put them in the light-up cabinet I designed with my whole heart?

Max: You could build a pyramid out of them and I’d say thank you. They’re metal, not ancient relics. You don’t need ceremonial gloves.

Isabelle: Okay good. Because the lighting is chef’s kiss. I even have little engraved name plates.

Max: Touch whatever you want. Including me, when I get home.

Isabelle: Noted. Trophies first. You second.

Max: I’ll take it.

Max: Send me a photo when it’s done?  I kind of love that you’re doing this. Feels like the trophies finally have a home too.

Isabelle: I’ll send you a whole slideshow. With dramatic lighting.

***

The flight back had been mostly quiet.

Well—quiet-ish. If you didn’t count the eighty-four times Lando had apologized for breaking Max’s trophy, or the part where he genuinely offered to ride in the luggage compartment as penance.

Now they were back in Monaco. The sun was doing that rich golden thing it did right before it sank into the sea, and Lando was trying very hard not to think about how he’d destroyed a priceless piece of Verstappen history.

Max had just unlocked the front door of his brand-new penthouse—the penthouse, the one Lando hadn’t seen yet—and turned back with a smirk.

“Come in,” Max said. “You can personally witness the replacement trophy making it home safely. Might help your guilt complex.”

Lando followed him in, dragging his emotional damage behind him like a suitcase. “Mate, I broke your winning trophy. They handed it to you and I just—smash. Right there on the podium.”

“Honestly, that thing fell apart like IKEA furniture,” Max said over his shoulder, already tossing his keys into a surprisingly stylish bowl. “That’s what they get for making a teapot the trophy.”

Lando barely heard him. His brain had short-circuited the moment he stepped into the apartment.

It was… insane.

Vaulted ceilings. Curved walls. Warm lighting that didn’t feel clinical or rich-guy sterile. It didn’t scream money, it whispered it, in like, six languages. And the view—the view—was like something out of a dream. Monaco glittered below them, golden and lazy, like it had been placed there just for Max.

Lando looked around the massive open space—sleek kitchen, moody wood floors, an actual staircase—and had to bite back a seriously?!

It looked like Max Verstappen lived in a Pinterest board for emotionally stable billionaires.

He flopped dramatically onto Max’s disturbingly soft couch. “Do you know how many people sent me the slow-mo of that moment? Like I wanted to be immortalized as the idiot who destroyed the winner’s trophy.”

Max snorted from the kitchen. “Gods, you’re worse than my girlfriend.”

Lando blinked. “Wait, what?”

Max poured two glasses of water like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “Belle used to be terrified of touching my trophies. Wouldn’t even go near them. Her brother’s obsessed with his, told her once that she could ‘smudge the history’ by getting fingerprints on them.”

Lando stared. “Your what?”

Max, with the calm of a man not fully aware of the chaos he was about to cause, strolled past him. “My girlfriend.”

Lando’s entire brain short-circuited. "SINCE WHEN DO YOU HAVE A GIRLFRIEND?"

Max shrugged. “About… four months?”

“FOUR MONTHS?” Lando shrieked, sitting up straight. “And I’m just now finding out?”

Max raised an eyebrow. “I didn’t think you needed to know.”

“I’m your friend, Max!”

And then, as if the universe were determined to finish Lando off, the front door opened.

Lando turned.

In stepped Isabelle Leclerc.

Isabelle Leclerc in all her soft, gently glory. Wearing sunglasses on her head, a bag slung over one shoulder, in high heels and a pink dress… her expression soft and content in that way people were when they walked into a space that felt like home.

“Hey,” she said, smiling at Max. “I missed you. Did the box with the spare trophy arrive?”

Max pointed to the dining table. “It’s right there. Lando helped escort it home personally.”

Lando’s soul evacuated his body.

He turned to Max.

Then to Isabelle.

Then back to Max.

In a hoarse, horrified whisper, he said, “That’s Charles’ sister.”

Max, the absolute psychopath, just nodded. “Yes.”

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

Lando turned to Isabelle. “And you’re okay with this?”

She smirked. “Clearly.”

Lando turned back to Max, voice rising. “And Charles knows?”

Max popped a chip into his mouth. “No.”

Lando nearly fell off the couch. “HE DOESN’T KNOW?”

“We’re keeping it private,” Isabelle said, casually crossing her arms like she wasn’t detonating Lando’s entire worldview.

Lando laughed. Or maybe screamed. Or both. “You’re keeping it private?” He pointed at Max. “Does Victoria know?”

Max nodded. “Yes.”

“Sophie?”

“Yep.”

“Jos?”

“Yes.”

Lando stared, hands flailing. “So just to confirm—everyone in your family knows—”

“Right.”

“—and none of hers knows?”

“Correct.”

Lando dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. Okay, cool. Cool cool cool. So when Charles finds out, do you want your funeral to be in the Netherlands or Monaco?”

Max rolled his eyes. “Charles isn’t going to kill me.”

“YES HE IS!” Lando turned to Isabelle. “He’s going to kill him!”

Isabelle just shrugged. “I’ll deal with him.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “You’ll deal with him? This is the worst idea Max has ever had!”

Max just grinned, maddeningly pleased with himself. “Is it?”

“Yes!” Lando pointed at him. “And I want no part in it! I’m officially removing myself from this entire situation!”

“Noted.”

“I’m serious, Max. When Charles comes at you with, like, a Ferrari spoiler, I was never here.”

Max smirked and held up his hands. “Understood.”

And yet somehow, Lando knew that when it all inevitably exploded… he’d still end up involved.

Because, apparently, this was his life now.

***

Max had survived media scrums, championship-deciding races, and Jos Verstappen's silence-with-a-side-of-glare disapproval—but nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to waiting for Emilie to step foot into the penthouse.

Isabelle’s Emilie.

 The best friend. The sister-by-choice. The one person Isabelle never sugarcoated anything for. The one who’d once, according to Isabelle herself, told a former boyfriend, “I hope you fall down an escalator and land on your ego.”

Max was… a little afraid.

He wasn’t nervous often. His job didn’t allow for it. But now, standing in his own kitchen, hands resting on the marble countertop Isabelle had picked out, he was nervous.

Because Emilie was the kind of person who saw things clearly—and said them out loud. And Max wasn’t stupid. He knew that Isabelle’s past was littered with people who hadn’t protected her the way she deserved. Especially her family. Especially the ones who should have known better.

So Emilie was the gatekeeper.

And Max? He was the boy who had fallen in love with the girl she protected.

The intercom buzzed. Isabelle, barefoot and glowing, went to let her in.

Max exhaled, rolled his shoulders once, and silently promised the cats not to make this weird.

When the door opened, Emilie stepped in with a tote bag on one arm and sunglasses perched on her head like she belonged on the cover of “Best Friend With a Sharp Tongue Monthly.”

“Hi,” she said to Max, all easy charm and narrowed eyes.

“Hi,” he replied, with what he hoped was equal ease but probably came off a little like please don’t hate me.

Emilie looked around slowly. Took in the space. The light. The symmetry. The faint scent of lemon and clean wood. Then: “You let her pick the rug?”

Max blinked. “I mean… yes?”

Emilie turned to Isabelle. “He’s either deeply in love with you or very smart.”

Isabelle grinned. “Both.”

Max cleared his throat. “Can I get you something to drink?”

Emilie studied him for a beat. “Coffee?”

“Coming right up.”

He moved toward the machine, listening as Isabelle showed her around—explaining where things were, which parts of the design had been last-minute additions, what Max had insisted on and what she had picked out. 

Max made her coffee exactly the way Isabelle had once told him Emilie liked it—strong, touch of oat milk, pinch of cinnamon—and slid it across the island as Emilie wandered in, Sassy having demanded Isabelle’s attention like she was prone to be doing. 

Emilie took it, sipped, and raised her eyebrows. “Alright. You pass step one.”

“There are steps?” Max asked, mouth twitching.

“Oh, so many,” Emilie said. “But relax. You’re already ahead. You didn’t try to impress me with vintage wine or your Rolex.”

“I was going to offer cookies,” he admitted.

“Smart man.”

She took another slow sip, then set the mug down.

“Max,” she said, and her tone shifted—less playful now, more real. “You know she’s never done this before, right? Never let someone be her safe place. Never believed she could build something and live inside it, too.”

“I know,” Max said quietly.

Emilie studied him a moment longer.

“I don’t care that you’re a world champion,” she said. “I care that when she comes home, she gets to rest.”

Max nodded. “She does. That’s all I want. I don’t need her to fit into anything. I just want her to feel like she doesn’t have to be anything more than she is.”

Emilie stared at him.

Then, finally, she smiled. “You’re not what I expected.”

“Better or worse?”

“Infinitely better,” she said. “But if you screw this up, I will make you regret it in very creative ways.”

Max raised a hand. “Understood.”

Isabelle returned to the kitchen then, breezy and radiant, unaware that Emilie had just conducted an emotional background check in under five minutes.

“I like him,” Emilie said, already helping herself to a cookie.

“Thank God,” Isabelle murmured, leaning into Max with a smile.

And Max—well, Max just exhaled for the first time in twenty minutes. Because if he had Emilie’s approval?

That meant he was doing something right.

 Which mattered.

 Because Isabelle?

She was everything worth getting right.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Need vacation recommendations.

Lando: Oh no.

Max: What?

Lando: This is about her, isn’t it?

Max: …So do you have suggestions or not?

Lando: I knew it.

Lando: Max, I know you and Isabelle are a thing.

Lando: But Charles doesn’t.

Lando: And I would like to stay alive.

Max: This has nothing to do with Charles.

Lando: It has everything to do with Charles.

Max: No, it has everything to do with Isabelle.

Lando: SAME THING.

Lando: I don’t want to know. I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to be involved.

Max: I’m literally just asking for vacation recommendations.

Lando: And yet somehow, I will still end up suffering because of this.

Max: Lando.

Lando: FINE. Seychelles.

Max: That was fast.

Lando: Because I don’t want to talk about this any longer than I have to.

Lando: Seychelles is private, expensive, beautiful. Go there.

Max: Thanks.

Lando: Do not tell me anything else. I don’t want to know.

Max: Got it.

Lando: Seriously.

Max: Okay.

Lando: Like, if Charles finds out and demands to know what I knew—

Max: Then you knew nothing.

Lando: Exactly.

Max: Thanks, Lando.

Lando: I hate you.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript 

Stream starts, Max joins the call.

[Background reveals a brand-new sim room: sleek LED lighting, perfectly mounted curved monitors, and a back wall entirely dedicated to trophies, helmets, and framed photos—immaculately designed.]

Chat:

WAIT.

NEW ROOM??

WHERE TF IS HE

TROPHY WALL HELLO???

Bro has a museum behind him

That’s not the old sim room 😭

Chris Lulham: “Hold on, what is that behind you??”

Gianni Vecchio:  “Is that a whole new background?? Did you move? Why do you look like you're in an actual Formula 1 museum?”

Luke Crane: “That is not the same white wall with the sad curtain.”

Chris:  “Is that a trophy wall?? With lights?? WHY IS IT GLOWING.”

Gianni:  “That’s a custom setup. Someone made that. You did not install LED strips yourself, Max.”

Max: glances around “Oh, yeah. I moved. Still in Monaco.”

Chris: “Wait, what?! Since when?”

Max: “Few weeks ago.” shrugs

Chat:

🚨 BREAKING NEWS: MAX VERSTAPPEN MOVED AND DIDN’T TELL US 🚨

Max casually dropping life updates like he’s talking about the weather.

Bro didn’t even hint at it???

NEW SIM ROOM???

OH MY GOD THE MONACO TROPHY IS ON A LITTLE TURNTABLE

Luke Crane: "Hold on, hold on—are we just glossing over this? You moved and didn’t tell us?"

Max: laughs "I don’t tell you guys everything."

Luke Crane: "Clearly."

Chris: "Okay, but like… why?"

Max: shrugs again "Just wanted a change."

Chat:

He’s so unserious about major life events.

“Just wanted a change” bro you’re in a whole new house.

Luke Crane: “Alright, when’s the housewarming party?"

Max: "Never."

Chris: "Figured."

Chat:

That was the fastest rejection ever.

LMAOO Max really said NOPE.

Someone check the Monaco real estate listings 😭😭😭

Chris: "Okay, but real question—do we at least get a tour?"

Max: “Hold on, check this out.”

[Max adjusts his camera slightly, reaching off-screen.]

[Trophy wall lighting shifts smoothly from warm white to deep racing red.]

Enzo Bonito: NO WAY.

Luke Bennett: Did you just change the color?

Max: It’s all programmed. RGB control. Motion sensors too. They dim when I leave the room.

Gianni: That’s actually ridiculous. 

Max (grinning): Also acoustic panels. So no echo. And the mic quality’s better now too—right?

Luke Bennett: Sounds dangerously smooth, yeah. Honestly, this is a Bond villain layer disguised as a sim room.

Chat: 

max literally lives in a batcave

 this is a SIM LAIR

 rich people don’t build houses they build race temples

 bro’s sim room has mood lighting and better HVAC than my entire apartment

 WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A NETFLIX SET

Luke Bennett: Man, I feel like I should be wearing a tuxedo just to race you now.

Max (grinning): Anyway. Let’s race.

Chris: If my wheel breaks mid-race, I’m blaming this emotional damage.

Gianni: If I lose tonight, it’s because your RGB lighting intimidated me.

***

Isabelle always arrived on time for family dinner. With dessert, of course.

She always brought something. Homemade or picked up from her favorite patisserie. No one commented on it, but the plate was always clean by the end of the night.

Dinner was in full swing now, a chaotic medley of pasta, overlapping voices, and half-remembered updates from everyone’s life—except hers.

“So I told the media team we should change the graphic for next week,” Charles was saying, gesturing with his fork. “And they acted like I was speaking a different language.”

“Maybe they were,” Arthur said, grinning. “You barely speak one as it is.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “And you’re in F2, so calm down.”

“I’m in F2, not in last,” Arthur shot back.

“Boys,” Pascale said in a long-suffering tone. “Please. Eat.”

Isabelle had barely spoken since they sat down.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to contribute—she just never quite found the opening. Every time she tried, someone else jumped in louder, faster. She was used to it. It had been this way for most of her life.

Still, she tried.

“Oh,” she said lightly, when the conversation briefly turned toward travel. “I’ll be in Nice next week for a client install. Final stages of a boutique I’ve been working on for a few months.”

Charles barely looked up from his glass. “Interior stuff again?”

Isabelle smiled tightly. “Yes. It’s the final phase.”

“What are you installing, like… pillows?” Arthur asked, half-joking, half-serious.

“Furniture. Lighting. Custom cabinetry. Architectural finishes,” she replied, ticking them off calmly. “You know. The usual.”

“Right, right,” Lorenzo said, tone absent. “Pinterest, but expensive.”

Isabelle bit her tongue.

Hard.

She smiled again—her polite, polished, professional smile—and took a sip of her wine to swallow down everything she wanted to say.

No one asked more about the project. The conversation veered into Charles’ media schedule for the next race.  No one circled back to Isabelle.

They never did.

Until, several minutes later, Arthur mentioned Max.

“Did you know he just finished renovating his place in Monaco?” Arthur said, gesturing with his fork. “Fully redone. It’s all over the sim racing forums—some insane setup.”

“Oh, yeah,” Charles added. “I saw it. Trophy wall, hidden screens, mood lighting. So over the top.”

“It’s not over the top,” Isabelle said, casually.

They all turned.

“I designed it.”

Silence. Actual silence.

Isabelle set down her fork and took another sip of wine, just to give them a moment to catch up.

Charles blinked. “You—what?”

“I was the lead interior architect on Max Verstappen’s penthouse,” she said, voice steady. “From layout to lighting to final finishes.”

Arthur’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Like… the Max Verstappen?”

“No, Lorenzo, the other one,” Isabelle deadpanned.

Pascale blinked. “Well. That’s… quite something.”

“It was,” Isabelle said mildly. “A lot of work. High standards. Very involved client.”

…not really, but nobody needed to know that. Mostly Max had just let her do whatever she wanted. 

“You never said anything,” Charles muttered, confused.

“You never asked,” she said, sweetly. “You thought I was just picking out pillows.”

No one had an answer for that.

And Isabelle didn’t try to change the topic. instead she just stood up, starting to clean up plates— graceful as ever.

“I’ll help clean,” she said, voice still perfectly polite. And then, with a final smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she added, “Let me know if you ever want help picking out throw pillows, though. I’m very good at that.”

***

The front door opened with a soft click, followed by the unmistakable rustle of paper shopping bags and the sound of someone toeing off their shoes with slightly more force than necessary.

Max looked up from the couch, one arm draped around Jimmy, who had fully claimed the throw blanket. “You’re back late.”

Isabelle stepped inside, arms full of muted-toned bags from an upscale decor shop near the port. She dropped them on the kitchen island with a sigh that sounded far too heavy for a casual stroll home.

“I stopped at—” she started, then waved vaguely at the bags. “—somewhere.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

“Frustration shopping,” she muttered, pulling off her coat and hanging it neatly by the door.

He got up slowly, padding barefoot across the floor to meet her. “What happened?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she unpacked …something that looked like a seashell and a pretzel had a baby,  a geometric candleholder she didn’t need, and a cushion cover in a color Max was pretty sure they used in the guest room.

“They laughed at my job,” she said finally, quiet but steady. “Again.”

Max’s jaw tightened. “What did they say?”

Isabelle didn’t look at him. She kept unpacking. “Arthur made a joke about installing pillows. Lorenzo called it Pinterest, but expensive.”

He let the silence hang, waiting.

“And then I told them,” she said, meeting his gaze now. “About the penthouse. The sim room. The trophy wall. All of it.”

Max stepped closer, brushing his fingers lightly against her hand. “Good.”

“I wasn’t going to,” she admitted, her voice dipping. “I didn’t want it to sound like name-dropping. But I just—snapped. I was so tired of biting my tongue.”

“You don’t have to bite your tongue,” Max said, his voice low and firm. “Not with them. Not with anyone.”

She looked up at him, eyes a little glossy but not crying. Not yet.

“I built something for you,” she said. “Something real. And they still treat me like I’m playing house with fabric swatches.”

Max reached behind her and gently tugged her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“They can’t see it because they don’t want to,” he murmured. “But I see you. Every detail, every decision, every part of this place that feels like home—you did that.”

Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.

The silence was softer now. Safer.

After a beat, Max pulled back just enough to glance at the bags.

“...Please tell me that weird seashell thing isn’t going in the sim room.”

Isabelle laughed, a real one this time, even as she sniffled. “No promises.”

***

Quadrant Stream Transcript 

Lando Norris: Okay, I’m in. Finally.

Max Fewtrell: Took you long enough. What’d you do, build a new rig?

Lando: Nah, I’m not Max Verstappen. I don’t have a personalised sim fortress with like… ambient lighting and a trophy shrine.

Max F: Bro, that room is insane. I saw a clip on TikTok, and I swear it looked like he was about to launch a space shuttle.

Lando : That’s because Isabelle did it.

Max F: …Isabelle who?

Lando: Isabelle Leclerc.

Max F (pauses): …As in… Charles Leclerc’s sister?

Lando: Mhm.

Chat: 

LANDO WHAT

 BACK UP

ISABELLE LECLERC DESIGNED MAX’S SIM ROOM???

Max F: Wait wait wait hold on. Max Verstappen’s sim room was designed by Isabelle Leclerc?

Lando: Yep.

Max F: Okay but like—can she do my room?

 Lando: Have you got Max Verstappen money, mate?

Max F: …Right. So that’s a no.

Lando: That’s a hard no. She’s not out here doing LED lighting schemes for the boys on a Logitech G29.

Max F: Ouch. No, but seriously, that room looks like a race car museum had a baby with an interior design Pinterest board.

Lando: It’s ridiculous. He’s got like… hidden drawers, ambient color modes for quali, race, cooldown—mood lighting for his championship mood swings.

Max F: You’re telling me my man gets P1 and then sets the room to gold sparkle mode?

Lando: Wouldn’t even be surprised.

Max F: And Isabelle did all that?

Lando: Yeah. Interior architect. Like… architectural degree, portfolio, the works.

Max F: I’m gonna DM her my IKEA shopping list and see what happens.

Lando: All she’ll say is “please never contact me again.”

Max F: Worth it.

Chat: 

 “do you have max verstappen money” LMAO

 lando fully spilling the tea again i love him

ISABELLE IS THE INTERIOR ARCHITECT???

makes so much sense now why it has taste

Max F: This stream just turned into an episode of MTV Cribs: F1 Edition and I’m emotionally unprepared.

Lando: You and me both, mate.

***

The rooftop club was loud—bass pulsing through glass walls, drinks flowing freely, and the scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Monaco glittered below, and the whole world above felt like it had hit pause: one final blowout before the second half, before the summer break. 

Charles had been halfway through a conversation with Pierre when he heard it—faint, over the music, slipping in between thudding bass and the occasional shout of laughter.

French.

With a Monegasque accent.

He turned instinctively, blinking through the crowd.

Who the hell—

It was Max.

Max Verstappen.

Speaking fluent French. 

Not just French—Monegasque-accented French. Clean. Polished. Lightly clipped consonants in the way Charles had grown up hearing around every market stall and café table. Max’s cadence had shifted too—not quite native, but not clumsy either. 

Max was leaning slightly over the bar, talking to a bartender Charles recognized. His posture was relaxed, like it was normal. Like he’d done this a hundred times. His accent wasn’t perfect, but it was close—soft R’s, local cadence, the kind that didn’t come from a Duolingo app.

Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even know Max spoke French.

Pierre elbowed him, confused. “What?”

Charles shook his head, blinking. “Is he speaking French?”

Pierre followed his gaze, did a double take, then frowned. “Oh. Huh.”

“Where the hell did he learn that?” Charles muttered.

“Don’t look at me,” Pierre said. “Last I checked he couldn’t even pronounce ‘quiche’ properly.”

Lando strolled up then, already laughing at something Oscar had said. “What’s going on?”

“Max is speaking French,” Charles said, still stunned.

Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, he does that now.”

“What do you mean now?”

Lando shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been learning. Says it’s good for Monaco. And, you know with…” He trailed off.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Lando opened his mouth to respond and then suddenly blanched. “Nothing! Just…I need another drink!” and off he went. Charles stared after him. 

What was that about now? 

Charles frowned deeper, watching Max accept his drink with a quiet merci, bonne soirée like it wasn’t the most confusing thing Charles had witnessed all summer.

It wasn’t just the French.

It was the accent. The ease. 

Charles couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—that Max was speaking French… or that he was doing it like a local.

And somewhere in the back of his head, a quiet, suspicious thought began to form:

Why would Max Verstappen bother learning Monegasque-accented French?

[holyblonded]

other mother | stargirl

pairings: olga rios x teen!reader, alexia putellas x teen!reader, jenni hermoso x teen!reader

summary: jenni is in town and your closeness with her has olga feeling insecure as her position as your mother

notes: my inbox was flooded with people asking for this so here yall go 😀

“It’s Jenni Day!” you cheered as you practically skipped down the stairs, nearly tripping over your own feet in excitement. The smell of your favorite omelet filled the air, and when you entered the kitchen, you saw Olga at the stove, expertly flipping an egg while Alexia sat at the breakfast bar, sipping her tea.

“Jenni Day, Jenni Day, Jenni Day!” You chanted, throwing in a dramatic spin before moonwalking across the kitchen floor.

Alexia chuckled, shaking her head at your antics. “I take it you’re excited?”

“Yes! Do you know why?” You grinned, pointing at her like a game show host about to reveal the grand prize. “Because it’s Jenni Day!”

You launched into another celebratory dance, arms flailing, feet shuffling, completely lost in your own little world. Alexia laughed into her tea, and even Olga cracked a smile as she plated your omelet.

“You have way too much energy this early,” Olga mused, setting your plate in front of you.

“Of course I do! Jenni is coming, and it’s been forever since I last saw her!” You threw yourself into the stool next to Alexia, bouncing in place. “We’re still going to the airport to pick her up, right?”

Alexia nodded. “That’s the plan.”

Before you could respond, a knock at the door interrupted the conversation. You frowned, confused, whoever was here was intruding on your special celebration.

Alexia stood to answer it, but the moment the door swung open, a familiar voice rang out.

“¡Mi pequeño diabla!” (My little devil)

Your eyes widened in pure joy. “Jenni!”

Without hesitation, you bolted from your seat, sprinting across the kitchen and launching yourself into her arms. Jenni caught you with ease, laughing as she lifted you off the ground and spun you in a circle.

“My diablita, look at you! Have you grown? Or am I just getting old?” she teased, pressing loud, exaggerated kisses all over your face.

You giggled, squeezing her tight. “You’re ancient, Jenni.”

She gasped, feigning offense. “¡Qué mala!” She set you down only for you to immediately latch onto her side, practically glued to her as you dragged her toward the breakfast bar.

“Okay, okay, come sit! I have so much to tell you!” You pulled her into the seat next to yours, eyes bright with excitement. “You missed so much! Oh my god, wait, did you see my last match? And also, you have to see this new trick I learned— oh! And guess what? I have a girlfriend now! Her name is Soleil, and she’s the best, and I need to show you pictures—”

Jenni listened with an amused smile, nodding along as you spoke a mile a minute, gesturing wildly with your hands.

Meanwhile, Olga, who had turned back to the stove, found herself oddly quiet. She glanced over her shoulder at the way you clung to Jenni, the way you looked at her like she hung the moon, and something inside her twisted.

She knew Jenni had been in your life for years, had played a huge role in your childhood, especially when she and Alexia had been together. She understood the excitement, the affection— but still, as she stood there, spatula in hand, watching you practically vibrate with happiness in Jenni’s arms, she couldn’t help but feel like she was standing on the outside looking in.

Alexia noticed the shift in Olga’s demeanor, the slight slump of her shoulders, the way she suddenly seemed overly focused on the eggs she was cooking.

“You okay?” Alexia murmured, nudging Olga gently.

Olga forced a small smile. “Yeah… just not used to being replaced so quickly.”

Alexia sighed, wrapping an arm around Olga’s waist and pressing a reassuring kiss to her temple. “She loves you, you know that.”

“I know,” Olga admitted. “But right now, I think I’m just the lady who made her breakfast.”

Before Alexia could respond, your voice rang out again.

“Olga, come sit with us!” You turned to her, waving her over with an enthusiastic hand. “You have to hear this story Jenni’s telling!”

Olga hesitated for a split second before schooling her expression, pushing aside the small pang of insecurity.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming,” she said, finally taking the empty seat next to you.

And when you instinctively reached for her hand, squeezing it without even looking as you continued talking to Jenni, Olga felt some of that uncertainty ease.

The bell above the door chimed as you bounced into your favorite café, your hand wrapped around Soleil’s while Jenni strolled beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders like she never left. Alexia and Olga trailed behind, already making their way to the counter to order drinks while you led Jenni and Soleil to a cozy booth near the window.

“You’re gonna love this place,” you told Jenni, excitement bubbling in your voice. “They have the best pastries, and they always write little messages on the coffee cups.”

Jenni smirked, sliding into the seat across from you and Soleil. “I trust your taste, mi diablita.”

You turned to Soleil, eyes sparkling. “I can’t believe I haven’t introduced you two sooner! Jenni basically helped raise me. Like, she taught me how to ride a bike, took me to all my first pro matches, and—” you leaned in, stage whispering—“everything I know about being a striker? All from her.”

Soleil smiled warmly, looking at Jenni with clear appreciation. “That explains why you’re such a menace on the field.”

Jenni grinned. “Ah, so you’ve witnessed her chaos firsthand.”

Soleil laughed. “Every day.”

You laughed too, leaning into Jenni’s side and hugging her tightly. “She’s the best, Sol. When Ale and Jenni were dating, she was always around, always looking out for me. And even after… you know, they broke up, she never disappeared. She’s family.”

Jenni pressed a fond kiss to your temple. “Always.”

Across the café, Olga stood in line, watching the interaction with a tightness in her chest she couldn’t quite shake. You were radiant, so full of joy, clinging to Jenni like she was your lifeline. The way you looked at her, the way you spoke about her, all of it made Olga’s stomach twist uncomfortably.

She knew Jenni had been a part of your life long before she had. She knew Jenni had played a big role in raising you. But knowing it and watching it were two different things.

Alexia, standing beside her, caught the shift in Olga’s expression immediately. Without hesitation, she bumped Olga’s shoulder gently. “You good, amor?”

Olga plastered on a small smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, fine.”

Alexia didn’t buy it for a second. “You’re watching them like they just stole your puppy.”

Olga sighed, glancing away. “I just… she clearly loves Jenni. And I get it, Jenni was there when she was little, she taught her all these things, helped raise her—” she exhaled sharply— “but I’m supposed to be her mother now. And sometimes, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to fill that space the way Jenni did.”

Alexia frowned, reaching for Olga’s hand and squeezing it. “Olga, you are her mother. She chose you, we chose you. That doesn’t change just because she loves Jenni too.”

Olga’s grip tightened slightly, her jaw clenching. “I know, but it’s different. She looks at Jenni like she’s the person who made her who she is. I just… I don’t want to be second place in something that means everything to me.”

Olga’s fingers curled into fists at her sides as she watched you practically drape yourself over Jenni, your eyes shining with admiration as you told Soleil story after story about how Jenni had shaped you. Every time you hugged Jenni, every time you laughed at something she said, every time you looked at her like she was one of the most important people in your world— it chipped away at something deep inside Olga.

She wasn’t jealous, not exactly. It wasn’t that she wanted to erase Jenni’s role in your life. It was the fear that no matter how much time passed, no matter how much love she gave, no matter how fiercely she protected you, she would always be playing catch up to the people who had come before her.

Jenni had been there for your firsts. Your first bike ride, your first professional match, your first real football lessons. She had guided you, shaped you, made you into the player, and person, you were now. And Olga? She had come in when you were already a teenager, already formed, already carrying years of love for people who had been there long before she was.

Would you ever look at her the way you looked at Jenni? Would you ever talk about her like that, with that same effortless fondness, that same unshakable attachment? Or would she always be the afterthought, the one who came later, the one who did the daily work of being your mother but never quite felt like she had earned the title?

She tried to shake the thoughts away, but they stuck, clinging to her like wet clothes. The café was warm, but suddenly, she felt cold.

The room was dark except for the dim glow of the bathroom light spilling in through the cracked door. The sound of running water filled the silence, Alexia still in the shower. You padded in quietly, rubbing your tired eyes, ready to burrow under the blankets and curl up against Olga like you did every night. But as you climbed onto the bed, something felt… off.

Olga was facing away from you, curled into herself, her shoulders rising and falling in uneven breaths. The second you got closer, you heard it— a soft sniff, barely audible, but enough to make your chest tighten.

“Olga?” you murmured, shifting closer, pressing against her back. “What’s wrong?”

She stiffened, wiping at her face quickly. “Nothing, nena. Just tired.”

Liar. You frowned, resting your chin on her shoulder. “You’re sniffling.”

She let out a shaky breath. “Allergies.”

You huffed. “You don’t have allergies.”

She didn’t say anything, just reached for your hand and squeezed it, like that would be enough to convince you she was fine. But you weren’t convinced. You could feel the sadness radiating off her, pressing into the space between you.

You lay there for a moment, racking your brain. What could’ve happened? She’d been fine earlier at the café. Or at least, she’d seemed fine. Maybe something happened after? You were deep in thought when you caught movement from the bathroom door.

Alexia had stepped out, her hair damp, her towel wrapped around her as she glanced at Olga and then at you. The moment you made eye contact, she raised her brows and nodded toward Olga, then dramatically mimicked wiping away tears.

You squinted at her. She nodded toward the door, signaling that she was leaving you to it, but not before she started her silent charades. She made a small motion, pointing at herself, then at Olga, then at you. Then she held up one finger. First? No. She repeated the movement, then mimed kicking a ball, then pointed at you again. Your brain worked through it. First. Football. You. It was about Jenni. Everything clicked at once, the way Olga had gone quiet while you were talking to Jenni, the way she lingered at the edge of the conversation instead of joining in. She was feeling insecure.

Alexia gave you a knowing look before slipping back into the bathroom, leaving you alone with Olga.

You exhaled softly, tightening your grip on her waist as you pressed your forehead against her shoulder. “Is this about Jenni?”

Olga’s breath hitched for a second before she let out a small laugh, watery and tired. “You’re too smart for your own good, you know that?”

You didn’t respond, just curled further into her, letting the silence settle before you spoke again. “Olga,” you started softly, “I need you to hear me, okay?”

She didn’t answer, but you could feel her breathing, steady but fragile, like she was waiting for you to say something that would make this ache in her chest go away.

You took a deep breath. “You are my mom.” You said it plainly, like it was the simplest truth in the world. “Jenni was there for me when I was a kid, yeah, and I’ll always love her for that, but that doesn’t take away from you. It never could.”

Olga stayed quiet, but you felt her relax just a little.

“You have been there for me in ways no one else has,” you continued. “You were there when I signed my first contract. You held my hand through that whole process because I was freaking out. You were there when I made my debut. You were the first person I looked for when I got subbed on. Do you know that?”

Olga swallowed. “Nena…”

“No, listen.” You sat up slightly, resting your weight on your elbow as you looked at her. “You were there the first time I got called up to the USWNT. You were there when I scored my first international goal, screaming like a crazy person in the stands. You were the one who stayed up with me when I had that awful stomach bug last year, even though you had training the next morning. You always carry snacks for me in your bag, you know exactly how I like my tea, you check in on me even when you’re halfway across the world.”

Olga wiped at her eyes, her lip trembling.

“You do all of that because you’re my mom, Mama.” Your voice softened. “You are the one who made me feel safe, who made me feel like I had a home, who made me believe that being loved wasn’t something I had to fight for.”

She let out a quiet sob, turning in your arms to pull you against her. You felt the dampness of her tears against your shirt as she buried her face in your shoulder, and you held her as tightly as she held you.

“I love you,” you whispered. “So much. I don’t care how many people were there before you, you are my mom. No one could ever replace you.”

Olga squeezed you impossibly tighter. “I love you too, mi niña.”

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped up in each other, until the sound of Alexia clearing her throat from the bathroom doorway made you both look up.

“If you’re done making me cry from the other side of the door,” she said, voice thick with emotion, “can I get in on this cuddle session?”

You laughed, tugging Olga down with you as Alexia climbed into bed, wrapping an arm around both of you. And as you lay there, safe in the warmth of your family, you felt ii, Olga’s steady heartbeat beneath your palm, the rise and fall of her breath, the silent, unspoken promise that she was yours and you were hers, and that would never change.

[smutoperator]

Like a Demon

Bae Joohyun (Irene) x Male Reader

Tags: begging, crime, creampie, dungeon, (lots of) edging, female domination, facesitting, handcuffing, kidnapping, nymphomaniac, riding, sex demon, supernatural, table sex, worshipping

Word count: 4378

It just seems like a regular night. You go to the bar, order a cocktail, and watch the most recent onslaught of bad news coming from the TV. The drink arrives; you enjoy it—just another day.

There is until a woman occupies the chair by your side.

"Hello," the 30-something woman starts talking to you. She wears a beautiful red dress. "You must be doing a lot of business," she says, looking at the suit you're wearing as she drinks her whisky while the news talks about the story of a woman that has been running over town kidnapping men.

"What a crazy story, don't you think?" you ask her as you try to talk to the woman on your side. "Definitely, I've never seen something like this before," she answers. "By the way, what is your name?" you then pivot. "Bae, but people prefer to call me Irene instead," she says.

"Alright, Irene," you say to her. "I'll be back soon; I need to go to the bathroom," you tell her. Irene patiently waits as you take your time, checking more news about the case you saw on TV out of curiosity, until you read the description of the woman.

"A very short, dark-haired, pale-skinned Asian girl."

You go back to the bar and look at Irene, who perfectly fits it. "I have to go now," you tell her as you move toward the car, but just as you are about to enter the door, you feel a vampire-esque biting on your neck that makes you suddenly collapse.

You wake up in a dungeon, completely naked with your hands tied. Irene is right there by your side as she starts running her soft hands over your legs. "I can feel your body craving for something," she says, the movement of her hands matching with your throbbing cock.

"Please, have mercy," you ask Irene, knowing that you are completely screwed. "Did you say something?" Irene asks, pretending not to hear you pleading. "Please, don't hurt me," you beg harder.

"Hurt?" Irene asks. "I'm not going to hurt you; quite the opposite, I want to please you," she continues, touching her soft hands on your shaft and running circles around the tip of your cock. "Follow my orders, and I won't hurt you," she says.

"Alright," you say, panting as Irene starts edging you. Her face is insanely gorgeous, but the work her hands make around the tip of your cock is probably even more divine. "As long as you don't cum without my permission, I won't hurt you," she says.

You try to resist the magic touch of Irene's hands, but she makes it very hard for you. "If you cum, you're going to die," she tells you as she increases the heat on your cock.

Irene slowly starts using her tongue over your cock. "Oh yes," you tell her as her thirsty red lips make their way into your shaft. She puts your cock slowly in her mouth, tasting it very patiently as she runs her tongue over your shaft, enjoying your torso moving as you breathe loudly just to survive her sexy mouth.

"Oh yes, oh yes, I want you so badly, please," you moan as Irene does what she pleases to your cock, her beautiful mouth driving you insane and sucking the soul out of you like a demon. She closes her eyes and tastes your throbbing cock with lots of hunger, moving her tongue around your tips as she shoves it deeper and deeper in her mouth and enjoys you groaning and moaning.

"Oh my God," you say as Irene gives you her first deepthroat, stroking your shaft and watching it throb. "Look at you, baby, shaking so hard with my touch, begging for more," Irene says as she keeps going with the blowjob, getting louder with the movements of her mouth and faster with her strokes.

"More, please," you beg Irene as you look into her beautiful face. "Put it deep in your throat," you beg her. "Oh fuck," you then groan as Irene gives you a huge deepthroat. Irene smiles; she's got your cock completely under her control.

"Tell me what you want, baby," Irene says to you. "I want more," you answer her. "Louder," she answers. "I WANT MORE," you say with all your energy, Irene ready for more soul-sucking blowjobs, as she puts it in her mouth. "Oh my God, that's so good," you moan as she massages your balls and gets your shaft even more wet.

You keep telling Irene how good her cocksucking skills are as she moves faster and faster with your shaft. She touches your tip, toying with your cock. "Baby, please," you beg her. "Let me hear it," she says. "Please, I want more," you tell Irene, her licking your shaft and starting another round of cocksucking. "Just like that, please," you tell her.

"I want you so fucking badly, oh my god," you tell Irene. "Tell me," she says. "I want your mouth all over my cock; I want to feel your touch; I want to fuck you." You show your intentions to her as Irene now gives you a no-hands blowjob.

"Yes, please, just like that, fuck," you tell her, Irene now moving crazy fast and bobbing her head all over your shaft, enjoying every second of it. "Give me more," you beg her as Irene stops for more playing before getting away from you, walking across the room with her.

Irene massages your torso with her feet and then puts it in your mouth. You lick it, worshipping another beautiful part of her body. She puts a foot on your neck as she twists her hand once again all over your cock, stroking it quite hard this time while staring at you with sexy eyes.

"Oh yes, don't stop, you're going to make me cum," you tell Irene before she ruins your orgasm. "Fuck, you're edging me so good," you tell her as your cock pulsates. "Please, keep going," you beg her as the cock stroking continues, her laughing in your face as you almost lose your breath.

"Keep going, make me your little slave, take it," you keep begging Irene, who strokes your cock like a crazy demon before sucking it a little more with a hard head-bobbing. "Hmmm, delicious," she says with her right foot in your mouth as you try to survive her fast strokes.

"Do you want to cum, baby?" Irene asks you. "YES, FUCK," you scream as she pushes really hard. "Please, have mercy on me," you continue to beg. "Well, I told you the rules: if you cum right now, I'll kill you," she says.

"Alright, I won't cum," you tell Irene as she looks at you with hungry eyes, slowly taking off her dress and unveiling the sexy black lingerie underneath it. "How much do you want me?" she asks you. "I'd do anything to have you," you tell her.

"Would you eat my ass and my pussy to have that big fat cock inside me?" Irene asks. "Yes, of course," you answer her. Irene hears you and starts climbing on top of the table. "Oh my god," you say as you admire her beautiful, cute butt, and she takes her panties off, unveiling her already dripping wet pussy.

"Oh yes, please," you say as Irene slowly sits on your face. "Oh, I want it," you tell her as Irene starts moaning while you worship her pussy. "Ahhhh, baby," she says as she presses her hands on your chest. "YEAH," she celebrates as you start tonguing her folds, Irene grabbing your cock and massaging it.

"You're under my full control, ahhhh," Irene says as she turns into a moaning mess, your face all over her wet cunt. She grinds on your face, putting you under total submission while she edges your cock. "OH YEAH BABY," she screams.

Irene covers your face with her juices as you don't stop working around her folds. She looks at your wet face, kissing you and cleaning it up. "You did a good job with my pussy; keep going, baby," Irene says as you oblige, tonguing her clit and making her moan, working your mouth like crazy as you give her pink pussy the treatment it deserves.

Irene moans like a good slut. "OHHHH YEAHHH, DON'T STOP BABY," she screams, her tits almost popping out of her bra as you make her cum multiple times with your tongue. "OH FUCK, AHHHH," Irene groans as you keep working your magic, her now bouncing her ass in your face.

"Please, lick it, oh fuck," you beg for Irene as she gets out of your face and sucks your cock again. "I want more," you once again beg. "Do you?" she aggressively asks. "Yes, I do, please," you answer her.

"Then eat my ass," Irene orders as she gets back on top of you, leaning forward as she lets you bury your face in her butt. "Ahhhh," Irene moans. "Thank you," you tell her, savoring her asshole that smells like a flower while she strokes your cock.

"Ahhhh, fuck, yeah," Irene moans as she gets her ass eaten out, bobbing her head on your cock using her hands to muffle her moans. "Oh baby, you eat that ass so good," she tells you, moaning loud as she sucks your balls while you grab her waist to firmly grip her ass.

"OH FUCK," Irene moans as your tongue runs all over her asshole, trying to compete with more cock-sucking. She gets sideways, but you worship her feet. "Remember, you can't fucking cum until I tell you," she says. "Whatever you say, you're my master," you tell her.

Irene sits on your face and strokes your cock. "OH MY GOD, AHHHH," she moans, enjoying the work you give to her holes. "Turn around," she tells you as she starts massaging your cock from behind. You can feel her folds rubbing against your back as she moves. "You've got such a beautiful cock, so long and thick, throbbing for me," she says as she grabs your balls and runs her hands all over it.

"Your cock looks so big in my hand," Irene says as she strokes it, edging you while squeezing your balls in her right hand. "Fuck, this has so much length and girth; I can't wait to have it in my pussy. Such a big fat cock, I've been yearning for it for so long," she continues.

"I love how your cock feels in my hands, such a gorgeous thick cock," Irene says as you just close your eyes not to cum while she edges you, using the spit she left all over it to slide with ease, giving your shaft the best possible massage.

"Fuck, this cock is gonna feel so good between my legs; it looks so delicious," Irene says as she squeezes some precum out of your cock with her massage. "So much precum for me; you must be really holding strong for my pussy," she tells you.

"Lean on your back, baby, let me sit on this cock," Irene says as she takes off her bra, showing you her bare, perky boobs. "Do you want my pussy?" she asks you. "Yes, please, give it to me," you beg her. But Irene is in no rush, circling the tip of your cock in her entrance and teasing you.

"Oh my God, use me, please, use me, give me that pussy," you keep begging Irene. "Please, please, please," you say as Irene continues to tease, rubbing your cock between her cracks before she inserts it in her tight pussy.

"Oh my God, fuck, it feels so good," you tell Irene as she finally sinks your cock in her wet cunt. She runs her hands on your torso and starts very slowly, just putting half of your length inside. "Tell me how much you want that pussy," she tells you as your cock slides out of it. "My life depends on it; please, put it back in," you beg her.

Irene uses the accidental sliding out as an opportunity for more teasing, showing you she's in complete control. "Put it back in; I want it so bad. Your pussy is so good; yes, please," you keep begging as she slides back in, moving her hips very calmly as she kisses you. "Oh fuck," you groan as Irene kisses your neck.

"You're all mine, baby," Irene whispers in your ear as she grabs your neck. "Faster, please," you beg her as Irene sinks your cock deeper in her pussy. "Yes, please," you tell her.

"I'll make you scream," Irene says as she grinds on your cock. Pressing on your chest hard, she finally starts to pick up the pace. "I want you to use my cock for your pleasure," you tell her, Irene running her hands over her hair as she bounces on you, her erected nipples pointing hard in your direction.

"Want to watch that cock going in and out of my beautiful pussy?" Irene asks, spreading her legs and showing your shaft buried in her warm hole. "Yes, please," you tell her. Everything Irene asks you to do, you will. She slowly bounces up and down on your cock. "It feels so good inside me," she says, her moves driving you crazy.

Irene takes your cock out of her pussy one more time, sitting her folds on top of it and grinding on your shaft. "You said you wanted me to use that cock for my pleasure, baby boy," Irene says, enjoying your tip rubbing against her clit. "Teasing that cock, I love it," she says.

"Please, put it back inside; I want more," you tell Irene. "I don't think you want it; show me, baby," she answers. "I do, please," you keep begging. "I want your pussy, yes, Irene, please," you continue to plead.

Irene finally commits as she puts your cock back in her pussy. "Oh my god, just like that, bounce on my cock," you tell her, Irene suddenly flipping a switch and going really hard. "OH YEAH, AHHHH," she moans as your cock impales her tight hole, her legs shaking as her wet pussy doesn't take long to get on the verge of orgasm.

Irene briefly pauses her ride for you to beg more. "Let me hear you," she says. "Please, please, please," you keep begging. "How much do you want it?" she asks. "I want it so badly," you answer. Irene feels pity for you, turning around and grinding on your cock while she shows you her ass. "I need your pussy," you beg as your shaft seems so close yet so far at the same time, rubbing it against her folds like a toy she decides when she wants to play with it.

"Oh yeah," you groan as Irene makes good work of your cock. "I love to fucking use that cock," Irene says as she spins on your cock, finally showing her riding prowess to the fullest.

Irene picks up the speed, getting your cock all the way in her pussy while rotating all over it. "Let's see how strong you are," she tells you. "It's so fucking deep in your pussy; that feels so good," you tell her as she continues to move, pushing your cock to the edge with beautiful bounces as she opens and closes her legs.

"Oh my God," you groan as Irene now moves at full speed. "Yeah," she groans, moving her legs really fast and moaning loudly. "AHHHHH," you groan loudly. "OH FUCK, YES, YES," she moans, fingering her clit and getting herself ready to cum, her legs trembling as she gets your shaft all the way inside her.

"Yes, yes, baby, bounce on that cock," you tell Irene as she makes the table creak. "Fuck, baby, that cock is so good, I'm gonna cum," she says as she coats your cock full of her juices.

Irene pulls out one more time and turns in your direction, massaging your balls while she looks in your eye. "Look how I own this cock, I'm in full control of you, baby boy," she says, moving the massage upwards to your shaft, pushing it to the edge one more time. She looks at you one more time. "Keep telling me how much you want it," she says. "I want it so bad," you answer her again as Irene runs her hands on your torso.

Irene offers you her wet pussy for you to suck as you make her squirt, grinding it on your face while she keeps stroking your cock, covering your face with her juices. "OH YEAH FUCK," she says as you worship her pussy, eating it out like an animal as she closes her legs on your head. "OH MY GOD, YES, YES, EAT THAT PUSSY, BABY," she begs.

"I wanna touch you; I wanna feel you, please," you continue to beg as Irene now gets on top of you, the scent of her perfume all over your nostrils. She unties your wrists from the table as you keep kissing her body. "Are you ready to touch me further, baby boy?" she asks, setting you free.

You run your hands all over Irene's tiny, beautiful body, kissing her as she sniffs you. "Please, I want more," you say it again. "You want more?" Irene asks, putting herself sideways as you insert your cock back in her pussy. "Oh yes," you groan as Irene's tight folds wrap around your shaft one more time.

"Go nice and slow, baby," Irene tells you, and you initially oblige but quickly pick up the pace. "Oh yes, baby, fuck me," she says, moaning as she moves her hips in response to your thrusts. "Look at me giving that cock some long strokes with my beautiful pussy," she says.

"Speed it up, baby," Irene commands as you fuck her even harder, your balls smashing against her throbbing clit as you grab her waist. "I want all of it, deep in your fucking pussy," you tell her. "OHHH YESSS BABY," she moans.

"Fuck me, baby, fuck me until you cum inside my pussy," Irene tells you as you start fingering her clit. "YES, YES, YES, AHHH, FUCK," she moans, closing her eyes as her legs shake and she creams all over your cock. "GIVE ME MORE, PLEASE, OH MY GOD," she begs, the sound of your balls clapping her cheeks getting louder.

"YEAH, YEAH, OHHHH, FUCK," Irene moans even louder. "Oh my God, your pussy is so tight," you tell her. "Please, baby, make me cum; that's it," she says, louder sounds coming from you pounding her. "Put it back in," she is now the one begging as your cock goes out just for a bit before going back inside with full force.

You grope Irene's beautiful tits as the pounding continues. You intensely finger her clit. "OH MY GOD, YES, BABY, MAKE ME CUM," she begs as her pussy now gets stretched out hard. "THAT'S IT, THAT'S IT, RIGHT THERE, RIGHT THERE, AHHHH," she commands.

"HARDER, HARDER, HARDER, I'M GONNA CUM," Irene says as she squirts hard. You push your face into her pussy, eating it all out as you kiss her, before putting it back inside her, drilling her in a hot missionary position as you grab your tie and wrap it on your neck, letting her choke you.

Irene puts the tie on your mouth as you increase the pressure in her pussy, moaning as you finger her clit really hard, laughing as you turn yourself into a crazy animal. "Worship me, baby, kiss my body," she says, getting herself on all fours.

You fuck Irene on all fours like crazy. "Fuck me hard, yes, yes," she says, you spanking her ass as her juices leak into the table as her cunt gets stretched out. "OH MY GOD, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, YEAH, FUCK ME HARDER," she continues to beg, moving her hips in your direction.

"Right there, baby, don't stop; pound that pussy," Irene continues to command, her palms on the table as you fuck her hard. "OH MY GOD YOU'RE SO FUCKING DEEP, AHHHH," she moans. You grab her arms, using her hard. "YES, YES, FUCK, THAT'S SO DEEP," she screams. You hit her pale pink ass, finally getting to dominate her as you let your animalistic instincts take off.

"Put it back in, keep going," Irene softly whispers as you pull out. You tease her pussy, giving it small thrusts before going back to a hard pounding, Irene spreading her legs over the table as you hit her ass but smiling at all times and showing you she's still in control.

You eat Irene's ass and play with your thumb on her clit. "Yes, baby, eat my ass," she commands as your tongue is all over her pink anal folds. "HARDER, HARDER, PUT YOUR FINGER IN MY CLIT AND YOUR MOUTH IN MY ASS, FUCKKKK," she says, you massaging her clit now very hard and making Irene squirt all over the table.

You insert your cock back in Irene's pussy, pounding her hard as you lick her feet. "Yes, that's what I want to see baby, worship every inch of my body," she says. You grab her tits too, sucking them as you pound her pussy. "YESSS, FUCK," she moans, fingering herself as you are more addicted to her pussy than ever, making her body bounce all over the table.

"Don't stop, baby, keep rubbing my fucking clit, yes, harder, don't stop, fuck," Irene commands as her body shakes with your thrusts. "I'M CUMMING, I'M CUMMING, I'M CUMMING, YEAHHH," she says, squirting as you kiss her and then worship her body one more time.

You lie on the table, letting Irene voraciously suck your cock, jerking it off nonstop as she bobs her head on it. "I bet the cum from your cock tastes so good," she says, deepthroating you and giving you a no-hands blowjob before sitting back on your cock and bouncing hard on it.

"Yes, yes, yes, baby, give me all of that cock," Irene says as she rides you like a maniac. "You like watching me being a slut and squatting all over that cock?" she asks, going at full speed.

"FUCK, YES, YES, YES," Irene moans as you suddenly push upwards into her delicious cunt. "OH MY GOD, FUCK, THAT'S IT," she says, you putting your legs up and attacking her pussy nonstop, clapping her cheeks hard. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK," she screams, you grabbing her body as her perky tits bounce all over her face.

Irene grabs your neck, retaking control as she rides you hard and makes you groan. You still push up, going crazy for her tight pussy. But despite her little frame, she's just too strong, squatting like crazy on your dick and pushing you to complete submission.

"You're gonna make me fucking cum, you fucking slut," you tell Irene. "Then I want you to cum in my pussy," she replies. "For real?" you ask her. "Yes, I'm going to take all of your cum. I want all that fucking cum inside me. Give it to me; cum inside my little fucking pussy," she begs you. "I don't know if it's a good idea," you hesitate. "Of course it is, especially because I'm not on the pill," Irene replies.

"Oh damn, I'm gonna cum," you tell Irene. "Yes, baby, do it just like I want it; give it to me," she says. "AHHHHHH, fuck," you start to groan as your cock prepares to fill Irene's womb with your seed. "Yes, baby, give it to me, every last drop," she says.

You cum inside Irene, with her grabbing a string of semen coming out of your cock and digging it inside her pussy before taking a bit of it to taste. "This is my cum," she says, tasting it and savoring it as she opens her tongue, looking at you very naughtly. "All of your cum belongs to me; are we clear?" she asks. "Yes," you answer her as Irene licks the last drop of cum that fell into the table.

"That's it, baby," Irene says. "You have been a good boy, but you already gave me all I wanted. After you feed me that cum in my pussy, you are no longer useful to me," she finishes, giving you one last kiss that sucks your soul out of you until you fall completely unconscious.

You wake up the next day still completely naked. But this time, it's not Irene that is there, but a bunch of cops, who give you some clothes as they take you out off her dungeon. It's all over the news now that the men kidnapper has been arrested.

As the cops take you to jail for an inquiry, you briefly cross paths with Irene, her now handcuffed as she's taken to her cell. They briefly ask you. "Is this the woman that kidnapped you?" "Yes," you answer, taking your revenge on Irene for her not finding you useful anymore, although deep in your heart you still have feelings for her, and just seeing her ethereal beauty in front of you gets you hard again.

"Ok, you can go home now," the cop instructs you, and you do just that. You check the news. Irene is all over it, but you're so bad at it that you start touching yourself and jerking your cock off to her pictures and videos on the TV and other sites, searching for every story about the kidnapper just to see her one more time.

The next morning arrives, and you come back to the jail, but as you get there, nobody receives you. The room is quite dark, and you can feel Irene's devilish energy all over the building. No one is around, making you quite scared. You go towards the cells with the prisoners, finding the guards unconscious on the floor, their pants unzipped, as you get closer to an open cell, the silhouette of a small, seductive woman appears in your sight as she takes her jacket off and gets herself naked in front of you.

"Did you miss me?"

[gyeomsweetgyeom]

the after party

fratboy!Jaehyun x f!reader

summary: Jaehyun realizes he's going to need to put some real work in to try to win you back. What, he didn't really think it would be easy to win you back, did he?

word count: 6.7k

warnings: profanity, angst, hurt, violence (a fight), drinking alcohol

a/n: THIS IS A PART 2! Read part 1, when the party's over, for context and catch up on more of my fratboy!Jae au!

dividers from strangergraphics <3

taglist! @chishiyapologist @hyunniebuns @cryingforjae @myfavoritedelusion @urlocalbeaner5 @ynzyy @seoksoop @ive-cool

Jung Jaehyun never thought he was stupid before this break up— could he even call it that? He always just figured he had one of those brains that wasn’t quite meant for academics and his strengths laid elsewhere. For a while he was able to convince himself that this was true. But then everything with you happened…

He’d gone and effectively ruined what could have possibly been the best, healthiest, most wonderful, most amazing relationship of his life just because he was a fucking idiot who didn’t know how to properly handle his feelings. Well, no, not an idiot for that reason alone, but more of an idiot because he said horrendous thing to you as a shit defense mechanism. He couldn’t chase after you, he couldn’t watch you leave, he couldn’t reach out, now, he could barely hear your name being said. He watched helplessly as the pictures of the two of you disappeared from your instagram, how one by one your friends all removed him from their following, how you blocked him, how soon enough he was like a ghost who had never even been a part of your life at all. A cautionary tale you’d one day share with your kids when you met the right man. He hated it. He hated it so much.

Every night he laid in bed, staring at his ceiling with a torturous pain in his chest that didn’t subside no matter how hard he cried, how loud he screamed into a pillow, no matter how much he drank, or how much he wrote about it. His actions, his words, the look of absolute pain and betrayal on your face haunted him unlike anything he’d ever experienced before. Every time he laid down to clear his mind, there were your tear filled eyes staring at him in horror as his own voice echoed in his head, “what the fuck makes you think you’re so special?” How could he have asked you that?! How could he have spoken to you like that?! You’re the most special girl on campus, in the country, in his life, on the face of this planet! He hates himself for saying that! 

Six weeks have passed of feeling like this. Six long weeks that pass by in a very numb, dull manner. Every day without you is bleak. He misses hearing you talk, he misses kissing you, he misses just being near you. It’s too much for him. Sometimes he’ll catch glimpses of you across campus and go running over to you, ready to fall to your feet and beg for your forgiveness, but one of your friends always sends him a glare that scares him to his core. It’s enough to keep him away from you.

It’s not just your friends that don’t let him forget. Haechan doesn’t make himself shy to drunkenly shout, “Jaehyun, I hate you!” It happens at every frat party Nu Chi hosts. It’s the only time Haechan even looks in Jaehyun’s direction since everything went down. It’s the only time he talks to him or yells at him or acknowledges him. Haechan has made it very obvious whose side he took in the breakup and it’s very obviously not Jaehyun. The other guys are at least more subtle with their disappointment and disapproval. They can pretend to have conversations with him in front of his face while also simultaneously talking about him behind his back. He’s caught Johnny and Taeyong doing that multiple times. 

After 6 weeks of feeling like shit, Jaehyun decides it’s time to at least try to talk to you seriously. Maybe he doesn’t go about it the best way, scratch that, he absolutely does not, but he’s ready to try. He doesn’t want to go home for Thanksgiving break and explain to his family that he fucked up the best relationship he ever had. He’s determined to get you back if it’s the last think he does. 

Jaehyun remembers your schedule for the semester and walks over to your dorm when he knows you’ll be home. In one hand he’s got a bundle of flowers, and in the other he’s got a box of your stuff that you’d left behind. Right, so… maybe returning your stuff wasn’t the best move, but maybe it would open the door to conversation somehow. At least, that’s what he was banking on. 

He knocks, his heart pounding in his chest as he hears shuffling behind the door. There’s quick stomping behind the door and then Ari opens it. He feels disappointment just flood his body, but he keeps his smile on his face. “Hey Ari, is she uh, is she here?” 

He can hear you whisper angrily, “tell him I’m not here!”

Ari recites robotically, “she’s not here.”

Jaehyun nods slowly, shame flooding his body. You don’t even want to see him. That stings like a damn smack to the face. He clears his throat, “well, I brought her things back. I brought her some flowers too. Could you… could you tell her that I’m really sorry? I know I fucked up, but I’d really just like her to know that I didn’t mean anything I said. I would never.”

He can hear you scoff, it sounds close, you must be standing on the other side of the door and he feels his heart pound in his chest. He’s never felt like this before, so nervous and anxious of what someone might think of him. Being around you has never made him feel anxious, yet here you are, 2 feet away and he feels like a kid with a crush all over again.

“Tell him he can fuck off and that I never want to see his stupid fucking face ever again,” comes your harsh whisper. A black garbage bag lands beside Ari’s leg, “and tell him to take his shit too.” Fuck… it was one thing to imagine the level of anger you held toward him, but to hear it hurt unlike anything else.

Ari grabs the bag and thrusts it toward Jaehyun, “she said this is for you.”

Jaehyun takes the bag, feeling a sense of desperation. You’re so close, he’s right here. All he wants to do is talk. He just wants to talk to you and apologize, that’s it. He wants you to know that he didn’t mean anything he said and he would always have a special place in his heart for you. Always. 

“Sweetheart, I— please,” Jaehyun tries. 

Ari’s face pulls into what he assumes to be is a somewhat sympathetic frown, jerking the garbage bag in his direction once more, “this is your stuff.”

The painful feeling in his chest returns. A tight, burning sensation that steals the breath from his lungs and brings a pressure to his eyes. He nods silently, setting the box beside Ari’s feet before taking the bag from her hands. Very weakly he manages to get out, “these are for her.”

Ari takes the flowers, sending Jaehyun a tiny smile before he makes his way down the hall like he has many times before. He hears your door open and he turns with a feeling of bright hope. You’re going to come to him. Everything is going to be ok. He’ll get to apologize, you’ll take him back, and everything will be fine. It’s not you though, it’s just your arm tossing the bouquet of flowers down the hall in his direction. 

His heart drops. 

But he’s not giving up yet.

The next time he tries to talk to you admittedly, isn’t his best work, but it was spur of the moment! He decides to wait outside one of the buildings where your class is being held after one of his lectures ended early. He’s not proud to admit that he’s been studying the schedule of your classes that you sent him before everything went down. Actually, he’s been religiously poring over every interaction the two of you shared. He’s rereading texts, listening to songs you shared, and staring at pictures. He knows that this isn’t a class that you share with any of your friends and on these you walk home alone. It’s the perfect opportunity for him to act.

Luckily, he’s better prepared this time. He’s been thinking about his apology to you on a regular basis. He thinks about it when he showers, when he eats, before bed, during chapter meetings, in class. Every chance he gets to think about what he’s going to say, he uses to practice his words over and over again. By now, he knows the exact words he wants to say, he knows what he wants to apologize for, and he knows without a shadow of a doubt that he wants you.

He sits on a bench just a couple yards away from your building, anxiously twiddling his thumbs and biting his bottom lip. He thinks he must look crazy. His hair is unkempt, bags under his eyes, and his knee is bouncing anxiously,.The class starts to pour out, but Jaehyun knows well enough that you won’t be one of the first ones out of the class. You like to stay behind to clear up any amount of confusion you had, even if it was just a word you thought you misheard. He finds himself wishing it was last semester all over again when the two of you had that child development class together. God, he’d do anything to go back and do it all over again, but better this time. He wouldn’t let you slip away if he could do it again.

He wipes his sweaty palms on the front of his jeans and stands. His heart starts to race in his chest when he sees you. You look beautiful, radiant even. The warm sun illuminates your hair, making you look like an angel right from heaven. You’re looking down at a piece of paper as you walk down the steps, right in his direction. He hates that he find himself thinking that you look even too pretty, too calm. It doesn’t look like you got your heartbroken just a month ago. You look normal, too normal while he looks like shit. 

He clears his throat and shakes that thought out of his head, exhaling to calm himself before he calls out, “Sweetheart, hey.”

Your head snaps up like someone just scared you. Your eyes are wide, spine straight, and whole body tensed. Jaehyun notices immediately that your body language tells him that you’re uncomfortable. It makes him feel sick.

Your eyes flick up to meet his but you immediately begin walking away from him. Not a word. Not more than a second of eye contact. Just walking away right away.

He starts following you, reaching out to lightly grasp your wrist, “Sweets I just want to talk. You don’t even have to respond-”

You wrench your arm from his touch and his breath catches in his throat. Your gaze is fiery and angry, but your voice is calm, “what the hell makes you think that I would allow you to speak to me again?” Your voice is angry, as is your gaze, but fuck, your eyes look so pretty. The beautiful, deep pools of what he’s discovered is his favorite color to have ever existed. His mind knows it, and his heart certainly knows it too. There’s still a connection between the two of you. Something just clicks when he looks you in the eye.

“I just want to apologize,” Jaehyun stutters, cheeks warm with embarrassment.

“And you can continue wanting to do so. Maybe I’ll let you wait and stew around for four months feeling like a total dumbass like you did to me,” you bite at him. 

“Sweetheart, I’m just sorry, alright?” Jaehyun tries again, feeling desperate. It feels like he’s trying to grasp at slippery grains of sand that just keep slipping through his fingers. Why is this so difficult?

“I am too.” You reply shortly, turning on your heel and walking away before he can say anything else. He knows you don’t mean that you’re sorry about what you said during the fight. He knows that your sorry means that you’re sorry you ever wasted your time with him.

His throat feels tight, his eyes burn with unshed tears as he watches you walk away. Nothing has ever hurt as badly as this does. He doesn’t care that past hook-ups could walk by and see him about to cry, he doesn’t care that he’ll look uncool. He cares that he feels helpless, that he won’t get you back. He feels like he fucked up so badly that you might never even look in his direction again. 

But still he refuses to give up until he can actually give you the apology you deserve. He just hates that the mere sight of you makes him clam up and forget everything he had planned to say.

After the last try he starts to go a little crazy. He’d never admit it to anyone, but he had created an extra Instagram account to watch your friend’s Instagram stories. He sees how you practically glow on the screen. You look so ethereal. Like a goddess straight from Mount Olympus. He spends countless nights tapping away through countless friends’ Instagram stories. He sees how they all rally around you with dinner parties, movie nights, partying, and clubbing. In every picture, he can only focus on your face. Your beautiful face smiling so brightly at the camera like nothing horrible has happened to you. Like some dumbass with a 2.0 GPA (barely hanging on by a thread) hasn’t broken your heart and likely made you wary of any romantic interactions to come in the future. Every picture of you, every version of your smiling face, obscured with a plastic cup, covered with a sheet mask, eyes looking elsewhere, is burned into the deep recesses of his mind. How could he have ever hurt someone so beautiful, inside and out?

It’s one of the reasons why he knows you’re at a fucking Alpha Sig party tonight… looking hot as hell in a cute little crop top and your tightest jeans. He sends a mental thank you to Ari for posting a short clip of you guys taking a shot together before you dance off the burning sensation in your throat. It’s the same reason he manages to convince a handful of his own Nu Chi brothers into going to the same party with some weak excuse of fraternity relations.

That’s how he finds himself here, pressed against the wall of the Alpa Sig frat house, hoodie over his head, dead sober as he watches you dance happily with your friends. You look so happy, so carefree, like a love interest right from one of the romance movies you’d made him watch what feels like 100 years ago. Nights where he grumbled about not wanting to watch a stupid romance movie but ended up more invested than you were.

He watched you like he was stuck in some kind of trance. The colored lights flashed and strobed across the crowd of gyrating bodies in what he assumed was the living room when they weren’t partying. He watched as your hips swayed, arms raised as you move to the bone-shaking beat of the house music. He watches as Kira joins you and Ari, watches as she pushes another plastic cup into your hand, he sees how your eyes clench shut at the taste, but you don’t stop drinking whatever you have in your cup. He can’t help the way his eyes track every enticing sway of your hips, how your crop top lifts just a few inches which makes his mouth water. You don’t look inhibited by any kind of break up or broken heart like he does. He looks like some kind of sick and tired ghost summoned to ruin the vibe of the party. Where he used to attract girls like flies to a pot of sweet honey, his frankly off-putting vibe radiates off him so that the only people that can stand to be around him are his brothers that he dragged here. None of them would have ever been found dead at an Alpha Sig party if it weren’t for Jaehyun, and he would have never been found here it it weren’t for you.

He drags his tired eyes away from Yuta and Johnny’s faces, back to you. You and… who the fuck is that touching you?! There’s a random guy pressed to your back with one hand on your hip and the other on your waist, rising slowly until his hand is completely concealed by the tiny t-shirt you wear. He can see the guy dip his head down, whispering something into your ear before his lips begin to press against the slope of your neck. 

Jaehyun is moving before he can even register what he’s feeling. He’s pushing through people until he has his hands on the neck of this asshole who had the guts to touch you. And then Jaehyun’s fist is hitting this guy’s jaw. Then, the punching doesn’t stop. Not when you start to scream and beg Jaehyun to stop. Not when Jaehyun has this guy on the floor beneath him. Not when the broken skin on his knuckles starts to sting. Not when the music stops. He can’t help it, he can’t stop himself. “She’s mine you fucking asshole! How dare you?!” He yells and it feels euphoric. It feels like the only way he can get out any fraction of the pain he’s been feeling for a month and a half now. 

Four hands haul Jaehyun off the douchebag. A panting douchebag who sits up and smiles smugly at Jaehyun before calling out, “you punch like a bitch!”

Johnny and Yuta grunt while they drag Jaehyun out of the house, where the cold air of the night feels like a splash of ice cold water against his face. A refreshing feeling that lasts for only a second before you’re storming down the stairs with tears streaming down your cheeks before you’re coming at him and roughly shoving his chest. He shouldn’t feel his heart skip a beat when your hands touch him, but he does. 

You shove him again, “who the fuck do you think you are?! Huh?”

“Sweetheart, he was touching all up on you. I wasn’t going to just stand and watch it happen,” he explains while he holds his hands up in mock defense.

Your tears don’t stop, your breathing quickens, “and what if I wanted him to touch me? What makes you the all knowing genius for what I want and don’t want? Why the fuck does that matter?!”

His breath catches in his throat and the harsh feel of your hands on his chest makes him take a faltering step back, “b-but that’s not you. You don’t… you don’t do stuff like that.” He knows you don’t. You made it very clear to him when you first met that his flirting wasn’t going to get him into your pants and even when he genuinely tried, it took him weeks to get you to see that he had real feelings for you. 

“Yeah?” You breathe out, using the back of your hand to wipe away your mascara-mixed tears, “how well did my normal work out for me with you? God forbid a girl just wants to have a good time.”

He feels his ears ring, eyes widen, had he hurt you so badly that you were just going to go around and do whatever with random men? Not even random men, a fucking Alpha Sig brother?! That’s lower than low. That’s even lower than the bar he had set in hell for you.

His voice sounds broken, “have a good time with me!”

You scoff, your face twisting into one of disgust, “you’re a piece of shit, Jung Jaehyun.”

You’re turning on your heel and practically running away from him before he can respond, but this time he doesn’t just let you walk away. He’s made that mistake twice before and only idiots let the same mistake happen three times. 

He’s moving after you quickly, desperately calling out, “I’m sorry!”

Johnny is in front of him before he can get too far, too close to you. His hand is gripping the back of Jaehyun’s hoodie, preventing him from running any further. “You have to let her go right now, dude,” Johnny tells him calmly.

Jaehyun sidesteps to get around his taller best friend but Johnny won’t let that slide. He anticipates every single one of Jaehyn’s moves. Jaehyn feels his breathing speed up, he’s clutching at the front of his hoodie like the fabric is suffocating him, “Johnny, please. I have to apologize.”

“She doesn't want to hear it right now. Nothing good would come of a conversation between the two of you right now,” Taeyong adds quietly.

Jaehyun’s eyes widen as he turns to face his friends surround him with a wild look in his eyes, “do you guys want me to be fucking miserable forever? I need her back!”

“You fucked up, Jaehyun! Do you know that?” Johnny yells, stepping forward to shove Jaehyun roughly until he’s stumbling back. A swift smack to the back of his head follows the harsh shove.

“I know that! You don’t think that I don’t think about that afternoon on a daily basis?!” Jaehyun screams back, while rubbing the back of his head.

Haechan steps in now, who knows where the hell this kid came from, “no! You need to sit here and really think about what the hell you’ve made her go through. You let her enter a relationship with you under the pretense that you would some day become her boyfriend. The second you heard that word you became some kind of mega asshole and broke her heart.” Jaehyun goes to argue, but Haechan stops him with a hand held up, “I’m not done, dumb fuck. This apology, this little search for forgiveness to make yourself feel better doesn’t happen on your time. It will happen when and if she’s ready. You don’t get to keep cornering her and constantly fucking reminding her of the pain you’ve put her through.”

The group around them is silent, everyone listening and waiting with bated breath to hear what their suddenly-super-wise younger brother will say next, “if you choose to pull some kind of stupid shit like this on one of my best friends again, I pray that some higher power has some mercy on you, because I won’t stop beating the shit out of you until I feel like it, and I have a lot of anger I need to take out on you.”

“I’ve been there for the handful of phone calls where she cried herself to sleep, the nights where she screamed and cursed your name, and the days when finally, she started feeling better and had the strength to haul herself out of bed after you broke her heart. So yeah, I have a lot of anger toward you so if that means I whale on you for more than a day, then it happens,” Haechan shrugs as if he just said the most casual thing on the planet, “so get your head out of your ass. Stop being selfish and leave her the fuck alone.”

The group that stands on the sidewalk outside the Alpha Sig house is still and quiet, probably more than they ever have been. The weight of Haechan’s words sit heavily in the air between all of them. They know it’s true, they know Haechan is right. It’s just that none of them have had the strength to say anything because Jaehyun has been so clearly distraught after the break up. Even Jaehyun knows he needed to hear it. Haechan is right… Jaehyun hasn’t even considered if you want to see him. He’s only been acting on what he feels.

Doyoung clears his throat, breaking the silence with, “I just thought I’d let you guys know that the Alpha Sig guys aren’t going to report Jaehyun. I convinced them not to make a complaint to the dean when I reminded them how often they’re brothers have been thrown out for preying on people at our parties. You’re just banned from any Alpha Sig events for a lifetime.”

Jaehyun nods numbly, letting out a weak, “thanks, bro.” Fuck, he hadn’t even considered that he could have gotten thrown out of school or even thrown in jail! He just fucking assaulted someone! He acted on his anger and his instincts the second he saw that asshole’s hands and lips on you. 

He breaks down then, he falls to his knees with his shoulders shaking and his head in his hands. Everything is such a fucking mess! He hasn’t made any progress with you. In fact, he’s probably pushed you even further away from him. He’s basically failing all his classes because the only thing that can stay in his mind is you. You and how he hurt you and how good he had it and good he could have been having it now if he just hadn’t been a goddamn idiot! And now he just beat up one of his peers and could have been sent to jail, because once again, he acted without thinking properly!

His hands feel numb, a strange tingling sensation that spreads all the way up his fingers and into his brain as he pushes his palms against his eyelids. His shoulders shake with the force of his crying, deep, pained sobs escape his throat. He knows he has no one to blame but himself. It just hurts so damn bad. 

He recognizes Johnny’s cologne and when he pries his swollen, tear-filled eyes open he looks up to see his best friend holding him. It’s comforting, like the hug of an actual older brother. An overwhelming stench of sweat, alcohol, and strong cologne engulfs Jaehyun next. A group hug. He let’s out a watery laugh.

Johnny squeezes his shoulder, shaking him lightly, “everything is gonna work out, bro. You just gotta give it some time. Thanksgiving break is just a few days away, and a week at home will give you some time to clear your head.”

Jaehyun wipes his eyes, “you think so?”

“We know so. Just be patient, be forgiving to yourself. Be patient and let yourself process your emotions,” Taeyong adds with a gentle smile.

It’s a week until the end of the semester when Jaehyun sees you again. Two weeks since he last saw you. 9 weeks since everything went to shit. 

It’s finals week and Jaehyun has decided to refocus himself and get his grades up so he doesn't flunk out of school. He finds that his breath still hitches but his steps don’t falter like they did before. His instincts scream at him to go up to you and try to apologize again, but he doesn’t. He won’t admit that he’s genuinely scared of Haechan’s threat to beat his ass… but he is. It also helps that he got some very sage advice from his parents when he got home and poured his heart out to them. 

He sits in a chair, with his back to you as he pulls his laptop open. A half done study guide fills his screen and he finds himself smiling. A study guide, the library, you. This is how it all began. He doesn’t think he believed in signs before, but this has to be one. 

Nothing happens that day, but he finds that he’s finally alright with that. 

It’s the last night before Jaehyun leaves for winter break when there’s a knock on the door of his room. He’s in his room packing his bags to head home for the holidays. Johnny knocks on his open bedroom door, “hey bro, there’s uh- there���s someone here to see you.”

“Me?” Jaehyun asks, looking up from the clothes he’s been haphazardly stuffing in his duffel bag.

From behind Johnny, you step out and Jaehyun’s heart skips a beat. Your eyes flicker up from the hardwood floor to meet his and there’s that familiar click of just… universal correctness. You clear your throat, hands nervously fiddling in front of your body, “hey.”

“Hey,” he breathes out, the cotton in his hands dropping onto the mess of his bag.

Johnny backs away slowly, leaving the two of you alone.

It’s strange having you here in his room again. It’s not a bad strange, it feels right, but he also knows that this room holds a lot of memories for the two of you, not all of them good. The room where everything happened. The room where everything ended.

“How are you?” You ask slowly.

Jaehyun nods, a little too eagerly, “good, I’m good. You?”

“Same,” you breathe out awkwardly. The room is tense. You shake your head, before exhaling quickly, “look, I came because I don’t want to start the new year on bad terms with anybody. I owe you an apology, Jaehyun. I’m sorry I drudged up my insecurities and basically slut-shamed you again. I know we fixed it one time, so we shouldn't have had to do it twice. I was insecure and hurt I should have thought about what I said before I spoke. Even though things between us didn’t work out, I didn’t want either of us, especially you, to go into the new year thinking that I was ashamed of what you decided to do with your own body and your own time before we were even together.”

Jaehyun nods, he’s stunned. He doesn’t think you have anything to apologize for. “Th-thanks,” he stammers out.

You nod to yourself, “well, that’s all I had to say. Have a good break, Jaehyun.”

Before you turn to leave, Jaehyun’s voice comes out quietly, “can I get my apology out too, please? I’ve been needing to do this for over two months. You don’t have to accept it, you can say no, but I need to do this.”

Your eyes are wide, your body language tells him you’re clearly stunned, and nervous. Despite that, you nod, “yeah, yeah that’s fine.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath, giving himself a mental pep talk before his eyes are on you again. Comfort floods his system and he begins  his apology that he’s been practicing for weeks now. “You deserve better than what I gave you. No girl deserves to go through how I treated you and how I spoke to you.”

You nod silently and he continues, “it’s not an excuse but I owe you an explanation. It’s no secret that I haven’t been in a committed relationship in a long time. It’s something that I guess I’ve forgotten how to handle. I’ve never been with anyone that made me want to be in anything committed until you. I’d been feeling nervous and insecure for months, but I didn’t know how to say that to you. I didn’t know how to tell you, the most amazing girl I’ve ever met, that I was scared that I wasn’t good enough for you. I got into my head about it, the thought had been plaguing me for weeks and the day everything went to shit… I just gave up. I didn’t try to say exactly what I was feeling and I let old habits take over. I didn’t mean anything I said and I hate that I said all of that. When it was happening I just felt like I was watching myself act like a dick and I couldn’t stop myself.”

He pauses, taking a beat to calm himself down before he starts to get anxious again, “I should have chased after you. I should have told you that it was alright for your friend to come party with us, but I was scared. I meant it when I said I haven’t been a boyfriend in a long time. I’ve been acting like the total opposite for most of my college experience. I’m the guy that girls warn their friends not to get attached to. I didn’t want that to be how we ended up. I wanted to be better for you. I still do. I should have given you time to process what happened instead of cornering you and forcing you to listen to my groveling and I sure as hell shouldn’t have resorted to violence when you weren’t doing anything wrong. Actually, I shouldn’t have resorted to violence at all.”

“I really miss who I was with you. I miss the way you made me feel. You made me feel giddy and warm and loved in a way I have never felt. What I feel for you isn’t some kind of puppy love like I felt for Hana. It’s real and I’ll be kicking my ass for the rest of my life for not telling you how I really feel. I love you and that is so fucking scary for me to admit because it’s never felt this strong or this real. I’m not saying this to try to sway you in my direction. I won’t blame you for moving on or leaving right now, but I owed you this apology. I’ve owed you this apology for months now. I’ll completely understand if you don't forgive me, I don’t think I would,” his shoulders drop, feeling an immense weight off of his shoulders, “that’s it. I’ll let you on your way now, I’ve stolen enough of your time.”

“How do you know?” He hears you ask and it’s then that he really looks at you, not just the spot over your head so he didn’t lose his train of thought. You have tears lining your eyes, shining in the overcast light that streams in through his blinds. 

He fights his every instinct to drop at your feet and comfort you. His brows pinch softly, “how do I know what?”

“How do you know that you love me?” Comes your reply, voice thick with emotion and followed by a sniffle. 

“Because no one makes me feel the way you do. Whether it’s good or bad, it’s invigorating. You’re on my mind with everything I do. I put extra effort in everything I do because I want to be better for you. Because your laugh has become my favorite sound, the color of your eyes is my favorite color, your shampoo is my favorite scent. Because my bed has felt lonely without you in it and my heart has a you shaped hole in it. When I picture my future, it’s you by my side in every single scenario that I imagine. I imagine myself cheering you on at graduation. I imagine us in our own apartment someday and I even think about stupid shit like you and I someday studying together again. You make loving seem like something less anxiety inducing like I once thought and instead make it something I regret ever fighting. Being in love with you is so damn easy because you’re the most lovely, lovable, loving person on the face of the planet and I have been lucky to discover this feeling with you.” 

You cover your mouth with your hand to suppress a sob, moving across the small space between the two of you to hug Jaehyun tightly. Your tears soak his sweats and he just holds you, letting you let out your emotions while he rubs a warm hand up and down your back. With a shuddering breath you pull away from his hold to look him in the eye, his thumbs swipe away the tears under your eyes as his hands move up to gently cup your face. “I accept your apology, Jaehyun. I…” you stop yourself, your eyes clearly reflecting the whirlwind of emotions you’re feeling, “I was going to tell you that I loved you too that week when everything happened. For a week I convinced myself that I hated you but that couldn’t be further from the truth. I hated myself for still loving you even after everything you said. Love doesn’t go away easily.”

His heart soars. A life of pure joy escaping his lips as he fighting his arms around you and tuck his face into the crook of your neck, “holy shit, you mean it?”

He can feel you nod, “I do. I do mean it. But Jaehyun… I’m not going to give you a second chance if there’s any doubt in your mind about me or us. Be honest with me and tell me if you think there’s any chance that you think we won’t last.”

He meets your gaze, leaning in until his forehead meets your own. His voice is low but there’s not a shred of doubt in his voice, “I know I hurt you. I know I fucked up. I will regret it until the day I die, but I also know that I am yours, completely and utterly yours until you get tired of me. I will work every day, harder than the last to earn back your trust and not only tell you, but show you how much I love you and care for you.”

“I can’t do this again if we can’t commit to each other. I won’t put myself in that position again.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not going to put you in that position. I want you and you alone. Give me any title you want, boyfriend, husband, fiancé. If you want me to get down on one knee in the middle of the student union if you want me to. You could call me your son for all I care. I just don’t want you to have any sliver of doubt in your mind that I don’t want this, us, to work out. I want this for this long run. I want us to be like Noah and Ally in the old folks home and the only thing we remember is each other. I want you forever,” he tells you with a bright smile. 

You laugh and his heart skips a beat, “they die at the end Jae.”

“By the time we’re old, science will have discovered a way to get us to live forever and get us to work because every government are capitalistic machines. That’s beside the point— our love is going to last forever.” 

Your smile gentles, wariness still swims in the depths of your eyes, “you know, just because you confess that you love me and apologize doesn’t mean that you’re completely off the hook. Like I need you to understand that my trust has to be earned and you have to work for it.”

Jaehyun feels a wave of relief, “I absolutely understand you loud and clear. It’s clearer than crystal.”

“Don’t make me regret giving you a second chance,”  you whisper quietly, “please, don’t make me regret this, Jaehyun.”

“I promise. I swear. I swear on my own life, and if I let you down, then I’ll let Haechan go apeshit on me like he threatened,” Jaehyun’s thumbs gently rub at the fullness of your cheeks, “so please, will you please be mine officially? Will you be my girlfriend, please?”

“Yes. Yes, I will,” you smile up at him.

His lips are on yours in the blink of an eye. Jaehyun feels like he’s going to cry, hands gently clutching at the soft skin of your jaw as he kisses you with a tender passion. His lips move against your own in a way that just feels natural, like he was made to do it. It’s never felt like this with anyone else, he doesn’t need to try it with anyone else, because he knows this is what is right. 

He pulls back with his chest heaving, a smile on his face, “I think I owe you about a million more kisses to make up for lost time and to win your trust back.”

“We have time,” you reply with a sweet smile. Fuck, he’s missed seeing that smile up close.

“No, a million kisses today. I’ve already lost like 12 hours. Let’s stop talking.”

[trashytracktales]

My love….i need some ANGST. Like make me cry….then make me wet 😱😅

IM SORRY ITS BEEN ONR OF THOSE DAYS and your posts always make the day better.

Final call | LN⁴

📞 summary ──── Lando thought that ending things was the right decision. But he never really let go. When one final, desperate call pulls her back into his orbit, old wounds resurface, anger and longing collide, and the lines between love and heartbreak blur.

📞 pairing ──── Lando Norris x (she/her) ex!reader

📞 rating ──── explicit

📞 warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, mentions of drinking, Lando struggling with withdrawals from his usual life, drunken texts, heavy angst and arguments, swearing, heartbreak, power struggles between both characters, smut, fingering with teasing and edging, unprotected sex, praise, desperation, overwhelming pleasure leading to emotional vulnerability, begging, multiple orgasms, post-sex tenderness, crying (I need to touch some grass fr fr).

📞 word count ──── 12.8k

📞 date ──── Mar. 30, 2025

📞 a/n ──── Been working on this for over a month now. It feels like a fever dream, I have no words. Enjoy whatever this is and I apologize in advance 🤧

IT IS A random Saturday night during the winter break, and Lando would rather stay home. But he’s spent the last two months buried in the same routine; rinse and repeat. It’s been easier that way, keeping himself too busy to think, and too exhausted to feel anything else.

This time around, his friends have been quite insistent, pushing him to get out of his self-imposed isolation.

“Come on, mate,” said Max, his frustration evident in every word he uttered, even through the speaker, “One night won’t kill you. Everyone is expecting you to be there.”

“Why would they?” asked Lando, not particularly interested in Max’s answer.

“Because I told them you’ll come. Now, don’t make me a liar, and get your athletic physique up. I’ll get to yours in five.”

Lando tried to argue at first, but Max wouldn’t take no for an answer. So, eventually, after what felt like ages of back-and-forth, he caved, mostly out of morbid curiosity.

Now, standing in the dimly lit bar, surrounded by laughter and music, he wonders why he agreed, after all. When he’s not in the mood to party or to be around people in general, everything is suddenly way too loud, too annoying, and nothing satisfies him. The air is thick with a weird combination between spilled liquor and various perfumes, adding to his irritation.

Avoiding to make a scene, Lando shifts awkwardly, nursing a drink, half-listening to whatever story Connor is animatedly telling. He feels bad when he realizes that he hasn’t seen most of his friends since the breakup, but he knows they’ve only been giving him the space he needed, waiting for him to bounce back.

But Lando hasn’t. He’s just gotten better at pretending things are going the right way. Fake it until you make it, or whatever.

“Landooo,” Max says suddenly, nudging him out of his thoughts. “Look who I ran into!”

Lando turns and his eyes lock on her, her alluring presence catching him off guard.

“This is Eva,” Max continues, “An old friend of mine.”

He can’t help but think how effortlessly beautiful she is, all bright eyes and easy smiles, with the kind of confidence that makes people gravitate toward her instinctively.

“Hey,” the girl says, offering him a playful smirk. “I was starting to think you were just a figment of Max’s imagination.”

Lando forces a chuckle. “Yeah, well. I haven’t been… around much.”

Eva tilts her head, taking him in. “That’s a vague answer.”

Max claps a hand on Lando’s shoulder. “He’s just being mysterious. It’s part of his charm, you’ll see.”

Lando rolls his eyes, but plays along. He knows what Max is doing, but he doesn’t call him out on it.

Because maybe Max is right. Maybe he should try.

And so he does.

He engages in conversation, letting himself slip into the rhythm of it. Eva is funny and easy to talk to. She makes it effortless, steering their interaction in a way that keeps his mind from wandering. As the night progresses, they end up dancing, and hands are suddenly everywhere while the music envelops them like a protective dome.

At some point, he offers to buy her another drink, and she smiles, nodding at Lando’s initiative.

“I’d like that,” she admits, her eyes sparkling under her eyelashes.

They weave through the crowd toward the bar, and as they wait, she leans in a little closer. It’s subtle at first — a touch to his shoulder when she laughs, then her fingers grazing his bicep. Lando notices it, but he doesn’t react. Not until he feels her fingertips brush against his hand. At that, he looks down and sees the way her small hand lingers against his, making his chest tighten.

She’s watching him with anticipation in her expression, waiting for him to do something. Anything. To respond, to take her hand in his, to let this moment be what it’s supposed to be.

Lando closes his eyes for a fraction. Then he pulls his hand away. Eva’s face doesn’t fall, but something shifts in her eyes; the spark goes away, being replaced by something Lando can’t quite decipher. Confusion, perhaps? Understanding, maybe? Pity, for sure.

She nods, taking a step back, putting distance between them. “Right,” her voice is light, but unbothered. “Cheers for the drink, Lando. I should get back to my friends.”

Lando swallows, guilt gnawing at him. “Eva, it’s not that I don’t—”

She stops him with a tiny smile hanging in the corner of her mouth. “Don’t have to explain yourself to me, darling. It was fun meeting you, hope to see you around. Have a nice night.”

And with that, she’s gone.

He watches her disappear into the crowd, debating going after her or scanning the place to find someone else.

Finally, Lando turns back to the bar, giving his head a little shake.

Well, that went well.

He downs the rest of his drink in one go and signals for another. The liquid burns his throat, but it’s still not enough. He needs more, now that he’s alone. Just for tonight.

As Max said, it won’t kill him.

A few minutes later, Lando returns to his people with another drink in hand. He looks much more relaxed, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s still there, somewhere, lost among the lonely nights spent in his apartment, buried under the lies he told his friends just to be left alone.

Max spots him first and frowns, “Mate, where’s Eva?”

Lando shrugs, “I think she didn’t like my bucket hat.”

Max squints in his direction, clearly unimpressed. “You didn’t even try, did you?”

He did, but won’t bother explaining that to Max. It’s not the time nor the place and, taking a slow sip of his new drink, Lando doesn’t answer, ending the conversation there.

HIS PLACE IS drenched in darkness, exactly how he left it, when Lando stumbles in. He kicks off his shoes haphazardly, muttering a curse as one skids across the floor.

So, Max’s plan hadn’t helped; nothing ever does. He had laughed at all the right moments, sipped at overpriced drinks, and told himself he was having fun. But the ride home had been silent, his thoughts crashing against him like a lost boat against the waves in the middle of a storm.

His friend offered to stay over, but didn’t insist when Lando told him he was okay; two months of pretending he was.

Two months of convincing himself he made the right choice, that he needed space to figure out who he was outside of them. He told himself he needed to be alone and focus on his work, because the aftertaste of the last season still lingers. He wants to see his dream manifesting before his eyes, and he knows that comes with a set of sacrifices. He is ready, but how far is he willing to go? What else is he willing to give up?

Because all he’s done in her absence is slowly descending into madness.

With a defeated sigh, Lando collapses onto the couch. His head falls back against the cushions, just as his phone starts buzzing into his pocket. He doesn’t need to check it to know it isn’t her. She hasn’t reached out since the day she walked away, her face crumpling in defeat as she whispered, I can’t keep fighting for something you clearly don’t want.

The memory of her face still haunts him, because he knows now, just as he knew then, that he should have fought harder. He wishes he had at least tried. Although he also knows it wouldn’t have been fair to either of them, because the mental state he was in at the time would’ve made everything worse for both of them.

Without thinking too much of it, his thumb finds her little icon, and before he can stop himself, Lando starts typing.

10:24 PM: Hey, you up?

10:24 PM: Sorry.

10:26 PM: Can we talk?

10:30 PM: You ever think about us?

10:35 PM: Forget I said anything.

10:39 PM: No, actually, don’t. You were everything. You ARE everything.

10:39 PM: I may be a little bit drunk, but I fucking miss you, baby…

10:41 PM: I don’t miss you because I’m drunk BTW. I just miss you.

10:41 PM: All the time.

10:45 PM: Was I ever enough for you? Like, in general… do you think we could’ve made it work?

10:47 PM: God, I hate you for making me question myself like this.

10:58 PM: I don’t hate you. I can’t. I can’t stop thinking about you.

11:59 PM: Remember when we went to Lake Como and got lost trying to find that little café? I think about that all the time. It started raining, and we both got sick, then we stayed in bed for a week.

11:08 PM: Are you happy?

11:10 PM: Please, say something.

11:10 PM: I know I ended this, but don’t ignore me.

11:10 PM: Please…

On the other side of the city, she’s sitting across from a man who could be plucked from a brochure for Monaco’s elite. His posture oozes confidence and he’s immaculate, from the tailored suit to his charm that has her smiling politely but distantly. He’s nothing like Lando, and she noticed that from the first date. That’s the reason why she agreed to go out again. And again.

Now, she’s four dates in, and she tries to convince herself she could get used to seeing this man as something more. But it’s not that easy when all he talks about is crypto currency and boats.

Suddenly, her phone starts buzzing, a succession of vibrations that she tries to ignore at first.

Once.

Twice.

Three-four-five-six-seven times.

When it keeps going, she excuses herself to glance at the screen, and her stomach twists as she sees his name. What freaks her out at first is that only now she realizes that she never changed his contact name, and LANDO ♥︎ now occupies both the entire size of her screen and her entire mind.

“Is everything okay?” her date asks, his voice cutting through her haze.

She blinks, confused, “I’m sorry, yeah,” she says, a wave of heat crawling up her chest and neck. “I forgot to put it on silent.”

A deep ache settles in between her lungs as she touches the icon to silent her phone. She wishes she could do that to her brain right now, because all of a sudden, her entire world starts spinning faster.

It’s the first time he’s reached out since he ended things. For her, this is monumental. But she shouldn’t care. She shouldn’t even be tempted to read whatever nonsense he keeps typing out. But then another message comes through, begging her not to ignore him, and something about the desperation in the rapid notifications makes her break.

“Excuse me,” the girl says quickly, pushing her chair back as she gets up, ready to head towards the bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

Somehow, she knew the quiet won’t last forever, but she kept hoping that Lando was happy, even without her. She hated him for a few hours after he broke up with her, but all the hatred faded away the next morning, when she woke up in an empty bed, trying her best to understand his decision.

She did, eventually. And she accepted it. More than that, she respected it, because she knew that Lando would do the same for her.

Rage.

She put in so much work, and now it’s all for nothing.

She exhales heavily, gripping the edge of the sink before finally, finally unlocking her phone, not so surprised to see more texts flooding the screen.

11:12 PM: I just wanna talk, I swear.

11:12 PM: Can I call you?

11:12 PM: Just once, please.

11:13 PM: I miss your voice.

Her heart breaks a little, but before she can overthink it, she presses that call button herself, and Lando picks up on the first ring. There’s silence at first. Nothing but his uneven breathing and the faint hum of the muted background noise.

Then, she hears his voice, rough and slightly slurred, “You called.”

She closes her eyes, trying her best to control her trembling hands. “Only to tell you to stop texting me, Lando. I am busy.”

A pause. Then a slow, shaky inhale, followed by Lando’s curiosity, “It’s almost midnight on a Saturday night, how busy are—” he stops himself as if realizing something obvious, his next words dripping in disappointment, “Oh, you’re busy,” he continues, but this time his voice changes to nonchalance. “What am I interrupting?”

She presses her lips in a thin line, bringing her fingers to her temple. “None of—”

“Are you with someone?”

Her throat tightens. “None of your business,” she finally manages to say.

His heavy breath crackles through the speaker. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

She doesn’t confirm it. Doesn’t deny it. Just exhales slowly, wishing she would disintegrate into thin air before the conversation gets to an end.

To break her silence, Lando makes a noise, something caught between a bitter laugh and a sigh. “How boring is he? Be honest.”

The girl blinks, letting out a dry laugh. “Excuse me?”

“The guy you’re with,” says Lando, “How boring is he? Does he talk about taxes and golf? I bet he fucking sucks at golf.”

“Lando, how drunk—”

“Does he make you laugh?” his voice drops, softer now, but unsure. “Like I used to? God, I miss your laugh.”

She grips the sink tighter, warning him, “Stop that.”

Silence.

Then, in true Lando fashion, he blurts out something completely ridiculous, “And I miss you.”

Her stomach flips. Painfully.

He shouldn’t have this right. He broke up with her. He was the one who argued in detail why they should break up and stay that way. Him. But hearing his voice again, after all this time, she realizes how easy it is to fall back into it. Into everything they had.

“I do,” Lando insists, “I really fucking miss you, baby. Do you miss me?”

The words hit like a sucker punch.

Yes.

She bites her lip, willing herself not to break. “No,” she ends up saying.

“No,” he echoes. And for once, he sounds completely sober.

She swallows hard, forcing her voice to stay steady as she repeats, “I am busy. Goodbye, Lando.”

And before he can say anything else, before she lets herself feel too much and tell him the truth, she hangs up. With a heavy heart, she presses the phone against her chest, eyes shut, trying to breathe through the emotions crashing over her.

Breaking up with someone when you still love them is like throwing yourself into a bottomless pit. You don’t know when or if the fall will ever end, you have no idea whether or not you’ll be alone on the other side if it does end, and you certainly don’t know if you’ll make it there alive. They had their problems, of course. Everybody does. But for the first time in their relationship, Lando’s goals didn’t include her, and she had to make peace with it.

Inhaling deeply, she looks back at her reflection then she steels herself, smoothing her dress, and wiping at the corners of her eyes.

THE SECOND SHE hangs up, her words brand themselves into his brain, and for a while, he’s terrified that he’ll go mad, because they won’t stop replaying in his head like a broken record.

Goodbye, Lando. Goodbye, Lando. Goodbye, Lando.

Goodbye.

The finality of it slams into him, sucking the air from his lungs, and all the light from his eyes.

He can’t do anything but stand there, phone still pressed to his ear, as if maybe she’ll change her mind and call back. As if this is just a silly test, some cruel joke played by the universe to see how much more he can take before he completely breaks.

To his horror, the line stays dead, and the realization settles in too quickly for him to process, a dull ache spreading through his chest like poison ivy.

She didn’t even hesitate, didn’t soften, didn’t give him anything to hold onto. And maybe it’s better this way, but how easy is it to close the door on someone like that?

For the past two months, he told himself that if he ever needed her — really needed her — she’d be there for him. Because he knows her, and he knows that no matter how much time passed, no matter how many miles stretched between them, she’d still be his person.

But now, the truth is staring Lando in the face. And it looks like him. She’s gone for good, and he has no one to blame but himself.

His jaw clenches, his hold tightening around the phone so hard he might break it. The room feels too big, too empty, too goddamn quiet to the point it gets too much. With an angry exhale, Lando hurls his phone across the room, watching it smashing against the wall before clattering to the floor, the sound slicing through his ears like a gunshot.

With a deep sigh, he drags his hands down his face, fingers digging into his skin as if he can claw the frustration out of his body.

What did you expect? he asks himself. Then, he laughs. A dry laugh, deprived of real amusement.

At that time, space was what he needed, but she was never something Lando needed to escape. She was his anchor. His safe place. And now, she’s out with some other guy, probably smiling in that adorable way she does when she’s trying to be polite but isn’t actually interested.

Or maybe she is interested. Maybe she is moving on.

The thought nearly guts him.

Pushed by fear from behind, Lando forces himself to move, pacing the the living room while he runs a hand through his hair, irritation simmering beneath his skin like an annoying itch he can’t scratch. His heart is racing, thoughts spiraling faster than he can control. The only time he felt like this before was when his car slipped from his grasp back in 2021 at Spa. He knew he had to brace for impact, and knew his time was limited to do so. The difference now is that he can’t even brace himself, because the impact already took him by surprise.

This can’t be it.

After a moment, he crosses the room and picks up his phone. It has a little crack across the screen, but it’s still functional and, in his foolishness, he takes it as a sign to start typing again.

11:59 PM: Fuck your goodbye. You’re really just going to pretend like I don’t exist?

11:59 PM: After everything?

12:01 AM: Such a fucking liar.

12:01 AM: You can’t tell me you don’t feel anything. That you don’t miss me at all.

12:04 AM: I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you, alright? But I swear to god, I never stopped caring about you.

12:04 AM: Not for a second.

12:07 AM: It’s so stupid, but tell me to move on, and I will.

12:08 AM: Tell me you don’t love me anymore, and I’ll leave you alone.

12:48 AM: Please, don’t leave me like this…

12:48 AM: We can find a way, I know we can.

12:53 AM: No one will ever know you like I do, you know that, right?

12:53 AM: He doesn’t know how you hum when you’re nervous or how you always steal the blanket in your sleep, does he?

01:23 AM: Got it.

01:23 AM: If you ever meant what we promised, just know that this is my final call.

The moment he sends the last text, Lando knows he’s got only one chance to make it right. And maybe he took it too far this time, but he’s also at peace, knowing he did everything he could to catch her attention.

Their worst fight ever, before breaking up, nearly ended them right there and then. They were on the verge of walking away, but when all the anger settled and the silence stretched between them, they both realized neither wanted to lose the other. So, they needed a way to say it. A final chance to make things right.

A final call.

A desperate ‘I need you’. No games, no pretending. If one of them said it, the other showed up, no questions asked.

But the seconds turn into minutes, and the minutes turn into his darkest hour.

HER KNUCKLES ALMOST leave marks against Lando’s door from how aggressively she’s knocking. She is relentless, angry, and insistent, like she wants to break through it at all costs.

Behind the door, Lando frowns, pushing himself off the couch where he’d been slumped, after the realization hit him. But when he swings it open, his heart nearly flatlines.

She’s standing there, chest heaving and eyes wild with fury, with her tears still fresh on her face. Before he can say a word, she pushes him hard, forcing him a step back as she storms inside. The door slams shut behind her, the sound ringing through the silence of his empty apartment.

“Are you fucking kidding me, Lando?” her voice cracks, her chin trembling under the weight of her furious words. “Are you actually serious?”

Lando barely has time to react before she shoves him again, her palms pressing into his chest with all the force her adrenaline generates.

He stumbles back, blinking at her in shock.

“You’re such a coward!” she yells, “This is so unfair, you know?” her voice wavers, but her anger doesn’t falter. “You have no right to do this to me. None.”

Lando swallows hard, his mind scrambling to catch up. But too much is happening too quickly, and he doesn’t get the chance, before she interrupts him right when he’s about to speak.

“No. You’ve said enough, now I’m talking,” her breath is ragged while pointing a finger at her chest, her whole body shaking with rage as she glares up at him. “You don’t get to pull me in just to push me away. Again and again. You don’t get to decide when you love me and when you need space. And you sure as hell don’t get to use your last call just to make me drop everything for you. Because of course I will, and you know it!” she says, laughing at herself in disbelief. “That’s so fucking selfish, especially when I know you don’t even mean it, and you’re just too fucking pressed that I’m moving on without you.”

His stomach twists. “I do mean it.”

“Oh, really? Then why do you do this?” she asks, her voice breaking as she shoves him again, weaker this time. “Why? One second, you’re in love with me, and the next, you want to be left alone. And now you’re dragging me back in like I don’t have a choice, like I don’t have a life outside of you.”

Lando flinches, guilt settling deep in his bones. “I wasn’t trying to—”

“You don’t know what you want,” she accuses, her voice trembling in frustration. “Because if you did, you’d know how ridiculous you’re being right now. You can’t do this to people who love you, Lando. You can’t just… fuck with my peace like this just because you’ve had a rough night. I’ve had plenty of those myself!” she loses it, turning around only to take a break from seeing his face.

Her words hit Lando like a freight train, but she doesn’t even realize what she’s just said. She’s too caught up in the whirlwind of emotions, too exhausted from holding herself together. But Lando heard her loud and clear: she still loves him.

He takes a step toward her, thinking that she’s done with pushing, but when she suddenly turns around, she starts hitting his chest again, enough to pour out all the anger, all the irritation, and all the heartbreak she’s been carrying like rocks in her pockets.

Lando just stands there, letting her, because he knows he deserves it.

Finally, she lets out a shaky breath, her hands falling limply against him. Her forehead presses into his chest as the fight drains from her completely, and a sob wracks through her. Instinctively, Lando’s arms move on their own, pulling her into his tight embrace.

He wraps himself around her, his grip firm but careful, like she might slip through his fingers if he’s not careful. Her tears soak into his shirt, and for the first time in months, the floor stopped moving under his feet, and Lando can breathe again.

They stay like that for a long time. No more words. No more yelling. Just the sound of their breathing, and their hearts beating in sync. Lando’s hand is gently moving up and down her back, and she hates how safe she feels with his scent enveloping her from every direction.

She doesn’t know how much time passes, but eventually, she sniffles and pulls away just enough to wipe her cheeks.

Her fingers brush lightly against his damp shirt, letting out out a humorless laugh. “I probably ruined your stupid shirt. There’s make-up all over. Sorry.”

Lando shakes his head, his hands still resting on her waist. “That’s okay.”

She scoffs, stepping back to free herself from his embrace. Next time she looks up at him, her eyes are still glassy, but there’s something softer in them now. Then, quietly, she says, “He was boring, by the way.”

She walks past him without another word, heading straight for the couch, just like she did a thousand times before.

Lando turns to follow her, his mind slowly starting to catch up.

She’s here.

She came.

He hesitates for a moment before he enters her personal space again, watching as she sinks into the couch, exhaling silently as if she’s trying to steady herself. She rubs the mascara smudges beneath her eyes, and the sight twists something deep in his chest, realizing that he did this to her. Again. And he hates it. Hates knowing that he’s the reason she looks so lost, with puffy eyes and tear-streaked cheeks. Hates that she showed up at his door furious, but now she just looks tired. Most likely of him. Of their situation. Of running in circles that he’s designing with the sole purpose of torturing her.

Still, as Lando lowers himself onto the couch beside her, a strange sense of normalcy settles over him. They’ve sat like this countless times before, curled up together watching movies, falling asleep tangled in each other, making love, and sharing lazy conversations over takeout. He can still picture her lying here in one of his hoodies, laughing at some stupid joke he made, eyes bright and full of adoration. But tonight, the space between them is foreign, like a chasm neither of them knows how to cross.

He exhales, raking a hand through his curls. At least, her words sobered him up, his thoughts clearer than they’ve been in months.

“I met someone tonight,” Lando’s voice cuts through the silence.

Her heart drops in her stomach, but she turns her head to look at him. Her expression is unreadable, however, Lando can see the way her fingers tighten on her thighs, like she’s bracing herself.

He swallows. “If you need a reason why, this is it. Max introduced me to her,” his tone is quieter now, a bit uncertain. “I think he was trying to… I don’t know. Set me up, maybe.”

She nods once, a short, clipped motion. “And?”

“I tried,” he admits. “I really did. She was nice. We had a few drinks together.” Lando huffs out something that’s almost a laugh but lacks any real amusement. “I even thought that maybe it could work out. I hoped it would work out.”

She doesn’t say anything, but looks at him with empty eyes and dry lips.

Lando sighs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. “But then she tried to hold my hand and…”

A beat of silence.

Another deep sigh.

He lifts his head just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye before continuing, “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pretend,” he adds, voice faint, like the confession is physically weighing on him. “It felt so wrong.”

She turns her face away, staring at the opposite wall, her jaw clenched. She understands him, of course she does. Because that’s exactly what she was doing before her phone was flooded with his texts — pretending. Faking it. Settling for something that, deep down, was so utterly wrong.

Lando shakes his head. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

He watches her profile, trying his best to understand what’s going on inside her head, what she’s thinking, and if she’s warring with her own heart, just like he did for the past two months.

Finally, Lando leans back against the couch. His fingers drum restlessly against his knee when he starts speaking again, “Do you like him?”

She stiffens. “What?”

“The guy you were with tonight,” he says, studying her closely. “Do you like him?”

The girl rolls her eyes, pressing her lips together. “You are so incredibly stupid, Lando.”

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “I still want to hear you saying it.”

She hesitates, “I don’t know. He’s nice.”

It’s Lando’s turn to roll his eyes now, “Nice.”

She gives him a sharp look. “Yeah, nice. Like the girl you met? What is wrong with that?”

“Nothing,” he mutters. But when she keeps staring, he forces himself to continue, picking at the lint on his pants, only to avoid her piercing eyes. “It’s just… you never went for nice.”

Her expression flickers between annoyance and something else he can’t quite name.

“You don’t know me like that anymore,” she warns him.

Lando lets out a quiet breath, “People don’t change that easily,” he says it like he talks from experience. “I’d still be able to recognize you blindfolded.”

His words almost knock the wind out of her. She tilts her chin up, trying to hold onto her anger, but it’s slipping through her fingers like sand. Especially when he speaks so soflty, no bitter trace behind his voice. It’s just a fact.

“I don’t know about that,” she whispers.

“I do,” he says, getting closer to her side of the couch.

She takes a breath in, exhaling slowly. “You walked away, Lando. It was your choice. What changed?”

Instead of looking back at her, Lando’s picking now at the skin of his thumb with his nail, until he feels the blood under his fingertip. “I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“For who exactly?”

His chest tightens. “It was for you too,” he says in a defensive tone. “I couldn’t be what you needed. It took me years to finally be competitive, and I barely had time to breathe outside work, let alone be someone you could rely on. There was so much noise around me, I just couldn’t put you in second.”

She shakes her head, her expression caught between irritation and heartbreak. “You didn’t have to change anything for my comfort. I know what racing means to you. Knowing you were there was enough for me.”

He swallows, guilt pressing heavy against his ribs. “Not enough. I didn’t want to drag you down.”

Her lips part, a flash of disbelief crossing her face. “Do you even hear yourself?” she gestures wildly, “You were never dragging me down. I was so happy for you, Lando. Still am,” she blinks rapidly, trying to push down the emotion rising in her throat. “But you decided I was an inconvenience.”

Lando closes his eyes briefly, his fingers curling into fists. He knows she’s right. He knows. But back then, he had convinced himself that letting her go was the only way to keep her from ending up hating him. Now, she’s standing next to him, looking at him like she doesn’t know whether she wants to scream or sob.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he can say. And then, “I just... missed you.”

Out of instinct, she makes herself smaller on the couch, raising her knees to her chest.

“I tried to act like I didn’t, but I was miserable,” Lando adds, “Everywhere I went, I was looking for you. Waiting for you.”

She closes her eyes, shaking her head again. “Spare me, won’t you?”

“I’m not saying this to change your mind,” he defends himself quickly. “I just need you to know. Because it was eating me alive.”

Her arms loosen around herself, her posture softening just a fraction. “Do you think I wasn’t miserable too?” her voice cracks on the last word. “You said I was pretending you didn’t exist. Do you really think I just walked away and simply forgot about you?”

Lando stares at her, taking in the way her lower lip trembles, the way her eyes are shining with new, unshed tears.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

“Stupid, stupid,” she repeats.

She’s still mad at him. But she aches to be closer, to touch him, to bury her face in his chest and just breathe him in. Just for a moment. Just long enough to pretend that everything is okay again.

Cautious, Lando lifts a hand like he’s giving her time to pull away. But when she doesn’t, his fingers brush against her hair, gently tucking a loose strand behind her ear. His touch is light, barely there, but it still gives her chills. Then, without thinking too much of it, she leans into his touch, her eyes fluttering shut.

A tear slips down her cheek, and before she can wipe it away, Lando’s thumb does.

“I’m sorry.”

She lets out a quiet sob, and that’s all it takes for Lando to pull her into his arms without hesitation. She melts against him, fists gripping the fabric of his shirt, pressing her face back against his chest as she lets more tears out.

Lando buries his face in her hair, whispering all over again, as if that will make her believe him, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

Tears are threatening his eyes too, but he closes them before they can escape.

He feels the warmth of her breath against his collarbone and, once again, he’s terrified. He would rather her push him away, rather her scream at him, tell him she hates him, hurt him back. Because all this silence is unbearable. It swallows him whole, and tells him everything he’s too afraid to admit: that he drained her, emptied her out until there was nothing left to give.

He’s about to apologize again, but then he feels it in the way her fingers, still curled into the fabric of his shirt, twitch slightly, and the weight of her head is pressing deeper into his chest — she fell asleep. As soon as things went quiet, she slipped under, exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the time of night and everything to do with him.

A lump forms in his throat as he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. He shifts carefully, moving just enough to lean back fully, making sure she’s as comfortable as possible. But unfortunately, sleep doesn’t come easy for him.

HER PALM RESTS against his cheek, the heat of his skin seeping into hers. Every exhale of hers tickles his jaw, and it feels like muscle memory, the way her body molds into his, the way he instinctively holds onto her even in sleep.

Lando doesn’t stir. He never does. He’s always been the type to sleep through anything — alarms, thunderstorms, and morning light flooding the room. Even now, he’s dead to the world, his lips slightly parted, his arm wrapped lazily around her waist.

But his phone vibrates on the coffee table, and that’s what wakes her up, the sound cutting through the stillness. She barely registers it at first, burying her face against his chest, but when it buzzes again and again, she groans softly.

Disoriented, her breath deepens as she takes in her surroundings: the familiar scent, the heavy weight of Lando’s arm, the warmth of his body against hers. And then, all of it crashes down on her. Last night. Every whispered apology, every push, every tear, every way she let herself slip back into him like she never left.

Suddenly, a wave of panic wakes her up for good and, covering her mouth with a trembling hand, she tries to muffle the sob that threatens to escape. She can’t cry again; she’s way too exhausted for that. But her body betrays her, stiffening next to him as his weight becomes suffocating.

Luckily, the continuous buzzing takes her out of it and, reluctantly, she finally reaches for Lando’s phone. The screen lights up with a crack across it, and lots of notifications. It’s 1:04 PM, and a text from an unsaved number catches her attention first:

Hey, Lando ;) This is Eva. Max gave me your number, said you weren’t feeling well last night. I’d like to see you again tonight if...

The rest of the message is cut off by the lock screen, so she lets the phone drop back against the glass of the table, swallowing past the tightness in her throat and slowly turns onto her side, facing him. Lando looks so peaceful like this. His curls are messy, his face slack with sleep, no frown decorating the smooth skin of his forehead. His eyebrows are a little fuzzy, so she gently styles them back into shape with her thumb.

She missed their lazy mornings more than anything. The way the concept of time never seemed to exist when they were wrapped up in each other, away from anything that could potentially come in between them.

Her hand is still weak as she presses her palm to Lando’s chest. His heartbeat thrums beneath her fingertips, steady, warm, alive. That’s why she came here in the first place: for him. And in the clear daylight, she realizes that the familiarity between them can’t be reversed. Last night was a lot, but she can’t let herself fall into it again, no matter how badly her body wants to stay curled into him.

She brings the same palm to her chest then, trying to put some distance, but Lando stirs instinctively. His arm pulls at her waist, his fingers twitching against the fabric of her dress, unwilling to let her go even in the hazy blur of waking up.

His body recognizes hers before his mind does; the warmth, the normalcy of having her there. Then, reality creeps in, dragging him back into consciousness. And with it comes the dull ache pressing against the inside of his skull, the dryness in his throat, the remnants of last night staining his entire body with exhaustion, guilt, and shame.

“I feel like shit,” he speaks against her shoulder, voice raspy from sleep. His head is pounding, his stomach unsettled, but her scent is the only thing guiding him to something steady. He breathes it in, eyes still closed, and continues, “I need a greasy burger for breakfast.”

“It’s past one,” she says quietly.

Lando groans, rolling onto his back, draping an arm over his eyes. He can feel her presence, but even though her body is so close to his, he starts to feel the tension. The distance. He realizes it the second she moves again, getting in a sitting position, ready to leave the bed. Leave him.

Lando’s eyes snap open, desperate to catch a glimpse of her, even as the sunlight nearly blinds him. Her hair is messy, hands resting against her lap. Her dress is all wrinckled and drapes over her frame, making her look small in a way that destroys him. Like she doesn’t belong to this moment, like she’s already halfway out the door.

“I should go,” she says the words that he was so afraid of, and it feels like a knife to his ribs.

“You should stay,” he insists. “We can get something to eat, and I’ll give you a ride home.”

She presses a palm against her forehead, realizing the gravity of the situation. Giving him false hope won’t help anyone.

“No, thank you. Falling asleep was already bad enough.”

Lando clears his throat before speaking again, slightly unsure, “Was it, though?” he asks and, in return, she shoots him a warning look. “I know, I’m sorry.”

However, she’s no longer angry with him. She exhausted the last of her strength last night, and now all that’s left is the bitter taste of what could have been.

“Is that the only thing you’ll say now?”

He licks his lips, throat still dry as if he drank sand. “Yes. Until you forgive me.”

It was meant to be lighthearted, a little joke, and a weak attempt at softening the weight pressing down on both of them. Based on past experiences, she always forgave him. So why should now be any different, right? But when she doesn’t react, when the silence only thickens, he realizes how fucking stupid that was.

She blinks once, twice. Her gaze flickers away, “Your final call,” she says quietly, “Did you do it because of that girl? You got scared because you liked her more than you thought you could?”

Lando’s heart stalls for a second, caught off guard by her inquire. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I don’t know what the hell I was doing. I mean, I was scared. But not of her,” he stops, thinking of it. The frown comes back, and it looks like the thought gives him a headache. “I was scared of falling back into something I couldn’t fix. Still am. You and me… we’re not easy, you know?” he lets out a small, bitter laugh, almost self-deprecating. “We’ve never been easy. And I’m just so tired of fucking things up.”

She doesn’t think much about her actions lately. She wasn’t thinking last night when she left her date in a rush, and she certainly isn’t thinking now, as she turns her body to face him.

“I don’t understand you anymore, Lando. The only thing I do understand is that you pushed me away just so you wouldn’t have to deal with me. Because you couldn’t handle me, is that right?”

Lando winces. The weight of her words hit him harder than any punch. “No, it’s not right. I just didn’t know how to fix… me,” he says it for the first time out loud, his voice breaking on the last part; surprisingly, it’s not making him as uncomfortable as he thought it would. “I didn’t want to lose you. Not like that.”

She scoffs, “And now what? You think one drunken night is enough to put you on the right track? You think you know what you want just because you’re afraid of losing something that’s no longer yours anyway?” the girl asks, watching as his facial expression changing in pain. “I’m sorry, Lando. I don’t mean to be cruel, but I need answers.”

His voice is barely a whisper as he replies, “The only answer I can give you is that I didn’t know how to be what you needed at the time. Is that so hard to believe?”

Her eyes fill with tears, but she blinks them away. “It is,” she agrees, “Because you never asked me what I needed. Not once. You just did what was best for you. And now…,” her voice trails off before moving her eyes on a random point on the floor, “You’re not showing me anything. You can say that all you want, but how do I know you won’t push me away again? I need to know you’re here, that you’re really here.”

Lando reaches for her then, almost instinctively, his hands determined as he cups her face. “I am here,” he whispers, leaning in, his breath shaky against her skin. “You’re just too stubborn to let me back in. And I get why,” he rushes to say as he feels her tensing under his touch. “But, please. Let me fix us. Please.”

Neither of them speak for a while after that. She’s so close to him now, she can hear both of their heartbeats, the weight of every single second hanging between them like lead from a strand of hair.

She is hesitant, but she pulls him in first, her lips barely brushing over his. Even though it’s a featherlight touch, her close proximity ignites something highly flammable in Lando. He stills, his breath caught in his throat, his hands curling into fists as if holding himself back, too afraid to take it any further too fast.

Just as he leans in, just as he starts to close the little gap, slowly, she pulls away. The loss of her, even for a second, makes his patience snap and, without giving her the chance to build another wall between them, he reaches out, fingers threading into her hair, pulling her back to him, this time with purpose.

She doesn’t resist — can’t, really.

His forehead presses against hers and neither of them move, trapped in the space between knowing and doing. His grip tightens against her jaw, thumb stroking over the edge of her cheek, his breath hot against her parted lips. The weight of everything that’s been left unsaid lingers in the air, and it’s suffocating. She exhales shakily, closing her eyes for a moment, her hands sliding up his chest, fingers splayed over his heart, feeling the way it pounds beneath her touch. And then, as if her body betrays every ounce of hesitation in her mind, she fists his shirt and pulls him back against her.

They crash together, and the world tilts within a second.

Their lips meet in a clash of want and desperation that knows no border of sanity. His hands are suddenly everywhere, cradling her face, threading through her hair, tracing the delicate curve of her spine. She presses into him, her nails scraping against the back of his neck, anchoring herself to him like she’s afraid he’ll slip away any minute. Like he’s going to change his mind again, and tell her to leave, because he needs to be alone.

But he won’t. He never will again. The taste of her floods his senses, familiar and intoxicating, making his body buzz with excitement as he deepens the kiss. He breathes her in, trying to make up for every second he’s spent without her.

She wants him, and she’s aware that things could go exponentially wrong after this, but she’s already broke the rules the moment she crossed his threshold last night. She shifts against him, pressing closer, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over his chest. He stirs slightly, humming, his arms automatically locking around her, helping her sit on his lap.

Her lips brush against his jaw, trailing down the column of his throat. She’s barely even touching him, but she knows he feels it, because she hears the way his breathing stutters, the slight twitch of his fingers against her hip. She smiles, shifting again, innocent, except not at all, because her thigh suddenly drags over his, pressing just enough to feel the growing heat between them.

Lando lets out a sleepy grunt, burying his face in the crook of her neck. “What the hell are you doing?” his aroused voice is exactly how she remembers, rough and deep, and able to send shivers down her spine.

She hums, pressing another kiss to his collarbone. “Nothing.”

Lando chuckles, his hand sliding to grab her waist, fingers lazy but firm. “No, I think you’re doing something.”

And, whatever she’s doing, she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even pause to think.

She lets out a dry laugh, edged with sadness and a hint of accusation, “Always making me ache, aren’t you?” she asks, pressing her lips against his ear, while positioning herself above him, helping Lando get rid of his shirt. Soon enough, her fingers are dragging down his stomach, nails grazing lightly at his abs. “It’s like it turns you on to see me in pain, isn’t it?” the girl sighs, brushing her hips against his in a way that makes him curse under his breath.

His fingers dig more into her waist, his patience thinning by the second. “You know that’s not true,” his voice sounds so angelic, that she actually believes him for a second because of it. “I’m sorry you can’t trust me anymore. But there’s nothing I hate more than to see you hurting because of me.”

She nods, giving him the impression that his words have the power to make her weak. In reality, she’s just curious to find out how sorry he really is.

“You’ve said that about a hundred times already,” the girl reminds him, “How bad, though?” she tries to push the limits, mostly to see if there are any, the words slipping from her lips like something delicate and filthy all at once. “Bad enough that you’ll drunk text me again? To see if I come running to you? Again? To say you’re sorry a hundred more times, hoping I’ll let you fuck me in whatever position you want, for as long as you want just because I feel for your sorry ass?”

His nostrils flare as he exhales in disapproval, “Stop that shit.”

“Why?” her voice sounds overly seductive, but somehow, he knows it’s just a trap. “Isn’t sex your answer to everything?”

There you go.

Lando’s jaw tenses as the words continue to leave her mouth, unforgiving, each one winding around his self-control like a vice. His fingers twitch on her waist, the weight of her straddling him making it impossible to think straight. She knows exactly what she’s doing, pushing, teasing and testing the waters of his restraint.

And fuck, it’s working.

Her dress has ridden up her thighs higher, exposing smooth, warm skin that begs to be touched, and his hands find their way there without permission, fingertips pressing into her like he wants to make sure he’s not just dreaming, and she’s actually there.

“Not trying to fuck my way back to you, if that’s what you mean,” Lando disagrees just as he lets his fingers drift higher, watching the way her breath becomes more uneven. “But won’t back down if it works, either. So what does that say about you? That we’re just the same?”

She puffs out a laugh, but there’s no humor behind it. Just a lot of tension, coiled so tight between them that something is bound to snap. Soon.

“We’re so not,” she argues, tilting her head slightly, her lips so close to his that he can taste her breath. “I actually have the balls to stay when things get tough.”

Her unfiltered comment it’s all it takes.

Lando moves in a blur, gripping her hips and flipping them over in one swift motion, pressing her into the couch as a surprised gasp leaves her lips. He hovers over her, his body fitting perfectly between her open thighs, hands braced on either side of her head. The sudden shift has her looking up at him, wide-eyed, lips parted, and chest heaving in anticipation.

In this position, Lando looks at her like he’s trying to figure out what to do to her, aware that the changing in dynamics favors him. His hands find the hem of her dress, fingertips teasing the edge as he watches her reaction, giving her a chance to stop him — or to take back her words, whichever comes first. But she does neither. Instead, she lifts her hips, a silent plea, and that’s all the permission that Lando needs.

He peels the fabric up, savoring the way her body is revealed inch by inch. His mouth finds the newly exposed skin along her ribs with the speed of a man starved, trailing open-mouthed kisses up her torso, leaving a path of goosebumps in his wake. Lando can feel her shiver beneath him, her fingers tangling into his curls, tugging just enough to pull a string of sweet noises out of him.

“I won’t be able to stop if we—” he murmurs against her skin, a last sliver of hesitation buried underneath all the want.

She cuts him off by cupping his jaw, guiding his face up so he has no choice but to look at her. “I won’t ask you to,” she assures him, lifting her hips up once more to meet his, feeling how hard he is against her. The contact is like a drug she’s been deprived of for too long, and now that she has access to him again, her mouth starts moving before wiring to the rational side of her brain, “I wanna do laundry together later.”

Despite what he’s just said, Lando does stop, watching her intently. Because he knows that she means more than just laundry. For starters, it means she’s staying. It means she’s letting him try. It means the weight in his chest that’s been suffocating him for weeks finally lifts, replaced by something warm yet fragile, something he doesn’t dare break this time.

He has to swallow past the ache before pressing himself against her, letting her scent wrap around him like the most familiar kind of comfort.

“Yeah?” he finally whispers, like he’s afraid speaking too loudly might shatter whatever weak truce they’ve found between them.

She nods, a real smile appearing on her face, the first one in months, “Yeah,” she parrots, which urges Lando to plant another kiss on her lips, lazier this time. And she welcomes him.

Gradually, his grip consolidates around her, his teeth catching her bottom lip, and suddenly, the slow morning is anything but. Now he’s wired, wide awake, and so fucking hard.

Her hands work fast, pushing at the waistband of his pants with an urgency that makes Lando’s pulse hammer in his throat. He moves enough to help her, and then the fabric is gone, pooling somewhere on the floor, next to her dress and panties.

The feeling of skin on skin has the power to set him on fire, every inch of him hypersensitive as she drags her fingers down his stomach, nails scratching lightly against the ridges of muscle before wrapping around him for just a second, only to say hi. His breath catches, head tipping forward before he forces himself to look down at her.

“You’re a menace,” Lando points out. His voice is thick with desire as he rolls his hips against her once her hands move around his neck, dragging his length along the soft skin of her inner thigh, brushing lightly where she needs him most. He feels her shiver, her nails digging into his back for a fraction of a second before she exhales a breathy laugh.

“I had to adapt,” she says, her voice saccharine, but teasing, fingers biting into his shoulder blades.

“I can see that,” his tone is rough, but there’s something playful underneath it. He continues to move, this time with more intention, the tip of his cock catching against her slick heat.

She bites her lip, her free hand reaching up to pull him down on her and crash their lips together in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, too desperate to be anything but raw. He groans into her mouth, their breaths blending together, and she takes the moment to wrap her legs around his waist, locking him against her completely, the heat ever-growing.

The easiest thing in the world for Lando is to get lost in her warmth, her scent and the way his skin vibrates with every touch of her delicate palm.

The hardest thing in the world for Lando is to stop when every nerve in his body screams for more, just to make sure she wants this as much as he does, even though it risks snapping her back to reason, forcing her to push him away all over again.

“If you don’t—”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “I do.”

With that, his hand is already in motion, dragging down her stomach, pushing between her thighs. He finds her soaked, warm, and slick against his fingertips, and it makes him want to howl, knowing that he still has the same effect on her; if anything, the time spent apart only made her miss his touch more.

“Shit,” he slurs, pressing two fingers against her clit, moving them in torturous circles. “Missed seeing you this needy in the morning.”

She hums, thighs twitching. “Techincally, it’s not morning anymore.”

Lando shakes his head in disbelief, “That smart mouth,” his fingers slip lower, teasing at her entrance but never pushing in, just pressing there, feeling the way she opens up for him.

For a moment, his fingers stay right there to tease her, barely giving what she wants, what she’s silently begging for with the way her hips roll forward. Agonizingly slow, he pushes in, finding her so ready for him and so fucking tight, that Lando swears he could lose his mind just from feeling her in his hands.

The girl huffs out a breath, her frustration evident as she glares up at him, “Lando.”

“Yes, love?” he uses his fingers to press further just a little more, but never enough, feeling her walls hugging him impatiently.

She bites her lip, a flush creeping down her neck, and he knows she hates the way he’s making her ask for it.

Her voice is sharper next time she speaks, “You win. Now stop being a dick.”

Lando smirks, dipping down to press a kiss to her shoulder, dragging his teeth along her skin before pulling back to look at her. “I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully, fingers curling lightly inside her pussy, enough to make her whimper. “I kinda like seeing you like this.”

She narrows her eyes at him, but it’s ruined by the way she starts panting when he finally, finally, glides his fingers in and out, her body agreeing with everything he has to offer. His thumb presses against her clit, rubbing her wetness against it as he watches her fall apart, her hands clinging onto him for support.

“Fuck,” she cries, head tipping back, and Lando swears he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

“Yeah, fuck,” he agrees, leaning in to kiss the corner of her mouth, and then her jaw. Her back arches instantly, a moan spilling from her lips as her nails dig into his arms, while he’s going faster, agonizingly so, dragging his fingers in and out, feeling how her body fights to keep him in. “This what you needed?”

She quickly turns her head from side to side, fingernails scratching along the skin his shoulders. “More,” she whispers, already out of breath. “Wanna feel you.”

Lando pulls his fingers out, watching the way her slick clings to them in the rich color of the afternoon light. He blows out the breath of air he was holding, trapping her thighs in his grasp as he lines himself up, the tip of his cock dragging through the wetness pooling between her legs.

“Well, if that’s what you want, that’s what you get, baby. Wanna see you drip on it,” he muses, pressing just barely inside before pulling back out, coating himself in her slick. “See how much you missed me.”

She whines, hips jerking up.

The grin on Lando’s face widens. “There you go, you beauty.”

She meets his eyes, pupils blown wide, lips swollen from his kisses. Seeing her like that, squirming under him, throws Lando into a spiral. For now, he has no idea where this moment will take them. All he knows is that he wants to make the most of it, to memorize her body lines and the sound of her moans, because once the haze fades and clarity takes its place, anything is possible.

And that terrifies him.

Sinking into her feels like homecoming, and the sweet stretch is making both of them whine in unison, cling onto each other. He swears under his breath as her walls constrict around his length, her mouth falling open in a breathy gasp.

“Holy shit.”

She’s so full of him, just like she wanted, the feeling even better than she remembers.

Lando presses a kiss to her jaw, his hands holding her waist tight enough to leave faint marks behind. “Not letting you go ever again,” he says with his lips glued to her skin like he’s in a trance, voice strained as he fights to keep control of his own body.

She nods, barely able to realize what’s she agreeing on, mind buzzing with thoughts of him, him, only him. “Promise?”

Lando sighs, pulling out slowly, almost all the way before sinking back in. The sound alone — that lazy, wet, messy drag of his cock leaving her, again and again — enough to turn him into a savage man. He watches, entranced, as the evidence of how much she wants him spills down her slit, glistening and painting her inner thighs.

In answer to her plea, Lando links his pinky finger with hers, his hand covering hers entirely. “Promise you, baby. You’re fucking unreal,” he rasps.

Waiting for her was pure torture, but the thought that this can be over before it even properly begins, forces him to still inside her then pull out entirely, his cock, flushed and soaked, resting against her thigh, leaving more of their mess behind. He grips the base, stroking himself once, careful, watching as her empty cunt clenches in his absence, her body desperate to be filled again.

“I’m so glad I got drunk,” says Lando, tracing his fingertips through the wetness between her legs. He presses a long finger back inside her, for his own pleasure, only to feel how impatient she is.

She cries out, thighs snapping shut around his wrist, back arching off the couch. “Yeah, me too,” she blinks up to him, her sincerity spurring Lando on.

He adds another finger as a reward, fucking into her deeper, his other hand stroking his cock in time with her gasps.

“We were always gonna end up here, weren’t we?” asks Lando, his hand working her faster now, watching as she writhes beneath him.

She lets out a choked moan, but can’t answer, too busy rolling her hips against his movements.

“Me, apologizing,” Lando continues, sounding so out of breath, “While you moan my name. Like always, is that right?”

“Lan,” she warns.

“Juuust like that. Look at you,” he chuckles, watching the way her body responds, getting covered in a sweaty layer of goosebumps, and the way her thighs tremble. “As desperate as ever.”

She whimpers, pushing up onto her elbows, dazed and itching to see what he’s doing to her. And the sight makes her pulse race: Lando between her legs, his fingers moving inside her, fucking her with a contrasting gentle force, while his other hand works over his cock, slick and hard, ready to stretch her all over again.

His eyes flick up to hers, dark and hungry, lips parted as he watches her descending into despair, slowly but surely. He drags his fingers out, just to press them back in, firmly, watching her body tense, making her whine louder.

“That’s it, my sweet girl,” he praises, voice subdued and teasing. “Feel it,” his strokes on himself grow lazier, drawing out the moment. “Feel me.”

She nods frantically, her thighs so close to give up from so much shaking. “Not… enough.”

Lando mewls, biting his lip as he watches her squirm, his patience hanging by a thread. “No?” he asks amused, pulling his fingers out and lining himself up again. “Let’s do something about it then. Show you how sorry I am, hm?”

He pushes back inside without any warning in one fluid motion, and the sensation wrecks both of them at the same time. She’s always so fucking tight, but soaked enough that there’s no resistance, just the messy slide of him stretching her open with every inch.

“Shit,” his voice is barely a sound, more like a guttural groan as he bottoms out, his hands finding their way back home, on her hips.

The heat of her, the way she pulses around him, has his heart racing relentlessly, and their sounds fill the living room every time they move together. Lando grits his teeth, withdrawing just halfway before thrusting back in, harder each time.

She gasps, her body craving him, like she can’t get enough. “More.”

He snarls, pace picking up, his hips snapping against hers, skin meeting skin in a rhythm that’s almost punishing. “More?” Lando asks in amazement, “You fucking take everything I give you, and you still want more?”

She nods, dragging her hands down his back, nails leaving marks that burn, but it only spurs him on, thankful she gives him something he could feel for hours after they’re done.

“Always more,” she whimpers, legs wrapping weakly around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she yammers. “Feels so. Good,” she chokes on the last word, lifting her hips in desperation.

Lando is close to sobbing at this point, slamming into her, his control unraveling by the second. “Good girl. Gonna make you come so fucking hard you’ll feel me every time you blink.”

Her whines break into cries as he fucks her harder, each thrust hitting the exact spot inside her where she needs him most. His hand slips between them, fingers finding her clit, rubbing her in messy circles, just to see her fall prey to the pleasure that only he can give her.

“Yes,” she nods, her body keep moving on its own to meet his. “Yes, I’m so close. Don’t stop!”

He is far too hypnotized by the way she loses it under him, demanding more and more with each passing second. Lando’s hands move then to encircle her waist, squeezing gently before sliding higher up her ribs, and finally to her breasts. They don’t rest there for too long, though, as she grabs his wrists and moves them around her neck, pulling his face right above hers. Her legs tighten tighter around him, and her palm cups his ass cheeks, pressing him deeper into her.

“That bad?” he asks her, and all she can do is nod again, speechless. “Come on, then. Wanna feel you drench my—"

Lando can’t even finish his sentence as her moans get louder, a blinding pleasure tearing through her in waves, over and over again, too intense to hold back. She cries out, back arching, body shaking she squirts, soaking both of them.

“Ah, shit. Shit shit shit!” Lando’s voice is wrecked, his hips stuttering as he watches her welcoming the euphoria.

The sight, the feel of her pulsing around him, squeezing him so tight has the power to destroy him. He barely manages a few more thrusts before he breaks, burying himself deep, groaning as he spills inside her, warmth flooding her walls. His body shudders against hers, muscles tensing, pleasure rolling through him in waves just as endless as hers. His hands are holding on to her like she’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. And right now, she is.

For them, the time stops. They just breathe each other in, their bodies locked together, still vibrating. He can feel everything, from the soft rise and fall of her chest to the tiny aftershocks still making her pussy throb around him, pulling him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt. It makes Lando gasp softly, dragging his lips lazily over her jaw.

His fingers brush along her side once they manage to catch their breaths. “You okay?” Lando’s voice is low, lightly dipped in concern at her sudden silence.

She nods weakly, eyes snapping open, a satisfied little hum escaping her lips. “Okay,” she breathes out, lovingly tracing her fingers along his spine.

Lando smiles mischievously, “Okay.”

Before she can register what he’s doing, he grabs one of her legs and pulls it up, resting it over his shoulder, changing the angle entirely.

“The fuck?” her inquire is startled, but it quickly turns into something else the moment he starts moving, the new position making everything tighter, deeper. Heaven.

His grin is downright devilish. “Not done,” he informs her matter-of-factlty.

To that, Lando’s hands settle firmly back on her hips, pinning her in place before he draws back and thrusts into her measured at first, the kind of stroke that leaves her breathless.

Somehow, the finish line turns into a brand new start, and all she can do is brace for it.

“Oh, my—Lando!” her stomach twists, fingers grasping at nothing, forced to cling to the cushions because she can’t reach him like this. The position keeps her wide open for him, helpless, unable to do anything but take it.

Lando hums, his grip tightening. “You’re so fucking pretty like this. Spread wider for me,” he instructs. “Can you give me one more?”

She whimpers, barely able to think, let alone answer, as he starts pounding into her, his rhythm relentless. Every thrust knocks the breath from her lungs, her body struggling to keep up with the sheer intensity of it, but somehow excited and so willing to push the limits.

“Please,” it’s both a cry and a plea, but she doesn’t even know what she’s begging for.

“Obsessed with those pretty noises. Just take it, baby,” he breathes, driving into her, pressing a kiss to her temple.

His grip shifts then, spreading her even wider, forcing her open until there’s nowhere for her to run. His pace slows just for a fraction, not out of mercy, but because he wants to feel every inch of her hugging him, wants her to feel how deep he is, how there’s no part of her he isn’t claiming.

And then he sees it.

Right there, in the soft plane of her lower stomach. Every time he pushes in, there’s a faint, tantalizing bulge, proof of just how deep he goes; his brain short-circuits. The sight of it has him helpless, hunger twisting tight in his gut, making his cock twitch inside her.

“Fucking hell,” his voice is nothing but raw, shattered arousal. He can’t help himself, instinctively bringing his wide palm to press down on it, applying the slightest pressure, feeling himself inside her from the outside.

“Fuck’s sake, Lando,” her moans turn high, her body jerking as if there is no such thing as too much pleasure.

“You feel that, baby?” Lando’s eyes are wild, rolling his hips a bit slower now, pushing so far inside her that she swears she can feel him in her throat. “Feel how fucking deep I am?”

She nods, tears beading in the corners of her eyes, her hands clawing harder at the sheets because it’s too much.

His forehead falls forward, resting on hers. “Forgive me.”

A simple — yet not really — plea, wrapped in something devastatingly tender. It makes her stomach flip, makes her heart ache in a way that feels too big for her body. She clenches around him involuntarily, and he groans, his grip on her hips tightening.

Her leg slides down his waist, hands instantly flying around his back, pulling him impossibly closer, her lips brushing against his jaw as she nods. “Please, Lando…”

“I need you,” he says, “Need you by my side when I win. Need you by my side when I fuck up. When I’m flying so high it feels like I’ll never come down.”

The sweat blends with the smell and the desperation behind his confession, and somehow, the moment feels endless, even though both of them know it quickly approaches the end.

“Need you when it gets too loud, when I can’t tell what’s real and what’s just noise. Need you when I wake up, and when I go to sleep. Just… need my pretty girl that knows me better than anyone,” he praises, pressing his palm firmer against her stomach, feeling the way she squeezes him from the inside. “Need to fuck you like this every day, baby. To be the one that drives you mad. Please. Please, forgive me.”

His words send a shockwave through her, a moan ripping from her throat. Lando hisses, thrusting deep again, watching the way his cock bulges against his palm, and the way her body welcomes him with no resistance.

He is right there, balancing on the knife’s edge of pleasure, and it’s almost infuriating. His whole body shakes with the effort of holding back, but he can’t tear his eyes away from where they’re joined. The sight has his stomach tensing, his cock throbbing inside her. The slick glide, the way she clenches around him every time he grinds in deep, and the way her body drags him back in with every pull out it��s fucking unbearable.

“Baby, I can’t—” she drags him deeper into the heat of her release, her weak arms pulling him impossibly closer as if she’ll disintegrate without him.

That does it for Lando, shattering whatever control he has left. His rhythm stutters, his thrusts turning erratic as the pressure in his spine explodes.

“Fuck” he groans as his release bursts inside her, hot and thick, flooding her walls. His hips jerk against her as wave after wave crashes through him, his cock pulsing with every sharp, overwhelming aftershock.

But even as his body shudders with euphoria, even as his breath stutters against her throat, his hips keep moving.

“I’m sorry. So fucking sorry,” he rasps, pressing into her with hard grinds, still spilling inside her, his body demanding more. “Fucking hell, I can’t stop.”

She gasps, over-sensitive but still achingly wet for him, her body responding to every push, every deep roll of his hips.

“I know, I know,” she says, wrapping herself around him.

“Yes? Just a little more,” he begs, “Please, just let me feel you a little longer.”

His movements slow eventually, each thrust turning sluggish, drawn out, until he can’t physically move anymore. The last of his pleasure drains from him, leaving his body heavy, and utterly spent. Finally, he collapses on top of her, his face buried in the crook of her neck, breathing ragged, skin covered in a generous layer of sweat. His natural scent sends her home in an instant, and all she wants right now is for time to freeze in place.

She doesn’t say anything, just exhales softly and presses a kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, her lips brushing over his damp skin. She moves tenderly, kissing his jaw, his eyelids, the bridge of his nose. He’s still inside her, still holding onto her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded.

People talk about the quiet before the storm, but the quiet after is much more terrifying. It gives you time to see the destruction it left behind, and there’s nothing you can do but watch. She has always hated feeling powerless, and it’s only when she tilts her head, pressing her lips to his forehead, that she feels it. A warm, wet drop against her collarbone. Then another.

Her fingers still where they were stroking through his curls. “Lando?” she whispers, pulling back just enough to look at him, hoping that her suspicions will not come true. But that’s when she sees the raw emotion in his eyes, the way his brows are furrowed, the silent tears slipping down his cheeks.

He looks almost startled, like he hadn’t even realized he was crying. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his lips parting slightly as if he wants to say something, but nothing comes out.

She cups his face instinctively, her thumb catching a tear before it can fall, just like he did last night. “Lan…” she speaks a bit louder this time, “Look at me.”

He shakes his head in response, his hands gripping her waist like he’s afraid she’ll disappear again, this time for more than two months.

Lando presses his forehead to hers, closing his eyes, feeling more tears running down his cheeks, “Tell me it’s not too late for us,” he pleads, pulling back to finally meet her gaze. “Tell me I haven’t fucked this up beyond repair.”

Beneath the surface, the pain still lingers. But much deeper down, their bond is still knotted tightly, and even though the rope is taut, ready to snap at any small gust of wind, the fact that she’s still in his arms is enough for the rope to become the binder that holds them together. She can’t name the feeling without giving him everything all at once. Instead, she just brushes her nose against his.

“I think we both know the answer to that.”

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

None of my works are available for reposting on other platforms. Reblogs, likes, and comments are deeply appreciated ♥︎

© trashy track tales, 2025

[tsunodaradio]

a movie i've seen before ⛐ 𝐋𝐍𝟒

you kiss me in your car / and it feels like the start of a movie i’ve seen before.

ꔮ starring: lando norris x indie singer!reader. ꔮ smau + word count: 1.3k. ꔮ includes: romance, angst with a happy ending. profanity, mentions of a car accident. lando yearns :(, references to mcalpine songs. face claim: lizzy mcalpine. ꔮ commentary box: this was inspired by my perpetual amusement over ceilings being in lando's sunshine & tan lines playlist. back to back dedication for @norrisradio and @binisainz, who both love ceilings, lando, and yearning, in no particular order. i adore u both! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

Liked by user1, user2, and others spotify As Lando prepares for the new season, he’s created an exclusive Spotify playlist, Sunshine & Tan Lines, that gives fans an inside look at how music helps him get into the right mindset. Link in bio! 🔗

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user1 post malone enjoyer lando seems just about right user2 Life Is A Highway is PEAK. user3 is that... yourusername???????? ⤷ user4 LMAO same. Like ? Lando listens to INDIE MUSIC?!

Liked by lucydacus, hozier, and others yourusername been getting a lot of love for 'ceilings' as of late. thank you thank you thank you. if you're new here, welcome! new music soon 🎤🎸🌧️

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user1 FAWKKK I WAS TRYNA GATEKEEP U KWEEN user2 Here because of lando!! ⤷ user3 Here BEFORE lando. #OG user4 ceilings plaster 😭😭 can you just make it move faster 😭😭 user5 i need everybody to name three other songs if they want #rights

Liked by carlossainz55, danielricciardo, and others mclaren but it's over!!! then you're driving me home!!! 🗣️

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user1 HELLOOOO??? user2 they got lando doing the ceilings trend omfg user3 Somebody teach this boy how to run. wth. user4 the marketing yourusername must be getting rn is crazyyy user5 Can we get an Oscar version? ⤷ user6 PLS ADMIN PLS 🏃🏃🏃 ⤷ user7 need the entire grid to do this trend actually

NOVEMBER 2023.

BUT IT'S OVER / THEN YOU'RE DRIVING ME HOME / AND IT KINDA COMES OUT / AS I GET UP TO GO.

it rains on your first date.

lando makes a joke about it—something about pathetic fallacy, as if the sky itself knew this was going to be the most cliché first date in existence. you roll your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betray you, tugging upward as you sit beside him in his car. the streetlights flicker, casting gold against the windshield. the world outside is a blur of neon reflections and puddles swallowing headlights whole.

he drums his fingers against the steering wheel, like he’s keeping tempo with a song only he can hear. maybe it’s nerves. maybe it’s habit. either way, you don’t say anything about it. you’re too busy memorizing the way his hands move—too busy committing the weight of this moment to memory.

“did you have a good time?” he asks, voice soft, hesitant, like he’s afraid of the answer.

“no,” you deadpan, just to watch the flicker of panic in his eyes. then you laugh, because his reaction is too good, too easy. “i had a great time.”

he exhales, shaking his head, but there’s that smile again—the one that feels like it was meant for you and you alone. the one you already know you’ll be chasing after, in stolen glances and half-lit rooms.

outside, the rain doesn’t let up. it batters against the roof, slides in rivulets down the glass. neither of you move to leave.

“so, what now?” lando asks, but he says it like he already knows. like he’s just waiting for you to close the space between you.

and you do. slowly, deliberately. like you’re walking a tightrope between hesitation and inevitability. like you’re terrified of falling, but already know the landing will be soft.

his breath is warm, mingling with yours in the in-between. the world shrinks, folds itself neatly into the space of this car, into the inches that disappear when he finally, finally closes the distance.

you kiss him, and it feels like the beginning of something. like the first page of a story you already know by heart. like the opening credits of a film you’ll play on repeat.

outside, the rain keeps falling. inside, everything else stops—

Liked by phoebebridgers, mothercain, and others yourusername proof of life. ep out soon, but for now i offer y'all 'called you again' 📞🛌💭 link in bio to listen innn

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user1 omg new yourusername music. it's going to be a good day. user2 SO excited for the EP !! user3 oomf the song is soooo,, who hurt u ☹️ user4 Pay for my therapy man user5 wait is this lando's gf?

Liked by yukitsunoda0511, alex_albon, and others lando making my bed and sleepin in it by myself

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user1 lando on film supremacy ✌️ user2 The polaroid >>>> user3 am i crazy or is the caption from yourusername's new song? ⤷ user4 Riiiight 😵‍💫 The lyric that's "So I make my bed and sleep in it alone" ⤷ user5 can't get over the revelation that lando is an indie enthusiast ⤷ user6 In my K-pop fandoms this could only mean one thing... user7 what i'd give to be in lando's bed </3 what who said that

Liked by djotime, clairo, and others yourusername you'd rather die than take your eyes off me. last one before the full ep. glad to have benkessler on this one with me 🚗🌲💥 drive safe, everyone

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user1 Wait A Dang Second user2 ARE Y'ALL SEEING WHAT I'M SEEEEEEING 👀👀👀 ⤷ user3 I'm not insane. That has to be lando? Right?? user4 Omg, I love Ben! This was such a beautiful song! user5 the way the track ends. geeeez 😮‍💨 user6 lando what are u doin here user7 came running here after the twitter thread ⤷ user8 rt!!! feeling like sherlock raynow fr fr

FEBRUARY 2024.

I DIDN'T MEAN TO KISS YOU / I MEAN, I DID, BUT I DIDN'T THINK IT'D GO THIS FAR / I DIDN'T MEAN TO KISS YOU / NOW YOU CAN'T FOCUS ON THE ROAD WHEN I'M IN YOUR CAR.

—everything stops.

one second, he’s laughing, something careless and cocky slipping past his lips. the next, there’s a tree where the road used to be, and the world is jerking sideways.

the impact is loud. metal shrieks. the seatbelt locks across his chest like a hand pressing him back into his seat, and the airbag—fuck, it goes off too late, because his head snaps forward before he’s forced back again. it’s not hard enough to hurt. not really. but enough that he knows he’s going to feel it tomorrow.

his pulse hammers in his ears, and for a second, all he can do is breathe. inhale, exhale, blink, exist.

then—

“lando.”

he turns. you’re there, wide-eyed, hands gripping the dashboard like you could hold the car together through sheer force of will. but you’re whole. you’re okay.

his hands shake. adrenaline or fear or something bigger, something nameless. he drags them through his hair, then presses them against the steering wheel like he can steady himself through contact alone.

“fuck,” he exhales. it’s almost a laugh, but the edge is too sharp. “fuck.”

“are you—” your voice catches, and he hates that he put that there, that crack in your composure. “are you okay?”

lando nods too fast. too many times. “yeah. yeah, i—” he laughs, because what else can he do? “well. that’s, uh. that’s one way to end a date.”

you don’t laugh. your hands unclench from the dashboard, flex and tighten into fists against your thighs. when you look at him, it’s not with relief. it’s not even anger. it’s something heavier, something that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in.

“i told you to keep your eyes on the road.”

he swallows. his mouth is dry. he thinks about deflecting. thinks about turning this into a joke, another stupid anecdote, another story to be told with a grin and a shrug.

but he can’t. not with the way you’re looking at him.

“i know.”

silence presses in around you both, thick and unbearable.

lando doesn’t know how to say it. that the car wasn’t the only thing out of control. that he’d felt it, this thing between you, humming electric under his skin, pulling his attention like gravity. that maybe—maybe—some reckless, ugly part of him hadn’t wanted to look away. because he knew the moment he did, this would all slip through his fingers. the moment would end. you’d get out of the car, out of his reach, and he wouldn’t know how to pull you back.

so he hadn’t looked away.

and now, here you both are, headlights flickering against wet leaves, the smell of burnt rubber clinging to the air.

“i’m sorry, love,” he practically whimpers. like he’s a kid who’s afraid. and maybe he is, maybe he is. a kid. afraid. sorry. all that.

you exhale, slow and shaky. then you reach for his hand.

not to pull away. not to let go.

just to hold—

Liked by francolapinto, isackhadjar, and others lando i'll book the marching band to play as u speak

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user1 b&w lando is something i didn't know i needed until i got it user2 Where's that one Twitter conspiracist?? Because that caption is literally a lyric from 'doomsday' 🧐 ⤷ user3 FUCK URE RIGHT ⤷ user4 we're basically watching yourusername x lando communicate through ig captions. insane. user5 LN is either a huuuge yourusername fan... or her bf. LOL ⤷ user6 Lando is going thru it and you're LOL-ing user7 'doomsday' having the line "i would've married you / if you'd have stuck around",, moots they are exes 💔 user8 Who took these pics? Lovee the third one user9 te amo lando oscarpiastri insane mating call ⤷ user10 HELP WHAT DOES HE MEAN ⤷ user11 oscar confirming that this broody ass post is a mating call ⤷ user12 They're in love, your honor!! 🧡

🎙️ YOURUSERNAME INTERVIEW WITH GQ.

Liked by user1, user2, and others ln4updates 📍 Tokyo

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user1 The shades + white shirt combo is lethal. user2 girlie having a lando shirt is SOOO #me user3 hear me out: i know he's here ahead of the gp, but you know who else is in japan ? ⤷ user4 YUPPP!!! 🙂‍↕️ ⤷ user5 yourusername JPN stop at suntory hall ... ⤷ user6 Omg i saw op's post, these pics were taken in Minato. What's in Minato? Suntory Hall. Who's performing there tonight? You fucking guessed it.

APRIL 2025.

IT'S ALWAYS ON THE TIP OF MY TONGUE / BUT I STOP MYSELF FROM SAYIN' IT / TELL MYSELF IT'S NOT THE RIGHT TIME OR SOMETHING DUMB.

—just to hold. just to hold on to something, even when you shouldn’t.

lando has always been good at that. gripping too tight, hoping too much, holding on long past the point of reason. you told him once—gently, painfully—that love shouldn’t be like that. shouldn’t be desperate or clinging or stubborn in the face of an inevitable ending.

but then, inevitably, you’re here. in his car, again.

rain spatters against the windshield. the city glows beyond the glass, blurred and buzzing. neither of you speak. maybe if you don’t, it won’t count as something real. maybe if you don’t, you can pretend this is just another night, another drive, another moment before the fall.

lando’s fingers drum against the steering wheel. he hasn’t started the car. hasn’t moved, except for the twitch of his hand, the flick of his gaze towards you. “tell me this is a bad idea,” he says.

“it’s a bad idea,” you say, but it doesn’t sound convincing. not when he’s looking at you like that. not when the space between you is charged and crackling, like something waiting to ignite.

he exhales a laugh. “liar.”

you don’t argue. don’t say anything at all. because he’s right. because if you were really sure this was a mistake, you wouldn’t be here. wouldn’t be watching the way his hands grip the wheel, the way his jaw clenches like he’s bracing for impact. like he already knows how this ends and he’s still willing to crash into it for the chance to hold on.

“say it,” he says, quieter now. “tell me to let go.”

it would be easy. you could say it and mean it and walk away. but then lando shifts, turns fully toward you, and suddenly it’s too late. suddenly, it’s just like before. your breath catches, your heart stumbles, and his eyes—god, his eyes—

“i can’t,” you whisper.

and just like that, he’s kissing you. your lips press together in the space between regret and hope, between the past and whatever comes next.

just like that, you’re back where you started.

maybe you should know better. maybe he should, too.

but for now—

lando sighs into the kiss like he’s been holding his breath since the day you walked away. his hand finds your cheek, thumb brushing soft, tentative. like he’s making sure you’re real.

like he’s afraid you might disappear again.

when you finally pull away, his forehead rests against yours. he doesn’t open his eyes. neither do you.

“i don’t want to do this if we’re just going to—” you pause, press your lips together, inhale. “if we’re going to crash again.”

“i know.”

“we have to be careful this time.”

lando nods, his hand still cradling your face, his thumb still moving—slow, steady, certain.

“we will be,” he says, he promises, and you believe him.

you want to. you have to.

Liked by lando, oscarpiastri, and others yourusername orange show speedway

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user1 got progressively more insane as i kept swiping user2 WE ARE SO BACK (?????) ⤷ user3 WHATEVER IT IS WE ARE SO HERE!!! 🎉 user4 Congrats or sorry for whatever happened but I Need that Snoopy... user5 f1ndie is actually my fever dream. thank you for your service. user6 So can we safely assume all of the songs in 'five seconds flat' are for Lando? 🥹 lando how reckless of you ❤️ Liked by creator

[rafesangelita]

…BBF!RAFE X KOOK!SWEETHEART!READER AU

⋆𐙚₊˚🍦⊹♡

BBF!RAFE X KOOK!SWEETHEART!READER who started their secret romance after rafe overheard kook!sweetheart!reader gushing about him on the phone with her best friend, her words making him rethink everything he thought he once knew.. including his own feelings for her. for weeks after that, he drove himself to damn near insanity thinking about the ‘what if’ of things if he just let himself have her the way she wanted. he watched her from a distance, admiring the beauty he never fully appreciated out of respect for her older brother. suddenly they were sharing looks and ‘bumping’ into each other a lot more, rafe’s touch lingering a second too long for her to consider it him being lighthearted or friendly. all it took was one night for rafe to corner her and confess to her before they were sneaking around every chance they got.

BBF!RAFE X KOOK!SWEETHEART!READER who have mutually decided to keep their relationship under wraps since they’re both scared of hurting the one person that means a lot to them; her older brother. having to act like nothing is going on between them when they’re always around each other has been the hardest thing to do, especially when kook!sweetheart!reader’s brother is always trying to play matchmaker and set rafe up with other girls. naturally, she can’t help but leave the room whenever the topic comes up, feeling both frustrated and defeated because she knows she can’t say or do anything about it without her brother raising suspicions and finding out about them. thankfully, rafe shuts everything down just as fast as it comes up, never failing to reassure kook!sweetheart!reader once they’re in private.

BBF!RAFE X KOOK!SWEETHEART!READER who check into a fancy hotel on the mainland every weekend in order to be together without worrying about anyone seeing them. they take the term ‘weekend getaway’ too literal and end up ignoring everyone for two days straight, both of their phones blowing up with missed calls and unanswered messages while they stay up having marathon sex and ordering room service. “it kills me that we can’t do this everyday.” rafe is looking up at kook!sweetheart!reader as her hips move on top of him, his eyes rolling to the back of his head as she whimpered at the feeling of his length fill her up. “i know—” she hiccuped, “two days are not enough..” rafe lived in his own condo, but it was deemed useless to stay there since kook!sweetheart!reader’s older brother had his own key and could practically show up at anytime.

BBF!RAFE X KOOK!SWEETHEART!READER who have to act like they’re single in front of their friends, both of them stealing glances at each other when no one is looking. rafe keeps an eye on her if and when they happen to be at the same place, his fists clenching at his sides everytime she gets approached by someone. he does’t even realize he’s intently watching her as she turns each guy down until her brother nudges him in his side. “bro, will you relax? y/n isn’t a little girl anymore, she can handle her own.” rafe recounted the way they used to defend you from boys who only had one thing on their mind back in your teen years, both of them getting into a countless amount of fights all in your honor. while your brother was right, and rafe had no doubt in his mind that you didn’t need ‘saving’ anymore, he was territorial for a completely different reason now..

BBF!RAFE X KOOK!SWEETHEART!READER who often times feel guilty for going behind her brother’s back, both of them feeling conflicted once they’ve managed to sneak away. “i just feel like we’re digging our graves deeper the longer we wait to tell him..” rafe always gave you his full attention while you spoke to him, his fingertips running along your side as you two laid underneath your sheets together. “i don’t want to keep lying to him either.” as much as rafe loved your brother, he knew this was a form of betrayal he wasn’t sure he could ever come back from. to know that they’ve been lifelong friends and have been through everything together absolutely gutted him. how would he even react? despite all of this, rafe knew one thing to be certain; his love for you made any kind of outcome or consequence worth it.

[girlgenius1111]

hard knocks

alexia putellas x reader r gets a concussion, and her girlfriend, alexia, wants to help take care of her. r is incredibly resistant to allowing alexia to help, but she really doesn't have a choice. head injury, blood, etc. soft ale hurt comfort :)

—

You knew it probably wasn’t going to end well for you before you even made the move. The adrenaline was pumping through your veins, and all you could think about was making sure the ball didn’t hit the back of the net. The corner had been taken, and you saw the player you were marking move. She moved with intention, and you just knew the ball was heading towards her. 

So, you did what you had to do, what any defender in your position would have done, and jumped just as the other player did. From there, things got somewhat… blurry. 

You knew your head hit the ball, sending it away from the goal. You knew your body collided with your opponent’s before you were falling towards the ground. And then a sharp stinging pain as your face collided with something hard just before your head slammed into the grass underneath you. 

It wasn’t immediately clear to you what was wrong, just that your head hurt. But when you brought your hands to cradle your face, you could feel the blood. It was all you could do to raise one red stained hand into the air and motion frantically for help. 

The next second, there were hands on your back, voices shouting around you. You didn’t know who was talking, didn't know who was touching you, trying to roll you onto your back. 

It was dark, which was odd, because you remember the stadium lights being bright. Your eyes were closed, you realized, your face pressed into the grass under you. 

Everything began to come back into focus, as if the thoughts that had been smashed out of your head were suddenly allowed back in. 

You recognized Cata’s voice in your ear, her gloved hands on your back. 

“Don’t move, chica, just stay right there,” Cata was saying. She wasn’t trying to roll you over, you realized; she was trying to keep you as still as possible. 

Right. A head wound, you weren’t supposed to move until the medics got there. Forcing your eyes open, you got just a glimpse of the medics in a dead sprint towards you before your eyes slammed shut again, overwhelmed by the light. You groaned, hearing the medics arrive at your side and begin to ask you too many questions as they stabilized your neck and applied pressure to your face. 

Did your neck hurt? Not specifically. 

Did your back hurt? No. 

Could you move your hands? Your toes? Yes and yes. 

Question after question, answer after answer, it felt like an eternity before they cleared you to be rolled onto your back. They made you open your eyes again, and you weren’t even aware of the tears beginning to streak down your face. The neck brace they brought next was entirely precautionary, they assured you. 

“Okay, they’re driving the ambulance on right now. We’ll get you to the hospital soon.” Adriana said, the blonde physio that was currently crouched at your side, closest to your head. You hummed your understanding, allowing your eyes to flutter shut again. 

“Can you open your eyes?” Adriana asked, urgency dripping from her tone. 

You let out a choked sob, one you had no idea was even trying to get out, and cracked one eye just barely open. “Too bright. Hurts.” You managed. 

“Okay, okay. You’ll be off in a second and it’ll be darker.” Alvaro, the physio on your other side, assured you. “We just can’t have you falling asleep. Keep them open for me, just a few more seconds.” 

You forced them back open, just enough to take in the grimly focused faces of those around you. Not just the physios, but the medics they had on standby at the field. At least 6 faces surrounded you, none the one face you were looking for. In fact, you were looking before you even knew you were looking, but some rational part of you must have remained intact in your brain, because you didn’t ask for her. 

Alexia was your girlfriend, yes. But only of a few months. It would have been downright absurd to ask for her to come to you. In the middle of the pitch, surrounded by so many curious eyes. Even if there hadn’t been, Alexia was under no obligation to care for you. 

Even if you wanted her next to you right now, holding your hand as the ambulance began to drive away. leaving her and your teammates behind. They were all beyond horrified.

Cata was getting new gloves on because her first pair had your blood on them. Vicky looked a concerning shade of green. Irene was trying to force the team to focus again, repeating encouragements and patting them on the back as they walked back onto the pitch, even as her own hands shook. 

Alexia, though, was stood rooted to the spot she’d been since Patri had pulled her over to the sidelines, just a minute after you’d gone down. Her eyes were now fixed on where you’d been, terror clear on her face. 

“Ale.” Irene said. Hands gripped her forearms, and Alexia’s eyes snapped up, jolted from the fog of worry clouding her every thought. “She’s alright, she’s conscious. She’s going to be fine, but we need you to focus. Can you do that?”

Irene’s words were spoken gently, even as almost everyone else was back on the pitch. Ingrid was jogging on, coming on in your place. The clock was ticking, the match needed to resume. There were probably less than 10 minutes left even with stoppage time, and the team still had a job to do. Irene was confident, of course, that Alexia would snap out of it. Refocus in, transform into the leader the team needed rather than the worried sick girlfriend she was. 

But it seemed Irene underestimated just how deeply Alexia cared for you. Even Alexia herself had, until you’d been laying on the pitch with a head injury and Alexia was forced to reckon with the overwhelming emotions and feelings trying to choke her. 

“I can’t. I can’t, Irene.” Alexia murmured. There was no untangling all her emotions in that moment. She only knew what she had to do, and that was to get the hell off the pitch and to her car. 

Irene tried to mask the look of shock that washed over her, as if Alexia would even have noticed it in the state she was in. She was surprised, but she also knew that if Alexia was saying she couldn’t go on, she couldn’t go on. With a gentle squeeze of Alexia’s hands, Irene turned to Pere, only to find that Aitana was already standing next to the fourth official, waiting to come on. Pere looked somewhat dumbfounded, not having expected to have to make the change, but Aitana looked sure of herself. Rafel was stood behind her  and Irene knew instantly who was behind this change. Not their head coach, that was for sure. 

When Irene turned back, Alexia was gone. The only trace of her was a mostly brunette ponytail swinging as she sprinted down the tunnel. 

Irene jogged back onto the pitch next to Aitana, both of them focused. There was still a job to be done, and they were both going to make sure the team executed. 

As for Alexia, she was already out of the locker room, barefoot with her white Nikes in her hand, and her bag in the other. Keys, wallet, phone, shoes. That was all she needed. 

That, and to get to you.

—

Alexia had always been such a force, from the moment you’d met her. But confident captain Alexia didn’t arrive at your hospital room. Ale did, hands trembling, brow furrowed adorably with concern. Of course, you didn’t know which version had arrived, only that the door had swung open and you hoped it was a nurse with more painkillers because this hurt. 

“Amor?” Alexia murmured, stuck in the doorway as she took in the scene in front of her. A bright light was shining down on your face, a doctor in dark scrubs working to close the gash on your cheek. 

“You can’t be in here.” A man said, stepping in front of Alexia just as she tried to move to your side. 

“No, no, she is my– I need to see her. She is my girlfriend.” Alexia rushed out, her panic voice only now reaching your ears. She was a mess, face tear streaked from all the crying she’d done in the car. Her ponytail was tangled because it had been raining earlier, and she was still in her kit. It was a miracle her shoes were on the right feet, and she was sure she looked like she’d escaped an involuntary hold or something.

You’d been almost entirely focused on not moving, not flinching or wincing as the plastic surgeon carefully stitched your skin back together. He paused, though, seeing your eyes fly open at the sound of your girlfriend’s voice. 

“Ale?” You murmured, heart clenching in your chest at the thought she was here, here for you. 

“I understand that, but–”

“It’s alright, she can sit on the other side.” The surgeon interrupted. Alexia didn’t want another second, side stepping the nurse to carefully make her way to you. He was well aware that this was a painful process, one even more painful with the very few things he’d been allowed to give you, considering they were still waiting for the results of your head scan. You’d looked scared from the minute he explained that he was going to stitch up the wound on your face, your body so tense he was surprised it wasn’t shaking. 

As he’d hoped, you released a deep breath as Alexia’s hands grabbed yours, your body finally relaxing. Sometimes, the rules needed to be bent for the good of the patient. This was exactly one such case. 

“Oh, amor.” Alexia whispered. You barely registered her words, focused entirely on not crying as her warm hazel eyes bored into yours. When you were by yourself, you could hold it together. Now she was here, and you knew you had to hold it together so she wouldn’t see you fall apart. But her hand was so soft in yours, her thumb gently running back and forth over your skin. 

You hated being hurt. Hated being vulnerable. But being either of those things around Alexia was terrifying. She hadn’t seen you at anything but your best yet, and you hadn’t realized how much fear you carried at the thought of her being disgusted by your weakness. 

So, you grit your teeth, squeezed your eyes shut, and tried to power through. You missed the frown on the surgeon’s face as you tensed back up, missed the furrow of Alexia’s brow as she practically saw your walls come up. You let her keep holding your hand, trying to convince yourself you weren’t lying in the hospital. No, you and Alexia were walking, hand in hand, to the cafe down the street from your apartment. 

The delusion didn’t last very long, if at all, before the surgeon was cutting the excess thread and expecting his handiwork. 

“All done. It was a jagged laceration, but it should heal pretty cleanly. The scar shouldn’t be too noticeable.” 

You nodded your head blankly, ignoring the pulsing pain as you did so, not even thinking to ask any other questions about your injuries. Alexia, on the other hand, appeared to have come with a list. She asked about the concussion severity, when you’d be free to go, wound care. Half of them were questions you were sure she knew the answer to already, and the other half were questions you weren’t quite sure how she’d come up with. You began to tune them all out, allowing yourself to take some deep breaths for what felt like the first time since you’d gone down on the pitch. 

Soon, the doctors and nurses filed out of the room, and you were left with Alexia, who was typing frantically into her phone. Either updating the team or taking notes on what the doctor had to say, you guessed. You cleared your throat, reaching for her hand again. There was dried blood under your nails, you noticed, but before you could retract your hand, Alexia was grabbing it in hers. Alexia’s phone fell into her lap as she abandoned her typing, eyes finding yours almost instantly. She was gazing at you so softly it made your cheeks flush. 

“Thank you for coming. You didn’t have to.” 

“Do not be ridiculous, of course I came.” She murmured, gently brushing a piece of hair off your forehead. “You scared me.” 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.” You whispered back, eyes fluttering shut as she leaned down and pressed a kiss to the uninjured side of your face. 

“Do not be sorry, either. I am just glad you are okay.” 

You blinked a few times, reminding yourself there were to be no tears. “How did you get here so fast? You weren’t supposed to be substituted.”

If you’d been more coherent, less distracted by the pounding in your head and the aching sting of your cheek, you would have noticed Alexia’s face get slightly red. 

“I… I asked to come out. I would not have been able to focus. I needed to get to you.” She replied, her eyes still flitting over your face as if to assure herself that you were here, you were okay. 

The pain in your head was suddenly overshadowed by a wave of something you couldn’t describe washing over you at her words. 

You couldn’t put a name to the feeling. All you could think was oh, you didn’t deserve her. Yet here she was. 

A tear escaped, sliding down the side of your face and onto the pillow resting under your head. Alexia moved even closer, her face just a few inches from yours now, absolutely filled with worry and sadness. She cupped your cheek in one hand, resting the other on your chest, needing to feel you and make sure you felt her. 

“It’s alright, cariño. You are going to be okay, everything is okay.” 

Nothing felt okay. It felt too good and too scary at the same time, and you weren’t sure how to reconcile those two emotions. 

“I love you.” You whispered. 

Alexia’s eyes widened, and you froze. Where on earth had that come from? You’d been thinking it, yes. Practically since your first date. But they must have given you more painkillers than you thought, or maybe you were suffering a traumatic brain injury, because there was no other reasonable explanation for you saying those words to her before she said them to you. 

Alexia looked as surprised as you felt, shocked into silence for a minute before she leaned in, her lips barely brushing yours, she was so gentle. She seemed to be gathering herself when she pulled away, and you felt your stomach drop. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have–”

“Shh,” Alexia soothed, stroking your hair once again. “I love you, too, amorcita. So much.”

She said it like it was easy, like she didn’t need to give it a second thought. You were reminded again at how Alexia always seemed to see only the best in you. Here you were, covered in blood and sweat, half your face covered with gauze, eyes half shut because the light hurt too much, making confessions of love at the worst possible time. Yet Alexia seemed to just be content that you were okay, thrilled at what you’d said. She didn’t see the mess, somehow. 

Though you supposed you could understand, at least partially. Alexia was practically a disaster at the moment, too, but you didn’t see the tangled mess her hair was, or the dried tear tracks on her face. You didn’t care that she smelled like outside, a mixture of grass and sweat. You were just so glad she was here, with you. So glad, in fact, you’d told her you’d loved her. 

So, as confounding as her adoration for you felt, you knew it probably just baffled you. Thinking about it made your head hurt, and your head already hurt. 

“You do?” 

Alexia rolled her eyes. “Tonta. Of course I do.” 

You gave a watery laugh, allowing her to tuck her face into your neck, her arms wrapping around you as best they could. 

“I want to go home.” You mumbled. 

“Soon, amor. We just need the head scan back and then we can go.” Alexia promised, pressing a series of kisses to the skin of your neck. 

“Good. You need a shower.” 

She pulled back, looking offended. “Disculpe! You think you do not?” 

You laughed, a real laugh, beyond amused at how easily you could rile her up. You didn’t even think about how the room was spinning slightly, or the way it felt like an elephant had stepped on your head. You were mesmerized by the woman in front of you, how she could make you laugh when no one else could. 

She must have seen your face soften, because hers did too, into a small, almost shy smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll both get a shower. We’ll get you home, and I’ll take care of you. Whatever you need.” 

Your smile faltered only slightly, just barely enough for Alexia to notice. She was struck with the odd feeling you would not be a very willing patient. 

—

“Amor, the doctor said,”

“Alexia, it’s fine. I need to wash my hair. It’ll be quick, it’s not a big deal.”

You shakily pushed past your girlfriend, heading for your bathroom. Alexia was just half a step behind you, though, as she’d been since the two of you arrived home 10 minutes ago. Steps unsteady, you were secretly glad for her hovering, knowing that if you stumbled even slightly, she’d catch you. 

“But your stitches–”

“Alexia.” You huffed, rolling your eyes as her arms came to wrap around your waist and pull you to a stop. Instead of spinning you around to face her, she moved herself until you were face to face. She looked stern, lips pursed and eyebrows furrowed; the face she made when one of your younger teammates misbehaved. 

“The wound cannot get wet. He said you could rinse off in the shower if you made sure not to put your head under.” She studied you, her body still between yours and the shower you so desperately needed. 

You felt disgusting, covered in mud and dirt and blood. The feeling would stick to your skin, you knew, until you took a shower and made sure all of you was clean, including your hair. 

You tried to summon some anger, some frustration that she was being so stubborn, but you couldn’t. Alexia was just trying to help. She’d driven you home, going well under the speed limit and warning you before she turned or braked. She’d let you lean heavily on her as you made your way up to your apartment, pulling you into her arms in the elevator in the most comforting embrace you’d felt in a long time. 

And now you were being difficult, but you knew yourself. You genuinely would not be able to get to sleep tonight if something wasn’t done about your hair. It had spent several minutes on the muddy pitch whilst the medical staff had treated you, and you were sure if you were still enough, birds would come along and take it for a nest. 

“Ale, I really need to be clean.” You pleaded. 

Something in your voice made Alexia falter, her teeth chewing on her bottom lip as she thought. 

“Okay.” She said finally. “Okay. Quick body shower and then I’ll wash your hair in the sink, and that way your face won’t get wet.” 

You blinked, but Alexia was already moving, tugging you gently towards that bathroom. 

“Ale, you don’t have to do that.” 

The midfielder just waved you off, guiding you to sit on the closed lid of the toilet as she got the shower ready. She kept the big overhead light off, only turning the small one over your vanity on.

“Alexia, really, it’s fine I can… I can just go to bed like this.” You attempted, embarrassed and ashamed that you had made her think she had to wash your hair for you. If there was anything that could overcome your desperate need to be clean, it was your desperate need to not inconvenience Alexia any more than you already were. 

Alexia turned the showerhead on, bringing it to a temperature much less hot than you normally liked, but she didn’t want you to get any dizzier than you already seemed to be. She turned to you, then, already pulling her kit over her head and tugging at the ponytail in her own hair. 

“Amor, I said I was going to take care of you. That is what I am doing. Whatever you want, whatever you need. I promise, I don’t mind.” She said softly, crouching down in front of where you sat and placing her hands on your knees. 

“But–”

“No buts.” Alexia interrupted, leaning up to peck your lips. “Come on, baby.” 

She rose to her feet, extending a hand in your direction, and you made yourself take it. 

—

You felt awful. Worse than awful. It hadn’t really hit until after you’d showered and Alexia had shampooed and conditioned your hair in the sink. You’d told her she could just stop after the shampoo but she’d ignored that, insisting she liked the smell of the conditioner and how soft it made your hair. 

You knew she really just didn’t want to disrupt your routine, but you appreciated that she didn’t say that. 

But as she carefully combed through your hair, she noticed your face grow suddenly paler in the mirror. It wasn’t immediately clear, because half of it was swollen, a large bruise blooming across your cheek over the neat line of stitches, but when she noticed the way your body started to sway, the way your eyes began to glaze over, she knew you weren’t doing well. 

Quickly, she put the brush down, steadying you with her hands on your arms. 

“You okay?” 

You hummed, letting your eyes shut as you leaned your head back on her shoulder. Your hair was still wet, and therefore cold, falling directly onto Alexia’s skin as she only had a cropped tank top on, but she resisted the urge to shiver. 

“Talk to me. How are you feeling?” She insisted, wrapping her arms loosely around your waist, still studying your face in the mirror.

“Not… not great.” You replied finally. Your heart fluttered in your chest as she gently kissed your unwounded cheek. “I just need to lie down.” 

Alexia took that sentence as a mission directive, kissing you once again before carefully beginning to guide your body out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. Your bed was practically calling your name, the soft blankets and squishy pillows all you’d been thinking about since leaving the hospital. 

Your girlfriend helped you under the covers, propping up two pillows under your head so your face didn’t swell too much. Once you were all tucked in, she sat on the edge of the bed, tracing over the bruise on your face with her fingers, so lightly you couldn’t even feel it. 

“What else can I get you? Food? Water? An ice pack? Anything, amor.” 

You smiled weakly at her, your face erupting in pain at the motion. The laceration was high up on your cheek, so close to your eye that it was now almost swollen shut. It had its own heartbeat, pulsed so painfully you almost felt sick to your stomach. All you wanted in that moment, all you wanted, was for Alexia to climb into bed with you, and hold you until it didn’t hurt anymore. 

But you couldn’t say that. Couldn’t ask for that. She’d done so much already. Left the match early, sat with you in the hospital, brought you home and helped you bathe. She’d done much more than enough.

The two of you weren’t the type of couple to spend every waking second together. You each still had your own apartments because you really valued your alone time, and post matches were normally nights you spent separately. You’d eat dinner together, discuss the match, before going your separate ways to decompress on your own. It worked for both of you. There had been exceptions, of course. After a loss in the league, when you could tell she didn’t want to be alone, you slept at her place. And after that awful own goal you’d had, though you’d still won the game, she’d ordered your favorite take out, put on your favorite film, and pulled you into her arms, mumbling something about being too tired to drive home. 

Still, you were sure that Alexia wanted to go back to her own apartment, get in her own bed and not be kept up by your tossing and turning [you were sure you weren’t going to be sleeping well that night, either].

“No, no, I’m all good, Ale. Thank you for everything. You can go home now, I know you probably–”

“Go home?” Alexia interrupted. She looked borderline offended at the suggestion, her hand gripping yours as if someone was going to come and try to make her go home. 

“Well, yeah. Like always after–”

“Mi amor, you have a concussion. You cannot be by yourself overnight. I have to wake you up every few hours, make sure everything is still okay.” Alexia explained, her face firm again as if daring you to push back. 

And, well. You’d forgotten about that part. Maybe you were more affected by this concussion than you thought. Your brain felt unbelievably foggy, all of a sudden, like you couldn’t string all your thoughts together without a few of them getting lost.

“Oh. That’s right.” You replied. “Still, I could set alarms…” 

Alexia frowned, something flickering in her eye that you couldn't quite decipher. “Do you really think I’d leave you when you were hurt?” 

Alexia looked disgusted at the mere notion, and your lips twitched with amusement. 

“Well. No.”

“No.” Alexia echoed. “I’m staying right here, with you. Okay?”

“Okay.” You replied, yet your bottom lip began to tremble and Alexia could see tears pooling in your eyes. 

“Cariño, what is it?” Alexia asked, voice dripping with concern that made your stomach twist. 

How did you even begin to explain why you were crying? Why this was so hard for you, why you were pushing her away when you needed her desperately to stay? 

“I j-just feel bad.” You whispered, averting your eyes from her hazel ones gazing at you. Less than a second later, though, a hand was finding your chin, carefully guiding your face back up to look at her. 

She had that look she got when there was a problem to be solved, the face she made when she stood over a free kick and tried to figure out exactly where to place it. 

“Why do you feel bad?” She wondered.

You inhaled deeply, and Alexia brought your joined hands up, pressing a kiss to the back of your hand. She waited so patiently, absentmindedly raking her fingers back through her hair to get it out of her face. You wondered if she knew how distracting she could be without even trying. 

“I just… I’m not good at this. I feel terrible for making you take care of me. It’s stupid, but I feel like…” 

“Do not even say it. You are not a burden to me.” Alexia interrupted, forehead wrinkling, eyebrows pulling together as she regarded you unhappily. Her hand tightened around yours. “You are not making me do anything. I am here because I care about you, and I want to take care of you.” 

You sniffled, shutting your eyes and leaning your head back. It was too much to look at her and have this conversation. Your head ached too much for that. 

“I know that, reasonably. But I can’t turn my brain off, I can’t make it stop overthinking and doubting and worrying and–” You broke off into a sob that you weren’t expecting. 

“Oh, mi amor.” Alexia murmured. She nudged you until you opened your eyes, wincing at the light. She opened her arms for you, drawing you in close to her chest. She was so warm, her hands sliding up the back of your shirt, pressing you even tighter against her. Your good cheek rested against her chest, and you inhaled the scent of her, somehow so much better even though you’d used the same body wash. “I wish I could make your brain be quiet.”

She seemed to pause for a moment, still gently rubbing your back as she thought. She wasn’t sure quite what to say, how to make you feel better. After a few seconds she leaned back slightly, her eyes meeting your teary ones. 

“Listen, amor. I love you. I would not be here if I did not want to be. There is no place in the whole world I would rather be right now than here with you, making sure you are okay. I know words can only do so much but please, baby. Try to believe me. I love you, I want to take care of you.” 

“I love you.” You whimpered, leaning back into her chest. She caught you easily, snuggly tucking you into her yet again. “I’m sorry, I’m trying, and it’s not that I don’t trust you,” 

“Shh, I know that mi amor. I am not offended.” Alexia reassured you, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head. “It’s all alright, hmm? Everything is okay.” 

You forced yourself to hear it, to internalize it and believe it. Everything was okay. Alexia was here, that was all that mattered. Not the pounding in your head, or the dizziness you felt when you moved even the smallest amount. Not the gash on your cheek, and not the fact that sometimes it felt like your brain was working against you. It was just you and her, and you let that knowledge wash over you like a calming wave. 

Once your body stopped trembling and the tears stopped falling, Alexia made you lay back down. She pulled the covers up to your chin, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. 

“Now. Tell me what you need before we get some rest.” 

Hesitantly, you patted the bed next to you. The tension in the room fell away as Alexia beamed, bounding around to the other side so she could crawl in next to you. 

Everything had felt so jumbled and messed up since you’d gone down on the pitch earlier that evening. But as Alexia wrapped herself around you, pulling you back into her, the world seemed to put itself back on its axis. Your girlfriend flicked the light off, the two of you laying there in content silence for a minute. 

“I cannot believe you said I love you for the first time in the hospital.” Alexia whispered, breaking the quiet that had settled over the room. “Very cliche.” 

You burst out laughing, a laugh that made your cheek sting and your head pound, but you found you didn’t really care. 

“I can’t believe you got subbed off when I got hurt. Did you run off the pitch really dramatically?”

Alexia huffed, lightly pinching your side. “Cállate.” 

She wasn’t about to admit that it had been probably very dramatic. 

Alexia snuggled even closer into you, leaving a few kisses on the skin of your neck. “Goodnight, baby. I love you.” 

Tomorrow, you’d think about how good it felt to hear her say that to you. For now, you just placed your hand over hers where it rested on you, and squeezed. 

“I love you, too.” 

Alexia let the words wash over her, enjoying the feeling of you laying so happily in her arms, even if she hated that you were hurt. She loved when you were snuggly like this, and knew to savor the moment. 

Especially knowing that when she had to wake you up in a few hours, you would not be so pleased with her. She didn’t really care though. Not if it meant you were okay and safe and happy. 

—

it feels like its been FOREVER since ive written and i'm slightly self conscious of this but im very happy to be getting something done and posted 🙂❤️‍🩹

[sai-int]

hihi i recently discovered your blog and i am in love with you writing!! it’s so beautiful and i wish i could wallpaper it to the insides of the brain tehe i’m super interested to see how you’d write daddy kink with either price or simon (or whoever else you see most fit)! i wanted to keep this req general/basic so you could really do anything you want with it but here are some dynamics/au’s/etc. that i find enjoyable, in general, in case it sparks anything: soft dom, leashes/crawling, wild west au (bonus points for boot riding 🫣), boxer au, butcher!char x florist!reader, and ballerina!reader. (sorry felt like that list was all over the place LOL.)

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!! And ooooou anon. The way I evilly rubbed my hands together when I read this... Also, if you're looking for price and boot riding, look no further.

Here's some butcher!simon x fem!florist!reader, plus a sprinkle of softdom!simon w a daddy kink

The bell over the shop door chimes, delicate and bright—a sound far too gentle for the man who steps inside. Simon's too big for a place like this, too heavy with the scent of blood and metal. The air, thick with lavender and roses, should soften him—but instead, he makes the space feel smaller, like the walls close in just for him.

You barely look up from the bouquet in your hands, carefully tying off a bundle of peonies. "You're late," you murmur, but there's no real scolding behind it, just soft acknowledgment.

Simon grunts, gently shutting the door behind him. His boots hit the wooden floor with their usual weight as he steps closer, watching you with an unreadable, steady gaze. "Had a long day," he mutters. "Some tosser ordered a full side o' beef last minute. Took me the better part o' the afternoon t'quarter it."

You frown, already wiping your hands on your apron, instinctively stepping toward him. "Oh, Si," you hum, reaching to brush your fingers over his forearm. "That sounds awful. You must be exhausted."

His fingers twitch, his gaze dropping to where your soft hand press against his skin. You always touch him so freely, without hesitation—like he wasn't too big, too rough, too covered in things you had no business being near.

Simon exhales, his shoulders shifting. "I can handle it."

"I know you can," you say, voice soft, warm. "Doesn't mean you should have to."

That makes him pause. He tilts his head, watching you carefully, his hands already finding their place at your waist, large and warm. You fit against him so easily, so naturally, like you belong right there.

Your eyes flick downward, catching the faint streak of something crimson near his elbow.

"Simon." You frown, taking his wrist between your hands, your delicate fingers turning it slightly. "You've still got—"

"Blood," he supplies flatly.

You swallow, your fingers smoothing gently over the stain. "You should've washed up more before coming here."

His lips twitch. "Didn't want t'keep y'waiting, dollface."

Your heart squeezes at that, warmth blooming in your chest. He's never the type to say much, but little things like this—small, quiet acts of care—spoke louder than words ever could.

You wrap your arms around him, looping them around his middle, pressing yourself against his broad chest. He's solid as ever, warm as always. You hold him tightly, sighing against the fabric of his shirt.

"You take such good care of me, you know that?"

His hands flex on your waist, his fingers spreading wide, like he's trying to feel all of you at once.

"Yeah?' His voice drops to something lower, something rougher.

You nod, rubbing your cheek lightly against his chest. "Mhm. You always make sure I'm safe— always there for me." You smile softly against him, letting yourself sink into his warmth. "So good to me."

His arms tighten around you, pressing you firmly against him, one hand trailing up your back, fingers tangling briefly in the little bow of your apron. "Course I am," he mutters, his voice thick with something deeper, heavier. "Gotta look after what’s mine, yeah?"

That makes your stomach flutter, your breath hitch.

Your voice softens, warmer, something meant just for him. "That's why I love being yours," you breath, your breath warm against his skin. You let the words linger, let them settle between you, before you add, in a whisper full of quiet, saccharine affection—

"Daddy."

Simon tenses in your hold, a sharp inhale cutting through the air. His hands tightens at your waist, fingers digging in, just shy of rough.

Posessive

"Fuck, dove" he rasps, voice strained. Then, in a rough whisper, like he was barely holding himself together— "Right here? In the middle of y'shop?"

You giggle, shaking your head. "No, not here," you hum, still teasing, still warm against him. "But I get off in an hour."

His grip stayed firm, his nose brushing against your temple, his voice dropping even lower.

"I could get you off in less."

Your mouth falls slack in shock before you huff, swatting at his arm. "Si!"

He chuckles, smug as ever, his grip on you unrelenting. "What?" His lips ghost the shell of your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "Just sayin'"

You swat at him again, though it was weaker this time, warmth blooming in your chest, your stomach twisting with anticipation.

Simon leans back slightly, reaching into his front pocket to pull out a folded bill. With a casual ease, he slips it between his fingers, glancing down your shirt, his height making it effortless, before tucking the bill into your bra.

"F'the flowers," he said, voice rich with amusement. "Bring home somethin' nice, yeah? Something' soft."

His gaze drops to your lips before flicking back up to your eyes, dark and unreadable. "Not everything I touch has to bleed." He gently presses his lips to yours, savoring the taste of you until he can get you to himself at home.

And with that, he heads home, leaving you warm, breathless, and counting down every second until you can lock up for the night and let him keep his promise.

[monstersholygrail]

You slowly walk up to Bunny Secretary, your stomach in knots. You’re not sure if that’s your anxiety or just general pregnancy queasiness. But you feel like you’re about to be sick, wanting to run away and just never tell him. Neither of you had planned this, starting a family together. You had no idea how he would react, you never had any idea what he would react with.

Bunny Secretary sits on the plush chair in your shared living room. His focus on the book before him as he absentmindedly strokes the top of the page, most likely preparing to turn it. Your voice cracks as you try and clear your throat, quickly gaining his attention. What the hell are you gonna say, how are you going to do this?

“Why don’t you finger me like that?” You find yourself asking instead. The joke tumbling from your lips without permission.

The corner of his mouth quirks up, bunny ears twitching crookedly in confused amusement. He slows the stoke of his fingers, the act turning purposeful and seductive.

“Love, I stroke you much harder than this. Though if you wish I start going slower, I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement,” Bunny Secretary says with that smug smirk of his, knowing going slower would be such a pleasureful torture.

With your emotions currently all over the place, you can’t stop the giant pout from forming on your lips. A little huff leaving you, not appreciating his teasing right now. You go to turn around and leave, leaving him back to his precious book, when a gentle but firm hand grips your wrist.

You don’t even have time to try and tug your hand from his hold as in an instant he’s pulling your delectably plump frame right into his lap. Releasing a small yelp the world blurs as you crash into his lap, making you even more nauseous.

A small pleased bunny buzzing vibrates from his throat as his hands get to work on groping you. One hand gripping your thick thighs and pulling you impossibly closer. Squeezing you, feeling your flesh fill up his hands so perfectly. The other caresses your back, slipping around to feel the curve of your stomach and the globes of your breasts.

Your body struggles between melting into his arms and tensing against him. He just can’t stop touching you, burying his face in your neck and inhaling deeply. Just as you’re about to give in and fall into his embrace, he’s the one who tenses and for a moment it’s like the entire world freezes in place.

“You smell different. Why do you smell different?” Bunny Secretary asks, sniffing you more insistently now. You giggle at the sensation of his nose wriggling against you, shying away from it.

“Excuse me?!”

“Not bad different… good different. Very good, darling,” he rasps, his tongue flicking out as if he could sneak a taste.

His hands grow more needy by the second and your body heats up as his touch becomes less teasing and more suggestive. His desire most obvious by the hard bulge forming beneath your bottom.

“You’re pregnant aren’t you?” He rasps against your skin, that happy bunny buzzing coming back. His hand slides up between your inner tighs, dipping beneath your skirt and caressing your pant-covered slit.

“W-what?”

“Your scent. It’s so much stronger darling, I’m salivating. Our mates only get like this when they are with kit. So go on, tell me what I wanna hear,” he coos in your ear, his breath making you tingle all over.

“Yes, yes I’m pregnant,” you announce breathlessly.

Bunny Secretary hums and pulls your panties to the side, feeling your dripping folds coat his mischievous fingers. He groans as he feels how unbelievably wet you are for him. Eyes tracking every hitch of breath, little moan, and the way you arch and rock into his touch.

When he dips his digits inside your warm cunt you moan and buck your hips as best you can. He smiles at you warmly, a dark possessive look raging in his eyes as he pumps his fingers inside you. Plunging as deeply as he can reach with his long thick fingers.

“Y’gonna look so pretty all full and round of my kits. I don’t think I’ll be able to stay off of you. Just wanna fuck you till you can’t even walk. Keep you trapped in our bed, growing our babies.”

He rambles all his dirty thoughts to you, his stream of thought endless as he imagines tying you down and keeping where he can fuck you at any given moment. Wanting you to get your rest, wanting to give you all the pleasure you can imagine. And you’re so lost in pleasure you don’t notice the low twisted tone of his voice and the look of deep satisfaction on his face. You’re all his now and forever.

You’re too far gone, lost in the rhythmic movement of rocking your hips into his every thrust. Your head falling back as he adds in a third finger, stretching your pussy so deliciously. Each whimper and moan only seems to fuel him further. His words getting more dirty and his pace growing faster. Doing everything he can to push you over that edge.

“Cum for me, my love. Milk my fingers like you milk my cock. Show me how bad you wanna have my kits,” he demands, voice as sharp and needy as glass. But it’s enough.

With his word alone you’re coming hard, body seizing with uncontrollable pleasure. Your pussy clenches and sucks him back in every time he dares to pull out a little. So his thumb immediately goes to your clit, rubbing at your nerves and prolonging your orgasm.

You’re left panting against him once your release begins to fade. All that’s left being soft aftershocks. Through half-lidded eyes you gaze up at Bunny Secretary, not surprised to see his usual superior expression. He always gets like this after sex, knowing he absolutely wrecked you.

His hands softly caress your sides, soothing your the tremors. After a moment of staring he leans down and kisses you softly. A slow and all consuming kiss that steals your breath away.

“You’ll never want for anything again, darling. This I promise,” he vows against your lips. And you just blush, not knowing how truly serious he is.

[urcoolgf]

thought i wouldn’t find out?

pairing. frat¡rafe && reader

content. fluff. suggestive content/thoughts. language. blood. violence(?)

summary. you’re the designated ‘frat girl’, but when rafe’s ‘brothers’ start getting too close, he’s gotta remind them who you belong to psa i have nooo clue about frats so i just used names i found on the internet (yes, i’m in college and still have no idea about them)

“so i told the idiots at kappa sigma that they can suck my dick! i’m not working with them for the annual formal, and if they wanna run their mouths to whoever the fuck’s in charge– i really don’t give a damn,” was the first thing you heard as you walked through the door of rafe’s frat house, pi kappa phi. him and some other ‘brothers’ were scattered about in their messy living room. it was friday afternoon, so they were all just hanging out before frats opened at 11pm. almost all of them had a beer in their hand, including rafe.

he turned once he heard the sound of the door, a smile subconsciously forming on his face.

“there’s my girl,” he said, moving his arm up, waiting for you to take your place next to him. his eyes panned over your body– cropped white t-shirt with a jean skirt, and some country looking belt that hung off you, proving it was just for looks– his eyes landed on the pack of beer in your hand. it was pretty customary for you to bring drinks for the weekends– not for the parties– just for him, and the other guys.

he rested his arm on the back of the couch, telling you to put it in the refrigerator– as if this wasn’t routine.

once you returned from the kitchen, you took your spot in his arm. he craned his head to give you a quick kiss on your cheek, moving his mouth to ghost over your ear.

“how you doin’ baby?,” his voice was low, almost slurring as if he was a bit tipsy– he wasn’t, you knew that he was just getting started.

“‘m good,” you nuzzled into his touch. after a long day of classes, rafe’s presence was calming. it grounded you in a way you craved throughout the stress of your day.

he continued to talk to the guys in the room, his fingers rubbing little circles into your soft shoulder with the hand that was slung around you. your head rested between his chest and the under part of his arm.

“be right back,” he said to the other guys, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek before wandering somewhere in the house.

you suddenly felt a lot of eyes on you. you were used to these guys, but something about this exact moment felt… uneasy. you didn’t make it known that you were slightly uncomfortable though. you knew who you were– you knew how crazy your boyfriend was. they wouldn’t try anything if they knew what was good for them.

“so, y/n… long day?,” jake asked with a smirk before taking a swig of his beer. you knew all of them– unfortunately– it’s not like they were all bad, just a majority. jake included. you tried to hide the discomfort in your face. you thought you were doing a good job…

“dude. what’re you doin’?,” cam butted in before you could answer– apparently your discomfort wasn’t that hidden. he was one of the only ones without a beer in his hand, and he was probably your favorite of the guys– besides rafe, of course. he was the nicest, and he never really made you feel out of place, or uncomfortable. he kept all the other guys in check when rafe was gone– mainly because he was rafe’s right hand man, and his best friend.

“jus’ askin’ pretty girl how her day was,” his smirk still glued to his face, turning from cam back to you, still awaiting your answer.

“cut it out jake,” his tone was serious. you just sat there awkwardly, but you wanted jake to know he didn’t bother you– even if he did.

“no, no cam… it’s fine,” you began, a fake smile on your face, “my day was long. jus’ happy to come home to rafe, y’know?”

jake was clearly tipsy, maybe even already drunk. that’s the only thing that would explain the next words that came out of his mouth.

“rafe… rafe is a little bitch. wouldn’t know a pretty girl like you if it hit him,” cam gave you a look– should i jump in?– you shook your head gently, intrigue plastered over your face. you wanted to see how far jake would go. the other guys surrounding him watched him with bated breath as if he was actually making a valid point. it almost made you laugh.

“bet he can’t even make ya cum… ya ever need a real man you come to me sweetheart,” the words made you cringe. did he really think shit like that would make you… what? swoon? cam’s jaw was slacked, in utter disbelief of what just came out of his ‘brother’s mouth. you went with it– kind of.

“well, jake that is a very kind offer, but i gotta tell ya…,” you stood up from the couch, moving toward the chair he was sat on. you leaned down, right in his face– close enough for him to not just hear the words you were about to say, but feel them too.

“you shouldn’t be concerned about me getting off. rafe’s got plenty of photo proof of that,” your smile was evil, challenging. just as you moved away from jake’s face, walking back to your spot on the couch, rafe reentered the room.

“what’d i miss?,” he was clueless, you knew cam would try and tell rafe, but you didn’t want to cause even more of a scene. you weren’t jake’s biggest fan, but the things rafe would to do him if he found out were… probably illegal. and it’s hard to run a frat from jail.

“not much,” you shrugged, plopping yourself back on the couch. the look on cam’s face was just pure confusion and shock. jake’s on the other hand… well, his was just shock. you smiled to yourself while rafe made his way to sit next to you.

—

the house had so many bodies, loud music, flashing lights that would make anyone’s head spin. you were currently fighting your way through the crowd of people to get to the bathroom. once you closed the door behind you the music was a little more muted, giving you some peace. not for long.

“so i told her– if she wants a real man she can come to me. probably come for me, too,” jake’s agitating laugh could be heard from the other side of the door.

“so she got all up in my face– hot as fuck– told me not to tell rafe. that i’d be hearing from her real soon,” whatever group of people he was talking to began ‘ooo’-ing and laughing. little did you know, cam was in that group– observing. you stayed in the bathroom until their voices faded away, giving you a clear to exit.

you needed to find rafe.

luckily, he hadn’t really moved from the spot you left him in, but once you saw rafe, cam came into view too.

cam was turned away from you. you could see rafe’s face, and he was furious. his face was basically turning red, jaw locked, eyes wide and narrowed at the same time. you watched his hold on his beer bottle tighten, knuckles turning white.

even over the noise in the house, you could hear the sound of rafe’s bottle thud against the counter, followed by a “fuck no. oh, he’s fucking dead. they’re all dead.” he was about to walk away, leaving cam to himself, before his eyes caught yours. suddenly, rafe was right in front of you– towering over you.

“we gotta talk,” was all that he said before grabbing your hand, and dragging you upstairs into his room. he closed the door behind him. most of the noise was muted now, giving you a chance to talk privately.

“what did cam tell you?,” you weren’t scared of rafe when he was like this, but you were still a little concerned. he looked like he could break just about any and every thing in his room right now.

usually rafe would play mind games– ask you what you thought cam told him– but he was in no mood right now.

"told me what that jackass jake said. ‘bout how i couldn’t make you cum?,” breathless laughs were breaking up his sentence, like he couldn’t believe what he had to repeat right now.

“told me what you said…,” he leaned toward you. you swallowed hard, big eyes looking up at him. you weren’t sure how he was going to take you basically telling jake that he had explicit photos of you on his phone.

“‘nd as hot as that was…,” he began, smirking spreading across his lips, “i gotta ask– why didn’t you tell me, babe?”

“‘s not a big deal, rafe. y’know how jake is…,” you started before he cut you off. backing away from you as if he was astonished by your answer.

“yeah. i do. that’s no excuse f’r him to say the shit he did, and then go around tellin’ people you’d actually leave me for him. actin’ like you’re gonna hook up with him behind my back,” how the fuck did he know about that?

“tryna tell people my girl would go anywhere near his tiny dick. it’s laughable,” he ran his palm over his mouth like he genuinely couldn’t stifle his laugh.

“rafe…”

“no, no. he wants to play that game? we can play that game,” suddenly he grabs your wrist again, dragging you downstairs. you didn’t know what he was doing, but before you could process anything he cut the music off. everyone in the house either complaining, or looking around confused. rafe’s loud voice was the next thing to reverberate through the house.

“HEY! LISTEN UP, ANYONE WHO DOESN’T LIVE HERE– TIME TO GET THE FUCK OUT! PARTY’S OVER, ALRIGHT?,” his voice boomed in your ear, making you flinch at first. after some frustrated groans, and some ‘what the fuck’s, people began to flood out of the house.

your confusion was evident, staring up at rafe– his hold on your wrist still there, but looser now.

“what’re you doing?,” you whispered to him, his eyes not moving from the crowd leaving the house.

“don’t worry ‘bout it, baby,” he mumbled back to you before walking away from you to close the door as the last few people trickled out.

“rafe, man– what the fuck?!,” jake was walking up to rafe like he was trying to intimidate him– obviously he wasn’t. the look on rafe’s face was lethal. all rafe’s ‘brothers’ gathered around him, everyone confused except cam. not that he knew what was going on, but he did know rafe, and whatever was going on wasn’t going to be pretty.

you were still stood where rafe left you– just a few steps behind him.

“my bad bro… jus’ got some things i wanna address,” rafe’s tone was dripping with sarcasm, and a sense of humor. jake tried not to seem worried, tried to have a poker face, but you could tell he was sweating under that dingy baseball cap.

“something so important you had to kick everyone out, bro?,” one of the other guys questioned. rafe didn’t answer, just gave him one look and the guy was backing off, hands up in surrender.

"jake… anything you wanna tell me? actually, anything any of you wanna tell me?,” rafe didn’t sound this serious most of the time, so the guy were rightfully scared– well, guys minus cam.

“man, i d’know what you’re talkin’ ‘bout,” jake tried to just shrug it off, make rafe think he was crazy for this.

“don’t know what i’m talkin’ about?,” rafe had that classic fake confusion on his face, walking closer to jake, getting in his face to utter his next words.

“just figured a real man would own up to what he did before i made him own up to it… take some responsibility y’know?,” he almost whispered. he squinted his eyes with a fake smile on his face. the whole room went deadly silent, and jake’s face was nothing short of entertaining.

"you are a real man, right? at least– that’s what you told my girl,” his aggravation was starting to break through his facade. jake just stood there– he didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to come back from this.

"lemme ask you somethin’… how many people left this house tonight under the impression that my girlfriend was gonna hook up with you behind my back? hm?,” he was furious at this point. it was one thing to speak that way to you in the first place, but run around and lie? tell everyone rafe cameron couldn’t keep his girl satisfied? oh, his blood was boiling. you just stood still where you were. when rafe got like this there was no stopping him– it was no use, and you knew that.

jake was grasping at straws at this point, “listen man, i don’t know what y/n told you… but it’s a lie. okay? i didn’t say shit to her, rafe. and i didn’t say shit to anyone else.”

“jake… jakey boy! how stupid d’you think i am? you really thought i wouldn’t find out? as if the rest of this story wasn’t humiliating enough– i’m almost offended,” rafe had turned his back on him at this point, giving you that evil smirk one more time before quickly turning on his heel, and punching straight into jake’s nose.

a loud crack! sounded through the room, jake’s hand immediately coming to hold his bleeding– probably broken– nose, bending over in pain, droplets of blood hitting the floor. rafe leaned down to get on his level.

“get. the fuck. out. i see you anywhere near this house, myself, or my girl again. you’ll wish i had just killed you tonight,” he spoke quietly, but his message was clear as day. jake quickly exited the house, but not before muttering a quick ‘you’re fucking insane cameron’.

rafe shook his hand out, moving his fingers to combat the pain from direct contact with jake’s bone.

“oh, and just so everyone’s clear… i’m goin’ easy on those of you who let him say that shit– those of you who gassed him up after he said that nasty shit to y/n. you’re on thin ice, yeah? say shit like that to my girl again, and you’ll wish i only broke your nose.”

© 𝐔𝐑𝐂𝐎𝐎𝐋𝐆𝐅.   est. 2025

TAGS .ᐟ @yktayy9669 @drewsswifeyy @drewrry @frankoceanluvr11 @dearestmillls @icaqttt @lynoriax @hpboysslut2707 @stoned-writer @angvl3tears

[onsomenewsht]

And through the clouds, I see love shine

About when, on a Wednesday in a restaurant at Barcelona, you watch it begin again

》 Alexia Putellas x Reader

》 words count: 12.8k

》 fight a losing battle [idiom]: also known as “losing game”, to try hard to do something when there is no chance that you will succeed, a failing effort or activity 

Your last relationship ends so badly that you consider abstinence from everything – processed sugar, alcohol, and even people. A period of deep cleansing, as if you could purify every cell of your body, like a celebrity spiraling from rehab to full-blown identity crisis.

This emotional state explains why you find yourself on a one-way flight to Barcelona, all your things crumbled in a backpack.  A rash impulse led you to declutter your belongings, a wishful attempt of turning into a completely new person just because your closet is now half what it used to be.

The decision to straight-up flee is rushed and quite terrifying, much like many of your recent choices.

Elena, your best friend since you were barely old enough to share made-up stories and Barbie-like careers, thinks you’re going mental. She nearly cries when you decide to donate your vintage Christian Lacroix jacket, but you’re convinced it’s the only way to get a new lease on life, so she mourns in silence.

The loudest reaction comes from your brother, who, if you could be mature enough to admit it, is the only voice of reason that almost resonates in your head. 

Almost.

Despite your stubbornness, you accept the offer of hospitality from one of his university friends, who gives away a spare room. You don’t plan on staying in a hotel for gods know how long, and you certainly don’t have the patience to search for an apartment. You’re not completely out of mind, if they want to help, so be it. 

Barcelona is brighter and feels as welcoming as you hoped, though that might just be the nicer weather and the fact you’re far from your problems. And your ex. 

The first month flies by in a rush of Catalan cafeterias, art galleries, and little boutiques that refill both your closet and your spirit. 

The people here are kind enough to put up with your attempts to speak the language, humoring you since you’re oh-so-sure that eleven consecutive days on a passive-aggressive app have made you fluent.

The places you visit and the ones strangers recommend are loud enough to ignore the voices of reason in your ear that start to sound a lot like your brother’s.

Still, there’s only so much one can do to avoid responsibilities and self-consciousness.

“You need a job”, Ricardo states one morning, finding you in the kitchen eating cold pizza, still in the clothes you wore two nights ago.

Your closet isn’t as limited anymore.

“I’ve saved enough money to enjoy my vacation, thanks for your concern”

“I thought that was the money saved to buy a house with your ex”

“I do not have an ex nor a house to worry about, do I?”

As soon as the pizza starts to taste like regret, you’re ready to end the conversation to sleep the rest of day away. 

Ricardo means well, you know that. 

He’s a nice guy and a good roommate, but, like your brother, he’s overprotective and likes to gossip a little too much. Sometimes, it’s surprising how much he knows about you. Most of the time, it’s just annoying.

“I want to say– maybe a routine could be good for you”

“I have a routine”, you retort, knowing it’s a fat lie.

You’re out of the bed before eleven only if you didn’t sleep through the night before, wandering around the city with no real destination until something, somehow, catches your attention.

It’s not a bad thing per se, but it’s not a sustainable lifestyle.

“You quit a well-paid accounting job, right?”

“Ricardo, I swear, I’m this close to reporting you for stalking”

His laugh is too loud this early in the morning, but the comfort of bantering with someone who knows you is too familiar to ignore. Even if most of his insight comes from your nosy brother.

They both need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve judging your questionable life choices.

He sips his coffee while studying you, assessing how risky it would be to keep pushing the subject.

Apparently, he feels brave enough.

“My friends’ restaurant could use some help”

~

You’re not sure if Ricardo downplayed it or if he’s just blissfully unaware, but his friends don’t need some help – they need a miracle. 

That’s what happens when you get scammed by your bookkeeper. 

Despite not being really familiar with Spanish tax laws and regulation, it’s clear as the day someone exploited every possible loophole in the profitable business run by three way-too-trusting men. The truth becomes evident as you examine their accounting ledger, your frown deepening with each passing moment.

You have been to their restaurant before, and have loved it.

The place is cosy and carefully maintained. The food is prepared by a grumpy man from Puerto Rico named Paco, who, after twenty years in Barcelona, learned just enough cursing in Catalan to run the kitchen. Local bands play live on the weekend and someone’s mom made sure everyone is nice and well mannered. The worn wooden tables are witness of countless shared meals. 

Pedro and Paul, the other two owners, can only be described as a comedy duo with a really questionable sense of style and even worse jokes. But they’re nice enough, definitely good company when you have a bad day. They can turn it upside down so quickly, for the better or the worst.

However, Ricardo tells you how much the restaurant means for his friends and the local community, guilt-tripping you into helping them to fix their finances.

The truth is, you love math and numbers so much that a challenge like this excites you more than it’s appropriate to admit.

Hence, you agree to help them for far less money you could have asked anyone in the same situation.

They take it as a promise to make sure the business keeps running and organise a dinner with way too many people to celebrate your help.

“I’ve barely started looking into it, Pedro”, you complain, not used to such enthusiasm.

“¡Cállate y bebe tu sangría!”

You meet Alba that same night.

She’s nice and quick-witted, no one is safe from her clever remarks. It feels nice, the way she makes sure you’re included when everyone seems to forget you’re still learning Spanish from a green bird on your phone, and that, in most conversations, you relate more to vibes than actual words.

Flirting is a universal language, though.

If her hand brushes on your arm a couple of times you make sure to smile and get closer, and if you lean into her with the excuse of needing a translation she makes sure to whisper right into your ear. There’s a note in her voice that makes you feel at ease.

Of course, Ricardo ruins everything.

“I’m starting to think you’re running from tax collectors, not your ex”

It’s a good joke, you know it is nothing more than that. But it suddenly reminds you how messy your life is and how out of place you feel sometimes.

Not just far away from home, but also far away from everything familiar.

A job for a company you hated but paid good money; friends you didn’t see as you’d liked, but who knew damn well when to drag you out of your apartment – and out of your own head. A boyfriend who barely tolerated your love, but somehow always managed to say and do the right things at the right time.

Every morning, you wake up knowing what to wear for work, what numbers to punch into the computer to get the needed results, and how to act to be sure you’re not too much.

You’re not running away from just your ex, you’re running away from your life as known until finding out about the cheating. 

“¿Todo bien?”, Alba asks, noticing how you miss the opportunity to jab Ricardo. 

It takes you a moment to register her reassuring hand on your arm and the talks moving to a completely different topic.

“Yeah, sorry, just tired”

“You better get used to the Spanish nightlife”

“It’s pretty much all I’m doing so far”, you admit, slowly sipping a beer and making sure your annoying roommate doesn’t hear a word about this.

The rest of the dinner passes without too much trouble, despite not remembering most of the names and following even less of the conversations. 

Alba stays close and you blame the spicy food for the way your face reddens when she bids her goodbye with three kisses and a promise to meet up with less people.

“It’s a surprise”, Ricardo comments, his grin spreading across his face as soon as you settle onto the couch to debrief the day’s events.

It’s starting to look a lot like a new routine, a tradition in the making.

“What? Something my brother didn’t mention?”

“¡Ay, claro!”

“I hate you”

“I had no idea Alba is your type”

You have to give credit where due, he displays incredible reflexes. He dodges the pillow you throw at him, your punch barely grazes his arm, and your kick misses his shin by a mile.

To be honest with yourself, you’re not really sure who is your type. 

Not even getting in the mind-space to think about your ex, the past relationships you care about to recall all look pretty different. There’s no consistent pattern, not a clear preference in haircuts or any kind of colours, not a style that catches your attention more than another. 

The only thing most of your exes have in common is tiring you to the bones and leaving your life making you trust less and less in others. 

Maybe you do have a type.

~

It’s not a date, you both agree on that.

She doesn’t ask about the infamous ex, she’s good company and even a nicer distraction.

But your mind drifts and, as you recount the highlights of how that relationship crumpled in slow motion, it becomes clear as the day you shouldn’t be with someone until you’ve committed to a good therapist.

It’s not fair to anyone, but it’s definitely not fair to Alba.

You kiss her anyway, and she makes you promise to let her be your first date as soon as you’re ready to get back into the game again.

~

“Ricardo told me your ex is un cabrón”

If not for the possibility of blemishing your otherwise spotless record, you could have shoved Pedro down the hill you’re currently struggling to climb, losing too much dignity. 

The guy looks like he had one beer too many, but he’s surprisingly in shape and apparently unaffected by the whole hike so far. 

“Am I the only topic of conversation he has?”, you ask, mostly to buy a few more seconds to catch your breath.

“Creo que sí”

You raise the finger as you outpace him to keep going.

The sun has set, casting a warm, golden hue across the clear Barcelona sky. Despite Pedro knocking on your door when it was barely socially accessible to be at someone’s place, it takes the two of you more time than necessary to reach this point of the trail.

Not close enough to the top yet, but definitely too late to turn back without regrets. 

It’s mostly his fault.

The view is impressive, and the Catalan knows too many fascinating details to not be amazed by the nature around.

“¿Estás bien?

“Cabrón is a nice word”

“It’s not”

“No, it’s– I mean it’s not a bad enough word to describe him”, you clarify with a faint smile as Pedro slows his pace.

Your final destination is just a few steps away.

It may be the pleasant company, a good friend you’ve discovered in an unexpected place at the most unexpected time of your life. It may be the warm rays of sunshine that tickle your skin or the ache making your legs feel alive. It may be the weight on your chest, the one that crushed good intentions and caused too many sleepless nights, now becoming smaller under a new sense of resolve.

It may be for many different reasons, but for the first time in more than you’re comfortable looking back, it feels better.

“It was a good relationship”

He gives you a moment, sitting on the slightly damp grass next to your sprawled figure.

“It was good, until it was really bad. But it’s hard to do anything about it when you’re doing such an impressive job at hiding all the signs”

“A bad relationship can’t be blamed on just one person”, he tries to reason.

“It can”

“Guapa, mira–”

“No, it can. He was controlling, aggressive, and incredibly talented at making me take all the blame and the shame”, you admit, for the first time out loud, “My only fault was pretending to ignore when I finally saw it all for what it really was”

As you gather the strength to rise to a more dignified position, you almost expect Pedro to hug you or be the over affectionate Spanish stereotype he usually is.

Instead, he’s looking somewhere away in the sky, pensive.

You feel the need to reassure him, “I’m fine now, I–”

“No, lo siento, lo siento”, he turns with a small, yet genuine smile, “We don’t know each other that well”

“You’re hurting me now, I thought we were friends”

“We are, tonta!”

Pedro raises and his large hands, marked with tiny cuts, extend to pick you up. He paves the way down the hill with no words, and for the first time since you meet the man, the silence it’s a surprise. 

It’s not uncomfortable, maybe just a little unsettling.

And short-lived.

“We don’t know each well”

“You already said that”

He shoves you playfully, not impressed by your attitude, but used to it.

“Lo que quiero decir es que– you’re a good person, I can tell, even if we don’t know each other for long”

“Don’t get soft on my right now”

“You’re a good person and you love good, you have to keep loving”, he states, so casually, “Once you know love, you should never try to forget”

~

“At this point, I’m pretty sure you hit your head hard enough to go mental and somehow no one noticed”

“I miss you so much, Elena”

Your phone is precariously balanced on a glass of wine as you cook a recipe Paco scribbled on a piece of paper. In Catalan. 

It makes less sense than his finance decisions, but you’ll take it.

Your best friend’s face is half out of frame but you can clearly point out every step of her beauty routine. It’s a grueling and painfully long process, her boyfriend is way more patient than you about it.

But tonight Ricardo is out for his bi-weekly pottery class, and you’re happy to indulge her just for the sake of spending some time together, even if it’s through a screen.

Not like there’s a slight chance you’d say it out loud.

“What are you trying to cook?”, the eyebrow in frame raises skeptically.

“No idea”, you admit, coming to the conclusion the number you’re looking at is five and there’s no way this dish needs so many onions.

“Good, now, let’s track back to your mental instability”

“And you ask why I am in different country?”

The wasp she lets out is so loud, and the silence that follows is so deafening you look at the screen to make sure the call is still on. She can be so dramatic.

“Don’t joke about it, I’m still grieving”

“I’m still alive”

“Barely”, she mutters.

Elena is a good friend, despite the theatrics. 

When the world seems a little too much to handle, she turns into a safe space for you to be at peace. When you’re overthinking the stupidest choices, she always has a comforting, new point of view. 

To people who don’t have the privilege to know her well enough, she may look shallow and too noisy. The truth is, you’ve never met someone so aware of herself and her life that she perfectly understands how to give due weight to even the smallest things. 

And she doesn’t keep quiet, she loves loud and proud. 

You learned to hold yourself back. You were forced to.

That’s the biggest lesson she’s still teaching you.

“Just saying, you’re surrounded by hot, Spanish people–”

“Happens when in Spain”

“You’re allowed to have fun!”

“I have plenty, thank you very much”

A strange smell comes out of the pan as the lid is lifted, prompting you to close it and pretend it’s not even there for the rest of the night. Not planning to call a poison center, ordering takeout is how you opt to end this cooking attempt.

If Elena thinks you paused the video to piss her off, it is on her.

When your best friend’s face pops up on the screen again it’s so serious you’re tempted to hang up for real.

“I mean it in a good way, don’t get me wrong, but taking a leave of absence and flying to Barcelona is the most selfish thing I witnessed you do in forever”

“I’m actually thinking of quitting for good and going freelance”

“See?”, she gushes, although she can’t be taken seriously with a panda-shaped face mask on, “You like to do your nerd-numbers-shit again, you’re trying new things, even if you clearly can’t be trusted in the kitchen–”

“Fuck you, that man can cook, but for sure can’t write”

“You’re making friends, not as amazing as me, but we’ll take it!”

Trying to argue could be useless and, honestly, you have no arguments.

“You’re fine, you’re doing good”, she smiles, and you miss her a little bit more.

This time you say it out loud, and she cries.

~

The guys are planning something.

By now, you know them well enough to sense trouble the moment you step into the restaurant.

Paco wears a grin that’s almost creepy, a beam blasted across his face, while Pedro is cleaning the tables with unnecessary vigour and his usual commitment is taken to an unusual level.

They’re clearly waiting for something to happen, lingering around as you try to explain to Paul, the musketeer you pointed as the most reliable when money is on the line, how to delay a payment reminder.

“Okay, what is wrong with them?”, you ask, trying to recall a single reason why you put up with these people’s ethics.

You only need one.

“No te entiendo”

“Tú me entiendes perfectamente”

“Your español is getting so good, ¿lo sabes?”, Pedro chimes in, and you’re sure whatever they want, you’re not going to like it. 

Paul is usually the voice of reason, the emotionally adult one. Why is he looking at you like he’s about to commit the worst betrayal?

“We were thinking–”

“I’m scared when you guys think”

“We are allies, feminists, and strong supporters of women in male dominated fields, equality–”

“Please, shut up”, you interrupt as if the conversation is physically hurting you.

“Barça is playing the Copa on Saturday. We organise una fiesta every year when they come back, es una tradición”, Pedro cuts in, feeling like the best way to get to the point is to dive straight into it.

“What if they lose?”

“Ellas no pierden”, Paul’s voice is so final you don’t dare to object.

“Cool, fine, why are you acting like this party is something I’ll not like?”

“We pay for it all”

It’s nice.

It is a really nice gesture, knowing how much they care about their community and their friends and apparently the women’s side of their favourite club. 

Then you remember they have a huge debt to pay up because an asshole took advantage of their kind hearts and the accounts are just starting to make sense again.

“It’s a good thing”, you admit out loud, “But–”

When Paul starts a passionate rant about the team’s season so far and how sure he is they are gonna win those trophies all over again, apparently setting a new record for the sport itself, it’s not strange to feel thrilled too.

Even Paco joins the excitement at the prospect of adding another title to the collection.

You have been in Barcelona long enough to understand football is a big deal here, and you can’t deny it’s really wonderful to see three big guys hyping up their club – women’s and men’s side alike. 

Pedro looks at you like he knows you’re about to crumble.

“They better win then”, you agree, pretending it takes a lot of thinking.

They wrap you in a group hug so welcoming you don’t have the heart to tell them the restaurant can’t really afford to pay out an entire party right now, on a weekend, literally planned for a football team and their mothers. 

You’ll make sure the numbers check out later.

You meet Alexia that same night.

Alba makes the introductions, and you shake her hand a moment too late and too long than socially acceptable.

You’re busy shifting your gaze back and forth. 

They look alike. A lot. But somehow, they’re also so different.

You make a mental note to dig up some old pictures of a younger version of yourself and your brother.

“She’s the reason this party won’t bankrupt the guys”

“I’ve heard only good things about you”, Alexia admits.

If a slight redness tints your face it’s due to the compliments, not the feeling of her eyes on you, or the way your body seems to jolt awake.

“All lies, probably”, you try to compose yourself – get a fucking grip, “They’re just impressed ‘cus they can’t count to save their lives”

The laugh that leaves the older woman’s lips is the most melodic sound you’ve ever heard. Something in the way her face lights up and her features relax makes your chest ache with a surprisingly comfortable feeling.

A desire to make her laugh again.

And that is what you do all night.

The girls are way too excited – deservedly so, after another title added to their already impressive collection. The live music is loud, the food and the drinks come in flows. You’re too busy to mentally estimate the costs.

When one of Alexia’s teammates decides you’re her new favorite person in the whole restaurant, you’re perfectly fine with it. Just because she’s funny, not because she seems to have an impressive amount of stories to tease her captain with.

When Paul hands you another beer, you sip it without a care of keeping count. Just because you’re allowed to get loose, not because you noticed Alexia is making sure everyone will not regret a drink too much tomorrow. 

When Alba drags you to the makeshift dance floor, you let yourself feel the music and the bodies around. Just because the party is definitely worth it, vibrant, not because her sister joins the group at the same time.

You go home, much later than intended, with an unfamiliar feeling prickling beneath your skin and a somehow familiar pair of eyes stuck in your head.

~

The first time you end up in the stands for a football game is purely by accident.

An unmistakable electric buzz fills the air, lingering all the way from the parking lot to the seats that seem to keep filling. Everyone is smiling and chanting, sporting just two different colours but expressing their support in an unique way. 

The games you endured watching on TV to spend a few hours with your brother as a kid can’t compare to the real thing.

You never imagined finding yourself in such a place, but when in Rome. Or, well, when in Barcelona.

It’s all on the Putella sisters, to be honest.

You meet Alba in the most unusual place you could think of, or being yourself in the first place. A sports shop.

Planning to go on the hike a stranger at the restaurant pointed out, you need appropriate trekking shoes. Since the decluttering phase is officially over, you looked up one of those obnoxious places that sell overpriced sports-related shit.

Not the kind of shop you’d picture Alba willingly entering.

“Mind you, I actually like sports”, she objects.

“Do you?”

She giggles as your head tilts in a mocking way, “Vale, I like watching more than doing the sports”

“No way!”

The bags she’s dragging out of the shop are the only thing stopping her from not-so-playfully smacking you. It’s surprisingly easy to tease each other.

She reminds you of Elena, who called this morning to discuss how to act now she discovered where her boyfriend hides the ring. As if she hasn’t been snooping around for months.

Not entirely her fault, the poor guy left the jewelry’s receipt with the car keys at the entrance.

“Are you?”, the younger woman asks.

“What?”

“A sports person”

“My brother used to kick footballs at me when we were kids, the only sport I ever pretended to be remotely interest in”

Her smile dims slightly.

For some reason, that seems to have been the wrong thing to say.

“Have you been to a Barça game yet?”

“What if I’m a Madridista?”

That’s even worse, apparently, since Alba dramatically drops the bags to gasp in shock. Her acting of a heartbreak is surprisingly convincing.

A second voice chimes in out of nowhere, “Don’t even joke about it”

Alexia’s comment is dead serious, you can tell, with just the hint of a grin on her lips as a clear giveaway that she’s more than comfortable teasing a person she barely knows.

You’re definitely not going to complain.

The hat she’s wearing hides half her face, but you can see her lighting up behind it.

“What if I’m not joking?”

“Alba, you said she is a nice person”, the midfielder complains, a huff escaping her lips as she adjusts the weight of the bags she’s carrying. 

Did they just raid the whole shop?

“Bold to you to assume I can’t be a nice person and a Madridista”

“Please, don’t fight her on this, she’s gonna be insufferable”, Alba complains, playfully rolling her eyes at her sister’s antics and your teasing.

“No, she needs to be educated. She’s coming to El Clásico with us”

As simple as that.

You find yourself in the home section of the stadium for one of the most anticipated games of the season.

Or that’s what Alexia is ranting about all the way to your seats, going off about the rivalry and basic football knowledge you have to thank your borther for drilling into your brain against your will.

It’s all worth it when her blush spreads across her face as she realises, in the middle of her fourth attempt to explain with yet another example, that you actually do know what offside is.

Alba watches the interaction closely, amused by how easy it is for you to tease Barcelana’s captain and how comfortable she seems to be around you, despite not having known each other for long.

A couple of minutes before kick-off, Alexia returns from wherever she went – one mission in mind. She takes her place on your side, handing you a Blaugrana jersey, “You can’t sit here without wearing the right colours”

Maybe wearing a white t-shirt was a bit too much.

You burst out laughing, opting to put in the item immediately to avoid upsetting the filled seats around you, “How’d you find your own at a men’s game?”

“I happen to be pretty beloved around here”

“Did you hear that, Alba? La Reina is bragging!”

The only reason she doesn’t retort is due to the referee’s whistle announcing the start of the game, followed by a surprisingly enjoyable night with the two sisters.

~

Summer in Barcelona is nothing like you pictured it.

The streets are filled with tourists, too many people crammed in too little spaces. Complaints about the crowds and the chaos drown out any excitement. You have to remind Pedro that it’s awful, but it’s good for business.

Sometimes, it’s too hot to even think of leaving the comfort of your place. Fans blow in every room because, of course, the air conditioner broke the day it was turned on. 

Sometimes, it’s so loud you don’t need to ignore the voices of doubt in your head, subdued by everything that’s happening around you.

Sometimes, it’s exactly the kind of life you can see yourself living.

Your brother came to visit for a week, spending more time teasing you with Ricardo than doing anything else. You hate it, but you missed him too much to complain.

Maybe you pulled some strings to make his dream of visiting Camp Nou come true, just so you could look cool, but then what?

He’s as happy as a kid in a candy store, and all you have to do is endure an overexcited guided tour and bribe Alexia with overpriced drinks the night after. Totally manageable.

Your therapist announces her vacation like it’s not the worst news she’ll be sharing, leaving you with tasks to occupy the time. You dutifully completed them all, never quite managing to shake the nerd label off, and, quite frankly, you pay her too much to not do her homework.

Some tasks seem a little over the top, though – signing up for a dating app is definitely not how you’ll get over your ex.

You started hanging out with a group of passionate excursionists. Perhaps a bit too excited about life in general, but nice enough to follow during their hikes.

Pedro joins when he can, most of the time, someone from the Barcelona team manages to invite themselves. 

Since you and María aren’t allowed to be on your own, Ingrid or Esme supervise. It may be an overreaction, but the last time you two were alone, you sprained your ankle and the defender got nasty cuts on her legs before the trip even started, so you can’t really judge them. 

If you say Alexia is a better hike partner than most is just to piss María.

That summer in Barcelona makes you miss your family and friends back home a little more than usual, but it’s also the first time in months that you feel like you’re actually living your life – not just letting it flow right through you. 

~

When the new school year starts, Irene and her wife come to the restaurant a couple of times before Paul suggests that you could be the perfect person to help their son with his math homework.

Your attempt to explain that you really are not qualified to teach in a different language goes completely ignored.

They’ve already tried different tutors, and Mateo seems to hate them all. You accept, mostly because of the kid’s puppy-dog eyes.

The two of you fell into an easy routine. Once a week, he would lend you basic grammar school manuals and children’s books to help with your Spanish, and you would explain math to him in the simplest way possible.

It goes well.

Mateo decides pretty soon you’re his new favourite person, and you basically become one of Irene’s as well.

That’s how you find yourself on the sideline during a Barça training session, reading a book about a dog that doesn’t know how to bark while Mateo is too pleased with himself, checking all the math exercises he nailed. 

“Good one?”

You raise your gaze, shielding your eyes from the sun enough to point out Alexia’s silhouette.

The weather is still too warm for your comfort, making you question the girls’ mental stability for running lap after lap under such conditions with a smile on their faces. 

Sports people are scary.

“You look too good to be someone who just finished training”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Derogatory”, you clarify, pushing your stuff aside so that Alexia can sit beside you on the sideline. 

She’s drinking some sort of sport drink like she’s just eaten sand, and this close, she looks human. She’s grinning, enjoying the sun picking at her skin and Mateo’s passionate explanation of the math exercises he’s done all by himself.

The training session is wrapped up, she stays until Irene comes back from the changing room, washed and dressed, ready to take the little boy home.

The blonde lingers a bit longer, talking about books she loved growing up and how she takes management courses when she can. You find out Penélope Cruz is both your favourite actress, but the midfielder acts shocked when you tell her you haven’t watched her favourite film. 

That night, you put it on and change the language setting, live-texting Alexia all your reactions.

Halfway through, you’re pretty sure she’s watching it too.

~

Almost nine months after booking that life-changing one-way ticket to Barcelona, you buy another one to go back home.

With a return ticket in hand.

It’s your mother’s birthday, so you kind of have to.

Recently, she’s been repeating a new favorite line, rambling about the uncertainty of life and the precariousness of old age. She’s barely in her 60s and has less back pain than most people of your generation, but she’s not willing to listen to reason. 

You come to the conclusion you can’t lose any more points against your brother in the unspoken sibling race for your parent’s love. So you book the flight, pack a suitcase big enough, because you literally have nothing to wear left behind, and mentally prepare for the investigation your family will conduct. 

The tension in your shoulder melts away the moment your brother wraps his arms around you in the airport terminal. 

“You grow up so much”

And, just like that, he’s your annoying, stupid older brother again.

“I didn’t miss you at all”

“I can see you holding back tears”

“You’re literally crying!”, you accuse with a grin on your lips, lightly punching him.

“Just wait until mum sees that new tattoo”

The truth is, your mother is too busy peering deep into your soul to care about the tattoo. 

It takes two days of constant reassurance that you’re working, eating, and sleeping properly; a ceramic salamander figurine – maybe overpriced, but a gift meant to make an impression; and Elena backing up your story to calm her worries.

Barely enough to get you through the rest of the week unstretched.

“She’s just worried”, your best friend tries to reason, sipping a flashy pink drink that you’re not even sure is made from real fruit.

“I moved to Barcelona, not a war zone”

“Oh, so now it’s permanent?”

The shit-eating grin spreading across her face should annoy you, but you have to admit she has a point.

At first it was just an impulsive decision, an urge to run away from everything and everyone. Then, without really realising it, the Catalan city started to feel a lot like a place to settle in, to let your wings spread wide open.

Now you almost call it home.

The waitress interrupts your flow of thoughts, saving you from Elena’s pointed gaze long enough to be properly distracted by the huge amount of food presented. He leaves with a charming smile, but you’re genuinely too focused on the salty chips to notice.

“Are you pregnant?”, you ask, looking as she almost chokes to avoid comically spilling her drink on you.

“The Spanish heat fried your brain?”

“What? You didn’t even have soft drink when we were underage”

Elena pauses for a moment, weighting if knocking over you the rest of the pink beverage could be worth it. It takes genuine pondering.

She decides to take the highest road.

“Are you dying?”

“Are you taking comedy classes in Barcelona?”

The last time your best friend was this over the edge it was because of a pregnancy scare. First year of university, and her boyfriend at time wasn’t really the guy you’d take home for Christmas. A memory that doesn’t help her case right now.

You slip under the dim lights of the bar, a classy spot where she hangs out with the women from her pilates class. A shiver runs down your back, a bad feeling overcoming deep inside you. 

Then, she speaks up.

“I’ve already bought a wedding dress”, she admits, as if she’s confessing a crime, “It’s a size smaller and I have to–”

“Elena, for fuck’s sake, I thought you were actually dying!”

“It is, indeed, a tragedy”

“He hasn’t even proposed yet”

“Details”, she chugs the rest of the drink, smirking and grabbing the last chips you’re too shocked to care about.

The same waitress hovers around your table, drawn in by the loud exchange and your clear distress, “Excuse me, is everything okay?”

He’s young, charming enough for this to be just a gig while he waits and hopes for his acting career to take off. However, he looks genuinely concerned, his gaze shifting between the deep frown and your friend amused grin.

“All good, she’s just dramatic”, Elena points at you with the straw, before delivering the final blow, “And she is single”

The poor boy’s face lights up, naively thinking the commotion was a creative way to play matchmaker.

What a mistake.

You don’t even dignify her with a glance, rolling your eyes before addressing him directly, “Excuse her, she’s panicking because her long-time, overly in-love boyfriend still hasn’t popped the question”

“That’s not–”

“And I’m not interested”, you finish, kind but firm.

He leaves with a nod, cheeks slightly red.

Elena watches him disappear as you sip your own drink, studying you the way she used to when you were confused teenagers who didn’t know how to deal properly with all those feelings and real-life emotions.

“Oh”

The reason you still encourage her goes beyond your understanding.

You’re not starting to question it now, “What?”

“You like someone”

“Elena, I swear–”

“No, no, it’s just–”, her gaze softens as she looks at you, teasing and playful attitude making space for her most supportive side, “It’s good to see you, you know, welcoming back some happiness”

It doesn’t matter how she’s always capable of reading you like a book, like you’re a poem she knows by heart but she’s never tired of.

After all the years and the lessons you’ve learned together, it feels so comforting to know there’s someone out there who deeply understands you. Who truly sees you.

You don’t deny it, you don’t retort to her observation. 

That's not the point right now.

~

You break the promise made to Alba.

Kind of.

It’s early in the morning, the sun has barely risen in the sky, but it’s the perfect time to arrive at the little market. It arrives every two weeks, with vibrant stalls full of everything – though you understand half the things the vendors say. The freshness of the fruit and the unique clothing finds you always manage to come home with are totally worth it.

Alexia is buying vegetables and, judging by the passion she shares with the old lady in front of her, discussing important geopolitical questions.

You enjoy the exchange, taking a moment before approaching.

She jokes about the fact you’re up before the clock even hits double digits, laughing at your retort about fighting with the elderly over groceries. 

The footballer suggests breakfast in a cosy place not far from the market, the promise of fresh bakeries enough to convince you.

It’s not a date.

But you walk side by side, bags lightly colliding sometimes, and before you know it, you’ve arrived at the café. Alexia holds the door open, pointing out her favorite pastries. She scoffs, unamused, when she realizes your questions distracted her long enough for you to pay for both your orders.

It’s not a date, obviously.

But you sit at a table in the far corner of the café for almost three hours, talking about everything and nothing. The bubble you find yourself in bursts when Ricardo calls, complaining that you’re late for lunch, despite insisting on making a reservation.

“We should do this again”, she says as she hugs you goodbye, a smile lighting her entire face.

It’s not a date, but it definitely feels like it.

You remembered the promise you made to Alba, to save your first date for her once you feel ready, just a second after realising how badly you wish to go on a real one with her sister.

~

You refuse categorically to celebrate your birthday at the boys’ restaurant.

They could make a big deal out of it, insist on paying for everything, and you couldn’t let that happen. After months of knowing them and the “Barcelona way” of celebrating loved ones, you can’t let them be in charge of this. 

Also, the bills are finally adding up. They can afford it, you can’t let them do it – at least, not emotionally speaking.

So you host a little party at your place – your place, because Ricardo says you basically own it as much as he does after the bathroom’s makeover. 

The small kitchen quickly turns into chaos the moment Paco takes charge and ropes Ricardo into helping. Pedro shows up with decorations and a banner that was most likely used for his little sister’s. Paul, however, closes the restaurant that same afternoon, brushing off your protests and reassuring you that your birthday is more important than the evening’s earnings.

You can’t find it in yourself to fight them.

The apartment fills with laughter and a vibrant energy that eases the weight pressing on your chest when overthinking takes hold. Balloons cover nearly the entire floor, raised voices and the scent of spices travel from the kitchen. 

Your friends from the hiking group arrive in waves, immediately hitting it off with some of Barcelona’s team. You’ve grown close to a few of them through your relationship with Irene’s family and the one Ingrid and Frido practically forced on you.

Some regular customers from the restaurant also show up, people you’ve grown pretty comfortable with after spending so much time there during the first weeks of taking over the accounting job.

There’s also a nice girl you met at a concert, who Elena stalks on social media to make sure she’s not a serial killer.

Alba and Alexia are the last ones to arrive.

Your life in Barcelona is full of new people, new experiences and adventures.

At your lowest point, you’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be loved out loud.

And those people are the loudest you ever met.

The noise around the apartment subsides just as most of the guests leave. The music is turned down to a minimum, because of the late hour and Pedro’s questionable taste, as he hasn’t let go of the speaker once all night.

The small group gathers around the couch, drinks in hand, still willing to celebrate with you. 

“I’m just saying, I think they taste the same”

The entire room erupts in protests at Ricardo’s comment.

“Absolutely no”, Pedro chimes in, seated on the edge of the armchair with a half-drunk beer in hand, “Black olives are made to be a pizza topping, green ones are perfect for everything else”

“What do you even know about pizza topping?”, you interrupt with a grin, “You put pineapple on yours”

Somehow, the complaints grew louder, the room buzzing with indignation.

“What’s wrong with that? Pineapple is a great pizza topic, you’re just too pretentious to admit it!”

“Can we move on from the pizza argument?”

“Oh, no, let’s get into it!”, you wave your hand dismissively, “Pedro, please, tell everyone what you put on first, cheese or sauce?”

“Fuck you”

“You work in a restaurant”, Alba says, her voice laced with disbelief. 

“I’m not the one cooking, am I?”

“Thank God!”

The conversation quickly turns on poor Pedro, who now finds himself defending his questionable taste and own belief.

Alexia, who’s been quietly sipping from her glass, looks at the scene with a raised eyebrow before turning to you, relaxed on the couch beside her, “Honestly, I never imagined pizza to be the thing that ends a friendship”

“I’m just happy we’re not talking about pineapple anymore, that’s a sin”

“You started this”, she points out, giggling. 

Ricardo shrugs from his spot on the floor, amused but staying out of it for now. 

“It’s my birthday, I can do whatever I want”

“Oh, por favor”, Alexia says with a playful roll of her eyes, nudging the paper crown still perched on your head, “This must have cut off circulation to your brain”

You gasp, your dramatic antics in full display, fueled by the time, the alcohol, and, likely, the footballer’s shoulder still brushing against yours.

“You’re just jealous you’re not the only reina in the room”

“Keep dreaming”, Alexia responds with a grin.

The proximity lingers in a way that’s not just playful. It’s comfortable, like an inside joke no one else is allowed in on.

Ricardo watches the interaction from the corner of his eye, his gaze lingering on you and the blonde for a moment longer than necessary. He notices how her cheeks redden slightly, the way you look a little different – softer, at ease.

Alba catches the moment too, still pretending to be involved in the pizza argument. She notices the quiet exchanges and private moments that have unfolded all evening. The way you and her sister have fallen into a different rhythm, a different world.

She’s seen it before.

There’s something between you two, something unspoken, but not quite hidden. She wonders how long it’s been there, how long it’s been that way.

But, like Ricardo, she keeps her thoughts to herself.

The rest of the group laughs, the debate seems to fade into a more relaxed conversation that doesn’t involve food or questionable life choices.

As the night goes on, the teasing continues, but, underneath the surface, there’s something deeper.

There’s the way you lean in a little closer to Alexia when someone says something ridiculous, how your eyes linger on her when Pedro makes a joke and you think no one is watching.

There’s the way Alexia’s knee brushes yours when you laugh, how her fingers dance on your arm simply because you’re close enough to.

There’s the exchange of gazes and smiles, quiet signs of complicity in the loud room.

~

Ricardo waits to the tune of three days before cornering you.

You mention being a bit homesick after your birthday and the Putellas sisters literally drag you to have dinner with them at their mom’s. Eli is the sweetest woman ever, going above and beyond to the point of making that one pie you mentioned once being your favourite. 

The house is filled with memories and tender gestures, a haven of support and a desire of caring for your own that squeezes your heart with a bittersweet beauty. Spending the night there makes it clear how Alexia and Alba were raised, revealing the roots of their kindness.

“You had fun?”

It’s a miracle you don’t drop dead on the floor right there, Ricardo’s voice echoing from the middle of the couch in the dark room.

“Why are you lurking like a fucking killer?”, you shout at him when your heartbeat slows down enough to let you come up with proper words.

“I was waiting for you”

You don’t even dignify him with a response, watching how he’s sipping from a mug like a scene from the shittiest b-movie you can think of.

Crossing the room to sleep the unease away, the guy’s next words make you stop right where you are, “You need to come clean with her”

“What are you talking about–”

“You like Alexia”

It’s not a question, there’s no doubt in his voice.

There’s not a single reason to even try to fight his assumption or your own overthinking.

You reach for the seat next to him on the couch, noticing the second mug just when he offers it to you. It’s a fruity tea you enjoy hot, with way too much honey and not a drop of milk – exactly like the one in your hands. 

The silence wrapping around is comforting in a way that makes sense just because it’s the two of you, sipping tea in the quiet darkness of the room.

“I do”, you admit after a while, even if you don’t need to. 

“I know”

“That obvious?”

“Yeah”, your roommate confirms with a soft smile.

He doesn’t tease, he doesn’t accuse you of anything.

It’s so typically Ricardo that you feel a surge of affection, a need to embrace him and accepting the support of someone who, in a twisted and brotherly way, looks out for you – and your heart. So you do just that, jumping into his arms without a care of your reputation or of the almost-empty mugs.

The man, despite the surprise of your reaction, is ready to hold you for how long you need.

Turns out, you need it a lot.

“Sorry, sorry”, you say after a couple of minute, trying to pull yourself together, “I didn’t see it coming”

“Me being so observant and clever or you falling in love with Alexia?”

“I’m not in love with Alexia”

“Yet”

He’s lucky the tea is not hot anymore.

“I’m not in love with Alexia”, you repeat. 

Not yet, resonates in your head – your own mind betraying you. 

Yes, Alexia is beautiful. Yes, you two apparently clicked perfectly right the moment you met. Yes, recently the time together doubled the time spent with anyone else. You can admit you like Alexia, the therapy is worth the commitment and the money put into it. 

But being in love?

It’s a good feeling, the one that makes her cheeks flush crimson when your smile catches her gazing. Even better, the one that fills you with pride when Alexia’s laugh resonates in the room because of something you say or do. 

It’s an exciting force, the one that unsettles your stomach when she reaches for you just for the sake of touching – of feeling you close. Even better, the one that makes you two sure of finding the other in a room full of people just when needed. 

It’s so terrifying close to love, what it’s blossoming.

You want to fall in love with Alexia.

Ricardo raises from the couch, taking the mugs and putting them on the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. An annoying habit you’re sure he keeps up with just to annoy you.

He returns a minute later, “Are you going to do something about it?”

You don’t miss a bit, “Yes”

“Let Alba know first”, he says with a serious note in his voice, “She liked you”

~

The stadium buzzes with the loud roaring of fans and the sharp, clean scent of freshly cut grass under the rain. Barcelona dominates the pitch, their control of the midfield a suffocating grip as the opponents scramble, desperate for a counterattack. 

Between miscalculated slides and short passes, Alexia weaves through defenders in a blur of motion and focused energy. She’s calm when the ball is glued on her feet, sparkling to light, her presence igniting the pitch, as soon as her teammates take over. 

Patri finds her captain just outside the box and you lean forward, smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

You may be new to the whole thing, new in the Blaugrana’s home stands, but you learn quickly and you know exactly what Alexia’s movement means. 

The shot curves perfectly, the stadium exhales a collective gasp as the goalkeeper’s fingertips fail to reach it. The ball hits the bar loudly, the sound echoing before it flies out of the pitch.

Beside you, Alba lets out a whoop, clapping her hands with a grin stretching across her face, “She’s out for blood”

You laugh, not like anyone could disagree.

Barça is winning by three goals, outrunning the defence and shooting as if they need to score at least three more to sleep peacefully tonight. 

The poor goalkeeper will have nightmares for sure.

“She really want to take home that ball”

“She’s playing to impress”, Alba points out, not so subtly.

You chuckle, her remark flying over your head, “She’s just– good, I guess”

“Good? ¡Por favor!”, the younger Putellas scoffs, rolling her eyes, “She’s acting like a ballet dancer out there, doing pirouettes and running around like she has two sets of lungs”

As to prove her sister’s point, Alexia nutmegs another midfielder and executes another perfect movement, clearing the field for Aitana to set up Vicky for a chip goal.

The crowd erupts, but Alba’s attention remains fixed on you.

“¡Mirala!”, she says, pointing at the pitch where the team is hugging and celebrating, “That was another ‘look at me, soy la Reina’ moment!” 

“Your sister is the most competitive person I’ve ever met”

“Competitive? Chica, she’s showing off! And don’t even get me started on the way she keeps looking up here, fixing her hair between plays– It’s ridiculous”

You watch as Barcelona’s bubble dissipates and they get back at their positions, Alexia waves towards your seats, her face illuminated by a radiant grin.

Your cheeks flush slightly, a mixture of amusement and something else.

The game keeps on with the same level of excitement, and even more shots on target. They win narrowly, unconcerned by their soaked clothes, lingering happily in the rain to sign autographs and chat with supporters.

Alexia immediately seeks out you and Alba, trying to embrace you both despite your not-so-playful protests. The damp material of her kit clings, accentuating her defined muscles, and your thoughts stray to less innocent territories.

Alba sends her sister to the changing room, accepting the kiss landed on her forehead and watching as you nod like an idiot when she leaves with the promise to be back in no time, her hand lingering on your arm.

“¡Ay, esto es increíble!”, she interrupts your thought flow, tilting her umbrella just enough for a stream of rain to drop on your face. 

“Alba!”

“You’re not exactly subtle either, ¿sabes?”

The stadium noises fade into a distant hum. The air between you thickens, the playful banter morphing into something more charged and intentional. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your jacket, avoiding the younger woman’s gaze.

“How long have you known?”, you ask.

“The moment I introduced the two of you, idiota!”, she says, her voice teasing, “But I knew for sure at your birthday’s party”

“Nothing happened between us”

Alba’s smile softens, a gentle understanding dawning in her eyes, “I’m not blind and I know my sister pretty well. And honestly? I think it’s cute, you two glow when you’re together. She likes you. A lot. And you like her too"

Your shoulders relax, “I do. I really like her, Alba”

The wave of relief that washes over you is comforting.

You don’t owe her anything, and Alba definitely doesn’t owe you anything. But it’s good to know this love growing between you and Alexia is real, people around you see it too. People you care about support it.

Your smile spreads naturally on your face when you spot Barcelona’s captain approaching, hair still wet but changed in warm clothes.

Alba doesn’t miss it, nudging you with her elbow just before her sister’s close enough to hear, “It’s good you feel ready to date again, and I’m happy it’s her”

~

“I’m going to say it just once, so listen carefully”, you stop in the middle of the road with a stoic face, “Please, don’t make me regret our entire friendship”

The grin on Elena’s lips tells you everything you need to know, but you give her the benefit of the doubt. Because she’s your best friend, because she knows how to behave.

But she’s your best friend, and she’s not going to behave.

Her visit is not unpleasant, just unexpected.

It’s barely six in the morning when loud bangs on the front door wake you up and almost scare Ricardo to death. He takes it well enough, greeting Elena and going back to sleep the shock away. You, on the other hand, think of leaving her waiting outside until it’s socially acceptable to show up. Her immediate embrace is a clever attempt to smooth your annoyance.

She booked a red-eye flight for a hit and run, so you take her around Barcelona all day and agree to a late night out in a club Alba suggested you join with some of her friends.

“Relax”, she says, skipping steps like a kid as you approach the place.

“Elena, I’m serious”

“Why are you so stressed? Oh– oh, I know!”

She turns around in her heels, too graciously for someone with shoes so high and such low alcohol tolerance – you two may not be in your early 20s anymore, but you figured pregame was necessary this time around.

Her good resolution of not drinking alcohol crumbled as soundly as it started.

“Is she here too?”

“I don’t know what–”

“This mysterious woman you can’t shut up about, who is so great you have heart-shaped eyes but I can’t know her name”, she interrupts, grabbing you by the shoulder as you approach the club’s entrance. 

It’s not like you’re hiding Alexia, or your feelings for her.

She’s a frequent topic of conversation with your best friend, you’re comfortable sharing the moments between the two of you and the way your heart beats at a completely different rhythm around the Barcelona’s captain.

But Elena can be protective, and curious.

All she needs is a name, and she’s going to find out if Alexia has ever got a bad grade in primary school. The teasing for liking a football player? You aren’t ready for that either.

“Yes, she’s here and I need you to–”

“This is the best day of my life!”, she doesn’t even let you finish, leaves you right there, flashing the bodyguard at the entrance a huge smile and sweet talking her way in – even though they have your names as vip guests.

“This is going to be the worst day of mine”, you mutter to yourself, following after her.

The energy in the club is charged with a dangerous combination of freewill and alcohol. The place is packed and colored lights go on and off with the music, bright enough to see who’s in front of you, but not enough to make your decision clear. Not tonight.

Alba sees you first, waving her hand to catch your attention so you join them in a secluded table in a corner of the place.

You don’t even ask how Elena is already seated in the cool leather booth, talking animatedly.

“She’s funny”, Alba comments after greeting you with a hug.

“Don’t believe a word she says”

The younger girl’s laugh mixes with your best friend’s, and you know your fate is sealed when a guy hands her a drink. 

You look around the table, noticing some people from Alba’s close circle and some you met in passing at the restaurant or at a Barcelona’s game.

“She’s in the bathroom”

Your body betrays you before a coherent thought can leave your brain, your cheeks redding to the tips of your ears. 

“Told you, you’re not subtle”, Alba comments, too amused at your reaction.

As if she knows you’re talking about her, as if a magnetic energy forces your body to get closer and closer, Alexia’s gaze locks with yours as she approaches the table, followed by a vaguely familiar face.

She greets you with a dimpled smile and a welcoming hug, it may look like months passed but it’s been a matter of days. The black top she’s wearing emphasizes her toned stomach, and your fingers itch to trace the subtle sheen of sweat crossing her back – a sign she’s been dancing for a while now. 

You’re fashionably late, regardless of the time Alba suggested you to be here. Spanish people are stragglers, you have learned it at your own expense.

“Are you ready?”, the footballer asks.

“For what?”

“You owe me a dance”

“Absolutely not!”, you protest, trying to escape her hug.

“Oh, yes”, she smile, her arm around your waist dragging you even closer, “You made fun of my dancing moves, now you have to prove yours”

Next time, you will think twice before sending the blonde every single comment you found online about a TikTok video one of her teammates posted after a huge win. In your defence, you find it very cute.

The dance floor is filled with people, dancing in fluid movements like you learned Spaniard are comfortable with. A sea of arms fling around, bodies smoothly moving to feel each other. The music vibrates with a bass so deep that your ribs pulses at the same rhythm.

Alexia guides you in a less crowded section, far enough from the table so Alba and Elena can study every single movement, but out of earshot. 

You try to ignore the thought of your best friend gossiping with Alba.

Thinking, however, is the last thing you do when Alexia’s hand finds the small of your back, skin waking up by the slight hint of touch.

It doesn’t really matter how you managed to get this close, how the music runs through your bodies with an unmistakable energy and desire to get even closer. Your arms rise to frame the blonde’s face, her grin growing as soon as she notices your reaction.

It’s not like either of you is hiding the attraction, the pulsing needs to be together. To talk, to touch, to be around one another. It’s always been there, you just never acted on it.

“Are they like that all the time?”, Elena asks, still studying the way you seem to speak a different language with Alexia.

“I’m thinking about locking them somewhere until they kiss or whatever”

The disbelief is clear in Elena’s voice, “Are you sure they haven’t kissed yet?”

“If I know my sister, she must be really fucking scared”

“If I know my best friend, she must be really fucking stupid”

The two nod before bursting in a loud laugh, clicking their glasses. 

Almost an half an hour later, you find them like that, giggling and talking as if they have known each other for years and not just met. Alexia raises an eyebrow, silently questioning if she needs to hold back Alba’s enthusiasm – Elena is matching it without a problem, and that’s what really worries you. 

“And that’s how she ended up with the sister of her blind date”

“That’s not how it happened, at all”, you complain, hitting your best friend’s arm as she decide telling the worst stories possible is the best way to spend the night.

“Must have been a great date”, someone jokes.

“I’m a fantastic date, thank you so much”

“I can confirm”, Alba says with a teasing grin, raising her empty glass as you flip her off with an equally open smile on your lips.

Alexia, on the other hand, straightens up a bit at the exchange, switches her gaze between the two of you, almost taken aback, “You two dated?”

“I told you”, the younger girl retorts.

“I thought you were messing with me”

The change in her posture is subtle, but you’re close enough to feel it. Close enough to notice the way she moves her knee, breaking contact with yours, her fingers toying with the ring on her pinky.

Alba is a bit too drunk to pay attention to the footballer’s dampened mood, not affected anymore by that one date with you so long ago.

She told her sister about it when she first clocked in her interest for you, hoping to clear the way for her to do something about it – a sort of blessing.

Turns out, Alexia’s so sure she was teasing her, lying about it just to annoy her.

Thankfully, your best friend reads in your face the panic and drifts the conversation on a completely different topic. 

The rest of the night passes in a blur of laughs, questionable drinking choices, and more dancing. 

Every single attempt of catching Alexia’s eyes fails miserably. She’s not ignoring you, she doesn’t leave her seat next to you, and her touch is light but grounding. Your mind, however, spirals in a way it hasn’t in months.

It’s late when the group decides to call it a day, stumbling out into the cool, damp air of Barcelona. No one is sober enough to even think of driving, the decision to summon taxis rather than risk the roads is unanimous. 

A strange intimacy settled inside the car. You and Alexia sit in the back, while Alba, in the middle, sleeps on the older woman’s shoulder with soft snores. Elena is deep in conversation with the Catalan driver, despite not speaking a word of the language. The city lights flash outside, blurred by a light drizzle that you trace with a finger against the window.

Upon reaching Alexia’s apartment, you insist on helping her carry her sister inside, ignoring her half-hearted protests. Your best friend, armed with a winning smile and a ‘thank me later’ attitude, somehow manages to convince the driver to wait for you outside.

The place is quiet when you enter, amplifying the tension that crackled between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s never uncomfortable.

You and Alexia carefully settle Alba onto the bed, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting long shadows across the guest room. Each gentle adjustment of her sister’s blanket, each soft whisper to ensure her comfort, stretched out the delicate balance. 

It’s minutes later, right by the front door, that something snaps.

Before you can reach the handle on the way out, the footballer’s fingers wrap around your wrist.

There’s urgency in the way her body feels stirred by an electric discharge all of a sudden, her voice low, “You dated?”

“What?”, your confusion is mostly prompted by Alexia’s distressed tone.

“You dated my sister?”

“No, we– I mean, we went out like one time and I was, clearly, still fucked up by my ex– It’s not like we actually dated or something”

“She said–”

“She was joking”, your hands cupping the blonde’s face seems to do wonder at calming her, but you still feel the need to clarify the situation, “I kissed her, once, then found a good therapist and said to her I wasn’t interested like that”

“Are you interested like that?”

“Alexia, I just said–”

“No, no”, she interrupts shyly, never dropping her gaze, “Are you interested in me like that?”

Despite the voices still filling doubts in your head, kissing her is the easiest, most natural thing to do at that moment. 

Her lips are soft, warm, and taste faintly of sweet drinks. Her breath mingled with yours, a shared rhythm in the quiet intimacy of the kiss.

A current of interest, desire, and care pulls you closer. There’s complicity and belonging, mingling with curiosity, and the thrill of uncharted territory.

And there’s Alexia, right in front of you, vulnerable and exposed and trusting enough to lay her emotions in your hands. Making you feel so safe that you don’t even have to think about doing the same.

So you kiss again, trying to convey how sure you are about your feelings. Because the insecurities and the questioning silence when Alexia’s heartbeat syncs with yours and her hand caresses your face.

The sharp honk coming from the taxi outside is the only reason why you separate.

~

The late afternoon sun drapes over the Barcelona streets as you and Alexia stroll, fingers laced together. 

It’s a familiar feeling now, holding hands after a date.

You have explored hidden hikes, shared tapas after her games, and even attended a couple of flamenco lessons. Nothing too different from what you’ve already experienced. 

Except, of course, for the kissing.

And there’s been a lot of that.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting Alexia’s recall of Vicky’s last attempt of convincing her to do another stupid trend. You drop her hand, your fingers flying across the screen, muttering in concentration.

The footballer raises an eyebrow, complaining playfully, “Am I annoying you?”

“It’s this stupid bird!”

“Still fighting with ser y estar?”

“I’m sorry, my Spanish teacher is a tease and gets distracted five minutes after promising to help me study”

“She sounds like an incredible teacher”, she counters, too pleased with herself as she hints at your last private tutoring.

Despite your best effort, the other woman had other plans. The sentences she whispered right at your ear, with a raspy voice and a note of teasing in every single movement of her lips, made your resolution crumble in a matter of minutes. The books, not even opened, fell off the bed with a kick of her foot.

You do, however, learn some new words.

Your cheeks flush at the memory, “Shut up!”

“I said nothing”

You ignore her grin, still welcoming her embrace as she pulls you closer to help with the lesson.

“This app is useless! Why do those Spanish animals always do weird things? It’s making me questioning my entire existence”

“Tan dramática”, Alexia snorts, nudging you with her hip, “Why are you even using that thing? You can learn everything you need from me”

“I’m trying to actually learn something here”, you retort, faking annoyance, “Besides, you’re not always available for Spanish lessons. I want to get better, impress the locals”

“After more than a year?”

“Never too late”, you grin, “Just wait, I’ll be ordering in flawless Catalan in less time than it took you to ask me out”

Alexia stops in her tracks at your teasing, taken aback by your admission and by way of calling her out for the stalling after the first kiss you shared. She may have needed a little push then, trying to find the best moment to ask you for a real date to just blur it out in the rush of a late game night you attended.

You continue walking, too focused on the lesson to acknowledge the blonde’s momentary pause.

“Wait, I thought you were taking Spanish lessons”

“Yes, from you and the stupid bird, but I have an actually tutor for Catalan”

“You’re learning Catalan?”

“I live in Barcelona”, you say, matter of factly, but the flush creeping up on your cheeks betrays you.

The truth hangs in the air, a silent acknowledgment of the unspoken. It isn’t about fitting in, not anymore. It’s about her.

To understand her better, wrapping deeply into the fabric of her world. It’s commitment, to the city and to a future that you can’t picture without her in. It’s a promise, somehow, to bridge any gap and to learn her culture, her soul. 

Alexia’s gaze lingers, the weight of your growing feelings both exhilarating and inevitable.

She told herself she set a pace comfortable for you, respecting your need to get better with loving yourself and trusting others.

But you’ve been ready for this love for quite some time now.

The way you open up with her, hold her after a long day, and gently kiss the creases around her lips when she smiles. The way you not just proudly wear your heart on your sleeve, but you hand out your emotions to be seen. The way you make her feel safe enough to be vulnerable, to be taken care of. 

The way you’re learning to love her by learning to love everything that makes her who she is.

A nervous flutter, like trapped butterflies, stirred in your stomach as Alexia catches up to you. You could feel the energy radiating from her, the subtle scent of her perfume, a mix of wood and something undeniably her.

“Estic enamorada de tu”, she confesses, cheeks slightly tinted but her voice so firm, so sure. 

“I know what that means”

A smile, genuine and carefree, grows on both your lips. You study her face for a moment, finding nothing but pure care and a force that feels like arms keeping you safe and warm.

Nothing but love. 

The way you kiss her is almost too intense for a late afternoon in the streets of Barcelona, but barely enough to convey all the emotions that you discovered and learned to welcome in your life again. 

You may not be ready to say out loud you’re falling in love with her too, not yet. But the firmness of your hands on her face, the happiness lightning in your eyes, the resolution conveyed by your kiss.

She knows.

~

On the day you declare the restaurant officially debt free, Paco lifts you up off the ground, spins you around with ease and plants a loud kiss on your forehead.

Paul’s reaction is a bit tamed, even if he declares he’s going to name his firstborn after you. Still single and hopeless romantic, you’re not sure how much to read into his words.

Pedro cries, of course he does, but he also hugs you in a way that conveys almost too much not to shed a few tears yourself.

It’s not difficult for you to admit you own them more than they own you. 

Taking care of the restaurant’s ledger and the guys’ enthusiastic opinion about your accounting job opened a lot of small businesses’ doors. The idea of opening your own office never even crosses your mind, not planning on entangling yourself in a structured system anytime soon. The new apartment you rent has a small room that works just fine as a study.

You will still keep an eye on them, though, not sure enough your finance lessons really drilled in their heads. 

“So, you’re finally letting us treat you with dinner?”, Paul asks, serving you up with way too many pleasantries. 

“I already have someone who pays for me”, you retort, playful smirk on your lips.

“¡Ay, I thought you were taking me out tonight!”, Alexia complains next to you, keeping up with the joke as she pretends to not be interested in the food anymore. She can be such a dork.

“Wait, am I crushing a date?”, Alba intercepts from the other side of the table.

“You’ve been crushing our dates since the day we met!”

The laughs that erupt are loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, thankfully not really annoyed by the chaos. The truth is that, despite being a menace of a group, it is not like you can drag your friends in any other place without the risk of getting banned forever. 

It’s a familiar scene. The restaurant feels like a second home now, one that you built on your own around people that truly see you, support you and never miss a chance to tease you.

So you shake your head at Ricardo’s antics and glare at Alexia when she keeps teasing her sister, effortlessly distracting her with light movements of your fingers on her knee. 

The conversation flows between shared memories and inside jokes, carrying the night away until your table is the only one left. Not planning on leaving the place anytime soon. And as you sit there, surrounded by your friends, questionable recalling of stories, and the magnetic pull of Alexia’s presence, you just know that this is it. 

This is your life, your love, your chosen family.

Then Pedro has to ruin the moment, persuading everyone you have to make a toast for whatever reason. You try to fight it, embarrassed and quite frankly taken aback by the respect and genuine admiration this people seems to feel for you. 

A subtle nod of your girlfriend’s head, her hand finding yours beneath the table, is all you need to indulge with their antics.

“To us”, you say, raising a glass, “To finally getting our shit together!”

Laughter and cheers fill the restaurant, everyone congratulating each other for the most random things and joking around as if life could always be this simple.

Alexia’s hold tightens, her eyes meeting yours. Her face lights up in a way that never fails to make your own heart grow. 

“T’estimo”, you whisper, just for her to hear. 

Your love is usually so loud. A love that grows unexpectedly, but burns with a fierce and tender flame. But your promises are quiet. A silent acknowledgment of commitment that goes beyond, that stretches confidently into the future. 

Together.

[moonstruckme]

hello lovely mae! saw your call for requests and couldn't help but respond - maybe something w wolfstar where it's nearing the full moon and remus only wants sirius for something or other and it hurts reader's feelings? only if it takes your fancy of course, thank you!! <3

Thank you lovely <3

cw: migraine

poly!wolfstar x fem!reader ♡ 727 words

Remus’ pain is making you nauseous. You can’t hear it or see it, but you know it’s there, just on the other side of the bedroom door. You keep glancing that way against your will, the evening news passing in an unnoticed blur on the telly. 

You love the flat you share with your boyfriends, but it feels suffocating on days like today. Too still, too quiet. Haunted by the approaching full moon. Even when you aren’t wanted, you can’t bring yourself to leave. 

You pretend not to have been watching when Sirius steps out of the bedroom. 

“How is he?” you ask as he settles down next to you on the couch. It’s late enough for shadows to wrap themselves around his features, his mouth solemn. You don’t know why you ask; it’s not like he’s going to say good. 

“He’s sleeping,” Sirius replies, his hand finding yours. He kisses your fingers. “How are you, my love?” 

You smile. “Oh, that’s not very fair.” 

“What’s not?” 

“You shouldn’t have to comfort Remus and then come comfort me.” 

“You make it sound so burdensome.” He keeps your hand tucked in his, bringing it to his lap as his thumb runs over your knuckles. “I’m sorry he upset you.” 

“It’s fine.” 

“He didn’t mean it that way.” 

“I know,” you say, “he didn’t mean it any sort of way. It’s really okay. You’re better at it.” 

Sirius doesn’t deny it. He knows as well as you do that, for whatever reason, the scalp massages he gives Remus to relieve his migraines simply work better. Maybe it’s that he’s been doing it longer, or just that he really does have the magic touch, but whenever you try it seems like the physical contact hurts Remus more than it helps him. Best for you to leave them to it.

“I saw your face when he asked you to go,” Sirius says, very softly. 

You shrink. 

“It’s okay if you’re upset.” 

You are upset. It’s undeniable in the tight, achy feeling sitting right in the center of your sternum, but you don’t want to be upset. You wouldn’t be if you could help it. 

“I’m okay,” you say. Sirius looks unpersuaded. “Remus is the one who’s in pain.” 

He hums. Thumb moving over the bumps of your knuckles one by one. “He is,” he acknowledges. “He’s asked for a cuddle, though.” 

You give him a look. “You don’t think he really means that.” 

“Do you think I’d come relay the message if I thought he didn’t?” Sirius asks. “He knows there’s no way to get rid of the pain entirely. I think he just wants comfort more than he wants to try for that right now.” 

Your heart throbs for your poor boyfriend. “Why didn’t you stay?” 

“He asked for both of us.” Sirius presses another kiss to your hand. “I’m just selfish is all, I wanted to see that you were alright first.” 

You feel your lips curve slightly. “So selfish,” you say, allowing yourself to be tugged up by your hand. 

You kiss him once on your way to the bedroom, his hand sweet on the small of your back, but when you enter you both only have eyes for one man. 

It’s somehow even quieter in here than the rest of the apartment. The sheets barely whisper as Sirius crawls in behind Remus, slipping his arms around your boyfriend’s waist. You try to be just as soundless getting in on the other side. 

Remus doesn’t open his eyes when the mattress dips beneath you, but you know he’s awake. 

“Hi,” you murmur, softer than soft, with a barely-there kiss to his jaw. 

“Hi,” Remus rasps back. His voice is so coarse with pain your throat tightens at the sound of it. For a moment you think this was a bad idea, you’re making things worse, but then his arm comes around you. Curling you closer to him. You hold him back, brushing against Sirius as you do. 

You’re afraid to say anything more, worried the sound will agitate his migraine, but Sirius asks, “What can we do?” 

Remus sighs. “Just this,” he says, and it sounds like relief. “This is perfect. Thank you.” 

You kiss him again. Gently, meeting Sirius’ eyes over his shoulder. Neither of you have to say it aloud: there’s no place else you’d be.