#this is the first time in a long time that i’ve had no one in my life that’s made me feel the need to dim down my enthusiasm

[slutoru1207]

Is it alright if you make an invincible story where Mark and the reader started out as childhood friends. He dated Amber, then Eve then next is the reader. Then after that have been together for a long while now, Mark would have some crazy baby fever. Please?🥺🙏

You and Mark had known each other for as long as you could remember. Childhood friends, then more, though neither of you really understood the difference when you were younger.

You’d both been through a lot—he with his journey to becoming Invincible, and you, just by his side through all of it. You’d been there when he dated Amber, then again when he had that short-lived relationship with Eve. But now? Now it was you and him. You’d been together for years, and every day with Mark was something new, yet always familiar, like the way he made you laugh with his clumsy yet endearing superhero stunts or the way he’d always hold your hand in public like it was a quiet declaration of his love.

Mark was the guy in your life, and somehow, it still felt like nothing had changed, even after all the twists and turns. The love between you had grown stronger, deeper, more solid with time. It was perfect, or at least it felt that way until one thing started taking over his thoughts.

It had started out subtle. A conversation here and there, as you’d talk about your future—about what it would look like a few years down the road. You'd been dreaming together, as you always did, about the house you might have someday, the trips you’d take, the quiet moments you’d share.

But lately, Mark’s eyes seemed to linger a little longer when he saw baby ads on TV. Or when he’d get super excited when a new friend or family member would have a baby.

At first, you thought it was a passing thing.

But then... it wasn’t.

One evening, as you two sat on the couch together, flipping through channels, Mark’s gaze was fixed on a commercial for a baby product. You didn’t think much of it until you noticed how still he was. His lips parted as if he were about to say something.

“Mark?” you called, tilting your head.

He blinked and snapped out of it, looking at you with a sheepish smile. "Sorry, I was... thinking."

You raised an eyebrow, suspicious. "About what?"

Mark shifted in his seat, then hesitated. His voice lowered, and his eyes were slightly sheepish. “About... babies.”

You couldn't help but laugh lightly. "Babies? As in, your babies?"

He looked over at you, eyes wide with a mix of excitement and hesitation. "Yeah... I don't know, it’s just... I mean, you know, we’ve been together for a while now, and I’ve been thinking..."

"Thinking about what?" you asked, leaning toward him, curiosity piqued.

Mark’s face softened. "About how nice it would be to have a little one around. Someone to love and take care of. Maybe someone who looks like us." He added quickly, "Not right now, of course! I mean, I’m just thinking about it. But I don’t know, I can’t help but get excited whenever I see something about babies."

Your heart warmed at the idea of Mark getting all soft over the thought of having a little family someday. But you still couldn’t stop teasing. "So, you’re having baby fever, huh?"

Mark rubbed the back of his neck nervously, his cheeks a little red. “Maybe... just a little. But it’s not just that! It’s the whole family thing, you know? A future with you... with us... It just sounds so perfect.”

You chuckled, sitting next to him. “Well, I’m glad you’re excited. But we’ve still got a lot to figure out before that happens, don’t we?”

Mark nodded, but his gaze was soft, dreamy. "Yeah... but one day, I just want to hold our baby in my arms, y’know? Teach them stuff. Be there for them."

You smiled, your heart melting at how genuine and tender his voice was. You wrapped your arms around him, snuggling into his side. "It’s a nice dream, Mark. And when the time’s right, we’ll make it happen. But for now, we can just enjoy the thought of it, right?"

"Yeah," he agreed softly, his arm wrapping around you tightly. "Right. But don’t be surprised if I start getting a little more obsessed with baby stuff around here."

It didn’t take long for Mark’s baby fever to escalate. Soon, he was the one who kept bringing up the idea of starting a family. Every time you’d talk about your future together, he'd slip in something about how awesome it would be to have kids, how he could already picture it. His enthusiasm was adorable, even if it was a little overwhelming at times.

One day, you came home to find him watching a parenting video on YouTube, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in every word. You stared at him, hands on your hips. “Mark... you really have it bad, huh?”

He looked up at you, a grin stretching across his face. “I mean, it’s all very important stuff. I gotta be prepared, right?”

You laughed. “You’re adorable. But I’m not going to let you get a baby before we even finish organizing the living room.”

Mark pouted dramatically, but you could see the spark of excitement in his eyes, even if he tried to hide it behind a little humor. “Hey, I’m just saying. Maybe we should go ahead and practice.”

You arched an eyebrow, intrigued. “Oh yeah? How would you practice?”

Before you could react, Mark scooped you up into his arms, his grip strong but warm. “I’ll take care of everything. Starting with you.”

You laughed, enjoying the warmth of his embrace. "You're impossible."

But, for once, it felt right. You could already picture it: the two of you, growing a family, starting the next chapter of your lives together. And you couldn’t wait.

[bambiihee]

5 or 10 with Hyunjin, whichever fits him more eeek >.< ALSO CONGRATULATIONS FOR 500 ♡♡♡♡♡♡

TONGUE TIED༚ ── h.hj

your new boyfriend eats you out for the first time.

▸ PAIRING༚ 황현진 x fem!reader ▸ WC༚ 1. 2 k ▸ GENRE༚ just straight filthy smut, some fluff, pwp ▸ WARNINGS༚ NSFW, MDNI! est. relationship, oral sex (f. rec), vaginal fingering, first time oral, munch!hyune, soft dom!hyunjin, dirty talk, praise kink, lots of pet names

[ note༚ ] part two of fifteen for my 500 followers event!

5. "No. I'm supposed to be making you feel good."

“R-really? Um... are you sure?” you mumble, hesitant and nervous, fighting the overwhelming urge to close your legs— you’re fairly sure you couldn’t anyway, even if you tried, with how roughly Hyunjin was gripping onto your thighs. “You really don’t have to if you don’t want to—“

“I do want to.” he breathes against your skin, eyes blown out wide, irises darker than night, staring down at your bare pussy with a hunger you’ve never seen quite so intense before. Licking his lips as if he was craving your taste on his tongue. “Fuck, I want to so bad, baby, please, can I? I’ll make you feel so good, I promise…” 

The thumb that had been rubbing comforting circles into your inner thigh glides down to press gently at your clit— you keen, wet sticky folds fluttering, your thighs shuddering on either side of your boyfriend’s head. You were far from a virgin, but Hyunjin never failed to make you feel like one; in just the few short months you've been dating he's made you feel pleasure you didn’t think was possible, so unbelievably enthusiastic in giving it to you as good as he can… and when you had brought up that you had never been eaten out before, all of your exes’ repulsed by the idea, Hyunjin couldn’t help but jump at the opportunity to introduce you to something new. 

He swore to you that eating pussy was one of his most favorite things in the world, but you weren’t quite sure if you believed him. It sounded ridiculous.

“Wh-what if I... don’t taste good, or something?” you cringe. To your horror, Hyunjin actually laughs, the sharp exhales of his breath fanning across your heated skin.  

“Oh, Babydoll... I’ve been wanting to get my mouth on you since I met you. Can’t believe no one’s ever ate this pretty pussy, it's so fuckin’ wet for me… you want my tongue, don’t you baby?” his thumb dips down lower, the pad of it teasing at your hole. Your pussy fluttered from the feeling, dribbling slick and so achingly empty, the barely-there pressure making you whine high in your throat. You’ve played this game before, your boyfriend ever so predictable— Hyunjin won’t give it to you until you ask him to, and you better ask him nicely.  

“Jinnie, please…” you whimper, resolve all but disintegrating when he shoots you a crooked grin and presses his index and middle finger up against your entrance.

“Please what, love?” your little hole started to open up around the pads of his fingers, not dipping in entirely quiet yet— it was nowhere near enough, the ghost of a stretch, teasing you with memories of his cock parting your walls…  

“Fuck, I... want your mouth, want your fingers— please, please, please!” 

“That's my good girl~” Hyunjin drawls, voice almost at a growl, and he dives in without warning— you’re assaulted with the feeling of his lips wrapping around your clit, his tongue sliding hot and heavy between your folds, long thick fingers diving into your cunt and curling against your sweet spot just right. You cry out sharply, toss your head back against the pillows, completely overwhelmed by all of the sensations; you can feel him smirking against your cunt. 

His fingers fuck into you nice and slow, filling you up so deep, pulling you towards the edge with practiced ease, the pleasure almost unbearable but in the most delicious way... a stark contrast to how harshly he sucked at your clit, pouty lips swollen and mouth hot and wet, ecstasy unlike anything you’ve felt before rolling through your body sharp like electricity, so so good it’s almost painful— you shriek when he changes angles, thrusts his fingers a little faster, a little harder, and you push hard at his head until he pulls off of your cunt. He seems to have some serious trouble getting your pussy out of his mouth.

“What’s the matter, doll? Don’t like it?” Hyunjin asks gently, handsome face flushed pink, his lips and chin wet with your arousal, his fingers still buried deep in your tight hole… you whimper at the sight of him, thick thighs still shaking from the aftershocks. 

“T-too much, Jinnie.” your pussy throbbed, clit pulsated, the knot in your belly tight— he coos, just condescending enough to make you clench around his fingers, and he presses a chaste, wet kiss to your inner thigh.    

“Shh, baby, it’s okay, I've got you— pussy tastes so fucking good, shit, can’t hold myself back..” he gently pulls his fingers out, watches in rapture at how your folds quiver and dribble slick, “You're doing so good, honey, just lie back and feel good~” 

“I... taste good?” you echo in a small voice. 

 “Mhm. Perfect lil cunt for me,” Hyunjin stares longingly at your twitching pussy like he misses it, huffing the deep breaths he denied himself when he was buried between your thighs. “Need you on my mouth again, taste so addicting, holy shit— I’ll be gentler this time baby, I promise, just gotta make you cum in my mouth. Please? Gonna make you cum so fuckin’ hard, gotta taste it when you do—“

He dives back in again before you can stop him, pushing your thighs up roughly until they hit your chest; you've never felt this exposed before, every inch of your most intimate areas spread open for Hyunjin to see, touch, taste, worship. You can't hold back your surprised squeal when he shoves his tongue in your hole as deep as it could go, the sensation so alien but feeling better than you could have ever even imagine. He eats you like a starved animal, tongue and lips everywhere all at once, grunting and groaning into your heat like he was the one receiving pleasure and not you-- the wet smacking noises makes your face burn, so filthy and obscene you could hardly stand hearing it, but your cunt throbs and pulsates as if it was begging for more, more, more.

Hyunjin gives it to you. He gives you everything, his fuzzy buzz cut tickling the insides of your thighs and adding to the growing fire in your belly.

Focusing so hard on your hole, your little swollen clit feels neglected-- it's the extra spark of pleasure you need to reach your climax, so close but so far away, and you find yourself reaching down before you even realize you were moving.

Hyunjin catches you instantly, siren eyes locking up onto yours before he grabs your wrist in an iron grip, tugging your hand away sharply without ever once disconnecting himself from your pussy. "Nuh-uh. Greedy girl." he chides, barely understandable with his mouth full, tongue sliding out of your hole to lick broad stripes between your folds. "I'm supposed to be the one making you feel good, remember? Keep those hands up where I can see them."

He releases your wrist for you to tangle your fingers back into the bedsheets, arms limp at your sides-- you're rewarded with a harsh suck to your clit, Hyunjin's teeth grazing over your engorged nub just enough to make you jolt.

You whimper, fucked out, confused, and a little surprised; Hyunjin hardly ever acts like this, so controlling, so focused on pleasuring you that he just wants you to stay still and take it. Maybe he does like eating pussy as much as he says he does.

[skiesuconn]

all the ways i stay

paige bueckers & azzi fudd യ notes: it took me a while to find satisfaction with this, but i’ve finally settled on it. i figured i’d jot something down quickly while i work on chapter 3 of the argent. fic. it’s still in the making, but trust me, it’ll be worth the wait. in the meantime, i hope you enjoy this quick blurb i had in mind. also, i highly recommend playing the song mentioned later on—it really brings the moment to life. happy reading, lovelies.

paige never thought she’d be sitting through a rom-com marathon with azzi, yet here they were, limbs tangled on the couch, a half-empty popcorn bowl wedged between them. the air smelled like butter and whatever candle azzi had burning—something warm, vanilla, a little too cozy for a night where paige had fully intended to roast every movie choice.

but azzi was taking this seriously. too seriously.

the notebook had been playing for all of five minutes, and already, azzi was watching like it was a high-stakes thriller, arms crossed, one perfectly manicured hand occasionally reaching up to twist a curl between her fingers. paige, meanwhile, was sprawled out, one socked foot nudging azzi’s thigh, head tipped back against the armrest like she was suffering.

“this is the dumbest shit i’ve ever seen,” paige muttered, watching ryan gosling pull off some grand romantic gesture. “like, imagine a guy hanging off a ferris wheel, threatening to let go unless you agree to a date. that’s not romance, that’s blackmail.”

“he’s being dramatic. it’s supposed to be sweet,” azzi countered, eyes still locked on the screen.

paige huffed a laugh, shifting so her shoulder knocked against azzi’s. “oh, so if i dangle off a balcony and demand you take me to chipotle, that’s sweet? good to know.”

“you wouldn’t last five seconds. your upper body strength is—” azzi let her gaze flick down to paige’s arms, the definition obvious even under her hoodie. she cleared her throat. “never mind.”

paige smirked. “oh no, finish that thought, princess.”

“no.”

paige, who lived for this kind of thing, propped herself up on one elbow, getting close enough that azzi’s perfume curled around her senses. she smelled expensive, like warm florals and a hint of something soft, maybe honey. she should be paying attention to the movie, but instead, she was studying the way azzi’s lashes brushed her cheek when she blinked, the exact shade of brown in her eyes. totally normal. not a problem at all.

“admit it,” paige drawled. “you just got distracted by the guns.”

“i hate you.”

“no you don’t.”

“i do. i hate you so much.” but azzi’s mouth twitched, and her hand, traitorous thing that it was, had found its way to paige’s wrist, fingers pressing absentmindedly into the skin there.

paige noticed, but didn’t comment. instead, she shifted again, nestling further into azzi’s space like she had every right to be there. “okay, but you have to admit this movie is trash. a seven-year breakup over a letter she never got? and then she gets engaged to some other dude just for funsies?”

“it’s about fate.”

“it’s about bad communication.”

“well, not everyone’s an oversharer like you.”

paige grinned. “first of all, rude. second of all, if you ever fell in love with me and wrote me letters for a year, i’d totally read them.”

“good to know,” azzi said dryly, but her fingers curled slightly around paige’s wrist, like she was holding on without thinking about it.

paige caught it this time. dragged her thumb over the inside of azzi’s wrist, slow, lazy. “you’re holding my hand, princess.”

“no, i’m not.”

paige laced their fingers together, making it undeniable. “yeah, you are.”

azzi let out a long, suffering sigh, but didn’t pull away. instead, she rested her head against paige’s shoulder, like it was easier than fighting whatever this was.

“shut up and watch the movie.”

paige smirked. “yes, ma’am.”

azzi groaned. “don’t call me that.”

“whatever you say, sweetheart.” paige turned her head slightly, pressing a lingering kiss to azzi’s temple. it was casual, effortless, like second nature. azzi’s breath hitched, but she didn’t move. didn’t push paige away.

paige still thought the movie was ridiculous, but if it meant getting to sit like this, wrapped up in azzi’s space, maybe rom-coms weren’t so bad after all.

paige stretches out on the couch, head sinking into azzi’s lap like she owns the place. which, technically, she does. well—half of it, at least.

"story: five out of ten," paige announces, dragging a lazy hand through the air. "sure, it's the usual love story. boy meets girl, they fight, they make up, they cry… whatever."

azzi snorts, idly combing her fingers through paige's hair. "so poetic."

paige tilts her head up, grinning. "what can i say? i have a way with words."

"yeah," azzi deadpans. "like a drunk guy at karaoke."

paige gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. "wow. that was personal."

azzi hums, twisting a strand of blonde between her fingers before flicking it back into place. "well, i’d give it an eight."

paige jerks up like azzi just said something blasphemous. "eight? for that?"

"it's a classic." azzi shrugs, like that explains everything.

paige squints. "so is canned tuna, but you don't see me crying over it."

"maybe because you have the emotional depth of a teaspoon," azzi muses, lips twitching.

"okay, rude." paige flops back down, arms crossed. "also, i think we’re ignoring the real issue here. you, azzi fudd, are a rom-com crybaby."

"i am not."

paige smirks. "oh, really? then explain why you sobbed over that one scene in 10 Things I Hate About You last week?"

"because heath ledger was singing in the bleachers, and that’s a valid reason!"

paige hums, tapping her chin. "mm. i dunno. seems a little wimpy to me."

"i'm emotionally intelligent," azzi corrects, flicking paige’s forehead.

"mm. tomato, tomahto." paige closes her eyes, perfectly at peace, until—

"you know," azzi starts, voice all sweet and innocent, which immediately puts paige on edge, "when we're old, you’ll be the one looking for your eye contacts only to realize you’ve had glasses on this whole time."

paige's eyes snap open. "excuse me?"

"just saying." azzi grins, all dimples and mischief. "you give off that energy."

paige sits up, pretending to be offended. "i do not give off ‘losing my own glasses while they're on my face’ energy."

"you so do," azzi counters, biting back a laugh.

"i'm literally the most capable person you know."

azzi raises an eyebrow. "paige, last week you spent ten minutes looking for your phone while you were on a call."

paige squints. "…that proves nothing."

"and two days ago, you left your car keys in the fridge."

paige huffs. "that was one time."

"mm-hmm." azzi pats her cheek, eyes sparkling. "sure, babe."

paige flops back down, grumbling, but as azzi goes back to running her fingers through her hair, she lets the thought settle.

growing old with azzi.

being with her through all the ridiculous, mundane, beautiful little moments life throws their way.

paige isn't sentimental. not really. but the idea sticks, burrows into her chest in a way she can’t shake.

she smacks azzi’s thigh, lightly. "you're annoying."

azzi just laughs, warm and soft, and yeah—paige thinks—maybe she wouldn't mind losing her glasses if it means azzi’s the one to find them for her.

the room still smells like buttered popcorn and the faintest hint of azzi’s vanilla-scented lotion. the air’s a little stuffy from them being curled up on the couch for hours, so paige cracks a window while azzi smooths out the blankets, fluffing the pillows back into place.

"teamwork makes the dream work," paige announces, dramatically tossing a handful of snack bags into the trash like she’s steph curry sinking a three.

except—

clunk. one of them bounces off the rim and lands just outside the bin.

"except when you miss." azzi deadpans.

paige squints. "i meant to do that."

"mm-hmm." azzi picks up the stray bag, dropping it in as paige gathers up the cups. she takes a final glance around, making sure everything's set for the next movie marathon.

when she's satisfied, she turns to paige, a little smirk playing at her lips. "good job, partner."

paige barely has time to process before azzi leans in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss to her lips. it’s barely a second, but it’s enough to make paige's brain short-circuit.

"oh." paige blinks, a slow grin creeping onto her face. "so i get kisses for cleaning? noted."

"don't push it." azzi nudges her toward the kitchen, but there’s no real bite to it.

paige busies herself grabbing the cupcake cups while azzi starts setting out ingredients. she fills a few with nuts—strictly for herself, since azzi's allergic and she’d rather not spend the night in the er. then she loads up the rest with fruit, especially kiwi, because azzi swears it tastes like happiness. she adds pineapple and strawberries too, then tosses in some dark chocolate and a generous amount of gummy bears.

azzi watches, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. "so… you’re just making a personal charcuterie board of sweets?"

paige shrugs. "some of us like variety."

azzi snorts. "some of us just like sugar."

"pot, meet kettle." paige gestures at the chocolate chips azzi’s been sneakily snacking on.

azzi flicks a marshmallow at her, and paige, never one to back down from a challenge, pops it into her mouth midair with a smug look.

"show-off," azzi mutters, but her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

they settle into a rhythm, prepping ingredients for the ultimate snack session. paige, of course, insists on making s’mores, because what’s a cozy night without them?

azzi leans against the counter, watching paige work, arms brushing every so often. the night is easy, familiar, filled with little moments like this—bickering over snacks, stolen kisses, the kind of comfortable chaos that only comes with knowing someone like the back of your hand.

and honestly? paige wouldn’t trade it for anything.

azzi pads over to the kitchen, where stewie is curled up in his usual spot, breathing slow and steady. he looks peaceful, like he doesn’t have a single thought in that fluffy little head of his.

she crouches down, rubbing his ears, voice soft. "he’s literally perfect."

"mhmm." paige barely glances up, focused on skewering a marshmallow.

"paige, look at him," azzi insists.

paige, still hunched over the stove, murmurs, "kinda busy making s’moresess right now."

azzi squints. "s’moresess?"

"shhh." paige waves a hand, half-heartedly. "it’s a process."

azzi shakes her head, muttering something about her girlfriend being a lost cause, and moves behind paige, arms slipping around her waist, chin resting on her shoulder.

paige stiffens slightly but doesn’t stop what she’s doing—at least, not until azzi exhales slow and warm against the shell of her ear.

paige’s brain? fried.

her grip on the skewer slips, and the marshmallow nearly meets a fiery demise.

"azzi." her voice comes out a little strangled.

"what?" azzi hums, feigning innocence as she straightens up, leaving paige standing there like a malfunctioning robot.

"you—" paige exhales sharply through her nose. "you almost made me burn the s’more."

"tragedy," azzi deadpans, already moving toward the kettle.

paige glares, but it’s weak at best. instead, she focuses on plating everything while azzi makes herself a cup of tea and grabs some coconut water.

the dorm is spotless, the only sound the occasional clink of dishes and the low hum of the kettle. the candles caroline gifted azzi flicker gently, their scents—vanilla and lavender—mixing in the air, making the whole space feel warm, intimate.

it’s just them. no distractions.

azzi leans against the counter, stirring her tea, watching paige with something unreadable in her eyes.

paige, finally done, turns to face her, a cocky little grin playing at her lips. "so, did you come over here just to sabotage my s’mores, or…?"

azzi takes a slow sip of her tea, gaze steady. "maybe."

paige squints. "that’s evil."

"you love it."

paige sighs, defeated, but she can’t hide the way her smile softens just a little.

azzi kneels beside stewie, fingers ghosting over his soft fur, careful not to wake him. his little chest rises and falls in the slow rhythm of deep sleep, curled up on his uconn-themed dog bed—matching blanket and all. of course azzi had to go all out. paige swears this dog has more school spirit than half the team.

paige finishes up in the kitchen, setting the last plate down before making her way over, dropping onto the floor beside azzi. but while azzi’s watching stewie, paige is watching her.

azzi looks peaceful, more than she has in weeks. this semester drained the hell out of her—paige saw it firsthand, the late nights, the stress, the way azzi pushed herself through it all. and yet, right now, in this tiny little moment, she’s soft, calm, just existing.

paige leans back on her palms, studying her, a quiet sort of pride settling in her chest. that’s her girl. the girl she had all her firsts with.

and tonight? well, she’s about to have another first with her.

azzi really should stop making paige feel like her heart's a metronome—this can't be normal.

paige’s thoughts swirl for a second as she watches azzi, completely unaware of the storm brewing in paige’s head. “if Azzi asked me to climb a mountain right now, i'd probably do it just to see her smile. how much do I need to pay for her to stop being this cute?”

“this is why I’m not allowed near dogs,” paige thinks, watching stewie snooze. "one pet and suddenly I'm invested in a team of athletes who can't even talk."

azzi shifts, catching paige’s gaze. there’s that smile again—the kind that makes paige feel like the world stops for just a second. “Not that I mind,” she thinks, "but damn, this girl has me wrapped around her finger."

and honestly? paige is okay with it.

they’re talking about nothing and everything all at once, voices low, lazy, like the world outside doesn’t exist. sitting cross-legged on the floor, the snacks long forgotten, azzi’s hand moves in slow circles over stewie’s ear, careful not to wake him.

paige, propped up on one elbow, watches her with that look—soft, amused, completely gone. azzi catches it, and for a second, wonders if she needs to take notes because damn, paige's stare is next level.

azzi meets her gaze, smiles, something quiet passing between them.

paige leans in first, and azzi follows, her free hand slipping to paige’s side, fingers pressing just enough to ground them both. she smiles into the kiss before it deepens, slow and sure, like every time they kiss, it means something more. because it does. because it always does.

when they pull back, paige, still close enough that azzi can feel her breath, grins.

“hey az,” she murmurs, voice teasing. “remember that night a few years back when we slow danced on the porch and i stepped on your feet like… fifteen times?”

"of course i do, paige," azzi says, voice soft but sure. "that memory’s engraved in my brain."

she remembers everything—the exact date, the thick warmth of summer, the way the night unfolded like a scene straight out of one of her movies. “And honestly? The embarrassing foot stomping was just part of the charm,” she thinks. the way it led them here, to something that feels eerily similar to what’s about to unravel.

paige raises a brow. "woah, was i really that bad?"

azzi grins, playing with paige’s fingers absentmindedly. "kind of."

paige groans, leaning her head back dramatically. "well, i was nervous, okay? i was dancing with the girl of my dreams."

azzi snorts. "oh yeah?"

"yeah," paige says, eyes locked on hers now. "you were wearing your mom’s pearls that day. that dress i thought was pretty on you, though—let’s be real—all of them were. swear, you could wear a trash bag and i’d still go crazy." she shrugs, lips twitching. "doesn’t even matter what you wear. you are your outfit. if that makes sense."

azzi flushes, her smile growing. she tugs paige closer by her hoodie, pressing their lips together. paige grins into it, hands finding azzi’s waist as the kiss deepens.

when they break apart, azzi hums, eyes playful. "i think the romance movies really got to you, huh?"

paige scoffs. "hey, i’m not the one who wants to watch them."

"that’s true."

"but i wasn’t finished with my little speech, actually," paige adds, tilting her head.

azzi rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning. "oh? go on, then."

paige squeezes her fingers, something shifting in her expression—something softer, something certain. "wanna dance?"

azzi’s face lights up instantly. "right here? right now?"

paige nods. "right here. right now."

“Oh god, we’re doing this,” azzi thinks, trying not to grin like an absolute fool.

without hesitation, azzi takes her hand. paige, playing the gentleman, offers it with a dramatic flair, one hand behind her back like she’s in some old-timey movie. “Oh yeah, I’m totally swooning now,” azzi thinks, trying to keep her cool. azzi laughs, but she takes it.

they step into the open space in the kitchen, the only sound the faint hum of the fridge. the soft glow of candlelight flickers against the walls, filling the room with something unspoken. something warm. something that feels like them.

as they settle in, azzi tilts her head. "are we doing a silent slow dance, paige?"

paige blinks. "my bad." she pulls out her phone, scrolling for a second before pressing play. the soft, melancholic notes of my love mine all mine by mitski fill the air.

azzi raises a brow. "since when do you know this song?"

paige smirks. "since sarah put me on."

azzi laughs, shaking her head. as the first seconds of the song settle over them, paige—who’s just a little taller—takes azzi’s hands. azzi sighs, already knowing how this is going to go. "please don’t step on my feet."

paige grins. "can’t promise that."

azzi smiles, and they fall into place like they always do. her head finds paige’s shoulder, her hands finding her waist, and paige isn't forcing a thing. they just fit. like they were made to be here, in this moment, like this.

the song is calm, and so are they, just swaying together. the stillness, the trust, the years of knowing each other—it all settles between them like a quiet understanding. azzi closes her eyes, memorizing every movement, the way their breaths sync, the way their heartbeats seem to fall into rhythm.

paige looks down at her, eyes soft, full of something deeper than words. she presses a gentle kiss to azzi’s head and whispers, "i love you more than you’ll ever know."

azzi lifts her gaze, the candlelight flickering in her eyes. "i love you more than i ever thought i could love anybody."

paige swallows. their bodies are so close, and as the second verse starts, azzi wraps her arms around paige’s neck, resting her chin on her shoulder. her curls brush against paige’s face, tickling her cheek.

"you can put your feet on mine," paige murmurs. "i’ll lift you with ease."

azzi snorts. "you’re ridiculous."

"and yet, here you are, playing into it," paige teases.

but azzi does it, stepping onto paige’s feet, letting her take the lead. it’s ridiculous, yeah, but it’s them.

paige smiles, eyes slipping shut, and this time, azzi’s the one watching her. with nothing but love.

she presses a soft kiss to paige’s cheek, and paige’s lips curl into that cocky smile—the one that always makes azzi feel something she can't quite name.

the way paige’s whole face lights up just from being near her… that’s the kind of love scientists should be writing articles about.

as the song fades out, azzi’s fingers trace lazy circles on paige’s back. they haven’t moved, still molded into each other, warm from the dance, from the love they just shared. they were always meant for this moment.

"can we just stay like this forever?" azzi murmurs.

paige chuckles, looking down at her, at the soft smile on azzi’s face. "and who’s gonna break ankles if we do?"

"kamorea can handle that," azzi says, completely serious.

paige laughs, shaking her head. as azzi pulls her hands back, she really looks at paige. paige is holding her hands now, thumb brushing over her skin, absentmindedly tracing small circles—no, actually tracing azzi’s name on the back of her hand.

azzi bites her lip. "gotta say, you improved. you didn’t step on my foot once."

paige nods, all cocky. what azzi doesn’t know is that paige spent her free time watching dance tutorials. even asked tim—azzi’s father—for tips.

"thank you," paige smirks. "i’m a natural."

azzi scoffs. "sure."

"should we go back to the movies?" azzi asks.

paige stretches. "yeah, just gimme a sec. gotta use the bathroom."

"okay." azzi leans in, pressing a quick kiss to paige’s cheek before heading back to the room.

but paige doesn’t go to the bathroom. instead, she crouches by stewie’s bed, quietly filling his bowl with water, making sure he’s set for the night. she grabs a few dog treats and places them beside him, scratching behind his ear as she whispers—(keep in mind, it’s a dog):

"i’m gonna marry that pretty girl someday. i know you’re her #1, but i’m never gonna stop loving her."

stewie snores in response. paige grins, giving him one last pat before heading back.

when she walks in, azzi’s already curled up, waiting for her with a look of love and safety. paige jumps into bed, and azzi immediately rests her head on paige’s chest.

"let’s do frozen again," azzi mumbles.

paige laughs, pressing a kiss to azzi’s head. "i’m covering your eyes when olaf loses his head."

azzi gasps and smacks paige’s leg. "rude."

as the movie starts playing, the soft glow of the screen flickering against their faces, azzi reaches for a s’more, breaking off a piece for paige. she turns to her, eyes warm, lips curled into a soft smile.

“open,” she says, holding it up.

paige laughs, tilting her head back slightly, and obliges. azzi stuffs the piece in her mouth, giggling as paige tries to chew through the marshmallow, cracker, and chocolate all at once.

“i love you,” azzi murmurs, almost absentmindedly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. because it is.

paige, still chewing, looks at her with the kind of softness that makes azzi’s heart ache in the best way. she swallows, then leans in, brushing her nose against azzi’s.

“i’m right here,” paige whispers, voice thick with certainty, “not going anywhere. always gonna take care of you.”

azzi blinks, the words settling deep in her chest, something warm and overwhelming blooming inside her. she presses closer, burying herself into paige’s arms, where everything feels right.

paige holds her like she’s never letting go.

[shroomyv]

ᢉ𐭩GOOD BOY(‘S) [1]

Pairing: mark grayson x sinister mark x Mohawk mark x viltrumite mark x F!reader (god damn)

Synopsis: been awhile since the invincible war ended. A few of them ended up being captured in your world and kept in the prisons. Cecil allows you to visit them and (clearly) has not a damn clue as to what you’re saying or doing with them. Usually, it’d be complete chaos and nothing would change or happen in the room. However, you finally try something new with them…all of them…(should be good to mention here that you have powers…if u didn’t you’d honestly be stupid going into that room with confidence 🧍🏾‍♀️)

Warnings: story will lead to smut, slightly suggestive, harsh words (like bitch, pussy, or slut), not proofread, some corny dialogue (bear with me pls)

W.c: 2,086 (rlly doing my big one)

A/N: (there’s alot I have to say so pls bear with me 😭) first off, thank all of u for all the constant support on my other fics and even my shitty little doodles I posted. Means a lot to me. This is my first series/series writing and it’s also the first fic I’ve made with multiple ppl speaking let alone mark variants. So I’m begging you, please bear with me. If anything is overly fucking terrible or bad feel free to dm me advice. Also I’ll be making a master list soon for all my writings. Or wtv. This is part one to the series and it’ll get super smutty in the next one so I hope u js enjoy this one for now. It’ll be meh…(I highkey think it’s bad but wtv)

Long after the Invincible War, you were still intrigued by all the versions of your boyfriend that had come into your world to reek havoc and chaos. Most were dead, some were in prison, and some were thrown into whatever place they went to. Being a superpowered scientist under Cecil had its perks–you got to not only examine and see these variants, but you also got to speak to them (only with the supervision of your world's Mark of course). Your visits grew more and more frequent to them, it went from once a month, to once a week, to 3 times a week. They had memorized the times you visited, the clack of your heels, and your pen clicking before you entered their cell each time.

Your Mark always complained–sometimes it was genuine concern for your safety and reasoning, other times, it was clear and blatant jealousy. 

“Why do you always want to go see those bastards, they almost destroyed the entire world. Not only that one of them almost crushed you to fucking death! If this gets too bad we're not seeing them again…” he was annoyed–making good and fair points. Sadly, you were too stubborn to attempt to listen to them. 

“You've almost crushed me to death before,” you said with a shrug as you kept walking down the long hall getting ready to get to the cell that held the marks. 

“WHAT!? When was this?” Mark had stopped for a second now having genuine concern as he hadn't remembered ever doing that. He tried his best to make sure you were protected from anything and everything.

“You crushed me plenty of times in bed–it's ok though because I've crushed you back just as much so we're even.” you had one smug ass smirk on your face seeing Mark's annoyed one before you two finally made it to the room. Before you could swipe your keycard to enter the room, Mark grabbed your arm having you stop and listen to what he had to say. “I'm serious babe…let them get out of line and we aren't seeing them again, they'll just rot in here till Cecil finds something to do with them.” 

You used your free hand, swiping the keycard as the door opened. You turned to your mark lifting his chin with your pen as he looked prepared to hear whatever you had to say. 

“I will decide when this research is over. However, you know if you want it to truly end and for me to stay out of this cell, you would only need to tell Cecil you won't accompany me anymore. Until you do that…we're continuing.” 

You were stern and stubborn, meaning every single word you said. You finally pulled the pen down—giving his cheek a soft kiss before walking into the cell.

“Well, we see who wears the pants in your little relationship.” The mark with the mohawk said before he just started laughing trying to bother and mock your mark as best as he could. 

“Hey well at least I get to leave here, I'm not locked in a fucking cell with my arms hanging up!” your mark snarled back–getting closer to Mohawk Mark as they glared each other down.

Sinister Mark cut into the conversation, having a lot worse to say about your mark and his “submission” to you. 

“Hey, does she fuck you too? I just wanna get a full scope on how pussy you are! God, you're pathetic…weak…” 

They were being little assholes ganging up against your mark, all besides the viltrumite one. He was just silent, observing your behaviors. As those 3 bickered,  you walked up to him with crossed arms.

“Nothing to say?” You asked leaning in closer to his face. He backed up as best as he could, struggling to even move a bit because of his restraints but he found small ways. 

“No…bitch…” he said before scrunching up his lips. You just leaned into him closer and closer knowing he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. “Don’t your people have a thing for respecting higher-ups? Am I not higher up right now?” You were absolutely smug watching as his expression kind of dropped. He knew you were right and he hated every bit about it. 

The cell was silent now…the other marks wondered why he stopped fighting back, falling silent. 

“Don’t tell me you're all pussy now too!?” Mohawk Mark had said in a snarky tone. Your mark was walking up to you to pull you back from him. You raised your hand stopping him from coming closer as you used your other hand, softly rubbing viltrumite Mark'sk'sace. 

He jolted from your touch for a second—not being used to anything like it at all. However, he had been in that cold cell for days, weeks even, with no warmth whatsoever. He melted into your hand as you kept rubbing it softly—he felt odd…like he had never felt before. He released soft huffs the whole time until you finally stepped back. 

“W..wait-“ he exclaimed trying to get your attention again. Before he could even say what he wanted, sinister Mark butted in.

“What the hell did you just do to him!? He’s never been like that ever!” 

Your mark wanted to be filled in as well, waiting for your response.

“I just touched 'em relax.” You were honestly shocked yourself. 

“C'monn…let’s go, your mark said wanting to get the hell out of there. The other marks were getting angry and you were touching another mark…one that wasn’t yours—it made him a bit jealous. 

                                      

“Wait wait…I wanna something…” you said with a grin as you rushed to Mohawk Mark. He looked a bit annoyed but intrigued. You drew closer and closer as the other marks watched once again—it’s all they could do…

“Listen whore, I’m not your mark…so hands off.” He said in a snarky tone. You just kept moving your hands towards his face not giving a damn, you were testing every ounce of patience he had.

“I will fucking bite you! I promise it…” Mohawk Mark tried to move his head back as quickly as he could to get away from your hand. Eventually, it landed right on his forehead before moving upward, softly stroking his hair. He tried to bite you for a second so you used your powers. With a hard glare from your eyes, his body was paralyzed in mere seconds as you rubbed it softly. You released your hold on his body just as fast as you used it.

You kept stroking his head, you saw him moving his head forward as best as he could so you could keep going. Your other hand reached up to his face, squishing it softly before you began to stroke it. He let out a noise of pure satisfaction…a soft moan. As soon as he realized, you backed up satisfied with your work on his behavior. He went from snarling and snapping to melting in your hand.

Your mark grabbed your shoulder, making a notation to get the hell out of there. You just gave him a soft kiss trying to keep him satisfied as you had one more mark to deal with. You knew your mark was getting jealous quickly so you had to hurry it up.

As soon as you walked over to sinister mark in his restraints he spat on your face. The other marks watched waiting to see what happened your mark dashed over to you as he began a screaming match with sinister mark. 

Ignoring them and all their noise, you just spat right back on his face as the room fell silent. You were even now—the only difference was you could wipe the spit off of your face but he couldn’t get it off of his. Your hand reached up to his face as he prepared to bite you but you flicked his nose before continuing. You rubbed his hair—making it messy in mere seconds before you looked him dead in the eyes, smiling warmly.

“I promise you, if you ever spit on my face again I will break your face in.”

Your mark was just frozen in the spot waiting for this interaction to finish. Sinister Mark's eyes widened a bit before going back to normal—he was surprised at how you could look so gentle while threatening him. 

“Yes bitch…” he said in a snarky tone trying to get some power back in the situation. You smiled before pinching and twisting at his nose. He couldn’t do a single damn thing about it.

“Huh? What’d you say?” You waited for him to change his manner of speaking. Your mark reached to pull your arm down as you 2 shared a look. He was trying to figure out what you were even doing but you gave him a glance that said you could handle it.

“Yes…ma’am” sinister Mark said in an annoyed tone this was basically his version of surrendering defeat. Your hand went to his face stroking it just like you did to the others. At first he acted like he didn’t give a single fuck about you or your touch—seconds later he was melted into your cheek moving his own face to have it happen faster. You stroked his face slower and began scratching his hair as Mohawk Mark began complaining how that wasn’t fair. Sinister mark was losing himself—lifting his chin to have that touch and rubbed to. He bit his lip trying to keep in any sounds he would’ve made but eventually one slipped out.

“F…fuck…” he moaned out roughly before you moved your hand away from him

“Good boy.” You said back with bliss in your voice. You honestly felt aroused by the fact you had 4 Marks folding for you just at the simple touch of your hand and sternness in your voice.

“God…what did she do to us…” Viltrumite Mark said sounding embarrassed or even frustrated that that even happened. The other Marks (sinister and Mohawk) just told him to ���fuck off” as they kept their heads down in a bit of shame. They were absolutely in shock at how they folded that fast but knew they wanted more. They were pissed that they clearly weren’t getting more.

You had them fold enough for the day. Plus, your Mark looked like he wanted to snap sinister Mark's neck for spitting on you. He was tired of being in that damn room for the day. Your mark grabbed you by the waist giving you a look that said “You needed to leave” You just nodded and let him lead you out of the cell. You and your mark left the cell making your way out of the building. Mark was flying you 2 home as he wanted to talk about what the hell happened. 

“So…what was that..” he asked in a genuine and jealous tone. He wanted to know what was up with all of it. Why did you guys keep going back, why were you touching them, how did you make them fold that easily? He wanted answers…

“Honestly…I don’t know. I didn't even think it’d work on the viltrumite one but as soon as it did I just had to try it on the rest of them and it worked. Guess you’re just weak for me in every universe?” You gave the best answer you could to your mark waiting for his response.

“Not gonna lie…I was a bit jealous. They practically killed everyone and now they wanted to fold just cause you touched them!” Mark exclaimed before you kissed his face softly. He had calmed down quickly just from your lips. 

“Relax... you're the one who gets to take me home. You win either way. However...I do need you to take me back there tomorrow. It’s something I wanna do with you there. All of you…” you had something a little sinister and against the rules on your mind.

“Again!? What is it…I’m so sick of that place…” your mark wanted to know what you’d do if you went back. He was tired of going there and honestly was ready to never go back again. However, he was trying his best to trust your judgment and see where it’d go. 

“Don’t worry about it…just know that you’ll have fun. All of you, trust me. You said with a smile before Mark finally landed, bringing you two to your house. You had plans…foul plans…and you couldn’t wait to put them into action tomorrow. 

[evnseokz]

꒰ ☆ mine to ruin ~ l.hs ꒱

pairing: heeseung x f.reader

contents: inexperienced reader, teacher heeseung, fingering, oral (f), dirty talk, praise kink, corruption kink, pet name baby, i think that’s all

w.c 1.5k

MINORS DNI

you had always been curious.

the thought of intimacy, of pleasure, of giving yourself to someone—it had lingered in the back of your mind for so long, but you had never acted on it. never let anyone touch you like that.

until heeseung.

he was different. confident, patient, and so incredibly alluring that you couldn’t ignore the pull you felt toward him. maybe it was the way he looked at you, or the way his voice dropped when he spoke about things that made your skin flush.

or maybe it was the fact that he knew—he knew you were inexperienced, untouched, and he reveled in it.

“are you sure about this?” his voice was soft, but the dark glint in his eyes told a different story.

you nodded, swallowing hard. “i want you to teach me.”

a slow smirk curled his lips. “alright, baby. but once we start, i’m not stopping until i’ve had my fill of you.”

your breath hitched as he leaned in, his hands resting on your thighs. his fingers traced soft circles, barely touching, teasing, making you squirm before he even started.

“you have no idea how long i’ve been waiting for this,” he murmured, lips ghosting over your neck. “to be the first one to touch you. to show you everything.”

your thighs clenched together at his words, and he chuckled, feeling the subtle movement.

“you’re already reacting so much,” he mused, sliding a hand between your legs. “so sensitive.”

a soft gasp left your lips as his fingers trailed over your clothed core, applying the lightest pressure. it wasn’t much, but it was enough to make you whimper.

“tell me, baby,” heeseung whispered, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “have you ever touched yourself before?”

you hesitated, heat rushing to your face. “n-not really…”

he groaned. “fuck, you’re driving me crazy.”

with one swift motion, he pushed you back onto the bed, settling between your legs. his fingers worked at the waistband of your shorts, tugging them down along with your panties, leaving you completely bare beneath him.

your heart pounded in your chest as he took in the sight of you, his tongue swiping over his bottom lip.

“you’re so beautiful,” he murmured, running a hand up your thigh. “and you’re all mine to ruin.”

his fingers ghosted over your entrance, just barely dipping in before pulling away, making you whine.

“so eager,” he chuckled. “but i want to hear you say it. tell me what you want.”

you bit your lip, feeling a mix of embarrassment and need. “i… i want you to touch me.”

he smirked, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh. “good girl.”

without another word, he slid a finger inside you, slow and deliberate. your body tensed at the unfamiliar sensation, but the slight discomfort quickly faded into something new—something warm and overwhelming.

“relax, baby,” he soothed, moving his finger in and out, letting you adjust. “you feel so fucking tight.”

a whimper escaped your lips, and he added a second finger, stretching you open. his thumb found your clit, rubbing slow circles that had you gasping.

“that’s it,” he cooed, watching as your body responded to him. “let yourself feel it.”

your hips began to move on their own, chasing the friction of his touch. heeseung groaned at the sight, his fingers curling just right, pressing against that sweet spot that made your back arch.

“fuck, heeseung—”

he smirked. “that’s it, baby. let me hear you.”

his fingers worked faster, his lips trailing down your stomach before he settled between your thighs. you barely had time to process before his tongue replaced his fingers, licking a slow, teasing stripe through your wetness.

a strangled moan left your lips, your hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting in the dark strands as he devoured you.

his tongue flicked over your clit, his fingers still working inside you, and the combination had your entire body trembling.

“you taste so fucking sweet,” he groaned against you, the vibrations sending a shiver down your spine. “you were made for this, baby.”

you were already so close, the unfamiliar pressure building in your core. “heeseung—i think—”

“i know,” he murmured, sucking your clit into his mouth. “let go for me, baby. come for me.”

the moment the words left his mouth, you fell apart. your whole body tensed, pleasure washing over you in waves as you cried out his name.

heeseung didn’t stop, his tongue lapping up everything you gave him, prolonging your high until you were left panting, legs shaking.

heeseung pulled away slowly, his fingers leaving you empty, and you whimpered at the loss. he smirked, wiping his chin with the back of his hand as he looked down at you—completely wrecked, your legs still trembling, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“you did so well, baby,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your thigh.

your half-lidded eyes met his, and you reached for him, still lost in the haze of pleasure. “heeseung… i want more.”

his smirk deepened, but he shook his head, running a soothing hand over your hip. “i know you’re eager, sweetheart. but this is enough for today’s lesson.”

you pouted, shifting beneath him, but he only chuckled, brushing his fingers over your swollen, overstimulated core just enough to make you jolt.

“see? you’re already so sensitive,” he teased. “i want to take my time with you. make sure you learn everything properly.”

your cheeks burned at his words, and he leaned in, kissing the corner of your lips. “next time, baby,” he whispered. “i’ll teach you even more.”

with that, he pulled you into his arms, letting you rest against his chest as his fingers traced lazy circles over your skin.

…

..

.

[wroetolando]

𝚄𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x fem!reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where netflix interviews you about your relationship with lando

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: you are in love - taylor swift

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

The room hums with quiet anticipation as the Netflix production team makes their final adjustments. The bright white walls and minimalist décor give the space an almost clinical feel, but the warmth of the overhead lights makes it slightly more inviting. A few feet away, the interviewer shuffles through her notes, her well-rehearsed smile never faltering.

You sit in the plush white chair, Lando’s hoodie draped over your frame like a protective shield. You hadn’t meant to wear it—well, maybe you had. It had been an early morning, and in the rush to get ready, you grabbed the first thing that felt comfortable. Now, as the cameras adjust focus, you wonder if people will notice, if fans will recognize it from the countless Twitch streams and Instagram stories. They probably will.

The cameraman counts down from three with his fingers.

“And… rolling.”

The interviewer’s smile widens. “Alright, let’s get started.” She flips open her folder, her pen poised between her fingers. “You’ve been around the paddock for quite some time now. Fans have seen glimpses of you, but you’ve managed to stay relatively low-key despite being in a relationship with one of the most talked-about drivers on the grid. How has that been for you?”

You shift slightly in your seat, keeping your hands clasped together in your lap. “I don’t really think about it too much,” you admit. “I mean, I know people are curious, and I understand why, but I’m not here for the attention. I’m here for Lando.”

The interviewer tilts her head slightly. “That’s interesting because, whether you like it or not, you have become a figure in the F1 world. From being spotted in the McLaren garage to celebrating podiums with Lando, the cameras have taken notice.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed that too.”

She flips to the next page of her notes. “Let’s go back to the beginning. When did this all start? How did you and Lando first meet?”

A soft smile tugs at your lips. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. It wasn’t like some dramatic love-at-first-sight thing. We were just… friends for a long time. It was always easy between us, you know?”

“Friends to lovers?”

“Yeah.” You nod, the memory of it still so vivid in your mind. “It just sort of happened over time. I don’t think there was ever a moment where we sat down and said, ‘Okay, we’re in love now.’ It was just us, and at some point, we realized we couldn’t imagine life any other way.”

The interviewer smiles. “That’s really sweet.” She glances at her notes again. “Now, Lando is obviously a very public figure. His fanbase is huge and passionate, and with that comes a lot of attention—not all of it positive. How do you handle being in that world?”

You take a slow breath, choosing your words carefully. “It can be overwhelming sometimes,” you admit. “I try not to let it get to me, but there are days when it’s harder than others. Some people are really supportive, but others…” You pause, debating how honest you want to be. “Let’s just say not everyone is kind.”

There’s a flicker of understanding in her eyes. “Does that ever affect your relationship?”

You shake your head. “No. At the end of the day, I know Lando, and he knows me. That’s all that really matters. It’s easy to get caught up in the noise, but when we’re together, none of that exists.”

The interviewer leans forward slightly. “So, let’s talk about race day. You’ve been in the paddock for some of Lando’s biggest moments, including his first podium and some really close battles. What’s that like for you?”

You let out a small laugh, already feeling your heart rate pick up at the thought of those high-stakes races. “Stressful,” you say with a grin. “Really stressful. I trust him completely, but watching him go wheel-to-wheel at 300 km/h? Yeah, that’s terrifying.”

“I imagine it’s quite an emotional rollercoaster.”

“Oh, absolutely.” You nod. “There are days when he’s on top of the world, and there are days when it’s devastating. And you feel all of it with him.”

The interviewer watches you carefully. “And how do you support him through those tough days?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of his hoodie. “I just remind him that one race doesn’t define him. He’s so hard on himself sometimes, and it’s easy for him to forget how incredible he is. So, I try to be the voice that tells him it’s okay to have bad days.”

She smiles. “That’s beautiful.” There’s a brief pause as she flips to the next question. “Now, fans have picked up on how he looks at you, how protective he is. There was even that one moment on Twitch where chat thought it was adorable how he made sure you were okay. Do you ever notice those things?”

Your cheeks warm slightly. “I mean, yeah, I notice,” you say with a soft laugh. “But that’s just him. He’s always been like that, even before we were together. It’s just who he is.”

The interviewer grins. “Well, fans love it. And speaking of fans, you’ve gained quite a few of your own. Do you ever think about that?”

You blink in surprise. “Not really.”

“Well, you should. People adore you.”

That makes you smile. “That’s nice to hear.”

She sets her notes aside. “Alright, last question—where do you see this going? The future?”

Your gaze flickers toward the door, where you know Lando is probably waiting just outside. Then, you smile, your answer coming easily.

“Wherever he goes, I’ll be right there with him.”

The cameraman signals that the recording is over. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. The interviewer offers you a warm smile before thanking you for your time, and as soon as you step out of the interview room, Lando is there, leaning casually against the wall.

“How’d it go?” he asks, pushing off and slipping an arm around your waist.

“Not too bad.” You glance up at him. “They asked a lot about you, obviously.”

He smirks. “Well, of course. I am pretty great.”

You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, he tugs you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Thanks for doing it,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not your thing.”

You lean into him. “It’s worth it for you.”

And as the cameras pack up behind you, fading into the background, you realize that no matter how many interviews come your way, no matter how bright the spotlight gets, this—being here with him—is what matters most.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

[gf2bellamy]

Hiiii! I love your fics! How does your brain work is one mystery! I have a request - you know how in 1.17 A Real Rain where they had a case in NYC and Reid says his he has never been there and how in the ep he doesn't know how to use chopsticks, I was think a sunshine!bau!reader x spencer!reid where she gives him a tour around the city and teachers him how to use chopsticks. They can have an established relationship or friends in love or anything, up to you! Thank you Anna love you lotsss!!!

tour — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: established relationship , they eat lots of food , its honestly just pure fluff a/n: i had so much fun writing this but pls keep in mind that i've never been to new york so if i got something wrong i'm vv sorry ! <3

“Okay, time to start the tour!” you announced, clapping your hands together as you and Spencer stepped out of the hotel lobby and into the crisp morning air of New York City.

Spencer adjusted the strap of his messenger bag, his eyes wide as he took in the towering skyline. You couldn’t help but grin at the way his head tilted back slightly.

 God, he’s adorable. 

“You’ve really never been to New York before?” you asked, nudging his shoulder with yours. 

He blinked, shaking his head. “I’ve read about it. Does that count?” 

“Absolutely not,” you declared, grabbing his hand and lacing your fingers through his. “Reading about New York and experiencing New York are two entirely different things. And lucky for you, you’ve got the best tour guide in the city.” 

Spencer smiled down at you, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “Where are we starting?” 

You squeezed his hand and tugged him forward, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. “With the classics,” you said, your voice bubbling with excitement. 

Spencer let you lead, his long legs easily keeping pace with your eager strides. He watched the way your eyes lit up as you pointed out little details—the faded graffiti on a brick wall, the smell of fresh pretzels from a street vendor. 

“First stop,” you announced, stopping in front of a small, unassuming bagel shop tucked between a deli and a thrift store. The scent of freshly baked dough and roasted coffee beans spilled out onto the sidewalk, and Spencer inhaled deeply, his stomach giving a quiet growl. 

“We’re starting with a classic New York bagel,” you said, grinning up at him. “And—” you leaned in conspiratorially, “—they have amazing coffee. Trust me.” 

Spencer’s lips quirked. “I do trust you,” he said softly. “But statistically, New Yorkers overestimate the quality of their coffee by at least—” 

You pressed a finger to his lips, cutting him off. “Hush, Dr. Reid. Just let me prove you wrong.” 

He laughed, the sound warm, and you felt your chest swell with affection. 

Inside, the shop was cozy and crowded. You ordered for both of you—an everything bagel with scallion cream cheese for him, a cinnamon raisin with honey walnut for yourself—and two large coffees.

“You remembered how I take my coffee,” he noted, accepting the cup from you. 

You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’ve seen you drink approximately three hundred cups of coffee in the time I’ve known you. It’s not exactly a hard pattern to recognize.” 

He smirked. “Fair point.” 

You found a tiny table by the window, your knees bumping against his under the cramped space. Spencer took a careful bite of his bagel, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. 

“Okay,” he admitted after swallowing. “This is significantly better than airport bagels.” 

You grinned triumphantly. “Told you.” 

He took another bite, humming in approval. “The texture is perfect—chewy but not dense, with just the right amount of—” 

You reached over, swiping a dollop of cream cheese from the corner of his mouth with your thumb before he could finish his analysis. Spencer froze, his cheeks flushing slightly. 

“You had a little something,” you teased. 

He cleared his throat. “Right. Thanks.” 

You sipped your latte, watching him over the rim of your cup. “So,” you said, tapping your fingers against the table. “After this, I thought we would check out a bookstore, its right around the corner and its perfect for you trust me.”

The moment you mentioned a bookstore, Spencer's entire demeanor shifted. His hazel eyes lit up, and he practically inhaled the last bite of his bagel in his haste.You couldn't help but giggle at the way he nearly choked in his enthusiasm, cheeks puffing out like a chipmunk as he tried to chew and declare "I'm ready!" simultaneously. 

"Easy there, speed reader," you laughed, standing and offering your hand. He took it eagerly, his long fingers wrapping around yours.

The walk to the bookstore was challenging.

Spencer kept surging ahead like an overeager puppy, his natural long strides carrying him three steps forward before you'd have to gently tug him back toward the correct crosswalk or sidewalk. 

"You're worse than a kid on Christmas morning," you teased as you finally reached the store with its hand-painted sign.

Then Spencer saw the shelves. 

His mouth fell open in pure wonder, his grip slackening in yours as he took in the towering bookcases that seemed to go on forever, the stacks of novels teetering on every available surface.

You didn't need to look at him to know what he was thinking - you could feel the excited energy radiating off him.

"Go on," you murmured, squeezing his hand once before releasing it. 

Spencer didn't need telling twice. He pressed a quick, grateful kiss to your cheek that left your skin tingling, then disappeared into the literary maze.

You wandered through the bookstore, trailing your fingers along spines.

Nearly 30 minutes later, you turned a corner to find Spencer balancing a stack of books in his arms, his hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it in excitement. The sight made your heart squeeze affectionately. 

"They have the most amazing first editions," he breathed, his voice hushed. His hazel eyes practically glowed in the dim light. "This 1937 printing of 'The Hobbit' has the original color plates, and this copy of 'Frankenstein' is from 1823, and-" 

His words tumbled out in an excited rush, hands carefully shifting to show you each treasure. You watched, utterly enchanted, as he explained the significance of each book.

"Should I ask how much all these are going to cost us?" you asked, raising an eyebrow playfully. 

Spencer's excited ramble stuttered to a halt. He blinked down at his armful of books, then back at you, suddenly looking adorably guilty. "...I might have gotten carried away." 

You reached up to smooth a wayward curl behind his ear, your fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary. "Good thing I love seeing you happy," you murmured. 

The soft, grateful smile he gave you was worth every penny those first editions would cost. 

The afternoon sun cast long shadows as you emerged from the bookstore, Spencer practically glowing with happiness, his arms full with three bulging bags.

 "Time for one of NYC's most famous places," you announced, slipping your hand around his bicep since his fingers were too occupied with book bags to hold yours. You'd offered to swing by the hotel first to drop off his purchases, but he'd refused - as if parting with his new books for even a moment might make them disappear. 

 Spencer tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. "Yes?" 

You grinned, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. "Times Square. The crossroads of the world." 

His face immediately lit up with recognition, and before you could take another step, he launched into an animated explanation: "Did you know Times Square was originally called Longacre Square until 1904 when the New York Times moved their headquarters there? And the first electrified advertisement appeared in—" 

You listened with fond amusement as his words tumbled out in that rapid-fire way they did when he was excited.

As you rounded the corner, Spencer's lecture cut off abruptly. His steps faltered as the full sensory overload of Times Square hit him - the neon lights, the towering digital billboards flashing advertisements and Broadway snippets. His eyes darted from one spectacle to another, his mind clearly working overtime to process it all. 

"Look at that," he murmured, nodding to a massive screen displaying a clip from a Broadway musical. "That staging technique is fascinating." 

"We can go see it if you want," you offered, already mentally calculating how to get tickets. 

But Spencer was already distracted by something new, his head tilting back to take in a skyscraper's animated LED facade. You let him absorb the moment, content to watch his wonderment. 

Then you spotted it - the iconic "I Love New York" store. 

"Oh my god," you gasped, tightening your grip on his arm. "We're buying you a mug." 

Spencer opened his mouth, likely to protest that he didn't need more souvenirs, but you were already steering him through the crowded sidewalk and into the store before he could form a coherent argument. 

The shop was a riot of red and white merchandise - t-shirts, keychains, snow globes, and of course, rows upon rows of mugs. You beelined for the display, immediately grabbing one with the classic logo in bold black letters. 

 "You need this," you declared, holding it up for his inspection. "Every genius needs a good coffee mug for all those late-night reading sessions." 

Spencer's protest died on his lips as he saw your enthusiastic expression. He sighed in mock resignation, but the way his eyes crinkled at the corners betrayed his amusement. "I suppose it would be terrible to visit New York and not get at least one cliché souvenir." 

You stood on your toes to press a quick kiss to his cheek. "That's the spirit. Now help me find the cheesiest one they have - I think I saw a glitter version back there." 

As Spencer laughed and allowed himself to be pulled deeper into the store.

Once you bought multiple mugs , you wandered down quieter streets, your energy finally waning after hours of exploration. You leaned your cheek against Spencer's arm with a dramatic sigh.

"I'm hungry," you admitted, the words muffled slightly against his sleeve. 

Spencer looked down at you. The bags of books swung gently from his other hand as he adjusted his stance to better support your weight. "I'm sure you already have a place in mind," he said.

You pulled back just enough to grin up at him. "You know me so well." 

Without hesitation, you guided him toward a cozy little restaurant tucked between two taller buildings. The delicious aroma of soy sauce and ginger wafted through the open door. 

"We," you announced as you stepped inside, "are teaching you how to use chopsticks." 

Spencer opened his mouth—probably to protest that he could learn just fine from a book—but the hostess was already leading you to a corner table draped in soft yellow light.

Soon enough, you found yourself unable to contain your laughter as Spencer attempted to maneuver the chopsticks. His brow furrowed in intense concentration, the tip of his tongue peeking out between his lips. The chopsticks slipped again, sending the food tumbling back onto his plate with a quiet plop. 

"You're enjoying this too much," he accused, though there was no real annoyance in his voice as he caught your poorly-hidden grin. "I thought you were going to help me," he added when the chopsticks clattered into the bowl of miso soup for the third time. 

"Sorry, sorry," you giggled, finally pushing back your chair, as you moved to sit beside him on the padded bench, your thigh pressing warmly against his. 

You reached over to rearrange his fingers, your skin brushing against his in a way that made his stomach flutter. "Like this," you murmured, guiding his grip with gentle pressure. "Thumb here, middle finger there... and you have to hold the bottom one completely still." 

Spencer's hands were warm beneath yours, his long fingers trembling slightly as he tried to follow your instructions. You could see the exact moment when it clicked for him—his eyes lighting up.

"Ah," he breathed as he successfully lifted a piece of cucumber roll. The triumph in his voice was utterly endearing. "It's all about the fulcrum point." 

You rested your chin in your hand, unable to wipe the smile from your face as you watched him carefully—proudly—eat his first successful bite.

"See?" you said softly. "I knew you could do it." 

Spencer bumped his knee against yours under the table, a silent thank you that spoke volumes. Then, he used his newly-acquired skill to place a piece of salmon directly onto your plate.

Two hours later, you collapsed onto the hotel bed with a groan as you threw an arm across your face. 

"I can't feel my feet," you mumbled into the crook of your elbow. 

Spencer carefully set down his precious book bags—their contents now safely deposited on the dresser—before joining you on the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, causing you to slide toward him until your head naturally found its place in his lap. His fingers immediately carding through your hair.

"Me neither, to be honest," Spencer admitted with a quiet chuckle, his free hand already pulling out the first book from his bag.

You closed your eyes, letting the motion of Spencer's fingers in your hair lull you into relaxation.

"I got us tickets for that Broadway show you saw on the billboard," you murmured into the quiet. 

The pages stopped mid-turn. 

"What? How? When?" Spencer's voice held equal parts surprise and delight, his fingers pausing their movements in your hair. 

You cracked one eye open to see him looking down at you, his hazel eyes wide.

"When you were staring at that one picture in the Met Museum for like fifteen minutes," you said, a smug smile tugging at your lips. "The one with the fruit basket that you insisted had 'hidden symbolism.'" 

Spencer's mouth opened and closed several times before he managed, "That was Caravaggio's 'Basket of Fruit,' and the decaying—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "Wait, no, that's not the point. You really got tickets?" 

You reached up to boop his nose, enjoying the way it scrunched in response. "Front row center. Tonight at eight." 

For a moment, Spencer just stared at you, his expression softening into something unbearably fond. Then, without warning, he bent down and kissed your forehead, his lips warm against your skin. 

"You," he murmured against your hairline, "are incredible." 

You hummed contentedly, closing your eyes again as he returned to his book, though you could feel his fingers trembling slightly with excitement in your hair.

The Broadway show had been spectacular—more than you'd dreamed. His hand unconsciously reaching for yours in the dark when the romantic duet began. You'd laced your fingers together without thinking, his palm warm against yours.

Afterwards, you wandered back towards the hotel, ice cream cones dripping down your fingers while swinging bags of freshly baked cookies and still-warm donuts between you. Spencer kept bumping your shoulder every few steps—partly to avoid the jostling crowds, mostly because he wanted to be close to you. 

Back at the hotel room, you changed quickly—you into Spencer's favorite sweater (the one that swallowed you whole, the cuffs falling past your fingertips), him into worn cotton pajama pants that made him look unfairly cozy.

You settled onto the bed, tucking your legs beneath you, while Spencer leaned against the headboard, already halfway through a donut.

"This is perfect," he murmured around a mouthful, his voice thick with sugar and something soft. You nodded, your own cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk's with chocolate chip cookies.

"I hope you liked my tour," you finally managed after swallowing, grinning at him.

Spencer set his donut down —a telltale sign he was about to say something heartfelt. He reached forward, his fingers brushing a crumb from your cheek before tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering just a second too long. 

"I loved it." His thumb traced the curve of your ear absentmindedly. "Thank you." 

Then, quieter, his gaze dropping to where your fingers twisted in the sheets: "Do you think we can spend another day here?" Before you could answer, he rushed to add, "I'd like to go back to that bookstore," his ears flushing that adorable pink you loved. 

You tilted your head, unable to resist teasing. "Were the thirteen books you bought not enough?" 

Spencer hesitated, his nose scrunching in that way that made your stomach flip. "No?" he said, the word lifting at the end like a question, and you couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up.

"Of course we can stay," you grinned, nudging the cookie box aside before gently bumping your knee against his. His smile was worth every changed travel plan in the world. 

"Besides," you added, peeking up at him through your lashes, "I saw how you looked at that first edition Poe. We're not leaving until it's yours." 

Spencer's smile could have powered Times Square. 

[lokisladdie1232]

“Are you Seige? The Librarian?” spoke a timid voice.

A boy with unruly dark hair and wide blue eyes gripped the tattered and yellowing pages of a book, his figure a blot against the pale and cloudless sky.

“First, answer me. Who are you?”

Upon closer inspection, the book the boy held had the title of Don Quixote. A rare book, but a classic of older days.

“My name is Zenith.”

Zenith. A powerful name, a name that holds magic. His parents have put a lot of responsibility on his shoulders with such a name. Success is something that every human strives for. They strive to reach their peak, their… Zenith. Perhaps this boy is important. He is carrying a book.

“Yes. I am Siege, the Librarian. Why have you come here, young Zenith?” I ask, eyeing the book.

I would like to place it in the Vault. The Vault was something started by my mentor in his youth. He saw the decline of reading, and collected as many books as possible. The Vault is a large, well protected, and meticulously constructed library, holding all the books that are left in the world. Every book has been carefully catalogued. Except for this one, apparently.

“… I found this book. We don’t read anymore… but… I would like to learn,” the boy whispered, as if ashamed of himself for seeking knowledge.

I take a careful look at the boy. He’s not much to look at. Again, unruly dark hair, blue eyes, some freckles. Zenith’s clothing is a tattered and torn mess. Like he hasn’t had a proper set of clothes in a long time. Sighing, I let the boy in.

“Come in, young Zenith.”

The boy steps inside. At first glance, the space is nothing more than a small house. But I know the secrets. I know every nook and cranny of this place like the back of my hand. In all my three hundred years of being the Librarian, I have never had someone seek knowledge. The desire to read faded before I was born, and now… there is one.

“How about I get you some fresh clothing, Zenith?” I say softly, setting a fresh cup of tea in his trembling hands.

Zenith nods, taking a tentative sip at the tea, before delving in despite the burning on his tongue from the temperature. I rummage through my things, it’s been a long time since I’ve been around a child. However, I manage to find a set of clothes that look like they’ll fit. After a few moments, Zenith is in the fresh clothes. He looks a lot better.

“Will you teach me?” he asks.

“Teach you to read? Why do you with to know?”

“Because I’ve heard that books hold so many stories. More than humans can hold in their heads. I want to read all the stories in the world.”

I actually give the boy a small smile, “An ambitious undertaking. Even I have not read all the stories in the world. I will teach you to read.”

And so, I did. Months spent teaching him the basics, such as letters, sounds, and so on. When he would leave sometimes, he would return with a curious friend. Eventually, I had a gaggle of young children… eager to learn. Zenith and his newfound friends picked up how to read, and then wanted to know how to write. A small piece of a generation craved the lost knowledge of a bygone era. They craved the pocket sized worlds that told of pirates, lectured about lost species, and spun magical tales about ancient civilizations. This is what my mentor told me would happen. Save knowledge, and it will become precious once again.

“And so they shall hear from the mouths of babes, a cry for freedom,” speaks Zenith… the first new Librarian in over three hundred years.

To think, a small boy with nothing became the first in the wave of a return to knowledge. I knew he was special.

A Zenith.

"I am the last librarian on Earth. The world has forgotten how to read, but I guard the knowledge of humanity in a hidden vault. Today, someone knocked on the door—and they brought a book."

[chilling-seavey]

Baby Boy's Birth Story (gr63)

The Way It Goes Masterlist

↳ A/N Thank you to so many of my anons for helping bring this story to life! It's been so long since I've written a birth story and they are always so special to write...especially this one. It's a lengthy one, covering a whole week, and including baby boy's name reveal since you all voted that the kiddos should have names rather than being anonymous so I hope you enjoy!! Comments and asks always welcome <3

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 20.7k

↳ Warnings: Descriptions of labour and delivery, including all the ungraceful medical and health related things that go along with it, your emotions will likely be all over the place.

Thursday

Your doctor had warned you that first pregnancies often went past the due date, so at forty-one weeks, they weren’t particularly concerned. You, on the other hand, were quite concerned. George had just returned home from a race weekend, and with only an eight-day gap before the next one, the timing felt painfully tight. If you didn’t go into labor soon, there was a real risk he wouldn’t make it back in time for the birth of your first child. Not to mention you were exhausted and heavy and just wanted to have your baby in your arms already. The waiting game was excruciating. 

That Thursday, three days since George had returned home to your quaint Monaco apartment, there was still no sign of labour. You had experienced some minor contractions but they were minor and went away when you moved, a torturous indication that they were just Braxton Hicks contractions—your body getting ready for the real thing—but nothing of importance. Frankly, you were sick and tired of them…of this. 

Sitting in the living room in the late afternoon, you were bouncing on your birthing ball while watching some show on TV, George lounged on the couch just behind you, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. For the prior two days, you had basically lived on that large birthing ball, bouncing, swaying, determined to put into motion the rumours that it would help the baby to descend into the pelvis in preparation for birth. You were desperate. 

“So, it’s just about Friday,” you spoke aloud over the dialogue of the show that you were watching but, really, were not paying attention to, “So that means we only have maybe four days to get this kid out.”

“You’re making yourself so stressed, love,” George spoke gently from behind you, clicking down the volume on the television, “That’s probably not helping matters.”

You glanced at him with a frown, “Well there’s no way in hell I’m going into labour without you here. I’ve never done this before. I can’t do this alone.”

George removed his feet from the coffee table to lean forward towards you, resting a hand on your shoulder and giving it a squeeze in a feeble attempt to offer comfort, “You’re not alone and you won’t be alone.”

“I love you but your words feel so worthless,” you exhaled. 

He didn’t take it personally when he knew you were speaking the truth; it was the harsh reality of his career. Sure, you lived in the upper echelon of society, a life of luxury, to want for nothing, but the high demand of a Formula 1 career was always the underlying strain in your blissful utopia. George was gone so often, flying around the world for days or weeks at a time to compete, with a schedule and contract so demanding that it didn’t offer much in the way of paternity leave—just because you were due soon didn’t mean he was allowed to wait it out with you. Only the definity of labour could allow him some time off. Some. It was entirely out of his control. 

All Thursday you had been trying everything to naturally induce labour. You joined George at the gym for a light walk on the treadmill to try and raise your heart rate enough to kickstart it, ate sliced pineapple, ate a spicy lunch, and now, as evening rolled around, you were housing a raspberry leaf tea beside you. Such an odd mix of foods that seemed to do a whole lot of nothing. With a large full-term baby weighing down on your organs, you were desperate to just get it out. 

“We have one last thing we could try,” George whispered as he rubbed your shoulders. 

You sighed tiredly, “I know but, frankly, sex sounds like so much work right now.”

He chuckled and leaned in to kiss just under your ear, “Up to you, darling. We don’t have to go crazy with it.”

His thumbs pressed into the muscle around your shoulder blades and your eyes fluttered shut, the television playing softly in the background as you eased into the comfort of his strong hands working your stress and anxieties away. After a moment, he leaned forward and let his arms wrap around you, sliding his palms over the large swell of your belly that was poorly hidden beneath his sweatshirt you had snagged, the bottom still managing to ride up from how big you were. He tucked his hands under your belly and lifted a little to carry the weight for you for a moment, giving you some respite from the burden of pregnancy. 

You swore under your breath at the sudden relief from your back, your hips, your body. Your head dropped back to rest against his shoulder, eyes still peacefully closed, enjoying the moment where you weren’t bearing twenty-five extra pounds across your middle. George kissed your neck innocently and the warmth of his breath against your neck had you sighing in content. 

The two of you ended up in your bedroom later after preparing for bed, you on your hands and knees and him knelt behind you, giving you slow, gentle thrusts with his hands on your full hips. The soft buzz of your vibrator between your legs helped to build up that tension inside you, chasing the orgasm that would hopefully help to keep your uterus in the mindset of contracting some more. Your doctor had told you that sex was entirely safe at any point in your pregnancy and only when your body was ready for labour could it help trigger it. Otherwise, it might do a whole lot of nothing. 

After, as you laid in bed together, you spooning your pregnancy pillow and George spooning you, you were silently waiting for a feeling of anything. His fingers traced ghostly shapes over the swell of your belly, blindly tracing the stretchmarks and contours that had appeared to help grow your baby. You could hear his breathing starting to even out from behind you, his fingers slowing down as sleep started to take him, as if he were entirely unbothered by the fact that you still didn’t feel a single contraction. 

Friday

Much to the pleasure of your delusion, you woke up in the early hours of the morning to a small uncomfortable cramping feeling along your abdomen. The bedroom was still dark, the sun barely past the horizon behind the closed curtains, and George was still fast asleep on his side of the bed, faint snores muffled by his pillow. You winced slightly at the momentary discomfort that felt a lot like period cramps and you reached over to your bedside table to take a sip from your water bottle and then check the time on your phone. It was barely past 5am. 

At first, you figured they were just yet another minor set of Braxton Hicks contractions and you settled back down on your side to try and get back to sleep. They faded in no time, but as you laid there, unable to fall back asleep, your mind racing, they soon started back up again a little bit later. Your eyes shot open again, laying still as the cramping radiated across your abdomen again. Once it faded, you checked your phone to see about twenty minutes had passed. Odd. 

Not wanting to interrupt George’s sleep, you ungracefully sat up and got out of bed, waddling across the bedroom to the ensuite bathroom thanks to the joys of late-term pregnancy and the fact that you had a full brown baby pressing on your bladder 24/7. You closed the door and turned on the light, squinting at the brightness as you sat down on the toilet to go about your business. It was then that, in your underwear, you noticed a pale reddish discharge. From endless research in desperation of figuring out when you could anticipate this baby coming, you recalled that this could be the dislodging of your mucus plug: a sign that labour was imminent. 

George was still fast asleep when you emerged from the bathroom, looking so peaceful with his hands tucked under his pillow and his hair falling across his forehead. You gently set a hand on his shoulder and gave him a small nudge while whispering his name to rouse him.

With another little nudge, his eyes fluttered open and he stirred, shifting onto his back and reaching a hand up to rub at his eye. As he came to his senses and noticed you perched on the side of the bed, he dropped his hand to rest against your back, his voice thick from sleep, “Everything alright?”

“I think I’m in labour,” you whispered, almost timidly, like you might be entirely incorrect and had just woken him up for nothing. 

George, sure he was still half asleep with the amount of disbelief that your words poured through his veins, blinked up at you under furrowed brows with a muttered, “What?”

“Yeah…I was just using the toilet and there was some bloody show in my underwear…and I’ve been a little crampy…” you explained softly. 

His expression melted into surprise and his hand rubbed the small of your back, “Oh, okay…constantly crampy or…?”

“Ebbs and flows, like every twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” George sat up a little, “we should start timing them then. Are you feeling okay?”

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah…relieved, mostly.”

He shared in your smile and brought a loving hand to your cheek, staring into your eyes, “Me too.”

At that moment, you reached out to grab onto his thigh through the duvet with a small groan as another tense pressure radiated across your abdomen and hips, pulling you into another contraction. They weren’t bad—nothing more than period cramps, really—but they still came on quite suddenly when they did. 

“Okay,” George leaned forward to keep rubbing your back, “another one?”

You couldn’t find words, only offering him a nod and an affirmative hum. 

“Alright,” he spoke softly with a voice laced in warmth and excitement, “Definitely the real deal now.”

It only took less than a minute for the contractions to pass and by then, George was getting out of bed. He helped you into the shower so you could freshen up—knowing that you had a long and exhausting journey ahead of you—and as you took your time under the warm water, George made sure everything was packed in your hospital bag and ready to go when you would need to head out. As you showered, you could feel another contraction rising surely across your abdomen and you let out a tight groan. 

“You okay in there?” George called from the bedroom.

You could barely manage a, “uh huh” in reply.

With your hands pressed flat against the shower wall, you hung your head and tried to breathe through the pain. It was surprising how much it felt like period cramps and, naively, you were hoping that they wouldn’t get much worse as you progressed. At least the warm water from the shower offered some comfort to help get you through it. 

Once you were dried off and dressed in lounge pants and a sports bra, you waddled your way down to the kitchen where George started to make breakfast. Between contractions, you felt perfectly normal, and so you sat with him at the table and ate together like it was just another Friday. George had pulled his notebook from his bag and as you ate, he clicked the end of his multi-coloured pen and flipped to the next empty page. At the top, he wrote ‘Contractions’ and then titled two columns: ‘Start-End Time’ ‘Duration’. You munched on your toast as you watched him fill out some rows already with the information from the prior few contractions. 

It was still so early that there wasn’t too much of a pattern but it was good to keep track to eye your process. Of course, ever organized, George was right on it. 

The morning progressed slowly but surely, your contractions and discomfort still lingering as the hours ticked by. Despite the fact that getting as much rest as you could was imperative before delivery, you were far too antsy to sit yet alone sleep. The two of you ended up putting on your spring jackets and going for a walk around the block, made agonizingly slow from your pregnant waddle and the fact that you kept having to stop to catch your breath through minor contractions, but neither of you were in any rush. 

You shared lunch on the couch back home and George let you pick what show you watched. It really felt like any other day outside of the ever-present aches and tightness across your abdomen that ebbed and flowed every quarter-hour or so. As the afternoon dragged on, you were pacing the living room, back and forth in a languid waddle, one hand on your back and the other rubbing your belly, trying to breathe, while George sat on the couch, notebook open on his thigh, his eyes on his watch. 

When you felt another contraction rise, you stopped beside the couch and set your hands on the arm to bend over it with a groan, instinctively swaying your hips side to side to try and ease the pressure. George noted the time in his meticulously organized table. He then reached out to set his hand over yours on the arm of the couch; a silent reminder that he was right there with you. 

Somehow, George managed to convince you to try and get some rest around eight o’clock, just over twelve hours since you had first started to feel the cramping. You got yourself as comfortable as possible in bed, snuggled up with your pregnancy pillow, and George made sure you had everything you needed before he stepped out of the room to make a few calls to loved ones to update them. 

You drifted in and out of a light sleep, unable to get much rest with the lingering cramping across your abdomen and the fact that your lower back was starting to ache too. It was hard to just lay still. Thankfully, George returned to your bedroom less than an hour later, moving quietly in case you were asleep but as you fluttered your eyes open at the sound of the door, you noticed his concerned expression. 

“What is it?” you asked sleepily. 

He startled slightly at your soft voice, not having anticipated you to be awake still. He shrugged and pulled a tight lipped smile as he set his phone on the bedside table and then sat himself on his side of the bed, “Nothing, everything’s okay. How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay. They’re getting a little stronger now so it’s hard to sleep.” you replied just enough to pacify him before turning the conversation back to him, “You had that pout on your face you get when you’re concerned. What’s up?”

George sighed, reaching out a hand to rub your hip and your lower back, knowing you weren’t going to give it up until he gave you an answer, “I just had a chat with Toto. He’s excited for us and everything…sent you well wishes but…he seems steadfast in wanting me to still fly out to Japan next weekend.”

There was a moment of silence between you as his words settled. You knew that was the reality of his career, that he couldn’t just take time off for the sake of it, and you were thankful that at least he was home on his weekend off when you went into labour so he could be there with you, but even thinking of him leaving felt like a punch in the stomach. Or, perhaps that was just another contraction. Your eyes fluttered closed and you turned your face into your pillow with a small groan.

George kept rubbing your back through it, watching you closely, his voice timid, “He said he could likely get me out of media duties so I could leave a day later but…I don’t want to leave you at all.”

“Mm,” you moaned meekly through the intense ache, reaching out a hand to grasp his free one, waiting a few more seconds to catch your bearings before speaking, “You’re not leaving me yet. Don’t think about that. Just be here with me.”

He leaned down across the bed, perpendicularly to you, holding himself up on his elbow as he leaned into your space so you were just about face to face. Your eyes met in your close proximity and you lifted a hand up to stroke your thumb across his cheek. 

“Hi,” you whispered. 

“Hi,” he echoed. 

“I need you present,” you told him softly, seriously, “I don’t need you to be four…five days in the future. I just need you here, today, now.”

George nodded, knowing you read him all too well, “I know. I’m here. I promise.”

He leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth, sealing his agreement, and then moved his hand to rest against the large swell of your belly that was hidden by the duvet. 

“For you and our little guy.”

You set your hand over his, holding the both of you in that moment for a little longer. The baby squirmed inside you, nudging against his hand pressed warmly over the curve of your belly, and a small smile came to George’s face, as if that movement alone helped to ease his anxieties. He leaned down closer to be eye level with it and he rubbed his hand in comforting circles.

“Gonna come meet us soon, little buddy?” he spoke quietly. “You’ve been taking your sweet time all day. Let’s move this process along, shall we?”

You groaned a little as you felt the baby move again inside you, pressing in all the right spots that felt extra sensitive as human nature helped guide him farther down towards the birth canal. As if you literally couldn’t lay still, you shifted away from George and pushed yourself into a sitting position, desperate to find a way to alleviate some of the consistent ache. His hand followed you as if magnetized, slipping under your shirt to rub soothing circles over your taut skin, his lips pressing a soothing kiss to your shoulder. 

“It’s getting more uncomfortable,” you announced with a huff, shifting in place a little and trying to roll your shoulders and take some of the pressure off your lower back. 

George sat up too and grabbed his notebook from his bedside table and flipped it open to the contractions page to note everything, the two columns now filled with scribbles in the margins of nearly everything you said you felt at any given time. Your eyes fluttered shut as he wrote down something else, trying to breathe deeply as you sat there in bed, one hand behind you holding you up against the mattress and the other rubbing your belly. 

You could feel another contraction ramping up, what was once easy ebbs and flows of discomfort throughout the day now turning into proper waves of pain, and you didn’t hold back the low groan at its arrival. George glanced over at you and your pained expression and he checked his watch.

“Jesus, love,” he exhaled as he shifted closer to rub a hand over the small of your back while his other hand gently wrapped around your bicep, “they’re coming faster now, aren’t they?”

You couldn’t speak through the contraction—too focused on breathing through it instead—and your fingers curled around the sheets that were pooled around your waist. The contraction reached its peak, gripping you in an intensity that stole the air from your lungs, and your fingers twisted tighter into the sheets. Your breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as you tried to keep yourself calm and steady through it, trying to remember all the details from your lamaze classes.

George’s grip on your arm tightened just slightly as he watched you carefully, his body tense beside you. His other hand moved firmly against your lower back in a futile attempt to offer comfort but it almost felt insignificant against the growing pressure.

As the contraction finally eased, you sagged in place, chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths, eyes still closed and cheeks flushed. But even in the momentary lull, there was no real relief, only the daunting knowledge that another contraction would soon come and they were only going to get harder.

George glanced at his watch and then flipped back to his notes, eyes darting between the numbers as he scribbled down the new time before glancing over at you again, “That was five minutes.”

Your stomach clenched—not with another contraction, but with the certainty that settled in your bones. You had been told what the five minute mark meant: the transition from early labour to active labour. The day had been long and drawling, full of slow, rolling aches and a patience you’d miraculously managed to maintain. But this? This was different. This made it all feel real.

You met George’s eyes, breath still uneven, and swallowed hard, the realization heavy but certain, “I think it’s time to go.”

He didn’t hesitate as he closed his notebook and leaned in to press a firm kiss to your temple, “Alright, my love. Let’s go meet our son.”

Sitting in the passenger seat of George’s Mercedes had arguably always been one of your favourite spots to be. But, now, well past nine months pregnant and in the trenches of what was teetering on active labour, the car was the absolute last place you wanted to be. It didn’t help that the streets of Monaco were ridiculously winding so it took twice as long to get anywhere as it would if the roads just went straight. 

Your hand clutched onto the car door with a white knuckled grip as you breathed and groaned through another contraction, eyes screwed shut as you put your trust in your professional driver of a husband to get you to the hospital safely. No position was comfortable as you squirmed and shifted on the leather seat, trying to ease the pressure in your lower back and the fierce tight ache that was stretching across your abdomen. Tilting your head back against the headrest, you groaned to the canvas roof of the convertible, fingernails surely digging into the expensive leather seats beneath you as you tried to ground yourself. Everything felt hot from the pain. 

“Fuck,” you choked out just as the contraction seemed to die down. Immediately, your hand flew to the dashboard controls and you cranked the internal temperature of the car down as far as it could go. 

George didn’t dare complain from behind the wheel. His hand itched to reach over and touch you but once he had put his hand on your thigh when you got on the road, you had shoved it away. But, God, he hated seeing you in pain and not being able to do anything about it. 

You set your hands on the dashboard in front of you and leaned forward the best you could despite your huge belly to try and feel some of the icy air from the AC on your clammy face. You kept breathing. 

George reached over to set a hand on your back, right between your shoulder blades, “We’re almost there, my love. You’re doing amazing.”

“I hate this,” you whined, “I fucking hate this. I want him out already.”

“Not long now,” George tried to offer any semblance of comfort that fell upon deaf ears. 

By the time he parked the car in the hospital parking garage, another five minutes had gone by and you were back to breathing through another contraction. George was standing in the open passenger door, bent down beside you, letting you grip his hand as you groaned through your teeth and the sharp pain, whispering soft reassurances to you in the quiet of the car park at almost eleven o’clock at night. 

Once you had another moment of slight respite, resting back in the passenger seat with a hand over your belly, you took a second to catch your breath. While you did, George grabbed the hospital bag from the backseat and slung it over his shoulder so he had both hands free to help you. You turned toward him, fingers wrapping around his forearms, and he braced himself, planting his feet firmly as he helped lift you from the car. You had barely made it halfway upright when a strange, unmistakable sensation rippled through you—like the sudden pop of a water balloon deep inside.

And then came the rush; warm liquid flooding down your legs, soaking your pants, trickling onto the cement floor of the parking garage, and—of course—all over the upholstery of his car. It was almost comedic just how movie-like it happened, how intense and dramatic it felt in that moment.

Your gasp was immediate, “Shit.”

“Oh wow,” George gaped but didn’t falter his grasp on you, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Can you stand?”

You continued to your feet until you were stable, still holding his arm just in case. The two of you looked back into his car and the way the leather of his passenger seat was glistening with wetness.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed.

George chuckled faintly and just shut the door behind you, “It’s okay. The car can be cleaned. Are you okay?”

You shifted your weight, your hand still tucked in the crook of his arm, “Extra uncomfortable now.”

“I bet; you’re soaked through.” George started to guide you away from the car, “Let’s get you inside.”

Thanks to your soaked pants, lingering aches, and huge belly, you weren’t moving very quickly but George was patient, keeping his arm where you could hold onto it while he carefully guided you step by step to the hospital doors. Once inside, the triage nurse took your name and information down and took you to an examination room to check how you were progressing to see if you were far enough along to stay at the hospital. 

As you laid on the hospital bed and she got her equipment set up to check you out, you had another contraction and George lingered beside you, a firm hand resting comfortingly and protectively on your shoulder. He still had your duffle bag over his shoulder and, now, your clothes over his arm like a pack mule but his focus was far more directed on you than bothering about himself at all. 

“That’s it…you’re doing so well, love. Deep breaths.” he encouraged, thumb rubbing your shoulder over your shirt. 

As it eased out after about a minute, you fluttered your eyes open to look up at him standing beside you. He lifted his hand from your shoulder to stroke your flushed cheek with the back of his finger, a gentle smile on his handsome face. 

The nurse eyed you both with a fond smile as she began to prod at your belly a little to figure out the positioning of the baby, distracting you from the discomfort with some conversation. 

“Is this your first baby?”

“Yeah,” George exhaled with a grin, beaming pride. 

“How exciting,” she complimented. 

“And scary,” you added lightly. 

The nurse assured you with a kind, “The anticipation always makes it feel much scarier than it is. Once your baby is in your arms, you will feel a bit more at peace.”

You glanced over at George again as her words helped ease your racing nerves just a little and he gave you shoulder another squeeze. Just then, she had placed a monitor just beneath the swell of your bump and almost right away, the room was filled with the familiar staticy rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat. 

“What a strong sounding heart on the little one.” the nurse complimented, “Seems to be doing well in there which is what we like to hear. Sitting nice and low too, head down, ready to come out.”

She seemed nice enough and in your desperate, pained state, you confided in her with a pleading, “I really do not want to be sent back home.”

“We’ll just check how dilated you are and then make our decision,” she said kindly, drifting across the small examination room to find a pair of medical gloves. 

She got your feet up on the stirrups to prepare you for the cervical assessment and you held your hand out for George to take so you had something to hold onto. He took your hand without question, watching as the nurse lifted up the bottom of your hospital gown to begin the check. 

“She’s been feeling it all day and her waters broke in the car on the way here,” George said as if he were pleading your case, “Any time now, it’s got to be.”

As if having experienced many impatient and anxious new father’s in her line of work, the nurse just offered him a polite smile but focused on her task at hand. It was uncomfortable as she slipped two fingers into you to check your progress, but certainly not as unbearable as the contractions had started to be. You clenched your jaw and stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on the way George’s thumb stroked over yours in absentminded back and forth motions. 

When the nurse sat back and started to remove her gloves, she told you both, “You’re up to almost seven centimeters and already fully effaced so it looks like you’ll be sent upstairs to the Birthing Unit.”

While George let out a small sigh of relief, you were right there with the surprise, “Seven already?”

“Yes! You’re well into active labour now, my dear.” the nurse said as she disposed of the gloves and made her way to the door, “I will find someone to take you up to your room in just a moment.”

The moment she slipped out of the examination room and closed the door behind her, you and George looked at each other. Both of you knew that, of course, your labour was going to be progressing as it had throughout the day, but the realization that you were already 70% of the way towards actually delivering your baby hit you both like a truck. Unfortunately, you didn’t have long to linger in that moment because yet another contraction was washing over you at full force.

Saturday

It had just passed midnight by the time you were settled in your birthing suite—the nicest one they had, George insisted with a flash of his credit card that made you roll your eyes—and you were thankful to finally be able to be settled in one space. It was a spacious room overlooking the harbour but given the late hour it was, there wasn’t much to see. George busied himself with closing the curtains as you relaxed for a moment on the hospital bed in the centre of the room, your eyes following him as he drifted over to your hospital bag resting on the chair in the corner and unzipped it, rifling through it for a phone charger that he then plugged into the wall beside your bed and set his phone aside. 

“Getting a little real now, isn’t it?” you stated softly from the bed. 

George glanced over at you with a fond smile and he reached out to stroke a hand over your hair, “Definitely is.” 

“You nervous?” you asked him.

“Yeah,” he confessed with a soft laugh, “very.”

You reached up to set your hand on his arm and he shifted to let your fingers intertwine with his, the silent act of solidarity between the two of you. He had many family members give birth in his lifetime but he had never been present for every step of the process, never had to watch the woman he loved most in the world be in such pain with him unable to do anything about it. You could see his mind whirling, that sweet furrowed expression on his face as if he were deep in thought. 

“I love you,” you offered. 

George’s hand tightened in yours for a beat, his expression easing, “I love you too.”

He leaned down to give you a quick kiss before straightening up again. 

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, “Water? A blanket?”

“Yeah, maybe some water,” you breathed.

He left you with one more kiss and then left the room to fetch you a cup of water from the water station down the hall and when he returned, you were contracting again. He rushed over and set the cup down on the table beside the bed so he could tend to you as you laid curled on your side, his hand finding the small of your back again to press the heel of his palm down in a firm pressure. You groaned tightly into the pillow, fingers curling around the bar beside the bed, trying to breathe through it. 

“I can’t leave you alone for ten seconds, can I?” George offered lightheartedly but you were in no position to join into his banter, only replying with another pained groan. He kept his mouth shut until your contraction eased. 

Then, he held out the cup of water to you and held the straw steady so you could take a sip without having to hold it. You sighed in relief as you finished the entire cup in one long drink and then settled back against the hospital bed. 

“More?” he asked, now that the styrofoam cup was empty. 

You shook your head, slightly breathless, “I’m okay for now.”

George set it aside. You squirmed again, hating to lay still and constantly unable to feel comfortable, hands grasping the bars on the side of the hospital bed as you shifted. 

“Do you want to move around some more?” George offered gently, “Maybe a change in position will help.”

So you let him help you up out of the bed and you started to slowly pace the hospital suite just like you had in your living room a few hours earlier. George filled out more of his notebook as you progressed but always was right there beside you for the duration of each contraction. Now that your water had broken, contractions were coming far more intense than before and the five-minute intervals were closing in on four-minutes instead. 

That pressure he would apply to your lower back or how he’d squeeze your hips during contractions was starting to do nothing at all anymore—or so it felt—and you were exhausted and starting to get more and more frustrated and impatient. After about two hours of labouring in the hospital suite, you had found a somewhat comfortable position with the bed raised up so you could lean forward on your forearms against the mattress, swaying your hips through the intense waves of another contraction. 

George rubbed his hands over your hips and started to press inwards to offer counter pressure but you shooed him off with a wave of your hand. He stepped back. 

“What can I do, love?” he asked softly, helplessly, not able to touch you and hold you and comfort you like he wanted. 

Your fingers curled into the sheets, tight breaths trying to stay deep and cleansing, barely recognizing his words as your body worked to pass the pain of the contraction. When it decreased after about a minute, you exhaled strongly out of it but kept your position over the side of the bed.

“Can I get you more water? Do you want me to rub your feet?” George offered from beside you. “I can blow up your birthing ball if you want?”

You lifted your head to look at him, voice thick was exhaustion but tinged with curiosity, “You brought the birthing ball?”

He gestured towards the stuffed duffle bag on the chair in the corner, “I bought a spare and packed it, yeah.”

“Jesus,” you exhaled in disbelief and hung your head, “Yeah…please.”

Thrilled to finally be able to help in some way, George hurried across the room to unzip the large duffle bag and he took out the folded soft rubber ball that was tucked in the inside pocket. He made himself useful by blowing it up by mouth until he was half dizzy and even more exhausted than he already had been but he wouldn’t dare to complain. With a slightly flushed face from manually blowing up the large birthing ball, he brought it over to you and set it on the ground for you to sit on. 

You bounced on it lazily and swayed side to side, trying to use it to help open your hips and get the process rolling. George took the initiative to brush your hair for you as you did and thankfully for him, you didn’t push him away. The hospital suite was filled with some of your favourite music playing from your phone across the room as you laboured and George relaxed you with the gentle pulls of your hairbrush along your scalp and through your hair. He then tried his hand at a braid and, despite how imperfect it was, it was a thankful relief to get your hair out of your face. 

George checked his watch as you fell into another contraction, standing firmly behind you despite the exhaustion that stung his eyes. He was sure you were no better off, both of you almost going on twenty-four hours since you had last slept; but if nothing else, it was the adrenaline that fueled the pair of you to keep you going well past two o’clock in the morning. 

“You’re doing so well, my darling,” he stroked his hands over your hair and across your shoulders, “You doing okay?”

“Shut up, love, please,” you groaned out of your contraction, voice tight from pain and exhaustion, “I can’t answer a million questions.”

“Sorry, sorry…” he muttered, pressing an apologetic kiss to the top of your head. 

The nurse came in a little while later to check on you, letting you stay sitting on the birthing ball while she listened for the baby’s heartbeat and then checked your progression. Despite sitting on the ball, you leaned back against George’s front, using him as a way to rest, and he gladly allowed it. 

“At eight centimeters now,” the nurse told you as she stood back up and took off her gloves, “You’ve been progressing slowly but it’s still moving along so we’re not concerned. Are you still thinking you want to pass on the epidural?”

You nodded meekly, “Yeah, no epidural.”

George leaned down to be closer to your head, whispering softly, “Love, maybe you should consider—”

“No,” you said firmly, “I want to do this myself. I can do this myself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with getting the epidural. Maybe you’d like the relief.”

“George.”

The seriousness in your tone was a dead giveaway that you weren’t going to be hearing anymore of it. He stood back up straight and sent a polite yet thin lipped smile to the nurse who had seen plenty of such interactions in her career in labour and delivery. 

“Would you like to try a warm soak in the tub?” she offered to you, “Often that can help naturally ease some of the discomfort and pain.”

So at nearly three o’clock in the morning, you found yourself in the large tub in the corner of the birthing suite and wondering why the fuck you hadn’t gotten in sooner. The warm water seemed to work wonders through the contractions and although it didn’t get rid of them all together, that agonizing edge was certainly taken down a notch. George knelt beside the tub with your filled water bottle in hand, offering you little sips here and there as you waited out the time together. 

He rested his cheek against his arm on the side of the tub while his other hand danced over the curve of your large belly, his eyes watching as he drew soft soothing patterns over your warm skin. A little footprint nudged against his hand and he smiled softly. 

“Hi, baby boy,” George whispered, setting his down flat over that same spot, “How’s it going in there?”

“He’s still cozy,” you mumbled, resting your hands on either side of his over your abdomen, “Taking his sweet time.”

George hummed in acknowledgement, watching his hand atop your belly, already so filled with this fierce sense of protectiveness and your son wasn’t even here yet. His thumb brushed back and forth over your damp skin at the surface of the water. 

“I’m so tired,” you confessed in a breath.

“I know you are, my love.” George cooed, eyes shifting to look at your face, “You’ve been such a trooper.”

“I want him out,” you whined, voice pitching at the end as another contraction washed over you.

George checked his watch to note the time before focusing all on you, shifting beside the tub to be in a better position to be right where you needed him at any given moment. You grabbed his hand and he let you hold onto him tightly as he joined you in those deep, precise labouring breaths so you didn’t feel quite alone. He watched you carefully, every flutter of an expression on your face, but you hardly noticed, your body and mind far too preoccupied with bringing life into the world. 

“Nice deep breaths, darling. You’re doing amazing.” he praised softly.

Your head dropped back against the side of the large tub, eyes tightly closed, one hand clutching his and the other gripping the edge of the tub until your knuckles turned white, filling the room with your strained groans and laboured breaths. You barely noticed George brushing some of your wispy hair out of your face or the way the back of his finger stroked against your cheek before his hand settled on your shoulder, thumb caressing your damp skin. 

“Keep breathing,” he reminded you, “Deep breaths with me.”

The two of you inhaled strongly together and found the rhythm that had been taught to you in your lamaze classes, just breathing together, being together. Together on this life changing journey. 

By the time the bathwater was getting cooler and you were ready for another shift in position, George helped you out of the tub and dried you off. As he did, you held onto his shoulders for balance and tried to stand still, feeling aches and pressure all through you, itching, frustratingly never-ending sensations that you couldn’t get away from. It was coming up on twenty-four hours since your first hints of labour and you were getting sick of it, desperate for this process of waiting to be done. 

George helped you back into your hospital gown and walked you back to the bed where you, once again, draped yourself forward over the edge of it with a grunt. His heart ached to see you in so much discomfort and pain and he leaned in beside you to kiss your temple as you stood there with another impending contraction. In that moment, the pain of the contractions was blending into a strange feeling of nausea that came on pretty quickly with the increase in pain.

“George…” you called meekly, setting a trembling hand against your forehead.

As if sensing the trepidation in your voice, he was leaning back down beside you, a hand on your back, right between your shoulder blades, “Yeah, love?”

“I really don’t feel well,” you muttered.

“You think you’re going to be sick?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, hang on,” George hurried around the other side of the bed to the table in the corner of the room to grab the hospital provided sick bag and he returned to your side with it. 

You took it from him and clutched it in both hands at the ready as you rested on your forearms on the side of the bed, head hung, eyes screwed shut. Without you even realizing, your body was letting out low, steady groans and moans, trying to use that as a way to express your pain in other ways. George stayed close at your side, brushing your hair out of your face as your poorly constructed braid was starting to come undone. 

“Do you want a sip of water?” he asked softly. 

“Fuck—” you hissed, tensing up as another intense contraction ramped up, a cry tearing from your chest as you fisted the sheets and crumpled the sick bag. 

George’s eyes went wide at your loud exclamation, his hand hovering over your back as if he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not. You were so much louder now, almost crying out as if in complete agony unlike anything he had heard before. George wasn’t scared of much in life but in that moment, he suddenly felt absolutely terrified. 

“Sweetheart—” he started tentatively, gently resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” you snapped.

Your sudden intensity had him yanking his hand away and taking a step back like he had been burned by hot coals. Eyes wide, he watched as you writhed over the side of the bed, head hung, almost looking like a person outside of yourself, another being, something natural and instinctual taking over. 

“Okay, okay, okay…sorry,” he rushed out.

The notebook had long since been foregone for the sake of the hospital machinery that tracked your contractions and George glanced over to the screen that showed the squiggly line peaking sharply up on the chart, higher and higher; a visual of just how intense this one was. His attention was torn away from the screen by the sound of your retching as you threw up into the bag in your hands. You hadn’t eaten in a while so it was mostly just bile but the sight still made his stomach churn a little.

“Blimey,” George exhaled, pressing a fist to his mouth to try and keep himself from doing the same exact thing. That was the last thing you needed. 

“Sorry,” you whimpered out once you were done, tears brimming in your eyes.

He took the bag from you to dispose of, stopping to kiss your head in the process, “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry you’re feeling so rotten.”

“Your fault anyway,” you muttered in some attempt at a joke despite the intensity of the moment.

Appreciating the slight break in tension, George chuckled faintly, “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

You swayed your hips side to side again to try and ease the pressure, head dropped towards the bed that you leaned on, trying to catch your breath in your nauseous and agonizing brief moment of reprieve from the back-to-back contractions. The feeling of a cold, damp cloth touching your face made you startle but you lifted your head a little so George could wipe your mouth for you. He then rested the reliving coolness against your cheeks and, a few seconds later, the back of your neck. 

Your eyes stayed closed, a small pout of pain on your lips, voice meek, “I can’t do this. I want to go home.”

“I know, my love,” George breathed, “You’re almost there. You’ve come this far. Not long now and we’ll have our baby in our arms. And then we can go home, alright?”

“No, please,” you cried, agonizing tears in your eyes as if begging him for mercy, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do you want the epidural?” he asked softly, pressing the cool damp cloth to your flushed cheek. 

Sighing in dramatic relief at his reminder, you replied with a pleading, “Yes, yes, I don’t care anymore. Please!” 

“Okay, let me get the nurse,” George left you with a kiss to your forehead before hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the nurses’ station. 

It felt like you had only blinked and he was returning, your nurse in tow. Time felt strange that night—perhaps it was the exhaustion, the early hour, the pain—everything feeling so hazy and dream-like and fragmented. You barely recalled George speaking to the nurse, updating her on how you were, that you had vomited, that you wanted the epidural. You didn’t have to move for her to check your progress, staying leaned over the side of the bed how you were most comfortable. 

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the nurse finally spoke, “I can’t give you the epidural; you’re at a ten.”

“Fuck me,” you groaned through your teeth.

She explained to the both of you kindly, “Usually the vomiting is a clear sign the mother is in the transition stage and it’s only a matter of minutes before pushing is due to begin. I’m going to go page the doctor.”

In another blink, George was in front of you, leaning on the opposite side of the bed so you were face to face, and he set his hands over yours between you. You let his fingers intertwine with yours, giving you something to hold onto that wasn’t the thin hospital sheets as another contraction swelled and you cried out loudly.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, giving your hands a squeeze to bring your attention back to him, “Look at me. Right here.”

Despite the sheer pain radiating around your abdomen, back, and down between your legs and thighs, you forced your teary eyes to meet his gaze. 

“I’m right here,” he reminded you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You couldn’t reply verbally but he could see your appreciation in your eyes, in the firm grip of your hands in his.

His voice was a soothing blanket of warmth amidst the harshness of the situation, “Just keep looking at me, alright? Just breathe.”

Despite the way you tried to keep breathing, your inhales were jagged and uneven, almost panting, too focused on the way you were crying out with pain. But you kept looking at him, trying to find refuge in the comforting familiarity of his features, the love in his eyes, your safety. 

“I’m so in awe of you,” he exhaled with nothing but raw honesty in his words, “You are incredible. You are a warrior…a goddess.”

You groaned through the contraction, trying to focus on him and his words. The contraction slowly ebbed, leaving you trembling and breathless, your fingers still locked around George’s. But the relief was short-lived and, instead, was taken over by a deep, primal pressure settling low in your belly, heavy and insistent, and you let out a shaky gasp.

“I need to get on the bed,” you managed, barely above a whisper, not even realizing it was you that was saying it. 

George reacted instantly. He squeezed your hands once before letting go and then he came around the other side of the bed to help lower it for you before stabilizing you by the arm to guide you onto it. You barely registered the feeling of the unimpressive hospital mattress beneath you before another contraction bore down, sharp and all-consuming. Your fingers grasped blindly for George, and he was right there, hands steady, voice soothing.

“You’re doing amazing, love. You got this.” he murmured as he helped you settle. 

With one hand holding his, your other clutched onto the bar on the side of the bed as you laid on your side and cried out loudly. George brushed your hair away from your face and started to fan you with his notebook that had been forgotten about on the side table. 

Through clenched teeth, you announced, “I feel like I need to push. Really bad.”

“Can you wait until the doctor gets—”

But your body wasn't interested in waiting until the doctor arrived and, against your own will, it was forcing you to bear down with a loud cry. 

“Fucking hell,” George muttered, panicked eyes flicking towards the door as if hoping the doctor would saunter in right at that moment. Of course, this wasn’t a movie and life was not that ideal, leaving him clueless and frightened as your body gave another push through a crying groan. He pried his hand out of yours and set it on your head as he leaned down, “Just hang on, love, please, just one second.”

And then he was rushing across the room to the door, yanking it open and sticking his head out into the hallway,

“The baby is coming now! We need help!”

It was hard to believe how instinctive it all felt to you, like you didn’t even have to think about it or worry about it, like your body just knew what to do against your inexperienced judgement. You clung onto the bar beside the bed, curled in on yourself in nearly the fetal position, tensing right up into another agonizing push. A strangled cry tore from your throat just as a flurry of nurses and the doctor came rushing in to get set up and in an instant, George was back at your side. 

“Alright, take some deep breaths for me, dear,” your nurse said, her voice calm but efficient as she helped to adjust you on the bed so you weren’t quite curled up, “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Comfortable felt like an impossible concept—nothing had been comfortable for what felt like hours, maybe even days—but you obeyed without protest, shifting against the mattress with what little energy you had left. Every movement sent another ripple of pressure through your lower back, tightening like a vice, but you forced yourself to breathe through it. 

“Find whatever position feels best,” the nurse continued, adjusting the pillows behind you, “As long as it opens you up nicely, you do what works for you.”

You exhaled shakily, struggling to think through the haze of exhaustion and pain, trying to sit up more with a mumbled, “Higher.”

As if automatically knowing what you meant, George moved to the bed controls, adjusting the incline until you were more upright, almost sitting, “Like this, love?”

You nodded, and that was assurance enough for him. At the same time, the nurse worked quickly, securing the birthing bar in place over the bed so you had something solid to hold onto, helping you to balance in a bit more of a squat than just laying flat on your back. As soon as your fingers wrapped around it, the doctor had gotten set up at the foot of the bed with accommodation for your chosen positioning, already checking how far along you were. 

Your breath hitched as the feeling of another wave built fast within you and you gasped, tears welling up again, “I-I can’t! I can’t do this!”

“Yes, you can,” George murmured, his forehead nearly touching yours as he leaned in closer, a hand smoothing over your hair, his voice low and soothing, “You are, sweetheart. Just breathe, love. You’re doing this, you’re doing so well. I’m right here.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting his voice steady you before your body instinctively pushed against the impending contraction before you could think. Red, hot, pain ripped through you, forcing a shrieking cry from your throat as you bore down. 

“Amazing! Just like that,” the doctor encouraged, fingers helping themselves inside you to help guide the baby’s head around the pubic bone, “His head is already in a great position. Keep pushing, right from your gut.”

You heaved in another breath only to hold it into another fierce push as the nurses fluttered around you in a hazy blur in the background. Your entire focus was on your baby at that moment, the world narrowed down to that single hospital bed. George’s hand was on your back as he stood close at your side, his other hand on your knee to help keep your legs open but his thumb stroked over your skin comfortingly as you gave another push. 

“Good girl,” George praised loudly over your cries, eyes flitting between your face and the delivery zone, “Oh, you’re incredible!” 

After another push, the doctor told you, “Okay, take it easy for a second until the next contraction…take a breath. You’re doing so well.”

You folded your arms on the birthing bar and you rested your cheek atop your arms, eyelashes heavy. The straw of your water bottle grazed your lips as George offered it out to you and you took it in your mouth for a small sip before letting him take it away again. Then, he was right back again, this time with another cool damp cloth—that must have been given to him by one of the nurses—that he gently patted over your sweaty forehead. 

“Can I go again?” you asked the room.

“If you feel the need, go right ahead,” the doctor permitted, “Just listen to your body.”

With your arms still folded on the birthing bar, you turned your forehead to rest against them as you bore down again with a tight groan before quickly following it up with another. It was agonizing and exhausting and as you pushed again, a sob broke from your lips, “I just want him out!”

“I know, love, I know,” George murmured from beside you with the cool cloth against the back of your neck, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. His voice, so gentle and reverent, nearly broke with emotion as he whispered right to you, “You’re almost there. You’re so strong, you hear me? So fucking strong.”

“Give us another push, hon,” one of the nurses reminded you kindly, “Give it all your power and we’re going to hold for a count of ten, alright?”

You nodded and steeled yourself and when you bore down with all your might, the nurse counted you through it in the longest count of ten you had ever sat through. When she reached ten, you relaxed for a second and heaved a breath. 

“There you go!” the doctor encouraged, nodding approvingly, “You’re making progress. He’s moving lower.”

But it didn’t feel like progress; it felt endless…impossible. Your arms trembled as you gripped the bar, your legs shaking with the strain of holding yourself up even in the supported squat. You pushed for another count of ten…and then another, and then the doctor had to rest for a moment again as your contraction died out. Your whole body trembled with effort as you collapsed against the pillows of the propped up hospital bed, panting through the briefest moment of respite before the next contraction threatened to take hold. The pain wasn’t just sharp anymore—it was bone-deep, an unbearable pressure that made every fiber of your being scream for relief. Your body felt wrecked, drained, as though you had already given everything you had.

“Why isn’t he out yet?” you sobbed between gasping breaths.

“Hey,” George leaned over you to get your eyes on his, “He’s almost here. You’ve got this.”

Breathing heavily, you reached a trembling hand up to grasp the back of his neck and pulled his forehead down against yours as if wanting to take any and all strength from him.

“It often takes some extra time for first time mothers, sweetheart,” the nurse added soothingly, “Your body is doing all the right things. He just needs a little more work to make his way down.”

George kissed the top of your head, his voice low but filled with admiration. “You’re incredible, darling, you can do this. Just a little longer.”

You weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this, but as the next contraction started to build, you knew one thing—you had to.

Your feet lifted to press against the birthing bar in an attempt for counter pressure as you adjusted yourself on the hospital bed and bore down again. Immediately, your hand reached for George’s and his fingers grasped yours firmly, giving you something to hold onto as the nurse counted you into another lengthy ten seconds. 

The grip you had on his hand was bone crushing but he barely flinched, standing firmly at your side with his free arm around the top of the bed to get as close to you as possible without invading your space. He whispered loving praises to you as you delivered, being your strength and your encouragement. It felt like a dream, this whole situation, some never ending surrealness. 

The minutes ticked by as you followed the guidance of the doctor and the nurses and your body, all working towards the same goal: to deliver your son. When he was crowning, you turned your head against George’s arm as you clutched his hand, crying out as you pushed with everything left in you, and your husband set his free hand on your head to help to ground you, reminding you that he was present and with you. Your strength. 

“Gentle push now,” the doctor instructed, “Not too hard, let’s ease him out.”

With your eyes still scrunched shut, face pressed against George’s arm as you clutched his hand, you pushed down again, a little lighter this time, just enough to help the doctor shift the baby’s shoulders.  

“Open your eyes, love,” George whispered into your hair, “Open your eyes, he’s right here.”

“One more push,” the doctor told you. 

“One more,” George echoed. “Come on, my love.”

You heaved your head up and forced your tired eyes open, staring down your body between your spread legs as the doctor’s hands worked between them. As you bore down again, gently but surely, you watched first-hand as the baby was delivered into the doctor’s hands at 5:16am. 

Instant relief. Instant. 

And then the sharp shrill cry from the newborn filled the room and you barely had a second to process what had happened before the doctor was standing up and placing the goopy, screaming baby on your chest. 

Your arms went around him instinctively as he was handed to you, your voice a quiver of emotions and exhaustion as you greeted your son with a whimpering, “Oh, hi!” 

George pressed a wet kiss to your forehead before he was leaning in closer, setting a hand over yours around the newborn, tears already streaming down his cheeks at only the first glance of your son, as if the relief of it all hit him just as strongly. He crooned over the baby himself, helping you keep hold of him, “Oh my goodness, hi, buddy. There you are.”

You held the wrinkly, pasty baby to your chest, uncaring of the fluids and blood that stained your hospital gown and smeared over your skin; all that mattered was holding him, looking at him. Despite being fresh from birth, you swore he was the most beautiful thing you had seen with a head of light brown hair smattered wetly over his head and his supple skin flushed a light purple from the trauma of the delivery. You could hardly see him through the tears that blurred your vision, sobbing with relief, with elation, with love. 

You finally turned your gaze to George beside you, who was leaning in close, his arm around yours to help hold the baby together, tears of his own streaking his cheeks and shimmering in his eyes. But the wonder in his gaze was apparent, unlike any other expression you had seen on him before. A look of love so unlike anything else in the world.

When he sensed your staring, George’s eyes found yours and in that moment, you both shared wet smiles and he leaned in to give you a salty kiss or two. 

“He’s here,” you exhaled dreamily with a proud yet exhausted smile.

“He’s here,” George echoed with a breath of relief, reaching up with his other hand to brush your hair out of your face, “You were a fucking warrior, my love. Incredible. So, so incredible.”

You sniffled through your teary eyed smile, ignorant to the way the hospital room bustled around you as the doctors and nurses worked. Your husband gave you another kiss.

“I love you. I love you so much.” George then whispered, pressing another kiss to your clammy forehead.

“I love you,” you replied earnestly. 

The doctor called your name gently, and when you looked towards him, he told you, “You’ll feel some more contractions in a second, just need some light pushes from you to deliver the placenta.”

The swirl of emotions that filled you after the intensity of labour and delivery had you far too focused on your new baby to even think of the discomfort of delivering the placenta. You kept your baby in your arms with George holding you both from beside the bed, both of you absolutely swooning over him, barely paying any mind to your tame pushes that helped the doctor finish the job. 

Once you had plenty of skin to skin with the newborn and George had done the honours of cutting the umbilical cord, the nurses took the baby across the room to be weighed and checked on. As if already far too attached to let your son be taken from you, George left you with a kiss and, as per your silent instruction, followed the nurses to the station across the hospital suite to where they had the newborn in the bassinet under a warming lamp. He stood out of the way but still protectively close as they did their jobs, cleaning up the screaming baby and taking his vitals and jotting down information. 

As you laid there in the hospital bed, the doctor finishing cleaning you up from the birth, all you could focus on was George. He stood there in the artificial light of the hospital room, in his Adidas lounge pants and a plain coloured t-shirt that was stained slightly with blood and afterbirth, hair messy and sticking up in all directions from the tension of the last twenty-four hours, and hands held behind his back as if he were admiring a priceless artifact in a museum. His first born. His son. 

“How’s he doing?” you asked from across the room. 

George glanced over to you, face breaking out in a calm smile, before looking back to the flailing baby under the nurses’ hands, “He’s good. Feisty little fella.”

“3.8 kilos, 54 centimetres,” one of the nurses announced, “He’s a pretty big boy…very impressive to deliver all natural.”

George looked at you again with nothing but pride in his eyes. 

Despite the way the baby cried and squirmed, the nurses worked efficiently to get him cleaned up and diapered and made sure his hospital band was nicely secure around his ankle, labelling him, officially, as Baby Boy Russell with both George’s and your names alongside it for identification's sake. Once he was swaddled and donning a sweet little white cloth hat, one of the nurses picked him up from the bassinet and offered him out to George. 

George had held many babies in his lifetime, mostly his nieces and nephews, from newborns to toddlers. He knew how to hold them and he felt comfortable doing just that but this? With the nurse holding out his very own baby to him to hold for the very first time? There was just an ounce of hesitation…so much weighing on this moment.

He took the swaddled newborn in his arms with practiced ease, bringing him close to his chest in the crook of his arm, his other hand protectively supporting his tiny body from beneath. Almost immediately, the baby quieted down, as if sensing the safety of his father’s arms. 

George, wide eyed, let out a shuddering exhale, “Blimey.”

George barely registered the quiet sounds of the hospital room around him as the nurses finished up, his entire world now reduced to the weight of his son in his arms. He swayed slightly on instinct, cradling the newborn close as his thumb brushed lightly over the soft fabric of the swaddle, unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight.

Then he heard your voice—warm, exhausted, full of love, “He knows his daddy.”

His head then lifted, meeting your gaze across the room, and for a moment, all he could do was take you in. You looked spent and exhausted, still propped up against the pillows of the hospital bed, the thin sheets around your waist, but in that moment, he swore you had never looked more beautiful. His heart clenched.

Wordlessly, drawn to you like a force he couldn’t resist, George took slow, careful steps toward the bed, carrying something so fragile and precious. As he reached your bedside, he lowered himself gently onto the mattress beside you, mindful of your tired form, and you shifted just a little to give him some room to join you. Your hand rested against his shoulder as you shared in the view of the swaddled newborn in his arms and Goerge titled his hold just enough to let you take in the tiny face you had waited so long to meet.

“Hi there,” George murmured down to the baby, his voice thick with wonder, “Hi, buddy. Yeah, I’m your daddy.”

“Oh, he’s so perfect,” you breathed, finally getting a proper look at the baby without all the goop from birth on him. You reached out a gentle hand and stroked the back of your finger over his little cheeks. 

“Absolutely perfect,” George agreed. He then turned his head to look at you in your close proximity and you turned your face to meet his gaze. The rawness in his eyes was strong, the emotion behind his words undeniable, as he spoke in a tearful whisper, “Thank you.”

The next moments passed in a soft blur—checks, warm blankets, whispered reassurances. The nurses moved efficiently around you both, their voices gentle, their hands practiced as they made sure everything was as it should be as the chaos of the delivery faded out.

Before long, one of them approached with a kind smile, “Would you like to try feeding him now?”

A hint of trepidation swelled inside you, daunting in the face of the unfamiliar but intertwined with a tinge of instinctual excitement, and you nodded. Shifting carefully on the bed, you let the nurse guide you into a comfortable position and remove your hospital gown as George stood to give you room with the baby still in his arms. When you were ready, you held your arms out and he carefully passed over the swaddled newborn, making sure you had a good hold on him before he stepped back. 

You adjusted slightly, your body still aching from the lingering effects of birth but already attuned to the tiny weight against you and the comfort of George’s presence right at your side. Your husband set a hand on your shoulder as the nurse helped you position the baby and explained what to do and the best methods to help the baby latch. Guiding him towards your breast, you kept his head supported while brushing the nipple across his lips and he opened up his little mouth to instinctively take it in.

A sharp, unfamiliar sensation rippled through you as he started to suckle, a mix of discomfort and awe filling you, and you inhaled sharply, cradling him close to your chest.

“There you go,” the nurse encouraged, reaching in to make sure all was well, “That’s it. He’s got a good latch.”

“That was quick,” you chuckled tiredly. 

“Whatta little champion,” George swooned.

“Definitely a strong little guy,” the nurse agreed. She checked a few more things before taking her leave to give your new little family some privacy, reminding you to page her if you needed anything. 

Then, all at once, the three of you were left alone for the first time. In your arms, the newborn fed soundly, cheeks suckling as he nursed from your breast and long lashes closed peacefully, natural instinct taking over in finding his nourishment. It was hard to believe he was still inside you not even an hour earlier, this whole living, breathing, eating little human. Sure, you were still uncomfortable and exhausted from the whole ordeal, but the love that swelled in your heart was undeniable, filling your veins with adoring adrenaline. 

George shifted closer to the bedside, his free hand brushing over the baby’s swaddled back in slow, reverent strokes, his voice thick with emotion, “I still can’t believe he’s ours. He’s so… tiny.”

You let out a soft, tired laugh, “Yeah, well, he didn’t feel tiny a few minutes ago.”

George wrapped a free arm around your shoulders and he pressed a smiling kiss to your temple, “How are you feeling? Hanging in there?”

You looked up at him with a faint smile, “I’m okay. Happy.”

He just stared at you for a moment, eyes flickering all over your face as if taking in every single atom. His thumb caressed your shoulder. You knew you likely looked an absolute wreck, exhausted and completely worn out, makeup free, hair frazzled, and everything in between, but the way he looked at you made your stomach fill with butterflies. 

“What?” you chuckled nervously, tearing your eyes away from his intense stare to check on your nursing newborn, adjusting your hold on him.

“Nothing,” George exhaled, “You are just so beautiful.”

You felt your throat tighten at his words, the sincerity in his voice making your already-overwhelmed emotions bubble even closer to the surface. Those damn hormone fluctuations were no joke.

A wobbly smile tugged at your lips, “You’re just saying that because I gave you a son.”

George huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he stared into your eyes, “No. I mean, yes, that’s incredible, but you…” His fingers gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear and stroked your cheek, “You are breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do right now. Didn’t even think that was possible.”

Your heart squeezed, warmth filling your chest, breathing a shaky, “I love you so much.”

He leaned in again to kiss your lips gently before then leaning down to press a kiss to your son’s head. The baby let out a tiny, contented sigh, his hands wriggling beneath the swaddle as his suckling slowed as he finished his first feed. He pulled away from your breast and smacked his lips, eyelashes fluttering. 

“Milk drunk, are we?” George smiled, brushing a knuckle lightly over the baby’s cheek.

You sighed tiredly, gently patting the baby’s back, “He needs to be burped.”

George’s fingers carded through your hair and he offered, “I can take him; let you get some rest.”

Easing your head back against the pillows, you blinked tiredly up at him, “You sure?”

“Yeah, we should get acquainted anyway.”

As exhaustion started to take you with the promise of rest from your husband, you carefully passed the baby into George’s waiting arms. He cradled the tiny bundle expertly against his chest with practiced ease, one large hand supporting the newborn’s delicate head as he brought him close. He shushed the mewling newborn softly as he started to gently pat the baby’s back to coax out a soft, sleepy burp from his tiny body. 

The last thing you felt before fading into a well needed sleep was George’s hand smoothing over your hair, a quiet promise of love and protection in his touch.

An hour had passed and before long, the hospital room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of sunrise. George was resting in the chair by the window, his bare chest exposed to the morning warmth through the half opened curtains, streaking light across his body. He rocked slowly in the glider, cradling your son against his chest, skin to skin, the rhythmic motion barely more than a whisper.

The baby, snug in nothing but his diaper, looked impossibly small against George’s broad frame, his tiny body nestled beneath the protective weight of his father’s large hand and the light weight of his blanket, shielding him from the chill of the hospital room. George’s eyes were closed but he wasn’t quite asleep, eyelids fluttering open with every faint movement of the newborn under his hand as if he were unable to sleep without knowing he was perfectly safe, always having to check on him.

When the baby let out a little whine, George patted his back gently with a few breathy shushes. He shifted slightly, adjusting his hold so the baby rested more securely against him, his voice barely above a whisper as he soothed, “I’ve got you, buddy. Daddy’s got you. You’re alright.”

The newborn let out another sleepy whimper, his tiny fists clenching against George’s chest before slowly relaxing again, his little muscles tensing and relaxing in little involuntary movements as he got used to his body. George huffed a quiet chuckle, rubbing a warm hand up and down his son’s back.

“You’re a right little wiggle worm, aren’t you?” he murmured, watching as the baby’s tiny features scrunched up in protest before settling once more, “Just like your mum when she’s trying to get comfy in bed.”

George glanced over toward the bed, his heart squeezing at the sight of you, still deep in sleep, your chest rising and falling in soft, steady breaths, face still screwed up in lingering pain from the delivery and exertion. But even like that, in every way possible, George loved you, from deep in his soul. 

Turning his attention back to his son, he smiled faintly against the baby’s downy head, inhaling the delicious newborn scent of his very own. His hand rubbed gently along the baby’s back, voice low with adoration as he spoke to him with raw honesty, “I don’t know how I got so lucky, mate. You and your mum…my whole world right here in this room. You’re going to love her so much; she’s the best person in the whole world. Strongest person I’ve ever met—carried you all this time, brought you into the world like an absolute champion—braver than I’ll ever be.”

The baby made a tiny sound, a sleepy little coo, curling in closer to the warmth of his father’s body, as if he understood, and George let out a breathy laugh as if upholding a conversation, “Yeah, I know. I think so too.”

George exhaled, resting his cheek lightly against the baby’s head and letting his eyes slip shut for a moment, his hand still resting securely over his son’s tiny back, “I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I swear to you, I’m never taking it for granted. I will always be here for you and your mum, will always protect you and love you no matter what.”

The newborn let out a little mewl, starting to gum at his fist against his father’s chest. George gently brushed his hand over the tiny baby’s downy hair and then guided his hand away from his mouth, offering, instead, his finger. Five little fingers curled around his pinky in a firm grip, strong for not even two hours old, and George pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head. 

“There’s my boy,” he breathed, “Daddy’s got you.”

Sunday

It didn’t take long for your hospital room to be filled with flowers and balloons from close family members and friends who came to visit throughout baby boy’s first full day earthside. Even as people came and went and the baby was passed around, George didn’t leave your side all day, fluttering between tending to you and following the newborn from person to person, already a little helicopter parent from the start. He was excited, nervous, proud…it was endearing to watch, exhausted but content, from the hospital bed. 

Even some of George’s fellow Formula 1 drivers who lived in Monaco and were considered your friends came by to meet the baby and give well-wishes. Alex would make sure it was known that he definitely didn’t get teary-eyed when he first held the baby, thank you very much…and Lando would hold onto the fact that his bouquet of flowers was the largest out of their friends’, the few dozen orange tulips sitting in a nearly-bursting vase on the window ledge. 

By the end of the day, once your visitors were gone and the baby was changed and fed and burped and fast asleep in your arms, the silence of the hotel room felt euphoric. George was by the window, adjusting and organizing your plethora of flowers and balloons and cards to make it look less like an entire gift shop had thrown up in the suite. You sat in silence, staring down at the sleeping and swaddled baby in your arms, his little lips set in a pout and long lashes resting over his full cheeks. You had always heard that once you have a baby, just looking at them would be enough to entertain you for hours but you didn’t realize just how true it would be. 

A soft knock at the door had you and George glancing over just as the nurse stepped in, a legal-size brown envelope in one hand and a small cup with your pain medication in the other. She greeted you with a kind, “Busy day, you three had. Visitors coming and going since the morning.”

George smiled as he instinctively moved to your bedside, “Yeah, little guy is already immensely popular, it seems.”

The nurse chuckled, “Hopefully, you can get some rest tonight. I know last night was a long one with it being his first.”

“He’s good so far,” you replied, glancing back down at the snoozing baby in your arms, “Hopefully he keeps it up.”

The nurse passed you your medication and once you popped the few pills in your mouth, George passed you your water bottle to wash them down with. As you took the pain killers, the nurse explained the envelope in her hand as she slipped out the paper from inside it, “Since you're going home tomorrow, it's protocol to complete the birth certificate before discharge—just to make sure baby boy is all accounted for.”

She set the form on the overbed table so you and George could look it over. At the top, the Coat of Arms of Monaco was prominently displayed, followed by the title Principality of Monaco — Birth Certificate. Below, the rest of the form was filled with blank spaces, waiting to be completed.

“Should be straightforward,” she continued, pointing to different sections on the form, “We've already filled in the hospital details, birth location, sex, and date of birth. All that's left is your names as the parents, your birthdates, and baby boy’s full name—first, middle, and last. Then, both of you just need to sign at the bottom.”

The nurse then left you to it, returning the three of you to the quiet serenity of the hospital suite. You shuffled over a little on the single bed so George could sit with you, the two of you squished together with the highly important form in front of you. He clicked his pen. 

“Don’t spell your name wrong,” you teased. 

Your husband shot you a playful glare. You watched as he spelled out your full name on the line labeled ‘mother’ in careful penmanship, followed by your birthdate on the line below. Then, in the same way, he wrote out his own name on the line beside it labeled ‘father’, followed by his own birthdate on the line below. 

“Right,” George sat back, “that’s the easy part done, that.”

“Now we have to make a decision,” you hummed, glancing down at the sleeping newborn in your arms. 

George followed your gaze and then reached out his free hand to gently graze his fingertips over the crown of the baby’s head, feeling the wispy strands of light brown hair, almost as if hoping the answer would come to him through osmosis. Both of you just stared at the sleeping baby for a few moments, processing, thinking, and utterly entranced by him. 

You finally spoke, “I think our first choice still stands.”

“Yeah?” George breathed, “I think you’re right. Feels like it suits him.

The baby stirred in his sleep under his father’s gentle caresses, letting out a tiny sigh and he wriggled in your arms. 

“He agrees,” you chuckled softly, making sure he was still secure.

George flipped open his notebook again and at the bottom of the page that was filled with the timings of your early contractions, he wrote a test trial of your son’s name, just to make sure the spelling was correct. He turned the page to you, read it out, then spelt it out. You nodded.

“That’s it,” you smiled.

“That’s it?” George shared in your contentment as he met your gaze as if to make sure there was no lingering doubt in your mind. 

You nodded and looked back down to the sleeping newborn in your arms, “It’s perfect for him.”

And then, in precise, careful handwriting, George spelt out your son’s name onto the allotted line, formally declaring him an identity,

Lawrence William Russell

Monday

It had never been in George Russell’s nature to drive slowly but, that Monday, driving home from the hospital, he was barely hitting thirty kph on the Monte Carlo streets. He had both hands holding a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, taking every tight, winding turn at what could almost pass as a full stop. Every now and then, he would glance into the rearview mirror to check on the sleeping newborn buckled in his carseat in the back seat of his Mercedes.

“You can probably drive a little faster, you know.” you said lightly, voice tinged with playfulness as you eyed the speedometer on the dashboard, “We’re very much under the speed limit, Mister Formula 1 Driver.”

George looked away from the road for a moment, shooting you a sheepish grin, “I’m just trying to be extra careful with our precious cargo we have on board.”

You reached over to set your hand on his thigh as he drove, smoothing your thumb over the fabric of his slacks as you glanced into the backseat, “He’s just fine.”

At a stop light, George reached down to take your hand in his and he pulled it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. When he settled your joint hands in your lap, leaving him driving with just one, he replied softly, “I know, I just can’t help but worry. It’s my first time with this dad stuff, you know? It’s kind of my job to fuss over him.”

“We’re going to be fussing over him for the rest of our lives, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” George chuckled. 

You looked out the window as George drove towards your apartment, a calm silence filling the car. It was hard to wrap your head around the concept that you were bringing home a baby…your baby…that you made together, that you grew. What were you supposed to do with him when you got home? There were so many unknowns, everything so unfamiliar, but there was a pleasant feeling inside you that despite all that, this was exactly where you needed to be.

In a dreamy exhale, you spoke, “I can’t believe he’s ours.”

George replied in gentle agreement without taking his eyes away from the road, “I’ve never been so excited and terrified in my whole life.”

“We’ll be fine,” you sighed contentedly. 

“He's so quiet back there.” George breathed with another glance into the mirror before looking back to the road ahead, coasting to a stop far earlier than he needed to, “Just sleeping like a little angel.”

From your spot in the passenger seat, you turned to look over your shoulder to check on the baby, peeking into his car seat just to make sure he was still okay. As expected, he was still fast asleep, doughy cheeks smushed up by the straps of his car seat and that endearing little pout still on his lips, his tiny body rocking only a little with the movement of the car, just enough to keep him happily lulled. 

You smiled and eased back into your seat, “He’s been so good, I hope he stays this quiet.”

Once home and parked in the underground garage, the baby started to stir as George unbuckled the baby carrier from the car seat base. All six-plus feet of George was scrunched into the backseat, a knee on the seat, trying to gracefully figure out how to unclip the carrier, but his inexperienced movements were jostling the baby more than what was relaxing. 

“You sure you don’t want me to try?” you asked from the front seat, where he had insisted you stay sitting to wait. 

“You can’t move like this right now, love, you’re healing,” George muttered in reply, basically hanging upside down over the baby seat with his hands fiddling uselessly with the fasteners beneath it. 

The baby let out a displeased little cry.

“Shh, it’s okay, Laurie,” George hushed him softly, definitely getting the fabric of his open light-weight cardigan in the poor baby’s face as he leaned over him. You stayed quiet, knowing your adoringly stubborn husband would want to figure it out himself. 

Finally, there was a click and George moved back and grabbed the handle of the carrier, allowing it to be lifted from the base. He sighed in relief. 

“Clearly choosing the most expensive car seat on the market doesn’t mean it’s the best,” George grumbled as he clamoured out of the car while somehow managing to keep the carrier somewhat steady. 

“Do I say ‘I told you so’ now or later?” you said teasingly. 

He shut the back door with a pointed glare in your direction and a sarcastic, “Very funny.”

Your little family headed slowly towards the elevator bay of your apartment building, George with the baby carrier in one hand, the hospital bag over his shoulder, and his arm steady for you to hold onto as you took step by cautious step. You were healing well after a thankfully not-traumatic labour and delivery experience but it was still quite uncomfortable to do anything strenuous. George somehow kept all of you balanced as you made your way upstairs to your apartment, baby still minorly fussing in his carrier. 

The moment you were inside, George helped you get settled on the couch and he set the baby carrier on the coffee table when he sat down beside you. You both sighed, feeling right at ease in the familiarity of your home with the unfamiliar yet long awaited addition right alongside you. Two-day-old Lawrence fussed on, squirming in the coziness of his carrier, tiny body straining against the buckle and hands bunched up in little fists by his scrunched up face. 

You leaned forward a little to reach a hand out to stroke his little cheek, cooing to him, “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

“Fussy boy,” George tutted softly, leaning forward alongside you to start to unbuckle the baby, “Let’s get you out of this.”

He moved carefully as if scared of hurting the newborn, sliding his large hands under the baby and making sure his head was supported before lifting him up and into his arms. Shushing him quietly, George rested back against the couch beside you and you shifted a little closer to rest your head on his shoulder. Lawrence laid on George’s chest, tiny fingers flailing against the material of his shirt as he settled and you reached a hand out to gently rub over the baby’s back, helping to soothe him. 

“Can’t believe he’s home,” you exhaled.

“I know,” George sighed, pausing just long enough to leave a kiss to the top of your son’s head, “Hard to believe.”

Lawrence let out a shrill cry—as if the kiss from his father offended him greatly—and you and George cooed over him, still finding everything he did immensely endearing and swoon-worthy no matter how noisy. Since you hadn’t fed him since well before you left the hospital, you made yourself comfortable on the couch and George passed the fussy baby into your arms. It was all still a little ungraceful, you needing your husband to lift up your shirt for you and help unclip your nursing bra since you were too nervous to jostle the baby too much. The comfort would come with time. 

While you nursed in the living room, George took the initiative to start to unpack your hospital bag and he made another trip back down to the car to bring up some of the flowers that had been meticulously packed into the trunk. You directed him around on where to put things, finding your flow as new parents and what all your new accoutrements were for and where they were best placed. It all felt so easy as you settled back into your home.

Once Lawrence was sufficiently fed, George had unpacked your bag entirely and tidied up a bit and he took the baby to burp him for you. With a burp cloth over his shoulder and the tiny newborn snuggled against it, it was a sight that made your eyes turn into hearts and, as George sat on the couch beside you, you stroked your hand through your husband’s soft hair and then did the same over your son’s little head. 

“Think we should show him around?” you suggested, “Give him a tour of his new home?”

Giving Lawrence a soothing few pats to his back to keep burping him, George agreed, “Yeah, reckon that’s a good idea. He might like a little walk-around.”

Despite how your painkillers were wearing off, you knew you wouldn’t want to miss your son’s first moments home, so you meandered around the apartment with George as he carried Lawrence tucked up against his chest and his shoulder. He spoke softly to him as he walked around the living room and into the dining room and the kitchen, pointing out different things in the room from appliances to pictures on the walls and the furniture. He kept his voice low and soothing, hoping that the sound of his voice would help to calm him down.

Finally, you followed him into the nursery, which had been painted a soft blue and housed warm wood furniture and cream upholstery. With the newborn secure against his chest, George walked him around his brand new room, showing him all the different things that were there waiting for him.

“And this is Laurie’s room,” George introduced in a tender voice as he continued to walk around the room with a gentle bounce in his step to help soothe the baby, “This is where you’re going to sleep and play and grow up. Mommy and Daddy designed it nice and pretty for you.”

You leaned against the doorframe and just watched them for a moment; your two favourite boys. Your heart could have burst. It wasn’t long until Lawrence had quieted and fallen asleep against George’s chest and under his protective hand, lulled by his walking and his voice and the sound of his heartbeat. George continued to hold him close to his chest, feeling a sense of relief and tenderness as he watched his son fall asleep against him. 

“Nothing like the comfort of his daddy’s voice to calm him down,” you smiled. 

George looked over at you, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his lips in return. With kind concern in his voice, George then said, “Should you lay down, love?”

You knew you didn’t want to overdo it after having only given birth two days earlier but there was one thing you wanted more than anything now that you were home. 

The warm bath water felt like heaven as you settled back against the porcelain with a dreamy sigh. The baby was safely asleep in his bassinet and George had helped you get a bath ready so he could help you wash up for the first time since you had gone into labour. Lukewarm, clean water was filled up to your chest and eased all of your sore muscles and tender spots from delivery and the first bouts of breastfeeding and pumping.

George knelt beside the tub in only his pants, helping you to wash your hair and rinse it with the handheld shower head. He carefully cascaded the water over your scalp, being cautious not to get any soap or water in your eyes, tending to you like you were made of glass. Both of you still wore your hospital bracelets, connecting you to each other and your son by name and room number, a reminder of all that the weekend had changed. It was a relaxing moment to share just the two of you, no words spoken as you basked in the comfortable silence and the connection that the moment of intimacy brought you.

Of course, as you were starting to learn by that point, moments of silence and calm were fleeting, because just as George finished rinsing your hair, the baby started to cry. You fluttered your eyes open at the interruption, meeting George’s wide-eyed gaze as if he were now torn on what to do. 

“You can get him,” you assured him softly, “I’m okay just sitting here for a bit. The water feels nice.”

He left you with a kiss to your temple and then got up from the floor to tend to your newborn. 

Lawrence was, of course, right where he was left in his bassinet in the primary bedroom and as George emerged from the ensuite, wiping his damn hands on his pants, he hurried over to him. The baby was crying steadily, little limbs flailing and face scrunched up in distress. 

“Oh my goodness,” George cooed to him as he bent down to carefully pick him up and snuggle him against his bare chest, “What’s all the racket about, mate?”

It didn’t take long for him to smell the issue and without hesitation, George grabbed the changing pad, wipes, and a clean diaper from your pre-made changing station—in which all nighttime feeding and changing accessories were neatly packed into a cart on wheels at your bedside—and laid it out on the foot of the mattress. He then bent over to lay the baby down on top of the pad. 

“I know, I know, it’s so uncomfy, isn’t it?” George spoke softly to him as he started to unbutton his onesie despite the way the newborn squirmed. Thankfully, he had plenty of practice with diapers thanks to his numerous nieces and nephews that he was likely able to even do it with his eyes closed. Even still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the crying baby in front of him. His baby. 

“We’ll get you all cleaned up in no time, won’t we?” George continued, starting to unfasten the diaper to take it off him. Despite the way Lawrence cried, George talked to him as he worked, softly narrating what he was doing in a gentle voice like he was reading an instruction manual, allowing the familiarity of his voice to help sooth his son through the uncomfortable process of getting his diaper changed. 

Finally, with the new diaper on and his onesie buttoned up again, George lifted the baby up from the bed and into his arms, “There ya go, a clean nappy for you. Much better, eh?”

Lawrence wriggled against him, fussing on. 

George laid him lengthways in his arms and gave him a little rock, patting his bum to try and soothe him as he walked the soiled diaper to the waste bin and then returned to the ensuite where you were still relaxing in the tub. You glanced up when he stepped in, smiling tiredly at the sight of the two of them despite the way the baby cried. 

“Someone’s not a happy camper,” you stated softly. 

“He is not,” George agreed, glancing down at the baby in his arms as he bounced him gently and patted his bum, “He’s been fed, changed, napped…”

“Is he cold?”

“Doesn’t feel cold,” George shrugged.

“Maybe he wants a snuggle,” you smiled. 

“I’m snuggling!” George protested meekly, lifting up his one arm a bit to angle the baby towards you as if to remind you. 

You giggled and started to rise up from the tub, “I know, but I want a turn.”

“Careful,” George instinctively reached out a hand towards you to help you balance as you stepped out of the bath.

To the sounds of Lawrence fussing and crying, you got dried off and into another flattering pair of post-birth underwear that was lined with an aloe soaked pad to help ease the pains from delivery, topping it with a comfortable oversized shirt, and then climbed into bed. The feeling of being in your own bed after the few nights in the hospital was glorious and you couldn’t keep the smile off your face, especially as George passed the baby over to you. 

“There he is,” you cooed, drawing the newborn close and you pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Hi, my little love.”

Almost right away, he was relaxing into your arms and quieting right down, soothed by your familiar scent and touch and heartbeat that he had been so used to over the last nine months. You were all he had ever known up to that point. What an honour it was to be someone’s safe space, someone’s home. 

The day progressed into night and an on-going routine of feed, burp, change, rock, sleep. As night fell and you and George tried to sleep, your attempts at rest were constantly interrupted by Lawrence’s cries. You knew it was going to be difficult with a new baby but between the exhaustion from birth and lack of sleep that both of you had for the twenty-four hours of labour, you didn’t realize how hard it was going to be…and it was only the first night. 

It was easy to assign tasks and think of goals for nighttime feedings before the baby came but, now, with an unsettled newborn in your arms as you paced your bedroom at some time past 11:00, everything seemed to have gone out the window. It was hard to take turns tending to the baby when his cries were making it impossible for anyone to sleep anyway, both of you having tried to get him back to sleep after his last diaper change but to no avail. 

George was slumped back against the headboard, legs half off the side of the bed, staring into space with his fingers pressing into his temples as the baby’s screams echoed through the apartment. You could hear the faint pulse of his frustration in the way he sat—slumped, defeated. The baby’s cries sliced through the air like a constant reminder of how little control you had over the situation.

“We’re going to get a noise complaint,” George muttered, his voice flat, like he wasn’t sure if he was talking to you or to himself.

You eyed him as you paced, rocking the baby in your arms, exhaustion-stemmed frustration bubbling up inside you before you snapped under your breath, “Well then maybe you should help me instead of just laying there.” 

His eyes flicked over to you and he frowned, voice tinged with exhaustion and defensiveness, “What do you want me to do then?”

“I don’t know! Something!” you shot back, voice rising over the cries. “I’m losing my mind here.”

“I can’t read your mind!”

You huffed and shook your head with a roll of your eyes, turning away from him to pace the length of your modest bedroom once again, your arms feeling like lead from the constant rocking of the baby’s weight. 

“We’ve literally tried everything. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I don’t know,” you grumbled tearfully, words muffled behind the cries of the baby in your arms. 

George sighed and stood up from the bed and didn’t say a word as he walked across the room and crouched down beside the changing cart to find something. When he stood and moved back over to you, he offered the pacifier to the baby, letting him feel it against his lips before he took it in his mouth. Right away, silence fell. 

You sighed, staring down at the newborn in your arms as he suckled on the pacifier and it bumped lightly against his button nose, as you muttered, “I don’t want him to be reliant on those.”

“Yeah, well, what other choice do we have, love?” George mumbled, “He’s quiet now. We need our rest too.”

He had a point—you could tell you were both well past the point of exhaustion after not having had a proper night's sleep since before you had gone into labour almost four days prior—and so you didn’t argue. Instead, the baby was swaddled and placed back in the bassinet beside your bed with his pacifier and you and George settled into the silence of your bedroom and the comfort of your bed. 

Tuesday

It felt like you had only just shut your eyes and Lawrence was crying again, his loud pitchy wails filling the bedroom. You exhaled weakly. 

“I got him,” George grumbled tiredly, already tossing the duvet off so he could get out of bed. 

“I gotta feed him,” you added, starting to move too. 

“No, no,” George waved a tired hand in your general direction to get you to stay put, “You pumped at the hospital so there’s some milk in the freezer. I’ll just warm him a bottle.”

You hesitated, not having given your son a bottle yet as he had been perfectly content and reliant on breastfeeding…not to mention the bottle warmer was still in its box on the kitchen counter, untouched. But George was already lifting the crying baby from the bassinet with a soothing hush and so you put your trust in him; the promise of more sleep being far too enticing. You were still healing, after all. 

George, ever so full of confidence, cradled the newborn in one arm as he left your bedroom and closed the door halfway behind him as he ventured to the kitchen to prepare the bottle. You watched him go, the sound of Lawrence’s crying fading slightly as he got farther away but even being just on the opposite end of the apartment had your heart aching, like you were already facing separation anxiety. Nevertheless, you forced yourself to close your eyes and to instill your trust in your perfectly capable husband. 

Muted cries from across the apartment kept you hovering on the edge of sleep, maternal instincts prickling with every second that passed without Lawrence being fed. You knew it was probably just exhaustion and hormones making it feel like George was taking forever to prepare the bottle—but, in reality, it was taking longer than expected.

Then, suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the apartment, the sharp sound of plastic shattering against the floor, followed immediately by Lawrence’s escalating wails and George’s frustrated exclamation, “Fucking—!”

You shot up in bed, already halfway to the bedroom door, before your red-faced husband was meeting you there, the baby perfectly fine but nearly inconsolable in his arms.

“What the fuck happened?!” you asked, immense concern and worry more than apparent in your voice.

“Bottle warmer is a piece of shit,” George grumbled, passing the baby to you, “Thought it was going to be easy—there’s one fucking button on the damn thing, for God sake. Couldn’t even get the top to close properly…ended up pushing at it too much it flew across the fucking room and shattered…breastmilk all over the floor.”

“Did you read the instruction manual?” you asked as you instinctively lifted your shirt to bring the baby to your chest and help him to latch, quieting him down right away. 

“No, I didn’t think I needed to. The thing has one button.” George grumbled, setting his hands on his hips like he had just ran a mile. He was still shirtless but the front of his pyjama bottoms had a small wet splatter across the shins, likely from where the breastmilk had hit the floor and exploded, and his hair was sticking up in all directions with the dark circles under his eyes looking all the more prevalent. 

You sighed, adjusting Lawrence in your arms as he suckled contentedly, already having forgotten about the incident in the kitchen now that he was being fed. With a defeated tone of your own, you said casually to your husband, “Well, guess you’ll be cleaning that up.”

George let out a dry, humorless laugh, “Oh, of course. Because nothing tops off an already perfect night like mopping up wasted breastmilk from all over the kitchen at—” he glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned, “—one-thirty in the goddamn morning.”

Your lips twitched, “Maybe next time you’ll read the manual.”

George shot you a look, deadpan, “Or maybe next time, you can do the bottle.”

You pointed to the baby peacefully nursing in your arms, “Love, I am the bottle.”

George didn’t reply, merely let out a tight exhale through his nose and dropped his head back to look towards the ceiling in dramatic defeat before he turned and headed back down the hallway to the kitchen. You took Lawrence back to bed with you, keeping him comfortably nestled against your breast as you rested back against the pillows and headboard and draped the duvet over your legs. As he nursed, you listened to the distant sounds of cabinets opening and closing and George’s muttering to himself as he moped up the mess and put away the broken pieces of the bottle warmer. Despite the chaos, despite the lack of sleep and the short tempers that it caused, there was something almost comical about it all—your once perfectly composed husband, defeated by a measly plastic bottle warmer.

A few minutes later, George returned, rubbing his hands over his face before collapsing onto the bed beside you with a sigh. He turned his head, eyes flicking to Lawrence, who had fallen into a milk-drunk slumber against your chest, your hand patting his back to burp him as he snoozed, unbothered. 

“I don’t know how you do it,” George murmured, voice quieter now, less sharp around the edges, as if his annoyance with the bottle warmer had since dissipated thanks to only a glance at the adorableness of your son.

You glanced at him in the dim lighting of your shared bedroom, “Do what?”

“Keep your shit together,” He ran a hand through his frazzled hair, then raised his tired eyes from the baby against your chest to meet your gaze, “I just want to help you and I feel like I’m doing everything wrong. Like I’m losing my mind already.”

You let out a small laugh and offered a faint shake of your head, “Trust me, I am losing my mind. I’m in so much pain and I’m exhausted…but it’s different for me, I guess. I had nine months to get used to the idea of him needing me every second of the day…I’ve felt him grow, I’ve felt my body provide for him…he’s familiar with me. You’re kind of getting thrown into it all at once…trying to deal with the reality of fatherhood and trying to get this brand new human to trust you from scratch.”

George was quiet for a moment, letting your words settle. Then, finally, he exhaled, expression defeated, “Yeah, well…I still feel like an idiot.”

You reached over and squeezed his hand, “You’re not an idiot. You’ve already been such a tremendous help to me and to Laurie. You’re just a sleep-deprived new dad who needs some grace too.”

He leaned in to rest his cheek against your shoulder in silent appreciation of your words, “I love you.”

You turned your head to kiss his forehead, “I love you too. We love you.”

George smiled faintly and reached out with his hand that wasn’t holding yours to gently stroke Lawrence’s tiny head. The baby cooed under his touch and snuggled against you some more. It was a content momentary silence and you both basked in the unfamiliar quiet that settled over the apartment, snuggled up together. Until the newborn let out a little grunt.

“He’s pooping,” you and George said at the same time before breaking into soft laughter. 

You rubbed your hand over Lawrence’s back as he did his business and then George got up to change him. From your spot against the headboard, you watched as he set up the changing pad at the foot of the bed and laid your squirmy son down. It had come to your knowledge over the last few days that Lawrence did not like getting his diaper changed, always sending him into a little bit of a fit throughout the process, no matter how gentle you were. It was understandable, and likely not comfortable in the slightest, but at nearly two o’clock in the morning, his shrieking wails were not necessarily appreciated. 

“Shh, shh, shh,” George spoke to him soothingly as he wiped him up, “I know, buddy, I know. It’s chilly, isn’t it?”

He barely reached for another wipe before the fussy baby was peeing; the stream shooting right up to George’s chest and the front of his pyjama bottoms and a bit of splash on the sheets before George managed to hurriedly pull the clean diaper up and over to shield him. 

“Jesus Christ,” George muttered in disbelief, eyes wide as saucers as he stared down at the unaware baby still crying away on the changing pad. He then looked at you and the look on his face was absolutely priceless and you had to turn your head away so he couldn’t see the amused grin threatening to spread across your face. Despite himself, George couldn’t help but let out a small, exhausted chuckle and he looked back down at the baby, “That’s not very nice, mate.”

“I feel delusional,” you stated through your laughter, covering your mouth with your hand, “Oh, God, I’m too exhausted for this to be real life.”

George laughed along with you, running his hand over his face with a heavy sigh, “This is ridiculous.”

Lawrence cried on. 

You managed to take over changing the baby while George went to the ensuite to clean himself up and change his pants that had also been hit by the spray. The soiled clothes were tossed in the ever-growing laundry hamper as he returned to your bedroom, finding you trying to calm the fussy baby in your arms. Even the pacifier you offered him was doing little to nothing to help, Lawrence just spitting it out over and over.

So it was back to square one, the two of you taking turns trying to calm the baby; pacing the length of the apartment, bouncing him, rocking him, patting his bum, rubbing his back, sitting still to try and let your breathing soothe him. Nothing was working. Another hour passed and Lawrence still wasn’t settling, only quieting down long enough for another feed before he was back at it again. 

“You know,” George thought aloud as he patted the baby’s back with the little one tucked up against his shoulder, “he didn’t seem to mind the car.”

With exhausted tears in your eyes, you tried to process the point of him saying that, “Yeah?”

“Why don’t I take him for a drive?”

“It’s almost three am, love,” you sighed. 

“It’s okay, if it’ll give you time to rest and help him to calm down…I’m willing to try anything.” George suggested, “And you know I never mind a drive.”

“If you’re sure…and if you feel awake enough to drive,” you said softly.

George nodded, already moving to grab a warmer onesie for Lawrence, “Yeah, and I’ll pick up a coffee when I’m out.”

You just watched him for a moment, feeling so many overwhelming feelings over the prior few days but, in that moment, nothing but love burned through your heart. Your voice was a little shaky as you said, “I love you so much. You’re so amazing.”

George glanced up at you from where he was changing the baby into a warmer sleeper at the foot of the bed and he offered a smile, “Just want to be the best for you, my love. You gave me a son, the least I can do is help you rest and heal after that.”

And so he kissed you goodbye and lowered Lawrence down so you could kiss him goodbye too and then he headed out, leaving you in the eerily silent apartment all alone. For the first few moments, your maternal anxieties welled up in your chest, but the comfort of your bed and the exhaustion in your body and mind had you falling asleep in no time. 

George buckled Lawrence’s carrier into the car seat base in the back of his Mercedes once again, talking to him softly as he got him settled and secure. Despite it being some ungodly hour of the morning, George felt right at home behind the wheel, guiding the car through the nearly barren streets of Monte Carlo. He picked up a coffee for himself and then ventured through the Principality and out into the outskirts of France for a nice long country drive. Lawrence cried for a while longer but soon quieted down, lulled by the sounds and motions of the car and the warmth and comfort of the heater and his father’s presence. 

George returned home at sunrise with a sleeping baby, to a sleeping wife.

Wednesday

George’s parents had flown in Wednesday morning to be your extra pair of hands for that weekend. That dreaded weekend. George was due to leave for Japan and he wouldn’t be home until Monday. You had avoided thinking about it at all costs, knowing it was likely going to be the hardest goodbye of your relationship. Sure, he wasn’t going to be gone long, but after having had a baby not even a week prior, the concept of him straying even just an arms length away felt like the end of the world. 

All day Wednesday, you avoided it. You visited with his parents in the living room and they gushed over their newest grandson and you and George shared a million stories about him already and all you had been up to over only the four days he had been alive. You helped his mum make dinner that evening—or, it was more you sat and fed the baby in the kitchen while she puttered around, insisting just as strongly as her son did that you don't overdo it—while George packed his bag in your room. You didn’t think about it, focusing on the nice conversation with his mother instead. 

Throughout dinner, George held the baby, snuggling him in one arm while he wielded his fork with the other, as if he needed to soak up all the baby cuddles before he had to leave. No one spoke about his impending departure. 

After a day full of being out of bed and about, you returned to bed after dinner to rest, Lawrence in your arms. Leaving his parents to generously take care of the laundry and the kitchen, George came to the bedroom with you to make sure you were comfortable, knowing that it was just about time to say goodbye. He snuggled beside you on the bed as you fed the baby, head on your shoulder, fingers tenderly touching Lawrence’s tiny feet and hands and squirmy legs as if trying to memorize him. 

When the baby was done nursing, George took him to burp him, holding him against his shoulder as he gently patted his back. The two of you sat in silence together, soaking in the moment, until a few minutes passed and George let out a small sob. 

“Don’t,” you croaked out, voice catching, knowing that if he started to cry that you’d be a lost cause too. 

“Sorry,” he rasped, lifting his hand from Lawrence’s back to press thumb and forefinger against his eyes to try and calm down, “Sorry…”

You leaned in closer to him and wrapped your arm around him, holding your boys close as you scrunched your eyes closed and tried to hold it all together. 

George set a hand on your arm, confessing softly, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” you exhaled simply. 

What else was there to say? You couldn’t make him stay. He knew he couldn’t stay.

So you stayed there together for as long as you could, until his father knocked and poked his head in and gave a five minute warning until he would have to take George to the airport. You could see the pity on the man’s face; having a wife and kids of his own, it was clear he could understand the pain of having to be torn apart so soon after birth. Unfortunately, not even he could do anything. 

George helped you change into one of his hoodies and another pair of post-birth underwear, making sure you were comfortable and settled in bed, Lawrence asleep in your arms. Already in his jacket and ready to leave, George sat on the side of the bed beside you with a protective hand on your thigh, eyes flickering between the sleeping baby and your solemn face. He reached up to stroke your cheek and then leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth. You turned your face to kiss his lips, the connection timid, sad. 

When your kiss broke, he rested his forehead against yours with a warm hand on the back of your neck as if desperate to keep you close. He sighed. 

“I love you so much,” he whispered. 

“I love you,” you echoed.

“I’m so sorry,” his voice broke, “I’m so, so sorry that it has to be like this.”

You shook your head faintly, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“I know,” you whimpered. 

George’s thumb brushed across your cheek, swiping away a stray tear, “Only four days…four and a half days. Not long at all, right?”

You nodded faintly in agreement, even if your heart felt like it was the end of the world. 

“Just gonna do my job, do what I have to do, and come home to you.”

“Be safe please,” you whispered. 

He nodded, looking into your eyes as he swiped another tear away from your cheek, “You know I always am. Now I have even more of a reason to be.

You both looked down at the swaddled baby asleep in your arms. George leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Lawrence’s forehead as if trying to pour every ounce of love in his heart into his little body. Then, he stood up. 

“Call me when you land,” you asked softly. 

“Of course, I will,” George nodded, leaving a kiss to your forehead too. 

“I love you.”

“I love you.”

He then leaned down to kiss your lips once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch sometimes these last few days, I—”

George cut you off with a shake of his head, “You’re not a bitch. We’re exhausted and stressed and you’re healing and,” his voice broke and he bowed his head with a whispered, “Fuck, I don’t want to leave you.”

“You have to go,” you breathed with a gentle touch to his face. 

He leaned down to kiss you again in silent acknowledgement and then his eyes flickered down to Lawrence, still sound asleep in your arms, oblivious to his father’s departure. George exhaled a shaky breath, brushing one last fingertip over his son’s tiny hand before straightening up.

“Okay,” he said, more firmly this time, as if steeling himself. “Okay.”

He took one last look at you, gave you one more kiss, and then headed out of the room to meet his dad in the foyer. The sight of him slipping out of the bedroom door had you aching, as if a part of your heart had just left, and a small sob choked its way past your lips as you slouched farther down on the bed and pulled your sleeping son closer to your chest. You kissed his cheeks and surrounded the two of you in the scent of George’s hoodie.

In a strong whisper, you told your son, “We’re gonna be just fine.”

♡ Enjoying my content? Support my writing here :)

♡ None of the original writing on this blog may be reproduced, reposted, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

[bueckersstuff]

HER NEW OBSESSION

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Your new dorm is surprisingly cozy. It’s smaller than the one you shared with Paige, but it feels warmer, more lived-in. Your new roommate, Lena, is someone from your psych class—someone who had always been friendly, even before all this mess. It’s ironic, really. Last week, you were losing your mind trying to understand why Paige wanted nothing to do with you. Now? Now, you can’t even stand the sight of her. Maybe it’s anger, maybe it’s betrayal, or maybe—maybe you just don’t care anymore.

You’ve stopped overanalyzing your emotions, stopped letting them dig under your skin like splinters you can’t pull out. It’s easier this way.

The classroom is buzzing when you walk in. Lena sits beside you, nudging your arm. “You good?”

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah.”

But then, she walks in.

Paige.

It takes everything in you not to look, not to acknowledge her presence, not to flinch at the way the room still seems to shift when she’s in it. You keep your focus on Lena, on anything but Paige. Maybe it’s your imagination, but you swear you can feel Paige’s gaze on you, burning, searching—but you don’t give her the satisfaction of meeting it.

The professor clears his throat. “Alright, class. For this project, you’ll be working in pairs. Since this is an extensive assignment, I’ve taken the liberty of pairing you up beforehand.”

The group project was announced, and the professor immediately paired you with Paige, assuming you were still roommates. The class murmured in agreement. It was common knowledge before. But you didn’t hesitate.

“No.”

Your voice cuts through the room before you even realize you spoke. Silence blankets the class. All eyes are on you now, wide with shock, with disbelief. The weight of their stares presses against your skin, but you don’t waver. You sit up straighter, your voice unwavering when you continue.

“I don’t room with her anymore.” You glance at Lena, your expression softening. “I’d rather work with my actual roommate.”

A few hushed whispers ripple through the room. People exchange glances, some amused, some impressed. You catch snippets of murmured words—

Did she really just refuse Paige? Damn, that’s bold. I didn’t think anyone would have the guts to do that.

But none of it matters. Not the whispers, not the stares.

You don’t even want to look at her, but something—some stupid, masochistic instinct—forces your gaze toward her anyway.

And there it is.

The look on her face.

Like she was hoping—just for a second—that things weren’t completely ruined. That maybe, despite everything, you’d still be in her corner.

But you’re not.

You see it happen—the way that flicker of hope dies right in front of you. Her jaw tightens, her expression schooling into something unreadable, something controlled. But her eyes? They betray her. They hold something raw, something aching.

It doesn’t make sense. She’s the one who pushed you away. She’s the one who made this choice.

So why does she look like you just ripped her heart out?

The professor, sensing the tension, clears his throat awkwardly. “Alright, then. You’ll be paired with Lena. Paige, I’ll find you another partner.”

You don’t hesitate. You turn to Lena, smiling, forcing yourself to look happy, unaffected, free.

But even as Lena grins back at you, even as you pretend this moment means nothing—you can’t shake the way Paige is still looking at you.

Like she just lost something she didn’t know she wanted to keep.

The project continued, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were truly living. Your new roommate, Lena, made things so easy—easy to talk to, easy to get along with, and easy to work with. The two of you were constantly together, studying in the library, grabbing coffee, and finishing your project late at night in your dorm. It was the kind of companionship you hadn’t realized you needed, the kind that reminded you that life wasn’t just about navigating through Paige Bueckers’ mess.

Late at night, as you settled in your bed, your phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.

KK: Hey, it’s KK. Got your number from Paige. Hope that’s cool.

You barely had time to process before another message came through—a forwarded file. You clicked it, and suddenly, a series of images filled your screen.

The first photo was of Paige in her dorm, sprawled on the couch, fast asleep. A jacket covered her face, one you recognized instantly. It was hers, but you were the one who had been using it lately. The one you had left behind when you moved out.

The next photo showed her sitting at the kitchen counter, two mugs in front of her, staring blankly into nothing.

The last was a video. You hesitated before playing it, but curiosity got the best of you.

"Paige, seriously?" Jana’s voice rang out, frustration laced with exasperation.

"I just don’t see why it’s a big deal," Paige mumbled, her voice hoarse. She was pacing the dorm, rubbing a hand over her face.

"You want to switch rooms. Again." Jana deadpanned. "Paige. It’s been what? A week?"

Paige didn’t answer. Just ran a hand through her hair.

Jana sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "Look, I get it. I’m not, like, the best roommate replacement or whatever—"

"That’s not it." Paige cut in quickly. Too quickly.

Jana narrowed her eyes. "Then what? ‘Cause no offense, but you’ve been acting like a total weirdo since your last roommate left."

Paige let out a breath. "I just—" She stopped, pressing her lips together. "I don’t sleep well here."

Jana blinked. "Damn, I didn’t know I was that unbearable."

Paige shook her head, letting out a dry, humorless laugh. "You’re fine, Jana. It’s just—"

Silence.

Jana stared at her. Then, realization flickered in her expression. "You miss her."

Paige’s jaw tensed. "I just need a change of scenery. That’s all."

Jana scoffed. "Sure. And I just need a million dollars."

Paige groaned, rubbing her temples. "Can you just drop it?"

"Fine, fine," Jana raised her hands in surrender. "But for real, Paige? You fucked up."

The video ended there.

You stared at your phone, heart pounding, stomach twisting.

KK’s message followed right after.

Paige is acting like an idiot.

You locked your phone and tossed it onto your desk, exhaling sharply.

You weren’t going to reply.

Jana had just returned from practice when she found Paige exactly where she left her that morning—sprawled out on the couch, an arm draped over her face, still in the same hoodie and sweats from yesterday. The dorm was a mess, a few empty water bottles on the floor, a half-eaten granola bar on the counter, and a general air of chaos that Jana wasn’t used to.

She sighed, shutting the door behind her a little louder than necessary. “Alright, nah. I’m putting a stop to this.”

Paige didn’t even flinch.

Jana marched over and snatched the pillow from under Paige’s head, smacking her lightly with it. “Paige, you know I love you, right? But what the fuck is going on with you?”

Paige groaned, pushing the pillow away and sitting up, rubbing her face. “Jana, I swear to God—”

“No, you swear to God what?” Jana folded her arms, staring her down. “If you’re not drowning in your own sadness inside this dorm, you’re whoring around. And when you’re done, you come back here and I hear someone sobbing in the middle of the night. Do you have any idea how fucking creepy that is?”

Paige’s jaw tightened. “Mind your business.”

“Oh, I would love to, except my business is being your roommate, which means I’m forced to watch this self-destructive spiral firsthand.” Jana shot back. “You’ve been slacking at practice, Paige. Coach is bound to notice soon, and I swear I have no idea how the hell he hasn’t already.”

Paige ran a hand down her face. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

Silence. Paige refused to meet Jana’s gaze.

Jana exhaled sharply, pulling out her phone. “You leave me no choice.”

“What are you doing?” Paige asked, barely interested.

Jana put the phone to her ear. “Calling Azzi. Someone who actually gives a damn about you and will get through that thick-ass skull of yours.”

Paige finally looked up, but before she could protest, Jana turned her back and walked toward her room, waiting for the call to connect.

An hour later, Azzi was standing in the dorm, arms crossed as she took in the sight of Paige.

“Damn, P, you look like shit.”

Paige scoffed, shaking her head. “Thanks.”

Azzi sighed, walking over and sitting on the couch beside her. Jana was leaning against the counter, arms still folded, watching.

“Alright, talk to me,” Azzi said. “What’s going on?”

Paige stared at the floor. “Nothing.”

Azzi scoffed. “Try again.”

Paige remained quiet. Azzi nudged her knee. “Paige, come on. Jana said you’ve been… spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

Jana let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, okay. Tell that to the two mugs you leave out every morning like you’re waiting for someone. Or the jacket you sleep with like it’s a person. Or, I don’t know, the fact that you literally tried to swap rooms with me last night.”

Azzi’s brows furrowed. “Paige, talk to us.”

Paige sighed, finally looking up at her. “I just… I thought maybe if I sleep in that room, I wouldn’t—” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter.”

Azzi studied her for a moment before speaking again, softer this time. “Paige, are you regretting it?”

Paige swallowed hard. “I don’t know.”

Azzi tilted her head. “That’s not true. You do know.”

Paige clenched her jaw. “Yeah. I regret it. Okay? I fucking regret everything.”

Jana and Azzi shared a look, but neither said anything. Paige exhaled harshly, rubbing her temples.

“I pushed her away,” Paige admitted, her voice quieter now. “I thought… I don’t know. I thought it was for the best. But now she’s gone, and I feel like I can’t breathe. She won’t even look at me, and I don’t blame her.”

Azzi watched her for a long moment before nodding. “Then fix it.”

Paige let out a dry laugh. “How? She doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

Azzi leaned forward, leveling her with a look. “Then make her want to. Do something, Paige. Anything. Don’t just sit here and drown in your own misery.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, looking away. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Azzi stood up, patting Paige’s knee before walking toward the door. “Follow your heart, P. That’s always a good place to start.”

With that, she left. Jana lingered for a moment before shaking her head. “She’s right, you know.”

Paige stayed silent.

Jana sighed. “Figure it out before it’s too late.” Then she walked off, leaving Paige alone with her thoughts.

For the first time in weeks, Paige realized how loud the silence was.

It started last Monday. At first, you thought you were imagining things. Maybe it was just a coincidence. But now? Now it’s beyond coincidence.

Paige Bueckers is everywhere.

At first, it was subtle. You’d glance up in class and find her staring—not the casual, spaced-out kind of staring, but the kind that burns. The kind that makes the back of your neck prickle. The second your eyes met, she looked away, but it happened too often to be a fluke. Then, in the library, as you and your roommate, Lena, buried yourselves in research for your project, Paige conveniently ended up at a table nearby. She wasn’t even pretending to study, just flipping through a textbook she clearly had no interest in. She was listening. Watching.

Then, today happened.

You and Lena were walking through campus, laughing over some dumb joke, when suddenly, Paige materialized in front of you, effectively cutting you off. You stumbled back a step, startled.

Paige barely glanced at you before her sharp, ice-blue eyes landed on Lena. “You don’t have class right now?” Her tone was flat, almost accusatory.

Lena, unfazed, raised an eyebrow. “No? Why?”

Paige tilted her head, expression unreadable. “Just wondering why you’re always up in her space.”

You frowned. “Excuse me?”

Paige ignored you, her eyes still locked onto Lena. The hostility in her gaze was clear. It didn’t make sense—she and Lena weren’t even acquaintances, just classmates. And yet, Paige was looking at her like she’d just stolen something from her.

Lena scoffed, crossing her arms. “I dunno, Paige. Maybe because we’re partners for a project?”

Paige let out a short, humorless chuckle, shaking her head like she didn’t believe a word of it. “Right.”

And then, just as suddenly as she appeared, she turned and walked away, leaving you both staring after her.

“What the actual fuck was that?” Lena muttered.

You had no answer. But one thing was clear—Paige wasn’t done.

The encounters kept coming, each one pushing the boundaries of coincidence.

In class, she always found a way to sit near you, even though she never used to care about seating arrangements. Her foot would nudge yours under the table, and when you moved away, she’d do it again, just to let you know she was there. When the professor asked a question, she answered louder than necessary, like she needed you to hear her voice.

In the dining hall, if you were with Lena, Paige would always pass by. Always. You’d see her walking one way, then five minutes later, she’d pass by again, this time slower, glancing at your table but never stopping.

You knew what she was doing, but you didn’t know why.

And you refused to acknowledge it.

Then came today, the final straw.

You and Lena were in the common study area, laptops open, deep in conversation about the project. You were actually enjoying yourself—things had been lighter, easier lately, now that Paige wasn’t in your space every second of the day.

But, of course, that didn’t last long.

The door opened, and in walked Paige.

She didn’t even pretend she was there for anything else. She walked straight up to your table, her presence a heavy weight in the room.

“Lena, you can go now.”

Lena blinked, then let out a laugh, looking at you as if asking, ‘Is she serious?’

You clenched your jaw. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Paige’s gaze snapped to yours, something unreadable flashing in her eyes. “We need to talk.”

“No, we don’t.” You forced yourself to stay composed. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

Paige exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair in frustration. She glanced at Lena again, and for the first time, it hit you—this wasn’t just her being weird. Is she jealous?

Of Lena?

Of all the things Paige had done, this was the most unexpected. And maybe the most infuriating.

“What the hell is your problem?” you snapped. “You made it clear you wanted nothing to do with me, and now you’re—what? Following me? Harassing my friends?”

Paige flinched like you’d hit her, but just as quickly, her expression hardened. “I never said I wanted nothing to do with you.”

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh. “You didn’t have to.”

Paige’s jaw clenched. For a second, it looked like she wanted to say something, but then she just shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and walked out.

Lena whistled low. “Damn. That was intense.”

You didn’t respond. Your hands were still shaking.

Because for the first time, you saw it—Paige wasn’t just being annoying.

She was fighting for you.

But you had no idea why.

You were hunched over your desk, fingers tapping lazily against the keyboard as you worked on your project with your roommate. The soft hum of lo-fi music played in the background, a comfortable contrast to the quiet concentration filling the room. For once, things felt normal again. No unexpected drama, no lingering glances in class, no unwanted tension. Just you, your work, and your new friend.

But peace never lasted long when Paige Bueckers was involved.

The sharp knock at the door shattered the calm, making both you and your roommate jump slightly. You frowned. No one ever came over this late. Lena shot you a questioning look, but you ignored it as you got up to open the door.

And there she was.

Paige stood in the doorway, her breathing uneven like she had sprinted all the way here. Her eyes, those sharp blues that you had once admired, looked wild—desperate. You blinked, taking a step back out of sheer instinct.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Your voice was cold, detached, but your heart was hammering against your ribs.

Paige’s gaze flickered over your shoulder, where your roommate was still sitting, staring at the both of you in confusion. And then it clicked.

Her jaw clenched. “So this is what you’ve been up to?”

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“You and her.” Paige gestured sharply toward your roommate, her entire body tensing like she was ready for a fight. “This is why you were so quick to move on? Didn’t took you long, huh?”

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Are you serious right now?”

“Paige, I think you need to—” your roommate started, but Paige cut her off with a glare.

“Stay out of this,” she snapped, her voice laced with venom.

Your roommate raised her hands in surrender before shooting you a look, silently asking if you wanted her to leave. You gave a slight nod. With a sigh, she grabbed her laptop and muttered something about studying in the common room before slipping out the door.

The second it shut, Paige turned back to you, her chest rising and falling heavily. “So that’s it?” she demanded. “You just replaced me?”

Your blood boiled. “You made me leave.”

Paige flinched.

“You think I wanted to move out?” you continued, stepping closer, anger seeping through your words. “You think I wanted to lose my home—my comfort—because you decided I wasn’t good enough to be around anymore?”

“That’s not—” Paige ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “That’s not what happened.”

“Then tell me, Paige,” you shot back. “Tell me what happened. Why did you push me away? Why did you act like I didn’t exist, like I meant nothing, and now, suddenly, you’re here, acting like you have a say in my life?”

Paige exhaled sharply, like she was trying to hold herself together. “Because I was scared, alright?” she admitted. “I was fucking scared.”

You frowned. “Scared of what?”

“Of you.” Her voice cracked, raw and unfiltered. “Of how much I fucking need you.”

Silence.

Your chest ached, but you refused to let yourself soften. “No,” you said. “You don’t get to do this.”

Paige’s face twisted in frustration. “Do what?”

“This.” You gestured between you both. “You don’t get to throw me away, regret it, and then come back like nothing happened. Like I owe you another chance.”

Paige stepped closer. Too close. You could smell the faint traces of her cologne, could see the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “I never wanted to throw you away.”

“Then why did you?” Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Paige swallowed, her gaze searching yours. “Because I thought it would hurt less.”

Your breath hitched. You wanted to believe her. You wanted to believe every damn word. But the wounds she left were still fresh, still aching.

Paige lifted a hand, hesitantly brushing her fingers against your arm. Your body tensed, and for a split second, you considered leaning in. Considered falling back into the warmth that once felt like home.

But then reality hit you like a train.

“Did you love me?” you asked suddenly, your voice quiet but firm. “Or was it just your fleeting desire?”

Paige’s eyes widened, her hand dropping like she had been burned. “What?”

“You heard me.” You swallowed past the lump in your throat. “Because right now, it feels like you only wanted me when it was convenient. When you needed me. When you wanted something to hold at night.”

Paige shook her head quickly. “No. No, that’s not—”

“Then why did you push me away?” you cut her off. “Why did you make me feel like I was nothing, Paige?”

Paige’s lips parted, but no words came out. For the first time, she had nothing to say.

You nodded, feeling your chest tighten. “That’s what I thought.”

You turned away, gripping the edge of your desk to keep your hands from shaking. “Go home, Paige.”

She hesitated, lingering in the doorway like she wanted to say more. But in the end, she didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind her, and the second she was gone, you finally allowed yourself to breathe.

And that was the last time you saw Paige Bueckers, at least face to face.

It had been weeks since that confrontation in your dorm, and in that time, she had become a ghost. She stopped acknowledging you in the hallways, in class. Stopped being anywhere you were, as if you had never existed to her at all.

You were furious, humiliated, and worst of all—hurt. Because you haven't been the one to walk away first. You haven't been the one to set everything on fire and leave without looking back. She had.

And you couldn’t even get an explanation.

You left UConn the second you could.

Graduated, packed up your life, and never looked back.

There were moments, of course, where you wanted to—when a game would come on TV and you'd see her on the screen, or when you'd overhear someone talking about women’s basketball and her name would come up like a legend in the making.

But you trained yourself to tune it out. Paige Bueckers didn’t exist in your world anymore.

You built a new life.

Moved to the city, got a stable job in a company downtown, found a beautiful apartment just perfect for you to live in, a loving best friend who makes your life a little bit happier. She knew about Paige, about the past, about everything that had nearly ruined you.

“You don’t miss her?” she had asked once.

You hesitated, then shook your head. “No. I miss who I thought she was.”

And it was true.

Paige had been your friend, your roommate, your almost-something before she threw it all away. If you missed anything, it was the version of her that didn’t exist anymore—the one who used to wait up for you in your dorm, who used to shove an extra granola bar into your bag before class, who used to look at you like you were the only person in the room.

But that Paige was gone.

Or so you thought.

Because on a random Friday night, in a bar you had never seen her in before, you looked up—and there she was.

Years older. Sharper. The weight of her career settling into her features like something heavy, something unshakable.

And she was looking directly at you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The bar was dimly lit, music thrumming in the background, a blur of conversations and clinking glasses filling the space between you. And yet, all Paige could focus on was you. Sitting at the far end of the room, elbow resting on the bar counter, a half-empty glass in front of you.

You looked different. Not just older, not just sharper, but—settled. Like life had been kinder to you than it had been to her.

And for a split second, something flashed in your eyes. Recognition? Discomfort? She didn’t know. But she knew one thing for sure—you weren’t happy to see her.

You turned back to your drink, pretending she wasn’t there. Pretending she hadn’t just unraveled years of carefully built distance with one look.

But ignoring you had never been easy for Paige.

Minutes passed, maybe more, and just when she thought she should leave, she found herself walking toward you instead. The pull was still there, even after all this time.

She stopped beside you, close enough to feel the warmth of your presence but not enough to invade your space.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Your posture stiffened, but you didn’t turn to her right away. Instead, you took a slow sip of your drink, as if gathering your thoughts. “Yeah, well. Life’s full of surprises.”

She let out a breath that could’ve been a laugh, but there was no humor in it.

Paige didn’t know what she expected—maybe that you’d brush her off, maybe that you’d demand answers she still wasn’t sure how to give. But as she stood there, watching you, she realized she needed to ask. Needed to know.

“Are you happy?”

She saw the way your fingers tightened around your glass, the way your shoulders locked like you were bracing for impact. You turned to her then, eyes sharp, guarded.

“Why do you care?”

Paige swallowed. She didn’t have an answer you’d want to hear. Didn’t have the right words to explain why she had walked away back then. Why she had forced you out of her life when all she had ever wanted was to pull you closer.

But she had to know. Had to believe that what she did had been worth something. That the sacrifice she made—the one that shattered her, the one you never even knew about—had meant something in the end.

She looked away, swirling the remnants of her drink in her glass. And finally, almost too quiet to be heard—

“Because I had to believe it was worth it.”

Your expression flickered, something unreadable flashing in your eyes, but Paige saw the moment your walls went up. The moment you shut her out, just as she had once done to you.

You pushed back from the bar, grabbing your coat.

“You don’t get to ask me that, Paige.”

Her stomach twisted. She wanted to stop you, wanted to explain—but she didn’t. She just sat there, watching you walk out of the bar, out into the cold night air, leaving her behind.

Just like she had left you.

The cold night air did little to settle the storm in Paige’s chest.

She watched you leave, her fingers twitching against the condensation of her glass, an old instinct screaming at her to run after you. To stop you. But she stayed rooted to the barstool, letting the moment slip through her fingers like so many others before it.

Maybe she deserved that.

No, she definitely deserved that.

But that didn’t mean she was done. Not this time.

A week passed. Then two.

Paige told herself she wouldn’t look for you, wouldn’t make this harder than it needed to be. But then she saw you again—by chance or by fate, she wasn’t sure.

The coffee shop was tucked in a quiet corner of the city, one she rarely went to, but there you were.

Sitting by the window, scrolling through your phone, completely unaware that her world had just tilted on its axis again.

Paige took a slow breath, adjusting the cap on her head, as if that would somehow make her presence less jarring. She told herself to leave, that she had no reason to be here. But her feet moved before she could stop them.

And then she was standing in front of you.

You looked up, blinking in surprise before your expression hardened.

“Seriously?”

She had the audacity to smile. Just a little. “Hey.”

You exhaled sharply, setting your phone down. “What are you doing here?”

She hesitated, because she could lie��say she was just grabbing coffee, pretend this was another coincidence. But she was done lying, done pretending.

So she pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, ignoring the way your brows shot up in disbelief.

“I wanted to see you.”

Your jaw tightened. “Paige—”

“Look, I know you don’t owe me anything. I know I left and that I never gave you a real explanation. And I know that seeing me again is probably the last thing you want.”

You stayed silent, watching her carefully. Paige took that as a sign to keep going.

“But I just—I just need to talk to you. Not about the past. Just—just let me sit here for a minute.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. “You discarded me, Paige. And now you just want to sit and talk?”

The words stung, sharp and direct, but she didn’t flinch. She nodded instead, fingers clenching against her thigh. “Yeah. I do.”

You studied her for a long moment, something flickering in your expression.

Then, with an exasperated sigh, you leaned back. “Fine. But I’m not making this easy for you.”

Paige let out a quiet breath. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

The conversation started awkward, filled with stilted small talk and long pauses. But Paige didn’t mind. She wasn’t here for easy. She was here for you.

And if she had to work for it, she would.

She’d spent years running from what she wanted.

Now, she was ready to chase it.

Paige had always been good at winning.

On the court, she knew how to read plays, how to adjust, how to push through obstacles until she got what she wanted.

But you weren’t a game. You weren’t something she could just strategize her way back into.

And that terrified her more than anything.

A week after your reluctant coffee shop conversation, Paige saw you again.

This time, it wasn’t by accident.

She knew where to find you—your favorite bookstore, a quiet place tucked away from the chaos of the city.

She told herself she wouldn’t approach you, that she’d just catch a glimpse, maybe remind herself that you were still here, still real. But when she spotted you in one of the aisles, she couldn’t stop herself.

���You really like this place, huh?”

You turned, startled at first, then visibly annoyed when you realized who it was.

“Paige.”

She raised her hands in mock surrender. “Not here to bother you. Just… thought I’d check out some books.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Since when do you read?”

Paige smirked. “Since now.”

You exhaled, clearly debating whether to engage or ignore her. Eventually, you turned back to the shelf, tracing the spines with absent fingers.

Paige stayed a few feet away, not pushing, not forcing conversation. Just existing in your space, letting you get used to her being there.

And maybe—just maybe—hoping you’d let her stay.

Over the next few weeks, she found ways to slip into your life, never demanding too much, never making it obvious.

A casual nod when she saw you at a café. A brief conversation in passing. A small joke here, a quiet comment there.

She didn’t expect you to trust her again overnight. She wasn’t that naive.

But she wanted you to see she wasn’t going anywhere this time.

She wanted you to know she was serious.

Paige exhaled, gripping the strap of her gym bag as she stood outside the arena.

She had invited you to the game tonight.

You hadn’t said yes. But you hadn’t said no either.

And when she looked up, scanning the crowd filtering through the entrance, she saw you.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

You weren’t alone—your friends flanked you, keeping the atmosphere light, but Paige could see the tension in your posture. Like you weren’t sure why you had come.

But you were here.

That was enough.

For now.

Paige played like she had something to prove.

Not to the crowd. Not to the coaches.

To you.

Every shot, every pass, every moment on the court was a silent message—Look at me. See what I can be.

And when the final buzzer sounded, when the game was won and the cheers rang loud, her eyes searched for you again.

You were still there.

Watching.

After the game, she found you by the exit, waiting.

She approached carefully, wiping the sweat from her forehead, heart pounding louder than it had on the court.

“You stayed.”

You shrugged, arms crossed. “You played well.”

Paige took a slow breath. “Thanks.”

A beat of silence stretched between you, the years of distance still palpable.

Then, softly—“Why now, Paige?”

Her throat tightened.

Because I already gave you your normal life. Now it’s my turn to have a life with you.

But she didn’t say that. Not yet.

Instead, she let a small smile tug at her lips. “Because I’m done running.”

And for the first time, you didn’t look away.

Paige had never been good at waiting.

But she had to be patient now.

The next morning, she found herself lingering by her phone, resisting the urge to text you. It had taken everything in her to tell you she was done running, but words meant nothing without action. And she wasn’t about to mess this up again by moving too fast.

Instead, she let things happen naturally.

Days passed, and Paige made sure to be present without pushing too hard. Little moments—liking your posts when she never used to, casually showing up at places she knew you’d be. Each interaction was subtle, an unspoken invitation.

She had spent so many years keeping her distance that she had to relearn how to be in your orbit.

And she knew you noticed.

One evening, she saw her chance.

A mutual friend’s birthday dinner. You were there, seated with a few others, and Paige made a deliberate choice to sit across from you.

Not next to you. That would be too much.

Just close enough that you couldn’t ignore her.

She watched the way you stiffened slightly when she greeted you, then relaxed into neutrality. That was progress.

The night went on, and as conversations swirled around the table, Paige kept her focus split—engaging with the others but never letting you fade into the background.

Then came the moment that caught her off guard.

Someone cracked a joke about past relationships, and the table erupted into laughter. But Paige felt her pulse spike when your gaze flickered—just briefly—to her.

It was gone in an instant, but she caught it.

You weren’t unaffected by her presence.

And she held onto that.

After dinner, she found you outside, waiting for your ride.

Paige hesitated, then stepped closer, standing beside you in silence. The cool air was thick with unspoken things.

Finally, she murmured, “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”

You gave a small shrug. “I almost didn’t come.”

Paige’s chest tightened. “But you did.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“Why are you suddenly around again, Paige?”

She exhaled slowly, choosing her words carefully. “I told you. I’m done running.”

You looked away, as if weighing her words. Paige could tell you weren’t convinced yet. And that was fair. She had spent years pushing you away.

But she had time now.

She was going to prove it.

You scoffed, exhaling sharply. “That doesn’t mean anything, Paige. Not after everything.”

Her throat tightened. “Then tell me how to make it mean something.”

Your arms crossed over your chest, frustration bubbling over. “You don’t get it, do you? You don’t just get to decide when you want to be here. You disappeared, Paige. You left me with nothing. No explanation, no closure—just gone.”

She flinched. She deserved that. Every word.

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “I thought—”

“You thought what?” you snapped. “That I couldn’t handle your world? That I wasn’t enough?”

She ran a hand down her face, the weight of her silence pressing between you. Then, finally—

“Because you said you wanted a normal life.”

Your breath hitched.

Paige looked at you then, really looked at you, and her expression was raw. “You said you wanted normal, and I knew I could never give that to you. So I let you have it.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy.

Then, your laugh came—sharp, disbelieving. “You let me have it? Are you kidding me? You never even gave me a choice, Paige.”

Her jaw clenched, guilt washing over her. “I know. I was scared. I convinced myself I was doing what was best for you. But it wasn’t my decision to make.”

You shook your head, years of frustration unraveling in real time. “Damn right, it wasn’t.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But if you’ll let me, I want to prove that I’m not going anywhere this time.”

Your lips parted, but no words came. Because for the first time, the truth was laid bare between you.

And now, the choice was finally yours.

Paige didn’t wait for your answer that night.

Because this time, she wasn’t just asking.

She was proving.

The shift was subtle at first. But undeniable.

Paige started showing up. Not just at events or places where she could conveniently cross paths with you, but in ways that made it impossible to ignore her presence.

A text—simple, direct: I know I don’t deserve it, but can we talk?

A coffee order at your desk one morning—your exact order, no note, just an unspoken understanding.

A glance from across the room that held more weight than a thousand words.

She was making it clear—she was done running.

But were you ready to stop running too?

It all came to a head one night when you found yourself at a restaurant with mutual friends. You weren’t expecting her to be there.

But she was.

And she wasn’t alone.

Paige sat with her teammates, but her attention never wavered from you. Even as conversations swirled around the table, she only seemed aware of one thing—where you were, who you were talking to, how close someone else was standing.

Then, as if drawn by an invisible pull, she excused herself. And when you stepped outside for air, she followed.

“You still don’t believe me, do you?” she asked, voice steady but soft.

You sighed, leaning against the railing. “Paige, I don’t know what to believe.”

She hesitated, then took a step closer. “Then let me say it again. I was wrong. I was wrong to decide for you. I was wrong to leave. And I was wrong to think I could be happy without you.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t get to say that now. You made your choice.”

Her jaw clenched. “And I’ve regretted it every single day since.”

Silence stretched, thick with years of unsaid things.

Then, softer this time—“You wanted a normal life. I wanted to give that to you.”

You turned to face her fully. “And what if I wanted you more?”

Her breath caught.

For the first time, she looked shaken. Vulnerable. “Then let me fix it.”

You let out a slow exhale. “How?”

She didn’t hesitate. “By showing you that my world can be yours, too. That this—us—can work.”

A beat. Then another.

And then, finally—

“Let me try.”

And for the first time in years, maybe—just maybe—you considered letting her.

Paige didn’t expect an answer that night.

The weight of her confession still hung in the air, and she knew you needed time. She had stolen your choice once—she wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

But she wasn’t done fighting for you. Not this time.

She started showing up even more. Not just at the places she knew you would be, but in the ways that mattered.

She learned your schedule, not to intrude but to be available. If you needed space, she gave it. If you wanted presence, she provided it.

Little by little, she wove herself back into your life.

When you had a late-night work event, she sent an Uber to make sure you got home safely. When you had a rough day, she texted without expecting a reply: Just so you know, I’m here.

And when you finally started responding—small things at first, short answers, a dry remark here and there—she took it as progress.

Because you weren’t ignoring her anymore.

The night everything changed, she found you alone on the balcony at a mutual friend’s gathering.

“You hate crowds,” she noted, stepping beside you.

You scoffed. “Then why are you here?”

She hesitated, then answered honestly. “Because you are.”

A beat of silence. Then, you sighed, rubbing your temples. “Paige, this… it’s exhausting. I don’t know what you want from me.”

She turned to you, eyes steady. “I want you. I always have.”

You let out a breath, shaking your head. “You don’t get to say that now. You left me.”

“I know.” Her voice wavered, but she didn’t look away. “And I hate myself for it. But I can’t change the past. All I can do is ask if there’s still a future for us.”

You stared at her, torn between frustration and something deeper, something that never really left.

Paige swallowed hard. “You said you wanted a normal life. I let you have it. But the truth is… I never wanted normal. I wanted you. And if you’ll let me, I want to give you a life where you don’t have to choose between love and normalcy.”

You exhaled sharply, emotions swirling. “And if I say no?”

Paige’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “Then I’ll respect it. But I had to try.”

Your fingers curled around the balcony railing. The city stretched before you, endless and full of possibilities.

Finally, you looked at her, searching her face. “Then prove it.”

A slow smile tugged at her lips. “I will.”

And for the first time in years, it felt like something real was beginning again.

The weight of Paige’s confession lingered between you, heavy and unshakable.

You had spent years wondering why she left, why she walked away without a word. And now that you knew the truth, it didn’t make things easier. If anything, it made them harder.

Because she thought she was protecting you. And in doing so, she shattered you.

She didn’t push anymore after that night.

Instead, she let her actions speak.

She showed up. Consistently. Not just when it was easy or convenient. Not just in the spaces where it was expected.

She found ways to be in your world, the one she once thought she had to let you have on your own.

When you had a late night at work, she sent food to your office. When she had a game in your city, she made sure you had the option to come—never asking, just leaving tickets in case. When she was free, she met you where you were instead of expecting you to follow her pace.

And slowly, the walls you built started to crack.

The final step was hers to take.

She invited you to a game—one that mattered. A championship. A moment where the world would be watching her.

She didn’t ask for anything more than your presence.

So you went.

And after the game, when the confetti settled and the cameras pulled back, she found you waiting in the hallway outside the locker room.

Her hair was damp, her jersey still clinging to her. But none of it mattered. Not the victory, not the celebration.

Only you.

“Come with me,” she said, breathless and certain.

You hesitated. “Paige—”

“I already gave you up once. I’m not making that mistake again.” She exhaled, stepping closer. “You got to live your normal life. Now let me have my turn. Let me have you.”

The words struck something deep inside you.

She wasn’t asking you to give up anything. She was asking you to choose.

For the first time, the decision wasn’t made for you.

And this time, you knew your answer.

The mornings were your favorite.

Not because they were peaceful—Paige was anything but quiet.

She hummed while making coffee, danced around the kitchen in nothing but a hoodie and socks, occasionally bumping into you just to steal a kiss.

“You’re in my way,” you muttered as you tried to grab a mug.

She grinned, blocking you with her body. “No, I think you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t move away.

Balancing your worlds wasn’t easy, but it was never about easy. It was about effort. About making it work.

Some nights, you were in her world—attending games, sitting courtside, holding her hand in moments she once thought she had to face alone. Other nights, she was in yours—picking up takeout after your long workday, helping fold laundry, blending seamlessly into the life you once thought you had to protect from her.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you had told her once, watching as she stacked plates after dinner.

She gave you a look, one that said you should know better by now. “I want to.”

That was the difference. Before, she thought she had to choose. Now, she refused to.

Later, she lay on the couch with her head in your lap, scrolling through her phone while you absentmindedly ran your fingers through her hair. It was easy now—touching, being close. No tension, no hesitation. Just you and her, like it was always meant to be.

“I have a game in Chicago next week,” she murmured, looking up at you. “Come with me?”

You pretended to think about it, tapping your chin. “Hmm… what’s in it for me?”

She sat up, wrapping her arms around your waist, her lips brushing against your ear. “Everything.”

And she meant it.

No more running. No more regrets. Just Paige, and the life you built together.

Finally, home.

taglist:@alilstressyandlotdepressy @iowahawkeyes22 @delusional-day-dreamer @unadulteratedcyclepaper @nicebellee @livelyblues @paige05bby @munchtotally @vicsstufff @bucketbueckers @avvwritesstufff @wheeniemyloove@sarahkaisley@bueckersverse@caffeine-pup@ellehoops@angelliicc@ilomiloblohshh@surferandskater5@marissahowardd@carlaaaisinthehousew@potatobearsworld@celestixldarling@extalstar@averagelobotomyenjoyer@magnificentwastelandarbiter@shartnugget26@maddybuckets@bucketbueckers@drewlilbabe@aaaa46090493 @bebitts @ayyeliensuperstarr @apbueckers @leafoster17 @loudhandsbageldream @evanpeterstoe @geico-insuranc @msvclarkk @tashiagalinda @yailtsv

[sinofwriting]

Married in Vegas - Charles Leclerc

Words: 592 Summary: She’s looking longingly at the chapel and his confidence can’t be rocked. Note(s): Maybe a part two for this will get written? But at this moment I got no clue, lol. Also slight song fic because 'Married in Vegas' by The Vamps is a bop

Masterlist | Support Me! 

Charles had told himself that after the debrief, he would go straight to his hotel room, escape the anger stirring in his gut by forcing himself to sleep. But then he had passed by Y/N and heard her talking about exploring the strip by herself and he had easily offered his company, the anger that he had felt vanishing instantly at the sight of her smiling at him and her quiet words of thanks.

They had been walking the strip for over an hour now and he couldn't help but notice the way her eyes were lingering on the chapel on the other side.

His elbow lightly nudges her. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head, eyes leaving the building to look at him before looking back at it and he can see the longing in her eyes. “I’ve always wanted to be married, to get married. But this job,” she stops herself.

He smiles, hand reaching out and gently squeezing her arm. “I know what you mean. It’s not just over twenty weekends away from home, it’s more than that.”

“Yeah.” She sighs.

“But you are not seeing anyone?” He can’t help but ask.

She laughs. “No.” And then she’s looking back at him. “You?”

“No.” He says. His bed and side had been empty for longer than he liked but after the last girl he couldn’t try and distract himself with them, so he wasn’t thinking of Y/N, like he had been since they both joined Ferrari in 2019.

“Sometimes I think my mom is right.”

He makes a noise of confusion.

“I’m gonna end up never getting married.”

Charles frowns at her words, at her mother's words. It wasn’t the first time he had heard something about her mom that he didn’t like, but this sat wrong in his stomach. Like her mom was implying that no one wanted to marry her. When he would have instantly after his first Monza win.

And he’s taking her hand in his and starts to walk, tugging her along with him.

“Charles, where are we going?” She laughs, moving her feet quickly to follow him.

“To get married.” He says, looking behind his shoulder just to see a split second of delight cross her face before she’s frowning.

“We can’t just get married.”

“Of course we can.” His confidence is suddenly through the roof, that small glimpse of delight all he needs to know this is the right choice.

“We aren’t even together.” She protests, but her feet have seemed to pick up the pace, their arms brushing as she walks beside him and he can’t help but use his grip on her hand to tug her closer.

He agrees with her. “We aren’t. But we could be.” He stops, moving to stand in front of her. “I want to be.”

The confession is quiet, just barely loud enough for her to hear, but she does, and the softness that seems to flood her makes him step even closer.

“I want to as well.” Her own confession is just as quiet and he has to resist the urge to kiss her.

Instead, he gives her his most charming smile. “So, will you marry me, Y/N? Make an already unforgettable year even more unforgettable.”

She stares at him for a few seconds before nodding. “Yeah, I’ve always wanted to get married in Vegas.” The words are slightly teasing, but the joy in her eyes, the wide smile stretched across her lips has his stomach swooping.

“Then let’s get married in Vegas.”

[midnight-shadow-cafe]

Anxious No More

Pairing: Poly 141 x Reader

Warnings: Anxiety, emotional overwhelm, comfort, soft poly relationship, lots of fluff, protective and affectionate 141.

Author’s Note: I use this GIF way too much-

Summary: Feeling overwhelmed has become a constant struggle, but your boys always notice when the weight of the world gets too heavy. Each of them has their own way of pulling you back to safety—reminding you that you’re not alone.

Masterlist

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

You weren’t sure when it started—the feeling of being constantly overwhelmed, like the world was pressing in too fast, too loud, too much. Every little thing felt like a weight on your shoulders, every decision another drop in the ocean of uncertainty threatening to drown you. The pressure sat heavy on your chest, coiling like an iron band around your ribs, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.

But somehow, amidst all the noise, they became your refuge.

Johnny

Johnny was the first to notice.

"Yer thinking too much again, aren’t ya?" His voice was warm, teasing, but his eyes were sharp, watching you closely.

You were sitting in the common room, curled up on the couch, shoulders hunched forward, your hands clenched into fists in your lap. You hadn’t realized how tense you were until Johnny plopped down next to you, throwing an arm around your shoulders with a casual ease that only he could manage.

"Hey, c’mon," he nudged you lightly with his shoulder. "Can’t have ya stressin’ yourself into an early grave. If ya do, who’s gonna listen to my awful jokes?"

You huffed, a weak smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

Johnny grinned. "Ah, there it is. See? That’s better."

Instead of prying, he started rambling about something ridiculous—some past mission that involved Kyle getting chased by an angry old woman with a broom.

"Swear on me life, love, I’ve never seen the man run so fast. You’d think a whole army was after him, but nah—just an old granny screamin’ bloody murder."

It was impossible not to laugh. Johnny always had a way of pulling you out of your own head, grounding you in the moment.

When he felt you relax against him, he pressed a kiss to your temple, his arm tightening around you. "That’s my girl. No more thinkin’. Just stay here with me."

Kyle

Kyle was always the one to step in when things got really bad.

It had been a long day. A heavy day. By the time you made it back to your room, your chest was too tight, your thoughts racing too fast. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in.

Kyle found you sitting on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands. He didn’t say anything at first—just sat beside you, resting his hand on your back, rubbing slow, gentle circles.

"Alright, love. We’re gonna do this together, yeah? Five things you can see."

You swallowed hard, blinking through the fog. "Uh… the window. The lamp. Your hands."

"Good. Keep going."

Four things you could touch. Three you could hear. Two you could smell. One you could taste.

By the time you finished, your breathing had evened out, the tightness in your chest easing. Kyle smiled softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"See? You’re alright. I’ve got you."

Instead of leaving, he pulled you against him, letting you rest your head on his chest, his arms warm and steady around you.

"Whenever it gets bad, just find me, yeah? You don’t have to do this alone."

John

John didn’t need to say much—his presence alone was enough to make you feel safer.

"You're carrying too much, sweetheart," he murmured one evening, finding you staring out at the base through the window, lost in thought. His voice was low, rough but gentle. "You don’t have to do it alone."

Sometimes, he’d just sit with you, handing you a cup of tea without a word. Other times, he’d pull you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms, pressing slow kisses to your shoulder.

"You’re too hard on yourself," he murmured one night, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. "You give so much to everyone else—let us take care of you too, yeah?"

There was no arguing with him when he used that voice, and honestly, you didn’t want to.

Simon

Simon didn’t talk much, but he always knew when you needed him.

One night, the weight of the world pressed down too hard, and you broke. It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t quiet. You hadn’t meant for anyone to see, but Simon found you, your back pressed against the cold concrete wall of the hallway, your breaths coming too fast.

He didn’t hesitate.

He just wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his chest, holding you there like he could shield you from everything.

"Breathe," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I’ve got you."

No judgment. No questions. Just his steady heartbeat against your ear, his warmth anchoring you back to reality. His gloved hand slid up and down your back, slow and firm, and after a few moments, he pressed his masked face against the top of your head, exhaling quietly.

"You’re not alone."

You weren’t sure how long you stood there, wrapped in his arms, but by the time you pulled away, your breathing had evened out, and the worst of the storm had passed.

Simon didn’t say anything else. He just gave your hand a final squeeze before leading you back to your shared quarters, where the others were waiting.

---

Together, They Were Home

Later that night, you found yourself curled up in the middle of the bed, a tangle of limbs and warmth surrounding you.

Johnny was wrapped around your back, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against your neck. Kyle was on your other side, his fingers laced with yours, thumb stroking slow circles over your knuckles.

John was at the foot of the bed, propped up on his elbow, watching over all of you with quiet protectiveness.

And Simon? Simon was behind you, his large, steady hand resting against your ribs, feeling the rise and fall of your breath as if making sure you were still there, still safe.

"Y’alright, love?" Kyle murmured sleepily, squeezing your hand.

You nodded, a soft warmth settling in your chest.

"Yeah."

Johnny nuzzled closer, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck. "That’s my girl."

John chuckled, his hand resting on your ankle. "Get some rest, sweetheart. We’ve got you."

You weren’t sure when it started—the feeling of being safe.

But with them?

You weren’t drowning anymore.

You were finally learning how to breathe.

Hope you enjoyed! Please consider liking and reposting! -Midnight💜

[moshi-tehkitty]

Wind and rain buffeted the miserably wet Paladin and the infant’s thunderous cries continued. The Priest looked over the Paladin’s shoulder. The day was bright and sunny and the ground was dry save for where the Paladin had walked with the storm of a child in tow.

“You are not bringing that child into the chapel so long as it’s screaming,” said the Priest, blocking the doorway, “I don’t need the whole building flooded.”

The Paladin’s lower lip started trembling, “When she cries it rains, and when she gets wet from the rain she cries harder. I don’t know what to do.”

“Then you shouldn’t have bedded a storm cloud,” said the Priest, a disapproving scowl on his face.

“I was trying to save a village from a rampaging water elemental,” argued the Paladin, desperately bouncing the child.

“I’m certain that there were better ways to subdue an element,” began the priest.

The Paladin shook her head and cut him off, “I’m sure someone smarter or stronger could have figured something else out but I was tired from swimming to rescue drowning villagers all day long and to be honest he was hot. And don’t you say ‘how could he be hot if he was a water elemental’ me because I’ve heard it too many times now. He was attractive, he was impressed by my swimming ability, and I needed him to stop the rain before it overflowed the damn and completely flooded the town.”

“Just stay here a moment,” the Priest said heaving a long suffering sigh and stomping back into the chapel. He returned with an umbrella and tried to maneuver it in between the baby and its personal storm cloud. “Do you have dry clothes for the baby?”

“I don’t have a dry anything,” said the Paladin with a pained laugh.

“Right,” said the Priest, scrubbing his hand across his face, “we should have something in the charity store room, let’s just get her dry first. When was the last time she ate?”

“Breakfast?” answered the Paladin, unsure.

“And it is now past lunch and approaching dinner,” the Priest said in shock, “the poor thing’s probably starving!”

The Paladin was now practically in tears, or maybe she was already and it was just impossible to tell with the overall amount of water dripping from her, “I couldn’t stop and feed her. Not with. There were so many people.” The Paladin was now red in the face and looking down in shame, “she isn’t on solids yet and my breast plate doesn’t come off easily.”

The child wailed on.

The Priest shoved the umbrella into her arms and started manhandling her around the side of the building and into the secluded rear garden. “There’s no one to see you here,” he said, beginning to undo the straps of her armor. “Feed the child,” he instructed once she was less constrained, “I’ll return with something dry for the both of you.”

“Wait!” cried the Paladin, “how will you know when I’m done feeding the baby?”

“She won’t be screaming, for starters,” said the Priest, “but if you’re worried about me seeing you undressed you can just stay facing that way and I’ll leave the clothes on the table behind you.” With that said, he turned and walked back to the building to look for spare clothes. “You better not leave the baby on the steps and run while I’m gone or I WILL hunt you down,” he called from the doorway.

"And what is this?" the priest asked sternly, pointing at the squalling bundle. "I...thought the vow of chastity only applied to humans?" the Paladin said weakly.

[seraphinitegames]

The Wayhaven Chronicles— Update 28/March/2024

The internet has returned! I can finally start replying properly to messages and comments! :D

Luckily, I don’t need the internet to write, which really was a blessing as I was working on a scene I’ve been chomping at the bit to write…

Li-Sar’s first proper romantic scene!

There’s been a lot of build up so far, mostly as opportunity for the player to experience what Li-Sar is like, as well as if they really want to keep going, hehe. There will still be points to pull out after this, but this is the first time the MC will experience the side of Li-Sar no one has ever seen!

It was actually a lot tougher than I thought to write considering I’d been thinking it over in my head for so long.

I ended up starting and scrapping it about five times as it wasn’t quite the right vibe.

It is tough writing a villain romance, lol! :D

But it’s done, and I am SO happy with it! It’s been talk of a connection so far, but this moment really started to show it.

Now that’s checked off the list, it’ll be onto editing!

And there is a lot of editing to be had, hehe! I need to add in the editor’s edits to the previous chapter and also send her the next one, then I need to start my edits on the current one.

That also gives me time to print out the plan for the next chapter and go over with notes in preparation! <3

[himbo-kuto]

ceo!sylus x secretary!reader  summary: what happens you you become sylus' trusted secretary?

a/n: tried to make this one longer to make up for the shortness of the first part 😅 if y'all want to be tagged when these come out, let me know! i also slightly fudged the schedule than the one laid out in the first part-- apologies for the confusion!

part one | two

with freshly washed hair and a well moisturized face, you sat in bed and looked at your phone, 10:00pm. 

you had been thinking all day about whether or not you were going to take this position, and you still came up at a crossroads. 

you looked around at the tablet the twins gave you along with the briefing papers, that were all spread out around your bed. ever since you got home you’ve been flipping through these papers in order to see what it is like working for world renowned ceo, sylus qin. 

he had affairs in all different countries, making a multitude of deals with hundreds of other rich ceos– you wondered how he even had time for himself.

you unlocked the tablet to look at his schedule for tomorrow and he barely had time to breathe. starting his day at 5:00am boxing for an hour, breakfast, the day's briefing, and then meetings back to back all until 7:00pm. even then he still had work to do on his computer. 

you didn’t know who to feel bad for– sylus because he’s the one who’s participating in all of this, or you who had to stick by his side till the very end. 

a groan left your lips as you fell back on your bed, looking up at your white ceiling. 

“why not just try it? it’s not like if you fail that you’ll be fired from the company… but then you’ll look like the idiot who couldn’t do it… but then maybe people would understand since he was known to be a hard ass..” the angel and the devil were definitely arguing on your shoulders. you tried to wave them off, hoping that would subdue your thoughts but sometime in the middle of your deliberations, your mind drifted off to sleep.

you jolted awake to an alarm you didn’t even remember setting and looked at the time, 3:30am. 

you groggily looked around your room to still see that you truly passed out in the middle of thinking. papers still amiss, the tablet’s black screen reflecting your tired eyes. 

“well.. might as well go for it.” and go you did. 

you gathered up all your things before plunging into your morning routine

you gave yourself a once over in the mirror by your door, making sure your outfit was both comfortable yet professional. you didn’t know what he had in store for you, so best to be prepared for anything and everything. 

“if you decide you want the job, luke and i will be waiting downstairs by your place at 4:30am. we’ll take you to boss’s house. just know we won't wait long."

and lo and behold, there was a sleek black car waiting for you promptly at 4:30am by your apartment. 

at first you awkwardly waved at the car, not being able to see inside due to its tinted windows. 

the window soon rolled down and there were luke and kieran giving you some big smiles. 

“happy first day!” “we hope you make it!” 

well that’s promising. you got into the car and they zoomed off onto the city streets. 

you watched the lights go swiftly past your window as you went over a bridge. this was nice. luke and kieran were respectful, quiet and for the most part, they minded their business. 

“do you have any questions for us before we get to the house?” 

you found that whoever took these notes was very thorough yet concise at the same time. everything was laid out exactly how you should do it and how sylus wanted it. 

you shook your head, nothing coming to mind… well.. maybe one. 

“...what’s he like?” you paused before looking into the rearview mirror. 

“i’ve only ever seen our ceo for what? maybe max, 10 seconds?” 

they both laughed at that. 

“well as you can tell, boss man doesn’t exactly enjoy appearing to the public. only when business demands it does he show his face. otherwise he just likes to keep to himself.” 

“he’s also pretty simple. he’s the type of person that once he likes something, he sticks to it. rarely does he change his ways. if anything that makes him very consistent.” 

you nodded along, genuinely interested in what they had to say. you knew nothing of the man on top, but because of one single event, here were you in one of his cars being escorted to his house.

“how long have you guys been working with mr.qin?” 

luke wrapped his fingers around his chin, stroking it gently as if in thought. 

“honestly for as long as we can remember, we’ve been working for boss. he got us out of a pretty nasty situation way back when and ever since then we’ve been by his side.”

“like he said, he’s kicked us to the curb many times, but that didn’t stop us.” 

you softly smiled at the sentiment. you could only imagine what his face would’ve looked like seeing the two of them showing up to his doorstep after many attempts to shake them. in the midst of their attempts, he grew fond of them. 

“i’ll keep all those things in mind. thank you.” 

you looked out the window to see just how big sylus’ estate was. a gated off property that went deep into the woods, but once you reached the main property, the landscaped opened up to a beautiful dark mid century modern home. 

“everything you need will be in the kitchen. boss has already started his day, but he’ll promptly be up at 6:00am to eat so try and be on time. he doesn’t like when his schedule is disrupted.” 

you nodded, now finding a new wave of confidence. you wanted to put your best foot forward and if in the end it doesn’t work, at least you can say you gave it your all. 

the twins led you through the house to get started before disappearing to only god knows where. you looked at the notes again, following them as closely as you could while still keeping time. 

you fixed the last bowl on the table, as you glanced at your watch. 5:59am. perfect timing. you put your hands to your hips, feeling proud of the spread. with seconds to spare, you pulled out your phone and took a quick picture to remember your first day by. 

and like the twins said, as the clock striked 6:00am, sylus had emerged to the kitchen in his boxing gear (which wasn’t much) a tight fitting tank top and some five inch inseam shorts. 

you felt your face get hot seeing so much of his skin for the first time. 

“ahem, good morning mr. qin. i hope breakfast is to your liking.” 

he took a second, wrapping his towel and his neck before looking at you and then to the food on the table. 

“please join me.” he gestured to the seat beside him as he began to eat his meal. 

you sat down, grabbing the tablet under your arm before briefing him on his day. 

famous last words, but the beginning of your day was actually going very smoothly. sylus promptly finished breakfast by 6:30, leaving him enough time to get ready. 

you finished the last of your duties up in the kitchen before heading over to the garage. luke and kieran would be the ones to take you to work. 

“impressive. i’ve seen a lot of other secretaries much worse than you at this part of the day.”

“oh? well i guess i’m flattered. make sure to tell me that at the end of the day too even if it may not be true.” you all shared a laugh as sylus came from the hallway.

“didn’t expect everyone to be getting along so well. shall we?”

the car ride was much like the one in the morning, quiet but not entirely awkward. you flipped through his schedule for the next couple of hours, trying to commit it to memory. 

“who’s going to be in this meeting at 9:00am?” without delay, you read off the attendees. 

“then after?” again, quick answer. 

sylus let out a pleased hum, which the twins picked up on. they gave each other a knowing glance before going back to their business. 

“and what would you like for lunch mr.qin?” 

“mm.. you decide.” 

you pressed your lips together in a thin line now having to wrack your brain on what to get your ceo for lunch. you knew much of his dislikes, but not many of his likes. this would be your undoing, you just knew it. 

kieran pulled into an entrance that you weren’t familiar with to get into the building. you didn’t notice but your eyebrows furrowed together which made sylus chuckle ever so slightly. 

“it’s a private entrance. only me, the boys and now you have access to. here,” he held out a shiny black titanium card out to you. 

“your new keycard. you’ll find that you have access to more doors with this. don’t lose it. i won’t be giving you another one.” 

“understood.” you graciously took the card, replacing your old white keycard with this one (you already knew all the stickers you were going to put on this).

and from there, your official work day started. 

many, if not all the people in these meetings disregarded you as ‘just another one of sylus qin’s secretaries who will most likely be gone within the week’ as he introduced you and that pissed you off. you could just feel the 💢 emanating off your forehead. 

but you made sure to give them all a firm handshake while looking them in the eye. this would not be the last time they’d be seeing you. 

there was finally a short 20 minute break in between his meeting in which you used to order lunch. you sat at your new desk, looking through all the restaurants and cafes you and your co-workers had eaten for lunch– and suddenly it felt like you've never eaten at any of these places. 

you let out a big sigh just as luke walked by. 

“tired already?” 

you stuck your tongue out at him before gesturing to your tablet. 

“i’m just trying to figure out what to get everyone for lunch and i just want to get it right.” 

“wow, you’re really torn up about this huh?” 

if only you knew luke just a little bit longer, you definitely would’ve strangled him by now. 

“just use your best judgement. that’s why the boss chose you after all.” 

“didn’t you guys choose me based on my qualifications?”

he laughed at that. 

“everybody here is qualified to do the job, otherwise they wouldn’t be working at this company. but he picked you and that should be the equivalent of a lifetime achievement award.” 

now it was your turn to laugh. that did make you feel a lot better. 

“thanks, luke. i’ll be sure to get you something extra yummy.” 

turns out lunch was a hit– there was a cafe you always frequented during your lunch break and you knew the food was delicious so you hoped they would too. 

as you took sylus’ plate from his desk, you reminded him of the phone call he has in 20 minutes. 

“thank you, that was delicious. good choice.” 

you felt yourself bloom with pride at his compliment, but you quickly stopped yourself. (i can’t laugh yet, i have to hold it in)

“also cancel the rest of my meetings after 5:00pm” 

“oh sure– should I give them a reason why?”

“tell them i’m taking my secretary out for dinner after work.”

[yrluvjane]

hi gorgeous i hope ur having a great day <3

i come bearing a request hehe

so james and fem reader are best friends and she loves him and doesn’t know what to do with it cause obviously she thinks he doesn’t like her back even tho anyone with eyes can see he’s lovestruck for her, and one day she’s talking with remus about how much she just wants james and how she cant risk telling him and stuff and JAMES overhears this conversation and is literally SPEECHLESS and cue the confessions and fluff

Thanks love!!

The fire in the Gryffindor common room had burned low, casting long shadows across the stone walls. You sat curled in the window seat, your knees drawn to your chest, watching the first snow of winter dust the Forbidden Forest in quiet white. Behind you, the portrait hole creaked open, but you didn’t turn—not until you heard the familiar, hesitant clearing of a throat.

"Mind if I join you?"

Remus’s voice was soft, careful. You nodded, scooting over to make room as he settled beside you, his long legs folding beneath him. For a moment, there was only the crackle of the dying fire and the distant howl of the wind outside.

Then—

"You’re in love with him."

It wasn’t a question.

Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the edge of your robe. You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

Remus sighed, running a hand through his already-messy hair. "How long?"

"Years," you whispered. The admission felt like pulling a splinter from deep under your skin—painful, but freeing. "Since third year, maybe. I don’t even know when it started. It just... was."

A log shifted in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks. Remus studied you, his amber eyes too knowing, too kind. "You’ve never told him."

You laughed, but it came out hollow. "What would be the point? James Potter doesn’t see me that way. He can’t."

"Because of Lily?"

"Because of everything," you said, voice breaking. "He’s James. He’s brilliant and brave and—and golden, Remus. And I’m just... me."

Remus opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow furrowing. For the first time, he looked almost frustrated. "You really don’t see it, do you?"

"See what?"

"The way he looks at you."

You froze.

"The way he always saves you the seat beside him in the Great Hall," Remus continued quietly. "How he remembers your favorite flavor of every sweet at Honeydukes. How he hexed Mulciber last year for daring to smirk at you in the corridors." He leaned forward, his voice dropping. "Merlin, the poems, darling. The rose petals. The way he—"

A choked noise from the staircase cut him off.

Your blood turned to ice.

There, halfway down the steps, stood James.

His face was pale beneath his tan, his glasses slightly askew, as if he’d stumbled to a halt mid-step. His knuckles were white where they gripped the banister, his chest rising and falling too fast.

He’d heard.

Oh Godric, he’d heard everything.

For one endless, suffocating second, no one moved.

Then—

Remus stood, his chair scraping against the stone floor. "I’ll just... give you two a moment."

You wanted to beg him to stay. To fix this. But before you could speak, he was gone, the portrait hole swinging shut behind him with a finality that made your stomach drop.

Silence.

James didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then, all at once, he was there—kneeling in front of you, his hands hovering just above yours, trembling.

James breathed, and your name on his lips sounded like a prayer.

You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear to see the pity in his eyes. "James, I—"

His fingers brushed your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his gaze.

What you saw there stole the breath from your lungs.

There was no pity. No discomfort.

Just wonder.

"All this time," he whispered, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheekbone, "I thought I was the only one hiding."

Your heart stuttered. "What?"

James let out a shaky laugh, his other hand coming up to cradle your face. "I’ve been in love with you since third year. Since you hexed Snape into next week for insulting Remus. Since you laughed at my stupid jokes like they were actually funny." His voice cracked. "Since forever."

The world tilted.

"You—" You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. "But the rose petals—the poems—I thought—"

"I was trying to tell you," he admitted, cheeks flushing. "But every time I got close, I—" He huffed, frustrated. "I panicked. Because what if I ruined everything? What if you didn’t—"

You kissed him.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t planned. But the second your lips met his, something inside you clicked into place, like the last piece of a puzzle finally finding its home.

James made a noise against your mouth—half-surprise, half-relief—before his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you at all.

When you finally broke apart, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin.

"So," he murmured, grinning that stupid, beautiful grin, "does this mean I can finally take you on a proper date?"

You laughed, tangling your fingers in his hair. "Only if you promise to keep the rose petals."

James kissed you again, slow and sweet and perfect.

And outside the castle, the snow kept falling, covering the world in quiet, gentle white.