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cbeargyu · 26 days ago

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跡継ぎの妻 – the heir’s wife

summary: you marry a stranger in silk—his lips stained with blood and tradition. what starts as a marriage of convenience between a yakuza heir and a public figure spirals into something neither of you were prepared for: protection that tastes like devotion, duty twisted with longing, and kisses that come too late to be innocent. in a world where bullets speak louder than hearts, love might be the most dangerous vow of all.

pairing: yakuza heir!yuta x model fem!reader

genre: mafia/yakuza au, arranged marriage, slow burn, angst, romance, family legacy, redemption arc, forbidden desire, emotional healing, found family, power couple dynamic, smut-heavy, character-driven.

warnings: blood, gun use, mentions of injury, dom/sub dynamics, power play, mature themes, violence, blood, weapons, grief, guilt, trauma processing, complex power dynamics, yakuza activity, arranged marriage, emotional manipulation, emotional dependency, toxic loyalty, gender roles, tattoos/irezumi, canon-typical violence, knife imagery, psychological tension, mention of lingerie photos, political manipulation, clan dynamics, betrayal, male dominance themes (non-toxic), smut in later chapters.

wc: 12,1k

notes: hellooo!! i'm so excited because i seriously loved the idea for this fic and i spent two whole days writing it nonstop hahaha💀 i have to confess that the story had so much potential that i ended up preparing a second chapter and an epilogue🥹 also, i'm taking the chance to celebrate hitting 1k followers!!🥳🎉 i'll be posting them soon so stay tuned!! leave a comment if you want to be added to the taglist 👇 thank you all so, so much for your support, i seriously adore you 😭🫶🏻 thank you for loving and enjoying my fics, i put so much love into them for you and it makes me so happy to know that you like them 🩷🩷

part ii. epilogue

taglist: special dedication to this anon.

@beestvng @bamtor1sss

osaka, japan — summer, 1995.

the streets of osaka never slept. even at midnight, they pulsed with a quiet rhythm — the flicker of neon lights, the hum of motorcycles in alleyways, the unspoken codes exchanged between men in tailored suits with tattoos hidden beneath white shirts. it was a city built on layers of tradition and violence, elegance and blood.

at the heart of it all stood nakamoto yuta.

he wasn’t supposed to be the head of the kansai syndicate. not yet. at twenty-eight, he was too young, too bold, too unpredictable in the eyes of the elders. but when his uncle — the revered oyabun — was assassinated in a dispute gone wrong, the family needed a name to rally behind. yuta had the bloodline. the legacy. and the audacity to wear the crown before it was polished for him.

his rise had been swift and ruthless.

they called him "the camellia snake" — beautiful, dangerous, impossible to read. he smiled with his mouth, not with his eyes. where his uncle led with honor and hierarchy, yuta ruled with precision and power. under him, the organization evolved. businesses bloomed. territories expanded. and those who doubted him learned to fear him.

but fear didn’t keep the police away.

by march, a whisper reached his ear: one of his shell companies — a modeling agency, ironically — had been flagged for financial inconsistencies. anonymous money transfers. duplicate bank accounts. income without origin. nothing damning yet, but close. too close. if the audit moved forward, questions would come. and yuta, for all his brilliance, had no clean answers.

the police weren’t idiots. they’d been watching. too young, too rich, too many homes, too many cars, too many women. they knew. they just needed a crack in the mirror.

“get married,” takuya said.

his second-in-command. older, level-headed. loyal since the days they’d fought with knives in parking lots. “marry a girl with a clean record. a civilian. preferably someone local. someone easy to explain.”

yuta stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “you want me to lie to the japanese government?”

takuya lit a cigarette, eyes narrowing through the smoke. “you’ve lied to worse.”

“i can handle this,” yuta muttered. “negotiate. bribe. threaten. same as always.”

but takuya didn’t flinch. “not this time. they’re smarter. they want to bury you, yuta. not just investigate you. a wife changes the story. you become a man protecting a family, not a criminal building an empire.”

he hated how logical it sounded.

it wasn’t about love. it wasn’t even about appearances. it was about strategy — the illusion of normalcy. the illusion that nakamoto yuta, feared oyabun of the kansai underground, was just a young man in love with his wife, running a few successful businesses to keep food on the table.

he refused, at first. of course he did. he didn’t do relationships, let alone legal ones. but then came the call — a low-level member, breathless, talking about his cousin. “she’s perfect,” he said. “twenty-three. a model. new in the industry. she needs exposure. you need a wife. she’ll agree if you ask.”

yuta didn’t answer. not immediately.

but that night, alone in his penthouse, staring out at the osaka skyline, he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

a marriage of convenience. temporary. strategic. two strangers helping each other survive.

he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t curious.

he’d be lying if he said the idea didn’t thrill him.

the studio smells like cigarettes and desperation masked with luxury perfume — the kind of place that pretends to be high fashion but rots from the inside. you’re standing in the middle of it, arms crossed over the thin silk robe they threw on you, jaw set like stone, fire smoldering in your eyes.

“i said no,” you bite, voice sharp enough to draw blood. “i’m not posing in fucking lingerie.”

people freeze. assistants pause mid-step, makeup artists exchange wary glances, and the photographer pretends to adjust his lens to avoid the tension thickening the air like fog. but they’re all waiting — for your manager to handle you.

hitoshi exhales the way someone does when they’re trying not to scream. “we already talked about this,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. “it’s just lace. it’s not porn.”

you arch an eyebrow, slow, deliberate — the kind of look that used to make men melt and now makes them pray. “lace?” you echo with venom. “what part of ‘lace’ makes it okay to be half-naked on a cheap set so some sweaty assholes can jerk off to the catalog later?”

he flinches. good. but he doesn’t back down — you’ll give him that. he’s known you long enough to know you’re a storm, but he still walks into the rain.

“you signed a contract,” he reminds you, the words clipped and quiet. “we don’t have the money for legal shit, y/n. not now.”

you hate him for being right. hate the pit in your stomach, the taste of swallowing your pride. but most of all, you hate this world — the one where your beauty opens doors only to lead you into cages. you clench your jaw until it aches.

“fine,” you snap. “but if i see one of those photos on some sleazy magazine, i swear to god, hitoshi, i’ll make sure everyone in that room regrets being born.”

no one dares to breathe.

fifteen minutes later, you’re on set in nothing but black lace and stockings. your heels click against the floor as you move — slow, poised, deadly. you don’t pose, you dominate. your eyes burn through the camera lens like a challenge. they want sexy? they’ll get it. but not soft. not sweet. nothing about you is for free.

the next set is red. sheer bra, matching panties, white heels. you hate it. hate the way they look at you like you're a product. hate the heat under your skin that isn’t from the lights. you don’t even know where these photos will end up. probably sold to men with thick wallets and no self-control. the thought makes your stomach twist.

by the time you leave, your throat’s dry, your body aches, and your pride feels scraped raw. you slam the door of hitoshi’s beat-up toyota and fold your arms, staring out the window like it owes you something.

he doesn’t say anything. he knows better.

you came to osaka with nothing but a suitcase and fire in your blood. your parents were farmers in a dead-end village near nara — small, quiet, and too slow for someone like you. you always knew you were different. prettier. sharper. when the boys confessed their love at school, when the village chose you for beauty pageants, when you learned that your smile could buy things, you understood one thing: you were made for more.

so you left. for the city. for a future with lights and power and your name in people’s mouths. you stayed with your aunt — kind, clueless — and her son riku, who was trouble dressed in denim and secondhand cologne. only twenty-one and already tangled in shadows.

you never asked where the bruises on his knuckles came from. didn’t ask about the money he brought home, or the whispers on the phone late at night. his life wasn’t yours.

but that night changed everything.

you’d just slipped under your futon, the smell of setting powder and studio sweat still clinging to your hair. your body ached. your pride ached worse. you weren’t even sure what this was all for anymore — modeling? fame? the slow grind of selling yourself in pieces?

the knock at your door startled you.

sharp. insistent. not loud, but not calm either.

you sat up, frowning, crawling over to the sliding door and opening it just enough to peek out.

riku stood there. panting. pale. eyes wild.

“we need to talk,” he said.

your spine stiffened. you stared him down, unimpressed.

“what did you do?”

“nothing,” he lied too quickly. “just... just hear me out, okay?”

you didn’t move. your body was still. cold. waiting.

“someone wants to meet you,” he continued. “it’s important. serious. could change everything.”

you narrowed your eyes. “if this is about some fucking hostess job, i swear to god—”

“it’s not that,” he snapped. “this is... different. big. maybe dangerous.”

your stomach turned. not from fear — you don’t do fear — but from something colder. something real.

you didn’t say yes. not yet. but something shifted that night. something irreversible.

and you knew, deep down, that whatever was coming… it wouldn’t be something you could control.

not this time.

the room smelled of smoke, incense, and old leather — thick with heat from the summer bleeding through the cracked windowpanes. the shoji doors were shut, sealing the quiet inside, broken only by the soft sound of ice shifting in a glass and the subtle drag of a lighter sparking flame.

takuya stood with arms crossed, the rigid set of his shoulders mirrored in the furrow of his brow. yuta sat behind a lacquered black desk, half-shadowed by the golden glow of the hanging lamp above him. his red hair, slightly tousled, shimmered in the dim light — a harsh contrast to the dark ink crawling up his neck and arms, vanishing beneath the crisp sleeves of his black silk shirt, buttoned down just enough to glimpse the coils of dragons etched across his collarbones.

“we’re being watched,” takuya said, low and direct. “again.”

yuta didn’t look surprised. he never did.

he reached for the sake bottle near his elbow, poured into the small cup with graceful fingers tattooed in black kanji. the designs slithered with meaning, oaths made in blood. he drank slowly, as if considering the weight of every word that came next.

“and your genius solution,” he said, voice rough but eerily calm, “is for me to get married.”

before takuya could answer, riku stepped forward, his palms already sweating, his jacket too big, like a boy playing adult. he held something clutched in both hands — crumpled magazine pages, ripped roughly at the edges.

“not just anyone,” riku said, unfolding them with exaggerated care. “her.”

he laid them on the desk like an offering. photos of you — stretched in lace, seductive, sharp-eyed and radiant. black set first, your gaze commanding, then red — a different flavor of temptation. hair voluminous and curled, thighs wrapped in stockings, eyes cold and untouched. it wasn’t just sex appeal. it was danger wrapped in satin.

takuya blinked, barely disguising his surprise. he leaned forward slightly to examine the photos.

“where did you get these?” he asked.

“they’re from a catalog,” riku admitted, his voice too eager. “she just shot them a week ago. she’s my cousin. moved here from a town near nara, lives with my mom and me. she’s... she’s the most beautiful girl back home. people used to say she was blessed by the fox spirits. twenty-three, smart, proud... she’s probably still a virgin.”

yuta’s head turned — slow, deliberate.

his eyes, dark as a crow’s wing and twice as sharp, pinned riku like a nail to the floor.

“probably?” he echoed, voice like a blade.

riku swallowed, color draining from his face. “i... i just meant she’s not... she’s not like the others. she’s not easy.”

“watch your mouth,” yuta said, softly, but it landed heavier than a gunshot. riku bowed his head.

takuya cleared his throat and straightened his spine.

“i don’t think this is a joke,” he said. “the tip came from above the osaka division. someone’s pulling strings beyond our usual channels. if they open a formal audit, we’re fucked. this girl — a marriage — it makes you untouchable. at least for now. appearances matter. even in this world.”

yuta didn’t answer right away. he leaned back, eyes never leaving the photos, but unreadable behind the icy calm he wore like a second skin. the only movement was his thumb running across the edge of the page — just once — over the curve of your hip.

“and if she doesn’t agree?” he asked.

“she will,” riku blurted, then shrank under takuya’s glare. “i mean... she doesn’t know yet. but she will. she’s ambitious. proud as hell, yeah, but smart. she’ll see the opportunity.”

yuta tilted his head slightly.

“opportunity,” he repeated.

there was a silence then — long and thick. the kind that made men sweat and regret.

outside, a cicada screamed in the heat.

finally, yuta reached again for the sake. filled the cup. brought it to his lips.

“bring her tomorrow,” he said, setting it down. “at dusk.”

he looked up then — first at takuya, then at riku.

“and tell her to wear white.”

takuya nodded once. riku, visibly relieved, almost stumbled backward in his rush to bow.

as they left the room, the door sliding shut behind them, yuta looked back down at the photo still sitting on his desk. his fingers hovered over the image of you — red lace, pale thigh, that scowl on your face like you were ready to burn the world if it ever tried to touch you the wrong way.

he smiled — slow, dangerous.

“white,” he murmured to no one, then leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if trying to see the shape of fate through the plaster cracks.

the car wasn’t riku’s.

you knew it the second you saw it — black, polished, long, too luxurious for someone who still owed his mother rent. it looked like something out of a movie, the kind where people died halfway through and the boss never smiled.

you frowned as you slid into the passenger seat, the leather cold against your thighs, the hem of your short white dress riding up just enough to make you tug it down with nervous fingers.

“riku,” you asked, casting him a sidelong glance, “whose car is this?”

he didn’t meet your eyes. just gripped the wheel tighter, the metal of his cheap watch catching the evening sun.

“i’ll explain when we get there,” he said.

“you sound like someone in trouble.”

he didn’t laugh. that was your first clue.

the streets blurred past — familiar for a while, then increasingly foreign. houses turned to alleys, alleys to shadowed roads, until you found yourselves in a part of town you'd never even noticed on the map. old-fashioned, silent, wealthy in the kind of way that kept its secrets buried deep.

“ever heard of the nakamotos?” riku asked, voice low.

you shook your head. “no. who are they?”

he exhaled, like the name alone weighed something in his lungs.

“they’re... old blood. powerful. my uncle used to say they ran osaka before politicians even had names. people think they’re just a legend. but they’re not.”

“you’re talking about the mafia.”

“i’m talking about something older than that,” he corrected. “this isn’t like the shit you see in movies. they don’t wear suits and flash money in clubs. they wear silence. control. fear.”

you opened your mouth to ask him what the hell you were doing here when the car slowed.

he turned into a narrow stone path, flanked by perfectly trimmed hedges and lanterns that hadn’t lit up yet. at the end stood a traditional japanese house — wide, quiet, beautiful... and terrifying. the kind of place that wasn’t a home, but a domain.

the wooden gates opened without a word. two men stood guard — massive, bald, shirtless under their haori coats, with black ink swirling over their arms like sacred maps. their eyes followed the car without blinking.

your stomach tightened.

you knew those tattoos. old-style irezumi. yakuza.

riku parked, shifted the car into neutral. before you could ask anything, the door beside you swung open and his hand wrapped around your arm.

“come on,” he said, voice softer now. “and... don’t say anything unless spoken to.”

you stumbled out, the white heels you’d chosen digging slightly into the stone pathway before he hissed, “shoes off.”

quickly, you slipped them off, your bare feet meeting the cool wood of the engawa. your dress clung to your skin — tight, delicate, lace-trimmed with a little bow between your breasts. thin straps barely held it up, and the ruffled hem danced halfway down your thighs. it wasn’t the kind of thing you wore to meet strangers. especially not dangerous ones.

especially not him.

your curls spilled down your shoulders like a waterfall, wild and untamed. you felt their eyes on you — the men lounging inside, smoking in silence, watching you pass like a prize being paraded.

riku walked ahead, brought you before a closed shoji door, and then — without a word — dropped to his knees.

you blinked. “riku—”

he grabbed your wrist and tugged you down beside him.

“kneel,” he whispered.

your heart thudded hard as your knees touched the tatami.

the air inside felt heavier. sacred. strange.

riku cleared his throat. “nakamoto-san... i’ve brought her.”

a pause.

then a voice — low, smooth, commanding.

“enter.”

the doors slid open.

and there he was.

seated cross-legged behind a desk, bathed in golden light, red hair glinting like fire under the lamp. tattoos peeked out from the open collar of his black shirt, curling over the base of his throat like serpents. his eyes were the first thing you noticed — black, deep, emotionless. like looking into the sea at midnight.

he didn’t stand. didn’t smile. didn’t offer a single greeting.

he just looked at you.

like you were something being weighed.

and you — still on your knees, barefoot, trembling slightly in your white nightdress — felt it.

something shift.

like the world you knew had just ended at the doorstep, and whatever lay beyond was his to shape.

the room was quiet.

no clocks ticking, no voices murmuring beyond the walls. just the sound of your own breathing, unsteady and too loud in your ears, and the faint crackle of incense burning somewhere in the corner — sandalwood, rich and smoky.

he hadn’t said anything.

yuta sat there like a statue carved from shadow and fire, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up to the elbows, revealing more of that swirling ink that marked him as untouchable. the tattoos weren’t flashy; they were traditional — dragons and chrysanthemums, waves crashing across his forearms like they were alive. his hair, a deep blood-red, was slicked back slightly, letting you see the clean, sharp line of his jaw, the slight scar on his brow, the disinterest in his eyes.

he looked at you like a man who didn’t waste time.

like someone used to getting exactly what he wanted.

and right now, his eyes were on you.

you sat on your knees, legs folded neatly under you just like riku had instructed. your white dress — thin, ribbed cotton that hugged your curves — felt suddenly far too revealing. the lace along the neckline dipped just low enough to expose a teasing amount of cleavage, delicate and feminine. a tiny satin bow rested between your breasts, and the hem of the dress stopped a few inches below your hips, ruffled and sheer at the edge. the room was warm, but your skin prickled.

your golden choker gleamed in the soft light, a simple band resting at the base of your throat like a brand.

and yuta noticed.

his gaze flicked to it, then back to your eyes.

you swallowed hard.

“you wore white,” he finally said, voice quiet but firm — the kind that made people listen the first time. “good.”

you glanced at riku, who kept his head bowed.

“stand,” yuta said.

your breath caught.

he wasn’t talking to riku.

you.

he meant you.

with shaky hands, you rose slowly, careful not to trip over the hem. your bare feet touched the cool tatami as you stood in front of him — exposed, nervous, but refusing to shrink.

yuta’s eyes roamed, slow and unapologetic. he took his time, letting the silence stretch as his gaze slid down your body — over the slope of your shoulders, the soft lines of your thighs, the little tremble in your fingers.

when his eyes finally returned to yours, something shifted in them. barely.

interest.

“turn around,” he said.

your cheeks flushed, but you obeyed.

you turned — slowly — letting him see the dip of your back, the way the thin straps clung to your skin, the curve of your ass under the short white dress. the silence behind you was heavy, and though he said nothing, you could feel his stare like heat down your spine.

then:

“enough.”

you turned back, your eyes meeting his once more. his expression hadn’t changed. unreadable. unreadable and yet so incredibly present, like he was already taking possession of something without needing to lift a finger.

“how old are you?” he asked.

“twenty-three,” you replied quietly.

his gaze narrowed slightly.

“virgin?”

your heart dropped. riku visibly tensed beside you, but didn’t say a word.

you didn’t answer.

yuta arched a brow.

“i asked you a question.”

you hesitated, voice barely above a whisper.

“yes.”

a pause.

yuta leaned back slightly in his chair, his fingers wrapping around a ceramic cup of sake, lifting it to his lips. he drank slowly. thoughtfully. then set it down with a soft clink.

“good,” he murmured.

you didn’t know what that meant.

but you could feel it — your fate shifting under your feet.

“leave us,” he said.

just as riku began to bow his head to excuse himself, yuta raised his hand with a single flick of his fingers.

“call takuya,” he said, not taking his eyes off you.

riku froze for a second — like he’d forgotten something crucial. “yes, sir,” he mumbled, then bowed quickly and disappeared behind the sliding door.

and now you were alone.

alone with nakamoto yuta.

his eyes were darker now, more focused. he didn’t smile. didn’t move.

“come closer,” he said.

and something in you — something curious, frightened, and strangely drawn — obeyed.

as soon as the door slid shut behind riku, you exhaled, but it came out shaky — barely holding together the storm brewing inside you.

you turned toward yuta, cheeks burning. “what the hell was that question?” you blurted, voice tight and sharp, almost cracking.

he didn’t flinch.

he didn’t apologize either.

he simply looked at you like he was watching a child throw a harmless tantrum.

“i needed to know,” he said coolly, fingers tapping once against the rim of his sake cup. “that information changes things.”

your eyebrows shot up. “changes what?”

“your value,” he said, flat and emotionless.

the words hit you like a slap.

you blinked at him, stunned. “i’m not... some kind of—”

“i didn’t say you were,” he interrupted, still calm. still infuriatingly unbothered. “but where you’re going, who you’ll be playing... details matter.”

you pressed your lips together, heart pounding. his gaze was steady, unwavering. there was no cruelty in his tone — but also no softness. just facts. just business.

like you were already part of the machine.

“you’re here for a reason,” he said, sitting forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze locked on yours. “riku says you’re smart. obedient. pretty enough to catch a man’s attention, but not enough to be seen as a threat.”

you almost flinched again. almost.

he noticed.

“don’t take it personally,” he added. “the role needs someone forgettable. invisible, at first glance. someone no one would look at twice — until it’s too late.”

you didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult.

you were still kneeling, toes curled into the tatami, your white satin dress clinging lightly to your thighs. the hem brushed against your skin every time you shifted, your bare shoulders cold beneath the dim lantern light. the gold choker around your neck felt heavier now, like a chain instead of an accessory.

you finally turned to look at him. “are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

yuta leaned back in his seat, the tattoos along his forearms catching the light where the sleeves of his dark yukata had slipped. he looked at you like he was reading something only he could see.

“there’s pressure from the police. not just local. national,” he said. “they’re watching us. they want to bring me down.”

you blinked. “so... what does that have to do with me?”

his voice didn’t change. still cold. still even.

“if i marry a civilian woman — someone clean, untouched by our business — it changes the narrative. i stop being the yakuza heir. i become a husband. a man trying to build a quiet life.”

you stared at him.

“you want to marry me.”

“i need to,” he corrected.

“and you expect me to just—”

before you could reply, a soft knock echoed from the other side of the room.

“enter,” yuta called.

the sliding door opened quietly, and in stepped a man in his mid-thirties, sharp as a blade in both posture and gaze. he wore a dark suit with no tie, and even though his arms were hidden, you could still feel the same kind of power rolling off him as the men outside.

“this is takuya,” yuta said without looking at him. “the one who came up with the plan.”

takuya bowed briefly, his eyes scanning you once. no reaction. just cold calculation.

“pleasure,” he said flatly, then got straight to it. “we're currently facing heat from law enforcement. not just the division — higher up. there's a task force building a case. they’re using the press, community outreach, whatever they can. they want to paint yakuza like common criminals. it’s not just raids anymore. they’re aiming for image. public perception.”

you swallowed.

takuya continued, unfazed. “they need something scandalous to latch onto. something to justify pushing deeper. but if we give them a distraction — a different narrative — the pressure dies.”

he looked you in the eye now.

“a marriage,” he said. “to a local girl. innocent. untouched by crime. beautiful, with roots in a quiet town. the kind of story the papers love. the kind of woman that turns a red-haired, tattooed leader into a ‘reformed’ man.”

your heart skipped a beat.

“you want me to marry him?”

yuta’s silence confirmed it before either of them spoke.

“the marriage will be legal,” he said, bluntly. “we’re filing the papers through a lawyer we trust. it’ll hold weight. that’s the point.”

your breath caught.

“we need legitimacy,” takuya went on. “you’re the key to that. the girl from the countryside. beautiful. clean. no record. no history. the media will eat it up — especially when they realize you’re marrying someone like him.”

you looked down, at your dress — soft white, with lace trim over the chest and a satin bow between your breasts. the kind of thing that screamed innocence. riku had made you wear it. said it was yuta’s favorite color on women.

your cheeks burned.

“and what do i get?”

“money, comfort, protection,” takuya said immediately. “you’ll live in comfort. you’ll be kept safe. no one will touch you. not the police. not enemies. not even our own men without permission.”

his gaze hardened. “money. more than your village’s mayor makes in a year. and attention. the kind you can use.”

you glanced at yuta, who was watching you with unreadable eyes. the flames of the oil lamp caught the glint of the gold chain around your neck and the soft shine of your white satin dress, making you look even more delicate — and out of place.

you were barefoot, knees pressing into the tatami, curls spilling down your back like ink on silk.

“so... i’m supposed to pretend to be your wife,” you said, eyes locked on yuta now. “while you do what, exactly?”

he finally spoke again.

“live,” he said. “lead. and make them believe i’ve changed.”

you weren’t sure if it was insane or brilliant.

but deep down, something about the idea — the promise of safety, of being wanted in such a specific, strategic way — pulled at a place inside you that you weren’t ready to name yet.

you didn’t look at takuya when he bowed out, only waited until the door slid shut behind him. silence fell again, thick like smoke in your lungs. you hated it — being spoken about like an asset. like a pawn on some expensive chessboard. like a clean little civilian girl they could dress in white and parade in front of the press.

you crossed your arms.

“you’re a fucking piece of work,” you said, eyes locked on him. “you don’t even ask. you just... tell me i’m getting married. to you. like i’m supposed to be flattered.”

yuta tilted his head. his eyes — those cruel, unreadable eyes — didn’t move from yours.

“if you weren’t angry,” he said slowly, “i’d be disappointed.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“it means i don’t need a quiet, obedient wife,” he said. “i need someone with fire. someone who doesn’t flinch when men like me enter a room.”

you scoffed. “so you want a wife or a weapon?”

he smirked — just barely. almost not at all.

“both.”

you stood, not bothering to hide the defiance in your posture. your dress flowed around your legs as you stepped closer, barefoot, jaw tight.

“i come from a farm in fucking wakayama,” you snapped. “my parents grow vegetables and wake up before the sun. i crawled out of that life by sheer force of will. i didn’t come to osaka to be anyone’s doll.”

he watched you with an unnerving calm. your temper didn’t faze him. if anything, he seemed... intrigued.

“then don’t be a doll,” he said. “be the woman who stood next to the devil and didn’t blink.”

your chest rose and fell. the white choker around your neck suddenly felt suffocating.

“and what do you get out of this?” you asked. “besides a pretty distraction.”

“peace,” he replied, finishing his sake. “for now.”

you stared at him, still furious — but your fury no longer felt out of place. it felt... necessary. expected. wanted.

he stood slowly, and you couldn’t help but notice the curve of muscle beneath the dark fabric of his yukata, the tattoos peeking out over his chest and wrists like whispered warnings. like stories he didn’t need to tell with words.

he came closer, and stopped just short of your space.

“tomorrow,” he said. “we’ll register the marriage. we’ll make it real.”

your heart thudded — not with fear, but with something heavier. something hotter.

“wear white again.”

“you’re a controlling asshole,” you muttered.

he leaned in, just enough that you could feel the ghost of his breath against your temple.

“good. you’re learning.”

you didn't sleep the night before.

not from fear — you weren’t some trembling girl marrying her first crush. it was the sheer weight of it. the permanence. the fact that when you woke up the next morning, you would legally belong to the red-haired devil with tattoos snaking across his chest. the one who barely flinched when you cussed at him, who told you to wear white like it was some kind of silent power game.

riku arrived at dawn in a black car — another luxurious model that reeked of expensive leather and cigarettes. in the back seat was a garment bag, pristine and white, and a lacquered box wrapped in silk.

“these are from yuta,” he said, handing both over carefully. “he said to wear the western one for the ceremony.”

you pulled the zipper down.

the wedding gown inside looked like it had stepped out of a bridal magazine. dramatic off-the-shoulder puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, pearl buttons down the back, and a full, billowing skirt that would swallow your legs whole. the lace was delicate, vintage, almost royal. your fingers hesitated at the embroidery.

“jesus christ,” you muttered. “this must’ve cost a fortune.”

“probably did.” riku rubbed the back of his neck. “he doesn’t half-ass anything.”

you didn’t respond, only moved to open the silk-wrapped box next. inside: a traditional shiromuku kimono — heavy white silk with detailed cranes and chrysanthemums embroidered in silver thread. beneath it, folded with exact care, was a note in black ink.

you’ll wear this tonight. we need photos for the papers. — n. yuta

you rolled your eyes and slammed the lid shut.

the ceremony was held at a historic ryotei garden estate outside osaka. the kind of place used for tea ceremonies and old-money weddings. white lanterns floated on the koi pond, and flower arrangements shaped like clouds lined the stone walkway leading to the altar.

your heels clicked sharply against the path, dress trailing behind like a whisper. makeup perfect, lashes heavy, lips painted a soft cherry red. around your neck, a thin golden choker — delicate, expensive-looking, chosen by someone with taste. your hair was still curled and loose, spilling down your back in waves like the night before.

you held your head high. eyes straight ahead.

the photographers swarmed the entrance. local reporters lined the gate. and there he was — standing at the altar in a black montsuki haori, crimson hair tied loosely back, tattoos just barely visible where the robe dipped at the collar. yuta nakamoto looked like a villain out of a storybook. untouched. untouchable.

you stopped beside him, and only nodded once.

he didn’t smile. didn’t blink.

only said, “you look beautiful,” without moving his lips too much.

“you better,” you muttered, “after dropping this much cash.”

the ceremony was both legal and traditional. papers signed first, in front of witnesses — then the vows, recited with low, steady voices. you said them with a precision that almost sounded sarcastic. yuta repeated his in a tone that made the back of your neck tingle. like he was promising more than the words on the paper.

when the priest announced the kiss, you almost flinched. but the cameras were already flashing.

you turned.

you placed a hand on his chest.

and you pulled him in — slow, confident, unflinching. lips pressed to his with calculated pressure, just enough to look like passion, just enough to keep your pride intact.

he didn’t pull away. his mouth stayed still for a second longer than necessary. enough to make you feel heat bloom low in your stomach.

you stepped back first. wiped the edge of your lip with a fingertip. smirked like a queen who always won.

the reporters clapped. someone whistled. riku looked like he wanted to throw up.

you didn’t look at yuta again until after the ceremony, when he leaned in close during the photo op and said under his breath, “i knew you’d make it look good.”

you didn’t answer.

but part of you hated how your heartbeat stuttered anyway.

the reception was held back at the traditional house — the one you'd visited with riku only the day before. everything felt familiar, but colder now. more official. more yours.

the room smelled of sake, tobacco, and incense. a soft string quartet played somewhere in the background, a luxury reserved only for special occasions in this part of the country. long tables were filled with men in black suits, most of them tattooed beneath the fabric, their voices low and respectful. the atmosphere wasn’t celebratory — it was ceremonial. serious. like the birth of a deal.

you sat beside yuta on a low wooden bench, legs tucked beneath your heavy white kimono, the weight of the fabric grounding you. yuta had changed into a darker formal haori — simple, elegant, his hair still tied back, a few strands falling around his face. you tried not to glance at him too often. he didn’t speak much, only nodded at greetings, poured you a cup of tea when the cameras weren’t looking.

the group photo was taken near the engawa, under a blossom tree, everyone lined up behind you both — riku awkwardly stiff behind you, takuya beside him with arms crossed, unreadable. yuta’s hand rested lightly on your knee for the shot. your posture was perfect. expression unreadable.

then came the second photo — just the two of you. you stood side by side on the engawa, backs straight. he tilted his head just slightly toward you, eyes calm. you didn’t lean into him. not yet. but your hands brushed once.

you hated that your skin remembered it.

later that night, in the room they had prepared for you both — a wide, clean space with tatami floors and a low table still holding untouched tea — you sat at the edge of the futon, kimono folded neatly beside you, hair pinned up. your western dress had been carefully stored away. the silence stretched between you and yuta like a tight wire.

he stood by the window, back to you, sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal part of the ink on his forearm.

“you should tell your parents,” he said suddenly, voice calm. “so they don’t hear it from someone else.”

you blinked. “i will. but it’s not that easy.”

he turned slightly toward you. “why not?”

you gave him a tight smile. “you forget where i’m from, city boy. that town barely has working lights. my parents don’t have a landline.”

he paused. then, slowly, walked to a small desk in the corner and pulled out a set of paper, brush, and ink.

“write a letter. i’ll send someone to deliver it in person.”

that startled you more than anything.

“…seriously?”

“i don’t joke about family,” he said, gaze steady. “especially now.”

you didn’t know what to say to that. instead, you took the paper and sat cross-legged to write. your fingers trembled slightly at the start, but you found the words. told them you were safe. told them you were married. left out the politics.

you left out the man standing by the window again, quiet as a ghost.

after you sealed the envelope, yuta finally stepped closer. but he didn’t reach for you. didn’t touch you.

“you’ll sleep here,” he said, voice low. “i’ll take the room next door. just for tonight.”

you looked up at him, surprised.

“what, not going to consummate the deal?” you asked dryly.

his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. “you’re not a deal.”

you held his gaze a second too long. then turned away.

“…thanks,” you muttered.

he paused by the door, then added, “you looked strong today. people noticed.”

you snorted. “damn right they did.”

he left without another word.

you lay back, eyes wide open. married. protected. still you.

and for some reason, that scared you more than anything else.

you woke up to the smell of garlic and soy sauce.

it was a gentle aroma, not overwhelming, but enough to stir you from sleep as sunlight trickled through the wooden blinds. you stretched beneath the soft, white sheets, the unfamiliar futon beneath you barely creaking. your limbs were heavy with yesterday’s weight — the ceremony, the stares, the quiet glances exchanged in front of too many eyes.

slipping out of bed, you pulled the red silk robe from the edge of the futon, tying it lazily around your waist. it clung to you with that subtle sheen, smooth against your bare legs. your hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, was swept into a loose bun, a few strands curling at your nape. barefoot, you padded quietly down the hallway.

you found the chef in the kitchen — a tall, polite man with graying hair tied at the nape. he bowed when he saw you.

“good morning, miss. breakfast will be ready shortly.”

you blinked at the formality, then cleared your throat. “where’s yuta?”

he didn’t look up from the pot he was stirring. “the young master is in his office.”

of course he is.

you murmured a quiet thank you before turning and making your way down the same corridor from last night — where yuta had disappeared into quiet work and you had gone to bed alone.

you knocked once. no answer. you slid the door open.

yuta was seated behind a long wooden desk, papers laid out in front of him, a cigarette resting on a small tray by his elbow. he glanced up when he saw you — and something in his gaze caught, like a moment of surprise he didn’t know how to mask.

you were barely dressed for conversation. the robe hugged your waist too perfectly, a flash of your leg peeking out as you shifted your weight. your lashes curled softly above your half-lidded stare, arms crossed beneath your chest. you didn’t try to hide how comfortable you looked. or how dangerous that made you seem.

“i need to make a call,” you said simply. “it’s important.”

he nodded once, motioning toward the landline on the sideboard.

“go ahead.”

you paused. “can i have privacy?”

that earned you a look — half amusement, half disbelief. then, without a word, he stood and walked past you, sliding the door closed behind him.

as soon as the click echoed in the room, you exhaled. you opened the small leather agenda you always kept in your bag — fingers flipping to the back page where hitoshi’s number was scribbled in your handwriting.

you dialed. it rang twice.

“y/n?”

his voice was frantic, breathless. “where the hell have you been? i’ve been trying to reach you for days—i even came by your aunt's house. it’s empty. what the fuck is going on?”

you bit your lip. “…i got married.”

silence.

then—

“WHAT?”

you pulled the phone slightly away from your ear.

“what do you mean married? married to who?! when? are you even—y/n, are you conscious of what you’re doing?! you have a career, a whole future about to start. you can't just—”

you cut him off gently. “look at the news, hitoshi. or tomorrow’s papers. the answer’s there.”

“but—why?!”

you leaned against the wall, voice calm. “because it was necessary.”

he was pacing. you could hear it in the rhythm of his breath. “y/n, you have contracts. endorsement deals pending. you know what the clauses say—you’re supposed to be single.”

you sighed. “don’t worry about the money. that’s not a problem anymore.”

his voice dropped. “what does that even mean?”

you didn’t answer that.

instead, you softened. “i’ll explain in person. let’s meet soon, yeah?”

after a beat, he agreed. you hung up quietly.

then, without turning, you said, “you can come back in.”

the door slid open slowly.

yuta stepped inside, eyes lingering on your silhouette — the curve of your hip, the smooth dip of your shoulder beneath the robe. your nails, painted white, contrasted sharply with the red fabric as you crossed your arms. you looked the part now. a dangerous, elegant wife. someone who belonged in a room like this — and maybe even someone who could command it.

his voice was lower this time. unreadable.

“who’s hitoshi?”

you raised an eyebrow. “what, jealous already?”

his jaw tightened. “just answer.”

“he’s my manager,” you said firmly. “and i needed to let him know about this situation.”

“you seemed close.”

“don’t start,” you warned, stepping forward, your tone sharp, impatient. “not everyone in my life is someone you need to size up. especially not him.”

he stared at you a moment longer.

and then, quietly — like it surprised even him — he said,

“…you look like you were made for this.”

you didn’t reply.

but you didn’t look away either.

you ate breakfast with your legs crossed under the wooden table, the silk of your red robe brushing softly against your thighs. the chef had prepared grilled fish, miso soup, rice, and a delicate tamagoyaki roll — a traditional spread that felt both luxurious and grounded, like something too refined for a newlywed girl still adjusting to this new life. you picked at your food in silence while the staff moved quietly around you.

yuta joined you ten minutes later, dressed in a dark pinstriped yukata, his sleeves loose, the scent of cologne and cigarettes lingering faintly as he sat across from you. he didn’t say much. didn’t need to. the silence between you wasn’t cold — not quite — but it felt suspended, like a string pulled tight between two people who hadn’t decided what this thing between them was going to be.

you finished eating first. he watched you dab at your lips with the napkin, watched the subtle way you moved, always confident, always so sure of your space in the room. you weren’t the type to wilt, not even under a house full of men who whispered your name like a warning.

“i’ll be in my office,” he murmured as he stood.

you only nodded.

the days passed with a strange kind of rhythm. mornings were quiet — breakfast, then long hours where you wandered the compound’s grounds or stayed in your room, reading, journaling, waiting. there were training sessions in the garden, men bowing to yuta like he was a god, and you saw it clearly now — what kind of man he really was. the way they followed him. the way even takuya never questioned a command. you were living in the center of something vast and ancient and quietly violent, and yet… you didn’t feel afraid.

not really.

yuta treated you with distance, but not cruelty. he gave you space, but not indifference. and in the quiet moments — a shared glance at dinner, the brush of his fingers when handing you a cup of tea — there was something else, something harder to define. tension, yes. desire, maybe. but also… possession. like he was slowly convincing himself that you weren’t just here for the show.

you noticed it most when riku came to inform you of your meeting with hitoshi.

“i’ll drive you there,” he said, pulling keys from his coat pocket. he led you outside to where a glossy black toyota century sat gleaming beneath the trees — a 1994 model, clearly imported with care. it looked like power and old money. when the door opened for you, you slipped inside with practiced ease, dressed in a simple black fitted skirt and a white blouse, minimal makeup, but still polished.

yuta stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching.

“she said he’s her manager,” takuya said from behind him, tone casual. he was smoking again, the end of the cigarette glowing orange in the dusk. “why are you so tense?”

yuta didn’t answer at first. his gaze stayed locked on the vehicle, unmoving.

takuya smirked. “don’t tell me it’s jealousy. i thought this was just a business arrangement.”

yuta’s jaw flexed.

“it’s not that.”

“hm,” takuya exhaled. “then what is it?”

“i’m a man,” yuta said simply, his voice low and firm. “and she belongs to me now. any man would hate the idea of someone else touching what’s his.”

takuya gave a short, quiet laugh. “you’re not very good at pretending, you know.”

the car pulled away.

inside, you kept your eyes forward, legs crossed, fingers resting lightly on the leather seat.

“are you nervous?” riku asked, his voice softer than usual.

“no,” you said simply. “but he might be.”

the meeting spot was a quiet café tucked in a side street near the train station. it was almost empty — just a few people scattered inside. you stepped out of the car and walked in like you owned the place.

hitoshi stood as soon as he saw you.

his expression was pure disbelief.

you sat down without a word.

“…you really went and did it,” he said eventually. “you married someone. just like that.”

“i told you,” you said, tilting your head. “you could’ve checked the papers.”

“oh, i did. believe me, i did.” he ran a hand through his hair, clearly agitated. “but nothing in those headlines explains why. or who. they only say that you married into the nakamoto family, and if you think i don’t know what that means—”

“you’re overreacting.”

“am i?” he leaned forward. “y/n, do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into? these men aren’t just businessmen. they’re criminals. this… this is dangerous.”

you met his gaze evenly.

“i’m safe.”

he scoffed. “he’s got you brainwashed already.”

“hitoshi—”

“no,” he cut in. “you can’t just throw your career away for this. you had a film audition next month. a music contract on the table. i worked for those.”

your voice dropped. “i didn’t ask you to.”

his face froze.

you leaned back slowly, expression unreadable.

“you’re good at your job,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly. “but you don’t own me.”

he stared at you. your tone was cool, sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. it was the version of you he rarely saw — the version you hid beneath stage smiles and rehearsed charm. the version that came out when you were pushed.

he sat back.

“…so, what now?” he asked. “you going to disappear into his shadow forever?”

you smiled faintly.

“i don’t disappear, hitoshi.”

he watched you for a long moment.

“…i want you to be happy,” he said finally, quieter now. “but i just hope you know what the hell you’re doing.”

“i do.”

he nodded.

then, reluctantly, “i’ll wait for you to call.”

you stood, and he didn’t try to follow.

when you returned to the car, riku opened the door for you again. the ride back was silent. you stared out the window, your reflection ghosting across the glass.

yuta was waiting when you arrived.

he didn’t speak right away.

but his eyes moved slowly over your figure — your blouse now slightly unbuttoned from the heat, the black skirt hugging your hips, your heels clicking softly against the wooden floor as you stepped inside. your hair was tied in a neat twist. you looked untouched. but not untouchable.

“how was it?” he asked at last.

“expected,” you said.

he didn’t respond.

so you turned, arms crossed, leveling him with a look.

“don’t look at me like that.”

his brow lifted. “like what?”

“like you think he’s more than what he is.”

“and what is he?”

you tilted your chin.

“not your problem.”

the corner of his mouth twitched. not quite a smile. not quite anything.

he stepped forward until you could smell his cologne again, feel the weight of his presence wrapping around you like gravity. you didn’t move.

“you’re mine,” he said simply, his voice low, almost soft. “whatever this started as… it doesn’t change that.”

you met his eyes without flinching.

“then act like it.”

you stepped past him, your heels clicking down the hallway like a challenge.

he watched you go — and for the first time in days, he didn’t know whether to follow or fall harder.

the soft knock on the door came just as you were adjusting the strap of your black dress in front of the mirror. the fabric clung to your body like it had been molded for you, emphasizing every curve, every subtle sway of your hips. lips painted red, a delicate gold chain around your neck, hair styled effortlessly to frame your cheekbones—you were the picture of elegance. the kind of elegance that didn't ask for attention, but demanded it nonetheless. when you opened the door, yuta stood there, his dark eyes sweeping over you with an unreadable expression. the faintest smirk curled on his lips.

“you’re ready,” he said, his voice deep, smooth like aged whiskey.

you nodded. “always.”

it was the first time you stood beside him like that—visibly, publicly, as his wife. the police visit had been scheduled days ago, supposedly a routine check. they had heard whispers, rumors about illegal movement, weapons, maybe more. but when the door opened to reveal you—immaculate, poised, clean as paper—their tone shifted. and when they saw the documents, the legal marriage certificate, your name listed as the new owner of multiple boutiques and cosmetic shops around the city, they exchanged glances.

“mrs. nakamoto?” the inspector had asked, uncertain, skeptical even.

you nodded politely. “yes. is there a problem?”

he glanced at the paper again, then at yuta, who remained calm, arms crossed, watching the interaction in silence. eventually, they left. the marriage had erased all suspicion, at least for now. your spotless reputation had become a shield, and yuta had used it like a blade.

that night, as you stood alone on the engawa of the traditional house—the same one you were brought to the first time—watching the moon dip behind the clouds, something inside you felt hollow. it wasn’t about the marriage. it wasn’t about the danger. it was the way he hadn’t come home.

you didn’t want to admit it, but his absence gnawed at your nerves. the house felt too quiet, too still. the shadows stretched in strange ways. your heartbeat was louder than the wind rattling the trees. you remained near the front, robe tied tightly around your waist, sandal-clad feet tapping restlessly against the wooden floor.

a screech of tires shattered the silence.

your body tensed, instinctively stepping toward the door. “yuta?” you called out, voice unsure.

“don’t turn on the lights,” he growled from the darkness, his voice uneven. strained. almost guttural.

you froze, your breath caught. “what—what happened?”

his silhouette appeared under the dim light of the porch. he stumbled, one hand pressed hard to his side, the other braced against the wall. he was bleeding. thick, dark liquid was spreading across his shirt, staining it in ominous blotches.

“yuta—oh my god.” you rushed forward, catching him as he lost balance. your arms wrapped around him, struggling to hold up his weight. something warm and wet seeped through your robe, making your skin crawl.

“it’s fine—just... just a scratch,” he muttered, clearly lying.

“shut up,” you hissed. your fingers trembled as you pressed them against the open wound. blood poured out over your hands, slippery and terrifying. you couldn’t see clearly. your head spun. you were shaking, overwhelmed, but you weren’t going to let him die here.

you pulled off your robe, leaving yourself in nothing but your underwear, and pressed the fabric hard against his abdomen. “stay with me, do you hear me? stay the fuck with me.”

his eyes moved to you, barely focused. but they lingered. his bloodied fingers brushed your arm, slow, reverent. “you look like a damn goddess,” he whispered, his breath hitching.

“you’re delirious,” you snapped, voice cracking.

you bolted into his office, found the notebook with contacts, and dialed takuya with shaky fingers. “it’s bad,” you said as soon as he picked up. “he’s hurt—stabbed—bleeding. hurry, please.”

minutes later, engines roared into the driveway. several men stormed inside. one, enormous, bald and covered in tattoos, barked orders. “get him in the car. now!”

you stood frozen, blood staining your legs, your stomach, your hands. you hadn’t even realized you were crying until takuya’s hand cupped your shoulder. “he’s gonna be fine. it’s not his first time.”

your head snapped toward him, anger flashing through your tears. “what the fuck is that supposed to mean? like that makes it okay?”

he sighed. “you married a yakuza boss, sweetheart. this... this is the life.”

they carried yuta out on a stretcher, still conscious, his eyes locked on you until the car doors slammed shut.

you ran to your room, changed into the nearest jeans and a sweatshirt, your skin sticky, heart pounding, nerves frayed. you were supposed to be used to this. you weren’t. you never would be.

but you’d made a choice. and for better or worse, this was your world now.

“you’re not coming with us,” takuya said firmly, standing between you and the door like a wall. “we don’t know if it’s safe. the ones who did this could still be out there.”

you clenched your jaw. “i don’t care.”

he sighed, exasperated. “you should. if something happens to you, he’ll lose his fucking mind. he’s already half-dead—don’t give him another reason to bleed out.”

just then, another man stepped inside the house, tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a black coat soaked at the hem. his eyes flicked briefly to you—blood still crusted on your arms—before turning to takuya.

“send a team,” the man said coldly. “find the ones responsible. they laid hands on the boss—i want heads rolling before sunrise.”

your heart skipped. the temperature in the room dropped several degrees. these men didn’t play. and neither did you.

takuya stepped aside, distracted by his phone. in that split second, you slipped past him and out the door.

your legs carried you before your fear could stop you. you flagged the first car outside and ordered the driver to take you to the hospital. he hesitated at first, but the blood on your body, the tremble in your voice, and the fire in your eyes convinced him otherwise.

the ride felt endless. your thoughts spiraled. images of yuta, pale and breathless, leaning on you like he had nothing left to give. the way his blood soaked your robe. his whisper: you look like a damn goddess. you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to steady your breathing, but it only made you more aware of the ache blooming inside.

the hospital was surrounded—unmarked cars parked along the curb, men in black stationed near the entrance like statues. you walked past them, eyes forward, not daring to look weak. no one stopped you. maybe they recognized you. maybe they just knew better.

when you reached the emergency wing, takuya was already there. he turned sharply when he saw you, brows drawn tight.

“you don’t fucking listen.”

“and you don’t get to keep me away from him,” you snapped. “i’m his wife, remember?”

he hesitated.

“where is he?” you demanded.

after a long pause, he pointed down the hall.

room 304.

you stepped in quietly. the lights were dim, the room cold and too clean. yuta lay in the bed, shirtless, wrapped in gauze, an IV attached to his arm. bruises spread like ink under his skin, and the bandage around his abdomen was already faintly stained.

he looked up when he heard the door click. his lashes fluttered, expression softening as he saw you.

“you’re here.”

“of course i’m here,” you said, voice cracking. “i wasn’t going to let you go through this alone.”

his head rolled slightly on the pillow. “told you not to come.”

you approached slowly, sitting at the edge of the bed. your fingers brushed his, and his hand immediately gripped yours, tight, desperate.

“they’re looking for them,” you whispered. “the ones who did this.”

he hummed. “i figured.”

you stared at him, really stared. even beaten and bruised, he was still beautiful. painfully so. his lips were cracked, his hair damp with sweat, and yet when he looked at you like that—like you were the only light in the room—something shifted in your chest.

“you could’ve died,” you said, barely above a whisper.

“i didn’t.”

“you’re not invincible, yuta.”

his thumb traced your knuckle, slow and deliberate. “i’ve survived worse.”

“doesn’t mean i want to watch you do it again.”

he blinked slowly. “are you worried about me?”

you looked away, ashamed by how quickly your throat closed up. “of course i fucking am.”

a silence settled between you, charged and heavy. then, softly, he tugged your hand.

“come here.”

you hesitated, then shifted closer until you sat beside his torso. his free arm moved, gently pulling you down, guiding your head to his shoulder. you melted into him, careful of the bandages, heart thudding wildly in your chest.

“you smell like blood,” he murmured against your temple.

“your blood.”

he exhaled, a sound between a laugh and a groan. “you shouldn’t have come.”

“shut up,” you whispered. “i couldn’t stay away.”

his hand slid up your back, slow and warm, fingers curling lightly at the nape of your neck. it wasn’t sexual—not yet—but it was intimate in a way that made your skin burn.

“you’re shaking,” he said, voice low.

“i’m not,” you lied.

he tilted his head slightly, enough to catch your eyes. “you were scared.”

you didn’t deny it.

then, so softly you almost missed it, he said, “i’m sorry.”

it knocked the breath out of you. not just because it was rare, but because it sounded real. raw. like he meant it.

you buried your face in his neck, breathing in the scent of saline and blood and yuta. “just... don’t make me lose you.”

his fingers tightened against your spine. “you won’t.”

and for a long moment, neither of you spoke. you just lay there—his body battered, yours tense, your heartbeats syncing in the quiet. his touch grew bolder, fingertips tracing the line of your waist where the sweatshirt had ridden up. not enough to be indecent, just enough to remind you that you were both alive, still tethered to this moment.

his lips brushed your forehead.

“thank you,” he whispered. “for disobeying.”

the days passed slowly, quietly, like smoke curling in still air. yuta remained in the hospital, recovering from the attack—each morning his color improved, each night you still woke up drenched in cold sweat, the memory of his blood staining your hands refusing to leave you.

you visited him every day, sometimes for hours, sometimes just to bring him something sweet from the bakery he liked. he hated the hospital food. tastes like regret, he’d mumbled once, wincing at the scrambled eggs.

you would laugh. he liked hearing your laugh. said it sounded like it didn’t belong in a world like his. too soft. too clean.

on the third morning, you received a call from hitoshi.

“i know it’s sudden,” he said, voice crackling with low urgency, “but they need you for the ad. the set’s already built. we’re behind schedule.”

you hesitated, looking over your shoulder at the clock. 8:42 a.m. visiting hours started at nine.

“it’s the commercial,” he added, softer this time. “the one with the energy drink. the ‘neon burn’ campaign.”

you exhaled, one hand gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “i’ll be there.”

the shoot was loud, hectic, and full of neon lighting. they’d dressed you in a vibrant 80s-inspired athletic bodysuit—electric purple, turquoise, and hot pink, with high-cut sides. mesh leggings hugged your thighs, and scrunched leg warmers clung to your ankles. your hair was teased and pinned high, lips painted with a glossy coral shade, eyes framed by metallic blue shadow.

it was absurd.

and yet you killed it.

even with your heart split in two, you danced, posed, ran down the fake gym set and delivered your lines with energy that felt impossible to fake. the crew clapped. the director smiled. hitoshi looked almost proud.

but you heard them. behind the camera, behind the mirrors.

isn’t that the girl who married a nakamoto?

she’s still working? i thought she’d go into hiding after that shooting...

you didn’t flinch. not once. your back stayed straight, chin tilted, eyes cold and far away. you’d learned that from yuta—how to carry chaos like it was perfume on your skin.

when the shoot wrapped, you slid into hitoshi’s car, pulling off your earrings and tossing them into your bag.

“take me to the hospital,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue, but he didn’t hide the concern in his tone either.

“you keep walking into fire,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel. “one of these days, you’ll get burned.”

you turned to look out the window, slipping on your sunglasses. “then i guess i’ll burn.”

by the time you arrived at the hospital, the sun had reached its peak. you wore a soft beige set—trousers that hugged your hips, a cropped blazer, and low nude heels. your makeup was subtle, elegant, and your dark glasses concealed the weariness in your eyes.

no one stopped you. they knew you by now.

room 304.

you entered without knocking.

yuta was sitting up in bed, finishing the last bite of toast. he wore a plain black shirt, one of the ones you brought from home, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, bandages still visible underneath. he looked better. less pale. a little annoyed.

“what’s with the shades?” he asked, swallowing.

you took them off and placed them on the windowsill. “blinding lights. needed protection.”

he eyed you, amused. “you look like you walked out of a magazine.”

you shrugged. “it was the commercial shoot. energy drink. eighties gymcore fantasy.”

“so you wore... what, a fluorescent leotard?”

“and leg warmers. don’t forget the leg warmers.”

he smirked. “should’ve been there.”

you smiled faintly, then crossed the room, pulling the chair closer to his bed. he watched you in silence, a hand resting loosely on his stomach.

“you okay?” you asked softly.

“better,” he said. “doc says maybe two more days.”

you nodded, fingers curling slightly over your knees.

“you really went to work in the middle of all this?” he asked, voice low.

“i didn’t want to,” you admitted. “but i needed to remember i still exist outside of this. outside of... bleeding walls and bodyguards and hospital beds.”

he looked at you, really looked. something in his eyes flickered—guilt, maybe. or admiration.

“i heard the crew talking,” you continued. “they think i’m crazy. marrying into this family. being seen with your name wrapped around my finger.”

“they’re not wrong,” he muttered.

you reached into your purse, pulling out a folded napkin. “i brought you something.”

he raised an eyebrow.

you handed him a pastry, soft and still warm. almond filling. his favorite.

“see?” you said, a little teasing. “not a complete mistake.”

he chuckled, biting into it. his shoulders relaxed. for a moment, he looked like any other man—wounded but human, soft around the edges.

“i missed this,” he said suddenly, voice quieter. “us. when it’s... normal.”

“this isn’t normal,” you whispered, eyes flicking to the IV, to the faint red stains on the gauze at his waist.

“no,” he agreed. “but it’s ours.”

you felt something catch in your chest.

“you scared me, yuta,” you said. “that night. i thought—i thought you were going to die in my arms.”

he swallowed. “i know.”

you reached for his hand. he let you.

“and it made me realize... it’s not just about the blood. or the danger. it’s you. it’s always been you.”

he stared at you for a long time, as if trying to memorize your face in this moment—sunlight casting gold along your cheekbones, shadows pooling at your collarbone.

“you were shaking,” he whispered, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “you wrapped your robe around me like it was the only thing holding me together.”

“it was.”

he leaned forward, slow, careful. his face inches from yours.

“i’ve had men take bullets for me. i’ve had people beg to die in my name. but no one’s ever looked at me the way you did that night.”

you exhaled shakily, heart hammering.

“how did i look at you?” you asked.

“like i was worth saving.”

you swallowed hard.

his fingers slid under your chin, tilting your face toward him. you saw the softness in his gaze war with the fire in his touch, that unspoken hunger blooming between you like a bruise. his lips brushed yours—not quite a kiss, not yet—but the weight of it stole the air from your lungs.

“i’m not letting you go,” he whispered. “not now. not after that.”

you didn’t reply.

you didn’t need to.

you just leaned in, lips brushing his again, as if sealing a quiet, dangerous promise.

he came home just as the cicadas began their evening song, the sky burning orange behind the high walls of the estate.

the front gates creaked open, and the commands were already lined up along the stone path, kneeling, backs straight, heads bowed in perfect silence.

the black car door opened. yuta stepped out slowly, his movements still deliberate, recovering. he wore a dark yukata, fabric loose at the collar, bandages still hidden beneath the folds. the sound of his geta against the stone echoed like a heartbeat.

“welcome home, young master,” they murmured in unison.

one of the higher officers stepped forward. “the men who orchestrated the attack have been dealt with. the one responsible… was eliminated last night.”

yuta said nothing at first. his eyes closed, head dipping just slightly, as if acknowledging not just the words but the weight of everything they carried.

you watched from the genkan, leaning lightly against the doorframe, arms crossed. your orange summer dress caught the dying light, soft fabric clinging to the curve of your hips, fluttering just below your knees. your hair was down, loose and warm like the air, and you felt his gaze linger on you even through his exhaustion.

you didn’t say anything. neither did he.

you didn’t have to.

he passed by you slowly, the smell of sandalwood and blood and quiet victory still clinging to him.

the house returned to stillness once he disappeared down the hall toward his room.

later, you stood barefoot in the kitchen, elbows propped on the counter, chatting aimlessly with the chef. he was old, bored, fond of telling stories that made no sense and pretending to hate you even though you knew he liked your company.

“you’re hovering again,” he muttered, chopping scallions. “what, worried i’ll poison him?”

“i just want it done right.”

“it is done right.”

“then let me take it.”

“you don’t need to—”

“he’s my husband,” you said sharply, fingers curling around the edge of the counter. “i’ll take it.”

he blinked at you, then snorted. “possessive little thing.”

“i’m just not decorative,” you said, grabbing the tray.

on the wooden surface, you laid everything carefully: a bowl of miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables, and a small porcelain cup of green tea. nothing too heavy—he still hadn’t regained all his strength. you added a folded cloth napkin and a pair of dark chopsticks.

the corridor was quiet when you made your way toward his room. the sliding door stood closed, warm light flickering through the paper panels. a couple of his men were stationed outside, standing stiff as statues. they glanced at you as you knelt gently before the door.

“yuta” you said softly. “i’m coming in.”

their eyes widened slightly—you hadn’t waited for permission.

inside, yuta sat reclined on his futon, his yukata slightly loosened, revealing the smooth, pale line of his collarbone. his head rested on his hand, elbow propped on a cushion. he was absently tossing a temari ball into the air and catching it with lazy precision, the silk threads glinting in the warm lamplight.

when you entered, he caught the ball midair and raised a brow.

“is this what i get for nearly dying?” he said, voice rough but amused. “a pretty wife and a home-cooked meal?”

you stood, holding the tray. “don’t get used to it.”

“but i like this version of you.”

“the barefoot maid version?”

“the worried wife version.”

you walked over and set the tray in front of him. “you’ll be serving yourself the moment you can stand without wobbling.”

he chuckled low in his chest. “you’re all thorns tonight.”

you sat beside him on the tatami, tucking your legs under your body. he reached for the bowl of soup, pausing to inhale the scent.

“this smells like my mother’s,” he murmured.

you looked over. “really?”

“mm. not exact. hers was saltier. but close enough that it stings.”

your voice softened. “was she strict?”

he took a sip of tea before answering. “no. not with me. she was tired by the time i came along. my sister got most of her anger. i got the leftovers.”

“you don’t talk about them much,” you said, careful not to pry.

he rested the cup on the tray. “there’s not much to say. my parents are gone. my sister left years ago. changed her name. ran away from the family.”

“where did she go?”

“fukushima, maybe. i’m not sure anymore. she hasn’t contacted me since…” he paused. “six years.”

you went quiet. the weight of that silence filled the room, not heavy—but sharp, like the moment before a storm.

“sorry,” you said. “i didn’t mean to—”

“it doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, glancing at you. “i don’t need her.”

he picked up a piece of fish, chewing slowly before he added, “i have you now.”

you looked at him. his voice wasn’t teasing. there was no smirk, no game behind his words. just truth.

you smiled, faint but genuine. “we’re not really a family though, are we?”

he didn’t flinch.

“maybe not yet,” he said. “but marriages evolve. even the fake ones.”

you scoffed lightly, looking away. “you really think this can become something real?”

he shrugged, finishing his tea. “i’ve seen stranger things.”

you let the quiet settle between you again. somewhere outside, a wind chime jingled in the warm breeze.

you stood, brushing your dress down over your thighs. “i’ll let you rest.”

“you could stay.”

you looked over your shoulder.

he wasn’t smiling now.

just watching you, the temari ball still between his fingers.

“stay,” he repeated, softer. “we don’t have to talk. just sit.”

you hesitated, then walked back and sat near his futon, close enough that his hand brushed against the hem of your dress.

he didn’t move it.

neither did you.

you stayed like that until the tea cooled, until his breath evened out into sleep, until you felt the strange ache of something tender begin to bloom—soft, patient, dangerous.

you didn’t dare give it a name.

not yet.

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r3starttt · 7 months ago

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BEHAVE

PAIRING: Caitlyn Kiramman x reader

SUMMARY: Being her controversial young girlfriend but she's sooo mean about it.

CW: Mean Caitlyn. fingering and public sex if u squint. A mix of Cait act 1 and after act 3 because that eye patch makes her so hot.

A/N: this was a headcanon but it's too long so, enjoy(? also I apologize because this is very self indulgent and maybe it doesn't feel like it's Caitlyn at all but who cares!

TAGLIST: @lewd-alien @greysontheidiot @jolyne @sapphic-ovaries @tlouloser @prwttiestbunny @visobsession @thesevi0lentdelights @lvlymicha @stickycherritart @patronagrona @halle5s @usuck @thalchmy @lovelyy-moonlight @fakevalentine

* first post of the year!!!! ahhhh praying I can write so much more

* PART TWO

"Do you truly believe I wouldn’t notice?" Caitlyn’s voice brushed against your ear, a velvet whisper laced with reproach as her hands rested on your shoulders. She guided you through the sea of silk gowns and tailored suits, her touch light yet insistent. The weight of her name—Kiramman—still carried its unyielding responsibilities. These endless soirées, gilded in pretension, were as much a part of her world as the air she breathed.

You hummed in acknowledgment, your brow furrowing as the opulent liquor in your glass shimmered with each step. The crystal caught the golden glow of chandeliers, creating ripples of light that danced with the cadence of your movements.

"I distinctly recall telling you not to speak to her," Caitlyn said, her voice low but firm, a melody of restrained fury and high-society decorum. And there it was—why she was upset. Her words, precise as a scalpel, made the realization cut deeper.

Jealousy. It wasn’t the first time.

She was a woman molded by singularity, the only child of a family whose legacy loomed large. Years of hard work and calculated poise had shaped her, yet even Caitlyn Kiramman wasn’t immune to the corrosive sting of possessiveness. She had drawn comfort from women, and in doing so, learned too much about how easily temptation could unravel the strongest resolves. She knew what could happen when the wrong hands reached for what they desired.

"And I didn’t," you replied, your tone measured but pointed as you placed emphasis on the pronoun. "She spoke to me."

But you knew the defense was weak, the excuse thin. It wasn’t about who initiated the conversation—it was about the way you let it linger, the playful barbs you traded in defiance of Caitlyn’s clear wishes.

"Look at me."

She halted, steering you into a quiet corner where the hallway stood mostly empty save for the occasional passing silhouette. Her grip shifted to your chin, blue-painted nails biting just enough to demand your attention. Tilting your face upward, her single piercing eye—framed by the violet eyepatch that gleamed under the estate’s polished lighting—locked onto yours.

"That woman," Caitlyn said, her tone laced with hate, "will go to any lengths to provoke me. She is petty, immature, and cannot tolerate the fact that I chose you." The emphasis on you was punctuated with a fleeting brush of her thumb along your cheek.

"And why is that?" you countered, tilting your head slightly, an air of defiance laced in your words. You knew the unspoken truths hidden in her gaze, the ghosts of her past lovers lingering in her quiet. You weren’t the first to occupy her bed, but you intended to be the last. Still, the question hung in the air, daring her to acknowledge the vulnerability that simmered beneath her jealousy.

Her posture shifted, the tension momentarily releasing as she let go of your face, her hands finding yours. "Behave," she murmured, her voice carrying a polished warn. "You’re not some foolish girl in need of coddling , are you? Didn’t you insist I treat you like a grown woman and not—what was it?—a 'sweet indulgence,' like those other girls you claim I once entertained?"

Sharp, clever, and unrelenting , Caitlyn always knew how to turn the blade back on you, her wit as honed as the rifle she wielded with such precision.

"I’m merely observing," you replied with a shrug, feigning indifference though the sting of her words lingered. "You seem awfully afraid of some women. Almost as though you know them too well."

Her laugh was soft, almost a scoff, but her grip on your waist tightened. Caitlyn wasn’t one to retreat. Instead, she seized the moment, her free hand taking your glass and setting it on a side table near the staircase alongside her own. Without a word, she led you upward.

The quiet intimacy of the stairwell was a stark contrast to the party below. The golden light softened as you ascended, and with each step, the air between you grew heavier, thick with the unsaid.

Your heels echoed against the polished marble, mirroring hers as you followed her onto one of the estate’s many balconies. Caitlyn left the balcony door ajar, the muffled hum of the soirée seeping through like a distant murmur.

Her lips grazed the delicate curve of your neck, warm and insistent. "Do you know what I used to do?" she murmured, her voice low-- confessional. Her hands found your waist, steadying you as though she feared you might falter under the weight of her words.

"I would take them home," she began, her tone as smooth as the feel of her hands on your skin. Her fingers tightened ever so slightly, a possessive gesture had you folding already. "I would ask about their lives, their dreams... enough to slip beneath their guard."

Her lips traveled upward, brushing the corner of your jaw, then your cheek, before stopping just next to your ear. "And then," she continued, her voice a breath against your skin, "I would lean in, cup their necks, let my gaze linger on their lips... kiss them."

As the words left her mouth, she mirrored the act with you. Her fingers glided to the nape of your neck, holding you firm, her lips capturing yours with a deliberate fervor. The kiss was unhurried yet commanding, a declaration rather than a question.

"I would undo their clothes, piece by piece, savoring the soft of their skins." Her hands traveled down, tracing the contours of your frame with reverence until her fingers found the hem of your dress. Slowly, she gathered the fabric, the rustle of it rising in harmony with the quickening beat of your heart.

"I would caress their thighs," she continued, her voice dropping with promise. Her hand slid beneath the folds of your dress. She paused there, letting the silence be filled with the distant hum of the party behind you.

Her gaze met yours again, piercing. She pressed her knee in between your legs, her fingers making small circles over your clothed clit, feeling the fabric damp under her touch. A smile spread on her face, almost a mocking laugh escaping her as her forehead leaned closer to your own. "Yeah? feels good, doesn't it?" Her breath hovering over your lips before you nodded, opening your lips further to try and get a kiss she denied.

"I would love to feel how wet they got... listening those whimpers and the many obscenities spilling through such pretty lips." Her other hand went behind your waist, digging her fingers into you.

Your head tilted down as you got pressed into the railing. Worried that someone might see.

It wouldn't be new to them. Cailtyn had been caught endless times by those working for her or around her- and she couldn't care less. Making her girls go louder each time.

"I loved to hear how they pronounced my name in between gasps." Her wet lips pressed another kiss into your neck. Her hand guiding your hips to move against her leg as she slid her fingers up and down your covered slit.

You held behind onto the railing, using it to impulse your body as you wished against her fingers and her body and just enjoy yourself while using her. Your lips pressed too tightly to not let any sound out.

Your eyebrows furrowed to a point it hurt. Caitlyn made you mad, she knew how to put you in your place every single time.

"Be a good girl and let me hear you, love." She pressed herself closer to you again, her fingers busy with your wet. She had minutes that felt endless just rubbing at your clit over your clothes, providing you the friction of her knee against your cunt or her fingers over your hole- teasing to pull your panties aside and fuck you-- But that was it.

And maybe all of it had you falling for her one last time. Opening your lips to moan and whimper against her own. She wanted the show and if she asked so nicely why would you deny her?

But just as you felt like maybe there could be a way to convince her to fuck you like you wanted, she stopped. It was almost too abruptly it hurt.

"Go to the bathroom and compose yourself," Caitlyn instructed. Her grip tightened on your chin, tilting your face upward with a practiced ease that left little room to argument. The intensity in her eyes was an unspoken demand.

"I will not endure the embarrassment of your behavior tonight." The sharp edge of her accent making each syllable bite. Her fingers pressed into your cheeks, just enough to remind you of her control, her authority over this moment. "Your age is already... challenging for me. Do not make me regret this, love. Do you understand?"

You nodded, the motion awkward under the restraint of her hand. A wave of heat prickled at the corners of your eyes, tears threatening to spill, not from pain but from the raw sting of her words. Your voice came out small, broken, as though the very air had been stolen from your lungs.

"I'm sorry," you murmured an apology barely audible, stifled by the weight of her fingers against your face.

"Don't apologize," she snapped, the command as firm as it was cold. Her gaze bore into yours, cutting through your composure. "Just do as I ask. Prove to me that you're capable of being what I need you to be."

Her lips hovered dangerously close to yours, her breath warm, intimate, yet void of comfort. "Show me you're worth it-" She paused to make it clear, it was a warn if not a threat. "And never, ever speak to her again. Not a word, not a glance. Or it's over. Is that clear?"

There was no room for negotiation, no softness to temper her gaze. Her words were final. Like anything else around her, it was an unspoken contract you had no choice but to sign.

#A𝕽𝐂𝐇𝖎V𝕰 ( arcane )#( 𝕽 𝜊S.mut )#caitlyn x reader #caitlyn x you #caitlyn x y/n #caitlyn league of legends #league of legends caitlyn #caitlyn smut #caitlyn kiramman x reader #caitlyn arcane #caitlyn kiramman x you #caitlyn kiramman smut #arcane x reader #arcane x you #arcane x y/n #arcane x female reader #caitlyn x fem reader #arcane smut

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wistful-cheri · 6 months ago

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Satoru is soooo friends to lover

tysm for the support, i want to start writing other characters so lmk who i should write! ps. ignore any typos :/

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just think about it, that disgusting slow burn, like as you gradually grow with him. he knows you like the back of hand, he knows you.

he knows when youre upset, or when youre uncomfortable because you bite the inside of your cheek, and your eyebrows slightly furrow.

and he knows when he should step up and back down. He'll let you have your space if you ask for it but he also knows you need someone to lean on, and if thats hititng his chest angrily, crying on his shoulder, ranting your ass off, hell be there.

Satoru took a liking to you because, for once in his life, someone saw him. Not the prodigy, not the heir to the Gojo legacy—just Satoru, your best friend.

you never treated him any differently, even when everyone else put him on a pedestal. You were the one person who kept him grounded, and he didn’t even realize when he started falling for you.

maybe it was the way you’d laugh at his stupid jokes, or the way you’d roll your eyes at his antics but still always have his back. Maybe it was the way you challenged him, called him out when no one else dared to. Or maybe it was just… you.

and how could you not fall for him, too? He’s Satoru, your best friend who defends you no matter what, who lets you see parts of him no one else does. The one who’d do anything for you—even if you told him to jump off a cliff, he’d probably ask, “How high?”

but there’s always been this line between you, this unspoken agreement to keep things platonic. Until… it starts to crack.

it starts with the little things—like the way his jaw tightens when you talk about your dates, or how he goes suspiciously quiet when you get dolled up for some guy he already knows is a waste of your time. He hates seeing you walk out the door, knowing the night will only end with you disappointed yet again.

and when you come storming back, heels in hand, muttering, “You would not believe the nerve this guy had,” Gojo’s sitting on the couch, grinning like he knew it all along. Of course he did. The guy probably asked to split the bill or talked about himself the whole night. Gojo always hated the way these guys never saw you the way he did.

because if you were on a date with him, you wouldn’t need to bring a purse. He wouldn’t even let you think about paying. He’d take care of everything, because he’s just that guy.

but he knows he can’t—he shouldn’t. It’s a line he’s not supposed to cross, no matter how badly he wants to.

and yet… he catches himself thinking about the way your eyes light up when you look at him. Those big, doe eyes that make his heart stutter in his chest.

he hates when you’re mad at him, but at the same time, you look so cute when you’re all fired up that he can’t help but push your buttons, just to see you pout.

he'll beg for your forgiveness afterward, of course, but there’s a part of him that loves how your attention is all on him, even if it’s because you’re annoyed.

his feelings are a fragile balance, always sitting just at the edge of his tongue.

it only took one moment—one crack—and it all spilled out. He told you everything. How much you mean to him, how the thought of a life without you is unbearable.

and now that you’re officially his girlfriend, it’s like a dam has broken. He wants to spend every waking moment with you, like he needs you to fill his lungs, his thoughts, his everything. He needs you bad.

and, it’s no surprise to anyone—not Shoko, not Geto, not Nanami. They all saw it coming from a mile away. Everyone knew. Everyone but you.

#gojou satoru x reader #gojo satoru #jujutsu gojo #jjk gojo #jjk modern au #jjk x reader #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen #gojo saturo #gojo x reader #jjk satoru #gojo fluff #satoru fluff

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zelda-of-hyrule-tloz · 1 year ago

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OMG I LOVE 💕 One of the best Zora OCs I've seen!!!

Yall like some LOZ oc's???

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colouredbyd · 2 months ago

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Grimmauld: The House That Buried Its Children & The Ones Who Stay

brother!sirius black x fem!black!reader (centered) , james potter x fem!reader

synopsis: within the ancient and noble House of Black, where shadows cling like whispered memories, the story of its heirs unfolds — bound by blood, silence, and a past that never lets go. this is the quiet tragedy of a family built on legacy and expectation, the tale of three siblings — Sirius, Regulus, and you — whose lives were shaped by the name Black and forever haunted by the weight it bore.

cw: grief, trauma, loss of family, sibling conflict, secret romance, emotional and psychological distress, neglect, abuse, war, death, sacrifice, PTSD, intense emotional themes, bittersweet romance, legacy burdens, depression, death, very minor brief hints of suicide, forced marriages, and mourning. (timelines aren't canon compliant)

w/c: 13k (what can i say, the Black trauma is very detailed and long)

a/n: this is probably the best thing i’ve written — maybe the best i ever will — and i won’t apologize for the angst <3

masterlist

1978

It is raining the night Sirius leaves.

Not the kind of rain that arrives with spectacle and fury. Not the dramatic sort that rips through the clouds like a wound or makes the house tremble with thunder’s weight.

But a quieter sorrow. A gentle and ceaseless drizzle that feels older than memory, as if it began long before the sky turned grey and will linger long after the world forgets what it means to be dry, to be warm, to be whole.

Grimmauld Place breathes in that rain like it knows what’s coming, like it has always known, and the halls are colder than they’ve ever been. Not because the hearth has gone dark or the embers have died, but because something unseen is curling into ash in the walls. Something made of shared secrets and childhood echoes and the paper-thin thread of love that once bound a family, now fraying with every breath, every step, every silence.

There is no shouting now. Not anymore. Not since the voices collapsed into exhaustion, into finality.

And even though it might have been an hour ago or maybe two, or maybe longer than that, the house still hums with it, still remembers the shape of the words, the violence of the vowels, your mother’s voice cutting through the air like something sacred and profane all at once—a blade you’ve heard so many times your bones flinch on instinct, and your ears have begun to confuse cruelty with comfort, with home, with love.

You sit on the stairs, knees drawn up and head pressed to the banister, half-swallowed by shadows like the house is trying to hide you or keep you from breaking, and you listen even though it hurts. Listen because it’s the only way you know how to say goodbye without saying it, without naming it.

And down the corridor, your mother’s voice rises again, shrill and bitter and full of rot. But Sirius does not raise his voice in return. Not tonight. Not this time. And that silence is worse than any screaming. That silence is a goodbye carved in stone. It is a decision made in a place too deep for you to reach.

You do not know where Regulus is. Only that he is not here. Not in this moment that has changed everything. And maybe that’s his gift—to disappear when it matters most, to tuck himself into corners and shadows and silences so precisely that not even grief can find him.

Maybe he is in the library with the door shut and the curtains drawn, pretending that thunder doesn’t exist and neither does rain. Maybe he is curled so tightly into himself that to unfold him would be to shatter him completely.

But you are not Regulus. You never were. And silence does not fit in your mouth the way it fits in his—soft and seamless and sharp. You are not good at pretending you don’t feel the world falling apart around you. You are not good at swallowing the scream that’s lodged in your throat or the ache that is blooming beneath your ribs like something alive and vengeful and unspoken.

You are not good at pretending you don’t care.

And tonight, as the rain keeps falling and the house holds its breath and Sirius walks away without looking back, you feel something in you break in the exact shape of him.

You rise when you hear the trunk click shut. You move before you think, your bare feet slipping across the floor as if your body already knows it has to chase him before your mind catches up.

You don’t remember crossing the corridor, only the way your breath falters when you see him at the door—one hand on the handle, the other curled tight around the strap of his bag.

His hair is damp with sweat or maybe rain, eyes bright with something that is not joy, not quite sorrow either, more like finality, like he’s standing on the edge of something and has already decided to jump.

“Sirius,” you breathe, and the name comes out small and frightened, like it used to when you were six and couldn’t fall asleep without his hand wrapped around yours.

He turns, and for a moment you almost forget how to speak.

“Don’t,” you say, and your voice cracks halfway through. “Please don’t go.”

“I have to,” he says, gentle but firm, like he’s already rehearsed it, like he’s already said goodbye to you in his head.

“No you don’t,” you say, stepping closer, arms trembling now. “You don’t have to leave me, Sirius, please. You can stay. We can fix it, I’ll talk to her, I’ll try harder, I swear I’ll—”

“You can’t fix this,” he interrupts, and his voice is rough around the edges, like it’s been scraping against his own ribs. “You shouldn’t even be trying. None of this is your fault.”

Your hands are shaking now, reaching out without permission, fingers grasping for something to hold on to, something steady in a world that’s coming undone.

“But you’re my brother,” you whisper, and your voice breaks entirely, like it’s never learned how to carry this kind of goodbye. “You’re my favourite person in the world. You always were.”

“I know,” he says, and this time his voice shakes too. He drops his bag. Takes a step toward you. “You were mine too. You never had to earn that.”

You want to laugh, or fall to your knees. “So don’t go.”

“I have to,” he murmurs, but softer now, like he’s hoping you won’t shatter if he says it gently enough. “I’ve stayed for as long as I could. But staying... it’s not living anymore.”

“But I need you,” you say, almost like a child, almost like a prayer. “You’re the one who made it bearable. You’re the reason I could stay. If you go—Sirius, if you go, I don’t know who I’ll be without you.”

He’s closer now, so close you can see the shine in his eyes and the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, like he’s trying not to fall apart.

Then he’s kneeling in front of you, as if to make the leaving softer. As if to make sure you remember his face from this angle too.

“You’ll still be you,” he says, and his hands come up to cradle your face, as if he could hold all the years you’ve shared between his palms.

His thumbs brush the tears from your cheeks, slow and reverent. “You’ll still have the stars in you. You’ll still sing in the morning when you think no one’s listening. You’ll still make Regulus eat when he forgets. You’ll still be light, even here.”

Your lip trembles. “I don’t want to be light. I just want you.”

“I know,” he says again, and this time it sounds like it hurts. “I want you too. But I can’t stay. Not when staying is killing me.”

You press your forehead to his, tears dripping between you, breath shared like it used to be when the world was smaller and kinder.

Sirius’s breath hitches. He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, just like he used to when you were children afraid of thunder.

For a moment, you are six again, hiding under blankets while he told you stories about stars and carved tiny moons into the wood of the headboard. For a moment, there is no family name, no blood purity, no war waiting at the doorstep. Only the brother you loved first.

“Take care of Regulus,” he whispers, voice like wind through a dying tree. “He’s going to need you. Even if he doesn’t know how to ask for it. Even if he pretends he doesn’t want you near.”

“He hates me,” you say, and it stings because part of you believes it. “We don’t talk anymore. We’re twins but we’re strangers.”

“Then love him anyway,” Sirius says, pulling back just enough to look at you again. “Because this house is going to eat him alive. And you’re the only one left who can remind him what a soul is.”

“No,” you say, stepping forward. “No. You can stay. Please. I’ll—I’ll talk to Mother. I’ll make her stop. You don’t have to leave me, Sirius. Not you. Not you too.”

He shakes his head, and for a moment something in his eyes breaks, softens, just slightly, but then it’s gone again and his mouth sets into that line you’ve come to dread—the one that means he’s already decided.

“She’s never going to stop,” he says, voice low and bitter. “She doesn’t know how. This house will never stop. And you—you don’t understand, you think this is just noise, but it’s not, it’s poison, and it’s been inside us since the day we were born.”

You don’t realize you’re crying until he lifts a hand to brush your tears away, gentle like always, like you’re still little and he’s still the one who could fix things just by being there. “I want you to stay,” you whisper. “You’re my brother. You’re the one person I—”

Your voice breaks, and you fold forward, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt like if you hold tight enough, he won’t go.

“You’re the one person I feel safe with.”

Sirius exhales sharply, and for a second you think maybe—maybe—he’s going to change his mind. That he’ll sit down, put the bag away, crawl back into the twin bed down the hall and wait for morning. But instead he presses a kiss to the top of your head, slow and lingering.

“You were my home long before I knew what that meant,” he says quietly. “But I can’t live in a place that only wants to break me.”

“I don’t care about the house,” you cry. “I just care about you.”

“I know,” he says, and his hands are trembling now too. “That’s why I have to go. Before I forget who I am. Before I become what they want.”

You look at him and realize this is the last time he’ll ever be your brother here. The last time he’ll be Sirius Black of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. After this, he’ll belong to somewhere else. To someone else.

And still—still—you whisper, “Don’t go.”

He closes his eyes. And this time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

He just reaches for the trunk, fingers curling around the handle like it’s an anchor, like if he doesn’t hold on he might shatter entirely. And then he turns, and he walks. Like he’s already gone.

You stumble after him, barefoot and unraveling, your voice rising into something feral, something half-child, half-grief.

“Sirius, please—don’t do this. Don’t go. You can’t leave me here. Not with them. Not alone.” The words come out wrong, cracked and too loud, but you don’t care.

You’d burn yourself down to keep him in this hallway if it meant he’d stay. You reach for him — just his sleeve, his hand, anything — but the world shifts.

You don’t know if it’s the mist curling under the door or your own shaking limbs, but your feet slide out from under you. The marble rushes up and meets you with no softness at all.

Your knees hit first, a dull, ugly sound echoing through the corridor. Then your palms, scraping raw against the cold. A flare of pain licks up your legs and into your chest, sharp and immediate — but not worse than the ache already blooming beneath your ribs.

Blood beads along your skin, tiny red betrayals of how fragile you are. You cry out before you can stop it, a startled, broken sound. Not for the fall, but for what’s walking away.

That’s when he turns. When he finally looks.

His eyes find you — crumpled on the floor, bloodied and shaking, your face wet with tears you can’t seem to stop. For the space of a single breath, he doesn’t move. And you see it then — the boy he used to be. The boy who held your hand through thunderstorms. The boy who carved moons into your bedframe because you were scared of the dark. The boy who always came back for you.

For a moment, just one, he looks like he might come back again. Like he might run to you, drop everything, fall to his knees and pull you into his arms and promise you the world won’t win. That he won’t let it. That he won’t let them.

But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t run back. He doesn’t kneel beside you and press his forehead to yours. He doesn’t reach for your hands or wipe the blood from your knees. He only stands there, soaked in silence, the storm rising behind him like the breath of something ancient and cruel. His mouth opens, just barely, and the words come soft and weightless, as if he already knows they won’t be enough.

“I’m sorry.”

Then the door yawns wide and swallows him whole.

Rain pours in, cold and relentless. It soaks the marble, the hem of your nightclothes, the trembling shell of your body. You don’t rise. You don’t call his name again. You crawl. Fingertips dragging against the stone, knees splitting open with every inch, the sting lost beneath the throb of something deeper. You reach the threshold on hands and knees, soaked and shaking, and watch the place where he used to be.

You wait for him to turn back. To look over his shoulder. To see you the way he always used to, like you were the only part of this house worth saving. You wait for the sound of footsteps, for the thud of the trunk being dropped, for the whisper of his voice promising that he didn’t mean it.

That he’s still your brother. That he’ll stay.

But the silence is complete. And he is already gone.

You kneel there as the blood from your knees stains the rainwater pink, as the storm creeps into the house, into your lungs, into your bones.

You stay until the cold makes you numb and your arms are too tired to hold you upright. You stay because you do not know where else to go. Because nothing feels real anymore, except for the way your chest keeps breaking open in slow, quiet pieces.

You are thirteen years old, and you have never known this kind of silence. Not even in the dead of night. Not even in your mother’s shadow. You will remember this silence for the rest of your life. You will carry it like a second skin, like a wound that never quite closes.

That night, you will wash the blood from your knees in water gone lukewarm.

You will not cry again. Not then. Not in front of the mirror. Not where anyone can see. But the ache will settle into your spine, deep and wordless, and it will never let you go.

You will grow into silence like it’s the only thing that ever wanted you. You will wear it like a second skin, learn its contours, let it fill the spaces where love used to live.

You will master the art of stillness, of holding your breath when you want to scream, of smiling when your throat burns with grief. You will stop reaching for people who walk away. You will become so good at pretending you don’t need anyone that even you begin to believe it.

You will teach yourself to cry only behind locked doors. You will carry sorrow in your ribs like a splinter, sharp and invisible, a secret that hums when it rains. You will speak softly and laugh rarely and wonder, always, if you are too much or not enough.

You will look for Sirius in the curve of strangers’ hands, in the way someone tilts their head when they listen, in every boy who calls you brave without knowing why. But no one will ever be quite him. No one will ever hold your name like it’s sacred.

You never spoke to Sirius again.

Not after that night. Not after the front door of Grimmauld Place slammed like the end of the world. Not after your knees stopped bleeding and your voice forgot how to say his name without splintering.

Not after you wrote that letter two weeks later, alone in the dark, words trembling like a heartbeat you couldn’t hold still. You didn’t send it. You couldn’t. So you folded it and slipped it into the lining of your trunk, where it still waits.

1981

You are sixteen now.

You wear Slytherin green like silk-wrapped steel and walk the halls like the castle owes you something. Your mother calls you her softer one, the quiet twin, but there is nothing soft left in you. Not really.

Not after everything you’ve learned about silence and what it costs. You’ve mastered the art of holding your breath, of keeping your voice still, of curling your fingers into fists behind your back. Regulus watches you sometimes like he almost remembers who you used to be. But you don’t look back.

And yet here you are — beneath the Quidditch stands at midnight, with your tie crooked and your shirt coming undone, with James Potter’s hands at your waist and his mouth pressed to your throat like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

You shouldn’t be here. Not with him. Not with someone who makes the world feel brighter than you know how to bear. But your hands won’t listen. They tangle in his hair, slide over his jaw, trace the freckles across his shoulder where his sleeves are rolled, where his skin is warm and golden and too much.

“Someone will see us,” you whisper, the words barely formed, lost against the breath between you.

James just smiles, that crooked, reckless smile that should not feel like safety. “Let them.”

Your heart stutters. He always does this. Knocks the wind out of you with nothing but his grin and the impossible tenderness in his eyes.

“You Gryffindors are all the same,” you murmur, but the words are an echo, stripped of bite.

“And you Blacks are all trouble,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like a warning. It sounds like a promise. Like worship.

His fingers brush your hair behind your ear, soft, reverent, and you freeze for half a second. Not because you want to pull away. Because you don’t. Because when he touches you like that, something in you splinters. Something buried and locked.

You look at him, and he’s still there — real, impossibly real — and you don’t know how this happened. How someone like him ended up here, with someone like you. How he looks at you like you’re not something broken.

And still, you stay. Still, you let him touch you. Because no one else knows you like this. Because with him, you are not a name or a legacy or a weapon in the making.

James doesn’t ask why. He never asks. Maybe that’s why you keep coming back — because he touches you like you’re not broken, like you’re not a Black, like your blood isn’t dripping with secrets that could ruin everything it touches.

He doesn’t flinch when you go quiet. Doesn’t fill the silence with questions or pity. He just waits. Steady. Warm. Like he has all the time in the world to watch you come undone and still choose you after.

“Do you ever think about what would happen if your brother found out?” he asks, his voice low, careful. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just a wondering.

You scoff, sharp and breathless. “Which one?”

He looks at you then, really looks — the way he always does when you try to be cruel and fail. His eyes never waver. “Both.”

You don’t answer.

Because the truth is, you do think about it. You think about it more than you want to. You think about Sirius finding out and looking at you like you’ve become someone else, someone dangerous, someone he can’t save. You think about Regulus finding out and looking at James like he’s something to destroy. A danger. A betrayal. A boy who dared to love the wrong part of you.

Sometimes you think about dying before they ever find out. That would be easier. Cleaner. You could keep this — this secret softness, this impossible thing — untouched by consequence.

James shifts closer, and when he speaks again, it’s not words, not really. It’s warmth. It’s the space between heartbeats. “You’re not your family, you know.”

The sentence cracks something open. You swallow around it. The air tastes like smoke. Like ash.

“Yes, I am,” you say. Quiet. Final. “That’s the problem.”

But you kiss him anyway.

You kiss him like it’s a prayer with no god left to hear it, like it’s the last thing keeping you tethered to the world.

Because here, under the stands, in the dark, with his mouth on yours and his hands at your waist, you are not a name or a legacy or a shadow waiting to fall. You are not a sister, not a secret, not a danger.

You are a girl. Wanting. Wanted.

His fingers thread through your hair, and you let him. You let him touch you like you’re real. Like you matter. Like he doesn’t see the ruin clinging to your bones or the storm sitting in your chest waiting to tear everything down.

And that’s enough. It’s not safe. It’s not smart. It’s not forever.

You always know when he is near.

The air changes first — grows thin, almost reverent, like the world itself remembers. Like the stone corridors remember. Like the dust in the windowpanes and the cracks in the floor still carry his name beneath them.

The sound softens, dims around him. Laughter hushes. Footsteps falter. It’s the kind of silence that used to fall over you both when you stayed up too late, whispering stories by the fire, your shadows dancing on the walls like they had lives of their own.

There was a time when his presence meant warmth. Hearth-smoke and moth-eaten blankets. Winter pressed against the glass while you curled into each other like the last two embers in the world. He would talk about stars — draw them with his voice, sketch them in the dark with words that made you believe escape was possible, that the night sky could make you brave. You would fall asleep to the rhythm of his breathing and wake to find his hand still wrapped around yours.

But all of that is gone now.

Now there is only stone beneath your feet and a bone-deep cold that doesn’t leave you. You are ruins, both of you. You are the silence after a song. You are what’s left when the fire goes out.

You see them just as you’re turning the corner out of the library, a book held tight to your chest like it can keep your ribs from cracking open. Defensive Magical Theory, something dense and forgettable, a shield made of ink and false comfort.

Your knuckles are white. Your fingers ache. Your robes are perfectly pressed, every pleat a performance. Because since he left, you have had to become flawless. You have had to become iron.

And there he is.

In the center of them like a flame, Sirius with his head tilted back in laughter. It is the same laugh that once made you believe the world could be beautiful. The same laugh that stitched broken hours into joy. And now it’s a blade.

Now it cuts. Because he laughs like nothing was lost. Like he didn’t tear himself out of your life and leave you to bleed in the quiet. Like he doesn’t remember the night you screamed his name until your throat gave out and your knees went red on the marble.

He laughs, and you want to tear the sound out of the air.

You remember it all too clearly — the way the front door slammed like a gunshot, the way you chased after him with shaking hands and a voice that couldn’t carry the weight of your grief. You begged him not to go. You begged like a child, raw and ragged and terrified. And he looked back, once, with something like pity.

Now you are ghosts in the same castle. Passing shadows. No nods. No glances. No names.

You walk past each other like graves being dug on opposite sides of the world. And you do not look back. And he does not turn around.

But your heart still breaks in your chest, quietly, every single time.

They round the corner and time thickens, slow as honey spilled on cold stone. His eyes find yours first—piercing through the crowd, through the clatter of footsteps and whispered names.

For a breath, the corridor dissolves. No James, no Remus, no ticking clocks or careless breezes—just you and him, two children once again, sharing a room heavy with secrets and the soft crackle of an old record player spinning lullabies.

But this time, he does not smile. He does not speak your name. He only looks at you as if trying to recall a face buried beneath years of silence, like the memory itself has fractured and turned to glass too sharp to hold.

Your heart clenches, a sudden, fierce knot, because you remember everything—the way his fingers braided tiny plaits into your hair when exhaustion pulled at your lids, the way your small hand reached for his in the dark before Regulus could even string words together, the way he whispered that you were his favorite, that he would never leave you behind.

But he did.

He burned the letters you wrote, one after another—long, trembling confessions stitched with apologies you never owed. Letters full of Regulus, school, a house growing colder and quieter, a mother retreating into silence, and a brother who refused to eat. You signed each with love, fierce and stubborn, because even after the cracks, even after the distance, you loved him still.

Regulus told you he saw the letters in the fire, unopened. Your handwriting curled into ash like a voice that never mattered. And you cried—not in front of Regulus, but later, submerged in the bathwater, where no one could hear.

You cried as if something sacred had been ripped from your chest, as if your brother had died and left only a hollow shell behind, wandering with someone else’s heart inside.

Now he passes you in the hall, silent and cold. Your fingers twitch, aching with memory, yearning for the ghost of his palm that once cradled your cheek—the night he left, trembling breath promising strength, begging you to protect Regulus when he could no longer do it himself.

You nodded through your sobs, because you were always the older twin by a single minute, and he said it meant something—that you were meant to keep him safe.

You have tried. But Regulus does not want your protection anymore.

You pass him in the corridors too—your twin, your mirror just slightly cracked, a shard drifting farther with every passing year. His eyes have grown colder, sharper, his mouth set like a blade forged from quiet bitterness.

Sometimes he speaks, brief and clipped, syllables sliced thin—news, reminders, fragments of a life you once shared but now only touch through echoes. There is no laughter, no whispered confessions in the dark, only the vast, cold distance measured in the space where hurt has settled deep and unmoving.

And still, you ache for the warmth you once knew. You ache when you see Sirius throw his arm around James like it costs him nothing, when he leans in close and laughs against his shoulder, calling him brother with a light that never shone for you.

You hate yourself for it, for the ugly bloom of envy rising in your chest, a bitter flower twisting through your ribs, because James gets to have him.

James gets to be near him every day, to tease him, to bicker with him, to follow him into trouble and hold a place beside him like it was always meant to be that way.

You used to be that person. You used to be the one Sirius reached for first.

Now you walk past them with your chin lifted, your stomach hollow, wondering if he ever thinks about that night.

Does he remember your hands clutching his sleeve? Your voice cracking as you called after him? Does he think of the blood staining your knees and how long you sat on the steps of Grimmauld Place, shivering long after he was gone?

He does not look back now.

But James does.

His eyes find yours and hold you there, a quiet tenderness breaking beneath the weight of unspoken things. He sees the ghosts too, the empty spaces where love was stolen. Maybe he even feels the ache when Sirius talks about his sister as if she never existed, or only existed in shadows and silence.

James tries to reach for your hand beneath the table, tries to make you laugh in the soft places where the world feels less heavy—but it is not the same. It will never be the same.

Because you are no longer the girl you were when Sirius left. You have spent too many nights wondering why love was not enough to make him stay.

And he is not the brother you remember.

The wind moves gently through the willow branches, like fingers combing through hair. The sunlight glimmers through the gaps in its leaves, casting thin golden lines across your cheek as you lie curled against James beneath the canopy of green.

You should not be here. You both know it. This is not the kind of softness your life has been shaped to allow. But here, in this sliver of stolen time, you forget the weight of your name and the way your chest has ached since you were old enough to know that in the Black family, love always came with locks and keys.

His arm is wrapped around your waist, and your head rests just below his chin. Your fingers are loosely entangled on the warm grass. His heartbeat is steady against your back, a rhythm you are slowly teaching yourself to trust.

You don't speak at first. Just listen—to the breeze, the rustle of willow limbs, the distant laughter from the Quidditch pitch.

And you try not to think about how long it’s been since you laughed like that with someone, without feeling like you were stealing it from a world that was never meant for you.

He shifts slightly, runs a hand through your hair, and you feel his lips brush the top of your head. There is something so gentle about him tonight, and it makes your ribs ache.

You know he is about to ask you something. You always know when James is thinking too much.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath, hesitant and fragile, like he’s afraid the sound might shatter the space between you. “Can I ask you something?”

You nod, your head heavy against his chest, eyes shut tight as if the darkness behind your lids might keep the world at bay. You already know what’s coming.

“Have you ever thought about talking to Sirius again?”

The words hit you like ice water spilled over skin. Your whole body stiffens, every nerve on fire, the warmth of his arms suddenly burning too bright, too close.

You sit up with a sharp movement, pulling away like his question has scorched you, like it’s a wound you thought had scabbed over but still bleeds when touched.

His brows knit together in confusion he reaches out, as if to catch you before you fall apart, but you shake your head fiercely, as if to say don’t. Don’t reach for me here.

Your voice comes out sharp, brittle, colder than you expected, words clawing their way from a place you’d hoped was buried deep beyond reach.

“Why would I do that?!”

James blinks slowly, the calm in his gaze unwavering, gentle but not naive.

“Because he’s your brother.”

You laugh then, a sound bitter and quiet, like broken glass scraping against old stone. It catches in your throat and leaves a raw ache in its wake. You stand abruptly, arms crossing over your chest as if to hold yourself together, and you turn away, facing the shimmering lake instead, the silver-blue water reflecting back a fractured version of your own haunted eyes.

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

The silence that follows is thick, heavy with all the things left unsaid. You feel the weight of his gaze burning into your back, soft but relentless.

And somewhere deep inside, the fight inside you trembles—part pain, part stubborn hope—that maybe if you don’t speak his name, you can keep the memory from unraveling completely.

But the truth is a jagged stone lodged in your throat. You’ve thought of him every day since he left—the brother who once braided your hair and whispered promises like a sacred lullaby. The brother who vanished like smoke, leaving only echoes and cold silence behind.

You want to believe that love could have held him here, that if you’d been enough, he wouldn’t have slipped away. But love in your world is never simple.

James sighs deeply, sitting up beside you with a careful softness that somehow feels like it might break under the weight of your silence. “I just think maybe it would help. You’re hurting, and he’s—”

“Don’t.”

The word cuts through the air sharper than you meant it to, like glass breaking in a quiet room. Your voice trembles, but the edge is there, raw and fierce. “Don’t defend him. Don’t pretend you understand.”

James’s brow furrows, confusion and hurt flickering in his eyes. “I’m not pretending. I just know Sirius. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He was hurting too. You know what that house did to him.”

You laugh, but it’s not a laugh. It’s a bitter crack, like a blade scraping bone. “Do I? Do I know what it did to him? Because last I checked—” Your voice catches, then steadies, voice sharp and jagged — “I was there too. I lived it. I breathed the same suffocating air. I walked those same cold hallways. I heard the same poisonous words about blood and duty and silence that built a prison around us all.”

You turn slightly, hands clutching the grass beneath you until your nails dig into dirt. “I watched those cursed portraits scream their curses night and day, felt the walls shrink closer, trapping my breath. I watched my brother—the only one who stayed—fade, twist into someone I barely recognized, someone swallowed by shadows and cold.”

You swallow hard, the memory like a stone lodged in your throat. “And yet, somehow, he’s the one who gets to hurt? The one you all rush to protect? The only one whose pain matters?”

James shifts uncomfortably, voice quiet but earnest. “That’s not what I meant. Not at all.”

But you shake your head, bitter tears burning the edges of your eyes. “No, James. That’s exactly what you meant.”

Your voice cracks, ragged and breaking, revealing the wounds you’ve fought to hide. “You all look at him like he’s some kind of hero. Brave Sirius Black—the runaway, the rebel who escaped the nightmare of that cursed house. The one who got to find Gryffindor, friendship, love. The one who got to build a new life from the ashes.”

Your chest heaves with the weight of everything left unsaid. “And what did I get? What did Regulus get? We got left behind.”

Your hands ball into fists, digging deeper into the earth, grounding yourself to the pain you can still touch. “I begged him to stay. I cried until I had no tears left. I chased after him on bleeding knees, desperate and small, and he left anyway. Left like I was nothing. Like we were nothing.”

You swallow, voice raw, “He never looked back. Never answered a single letter. Never came home. Not for me. Not for Regulus. And I waited. I waited years, hoping maybe one day he would come back. And you want me to just… talk to him now?”

Your breath catches, broken by the shuddering ache in your chest. The world feels hollow, cruel, and empty around you, and the distance between you and Sirius stretches wider than any words could ever cross.

James’s voice drops, soft and cautious, like stepping on fragile glass. “He was just a kid. He was doing what he had to do.”

You laugh, bitter and broken, the sound splitting the silence like a wound. “And I wasn’t?” The words shatter on your cracked lips, voice cracking with the weight you’ve carried far too long. “I was a kid too. Barely thirteen. And I had to stay. Had to sit at that cursed table and swallow every poisonous word Mother spat about the purity of our name. Had to learn to bite my tongue until it bled, lower my eyes until they almost forgot how to look. Had to be perfect — or at least pretend.”

Your hands tremble as you clutch your knees, the ache raw and alive beneath your skin. “I had to watch Regulus vanish into silence, buried under pressure and cold that no one—not one soul—asked if I was okay. No one ever tried to save me.”

James’s hand reaches for you, slow and hesitant, but you recoil like his touch burns you.

You fall back against the tree, the rough bark pressing into your spine, your palms clutching your eyes as if the darkness can swallow the ache whole. The tears come harder now, hot and unrelenting.

“You think he hurts? You think he cries?” Your voice breaks, raw and ragged like a shattered song.

“Because I do. I do every time I see him walk the halls like nothing happened. Every time I watch you two laugh like you’ve known each other forever, and I wonder if he ever laughs like that for me. If he ever remembered me.”

You choke back a sob, voice barely more than a cracked whisper, “I sit in a common room full of snakes and secrets, keeping my head down, swallowing my pride and my pain, because I’m still there. I never left. I never got out.”

“You don’t get it,” you whisper, but the whisper breaks halfway, splintering like thin glass. You’re shaking now, fists curled into the grass as though it can hold you together. “You never will.”

James doesn’t speak. He watches you the way someone watches a dying star—helpless, reverent, a little afraid.

“You were always allowed to be human.” Your voice wavers, rough with disbelief and years of swallowed words. “You were allowed to get angry, to mess up, to fall apart and still be loved. You don’t know what it’s like to live in a house where love is a chain. Where affection only comes after obedience. Where silence is survival.”

You laugh, but it’s not really laughter—it’s the sound a wound might make if it could scream.

“You have people. People who would tear the world apart if you broke. You have a mother who kisses your cheek and a father who’s proud of your name. You have friends who call you home, James. You’re the sun, don’t you see that? You’re the sun and everyone else just gets to grow around you.”

You’re crying harder now, tears streaking down your cheeks in thick, aching lines. You try to wipe them away, but they keep coming.

“You got to love Sirius without bleeding for it! You got to become his brother in the safety of a dormitory, with warmth and laughter and stolen butterbeer. You didn’t have to earn it in that house. You didn’t have to survive it!”

Your voice rises now, shrill with grief. “You got the best parts of him. The jokes, the loyalty, the fire. I got the version who left. The one who didn’t even look back.”

You gasp for breath between sobs, pressing your palms against your eyes until you see stars.

“Do you know what it feels like to scream for someone as they walk away? I begged him. I begged him not to go. I ran after him barefoot in the cold, my voice going hoarse. And he left anyway. He left me there.”

You pull your knees to your chest, rocking slightly. “He chose to leave. And then he chose you. He chose you over me. Over Regulus. Over every piece of his old life. You’re his brother now. You’re his family. And I—”

You look up at James then, face soaked, lips trembling. “I’m just a ghost he doesn’t talk about.”

The words fall out of you like stones from your mouth, one by one, and each one seems to hurt more than the last.

“You sit around the fire with him and laugh about pranks and broomsticks and I sit alone in the dark, wondering if he remembers the sound of my voice. If he ever thinks about the way I cried that night. If he ever sees my handwriting and feels guilt. Or if it’s just... easier. Easier to forget I existed.”

James moves again, slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. He doesn’t touch you this time. He just listens.

You curl tighter around yourself. “You want me to forgive him. You want me to reach out. But you don’t know what it costs to touch someone who let you rot. You don’t know what it’s like to scream for someone and never hear your name again.”

Your voice drops to a whisper—ruined, splintered, soft.

“He’s your brother now.”

And then, the softest, most broken truth:

“But he was mine first.”

You fold in on yourself completely, hands trembling, heart heaving with grief too old for your bones, and the only sound left in the world is your breath—shattered, uneven—echoing in the hush beneath the willow branches.

James looks at you then like he finally sees the wound beneath your skin. Not something angry. Something abandoned. Something small and bleeding and still waiting on the floor of a house that swallowed you whole.

The year slips through your fingers like water, and you try to hold it tight, but it’s already gone.

It’s strange how time moves differently when you’re pretending everything is fine, the days bleeding at the edges into one another with a quiet rhythm of routine that softens sharp edges but never heals the cracks beneath.

You go to class, you study, you sit beside James under the willow tree and pretend not to ache when Sirius walks by laughing with Remus, a sound that feels like a sun you cannot touch anymore.

You watch Regulus drift further away, his shoulders straighter, his eyes colder, his voice a careful blade you no longer recognize—once a warmth you could finish, now a silence you cannot breach.

You used to finish each other’s sentences; now he barely finishes his own. He doesn’t talk to you much anymore, not really. At the long, silent dinner table, he sits across from you, nodding when spoken to, answering questions like they’re lines from a script he’s been forced to memorize but doesn’t want to perform.

He disappears into his room, each time returning quieter, more distant, as if someone has reached inside him and hollowed him out with a spoon, leaving only a shell that reflects nothing back but shadows.

You want to scream at him, to shake him until he remembers how to breathe, to pull him back by the collar like Sirius did when you were children and Regulus was about to climb too high in the trees, but you don’t.

Because you don’t know if he would let you catch him, and you don’t know if you still have the strength to hold on to what’s already slipping through your fingers.

So you keep your head down, your voice soft, your secrets close, like fragile embers you cannot risk exposing to the wind. And still the year ends.

There’s something about the last few weeks of school that tastes like dread, like metal pressed cold against your tongue, like the low rumble of a storm you know is coming but cannot stop. You walk the corridors counting how many times Sirius glances your way and how many times Regulus doesn’t, memorizing James’s grin like it might be the last warmth you touch for months.

You stop sending letters home because there is no one waiting to read them.

Because summer means going back. Not home. Back.

Grimmauld Place isn’t a home. It is a mausoleum, a cold, echoing archive of all the things you never got to say, the silence between your words etched deep into the walls.

It smells of wax and dust and something darker, something ancient and unforgiving beneath the surface. The portraits still scream behind their frames. The silver still gleams with a sharpness that cuts through the gloom. The curtains block out the sun like heavy lids refusing to open.

Your room remains untouched, waiting in suspended breath for you to return and pretend you don’t hate it.

You dread the silence most. The way it wraps itself around the furniture like cobwebs spun from forgotten sorrow, the way the house watches you with a patient, waiting hunger, as if it expects you to fold back into its cold embrace and fall in line with the shadows that have claimed it.

Regulus is already there. He has been slipping for a while now. You have seen it in the way he avoids certain topics, in the sharp flinch when someone utters the word “Mudblood,” in the way his fists clench so tightly at insults to the Dark Lord that his knuckles whiten, before he tries to play it off as nothing.

His robes darken with every passing day. His smiles become rarer, like a flame too weak to chase away the night. His wand is never far from his grasp, a silent threat held close, as if waiting for the moment he must become someone else—someone you barely recognize anymore.

So you pack your trunk slowly, each movement deliberate as if by folding your robes with care you might fold yourself back into a place that no longer holds you. You close your books with trembling fingers, the pages whispering secrets you cannot bear to carry anymore.

You don’t say goodbye to Sirius because his eyes no longer meet yours, and you don’t say goodbye to James because you know the pain would only unravel tighter if words were spoken.

You watch as Sirius swings his arm around James’s shoulders, already grinning at the thought of staying with the Potters for the summer, and something inside you twists — not anger, not sadness, but a sharp, aching envy that claws at your ribs like a hungry bird.

Because he gets to escape.

He gets to walk into a house that smells like sugar and laughter and freedom, a sanctuary where love is worn openly like a second skin.

He gets to sleep in a room where nothing screams at him in the dark, where the walls cradle him instead of closing in. He gets to sit at a table where voices rise and fall like music, where people eat too much and ask about your day as if it matters, where family is not a story told in fragments but a living breath around you.

And you get the house.

The house with your name carved deeply into the bannister, a cold reminder of roots that bind you to shadows. The house where every unspoken word drips from the ceiling like damp, settling into the cracks until the silence itself weighs heavy and thick.

The house where your mother waits, her eyes colder than winter and expectations sharper than knives, where portraits hiss and leer from their frames like silent witnesses to your undoing. The house where Regulus drifts through the halls like a ghost caught between worlds, already halfway gone, already fading into something you cannot hold.

The house where no one speaks Sirius’s name aloud, where you are still the older twin, and yet each day you feel smaller, as if your own shadow is shrinking beneath the weight of everything unsaid.

You step off the train, and the air already feels colder, a thin frost settling on your skin even though the season has only just begun.

The night tastes bitter with regret, heavy and metallic on your tongue, and Grimmauld Place waits like a patient predator, breathing you in as though you never left, as though it has been holding its breath for your return. It closes the door behind you with the hush of finality, a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

The silence settles on your shoulders like dust, thick and suffocating, a reminder that you belong here — even if you wish with every trembling heartbeat that you did not.

You try not to flinch when the wards hum around you. When the doorknob bites your palm. When the portraits blink awake at the scent of your return. They watch you with knowing, disapproving eyes, oil-painted mouths already ready to spit something cruel.

This house was never a home, but once it breathed — not warmth, not safety, but noise, presence, life. It used to echo with slammed doors and uneven footsteps racing up the stairs, with Sirius shouting something reckless and defiant down the corridor just to make someone angry enough to shout back.

It used to be full of Regulus’s low hum when he thought no one could hear him, that quiet little song he’d hum while reading in corners, while brushing his hair, while stitching up the tear in your sleeve when you’d come back from a duel pretending you weren’t crying.

It used to be full of voices, arguing and demanding and laughing and hurting and always, always living.

Now it is quiet in the way that makes your chest ache, the kind of silence that feels like a punishment rather than a peace. The air tastes like dust, like something lost and forgotten and left to rot behind velvet curtains and locked doors. The carpets still muffle your steps, but there's no one left to hear them anyway.

This is the first summer without Regulus.

Not the shadow version that’s lingered these past few years, the one who walks too quietly and listens too carefully and parrots the words of your parents with a voice that isn’t his. Not the stranger in dark robes who stops humming and starts watching. Not the version who still existed in some half-form, drifting down corridors without speaking, but still there.

No, this is the first summer without him, without the boy who used to read beside you in the library, his knee bumping yours under the table. The one who used to steal sweets from the kitchen and then blame you with an innocent blink. The one who tied your shoelaces together under the table at family dinners and bit back a grin when you tripped on your way out.

That Regulus faded the way ink fades in water — slowly, gently, irreversibly. You didn’t notice at first, only that he laughed less, and then not at all. That his hands stopped reaching for yours. That his voice grew thinner and his silences heavier. You lost him the way you lose something to illness, slowly and with a thousand tiny betrayals of the body before the final breath.

But this time is different.

This time, he did not come back.

No warning, no owl, no quiet knock on your door, no hurried explanation in a whisper only you would understand. Just silence. Just your mother’s lips pressed into a thin line when you asked, and your father’s eyes skimming past you like your question was a speck on his glasses.

You sit in his empty room. It smells like dust and lavender and something that aches in your teeth. The bed is still made. The books are still in their careful order, spines aligned like soldiers. His desk is untouched. His quill still leans in the inkwell.

The window is cracked just slightly, letting in the faintest breath of air, like the room itself hasn’t quite decided if it should keep holding on. There’s dust on the windowsill now — and there never used to be — and that tells you more than anything else. That the room has been waiting. That no one has come back.

This time, he is truly gone.

And you are alone.

You try to shrink yourself into corners. You keep your footsteps light, your voice quieter still. You tie your hair the way your mother prefers it and fold your napkin just so and tuck your wand out of sight at the table.

You speak only when spoken to. You say nothing when the family says things that hurt. You keep your grief compact and clean and buried deep in your chest like a well-folded shirt, like something shameful.

You make yourself smaller every day, and still, somehow, it is never enough.

But this summer — it’s different. This summer, they hand you your fate like a gift wrapped in silver and blood, gleaming like something sacred, rotting like something buried.

You sit at the long dining table, the one with claw-footed legs and too much silence, and you hear the words spill from your mother’s mouth like prophecy. Your father folds his hands, watching you without warmth, without softness, only the calm expectation of obedience.

They tell you the name.

He is a man older than both of them, old enough to have stood beside your grandfather, old enough to know better, but still willing. He is loyal. He is powerful. He will honor the purity of your blood.

He will preserve the name of the House of Black.

You are seventeen. He is not young. You do not need to ask his age. You already feel it sinking into your skin like ice.

Your stomach coils, tight and bitter.

“No,” you say. Soft at first. Like a breath you’re trying to swallow.

Your mother doesn’t even blink. “You will.”

“No.” Again, louder this time. Sharper. The air around you stills.

She lifts her chin, unbothered. “You are a daughter of this house. This is your duty.”

“Duty?” The word tastes like ash in your mouth. “You want me to marry a man three times my age so you can keep the family name alive like it’s something holy. You want me quiet and obedient and grateful.” You’re trembling, but you don’t care.

“I am not a vessel for your legacy.”

Your father rises. His voice cuts across the room like steel. “You will not speak to your mother with such—”

“You don’t get to speak for me,” you snap, voice breaking at the edges. “You don’t get to decide who I am just because you raised me to be afraid of you!”

Silence floods the room, thick and bitter.

“You want to talk about duty?” you say, your voice low, shaking with fury. “Let’s talk about Sirius. You pushed him out like he was nothing. You wrote him off, erased him, like he never belonged to you in the first place. And Regulus—”

You choke, just for a second. But it’s enough to taste the grief under your rage.

“Regulus is gone. And you didn’t even flinch.”

Your mother’s gaze turns to ice. “Sirius was a disgrace,” she says. “Regulus was loyal. We will not lose the last child we have left.”

You laugh. It sounds wrong. Crooked. Cracked open.

“You already did.”

You stare at them — these people who gave you their name and called it love.

“I’m not your child,” you say, the words leaving your mouth like a final spell. “I’m what’s left. After the screaming. After the silence. After all the sons you burned through.”

You do not cry in front of them. You never cry in front of them.

The house taught you early that tears are weakness, that silence is survival, that emotion is something to be buried beneath polished shoes and perfect posture.

But the moment the door shuts behind you, the weight drops. You press your back to the cold wood and slide down until you are curled on the floor, your body folding into itself like it’s trying to vanish. And you cry. Not the gentle kind. Not the cinematic kind.

You cry until your throat burns and your face is damp and your chest feels like it’s being carved open from the inside. You cry the way the walls might, if they could. With all the grief they’ve soaked up over the years spilling out through the cracks.

You cry for every year you were quiet. For every word you never said. For every version of yourself you buried to stay alive in this house.

You feel seventeen and seven and seventy all at once. You feel like a ghost of your own girlhood, flickering between doorframes. You feel the house watching. Breathing. Remembering.

The floor beneath you is cold and unkind, and still you cling to it because it's the only thing solid left. You think of Sirius, and the way he used to laugh so loudly it shook the curtains. You think of him sleeping now in a house full of warmth and sugar and safety, a house where love isn't earned but given, where no one flinches when he reaches for joy.

You think of Regulus, not the boy they mourn in stiff silence, but the boy who once left crooked notes in your textbooks and stared out windows like he was already halfway elsewhere.

You think of the way he disappeared — not all at once, but slowly, like a tide pulling further and further out until you could no longer see where he ended and the darkness began.

And you think of James.

James with his easy smile and his steady hands, who never asks for more than you can give, who touches your shoulder like it means something, who holds your gaze when the room is too loud.

James, who looks at you like there is still something worth saving, like you are not the ruin this house has made of you, like you are more than a name etched into silver and expectation.

You wonder what he would say if he saw you now, curled like a child, broken open in the hallway like a spell gone wrong. You wonder if he would still look at you like you matter. If he would still believe you could be more than this.

But the truth is: you are not Sirius, brave enough to run and let it all burn behind him. You are not Regulus, quiet enough to disappear without a sound. You are not even James, bright enough to belong to a world that doesn’t hurt like this.

You are just you — the one who stayed.

The one who held her breath while the house tore itself apart. The one who learned how to fold pain into politeness, how to wear duty like perfume, how to live without taking up too much space.

You stayed because someone had to. Because someone had to carry the name. Because someone had to keep the silence from swallowing everything.

And now, you are the last one. A girl with no room left to run, with a dress being stitched by house-elves who won’t meet your eyes, with a fate wrapped in silver and blood and sealed with your mother’s satisfaction. A girl being handed over like an heirloom. A girl they call duty. A girl they call legacy. A girl they will call wife.

And you cry not because you are weak — but because you were strong for too long. Because this house eats daughters and calls it honor.

Because deep down, you are still waiting for someone to come back. Or take you away. Or give you a reason to leave. But no one comes. And so you cry.

So you give in. Not to the marriage — no, that would be too clean, too final — but to something slower, heavier, something like gravity or grief.

You give in to the house. To the quiet. To the truth you’ve always known but never dared to say aloud. You let it wrap around you like ivy, creeping in through the cracks in the walls and the bruises you keep hidden under your sleeves. It isn’t sudden. It isn’t cinematic. It’s the kind of surrender that looks like silence.

Each day becomes a ritual of forgetting. You wake late, eyes heavy with sleep you never earned. You push food around your plate until it cools and congeals and no one bothers to tell you to eat. You wander from room to room like a ghost, dragging your fingertips along the wallpaper as if it might remember you.

You reread the same book, the same page, five times, and the words never stick — they slide through your brain like oil through a sieve. You braid your hair tighter and tighter each morning until your scalp stings, until the ache becomes something solid you can carry. You stop speaking at meals.

You stop asking where Regulus went. You stop writing letters to Sirius, because no one writes back and ghosts don’t send owls.

And then one night, when the wind wails like a child outside your window and the rain lashes against the glass with the fury of everything you’ve swallowed, your feet carry you where your mind dares not go.

Up the stairs. Down the hallway. To the door you haven’t touched since he left. Sirius’s room.

You shouldn’t go in. The house groans like it’s warning you. But your hand is already on the handle.

The room is a battlefield.

The bed is splintered, cracked in the middle like a snapped spine. The posters are slashed, half-hanging like open wounds. The wallpaper is clawed down to the plaster. His name, once spelled in bold ink across the wall, is a black smear now — a wound too scorched to read. The air smells like old fire and bitter memory. You step inside.

You lower yourself to the floor with slow, trembling hands, and that’s when it breaks.

The scream tears from you before you can stop it — low and ragged and real.

You cry for Sirius, who ran and burned and somehow found something close to freedom. You cry for Regulus, who disappeared into silence and shadows and never looked back. You cry for James, whose laughter doesn’t belong in this house, whose kindness is a bruise you keep pressing. But mostly, you cry for yourself.

And when there are no more tears left to cry, your eyes catch something under the bed — a soft flicker of gray, tucked away like a shy secret waiting patiently.

Eventually, with trembling fingers, you take up your quill and smooth a sheet of parchment across your desk.

You’ve written to him a hundred times before—maybe more. None of them ever came back. None of them were ever answered.

And this one, you know, will be the last.

Dear Sirius, I do not know if this will ever reach you. I imagine it will not. And even if it did, I cannot picture you reading it. Perhaps you would glance at the ink, then turn away, pretending not to know the hand it came from. Perhaps you have already taught yourself to forget. Still, I write. I write because I do not know what else to do with my hands, now that they have nothing left to hold. Regulus is gone. They will not say how or where or why, only that he vanished, and everyone speaks of him now in the same tone they used when they stopped saying your name. He is gone, and I feel something in me beginning to follow. This summer has been long. There is sun in the air and dust in the curtains and no one speaks above a whisper. They say I am to be betrothed by autumn. He is pure of blood and proper of name and perfectly forgettable. I have already begun practicing how to look content beside him. Everyone tells me how lucky I am. No one asks if I am well. The house is colder than I remember. I think you were the last warm thing in it. Since you left, it has not once felt like home. The corridors are quieter now. The portraits turn their eyes away. Today I found your old toy — Buttons, the little grey dog with the floppy ear. He was under your bed, asleep in dust, but still whole. I pressed him to my face and thought I might fall apart from the scent of him. Smoke and summer and boyhood. I found Honeybell too. Her stitches are split and her eye is gone. But I held her anyway, the way you hold something that remembers what you cannot say aloud. Regulus’s was still in his room. Mister Wisp. The black raven. He was soaked through with rain. His wings sagged. His thread was fraying. He looked like something abandoned. He looked like someone who had waited too long. I placed them on your bedroom floor. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. The three of us, in our own way. I sat with them until the sun went down and the house forgot me again. I hope you are safe. I hope there is laughter where you are. I hope someone brushes the hair from your eyes with tenderness. I hope you never once feel as forgotten as we did when you vanished. I want to hate you, but I never could. This is the last letter. Not because I have stopped loving you. That would be easier. No, I am stopping because love should not be sent into silence forever. And I have been silent for too long.

Ta Sœur, Pour Toujours

You fold the letter and press it to your heart, feeling the weight of every word settle deep inside you.

You sit there in the broken room, cradling the worn plushes as the first pale light of morning spills through the cracked window, soft and hesitant, like forgiveness that always comes too late.

The summer stretches endlessly, longer than any before, a slow and quiet rot rather than rest—a soft unraveling that steals breath and hope alike. Time does not move but lingers, thick and suffocating, pressing down on your bones like a heavy secret.

Outside, the war no longer whispers but rumbles beyond the horizon. Names vanish like ghosts, smiles falter under the weight of dread, and the sun mourns openly, bleeding orange into clouds as if the sky itself knew the darkness to come.

Grimmauld Place waits in silence. Its walls have always been cold, but now they hold a quiet deeper than stillness, a silence like held breath, like a house on the edge of swallowing you whole.

And then Sirius returns.

He had never meant to come back, not truly.

But something pulls him through the shadows, not duty, not family in the way you understood it. Perhaps it was memory, haunting and relentless. Perhaps regret, bitter and sharp. Perhaps it was you—the echo of your voice that chased him through sleepless nights, the image of you at thirteen, trembling and begging him to stay, a scar etched deep across his ribs.

So he came back.

By the end of summer, Sirius Black stood before the house he had sworn never to return to, and this time he did not knock. This time he did not wait. The door groaned open as if it had been waiting for him all along. Dust hung heavy in the air, the stench of magic—old, burnt, and wrong—clinging like smoke caught deep in his lungs.

Something had happened here. Something violent. The house was not quiet. It was hollow. Empty. Ruined.

And that was when he found you.

Not sitting in the drawing room, not wrapped in a blanket with a book and tea, not curled in the window seat staring out at a life that had never been yours.

But lying on the marble floor, exactly where he had left you.

You did not die screaming. There was no flash of rage, no final incantation on your tongue, no defiant end befitting the fire that once lived inside you.

You were simply still. Folded into yourself, as if the world had leaned too hard on your ribs and you forgot how to fight it. Blood pooled around you like petals from a ruined bloom, soft and red and blooming in silence.

Your hair fanned around your face like something sacred — a fallen halo, a crown undone — and your limbs lay slack in a kind of surrender that spoke not of weakness but of exhaustion. Like the house had finally exhaled, and you let it take you with the breath.

Sirius dropped the moment he saw you. Not with ceremony, not with noise — just gravity doing what grief always does.

The way your knees once buckled when he walked away.

The way your voice had cracked, trying to stretch the word “stay” into something that could bind him.

The way your chest must have caved in, not from a curse, but from absence. He fell in the way people fall when something inside them has been waiting to shatter for years.

He reached for you. What else was there left to reach for, if not the girl who once braided red ribbons through his coat sleeves, who lined his pockets with honey drops and letters that smelled of ink and lavender, who sat beside him on staircases and said nothing, simply stayed.

He had run for so long — from this house, from this name, from everything that shaped him — but no one ever told him that ghosts have longer arms than memory. That your voice, the soft echo of it, would find him across every burning bridge.

And now you were here. Not thirteen anymore, not crying in the hallway where he left you. But also, not gone from that moment either.

You had never truly moved past the marble floor. He saw it in the way your fingers still curled inward, as if clinging to something invisible. In the tilt of your head, angled just like the night you begged him not to go.

He saw the years between then and now, every one of them, stretched like threads between your ribs — unravelled, fragile, frayed.

He saw the waiting. The tea that went cold on windowsills. The letters that never found their way past trembling hands. The summers that rotted slowly around you while everyone else grew up.

The stuffed animals lined like offerings beneath dust-heavy light. Buttons. Honeybell. Mister Wisp. Childhood turned reliquary.

He saw it all and understood too late that grief does not knock — it carves its name into your skin and waits. It waited for him here.

He pressed his forehead to yours and whispered your name like a prayer never answered. He had lived, but not really. Not in any way that mattered.

You had stayed, but not whole. You had waited so long for someone who was always running, and now that he was still, you were gone.

The sun began to rise, golden and slow, creeping through the cracks like a forgiveness that had missed its hour. It lit the marble floor like a chapel.

But it could not touch you. It could only fall across your shoulder, warm and useless. The kind of light that arrives after the room has already emptied.

And Sirius stayed there. Not as the rebel or the Black heir or the boy who broke free. But as a brother.

A brother who came home too late. A brother who looked at the cost and could not look away.

Time passed for him. He found love. Friends. A family not built of blood, but of choice. He laughed again. He dreamed. He lived. The world opened for him, and he stepped through — a boy turned man, a soul scraped raw but mending, slowly, beautifully. There were hands that held him.

Voices that called him home. Places where the sky was wide enough to forget. And he let himself forget.

And you stayed.

You stayed in the house that swallowed your name like a secret. In halls that knew only how to echo orders and lock away softness. With a father who spoke in sharp edges. A mother who carved obedience into you like scripture.

A twin who disappeared — not all at once, but in whispers and footsteps and doors that no longer opened. You stayed among portraits that scowled at your breath. Among books that weighed more than comfort. Among silences that wrapped around your throat until you mistook them for lullabies.

You stayed. Right where he left you. And the world, as it always did, looked away.

Except this time, the blood wasn’t from scraped knees or childish scuffles.

It was from the war that bloomed like rot through every crack in your home. From the letters you weren’t allowed to send. From the screams you weren’t allowed to make. From the spells you learned not to cast. From the hope you were forced to smother before it ever took its first breath.

And Sirius wept.

Not the kind of weeping that shatters in public. Not the kind that can be soothed by arms or words or tea gone cold.

This was the kind of weeping that hollowed. That stripped him to the marrow. That made him reach for a version of you that no longer breathed.

He wept for the sister whose hands once clutched his in the dark, when the storms rattled the windows and the world felt too big.

He wept for the girl who tucked notes into his pocket when Mother screamed. He wept for the ghost of you still sitting on the staircase, waiting for a brother who never turned back.

He wept for the birthdays you spent alone. For the letters he never wrote. For the words he never said. For the child you were — bright-eyed and bruised and so full of belief.

For the woman you could have been — fierce and aching and free.

For the way you died in the exact place he left you.

And for the way he only came back when there was no breath left to forgive him.

Time seemed to pass, though slower now — not measured in calendars or seasons, but in aches. In absences. In the small betrayals of memory.

For Sirius, time lost its rhythm. It did not tick or toll. It bled. It staggered. It sighed through floorboards and doorways and walls that still remembered the sound of your footsteps.

Time became the color of mourning — the dull grey of ash, the deep bruise of regret, the cold white of hospital sheets that never warmed beneath your weight.

It moved in the dust he could not bear to sweep, in the scent of your perfume fading soft on a pillowcase, in the broken music box that no longer turned, in the echo of your laughter — not in reality, but in the cruel trick of dreams.

He searched for you in everything, in the corners of rooms, in the backs of crowds, in the shadowed silence of the old stairwell where you once sang lullabies to the dark.

And when he found the letter — the one you never sent, crumpled at the back of a drawer, ink smeared as though you’d tried to erase your own voice — he pressed it to his lips and sobbed like a boy again. Like the child who promised he’d take you with him. Who swore you’d never be left behind.

Three plushes laid neatly beside each other, like a shrine to what was once whole. Not toys anymore, but gravestones — soft and worn and sacred.

They should have meant nothing. Just fabric, stuffing, thread. But Sirius could barely look at them without his chest caving in.

His own — hadn’t moved in years. You must’ve thought he’d come back for it. That if you left it untouched, just as he left it, maybe it would bring him home.

Yours was different. It was torn down the middle, the seam split like a scar, like a scream frozen in time. The stuffing spilled out like spilled insides, like something wounded and left to rot. It looked like it had tried to hold itself together for too long, and finally failed.

And Regulus’ — pale blue-grey, delicate in a way only he had been — soaked through and warped from rain. It lay slumped over, waterlogged and forgotten, as if the storm outside had wept it into surrender. The window above had cracked open, and the sky had poured in for hours. Sirius liked to think the heavens had mourned with him that day. That even the sky had broken, just a little.

You never knew, but Sirius never let them go.

Not once.

Even when the world fell apart. Even when the Order returned and war carved new hollows into their lives.

Even when Azkaban loomed like a ghost at his shoulder. He kept them — hidden, at first, under floorboards and false bottoms of trunks. Then folded into boxes labeled with things like “storage” or “old keepsakes,” as if a name could make them matter less.

But they always came back out. Back to his bedside. Back into his hands on sleepless nights. Because they weren’t just toys. They were the last soft things left. The only parts of his childhood that hadn’t turned to ash.

They were what remained of the real family he had chosen — not the one etched into tapestries or carved into rings, but the one built in whispers and quiet dreams.

You, Regulus, and him. Three children clinging to hope like a secret. Three hearts hoping that if they held each other tightly enough, they could outrun their legacy. They could be something else. Someone else. Someone free.

But grief is not kind. It is greedy. It takes and takes and keeps on taking.

So it took Regulus, too.

No goodbye. No body. Just whispers in the dark — that he had gone beneath the water, chasing a kind of redemption Sirius hadn’t known his brother still believed in. That he had died trying to undo what he never had the power to fix. A boy with the name of a star, drowning in a sea too vast to name.

And Sirius had hated him, once — for his silence, for his compliance, for surviving the home that killed you. But when Regulus vanished, Sirius understood he’d been wrong. Regulus hadn’t survived. He’d only delayed the dying. Now it was just him, and the plushes — three relics, three ghosts, three pieces of a family no one ever thought to grieve.

Because what were children like them, if not warnings? What were Black children, if not cautionary tales?

1994

Years later, Sirius will stand before a boy with too-bright eyes and a scar that speaks of wars no child should remember. And in the boy’s grin — wide, reckless, full of sun — Sirius will see James, not as memory, but as marrow, as instinct.

But it's not James that makes him ache, not really.

It’s the quiet moments, the in-between ones — when the boy furrows his brow in thought, or stares too long at the stars, or speaks with a gentleness he doesn’t even know he carries.

That’s when Sirius sees Regulus, not in likeness but in the ache of being too young for so much weight.

And most of all, he sees you.

He sees you in the boy’s stubborn defiance, in the way he fights for others before himself, in the way he loves — fiercely, awkwardly, with every unguarded part of him. He sees you in the boy’s eyes when he reaches for Sirius without hesitation. He sees the child you once were, all scraped knees and wild dreams, asking impossible questions and believing in things too big to name.

And it undoes him. Every single time.

Because this boy, this Harry, carries all the pieces of the ones he lost — but he carries you most of all.

Sirius will not know how to name that kind of grace. Only that it feels like standing in the past and being forgiven by it.

And in that child, in the fragile miracle of his existence, Sirius will understand that love does not end. It threads itself into blood and bone and story. It survives. Even when nothing else does.

And that understanding — that impossible, aching recognition — will be the cruelest grace of all. Because by then, the war will have come and gone, carving its tally marks into the bones of everyone left standing.

He will have buried too many. James, Lily, and names he once spoke with laughter now spoken in silence, in dreams. The fire will have gone out, and Sirius will have learned to live in the smoke. A man half-built from memory, half-held together by loss. He will carry it all, quietly.

The old house on Grimmauld Place will still stand, but he will not return. Some ghosts are too sacred to disturb, and some rooms still remember how to bleed.

Yours will remain untouched — the air thick with dust and song, the bed still hiding three plush toys like relics of a time when the world had not yet shattered. The scent of childhood still clinging to the curtains, as if waiting for someone to come home.

And though the world will move forward without him — blooming and burning and beginning again — Sirius will remain quietly stitched into the edges of it, in every reckless laugh, every act of love carved in defiance, every child who believes that family is something you choose.

Because what he lost cannot be measured in names or battles or years. It is deeper than that. It is a wound shaped like a sister’s lullaby, a brother’s silence, a best friend’s grin. It is the kind of grief that builds a home inside your ribs and dares you to live with it.

And even when there is no one left to speak your name aloud, Sirius will. Not out of duty, but because somewhere within him, the boy who once held your hand still waits in the dark.

He still listens for the echo of your laughter through silent halls, still glances at the doorway like you might walk through, still dreams of a world where everything broken might find a way to mend.

There is a quiet place in him that never grew older than sixteen, still caught in the house where you stayed behind, still curled beside you in the dark, still whispering stories of escape to the ceiling.

That part of him hears your voice when the world forgets how to be kind.

It sees your eyes in every child who refuses to stop hoping, every child with bright eyes and a scar on their forehead — especially the one who looks at him like he is something good.

It believes, even now, that the love you gave was too bright to vanish, too true to ever fade.

Sirius Black remained — not because he survived, but because love, once given, does not know how to leave, and grief, once born, does not know how to die.

And then, years later, it was his cousin who ended him — blood of his blood, born of the same ruin, raised on the same silken lies, sipping from the same poisoned cup. Bellatrix did not strike like chance, but like prophecy, like the final breath of a story written long before they ever lived it.

It was not kindness that undid them, nor mercy. It was inheritance — a name carved too deep, a legacy that devoured its own.

In the end, nothing could tear down the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

Except itself.

For those whose fate was never their own,

for the one who bore the weight alone,

for the one who stayed,

so ends the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

a/n: um..hi? is this too angsty? :(

950 notes · View notes

jungwnies · 7 months ago

Text

F1 GRID | the daughter of a rival team principal

୨ৎ : featuring : max verstappen, lewis hamilton, george russell, carlos sainz, charles leclerc, lando norris, oscar piastri ୨ৎ : synopsis : the daughter of a team prinicipal finds love in another team ୨ৎ : requested : yes

୨ৎ : genre : romance ୨ৎ : tws : father-daughter arguing ୨ৎ : word count : 4799 (~685 words each)

୨ masterlist ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : this was so fun to write i love it (charles was a personal favorite >.<)

ʚ・max verstappen

you’ve always known what was expected of you. as the daughter of mercedes f1’s team principal, your life has been one of luxury, pressure, and constant public scrutiny. your father’s legacy has always loomed large over you, and you’ve been trained your whole life to uphold it. but tonight, at a charity event during the off-season, something shifts.

you never expected to meet him. max verstappen—red bull’s star driver, known for his dry humor and sharp wit—has always been in the rival camp. you’ve heard about him, but when you finally talk to him, it’s different. his banter is sharp, but there’s something about the way he looks at you that makes your heart race. it’s not the usual flirtation you’ve experienced with other drivers; it’s deeper, more genuine.

a conversation turns into a quiet moment away from the crowd, and before you know it, you’re both caught in an unspoken connection. you try to convince yourself it’s just the heat of the moment, but the chemistry between you two is undeniable. as the night ends, the weight of your family’s rivalry presses on you. you can’t be with him. not him. not a red bull driver.

but the connection is too strong. as the weeks go by, you find yourself texting max in secret, sneaking around after races, and spending stolen hours together. you’re falling for him, and it terrifies you. you’re not just risking your own heart; you’re risking your family, your reputation, and the wrath of the media. but when max looks at you with those eyes—full of intensity and something more—you can’t stop yourself.

the pressure builds with every passing day. your family expects you to uphold mercedes’ honor, and you know your father would never approve. meanwhile, max—who’s used to constant scrutiny—becomes frustrated. he’s tired of hiding, tired of sneaking around, and you start to feel the weight of it all. the secrecy is suffocating, but you’re scared of what will happen if the world finds out.

then, during a crucial race weekend, everything explodes. mercedes and red bull are neck-and-neck, both fighting for the title. after the race, max wins, and mercedes is left picking up the pieces. that night, you and max decide it’s enough. you’re done hiding.

you sit across from your father and max’s team principal, the air thick with tension. your father’s face is a mixture of shock and fury as he demands to know why you would choose max. “he’s from red bull,” he says, as if that’s enough of a reason for you to walk away. max’s principal isn’t much better, questioning how this relationship could possibly work.

but max speaks up. “i’m not just a driver,” he says, his voice calm but unwavering. “i’m with her because i love her. i’m not hiding anymore.”

the room falls into a heavy silence. your father’s eyes narrow, a flicker of frustration crossing his features, but as he looks at you—really looks at you—he sees something he can’t ignore. the sincerity in your eyes, the depth of your feelings for max, is undeniable. this isn’t a passing phase or a rebellious act. it’s real.

“you really love my daughter?” your father’s voice is no longer harsh, but laced with something else—caution, perhaps even a hint of understanding.

max doesn’t hesitate. “i do. i love your daughter.”

your father exhales sharply, the weight of his words lingering in the air. “if you ever break her heart, i swear to god, i’ll make sure your engine never sees the finish line again.”

max, looking both relieved and earnest, nods. “i would never, sir. i’d never hurt her.”

over time, both families begin to soften. the media circus doesn’t go away, but the tension between your families does. slowly, the world starts to accept what you already knew: love doesn’t care about the rivalry between teams. it doesn’t care about the rules.

max wins another race. this time, you’re there, not hiding, not pretending. the cameras flash around you, and you stand by his side, proud. he looks at you with that same intensity, but now, it’s not a secret. your love is out in the open, stronger than ever.

and as you walk off the podium together, hand in hand, you realize that no matter what the future holds, you’ve already won. together.

ʚ・lewis hamilton

you’ve always been part of the f1 world, living in the shadow of your father, the red bull team principal. but one night, everything changes when you're forced to attend a press conference with him. you’re trying to stay out of the spotlight, your eyes gliding over the room, until they land on him: lewis hamilton. despite the rivalry between red bull and mercedes, something shifts when your gazes meet—an undeniable connection, one that neither of you can ignore.

after the press conference ends, lewis, ever the charmer, approaches you with that trademark grin. “so, you're the red bull princess, huh?” he says, his voice playful, though there's something deeper in his eyes. you nod, taken aback by the intensity of the moment.

"you don’t look like the type to be stuck behind a desk," he adds with a smirk, his tone light but his gaze searching yours.

you laugh, trying to hide how your heart skips a beat. "guess i’m not."

the next few weeks are a blur of stolen glances and quiet exchanges. with every conversation, every private moment, you both feel the connection deepening, though the tension between your families grows. your father’s rivalry with mercedes runs deep, and the last thing you need is for the media to catch wind of anything. but as the whispers start, you can’t fight the pull between you and lewis any longer.

the secrecy wears on you both. the constant sneaking around, meeting in hidden corners, avoiding the constant press. it’s like living a double life, and eventually, it becomes too much. you feel suffocated by the pressure of hiding your love, and lewis, frustrated and restless, isn’t happy either.

then comes a pivotal race. both red bull and mercedes are facing setbacks, and the competition is fierce. the tension is at an all-time high. after the race, the world is still buzzing with the results, but you can't think about anything else. you need to see him.

as the race concludes, you rush through the paddock, your heart racing. cameras flash all around you, but you don’t care. you spot him—lewis, standing in the pit, grinning like he just won the world. without thinking, you run straight to him. the noise of the world fades as you leap into his arms, and he catches you effortlessly, spinning you around in a burst of joy. it’s a moment of pure freedom—a declaration that you’re done hiding.

the cameras capture everything: your arms around him, your laughter echoing through the chaos. the media goes wild. your father, watching the broadcast from his office, doesn’t know whether to laugh or shout. he stares at the screen, eyes widening in disbelief as you and lewis embrace on live tv.

"what the hell…?" he mutters under his breath. his fists clench, watching his daughter—his little girl—defy everything he’s worked for, the legacy of red bull and its rivalry with mercedes. for a moment, he’s stunned, unsure of what to think.

later, when you sit down with him, you brace for the confrontation. but instead of anger, he looks at you with a quiet understanding in his eyes. “you’re my little girl,” he starts, voice softer than you expect. “i’ve spent my life trying to protect you, to keep you away from this madness. but if this is who you love… then i’ll support you. even if it’s from a rival team.”

you feel the weight of his words settle in your chest. the rivalry still exists, but in that moment, you realize that family comes first. your father’s approval means more than anything, and his acceptance gives you the freedom to live your truth.

ʚ・george russell

it’s a late afternoon at the track, the sun casting long shadows over the paddock as the roar of engines fills the air. you’re standing near your father, the principal of red bull racing, watching the teams prepare for another race. it’s business as usual—except, today, something feels different.

as you glance around, your eyes land on him: george russell. mercedes’ promising young driver, always composed and focused. but today, it’s not the usual competitive edge you notice. instead, you spot a technical issue on his car, a minor glitch in the system that could cost him on track. without thinking, you stride forward, your pulse quickening with a mix of adrenaline and nerves.

“george,” you call, your voice cutting through the air.

he looks up, surprised to see you, but a flicker of recognition crosses his face. “y/n,” he says with a slight grin. “what’s going on?”

you point to his car. “there’s an issue with the engine cooling system. you need to recalibrate the sensors, or it’s going to overheat during the race.”

george raises an eyebrow. “and what would you know about that?”

you shrug, a playful smile on your lips. “i come with my dad to work almost everyday, i'd like to think i’ve picked up a few things.”

he laughs softly, shaking his head. “i guess i’ll trust you then. but i’m not sure if i should be worried about red bull’s tech advice.”

“don’t worry,” you reply, “i won’t sabotage you… too much.”

the banter flows easily between you, and there’s an undeniable chemistry that neither of you can ignore. but as you walk away, your mind starts to race. you’re intrigued by him—his dry wit, his easy smile—but you know better than to get too close. your father’s rivalry with mercedes runs deep, and you’ve been raised to see them as the enemy, not a potential partner.

over the next few weeks, you and george find yourselves crossing paths more often. each meeting is brief, a stolen moment outside the paddock or in the midst of chaos during a race weekend. you talk about cars, racing strategies, and even your shared interests beyond the track. there’s an easy connection, a bond that grows deeper with every conversation.

the secrecy of your meetings becomes a burden. you’re both constantly looking over your shoulders, afraid of getting caught. the fear of your families finding out and the potential consequences of your secret relationship weigh on you. yet, with every stolen kiss and quiet exchange, your feelings for george only grow stronger. the risk of it all feels worth it when he’s around.

however, the stress of hiding the relationship begins to strain you both. george’s success on the track only adds pressure. every victory for him is a reminder of the ever-present distance between you two. your father’s disapproval weighs heavily on your conscience, and it’s starting to affect your work.

during a pivotal race, both teams face challenges—red bull’s strategy falters, and mercedes struggles with tire issues. you and george exchange secret messages, working together to help each other’s teams without crossing the line.

as both teams fight to salvage their positions, your collaboration becomes more than technical support—it’s a defiant stand against the rivalry. the race ends with both teams barely staying afloat, but you and george share a quiet triumph, knowing you made a difference.

the media catches on, and the truth comes to light. both families are shocked, but as they see the depth of your love, your father’s anger softens. slowly, the walls between red bull and mercedes begin to crumble.

you and george publicly announce your relationship, standing together before the media, no longer hiding. the rivalry may still exist, but your love has bridged the gap, and together, you step into a new chapter where love, not competition, drives you forward.

later, your father calls you and george into his office, a wry smile on his face. after a moment of silence, he looks at you both, then shrugs. “i suppose if you’re really in love, i can’t stop you. just know… i can’t promise i won’t use my daughter to sabotage mercedes from time to time.”

you and george laugh, and your father chuckles, his eyes softening. "but seriously," he adds, "i trust you both. just don’t make me regret it."

with that, the tension breaks, and for the first time, the future of both families feels a little brighter.

ʚ・carlos sainz

the press room was buzzing with the usual chatter—drivers answering questions, team principals looking sharp, and the sound of cameras clicking at every moment. you were there as part of your father’s entourage, the daughter of mclaren’s team principal. you’d been to countless media events, but today, something felt different.

the crowd parted as a familiar face made his way through: carlos sainz, ferrari’s star driver. his warm smile met yours from across the room. you’d seen him race plenty of times, but there was something about his presence that stood out today—something that made your heart beat a little faster.

you’d heard stories of how intense the rivalry between mclaren and ferrari was. it was ingrained in you from a young age, something your father had hammered into your head. he was fierce about his loyalty to mclaren, and he expected nothing less from you. but despite that, the moment your eyes met carlos’s, you felt an undeniable pull.

he smiled at you, as if recognizing that spark too, and before long, the two of you found yourselves chatting during a brief lull in the press event. he was charming, his wit sharp, and his dry humor caught you off guard. you laughed more easily than you expected, feeling the weight of your father’s expectations and the animosity between your teams fade away in the warmth of his presence.

“you know,” carlos said with a grin, “i’ve always thought mclaren had some of the best engineers. too bad we’re always on opposite sides of the fight.”

you smirked. “guess it’s more fun that way, isn’t it? keeps things interesting.”

the chemistry between you was immediate, and in that brief conversation, you realized you wanted more. but you couldn’t—could you? your father would never approve. ferrari and mclaren had been bitter rivals for as long as anyone could remember. still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something real between you and carlos.

over the next few races, you both found ways to keep in touch, meeting up in secret whenever possible. the stolen moments became your escape, a brief reprieve from the weight of being the daughter of mclaren’s team principal and the strain of hiding your growing feelings for a ferrari driver. every touch, every glance was like a silent promise, and with each passing day, it became harder to keep things a secret.

but the pressure was mounting. the media was getting more curious about the subtle tension between you and carlos. you had to be careful. every word, every action had to be carefully measured.

then came the race that changed everything. the tension between mclaren and ferrari reached its peak. your team was struggling—strategy issues, tire troubles, nothing was going according to plan. and then there was carlos, pulling off a brilliant move and clinching the victory for ferrari. the crowd roared, but for you, the noise faded into the background. all you could focus on was the moment he crossed the finish line, knowing you couldn’t stay hidden anymore.

you rushed through the chaos, your heart pounding in your chest. the cameras were everywhere, but you didn’t care. you didn’t think. you just ran. when you reached him, you didn’t hesitate. you jumped into his arms, and in one swift motion, he spun you around, laughing in joy.

the world saw it all. it was a moment of defiance—no longer hiding your love for him, despite everything you’d been taught about team loyalty and rivalry. the media exploded, cameras flashing as they captured the intimate moment. the tension between mclaren and ferrari had never felt more real, and yet, in that moment, it didn’t matter. you were with carlos, and that was all that mattered.

back at the paddock, you could feel your father’s eyes on you from the distance. he hadn’t yet approached, but you knew the storm was coming. when he finally did, his expression was unreadable, his jaw clenched in frustration.

“what the hell is this?” he demanded, his voice low but sharp.

you took a deep breath, walking toward him. “dad, i… i’m in love with him.”

for a moment, the silence stretched between you. then, your father’s gaze softened, just a little. he let out a long sigh, glancing back at carlos, who was now waiting a few feet away, watching the exchange with uncertainty.

“you really love him?” your father asked, his voice unsteady for the first time.

you nodded, meeting his eyes. “i do. it’s not a fling, dad. i promise you.”

he stood there for a long moment, his gaze flicking back and forth between you and carlos. then, in a move that surprised you, he chuckled—a little bitterly, but still, a chuckle.

“well, if you’re serious about this, i guess i can’t stop you,” he said, the tension in his shoulders easing. “but don’t expect me to go easy on ferrari next season.”

you laughed, relief flooding through you. “deal.”

and just like that, the walls that had once seemed insurmountable between your world and carlos’s began to crumble. the rivalry between mclaren and ferrari wouldn’t disappear overnight, but maybe—just maybe—the future of racing didn’t have to be defined by the battles between teams.

as you stood there, hand in hand with carlos, you realized that love had bridged the gap. you weren’t just the daughter of mclaren’s team principal anymore. you were someone who had found something real, despite all the odds. and that was enough.

the road ahead would be challenging, but with carlos by your side, you were ready to face it all—together.

ʚ・charles leclerc

you’d spent your entire life draped in mclaren orange, fiercely loyal to your father’s team. everyone at the paddock knew you—not as just the team principal’s kid but as a sharp-tongued, quick-witted presence who had zero tolerance for nonsense. so, when charles leclerc, ferrari’s golden boy, casually strolled over during a media event and commented on your bold mclaren jacket, you didn’t miss a beat.

“bold choice for you to critique fashion,” you said, raising a brow. “didn’t you wear that same ferrari polo yesterday? or is it just your uniform now?”

charles blinked before breaking into a grin. “it’s called consistency, chérie. something mclaren might want to try with their cars.”

your jaw dropped, but his cheeky smirk made it impossible to stay annoyed. instead, you laughed. “touché, leclerc. but let’s see how consistent you are on track this weekend.”

it started with playful banter, but the more you ran into charles during race weekends, the more intrigued you became. beneath his smooth charm and the ferrari-red facade was a kind, passionate guy with dreams that matched yours. the chemistry was undeniable, and soon, stolen moments between press conferences turned into late-night conversations over text, and quiet dinners away from the spotlight.

every meeting felt like rebellion—not just against your father’s expectations but against the entire cutthroat nature of the sport. you’d grown up in this world of rivalries, but with charles, you started to see it differently. the sport didn’t have to divide people; it could bring them together.

still, you knew what you were risking. your father had built his career on the rivalry with ferrari, and your mother… well, she’d always been the level-headed one in the family.

the turning point came after a thrilling race in monaco. charles took p1 in a breathtaking finish, and as he climbed out of his car, the crowd roared. you stood at the edge of the podium celebrations, your heart racing—not for mclaren, but for him.

as he spotted you in the crowd, you didn’t care who was watching. you pushed past the cameras and ran up to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and kissing him in front of everyone. the world faded away, leaving only the two of you in that moment.

later, when the footage made its inevitable rounds, your father called you into his office. his expression was thunderous, but before he could launch into a tirade, your mother interjected.

“oh, please,” she said, rolling her eyes. “love is love. let her live her life.”

your father looked between you and your mother, his frustration melting into reluctant acceptance. “fine,” he said, sighing heavily. “but if this boy breaks your heart, i’ll have him banned from every paddock on earth. do you hear me?”

“loud and clear,” you said, grinning.

charles became more than just a rival driver; he became your partner. the road wasn’t easy—balancing the pressures of your families, the media, and the sport itself was a challenge—but together, you proved that love could transcend the boundaries of loyalty and rivalry.

in time, even your father warmed up to charles, admitting that maybe ferrari wasn’t entirely the enemy. your relationship became a symbol of change, inspiring others to see beyond the rivalries and focus on what truly mattered.

and as you stood with charles at the end of yet another race, hand in hand, you knew you’d crossed the finish line—not just for love but for a new chapter in both your lives.

ʚ・lando norris

you weren’t supposed to be here—not in the simulator room of a mclaren facility. as the daughter of ferrari’s team principal, you had absolutely no business wandering into enemy territory. but your father had dragged you to yet another pre-season media day, and curiosity (plus boredom) got the better of you.

what you didn’t expect was to find lando norris, slouched in the simulator seat, muttering under his breath as he reset for yet another lap.

“maybe if this sim wasn’t ancient, i wouldn’t be two-tenths off,” he grumbled, smacking the steering wheel in frustration.

you couldn’t help yourself. “ever thought about turning left for a change?”

lando’s head snapped up, startled, before his lips curved into a grin. “great. ferrari’s princess is here to give me driving tips. what’s next? you gonna show me how to do a pit stop?”

“someone has to,” you shot back, stepping into the room. “clearly, mclaren hasn’t figured it out yet.”

his laugh was genuine, softening the edges of his earlier frustration. “careful, or people will think you’re defecting.”

“oh, please,” you said with a smirk. “if i wanted to sabotage ferrari’s reputation, i’d just let you borrow one of our cars.”

what started as playful banter quickly spiraled into something more.

the teasing didn’t stop after that. you’d bump into him at races or media events, and without fail, lando always had something to say.

“so, which ferrari secret are you leaking today?” he’d whisper as you passed him in the paddock.

“wouldn’t you like to know?” you’d reply, raising an eyebrow.

but beneath the sarcasm, there was something else—an undeniable connection that neither of you could ignore. it wasn’t long before stolen moments turned into late-night chats, and teasing jabs softened into something deeper.

you started meeting in secret, far from the prying eyes of the paddock. sometimes it was at quiet restaurants in cities where races were held, other times it was just sitting on the tailgate of his rental car, talking about everything but racing.

“do you ever get tired of all the rivalry crap?” you asked one night, staring at the stars.

“all the time,” he admitted. “but i’ve got to say, it’s a lot more fun with you around. even if you’re technically the enemy.”

you rolled your eyes. “please. if i were the enemy, you wouldn’t still be here.”

the turning point came after a pivotal race. ferrari had a disastrous weekend—your father’s strategy calls backfired, and both cars finished far outside the points. meanwhile, lando claimed p1, his first win of the season.

you should’ve stayed in the ferrari garage, consoling your team and putting on a brave face. instead, your feet carried you to parc fermé, straight into lando’s arms.

“you’re not supposed to be here,” he teased, grinning as he pulled you into a hug.

“yeah, well, someone has to congratulate you properly,” you said, your voice muffled against his chest.

the cameras were everywhere, catching the moment as lando lifted you off the ground and spun you around. by the time your feet touched the ground, you knew there was no hiding anymore.

when your father saw the footage, his face turned a shade of red you didn’t think was physically possible. “you hugged him. on camera. at parc fermé,” he fumed, pacing the ferrari motorhome.

“yeah, dad, i did,” you said, arms crossed. “and i’m not sorry about it.”

your mother, sitting calmly in the corner, rolled her eyes. “oh, please, let them be. even if it’s… inconvenient.”

your father stopped pacing, glaring at her before turning to you. “fine. but if he breaks your heart, i swear i’ll sabotage his car myself.”

when you relayed the conversation to lando later, he laughed, pulling you close. “your dad’s terrifying, you know.”

“yeah, but he loves me,” you said with a grin. “and he’ll come around. eventually.”

lando kissed your forehead, his voice soft. “good, because i’m not going anywhere.”

ʚ・oscar piastri

the first time you met oscar piastri, it wasn’t under the most glamorous circumstances. as ferrari’s golden child, your father had sent you to oversee a joint project with mclaren, which was code for "keep an eye on the competition."

you were mid-yawn at the coffee machine in mclaren's hospitality area, waiting for the machine to finally churn out your much-needed cappuccino, when a voice interrupted you.

“some of us actually have work to do, you know.”

you turned, glaring at the culprit—none other than oscar piastri, standing there with his arms crossed and an eyebrow raised.

“well, some of us need caffeine to tolerate said work,” you shot back, not budging.

he smirked. “right, because ferrari's success clearly hinges on how long you hog the coffee machine.”

“it’s only fair since mclaren’s been stealing all the glory lately,” you retorted, crossing your arms.

his laugh was low and unexpected, and it caught you off guard. “touché. but seriously, i need my coffee.”

you rolled your eyes but stepped aside, gesturing dramatically. “be my guest, glory-stealer.”

what started as sharp-witted banter evolved into something… else. the project forced you into countless meetings, strategy sessions, and shared moments of quiet in the paddock.

late nights at the track turned into debates about racing philosophies—he’d argue for precision, and you’d counter with passion. more than once, you’d find yourself splitting snacks when the paddock catering failed you both.

“you’re really committed to this whole ‘traitor’ thing, aren’t you?” he teased one evening, munching on a shared bag of chips.

“it’s called strategic sabotage,” you deadpanned, stealing another chip. “someone has to keep mclaren humble.”

he grinned, leaning a little closer. “you’re terrible at hiding your motives, you know.”

“and you’re terrible at hiding how much you love this,” you said, gesturing between the two of you.

he didn’t deny it.

after a grueling race weekend, where mclaren edged out ferrari in the standings, you found yourself in the paddock sulking with a bottle of water.

oscar appeared out of nowhere, slipping a folded piece of paper into your hand.

“don’t open it now,” he murmured before walking off, his usual nonchalant demeanor intact.

curious, you waited until you were alone to unfold it.

"we make a good team."

the words were simple, scribbled in his messy handwriting, but they hit you harder than you expected.

your flushed face must’ve been a dead giveaway because your father cornered you that evening.

“do you want to explain why you look like a lovesick teenager?” he asked, arms crossed.

you froze, trying to come up with a convincing lie, but he sighed before you could. “it’s piastri, isn’t it? of all the drivers—him?”

“it’s not—” you stopped yourself. lying wouldn’t work. “okay, yes, it’s him. and he makes me happy, dad.”

your father stared at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable. finally, he muttered, “fine. but if he so much as breathes in the wrong direction, i'll send a hit out for him.”

you couldn’t help but laugh, relief flooding you.

when you saw oscar later that night, you couldn’t resist telling him about your father’s “conditions.”

oscar grinned as he wrapped an arm around you. “i think i can live with that.”

2K notes · View notes

kathaelipwse · 3 months ago

Text

The Fine Print || J.Wonwoo

Pairing: CEO!Wonwoo × Fashion Mogul(CEO Of A Fashion Line)!Fem Reader

Trope: Enemies to Lovers | Fake Dating | Revenge Pact | Forced Marriage Fallout

Warnings: Mentions of material coercion, non-consensual marriage, sexual assault (not with wonwoo), trauma (not with wonwoo), alcohol, revenge, corporate manipulation, and emotional healing, WORK OF FICTION, NO PROOF READING WAS DONE

Word Count: 9525 words ; Reading Time: 35-ish mins

Synopsis: In a world driven by power and appearances, a successful fashion CEO finds herself trapped in a toxic, loveless marriage for the sake of reputation. After discovering her infertility and surviving the cruelty of her husband, she walks out—scorched but not shattered. To destroy him completely, she calls on her old university rival, Jeon Wonwoo—now a ruthless tech tycoon and her biggest critic. His help comes with a condition: pretend to be his girlfriend. What begins as public spectacle spirals into nights of vulnerability, unspoken truths, and a romance neither saw coming. Because sometimes… even the coldest rivals can burn the brightest together.

Author’s Note: Writing this helped me cope with the reality that Wonwoo’s enlistment in the military hasn’t given me an ounce of peace. Instead, I poured my delusions into this fierce, messy, powerful enemies-to-lovers fic to survive the drought. To everyone else feeling the same? This one’s for us.

Request's are closed <3 I will be working on the requests I have got in my inbox!!

The weight of the midnight blue silk dress felt like a cruel mockery against your skin. It was the centerpiece of your latest collection, a flowing testament to the fierce, independent spirit you poured into every design, every meticulously stitched seam of your burgeoning fashion empire.

Yet, tonight, the luxurious fabric felt less like the armor of a CEO and more like the suffocating drapery of a gilded cage. You stared at your reflection in the antique, gold-framed mirror of the ballroom’s powder room, the soft, strategically placed lighting doing little to mask the subtle shadows of exhaustion that clung to the corners of your eyes. (Y/N), CEO of a fashion house whose innovative designs were rapidly gaining global recognition, your name a whisper of power and creative vision – a stark and bitter contrast to the carefully constructed role you were forced to inhabit within the confines of your marriage.

Your husband, Julian Thorne, the formidable CEO of OmniTech Industries, a colossus straddling the international tech landscape, was the architect of this elaborate charade. Your marriage, a highly publicized union touted as a groundbreaking synergy of fashion and technology, had been conceived in the sterile environment of boardrooms, fueled by ambition and sealed with a handshake that felt colder than any winter frost.

Your father, a man whose own dreams for your fashion legacy had become intertwined with the allure of Thorne’s immense technological might, had championed the union with a relentless enthusiasm that still left a bitter taste in your mouth. He had seen potential, synergy, an elevation of your brand to unprecedented heights. He had failed to see the steel in Julian’s gaze, the calculating glint that spoke of acquisition rather than partnership.

Julian was a man sculpted from ambition and devoid of genuine warmth. His interactions were precise, his words measured, and his affection, if it could even be dignified with such a term, was strictly conditional, tethered to his almost obsessive desire for an heir. He spoke of children with a possessive gleam in his steely blue eyes, viewing them as another meticulously planned acquisition, another crucial element in securing his legacy, a tangible extension of his power.

You, on the other hand, felt a cold dread coil in your stomach every time the topic surfaced. Your energy, your passion, your very being was poured into your company, into the tangible beauty you created from sketches and swatches. Motherhood, especially under Julian’s cold, controlling gaze, felt like a distant, blurry concept, a role you were profoundly unprepared and unwilling to embrace, not with him, not yet.

The memory of that night, months prior, still had the power to send icy tendrils of fear snaking through your veins. It was a violation that had stripped you bare, leaving you feeling hollowed out and irrevocably tainted. The forced intimacy, his relentless insistence despite your whispered protests, the chilling certainty in his eyes that your body was his to command – it was a deep, festering wound that no amount of time seemed capable of fully healing. He wanted a child so desperately, the cruel thought would surface unbidden, a bitter reminder of your powerlessness, he didn’t care about you, only the outcome.

The subsequent months crawled by with agonizing slowness, each one marked by Julian’s increasingly impatient inquiries, his subtle pressure escalating into thinly veiled accusations. The hopeful anticipation that had initially laced his voice slowly curdled into suspicion, then resentment, and finally, outright hostility.

The air in your shared penthouse apartment grew thick with unspoken tension, punctuated by his sharp demands and your increasingly strained silences. Finally, the sterile, impersonal environment of the doctor’s office confirmed your deepest anxieties, though the revelation was far more complex and devastating than you had ever imagined. You were infertile.

The diagnosis, delivered with a clinical detachment that mirrored Julian’s own emotional landscape, landed like a physical blow, knocking the breath from your lungs. But the true agony wasn’t the medical pronouncement itself; it was the volcanic eruption of Julian’s rage that followed.

His disappointment twisted into a venomous fury, his words sharp and cruel, like shards of glass tearing at your already fragile sense of self-worth. “Useless,” he had spat, his face contorted with contempt, his eyes devoid of any semblance of human compassion. “Barren. You can’t even fulfill the one fundamental purpose of a wife. You’ve failed me.”

Those brutal, unfair words, delivered with such cold conviction, finally shattered the last vestiges of your carefully constructed composure. The fear that had kept you compliant, the ingrained obligation you felt towards your family’s carefully laid plans, all crumbled into dust under the crushing weight of his unfeeling cruelty. That night, as Julian slept in the master bedroom, oblivious to the seismic shift within you, you had quietly contacted your most trusted legal counsel. The divorce papers were drafted with swift, efficient precision, a silent declaration of war, a decisive act of rebellion against the suffocating confines of the gilded cage you had allowed yourself to be trapped within.

Now, standing amidst the opulent yet suffocating atmosphere of the farewell party your parents had insisted on hosting – a final, polite, and utterly insincere nod to the spectacular failure of your “strategic alliance” – you felt a strange, unsettling mix of liberation and lingering pain.

The forced smiles and empty congratulations of the guests felt like a surreal performance, a final act in a play you were desperate to escape. You were bruised, emotionally and mentally battered by the relentless onslaught of the past months, but beneath the surface, a core of resilience remained unbroken. The chains, though they had left their mark, were finally, irrevocably severed.

As the polite chatter and forced pleasantries of the departing guests swirled around you, a sense of profound isolation settled in your chest. You longed for the quiet solitude of your own space, away from the judging eyes and hushed whispers. Your fingers instinctively brushed against the small, unassuming business card you had almost forgotten, tucked away in a seldom-used compartment of your elegant clutch. The stark black ink on the crisp white paper was a stark contrast to the pastel hues of the ballroom.

“Jeon Wonwoo – CEO, Stellaris Technologies.” A ghost of a wry, almost cynical smile touched your lips. Wonwoo. Your intellectual sparring partner from university, the infuriatingly brilliant mind who had challenged your every assumption, whose sharp wit and relentless drive had both exasperated and secretly impressed you. Your rivalry had been legendary, a constant clash of intellect and ambition across lecture halls and late-night study sessions. He was, without a doubt, the last person on earth you would ever have considered turning to for help.

But as you looked down at that simple card, a flicker of a desperate, audacious idea began to take root in the barren landscape of your despair. He was ruthless, undeniably brilliant, and possessed a strategic mind capable of dissecting complex systems and exploiting their weaknesses with surgical precision.

He was also, you vaguely recalled, known for his…unconventional methods. And right now, dismantling Julian Thorne’s smug, self-satisfied world, piece by calculated piece, was the only prospect that offered you even a sliver of the peace you so desperately craved.

With a newfound resolve hardening your gaze, a spark of something akin to grim determination igniting within you, you slipped the card into the deeper recesses of your pocket. The cool, smooth edge against your fingertips felt like a promise of a different kind of power – the power of retribution, wielded not through tears and pleas, but through strategy and calculated moves.

The chapter of forced obedience and silent suffering was finally, irrevocably closed. The next chapter, you vowed, would be written entirely on your own terms, even if it meant forging an alliance with your most formidable adversary.

The phone felt heavy in your hand, the polished glass a stark contrast to the nervous tremor that ran through your fingers. You stared at the contact name displayed on the screen: "Jeon Wonwoo." It was a name that had been relegated to the dusty corners of your memory, a relic of late-night study sessions fueled by lukewarm coffee and the adrenaline of looming deadlines, heated debates that often devolved into playful (and sometimes not-so-playful) intellectual sparring matches, and a rivalry that had defined your university years.

You hadn't spoken to him in years, not since the somewhat stiff and formal handshake at graduation, when your paths had diverged with a palpable sense of finality, his towards the fiercely competitive world of tech startups and venture capital, yours towards the intricate and equally demanding tapestry of the fashion industry, a world of silk and strategy, of aesthetics and sharp business acumen.

Taking a deep breath, a conscious effort to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart, you pressed the call button. The line rang, each electronic pulse echoing the profound uncertainty that gnawed at your resolve. Finally, after what felt like an agonizingly long wait, a voice, smooth as polished steel and laced with a familiar, almost infuriating hint of intellectual arrogance, answered. "Jeon Wonwoo speaking."

"Wonwoo," you began, your voice surprisingly steady, a testament to years of projecting confidence in high-stakes negotiations, despite the tempest of raw emotion churning within. "It's (Y/N)."

There was a brief pause, a beat of stunned silence that stretched into an unnerving eternity. You could almost hear the gears whirring in his sharp mind, processing the unexpectedness of your call. "Well, this is…unexpected, (Y/N). Haven't heard your voice in…what, five years now? To what do I owe this sudden, nostalgic outreach? Did you finally realize my thesis on neural networks was superior?" His tone was carefully neutral, betraying little, but you could detect a subtle undercurrent of amusement, a ghost of the old competitive spark that had always simmered between you.

You ignored his characteristic jab. "I need your help, Wonwoo." The words felt foreign on your tongue, a humbling admission to the one person who had consistently pushed you to your limits, the one person you had always strived to outsmart.

Another pause, this one heavier, laced with a newfound seriousness. "Help with what, (Y/N)?" His voice lost its playful edge, replaced by a cautious curiosity.

You laid out your proposition, the words tumbling out in a rush, a torrent of pent-up anger, pain, and a desperate need for retribution. You spoke of the calculated betrayal of your marriage to Julian, the cold, clinical nature of your interactions, the forced intimacy that still haunted your sleep, leaving you feeling violated and irrevocably scarred. You detailed the casual cruelty that had chipped away at your self-worth, the subtle manipulations and outright lies that had become the foundation of your life with him.

You then moved on to OmniTech, the seemingly impenetrable fortress of his success, hinting at the intricate web of lies and deceit, the carefully constructed facade of ethical business practices that underpinned its flawless reputation, the whispers you had overheard in hushed boardrooms, the inconsistencies you had noticed but, in your naivete, had dismissed. And then, you made your request, blunt and direct, stripping away any remaining pretense. "I need your help to destroy him, Wonwoo. I need you to dismantle OmniTech, piece by agonizing piece."

There was a longer silence this time, heavy with unspoken implications, the digital connection crackling faintly in your ear. You could almost hear the intricate cogs turning in his brilliant, ruthlessly calculating mind, analyzing the situation, weighing the potential benefits and drawbacks, assessing the sheer audacity of your request. "And why me, (Y/N)?" he finally asked, his voice low and dangerous, a silken threat that sent a shiver down your spine despite the distance. "Why come crawling to your sworn enemy for help? Surely, a woman of your considerable resources has other avenues she could explore. High-powered lawyers, disgruntled former employees…"

"Because you're the only one who can do it effectively," you admitted, the stark truth echoing in the tense silence of your apartment. "You have the specific skills, the intricate network within the tech world, the understanding of how these corporations truly operate. You have the resources, the intelligence, and the…the ruthlessness necessary to pull something like this off. You understand the intricacies of the tech world in a way I never will, and frankly, in a way that would take me years to even begin to grasp."

Wonwoo chuckled, a low, sardonic sound that sent a different kind of shiver down your spine this time, a prickle of something akin to reluctant admiration mixed with apprehension. "Ruthlessness? You wound me, (Y/N). I prefer to think of it as…strategic efficiency. But I digress. Even if I were inclined to indulge your…vendetta, what makes you think I would risk my own reputation, my own company, to take down a behemoth like OmniTech? What's in it for me? What could you possibly offer that would make it worth my while to go to war with a company the size and influence of Julian Thorne's?"

You had anticipated this, of course. You had spent hours crafting your counter-offer, trying to anticipate his motivations, what could possibly tempt a man who already possessed considerable wealth and power. You offered him a significant percentage of your company's shares, a stake in your rapidly expanding fashion empire. You proposed a substantial sum of money, an amount that would likely raise even his perfectly sculpted eyebrows. You even dangled the prospect of exclusive partnerships and collaborations within the high-stakes world of luxury fashion, connections that could open doors to a different kind of influence, a world beyond algorithms and microprocessors. He listened patiently, a faint air of detached amusement in his tone, and then dismissed each offer with a dismissive wave of his metaphorical hand, a slight curl of his lip indicating his utter disinterest. "I don't need your money, (Y/N). And I certainly don't need a piece of your empire. I have my own, and it's doing quite well, thank you. As for fashion…let's just say my aesthetic leans more towards functional than flamboyant."

There was a beat of silence, the weight of his rejection hanging in the air. You had played your strongest cards, and they had fallen flat. Desperation began to gnaw at the edges of your resolve. "Then what, Wonwoo? What do you want?"

He paused, the silence on the other end of the line stretching taut. When he finally spoke, his voice had dropped to a low, almost conspiratorial murmur. "I want something else, (Y/N). Something…more interesting. Something that appeals to my…sense of the dramatic."

You waited, your breath held captive in your chest.

"I want you to be my fake girlfriend, (Y/N)."

The words hit you like a physical blow, stealing the air from your lungs. You could only manage a stunned, disbelieving whisper. "What?"

He chuckled softly, a low, knowing sound that sent a shiver down your spine. "A mutually beneficial arrangement," he explained, the smirk practically audible in his tone. "We play the part. Public appearances, carefully staged dinners, strategically leaked photos at clubs, the whole glamorous, scandalous shebang. It'll give me a certain kind of leverage in some…ongoing business dealings that require a certain…public image. And it'll give you the perfect, utterly believable cover to execute your…plans without raising suspicion. Everyone will be far too busy dissecting our 'relationship,' speculating on the salacious details, to notice what you're really up to."

You hesitated, the sheer audacity of his proposal leaving you reeling. It was outrageous, bordering on insane. But as the initial shock wore off, a strange, unsettling intrigue began to take hold. It was undeniably clever, a high-stakes gamble that played perfectly into the public's insatiable appetite for scandal. It was a dance with the devil himself, a pact forged in mutual need and a shared, albeit unspoken, desire for…something beyond mere revenge. "And what exactly happens when this…arrangement is over, Wonwoo?" you asked, your voice tight with a mixture of apprehension and a flicker of something akin to reckless excitement.

"We go our separate ways," he said, his dark eyes, you imagined, glittering with an unreadable emotion, a flicker of something that might have been amusement, or perhaps something far more complex. "No strings attached. No lingering expectations. It's purely business, (Y/N). A transaction of appearances. Think of it as…mutually assured destruction for our public images, if either of us deviates from the script."

You considered his offer, the chaotic whirlwind of the past few months suddenly focusing into this one, bizarre, yet undeniably compelling proposition. The thought of Julian's smug downfall, the sweet, intoxicating taste of revenge, was a powerful lure, almost impossible to resist, especially now that a viable, albeit unconventional, path had presented itself. "Fine," you said, your voice firm, a newfound resolve hardening your tone. "Deal."

"Pleasure doing business with you, (Y/N)," Wonwoo's voice held a distinct note of satisfaction. "I'll have my people coordinate our first 'public outing' by the end of the week. Be prepared for the paparazzi."

The line went dead, leaving you staring at the silent phone in your hand. You had just made a deal with your greatest rival, agreeing to a fake relationship as a means to orchestrate the downfall of your ex-husband. The sheer absurdity of it all almost made you laugh. But beneath the surface of the shock and the swirling uncertainty, a seed of grim determination had been planted. The game had begun.

The week that followed your phone call with Wonwoo felt like stepping onto a brightly lit stage, the spotlight unforgiving and every move scrutinized. His "people" – a slick, efficient team you only interacted with via email and carefully scheduled phone briefings – orchestrated your public debut with the precision of a military operation. The first "sighting" was at a newly opened, ultra-exclusive restaurant, the kind where reservations were booked months in advance and privacy was a myth. You arrived separately, a deliberate tactic, only to "coincidentally" meet near the maître d's stand, the ensuing conversation captured by strategically placed paparazzi.

The photos the next morning were exactly as predicted: you, looking stunningly composed in a sleek black dress, a hint of a smile playing on your lips as you spoke to Wonwoo, who exuded an effortless charm in a tailored suit. The accompanying headlines screamed: "Fashion Mogul Finds New Flame?" and "Tech Titan and Style Queen Spark Romance!" The internet buzzed with speculation, your past marriage relegated to a footnote as everyone focused on this unexpected pairing.

Over the next few weeks, the carefully constructed narrative continued to unfold. There were "intimate" dinners where you and Wonwoo were photographed laughing, a shared box at the opera where his hand briefly rested on your back, a late-night exit from a trendy club, looking slightly disheveled but undeniably together. Each carefully curated appearance fueled the fire, pushing your "relationship" into the realm of scandalous obsession. Julian's name rarely surfaced in the gossip columns anymore, his downfall seemingly old news compared to the sizzling chemistry between you and Wonwoo.

Beneath the veneer of public affection, your interactions with Wonwoo remained strictly business. You met occasionally in neutral locations, his penthouse office a stark, minimalist space overlooking the city, or a quiet corner of a high-end hotel bar. Your conversations were clipped, focused on strategy. He provided you with information, subtle hints of the rot within OmniTech that his own sources had unearthed. You, in turn, played your part flawlessly, the sophisticated and alluring woman captivated by his intellect and power.

Then came the evening at the secluded Italian restaurant, the air thick with the aroma of truffle oil and hushed conversations. You had just returned from a particularly grueling photoshoot, the weight of the public charade beginning to feel heavy. Wonwoo was already seated at your usual table, a glass of amber liquid swirling in his hand. He looked up as you approached, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eyes.

After the initial pleasantries, a comfortable silence settled between you, a byproduct of the weeks spent navigating this bizarre performance. Then, Wonwoo reached inside his jacket and slid a thin, folded piece of expensive, textured paper across the polished mahogany table. "I've been working on something," he said, his voice low and smug, a hint of predatory satisfaction in his tone. "A little…expose. Something I think you'll find…amusing."

You unfolded the paper he had passed, the crispness of it a stark contrast to the damning content it held. It was the draft of an anonymous article, the prose sharp and incisive, meticulously detailing the shady business practices and deeply unethical dealings that had become the bedrock of OmniTech's success. It spoke of manipulated quarterly reports that had artificially inflated the company's stock price, of aggressive and often illegal tactics used to stifle competition, of the exploitation of overseas labor masked by glossy corporate social responsibility campaigns, and of a series of suspiciously lucrative government contracts secured through means that were, to put it mildly, ethically dubious. The article even hinted at a culture of intimidation within OmniTech, where dissenting voices were swiftly silenced. It painted a devastating portrait of Julian Thorne, not as the visionary leader the public admired, but as a ruthless and manipulative businessman who had built his empire on a foundation of lies and exploitation.

As you read, a cold satisfaction bloomed in your chest. This was more than you had even hoped for. "This is…thorough," you commented, your voice low.

Wonwoo leaned back in his chair, a knowing smirk playing on his perfectly sculpted lips. "I pride myself on my thoroughness, (Y/N). Especially when it comes to dismantling my competition…or in this case, yours."

"And the anonymity?" you asked, your eyes scanning the carefully worded paragraphs.

"Crucial," he replied, taking a sip of his drink. "It lends credibility, makes it harder to trace back to a single source. It will plant seeds of doubt, create a groundswell of suspicion that Julian won't be able to easily control." He tapped the paper with a manicured finger. "I'm publishing it online anonymously tomorrow morning, through a source with a decent following and a reputation for investigative journalism. Consider it…the opening salvo in our little war."

The next day, the internet exploded. The anonymous article detonated like a carefully planted bomb, its shockwaves rippling through the financial markets and the court of public opinion. OmniTech's stock plummeted, the red numbers on the ticker screens a stark visual representation of Julian's crumbling empire. Investors, suddenly wary of the exposed underbelly of the company, began to pull out en masse. News outlets, initially hesitant due to OmniTech's powerful legal team, soon picked up the story, the anonymous claims gaining traction as more sources began to corroborate the information. Julian's carefully cultivated reputation, once gleaming and seemingly untouchable, was dragged through the mud of public scrutiny, his denials ringing hollow against the detailed accusations.

You watched the unfolding chaos from the cool, detached distance of your own office, a sense of grim satisfaction washing over you. It was a start, a significant blow that had clearly rattled Julian. That evening, you found yourself back at the same Italian restaurant, the atmosphere subtly different, charged with an unspoken energy.

Wonwoo raised his glass of deep crimson wine as you settled into your seat, the candlelight reflecting in his dark eyes. "To beginnings," he murmured, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

You met his gaze, a silent understanding passing between you. You lifted your own glass, the rich color mirroring the burning desire for justice that still simmered within you. A small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

One down, you thought, the taste of revenge, sharp and intoxicating, sweet on your tongue. More to go.

A week after the digital bomb of the anonymous article detonated across Julian's carefully constructed empire, the tension between you and Wonwoo had shifted, a subtle undercurrent of something volatile simmering beneath the surface of your strategic alliance. His text that evening was curt, demanding: "Zenith. Now." The possessiveness, however implied, sent a shiver of something akin to anticipation down your spine.

Club Zenith was a decadent assault on the senses. The bass vibrated through your stilettos, the air thick with the mingled scents of expensive liquor and raw desire, the flashing lights painting the gyrating bodies in fleeting, lurid hues. You spotted Wonwoo in the VIP section, a figure of dark, controlled elegance amidst the vibrant chaos. His gaze, sharp and possessive, locked onto yours as you navigated the crowded space, a silent acknowledgment of your arrival.

The initial conversation was a cool dissection of OmniTech's rapidly unraveling state, a strategic mapping of the next phase of your calculated takedown. But the celebratory edge you had anticipated was absent, replaced by a palpable tension that mirrored the knot in your own stomach. As the night wore on, and the champagne flowed freely, its bubbles mirroring the dizzying swirl of emotions within you, the carefully constructed dam of your composure began to show cracks.

You found yourself leaning closer to Wonwoo, your laughter a little too loud, a little too brittle. The world around you seemed to soften at the edges, the faces in the crowd blurring into indistinct shapes. You knew you were dangerously close to the edge of coherent thought, a state you rarely, if ever, allowed yourself. "I'm perfectly alright," you insisted, your voice carrying a playful slur as Wonwoo's dark eyes narrowed with a hint of concern when you stumbled against his arm. "Just…celebrating our little victory."

Later, the music a primal pulse against your skin, the weight of the past week and the strange intimacy of your current arrangement with Wonwoo coalesced into a potent cocktail of vulnerability and reckless abandon. The memory of Julian's violation, the cold, dehumanizing act that still haunted your quiet moments, resurfaced with brutal clarity, a wave of pain and fury threatening to overwhelm you.

You reached out, your hand finding the smooth, cool silk of Wonwoo's shirt, your fingers clenching, a desperate need for physical connection overriding your usual reserve. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring the sharp lines of his face. You leaned close, your voice a broken whisper against his ear, the confession raw and laced with unshed tears. "He…he forced himself on me, Wonnie," you choked out, the shame and lingering trauma a bitter taste on your tongue. "He just…took what he wanted. Like I was his property."

Wonwoo went utterly still beside you, the sardonic mask he often wore dissolving, replaced by a stark, almost violent intensity. His jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek twitching rhythmically. The hand not cradling his drink clenched into a white-knuckled fist. He didn't speak, but the air around him vibrated with a silent, furious protectiveness that resonated deep within you.

He gently steered you away from the throng, his hand surprisingly firm on the small of your back, guiding you to a more secluded corner of the booth. He didn't offer empty platitudes. He simply sat beside you, his presence a dark, solid anchor in your swirling emotions. He didn't touch you further, but the heat of his gaze, the barely leashed anger radiating off him, felt strangely…cathartic.

Then, fueled by the alcohol and a sudden, audacious impulse, you turned to him, your hand finding the sharp angle of his jaw, your thumb tracing the faint stubble. You tilted his face towards yours, your gaze locking with his dark, unreadable eyes, and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of his lips. You lingered there for a breath, tasting the faint trace of whiskey, before trailing a languid series of kisses down the sensitive curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating blend of his expensive cologne and his own unique scent.

Finally, you reached his mouth, your lips parting slightly as you pressed against his, a silent invitation. You pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, your own eyes heavy-lidded, a blatant challenge in their depths. "Kiss me back, Wonnie," you whispered, the alcohol stripping away every last vestige of your usual carefully constructed composure. "Show me what you really think when you look at me. Please."

For a heartbeat, he remained frozen, his expression a turbulent mix of surprise, something akin to reluctant desire warring with his usual guardedness. Then, with a low growl that seemed to emanate from deep within his chest, he gave in. His lips met yours, the initial contact hesitant, then deepening with a sudden, almost desperate intensity. His hand, which had been hovering near your waist, now snaked around your back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss was no longer tentative; it was charged, electric, a raw exploration of the unspoken tension that had been simmering between you. Your own hands found their way to his hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands, pulling him closer, demanding more.

But just as the kiss threatened to escalate into something far more consuming, your eyelids grew heavy, the alcohol finally claiming its due. You mumbled something against his lips, a slurred, provocative whisper. "That…cocky look you get…" you murmured, your fingers tightening their grip on the fabric of his shirt, a sleepy, undeniably suggestive smile curving your lips. "It's…surprisingly…doing things to me…..like turning me on even while we are on the verge of a damn argument" And then, you were gone, your head lolling against his broad shoulder, the world fading into a soft, black oblivion, the taste of whiskey and Wonwoo lingering on your lips.

Wonwoo watched you, his expression a fascinating study in conflicting emotions – disbelief warring with a dark, possessive hunger, amusement battling a tenderness he likely wouldn't admit to. He carefully scooped you up in his arms, his movements surprisingly gentle despite his imposing frame. He navigated the crowded club with an air of quiet authority, the bouncers clearing a path with respectful nods.

He carried you to your apartment after driving there, the city lights a blurry kaleidoscope through your unconscious vision. He used the keycard you had somehow managed to produce, his movements surprisingly deft despite the late hour and your dead weight. He laid you gently on your bed, his gaze lingering on your flushed face, a strange possessiveness flickering in his dark eyes before he pulled the soft covers over you. As he turned to leave, a hand, surprisingly strong despite your inebriated state, snaked out and gripped his wrist, pulling him back with unexpected force.

You were barely conscious, your eyes fluttering open like a drowsy invitation, but your grip was surprisingly tenacious. You tugged, and he lost his balance, a surprised grunt escaping his lips as he tumbled onto the bed beside you. Before he could fully process the situation, you had instinctively curled into him, your limbs tangling together with a shocking intimacy. Your head nestled perfectly in the crook of his neck, your breath warm and soft against his skin, your body molding against his with a familiarity that belied the briefness of your…interactions.

He lay there for a long, suspended moment, stiff and utterly still, the unexpected intimacy a palpable force in the dimly lit room. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry a weight of both resignation and a dark, undeniable desire, he adjusted his position, his arm instinctively wrapping around your waist, pulling you closer as if claiming you in your unconscious state.

The next morning, you woke slowly, a dull, insistent throb behind your eyes and fragmented, intensely mortifying memories of the previous night’s brazen behavior. You were tangled in the soft duvet, and something warm, solid, and undeniably masculine was pressed intimately against your back. You shifted slightly, a low, husky groan rumbling beside you.

Your eyes snapped open, your breath catching in your throat. Jeon Wonwoo was lying next to you, his dark hair adorably tousled against the pillow, his sharp features softened in sleep. His arm was draped possessively across your waist, his hand resting low on your hip, his fingers splayed intimately against your skin. Your leg was thrown casually over his, and your hand was buried in the soft fabric of his expensive shirt, dangerously close to his bare chest.

A gasp escaped your lips, and you instinctively tried to pull away, a wave of mortification washing over you, hot and suffocating. Wonwoo stirred, his dark eyes fluttering open, still clouded with sleep. "Don't move," he mumbled, his voice a low, delicious rasp that sent an unexpected shiver down your spine. His grip on your waist tightened almost unconsciously, pulling you closer against his warm, undeniably hard body.

Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of your racing thoughts and the lingering sensations of his lips on yours, your hands on his body. The vivid memories of your drunken boldness, your blatant come-ons, flooded your consciousness. The intimacy of the present moment, the tangible evidence of your utterly uninhibited behavior, was overwhelming, mortifying, and yet…a tiny, rebellious part of you couldn't deny a flicker of something akin to…satisfaction?

Finally, Wonwoo's eyes fully focused, and a flicker of surprise, quickly masked by a cool, almost detached composure, crossed his face. He slowly, reluctantly, released his grip and backed away, creating a sudden, charged space between you. A strange tension, thick with unspoken words, lingering sensations, and the undeniable aftermath of your drunken boldness, filled the small room.

You scrambled out of bed, your cheeks burning with a heat that had nothing to do with the lingering effects of the alcohol. You mumbled a hasty, incoherent apology, avoiding his gaze, and practically fled to the sanctuary of the bathroom, the vivid image of his sleepy, rumpled form, the possessive way he had held you, and the memory of your own shockingly forward actions, seared into your mind.

When you finally emerged, dressed in a robe that felt more like a shield than clothing, the apartment was silent. Wonwoo was gone. On your bedside table, however, sat a tall glass of water, a blister pack of high-strength hangover relief tablets, and a small, folded note.

You picked it up, your fingers trembling slightly despite your attempts to appear composed. The handwriting was sharp and angular, undeniably his, and surprisingly elegant. It simply read: "Drink these. Don't mention last night, you talk a lot when you are drunk. - JW."

You stared at the stark black ink on the crisp white paper. A small, unexpected flutter stirred in your chest, a sensation entirely unfamiliar, a feeling that defied logic and your carefully constructed defenses. It was a confusing mix of embarrassment, a lingering thrill from your own boldness, and a surprising warmth directed towards the man who had witnessed your most vulnerable and perhaps most uninhibited self. Your heart, it seemed, had a penchant for the dramatic, capable of the most inconvenient and unexpected of reactions.

The following days were a blur of news reports and online outrage. A second anonymous article had dropped, this one far more insidious and personal. It detailed numerous previously unreported cases of harassment and discrimination within OmniTech, painting a toxic work environment fostered by Julian's own dismissive attitude towards employee well-being and, more damningly, implicating him directly in silencing several victims. The article included leaked internal emails and anonymous testimonies that painted a horrifying picture of fear and abuse.

The fallout was swift and brutal. Major deals that OmniTech had been on the verge of closing evaporated overnight. Investors, already skittish after the initial financial exposé, fled in droves. The carefully constructed image of a progressive, innovative tech giant shattered completely, revealing a rotten core of systemic abuse. Julian's public denials were weak and unconvincing against the weight of the mounting evidence. His empire, once seemingly invincible, was crumbling with terrifying speed.

That night, a frantic, insistent pounding echoed through your apartment. A hopeful smile touched your lips as you hurried to the door, your heart inexplicably lighter than it had been in months. You had grown accustomed to Wonwoo's unexpected appearances, his silent check-ins, the unspoken understanding that had developed between you. You peered through the peephole, your smile widening in anticipation… only to freeze, the blood turning to ice in your veins.

It wasn't Wonwoo. It was Julian. His face was contorted with a furious desperation, his eyes wild and bloodshot. Before you could react, before you could even think to lock the deadbolt, he was hammering on the door again, yelling your name, his voice laced with a manic edge.

Terror seized you. You stumbled back, your breath catching in your throat. He knew where you lived. He was here.

Suddenly, the flimsy barrier of the door shuddered under a violent kick. The lock splintered, and the door flew inward, crashing against the wall. Julian stood in the doorway, a dark, menacing figure silhouetted against the hallway light.

"You!" he roared, his eyes locking onto you with a venomous glare. "This is your fault! You and that…that snake Wonwoo!"

Before you could speak, before you could even scream, he lunged at you, his hands grasping your arms with brutal force. He shoved you back against the wall, the impact knocking the air from your lungs. His face was inches from yours, his breath hot and reeking of desperation and alcohol.

"You think you can ruin me?" he snarled, his grip tightening until you cried out in pain. "You think you can get away with this?"

Panic clawed at your throat. You struggled, kicking and pushing against him, but he was stronger, fueled by rage and a terrifying sense of entitlement. He pinned you against the wall, his body pressing against yours, the familiar, sickening feeling of violation washing over you.

"Please," you choked out, tears streaming down your face. "Just…leave me alone."

"Leave you alone?" he spat, his voice thick with fury. "You destroyed everything! You think you can just walk away after what you've done?" He leaned closer, his words a disgusting whisper against your ear. "You were always useless. Couldn't even give me a child. Now you'll pay for it."

His hands moved, and a fresh wave of terror washed over you. You screamed, a raw, desperate sound that tore through the quiet of your apartment building, you knew no matter how hard you tried its always a man's physical power winning against the women in most of the casses. "Help! Someone, please help!"

Just as his touch became unbearable, the doorframe behind him exploded inward with a deafening crash. A figure filled the doorway, silhouetted against the dim hallway light, radiating a raw, incandescent fury.

It was Wonwoo.

His eyes, dark and blazing, locked onto the scene before him. The carefully cultivated coolness he usually exuded was gone, replaced by a primal rage that was terrifying to behold. With a guttural roar, he launched himself at Julian, yanking him off you with a force that sent your ex-husband stumbling backward.

What followed was a brutal, visceral display of fury. Wonwoo, his face a mask of pure rage, rained down blows on Julian, each punch landing with sickening force. You watched in stunned silence, tears still streaming down your face, as your tormentor was finally met with a force that matched his own brutality. You had never seen Wonwoo like this, this raw, untamed fury a stark contrast to his usual controlled demeanor.

The sounds of the struggle were brutal – grunts, curses, the sickening thud of fists against flesh. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sounds subsided. Julian lay on the floor, bruised and bleeding, whimpering in pain. Wonwoo stood over him, his chest heaving, his knuckles raw.

The sound of sirens grew closer, their wail piercing the tense silence of your apartment. Moments later, the police burst through the shattered door, their weapons drawn. Wonwoo, his rage slowly receding, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

As the officers moved to apprehend Julian, Wonwoo turned to you, his eyes softening with a raw concern that mirrored your own shattered state. He rushed to you, his arms wrapping around you in a tight, protective embrace. You clung to him, your body trembling uncontrollably, the sobs finally wracking your frame.

"Why didn't you call me?" he murmured against your hair, his voice thick with a mixture of anger and worry. "I told you…you could always call me."

You buried your face in his chest, the familiar scent of his cologne a strange comfort amidst the lingering stench of Julian's desperation. "I…I thought it was you at the door," you choked out, your voice barely a whisper.

"Shhh," he soothed, holding you tighter. "It's over now. He can't hurt you anymore."

You clung to him, the reality of what had just happened slowly sinking in. Your body ached, your spirit bruised, but in Wonwoo's arms, for the first time in what felt like an eternity, a fragile seed of safety began to sprout.

"Thank you," you mumbled, the words inadequate to express the wave of gratitude and a burgeoning, unexpected emotion that washed over you. Your heart ached with the fresh trauma, but at the same time, a strange sense of healing had begun. You no longer saw Wonwoo as just an enemy, a rival, or a co-conspirator. You saw him as the man who had burst through the door, a furious protector, your rescuer in the darkest of moments.

Closing your eyes, you leaned further into his embrace, the steady beat of his heart a grounding rhythm against your ear. For the first time in a long time, surrounded by the wreckage of your shattered door and the lingering echoes of violence, you found a fleeting moment of fragile peace in the unexpected safety of Jeon Wonwoo's arms.

Three weeks had passed since the harrowing night at your apartment. The physical bruises had faded, but the emotional scars were still tender, a constant reminder of Julian's violation. Wonwoo had been a silent, steady presence in the aftermath. He hadn't pushed, hadn't pried, but he had been there, a quiet strength you found yourself increasingly relying on. The fake relationship had morphed into something…more. The lines between business and something far more personal had blurred, a consequence of shared trauma and unexpected acts of fierce protectiveness.

One afternoon, a text message from Wonwoo appeared on your phone: "Client meeting at the City Art Museum next Thursday. Accompany me?" It was phrased as a request, but there was an underlying expectation, a comfortable assumption that you would agree. And you did.

Thursday arrived, and you found yourself standing before the museum, the grand facade a stark contrast to the nervous flutter in your stomach. You had chosen a wine-red dress, the rich color a bold statement, the elegant cut accentuating your figure. You had taken extra care with your hair and makeup, a renewed sense of confidence blooming within you, a defiant refusal to let Julian's actions define you.

As you stepped inside, you spotted Wonwoo near a Rodin sculpture, engaged in conversation with a distinguished-looking older gentleman. He hadn't seen you yet. You took a moment to simply watch him, the way his dark hair fell across his forehead, the intensity in his gaze as he spoke, the subtle authority in his posture. A warmth spread through you, a feeling entirely new and unexpectedly tender.

Then, his eyes lifted, catching yours across the crowded gallery. A flicker of surprise, quickly followed by something that looked suspiciously like…awe, crossed his features. He literally paused mid-sentence, a slight choke in his voice as he finished his thought. He recovered quickly, a practiced coolness returning to his expression as he excused himself from his client and walked towards you.

"You look…" he began, his usual smooth delivery faltering for a fraction of a second, his eyes lingering on the curve of your neck exposed by the dress. He cleared his throat. "…appropriately dressed for an appreciation of fine art." It was a classic Wonwoo deflection, but you caught the genuine admiration that had flashed in his eyes.

As Wonwoo resumed his conversation with his client, you wandered through the museum, losing yourself in the brushstrokes of a Monet, the stark lines of a Picasso. You found a quiet corner admiring a collection of contemporary sculptures when a man approached you, his smile a little too wide, his eyes lingering a little too long.

He started a conversation, his tone overtly flirtatious, complimenting your dress, your eyes, his words dripping with a practiced charm that felt instantly insincere. You offered polite, brief responses, subtly trying to disengage, but he persisted, his compliments becoming increasingly bold. A familiar unease began to settle in your stomach.

Just as you were formulating a more direct way to excuse yourself, you felt a warm, possessive hand settle on your waist, pulling you gently against a familiar solid form. Wonwoo was suddenly beside you, his arm a firm, undeniable claim around your waist. He turned to the flustered man, his usual cool demeanor firmly in place, but with an underlying edge that sent a clear message. "Excuse us," he said, his voice smooth but with a hint of steel. "She's taken."

The man, clearly recognizing Wonwoo, stammered an apology and quickly retreated. You turned to Wonwoo, a teasing smile playing on your lips. "Possessive, are we?"

He shrugged, his arm still firmly around your waist, his gaze lingering on your face. "You looked…uncomfortable." His tone was casual, but the possessive grip on your waist spoke volumes. The air between you thickened, the unspoken tension simmering just beneath the surface.

The next eight months passed in a blur of shared moments, both public and private. The "fake relationship" had taken on a life of its own, evolving into something undeniably real. The tabloids still followed your every move, fascinated by the unlikely pairing, but the scrutiny felt less invasive now, more like background noise to the genuine connection that had blossomed between you and Wonwoo. You shared quiet dinners, late-night conversations that stretched into the early hours, comfortable silences that spoke volumes. He was still Wonwoo – brilliant, sharp-witted, occasionally infuriatingly cocky – but you had also seen his fierce protectiveness, his unexpected tenderness, the vulnerability he rarely showed.

The day of your Paris fashion show arrived, a culmination of months of relentless work. The Grand Palais buzzed with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of expensive perfume and nervous energy. You scanned the crowd from the stage, a familiar wave of pre-show jitters washing over you. You looked for Wonwoo, a small part of you hoping to catch his eye, even though he had explicitly told you that a crucial, unavoidable meeting would keep him away. A pang of disappointment, quickly masked by professional composure, tightened in your chest.

Your speech went smoothly, your voice confident as you presented your latest collection to the discerning eyes of the fashion world. The applause was enthusiastic, the reviews promising. But as you walked backstage, the adrenaline slowly fading, a wave of quiet disappointment washed over you. He hadn't been there.

Suddenly, as you turned a corner in the bustling backstage area, a hand clamped over your mouth, and another pinned your hands playfully above your head, effectively trapping you against the cool wall. A familiar, husky voice whispered in your ear, laced with a teasing arrogance that sent a thrill through you. "Someone missed me?"

Your heart leaped. You knew that voice. You smiled beneath his hand, relief and a surge of unexpected joy flooding through you. You nodded enthusiastically against his palm. His hands released yours, sliding down to cup your face, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. You turned in his arms, your gaze meeting his dark, smiling eyes. Without a word, you reached up and kissed him, a rush of pure happiness bubbling up inside you.

He grinned against your lips, a flash of his signature cockiness. "Missed me that much, huh?" He pulled back slightly, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Be ready by seven tonight, ma créatrice." He winked, a promise of something special in his gaze, and then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, he slipped away, leaving you breathless and grinning like a fool in the middle of the backstage chaos.

You shook your head fondly, a warmth spreading through you that had nothing to do with the Parisian air. Your earlier disappointment vanished, replaced by a giddy anticipation. Seven o'clock in Paris with Wonwoo? You had a feeling tonight would be anything but ordinary. You rushed to get ready, your mind already racing with possibilities.

A sleek, black car pulled up to your hotel, the Parisian twilight casting long shadows across the cobblestone street. The driver door opened, and Wonwoo emerged, looking impossibly handsome in a dark suit that accentuated his sharp features. His eyes held a playful glint as he approached you, a soft, silk blindfold dangling from his fingers.

"Ready for your Parisian adventure, ma belle?" he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down your spine.

You raised a curious eyebrow. "Adventure? Or are you finally going to reveal your secret life as a notorious art thief?"

He chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. "Only one way to find out." He gently reached out, and you tilted your head, allowing him to tie the blindfold securely, plunging you into darkness.

As he guided you into the car, your playful banter continued. "You're not planning on taking me to some secret underground catacomb, are you? Because I am not dressed for subterranean exploration."

"Relax, mon amour," he replied, his voice laced with amusement. "Though the thought of you in the catacombs…intriguing. But tonight's destination is a little more…elevated."

The drive was filled with your teasing questions and his deliberately vague answers. "Are you going to kill me, Wonwoo? Is this some elaborate revenge plot for all those times I beat you in debate club?"

He squeezed your thigh reassuringly, his touch lingering for a moment longer than necessary. "Darling, if I were going to kill you, it would be far more creative than a simple car ride. Besides," his voice dropped to a husky whisper, "I have far more interesting plans for you tonight."

The squeeze on your thigh, however brief, sent a jolt of anticipation through you, effectively silencing your playful accusations. You settled back in your seat, a sense of excitement bubbling beneath the surface of your blindfolded anticipation.

The car finally came to a stop. You could hear the muffled sounds of the city, the distant hum of traffic, but there was a different quality to the air here, a sense of vastness. Wonwoo carefully guided you out of the car, his hand firm on your elbow. You could feel the cool night air against your skin, a gentle breeze whispering around you.

He led you slowly, the sound of your heels clicking softly on what felt like stone. You could sense a change in elevation, a gradual upward climb. "Wonwoo, where are we going?" you asked, your curiosity reaching its peak. "This is straight out of a horror movie. Are there chains involved?"

He chuckled again, a warm sound close to your ear. "Patience, mon cœur. The grand reveal is almost upon us."

The ascent continued, the air growing thinner, the city sounds fading into a distant murmur. Finally, Wonwoo stopped. "Alright, ma voleuse," he whispered, his breath warm against your temple. "Prepare to be amazed."

His fingers gently untied the knot of the blindfold. As the darkness receded, your eyes struggled to adjust to the breathtaking panorama that unfolded before you. You were high above the city, the sprawling lights of Paris twinkling like a million scattered diamonds. The Eiffel Tower stretched majestically above and below you, its intricate ironwork illuminated against the vibrant canvas of the sunset. Hues of fiery orange, soft pink, and deep violet painted the sky, a breathtaking masterpiece that stole your breath away.

You were speechless, your earlier playful banter completely forgotten. "Oh," was all you could manage, your voice filled with awe. "Oh, Wonwoo… it's… not murder, at least. It's beautiful."

There was no response. Confused, you turned to look at him, your heart suddenly pounding in your chest. And there he was, bathed in the soft glow of the Parisian twilight, down on one knee. In his outstretched hand, a small, velvet box lay open, revealing a stunning platinum ring, a delicate yet substantial band set with a single, brilliant-cut diamond that caught the fading light.

Your breath hitched. You felt a wave of shock, disbelief, and an overwhelming surge of emotion wash over you. You could only stare, your mind struggling to process the reality of the moment.

Wonwoo's gaze was intense, his dark eyes filled with a vulnerability you had never seen before. He took a deep breath, his voice slightly husky as he began to speak. "From the moment I first saw you in that ridiculously oversized 'Intro to Philosophy' class, arguing passionately about existentialism… I was captivated. You were brilliant, fiery, infuriating… everything I never knew I wanted."

He continued, his voice gaining strength as he confessed the long-held secret of his heart. "All those years in university, the constant rivalry, the need to challenge you, to spar with you intellectually… it wasn't just competition, (Y/N). It was the only way I knew how to keep you close, to keep you talking to me. I was too arrogant, too afraid to admit how deeply I felt."

He paused, his eyes searching yours. "Even after… after your marriage to that… that man," his voice hardened with a flicker of the old fury, "I couldn't let go of the memory of you, the fire in your eyes. Pretending to just want to destroy him… it was partly true, but mostly it was about clearing the path back to you."

He took another deep breath, his gaze unwavering. "So, (Y/N) (Your Last Name), my brilliant, beautiful, fiercely independent thief… may I be yours completely? May I finally stop pretending and love you, truly and without reservation?"

"Thief?" you asked, a shaky laugh escaping your lips, tears welling in your eyes.

A genuine, heart-melting grin spread across his face. "Yeah. You stole my heart years ago, remember? You've been holding onto it ever since."

More tears spilled down your cheeks, but this time, they were tears of pure, unadulterated joy. You took a moment to gather yourself, your heart overflowing with a love you hadn't fully realized until this moment. "Fine," you managed, your voice thick with emotion. "Be my Mr. (Your Last Name)." You watched him, a playful glint in your tear-filled eyes.

He stood up, his gaze never leaving yours. "I don't mind having your last name," he shrugged, a hint of his old cockiness returning, but softened with pure adoration.

You giggled, wiping away a stray tear. "Though… I rather prefer yours after mine."

His grin widened, and he reached out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. "Take whatever you want then… my thief."

And then, with the breathtaking panorama of the glowing city stretching out beneath them, Wonwoo kissed you deeply, a kiss that spoke of years of unspoken feelings, of shared battles and unexpected tenderness, of a future finally, beautifully, beginning. The cool Parisian air was filled with the warmth of their embrace, a promise of a love that had weathered storms and blossomed in the most unexpected of circumstances. Your heart, finally safe in his keeping, soared with a joy that illuminated the Parisian night even brighter than the city lights below.

-- The End <3

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hana-no-seiiki · 2 days ago

Text

YAN! DAMIAN WAYNE x TSUNDERE! STARK! READER (PART ONE)

(Excerpt from my private fic Sun&Moon)

TW/CW: OP! Reader, “Mary Sue!” Reader, Soft Yandere Vibes. Aged Up! Damian. Damian Wayne falls harder. The last scene is literally ripped straight out of Honkai Impact 3rd’s Meteoric Salvation cutscene with some changes. Reader is GN, but gets their hands perfectly manicured.

SPIN OFF TO THIS FIC

Gotham Visions Academy.

You were practically destined to walk these halls. Born into wealth, surrounded by privilege, and backed by a network of names that opened doors before you even learned to knock. Your talents? Curated, polished, and paid for—every lesson, every skill, another line on your father’s invoice. And your intellect? At least that wasn’t bought. That, you were lucky enough to inherit. A gift among many from Daddy Dearest.

You were practically made to be fawned over. Worshipped. Adored.

And that you were.

Top of your class, heir to the Stark legacy, smarter than the ones who tried to impress you, and sharper than the ones who feared you. You walked through Gotham Visions Academy with the kind of ease that came with too many accolades and not enough real challenges.

Everyone wanted something from you—your notes, your secrets, your attention.

Everyone . . . except him.

Damian Wayne.

The only person in the school who treated you like you were just another student. Or worse—like you were beneath his time.

It was infuriating.

Which is probably why your heart started acting . . . weird whenever you saw him.

You didn’t like him. Obviously. You barely tolerated him. And today was no different.

You turned the corner toward your locker, only to find him already there, arms folded, back leaning lazily against the metal as if gravity itself catered to him. His eyes were focused somewhere in the middle distance, calculating and unreadable—like he was trying to decide whether or not to set the world on fire.

You stopped walking, your nose wrinkling.

“. . . Tch. You again?”

He didn’t even flinch.

“Still mistaking oxygen for entitlement, I see,” Damian said flatly, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. “Must be exhausting.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed past him, the hem of your coat brushing his leg on purpose.

“Excuse me for breathing in my own hallway.”

Your own hallway you spoke. Yes. You owned the hallway. Courtesy of your father wanting you to have more privacy.

He didn’t move. Just raised a brow and continued watching you with that stupid, smug expression. The one that said he didn’t need to try to get under your skin. He already lived there.

You reached into your locker, trying to ignore the fact that your hands were suddenly a little shakier than usual. Probably from the air conditioning. Obviously. Not because he was standing close enough for you to feel the warmth of him at your back.

You refused to turn around.

“You’re always here,” you muttered. “What, are you stalking me now?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” he replied smoothly. “You just happen to be impossible to avoid. Like a pregnant mosquito.”

You snapped the locker door shut with unnecessary force.

“At least I don’t look like a sleep-deprived Bond villain.”

“Wouldn’t you have to know what a villain looks like?” Damian asked, voice calm. “Or are you too busy pretending your father isn’t building half of them?”

Your lips parted in offense, but you didn’t fire back right away. The air between you thinned, stretched taut with something unspoken. Something both of you refused to name.

Because you knew. Just like he did. The late-night disappearances. The bruised knuckles. The matching shadows under your eyes. You both wore the same kind of silence, wrapped in different armor.

But neither of you said a word.

Because to acknowledge it would mean crossing a line. And if you crossed it—you didn’t know if either of you would stop.

“…You’re such a jerk,” you muttered instead, turning to walk away.

“And yet,” he called after you, “you keep finding excuses to talk to me.”

You paused. Just for a second.

Then you tossed your hair over your shoulder and kept walking, cheeks burning in spite of yourself.

“I-it’s not like I care, okay?! I just didn’t want your brooding face ruining my locker’s aesthetic!”

Damian didn’t respond. But you swore—just barely—you heard the faintest sound of him exhaling through a laugh.

Not that you cared.

You absolutely didn’t.

Probably.

You were intolerable.

A parasite of privilege, feeding off your father’s name, trailing arrogance like a perfume that suffocated every room you entered.

You didn’t just hold yourself above others—you reminded them of it. Every time you laughed too loudly at someone’s mistake, every time your perfectly manicured hand fluttered dismissively toward a classmate mid-sentence. It wasn’t even direct, half the time. Just those pointed glances. The offhand remarks. The carefully veiled cruelty that only someone trained to see it would notice.

He noticed.

He saw the way you mocked people who couldn’t keep up. The way you turned charm into a weapon, laced with venom, wrapped in satin. And worst of all—you smiled while doing it. Like it meant nothing. Like the world owed you attention, and anyone who didn’t give it willingly deserved to be broken.

You were everything he’d been taught to despise. Spoiled. Sharp-tongued. Useless outside your reputation.

And yet somehow, you had the nerve to act like he was beneath you.

Every time you rolled your eyes at him in class. Every smug remark. Every insult disguised as banter.

You looked at him like he was the one wasting your time.

And he hated it.

He hated you.

Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Now, high above the docks, crouched on a corroded metal beam overlooking a shipment yard drowned in fog, he replayed the most recent encounter in his head. Your voice—cutting and too proud—echoed in his skull. Some throwaway line about him having “resting brooding face” or being a “sleep deprived Bond villain.”

He’d ignored it at the time. But it stuck anyway. Like you always did. Like a thorn he hadn’t bothered to pluck.

A gust of wind tugged at his cape, the cold stinging his cheeks beneath the cowl. His comm crackled to life just as he reached for the binoculars at his hip.

“Robin.”

Bruce’s voice—gravel and steel. Urgent.

“New intel. Bomb planted in the West End docks. Clock’s ticking—thirty minutes at most.”

Damian’s grip tightened.

“Copy that.”

He leapt from the beam, landing with a practiced thud on the rooftop below. The metal groaned beneath his boots as he moved.

Thirty minutes. Enough time if he was fast. Precise. Perfect.

He needed to focus. Forget you. Forget the way your voice made his chest tighten with something unnamable. Forget the way you watched him like you knew something about him—something he hadn’t even admitted to himself.

This wasn’t about you.

This was Gotham.

And people were going to die if he didn’t move.

Still, as the city blurred around him in streaks of smoke and steel, your voice wouldn’t shut up in his head.

Typical. Even in silence, you were loud.

The wind roared in his ears as he landed hard on the rooftop overlooking the West End loading yard. From up here, the city was a mess of metal veins and dim orange haze. Below, shipping containers were scattered like broken teeth, and in the center of it all—there it was. The bomb.

Sleek. Pale. Otherworldly.

Like something pulled from a dream that had never been meant to exist.

Even from this distance, Damian could feel it humming.

“I have eyes on the device.” His voice was clipped as he tapped the comm.

“It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before. This isn’t WayneTech. Not even League tech.”

A pause. Then Batman’s voice, heavy and grim.

“It’s Aetherial Arbor energy. Prototype. Stolen off-world. That thing goes off, it takes half the district with it.”

Damian narrowed his eyes.

“How do I disarm it?”

Another silence. Then—

“You don’t.”

“Your suit can’t handle the radiation field. No one’s can. Not unless it was designed by Stark.”

He clenched his jaw.

Of course.

“Then tell him to get down here.”

But Bruce didn’t answer.

Instead, someone else landed in the clearing below him—loud, intentional. Not a graceful drop from the shadows, but a debut. A gleaming figure in white and rose-gold armor, light glinting off polished plating as they rose from a crouch and faced the bomb.

Damian’s blood went cold.

“. . .No,” he whispered.

Because it was you.

The headpiece slid back, revealing a familiar smirk—tight with fear, but cocky enough to mask it. Your white suit hugged close to your frame, the glow of the chest reactor casting its light across your features. Your hair fluttered behind you in the breeze like you’d been pulled straight out of some myth.

But it wasn’t the suit that stunned him.

It was the expression.

You looked . . . calm. Like you were finally exactly where you were meant to be.

“Don’t worry, Gotham,” you said aloud, voice broadcast through the suit’s external mic. “Daddy’s not coming tonight. But his favorite heir is.”

Damian’s heart kicked in his chest.

The others on the comm were stunned into silence. Even Batman.

You stepped forward, scanning the device. Your voice dropped in pitch, switching to private comms.

“Bomb’s already too unstable. I can’t shut it down from here. Gonna have to fly it out. Somewhere empty. Somewhere safe.”

“No,” Bruce’s voice snapped. “Negative. You’re not authorized—”

“Respectfully?” you cut in, already lifting the bomb with magnetic tethers. “Too bad.”

You blasted upward in a sharp burst of light, rocketing into the sky with the pulsing heart of catastrophe cradled in your arms. The feedback nearly blew out Damian’s earpiece, but he didn’t care.

He was already running.

He leapt from the rooftop, following the streak of white and gold through the clouds, heart slamming against his ribs.

“Don’t be stupid,” he hissed into the comm. “This isn’t about theatrics. Drop it and disengage.”

Your voice came through, soft. Distant. But raw.

“ . . . If I let it fall, someone else picks up the pieces. I’m tired of pieces.”

You were crying, maybe. Or smiling. He couldn’t tell. There was static now.

“I want to make something beautiful out of this world, Damian. Even if I only get to do it once.”

And that—

That was when he knew.

He’d hated you. He’d tolerated you. Mocked you. Fought you.

But nothing prepared him for this.

For the way his chest split open at the sound of your voice.

For the way his heart screamed against the sky.

You were light and fury and sacrifice and brilliance. You were everything he never allowed himself to believe in.

And in that moment, as the sky bloomed into distant gold,

Damian Wayne fell in love.

Dick, Jason, and Tim were all watching this go down. You know where this all leads to no?

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagine #yandere fic #yandere core #yandere batfam #yandere damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #batfamily #yandere batfamily x reader #yandere batfam x reader #yandere scenario #tw yandere #yandere jason todd #yandere tim drake #yandere dick grayson #x reader

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camdunez · 9 days ago

Text

No One Has To Know | m. bannerman

Songs Playing: U And I — Jodeci | There U Go — Johnny Gill | Speechless — Beyonce

paring: manon bannerman x g!p!reader summary: manon knows she belongs to someone else.. but she just can’t seem to leave you alone. genre: awful smut (lol) warnings/tags: f1driver!yn, f1wag!manon, manon’s lowkey a cheater in this, yn doesn’t really care, both these niggas ain’t shit fr, cursing, substance use, toxic asses! manon's a total pillow princess, dom!yn, p in v (wrap that shit up!), these niggas get real nasty tbh. word count: a/n: I’m a little rusty when it comes to writing smut so bear with me LMAO. this is def not my strong suit. turned in my freak card eons ago but i can try this ONCE for you guys. a/n: don't get your freaky ass hopes up, i didn't go into FULL detail this time. just kind of went with the flow? i don't like being too vulgar when i write lol.

You weren’t supposed to touch her.

that was the rule. the unspoken one that buzzed in every VIP suite, every champagne-soaked gala, every post-race yacht party. you didn’t fuck the wives. especially his wife.

but there was something about her.

meret manon bannerman — or just manon to the ones who whispered her name with jealousy and desire in equal measure. fashion world darling. nepo-baby with a smile sharp enough to slice through camera flashes. the kind of woman who didn’t walk into a room — she arrived, like smoke curling through the seams of a locked door.

and she just so happened to be married to the one man you couldn’t stand.

her husband was everything you weren’t: older, polished, a legacy name in formula 1. safe. predictable. overdue for retirement. but still clutching onto podium finishes like they could keep his career from rotting.

he hated your entire existence — that you, a 22-year-old prodigy with a record-breaking rookie season, wore the red of Ferrari and drove like the devil was chasing you.

and manon?

she hated that you knew.

knew the way her eyes always found you. the way her fingers clutched her champagne glass tighter whenever your name was called over the loudspeakers.

the way her voice dipped lower, sweeter, more dangerous when she leaned in close at press mixers and said things like:

“my husband says you’re reckless.”

“good,” you’d smirk, eyes dragging down the curve of her collarbone.

“tell him to stay out of my way.”

you weren’t supposed to touch her.

but you know the thing about rules?... some were made to be broken.

Monaco Grand Prix — Saturday, 3:43 PM

the sun glittered off the sea and the streets trembled beneath roaring engines. monaco was hell on tires — tight turns, unforgiving corners, and a crowd so elite they didn’t even clap, just nodded behind designer sunglasses and million-dollar smiles.

you sat in the cockpit, helmet on, heartbeat steady. the world was a blur of red and black — Ferrari's colors bleeding into the track. over the comms, your engineer rattled off positions, lap strategy, weather updates. you weren’t listening.

your eyes were on the screen above the paddock.

the split-screen showed your car in position two… and him in pole.

asshole.

“let him think he’s winning,” you muttered, gripping the wheel tighter. “let him think today’s his.”

because today wasn’t just about shaving seconds off a lap.

today was about her.

and when the lights blinked red to black — when the engines screamed to life and the city turned into a blur — you weren’t just racing for pride.

you were racing for a reason to see her again.

Lap 36 of 78 — Monte Carlo

the city curled around the circuit like a serpent, golden light glinting off yachts, balconies packed with champagne-sipping aristocrats. below them, the engines roared like beasts loosed from hell.

you were in P2.

your fingers curled tighter around the wheel as you surged through the nouvelle chicane, the gap between you and him narrowing by the second. his number — bold and blue — taunted you every time you came around a corner. you could see the back of his car just ahead. steady. controlled. safe.

too safe.

“he’s hugging the inside line too tight,” your engineer warned in your ear. “don’t force it, yn.”

you didn’t respond... didn’t need to. you knew exactly what you were doing.

because this wasn’t just any race. and he wasn’t just another rival.

he was the man she chose. and you were about to remind him what that said about her taste.

Lap 38

mirabeau.

you dove into the corner with barely a twitch, braking late — too late — nearly clipping the barrier. the crowd gasped. your tires screamed. but you held it, nosing just a fraction closer to his rear wing.

you knew he felt you.

knew the moment his car wobbled slightly on the next straight. knew the panic creeping into his grip, the way a man drives when he knows someone younger, faster, hungrier is right on his ass.

“you’re pushing him. he’s getting sloppy."

"you know what to do... back off or bait him.”

back off?

not a fucking chance.

Lap 42 – The Hairpin

the slowest, tightest turn in all of formula 1.

and the most brutal to take side by side.

but you did it anyway.

he tried to close the door, but you were already there — inside, wheel to wheel, your front wing nearly kissing his tire. it was reckless. it was dangerous. it was everything they accused you of being.

“This kid’s got a death wish.”

“Ferrari needs to rein them in.”

“Too emotional to be great.”

but you let them talk.

because when you muscled past him — tire smoke in the air, carbon scraping just inches from disaster — it wasn’t just the position you were stealing.

it was his fucking pride.

Lap 44 — Sector Two

clean air. fastest lap. you were flying.

but even at 190mph, your mind flicked to her.

to manon, draped in some designer fit too delicate for this world, watching from the paddock with unreadable eyes. maybe sipping champagne. maybe biting her lip.

you didn’t need to see it.

you could feel it.

and part of you hoped he could too — that with every second he trailed behind you, he remembered the way her eyes always wandered… the way her mouth said his name, but her body begged for yours.

Final Lap — Lap 78

he tried. God, he tried.

came at you on the final straight like a man possessed — desperate, last-ditch attempt to reclaim something he lost long before the race even started.

but he didn’t have it in him.

not the aggression.

not the obsession.

not the raw, uncut need that made you drive like this. that made you burn through corners and rules and red flags because you knew the one thing he didn’t:

she was already yours.

Checkered Flag

you crossed the finish line like thunder.

stadium erupted. Ferrari’s pit wall exploded into cheers. your engineer was yelling in your ear, but it was all white noise.

because the moment you pulled into the paddock — helmet still on, sweat on your brow, engine ticking from heat — you looked up.

and there she was.

manon.

leaning on the velvet rope, shades low on her nose, lips curled in a soft smirk, just enough to tell you everything.

your rival was thirty seconds behind. second place.

but she?

she hadn’t stopped watching you once.

Midnight – Monte Carlo Yacht Club

the afterparty was luxury poured into crystal and draped in champagne silk. industry heads, bored heiresses, old-money millionaires — they all gathered like moths around the podium’s light. but you? you were the flame.

cameras followed you from the second you stepped in. custom black suit, collar loose and no tie. race still on your skin, sweat dried into salt and pride. the youngest Ferrari winner in years. the one who stole the win. the one who stole his thunder.

you took a glass of something expensive from a tray and barely sipped it. your eyes weren’t on the drinks. or the CEOs.... or the attention.

they were on her.

manon.

God, she looked good enough to ruin. perched on the edge of a velvet couch, dress soft and silver — like moonlight melted and stitched into silk. thigh crossed over thigh. one hand twirling the stem of a half-empty coupe. her husband nowhere in sight.

and her eyes?

already on you.

you moved slow. intentionally.

cutting through the crowd like you were parting water. she didn’t look away. not once.

when you reached her, she didn’t speak. just tilted her chin up slightly — a dare. an invitation. yet a warning.

“you look like a fucking problem,” you murmured, low and close.

manon smirked. soft. dangerous.

“and you look like the solution I should avoid.”

there was space between you. but it was hot... charged. like touching skin before lightning hits.

ou leaned in, lips brushing against her ear ever so slightly.

“he knows you’re here with me tonight, ms. bannerman?”

she didn’t flinch. she just shakes her head, humming softly in response.

“he thinks I’m upstairs. taking a call.”

“you’re not.”

“no,” she breathed. “I’m not.”

you let your gaze drag — slow, deliberate — from her mouth to her chest, down the slope of her thigh. when you looked back up, her eyes had darkened. that perfect pout of hers parted, like she forgot how to breathe.

and your voice dropped, silk-wrapped steel:

“come with me.”

with no hesitation,

she stood.

and when she did, you didn’t reach for her hand — you didn’t need to. she followed without a word, heels clicking soft against marble, out past the terrace, past the velvet ropes, past the line that said this is still safe.

out into the dark.

Monte Carlo – The Hôtel de Paris Penthouse floor. One bed. Two glasses. One closed door between her and every consequence.

you didn’t say a word when the elevator doors closed behind you.

neither did she.

but the silence between you screamed. her perfume filled the space first — clean, sweet, soft like skin after a shower. you could smell it before you saw the way her hands fidgeted with the hem of her dress. nervous... excited. maybe both.

“last chance to run,” you murmured, looking down at the older woman.

she looked up at you slowly, meeting your gaze with no smile. just parted lips and eyes heavy with something you’d seen on the track: risk.

“i don't run.”

the elevator chimed. suite 1807.

you opened the door and let her walk in first. let her see what this night looked like with the lights low and the skyline bleeding gold behind glass.

she didn’t say anything as she stepped in. just slipped her shoes off, one by one, and turned to face you in nothing but that silk dress and a secret she couldn’t keep anymore.

“you really don’t care, do you?” she whispered.

“about him?” “about any of this.”

you shut the door behind you.

“if I cared,” you said, voice low as you stalked toward her, “i wouldn't have walked up to that couch.."

and that was the truth. you didn’t care. you never did.

truth be told, the risk was a turn on.

your fingers found the back of her neck first — thumb trailing that soft curve just below her ear, where her pulse jumped wild. she gasped when you leaned down, lips barely grazing her jaw.

“tell me if you want me to stop.”

she didn’t.

instead, she pressed her chest into yours, breath trembling.

“do it,” she whispered. “touch me like you mean it.”

so you did.

you kissed her slow. too slow.

one hand on her neck, the other gripping the small of her back, dragging her into you like you’d been waiting since the lights went out on the track. your lips moved over hers in deep, hungry strokes — not greedy, but patient. devouring. letting her feel every second she’d spent pretending she didn’t want this.

when she whimpered into your mouth, you smiled.

“you sound so pretty," you muttered, lips brushing hers. “you ever did that for him?”

her silence told you everything. that old fuck wasn't treating her right.

"good" you replied, "cause that whimperin' shit gone be for me and only me.."

fuck, yn.. manon whined, wrapping her arms around your neck. she pulled you closer, your bodies pressed against each other as you guided her through her third orgasm.

her hands trail down to your biceps, digging her nails into your skin.

she had been watching you since you made your debut, hooked on something she never had before.

mutual gasps and moans from you both filled the room, rivaling the sounds of the loud houston-born singer coming from the television on the wall across from the bed.

manon's hands moved down to your stomach, attempting to push you off of her. i-i can't.. too much.

that only made you press your weight down on her even more. "you said you don't run, baby.. so take this shit."

your name rolled off of her tongue with such passion.. such intensity.. that it left him wanting to hear it over and over again. her love felt like fire, burning through his body. a fire that couldn't be put out by a thunderstorm.

your mind went blank. between the smell of manon's perfume and her soft touch, your thoughts were everywhere.

your words slurred as you slowly rocked your hips into her, feeling manon tense up.

nut in me baby.. go 'head and fill me up manon purred, using the last of her strength to wrap her legs around your waist— locking you in place.

"you wanna have my kids, baby? your husband can't give you none?" you say in the same tone, making the woman under you groan in response.

fuck himm.. need youu she whines— which quickly turns into a low, guttural growl, shit!.. i love you so much!

later — when she’s tangled in the sheets, chest rising slow, lip still swollen — she turns to you.

“this was a mistake,” she says, making you chuckle. her eyebrows furrowed. "what's funny?"

"you havin' post nut clarity or something?" you asked playfully, "you acting mad different. like you wasn't just whining in my ear."

you reach over, trail your fingers down her thigh, still slick and glowing. "don't tell me you're regretting cheating on your old ass husband with his younger.. wayyy hotter rival?" you add, a smug smirk playing on your lips.

manon sends a glare your way, failing to hide a smile of her own. "shut up." she says, biting down on her bottom lip.

a moment goes by before either of you say anything, the smell of sex and mixed cologne lingered as the same song play in your stead.

you pulled manon closer, letting her rest her head on your chest.

"let's... make this more than a one time thing, yeah?" you hear manon suggest, feeling her nails drag down your stomach. "i'll call you whenever your little friend isn't fucking me right." she adds jokingly.

you scoff. "that old man is not my friend."

manon laughs before curling deeper into you, like you were her home... instead of him.

#katseye thoughts 💭#katseye imagines #katseye #katseye x reader #katseye x masc reader #katseye manon #manon x reader #manon bannerman #katseye angst #katseye smut #katseye scenarios #manon bannerman x reader #manon bannerman thoughts 💭

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0scarp1astr1 · 27 days ago

Text

˖ 𐔌 𝐀 𝐩𝐢𝐞𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮࿐.۫

જ⁀➴ Desc: || As Lewis Hamilton’s sister and a busy fashion designer, love was never a priority—until your best friend George, with help from his girlfriend, sets you up on a blind date. You meet a lovely guy without realizing who he is; now, you've broken a rule without knowing. And even when you find out..you both decide to keep it hidden.||

ᯓ★ Charles Leclerc x Fem! (Hamilton) Reader

ᯓ★ 3x Genre: Fluff, Angst, Humor

ᯓ★ Warning: Nothing major! Just a fight!

ᯓ★ Requested? No

Author Note: Charles Leclerc! This is the first solo fic on the blog for him. If it’s bad, I apologize. I write half of these when I’m half awake.

☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★☆★☆☆★☆★

Being born into the Hamilton family felt like a blessing—one you didn’t fully understand until you were older. To the outside world, the Hamilton name carried legacy, speed, and triumph. But to you, it meant warmth, laughter, and safety. And above all, it meant Lewis.

From the moment you were born, Lewis became your shadow. Your older brother—your protector, your secret-keeper, your greatest champion. There was never a time you could recall where he wasn’t right there, watching over you with that gentle big brother energy. He held you in his arms when you were just hours old, and from then on, something unspoken rooted deeply between the two of you. A bond no spotlight or fame could shake.

You both grew up chasing your own dreams, carving your own paths. While Lewis chased victory on tracks across the globe, you were sketching in notebooks, sewing by hand, and whispering dreams of runways and high fashion. But no matter how far apart your worlds seemed, he was always in yours.

“You’re gonna be something incredible one day,” Lewis would tell you when he saw your hands covered in thread and fabric scraps, frustration on your brow after a long day of failed designs. “You’ve got the eye. You’ve got the soul.”

He was there through every milestone. From the innocent nervousness of your first school dance to your senior prom, Lewis always made sure you were cared for. You remembered how he sized up your prom date with folded arms and a quiet stare before letting him take you out. Later that night, he texted you: “If he even looks at you the wrong way, I’m coming to get you. Love you, baby sis.”

And when your heart was broken—once, twice, more times than you’d admit—he was there too, letting you cry into his shoulder.

“Don’t let any man’s foolishness make you question your worth,” he whispered one night as he gently brushed a tear off your cheek. “You’re beautiful. Strong. You’re you. That’s more than enough.”

Those words stayed with you.

As you got older, your admiration for him only grew. You followed his career passionately, cheering from the stands every time your dad, Anthony, allowed you to travel. You were there at Silverstone, Monaco, even Singapore once. You knew every detail of his racing history by heart—not just because he was your brother, but because he inspired you. You wanted to succeed the way he did: with grace, with grit, with heart.

It was during one of those race weekends that you met George. He was younger, full of charm, and refreshingly down-to-earth. You hit it off instantly—laughing in the paddock over shared jokes, learning about cars in a way that actually made sense thanks to him.

“George is good people,” Lewis said one day with a nod of approval as he caught you two chatting. “I trust him with you.”

You smiled. “You trust him more than I trust your wardrobe choices sometimes.”

“Oi,” he chuckled, nudging your shoulder, “I’m a fashion icon.”

Eventually, your world extended beyond just racing. Toto and Susie took you under their wing. Susie became like an older sister to you—wise, elegant, and always ready for some “girl time.” You’d sit together during race weekends, sipping coffee while watching Jack toddle around.

“He looks so much like Toto,” you laughed one morning, watching the boy pick up a toy car and zoom it across the floor.

“He’s got his sass too,” Susie added with a wink.

They became your second family, tied together by shared passion and years of trust.

When Lewis sat you down one evening in Monaco, a thoughtful expression on his face, you knew something was coming.

“I’m leaving Mercedes,” he said quietly.

Your breath hitched. “What? Why?”

“It’s time,” he said simply. “Ferrari came calling. And I want a new challenge.”

You sat back, absorbing the weight of it. “Does this mean I shouldn’t hang around Mercedes anymore?”

He looked at you with soft eyes, shaking his head. “No. Don’t be silly. This is my choice—not a war. I have no bad blood with anyone there, and you shouldn’t either. They love you. Toto, Susie, George… they’re part of your life too.”

Relief washed over you like a tide. “Okay… I’m glad.”

But life wasn’t just about supporting your brother—you had your own. Your fashion career had started to bloom, albeit not without struggle. The late nights in Monaco spent hunched over your desk, bleeding ideas onto sketchbooks. The moments where doubt gnawed at your resolve, whispering that maybe you weren’t cut out for this world. But in those moments, your phone would buzz with a message from your dad: “Keep going. You’ve never been a quitter.” Or Lewis would FaceTime you from across the world, just to check in.

“Show me the latest,” he’d grin, propping the phone on his dashboard.

You’d hold up a design, trying to hide your nerves. “It’s not finished…”

“It’s fire,” he’d say immediately. “I can already see it on a runway in Milan.”

You’d roll your eyes, but your heart would feel lighter.

That was the magic of being a Hamilton. Yes, the name carried weight, but the love in your family—the support, the loyalty, the belief in each other—that was what truly made it a gift.

And through every twist, turn, and race, you never forgot it.

The Monaco flat gleamed in the golden hue of noon. Sunlight streamed through the tall glass windows, dancing off the marble floors and bouncing off the scattered chaos of your workspace. Bolts of fabric draped across chairs, colorful swatches layered like a mosaic on the table, and dozens of hand-sketched designs lay half-finished. Pencils, measuring tape, coffee cups—organized chaos, exactly how you liked it.

You didn’t flinch at the sound of the door unlocking. Not even a glance.

But then you heard the soft, familiar panting and gentle taps of paws.

"Ah, you brought my dog!" you gasped with a grin, turning around as Roscoe trotted in like he owned the place.

A warm chuckle followed, rich and familiar. “Firstly,” Lewis said, stepping in behind him, “he’s my dog. Secondly, I brought him because I’ve been texting you all damn day and haven’t heard a peep.”

You blinked, eyes widening slightly. “Wait—really?” You reached for your phone on the cluttered side table and groaned. Ten unread messages. “Shit. I’m sorry, Lewis. I’ve been locked in.”

He strolled further in, his eyes scanning the battlefield of paper scraps, crumpled sketches in the trash, empty mugs stacked dangerously near the edge of the counter. He bent to pick up one of the balled papers and unfolded it, glancing over the design.

“I can tell,” he muttered, giving Roscoe a little pat as the dog waddled toward you, tail wagging.

You let out a deep sigh, rubbing your temple. “This is a major piece I’m working on. If I don’t design this the way I see it in my head, I’m going to lose it. This could be the one that gets me out there—like really out there. And I don’t want to screw it up.”

Lewis nodded slowly, lowering himself onto the arm of your plush white couch, surveying the energy you’d poured into the room—your drive practically dripping from the walls. He knew you. Knew this side of you well.

You weren’t just trying to be good. You were trying to be unforgettable.

“I get it,” he said finally. “You’re grinding. You’ve always been like this when something matters to you.” He glanced around, eyes settling on the pinboard above your desk covered in half-formed ideas and a quote from your dad, written in permanent marker: 'Perfection doesn’t come easy. Keep stitching.' “Still, don’t forget to breathe.”

You scooped up Roscoe into your arms with a little huff, the bulldog instantly relaxing against you like a warm weighted pillow.

“Please,” you mumbled, walking to the living room and plopping down into the cushions, “I’m perfectly content with little Roscoe. He’s the only man in my life who doesn’t stress me out.”

Lewis followed you, flopping down beside you with a laugh. “And you’re completely buried in work,” he added, nudging you lightly with his elbow.

You smirked. “Says you, Mr. ‘Married to the grind and no one else.’”

He tilted his head, smirking. “The difference is, I’m older than you. I'm 40. When you get closer to 40, love starts to look different.”

You rolled your eyes. “Okay, drama king, for the record—I’ll be 27 tomorrow, which feels like ancient history to my knees.”

He chuckled. “Twenty-seven… damn. I remember when you were stuffing glitter into my shoes and crying over that one dress you made with duct tape.”

“That was experimental fashion,” you replied with a mock glare. “And for the record, the glitter was deserved. You told everyone at school I still slept with a nightlight.”

He threw his head back laughing, the sound filling the room with warmth. “That was one time!”

“Still one too many,” you said, but your smile betrayed your affection. You leaned into the couch, Roscoe now snoring softly on your lap, your fingers absently brushing over his back.

There was a brief moment of silence, the kind only shared between two people who didn’t need to fill it with words. Lewis glanced over at you again, more serious this time.

“You know,” he began, “I don’t say it enough, but I’m proud of you. This thing you’re building—your name, your brand—it’s real. Don’t let your fear of not being there yet make you forget how far you’ve come.”

You swallowed the small lump in your throat, touched by his sincerity. “Thanks, Lew.”

He shrugged, casually but not without heart. “You’ll have your moment. The world just hasn’t caught up to you yet.”

Lewis glanced over at you, sensing the shift in energy, and decided to steer things into lighter territory. “So,” he began casually, stretching his legs out and leaning back into the couch, “I have to ask—what’s the plan for the big birthday tomorrow?”

You let out a breath, still stroking Roscoe absentmindedly. “Honestly?” you said with a shrug, “Not much. You know how Dad is—he wants us to spend the morning together, maybe have a little birthday breakfast. Something chill.”

Lewis nodded knowingly. “Classic Dad. He probably already bought a candle shaped like a 3 just to mess with you.”

You snorted. “Wouldn’t put it past him.”

Lewis gave you a sly look. “Assuming you actually show up on time and don’t get stuck here crying over your sketchbook again.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow. “Hey! I don’t cry every time. Just when my ideas fall apart and I’m sleep-deprived and hormonal and spiraling—so, you know, normal stuff.”

He chuckled. “Yeah, yeah. I just don’t want Roscoe calling me at 8 a.m. like, ‘She’s curled up on the floor again, mate. Bring snacks.’”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “I’ll be there, alright? I’m not a little kid anymore. You don’t have to keep treating me like one.”

Lewis turned to look at you more seriously, his expression softening. “I know you’re not. But I don’t care. I’m forty now, and you’re turning twenty-seven tomorrow—and I’m still your big brother. That doesn’t change. Not ever.”

You smiled, touched by the weight in his voice. “I know. And I’m glad you haven’t changed. I mean it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”

“No,” you said, sitting up a bit straighter. “But guess who left me a message?”

Lewis tilted his head. “Wait—don’t tell me. The guy from the bakery?”

You let out an exasperated sigh. “Yes! He’s been spamming me with messages, asking if I’ve ‘thought about that coffee date.’ Like sir, it’s been two weeks. Move on.”

Lewis let out a low whistle. “Persistent.”

“Pathetic,” you corrected, frowning. “He’s nice, sure, but... I don’t care about any of that right now. I don’t care about love, relationships, the whole dating game. My heart’s in my work. That’s where I am, and I don’t want distractions.”

Lewis nodded slowly, his voice calm and steady. “Well, that’s true. You’ve always known what you wanted. And if this—this life, this career, this grind—is where you desire to be, then so be it. I support you, one-hundred percent. Even if I do have to keep bringing Roscoe over just to make sure you’re eating.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, a small, grateful smile curving your lips. “Thanks, Lew.”

He rested his chin lightly on top of your head, his voice softer. “Anytime, sis. Always.”

For a while, you both just sat there. The afternoon light poured into the apartment, golden and quiet, casting long shadows on the floor. Roscoe snored gently on your lap, the soft hum of the city outside your window the only sound breaking the silence. And in that moment, your messy apartment, your overworked mind, your birthday nerves—they all faded into the background.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Later that evening, after Lewis had left and Roscoe had obediently followed him out the door, the flat fell into a thick, echoing silence. The kind of silence that crept in slowly—settling in the corners, winding through the fabric scraps, resting on your shoulders like a soft, invisible weight. You stood by your desk, still in your pajamas, arms crossed as you glanced at your half-finished sketch.

The light from the city glowed through the windows, soft and distant, but inside your apartment, everything felt still. Too still. It was in that quiet moment you realized just how familiar this loneliness had become. A presence you'd kept buried under ambition, folded neatly beneath the layers of your craft and pride. You told yourself you were fine. You always did.

Until the front door opened.

Your head snapped up, startled, eyes narrowing. You weren’t expecting anyone.

“George?” you asked, unsure.

And there he was, stepping inside like he owned the place—holding up a bottle of wine in one hand, an uneven grin on his face. “It’s me,” he said, voice light and teasing. “How’s my favorite little loner doing?”

You exhaled a breath through your nose, unimpressed but not truly annoyed. “Not funny.”

He smirked, closing the door behind him. “I know, I know. Carmen already gave me the lecture. Said to quit it with the nicknames and act more ‘emotionally available.’”

You hummed, folding your arms. “Are you sure you’re listening to her?”

As if on cue, Carmen stepped in behind him, her own smile softer—apologetic, even. “He’s not listening at all.”

You let out a breath of amusement, crossing the living room to greet them properly. “What are you two even doing here?”

Carmen stepped forward and handed you a small bag of your favorite snacks, the kind you only treated yourself to on bad days. “Well, you’re turning twenty-seven in less than twenty-four hours,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact. “We figured... why not crash your place and turn it into a proper sleepover?”

George held up the wine again with a triumphant smile. “It was my idea.”

You arched a brow. “Of course it was.”

“But I also brought ice cream,” he added.

You blinked. “Okay, fine. You’re forgiven.”

The three of you eventually settled into the living room—blankets tossed over the couch, wine glasses clinking lightly, an old movie playing in the background that none of you were actually watching. It felt easy. Comforting. Familiar in the best way.

“So,” George said eventually, lounging back on the cushions, his gaze finding yours with that boyish curiosity. “Tell me about your love life.”

You made a face, nose wrinkling. “Right... my love life.”

“Don’t do that,” he said, nudging your foot with his. “I’m serious.”

Carmen sat up, watching you closely with the kind of look only a friend could give—gentle but perceptive, as if she could already read the words you hadn’t spoken.

George leaned in a little, his expression losing its playfulness, just for a moment. “I care about you, you know that?”

The sincerity in his voice surprised you more than it should’ve. You looked at him, then at Carmen, and for the first time that day—maybe the first time in a long while—you felt it. The warmth of being seen. Not just for your work, or your ambition, or your drive to prove something to the world. But for who you were when everything else quieted down.

You nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah... I know. I care about you guys too.”

George leaned back, satisfied with your answer, reaching for the remote to change the movie. “Okay, enough feelings for one night. Let’s watch something where at least one person gets murdered in the first five minutes.”

Carmen groaned. “George, absolutely not. It’s her birthday, not Halloween.”

You smiled—genuine, easy, grateful—and pulled the blanket tighter around yourself. Maybe you were a little lonely sometimes. Maybe you buried it deep. But tonight, you didn’t have to be. Not with them.

The wine had softened the air between the three of you, laughter coming easy now, interrupted only by the occasional crackle from the half-watched movie playing in the background. But despite the warmth of the room, your thoughts wandered. George had asked about your love life, and though you’d played it off at first, the silence that followed tugged at your honesty.

Finally, you spoke—soft, quiet, like you’d just realized the words yourself.

“My love life isn’t real.”

The room stilled, as if the wine paused in their glasses and the flickering screen forgot to move.

George turned his head toward you slowly. Carmen stopped mid-sip, her eyes searching your face.

“I don’t go out or anything,” you added with a small, self-deprecating laugh. “No dates. No dinners. I just… work. And when I’m not working, I’m recovering from working.”

George leaned in, arms propped on his knees, his voice gentler now. “Okay. Spill.”

Carmen smiled, scooting closer, her hand brushing your arm. “We’re all ears, babe.”

You sighed, tucking your legs under yourself. “It’s not like I don’t want to meet someone. I just—don’t really make space for it. I guess I’ve convinced myself it’s safer this way. Less disappointment. Less distraction.”

Carmen gave you a look filled with empathy. “You’ve been building a dream. That’s not something to feel bad about.”

George nodded. “Exactly. But you also deserve to live a little. Not just design gowns for people in love—you deserve to feel it too.”

You didn’t answer right away, but a quiet warmth pressed into your chest at their words.

Meanwhile, across Monaco...

Charles stared at his brother like he had two heads.

“A blind date?” he repeated, unimpressed.

Arthur sat on the edge of the couch, waving his phone like it held the answer to all of Charles’ problems. “Yes, Charles. A blind date. You know… when two people go out, talk, maybe smile for once?”

Charles leaned back against the kitchen counter of his immaculate flat, arms crossed, his jaw tightening. “I’m not interested.”

Arthur groaned, dramatic as ever. “You never are. Ever since Alex—”

“Don’t,” Charles warned, his voice low.

Arthur sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “You can’t keep weeping over someone who walked away. You’ve been stuck in this mood for months. Monaco’s starting to feel depressing and that’s saying something.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. You sleep alone, you work out alone, you barely smile. That’s not fine, that’s functioning.”

Charles looked away.

Arthur took the opportunity to press further. “Just one date. I’ll even handle the profile. Make it sound tasteful—sophisticated. Someone artsy, elegant, not clingy. Like… designer energy.”

Charles blinked. “Designer energy?”

Arthur grinned. “You know what I mean.”

Charles exhaled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “It just sounds like a bad idea. A setup. I don’t do well with setups.”

“But what if it’s different this time?” Arthur said. “What if someone actually surprises you?”

Charles didn’t answer.

Instead, he stared out the large glass window of his flat, the lights of Monaco glittering below, dancing on the water—like the world was busy moving on while he stood still.

Back in your apartment, Carmen was already scheming. You didn’t notice it at first, but she exchanged a look with George—one of those secretive, mischievous glances that meant trouble.

“So,” Carmen said, sweetly, “hypothetically... if someone were to set you up with a mystery man, how would you feel about it?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Hypothetically? I’d think you’re both out of your minds.”

George grinned. “But you wouldn’t not be curious... right?”

You stared at them both, the wine glass paused just inches from your lips, a skeptical brow raised. “How would you even get me on a blind date?”

George smirked, the kind of grin that only meant one thing—he’d already thought this through. He lifted his phone like it was a trophy. “Simple. There are apps for this now. Real ones. Blind-date apps. No photos required, just your words. You write a profile, someone reads it, likes what they see, and boom—mystery date locked in.”

You blinked. “You want me to go on a date with a man who doesn’t even know what I look like?”

“Exactly!” he said, like it was the most brilliant idea ever conceived. “No pressure, no pretenses. Just vibes and words.”

You turned your gaze toward Carmen, silently pleading for logic. “Should I trust this?”

She didn’t give you an immediate answer—just pursed her lips in thought, then offered a soft hum. “Monaco is full of men. But most of them are surface-level. This... could be interesting. Let yourself have a night that’s different. Even if it doesn’t end in a love story, let it be something you’ll remember. Something fun. Something just for you.”

You hesitated, playing with the hem of your pajama sleeve. The idea was terrifying, but it also sparked something—something small and flickering inside you that wanted to feel new, wanted to step outside the rhythm of sketches and solitude.

George suddenly perked up. “I would set you up with one of the drivers directly, but ya know…” He waved his hand dramatically. “Lewis and his stupid no-F1-driver rule. No teammates, no paddock crew, no friends, no flirty engineers. The Hamilton guard dog policy.”

You laughed, almost choking on your wine. “That sounds about right.”

He leaned closer. “Seriously, he’d come after me if I even let you breathe near any of them. Like Esteban, great guy.”

Your eyebrows rose with curiosity. “Esteban? He’s not even—no. That’s not even on the radar. Plus, I never met him. Best I don't. You know, I don't watch F1 really. I just usually go to support my brother. I don't know anyone but you."

George shrugged. “It’s a shame. He’s single, sweet, probably could handle your mood swings… right up your alley.”

Carmen cut in with a giggle. “Don’t listen to him. But do let yourself experience something. You’ve been hidden in this flat too long. You’re not meant to spend every night buried in fabric. Just try it.”

You let your eyes flick between them both. The room was cozy, filled with soft light, laughter, wine—and for once, you didn’t feel the pressure to be “the designer.” Just a woman. A woman being seen.

You sighed, finally leaning back with a smirk. “Alright. Fine. But I want creative control of the profile. I’m not going on a date with some crypto bro or a man who thinks wearing boat shoes counts as personality.”

George grinned. “Deal. I’ll screen the weirdos.”

“And for the record,” you added, “I don’t mind dating a man outside of F1. That world... it’s different from mine. I’m not trying to fall for someone who's already halfway married to their career.”

Carmen smiled knowingly. “That’s fair.”

You tapped your finger against the wine glass thoughtfully. “Still... it would be nice. To meet someone who sees me.”

George opened the app with a flourish. “Then let’s build your mystery profile, designer girl. Time to manifest a Monaco man who might just change your mind.”

Charles sat at the edge of the couch, phone in hand, half-focused as he lazily scrolled through the blind date profiles. Most of them felt forced—long bios stuffed with buzzwords, selfies filtered into oblivion, and a strange obsession with yacht photos. Each new one seemed more desperate to escape the app than the last.

“‘Looking for my king’... Nope,” he muttered. “‘Manifesting power couple energy’... definitely not.”

He was about to shut the app when a profile caught his eye. Simple username. No photo. Just words. It was different enough to make him pause.

“Hm... the username on this one is... something,” he murmured, holding the phone up toward Arthur without taking his eyes off the screen.

Arthur leaned in. “What’s she about?”

“Says she’s a designer. Twenty-six.” Charles scrolled a little more, skimming through the bio. “Lives in Monaco... No kids, no pets. Doesn’t go out much. Works a lot. Sounds like she keeps to herself.”

Arthur gave a small nod. “So, basically, your female twin.”

Charles gave him a dry look but didn’t deny it.

“I mean, I should give it a try, no?” he asked, brow raised as if seeking permission he didn’t want to need.

Arthur smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “You should absolutely message her. She sounds like the kind of woman who won't ask for a selfie mid-conversation. That's rare.”

Charles exhaled, eyes still on the words she’d written. There was something quiet about her tone. Something thoughtful. Not trying to sell herself—just telling the truth.

He hovered over the keyboard for a second, then finally began to type.

The glow of your phone screen illuminated your face in the dim living room as you lay curled up on the couch, Carmen and George practically glued to your sides. Every time the notification buzzed, they leaned in like co-conspirators in a heist.

“Okay, okay—he replied again,” you whispered, heart beating faster than you cared to admit.

George peered over your shoulder. “What’d he say this time?”

You read it aloud, your voice a little softer this time. “‘I’m not great at small talk, but I’m really good at listening. So, tell me what kind of cake you’d have if you were celebrating quietly, with no pressure and no expectations.’”

Carmen clutched a pillow, eyes wide. “That’s... so specific and thoughtful.”

George held up his hands triumphantly. “Alright, whoever this mystery man is, he’s good.”

You smiled to yourself, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. “What do I say back?”

“Be honest,” Carmen urged gently. “Like you were in the profile.”

So you typed:

‘Lemon cake. Something not too sweet. Something simple.’

And the conversation kept flowing. Throughout the night, text after text, word after word—easy, honest, natural. You didn’t feel the need to perform. He wasn’t trying to impress. There was comfort in that. You didn’t even realize how late it was getting until your phone buzzed again with a new message that made your breath catch.

“Would you be open to meeting? Tomorrow night maybe? I know it’s your birthday. But I’d like to be a quiet part of it.”

You sat up, blinking at the words, rereading them twice.

“This complete sweet stranger,” you said aloud, slowly, as George and Carmen leaned in again, “he wants to set our date for tomorrow night... since I told him tomorrow’s my birthday.”

Carmen squealed immediately, flailing her hands. “He remembered?!”

George pumped a fist in the air. “WE DID IT! WE GOT YOU A BLIND DATE!”

You laughed, covering your face with one hand. “This is insane.”

Carmen tugged the blanket tighter around you with a proud smile. “It’s not insane. It’s happening. And tomorrow night, you’re going on a birthday blind date—with someone who actually listens. That’s rare.”

Across town, at Charles’ flat...

Charles sat hunched on the couch, phone in hand, his own expression unreadable. Each message from you made him straighten just a little, made something unfamiliar stir in his chest.

He read your last reply—“Lemon cake. Something not too sweet.”—and smiled without realizing it.

Arthur leaned over, chin resting on Charles’ shoulder like a nosy child. “Did you ask her out yet?”

“I just did.”

Arthur read the message over his shoulder and let out a low whistle. “Smooth. Soft. Sweet. Is this your rebrand?”

Charles rolled his eyes, but his voice was quieter than usual. “She’s different.”

Arthur grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Guess we’re buying you a birthday gift for her this year.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The morning sun poured into your favorite café in Monaco, casting a soft golden glow across the terrace as the sea breeze drifted in. You stepped in, already dressed and glowing, the confidence of turning twenty-seven sitting lightly on your shoulders. Your father and Lewis were seated at your usual corner table, two steaming cups of coffee already waiting.

“Morning, birthday girl,” Lewis greeted with a warm smile as your dad leaned in to press a quick kiss to your temple.

“Morning,” you hummed, sliding into the seat across from them, taking a grateful sip from your cup. The quiet clinking of cutlery and gentle chatter filled the space around you.

“So,” your father began after a moment, “after this, you got any plans? Or is it back to the design cave?”

Before you could open your mouth, Lewis scoffed dramatically and leaned back in his chair. “We already know her answer: work, stress, repeat.”

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully, then cleared your throat. “Actually... I have a date tonight.”

Lewis paused mid-sip, slowly lowering his coffee cup. “Really?”

You raised a brow. “Wait... you support this?”

He nodded, shrugging as if it were the most casual thing in the world. “Yeah. As long as he’s not one of my friends or anyone from F1, then we’re golden. That’s the only rule.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Relax, he's a stranger. Total blind date. I can assure you he has absolutely nothing to do with cars, engines, or pit stops. Probably doesn't even know what DRS means.”

Lewis gave you a suspicious squint. “What’s his name?”

You smirked. “Nice try. That’s staying a mystery—for now.”

Your dad chuckled, stirring his coffee. “Let her have this, Lew. She’s twenty-seven now. Not fifteen.”

Lewis raised his hands in surrender, but his eyes stayed on you. “Alright, alright. I’m just saying... no breaking the rule. You know how I feel about all the drivers. No Lando, no Carlos, no Pierre, no anyone.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin. “Please. I already rejected Lando five times.”

Lewis snorted. “Yeah, and it took you long enough. You were this close to folding when you called him fine.”

You let out a dramatic sigh. “Heaven forbid a woman acknowledges a man is attractive without throwing herself into his arms.”

Lewis cringed and looked away. “Can we not talk about what makes you feel things?”

You chuckled and shook your head. “Relax. I’m just saying—I’ve known George for years and never once crossed a line.”

Your father gave Lewis a pointed look. “You gotta give her a little more room, son. She’s a grown woman. And frankly, you’re not gonna be able to big brother her forever.”

Lewis leaned on the table, eyes softer now. “I know. I just worry. You deserve something real, that’s all. Not someone who’ll come and go like pit crews on a rainy Sunday.”

Your smile softened, your gaze settling on him with warmth. “That’s why I’m trying something new. Someone outside the storm. Just a guy who doesn’t know my last name or what world I come from. Just... me.”

Lewis nodded slowly. “Alright. Then I’ll trust you.”

“So… you met him through that blind date app thing?” Lewis asked, squinting at you over the rim of his coffee cup.

You nodded, your smile light and hopeful. “Yep. We use usernames, no pictures, no real names. Just... talking. Getting to know each other without all the surface stuff.”

Lewis leaned back in his seat, arms folded. “That sounds so unlike you. I can’t help but feel this wasn’t entirely your idea.”

You grinned, tucking your hair behind your ear as you took another sip. “Guilty. My favorite couple showed up last night and basically staged an intervention.”

His brow lifted. “Let me guess. George and Carmen?”

You nodded proudly. “Of course. They came in like a Hallmark movie. Carmen brought snacks. George brought wine and chaos.”

Lewis groaned. “Ah yes, his gossip wine. The one he brings specifically to talk nonsense for hours.”

You laughed. “Exactly. It worked. I wasn’t planning to go through with anything, but then I started talking to this guy and… I don’t know. He’s different.”

Lewis watched you for a moment, your expression soft and strangely lit from within. The kind of glow he hadn’t seen on you in a long time.

“You sure about this?” he asked, voice quieter this time.

You met his gaze, sincere and steady. “No. But I’m open to it. And that feels... good.”

He gave you a slow, reluctant smile. “Alright. But if he turns out to be some washed-up lounge singer with a comb-over and a fake Rolex—”

“I’ll send you an SOS under the table.”

Lewis chuckled. “Deal.”

After a few warm snapshots with your brother and your father—arms wrapped around one another, laughter caught mid-frame—you hugged them both tightly, breathing in their familiar scents and warmth before saying your goodbyes.

“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” your dad said, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

Lewis ruffled your hair the way he always did, grinning. “Be safe tonight. And don’t text me if the food’s bad—I’m not coming to rescue you.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling. “Thanks for the confidence, big brother.”

As you all parted ways and you made your way out onto the sunny Monaco street, the wind lightly toying with the hem of your dress, you paused in surprise.

Leaning casually against the side of a sleek black car, arms folded and sunglasses perched on his face, stood George.

“I’m on outfit duty,” he announced smoothly.

You laughed, walking toward him. “Oh? Since when?”

“Since Carmen called dibs on hair and makeup and told me I had to earn my gossip wine privileges,” he replied with a wink.

You crossed your arms, raising an amused brow. “Should I trust you with this? This is the birthday blind date outfit we’re talking about here.”

George pushed off the car and opened the passenger door for you. “You should. Trust me on this. I’m going to dress you like you walked straight out of a fashion magazine, and that man is going to fall.”

You smirked, sliding into the car. “No pressure then.”

He shut the door with a grin. “All I do is deliver.”

Charles stood near the center display in the small, charming Monaco florist shop, his eyes scanning the neatly arranged bouquets. The air was filled with the soft scent of petals and eucalyptus, sunlight filtering through the glass windows. His fingers grazed over a few stems until he paused, pointing without hesitation.

“These,” he said, voice quiet but certain.

Arthur peeked over his shoulder. “Roses?” He tilted his head, brow raised. “You sure about that?”

Charles nodded, though his expression was unreadable. “Roses are… classic. Not too much, but still thoughtful.” He glanced toward the tiny handwritten tags, inspecting the shades of pink and cream. “She said she liked things that aren’t too sweet. Simple.”

Arthur leaned against the nearby counter, arms crossed, watching his brother a little too closely. “Alright, Romeo. What’s next? Gonna serenade her too?”

Charles gave him a side glance but didn’t bite. Instead, he looked toward the small display of delicate jewelry behind the counter. A modest collection of local artisan pieces—elegant, understated, not overly flashy.

“I was thinking... maybe a necklace. Something subtle. Just… a small birthday gift.” He hesitated. “Am I moving too fast?”

Arthur shrugged, clearly torn between teasing and actually being helpful. “I mean... yes. And also no?”

Charles blinked. “Thanks. Very helpful.”

Arthur chuckled. “Look, it is her birthday. So yeah, maybe it’s a little extra for a first date, but it’s thoughtful. If she’s anything like how you’ve described her—quiet, passionate, soft but strong—I think she’ll appreciate it.”

Charles nodded slowly, almost to himself, as he stepped closer to the counter. “It’s not about impressing her. I just want her to know I’ve been listening.”

Arthur smirked. “Now that is dangerously close to you catching feelings.”

Charles rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We haven’t even met yet.”

“Mmhm,” Arthur hummed. “That’s how it always starts.”

Charles huffed, deciding to search for someone to wrap the bouquet for him. Arthur followed close behind. "Just saying!"

“Lorenzo will probably help you get ready,” Arthur said, eyeing the bouquet now wrapped neatly in Charles’ hands.

Charles nodded, his gaze lingering on the roses as they walked out of the shop. “I know how to dress for a date. I’m not doing this to impress anyone. I’m doing it to… get out. To breathe again.”

Arthur looked over at him, quieter now. “Yeah. I know.”

They walked in silence for a few steps, the sound of Monaco’s streets humming softly in the background. Charles' jaw tightened for a moment, and Arthur didn’t miss it.

“The truth is,” Arthur continued gently, “you needed this. A chance to meet someone new, feel something new. The last thing we need is you staying stuck in the same heartbreak loop.”

Charles didn’t reply right away. He just kept walking, the bouquet clutched in one hand, his other tucked in his pocket.

Arthur added, “She was lovely—don’t get me wrong. But people grow apart. You gave what you could. It’s okay to move on now.”

Charles stopped at the curb, eyes on the pavement for a second too long before finally glancing at his brother. “It’s not that easy.”

“I know,” Arthur said, softer this time. “But maybe tonight doesn’t have to be heavy. Maybe it can just be… a start.”

Charles exhaled slowly, nodding once. “A start.”

George clicked his tongue the moment you stepped out of the changing room, his face twisted in theatrical disapproval. “I’m sorry, no. The green throws me off. It’s giving... elegant Christmas tree.”

You let out an exhausted sigh, arms slumping at your sides. “We’ve been through ten dresses.”

He began counting off on his fingers. “The golden one was too much. We’re not dressing for a red carpet. The green—pretty, yes—but those weird embroidered flowers? No. Hot pink?” He gave you a look. “That’s go-go dancer on her fourth tequila shot and ready to black out.”

You crossed your arms. “It’s called statement color.”

“It’s called no thank you.”

You groaned as he kept going. “The yellow one—super cute, but honestly? More ‘housewife feeding chickens at dawn’ than birthday girl on a mysterious blind date.”

“Okay, ouch.”

George didn’t flinch. “I love you, but someone had to say it.”

He held out a dress, carefully retrieved from its protective garment bag like it was made of gold thread. “Now. For the love of fashion and your birthday, try on the one I specifically picked for you.”

You stared at it, narrowed your eyes, then snatched it from his hand with a huff and stormed back into the changing room.

From the other side of the curtain, your voice rang out in protest. “You are so lucky I care enough to listen to this nonsense.”

George was unfazed, casually tapping his foot. “Because you love me, and we’re best friends,” he replied smugly.

You muttered under your breath. “Yeah, like I have a choice.”

He smiled. “You absolutely do. But you still choose me.”

You paused for a beat as you adjusted the dress inside, voice quieter now. “...Maybe. Just maybe, I’ll like it.”

George leaned against the fitting room wall, folding his arms with a smirk. “Oh, darling, you’re going to love it. And so will he.”

The soft shuffle of fabric and the occasional muttered complaint were the only sounds coming from behind the fitting room curtain. George stood just outside, arms crossed, tapping his foot like a judge awaiting a final contestant.

“I swear,” you called from inside, “if this dress doesn’t work, I’m going back to the green one and we’re done.”

George smirked. “You say that now... but wait until you see yourself.”

The curtain slid open.

You stepped out.

And for a rare moment, George fell completely silent.

The off-the-shoulder black dress hugged your figure perfectly, the structured white neckline giving just enough contrast to make the look timeless. Paired with your heels and softly styled hair, it wasn’t just a dress—it was the dress. Elegant. Clean. Effortless.

George blinked, then slowly grinned. “Oh, my God.”

You turned toward the full-length mirror, your breath catching slightly. “Wow...” you whispered.

“See?” George gestured wildly, like a magician revealing his greatest trick. “That’s what I’ve been trying to get out of you! You look like you’re about to walk into a movie scene and completely destroy a man’s sense of reality.”

You smiled, a bit shy. “It’s... classy.”

“It’s everything.” George came to stand beside you. “Mysterious, elegant, confident. He won’t know what hit him.”

You looked at your reflection again—this time with a flicker of wonder in your eyes. “Yeah… maybe I’m ready.”

George raised an eyebrow in the mirror. “No, babe. You are ready.”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Charles sat on the edge of his bed, eyes locked on the ticking hands of the clock on the wall. Each passing minute pulled him closer to something unknown—but for once, it didn’t feel suffocating. He was dressed neatly: a dark tailored suit, soft charcoal gray, paired with a crisp white shirt. No tie. Clean, simple. Thoughtful, like the man wearing it.

Cologne faintly lingered in the air, and his hair had been combed back with just enough effort to look effortless. His phone sat on the table, face-up, glowing softly with the last message he’d sent you:

“I’ll be the one holding the roses.”

“Just go get your girl!” Arthur called dramatically from across the flat.

Before Charles could answer, a gift bag was shoved into his hand, the roses balanced against his arm—and the front door was promptly shut behind him.

He blinked, standing alone in the hallway, bouquet in one hand and a cautious sort of hope in his chest. “Merci, Arthur,” he muttered with a shake of his head, walking toward the car.

Meanwhile, across town, you sat in the backseat of a sleek car, legs crossed, fingers absently twisting the thin chain of your bracelet. The dress fit like it was made for you, the cool evening air slipping through the cracked window and brushing against your skin like nerves made visible.

“Just so we’re clear,” you muttered, glancing toward the front seats, “I can drive myself.”

George didn’t even look back, one hand draped casually over the wheel. “Oh, we know,” he said.

Carmen turned slightly in her seat, a soft smile on her lips. “But we insist. Besides, we don’t trust this mystery man yet. One of us had to play Uber, and George demanded the aux cord.”

You chuckled, about to protest when your phone buzzed in your lap.

George glanced at you through the rearview mirror. “Who is it?”

You smiled, reading the message quietly.

Lewis: Good luck. Be yourself. And text me if you need anything. Seriously. 💙

“Lewis,” you murmured. “Just checking in. Wishing me luck. Classic big brother move.”

“Aww,” Carmen smiled warmly. “He loves you. He’s just scared of letting go.”

George snorted. “I’m scared for the guy who doesn’t realize he’s about to be sat across from you.”

You laughed lightly, tucking your phone away, but in the depths of your chest, your heart began to pick up a faster beat. Excitement. Nerves. Curiosity. The unknown.

Tonight, you’d meet the stranger who only knew your words. The man who remembered lemon cake and silence. Who wanted to be a quiet part of your birthday.

And neither of you had any idea how familiar the other already was.

After thanking George and Carmen—who each gave you their own dramatic farewell (“Don’t fall in love too fast!” from George and “Text us if he’s weird!” from Carmen)—you stepped out of the car and into the golden-lit entrance of the restaurant.

The soft hum of music and the clinking of glasses filled the luxurious rooftop air as you stepped into the restaurant, heart skipping slightly in your chest. The host gave you a polite nod after checking your name. “The other party has arrived. Right this way.”

You followed him through the elegant interior, heels clicking against marble, up the winding staircase that led to the rooftop. The scent of fresh flowers and faint citrus from the lit candles danced in the air. Monaco’s skyline shimmered around you like a velvet painting—romantic, rich, and utterly intimidating.

Your eyes darted around nervously until the host stopped beside a table for two nestled under the warm glow of hanging lights.

“Here’s your table,” he said. “Enjoy your evening.”

You gave a small, polite smile and a breathy, “Thank you,” before turning toward the man sitting there.

And then everything slowed.

The stranger looked up from the menu, his posture straightening slightly when his eyes met yours. For a heartbeat, neither of you said anything.

He was handsome. Striking, even—clean-cut with soft brown hair, sharp cheekbones, and those eyes... bright and curious, the kind that made you feel like he was looking straight through your layers.

He stood politely, tucking the chair back with a gentleman’s grace. “Hi,” he said, voice low and smooth with a French accent. “I wasn’t sure what to expect, but… you’re beautiful.”

Your cheeks warmed at the compliment, caught off guard in the sweetest way. “Thank you,” you replied, shy but smiling. “You clean up well yourself.”

He chuckled softly, stepping aside to help you into your seat before returning to his own. “I’m Charles, by the way.”

You tilted your head slightly, trying to recall the name. “I’m Y/n. It’s nice to meet you. I, uh… I don’t really do this kind of thing.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted, then grinned. “But I’m glad I did.”

You let out a small breath of a laugh, glancing around the candlelit terrace. “This place is… a lot fancier than I imagined.”

“I wanted it to feel like something special,” he said, watching you with interest. “Especially since you said it’s your birthday?”

You nodded. “Yeah, it is. I didn’t expect to spend it with a stranger.”

Charles smiled warmly. “Then let’s not be strangers for long.”

And for the first time that night, the nerves started to melt away—replaced by the soft thrill of something new. Something possible.

“I brought you some birthday gifts,” Charles said gently, reaching beneath the table. From beside him, he pulled out a bouquet of soft roses and a small, elegant gift bag with a satin ribbon.

“Happy birthday.”

You blinked, visibly stunned as you slowly took them from him. “Wow… thanks. I—didn’t think you’d pull something so romantic.” A light laugh slipped from you, warm and breathless.

He laughed softly too, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was worried it’d be too much. Too fast.”

You shook your head, smiling more genuinely now. “No, this… this is a really nice way to celebrate. Thank you. Truly.”

You peeked into the gift bag, eyes widening further when your fingers brushed against a velvet box. Gently, you pulled it out and flipped open the lid, revealing a delicate, shimmering necklace—elegant, understated, and clearly expensive.

“Charles… this looks like it’s worth a lot,” you said quietly, your fingers resting just near the pendant. “You didn’t have to do this. For a stranger.”

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes soft. “I wanted to do something kind. From what I read on your profile… you seem like someone who gives a lot of herself to others. Quiet, hardworking. Like you don’t get many moments like this.”

Your smile faltered for a second—but not out of discomfort. Out of recognition. That was exactly it.

You closed the box and placed it carefully back in the gift bag, knowing deep down that you’d be wearing that necklace. Not tonight. But soon. It already meant something.

“I do stay to myself a lot,” you admitted. “I’m a fashion designer. Not the runway, celebrity kind. Not yet, at least. But I’m working on something big. For a small show. Hoping it gets my name out there.”

“That sounds incredible,” he said. “A busy woman, from what I gather.”

“Very.” You let out a small laugh. “Most days, it’s just fabric, pins, coffee, and a hundred sketches I hate the next morning.”

He smiled at the image, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the edge of the table. “Tell me more.”

There was something so disarming about the way he listened. Like he genuinely wanted to know—not just hear.

“Well,” you continued with a slight shrug, “aside from burying myself in work, I have a wonderful dad, and a few siblings. My older brother is the one who hovers and checks in constantly—sweet, but a little overbearing at times.”

You grinned softly. “I don’t have any pets. Would love one, but time doesn’t really allow it. And no kids either—not something I’ve thought about seriously in my twenties, you know? I mean, sure, parenthood seems sweet in theory, but we’re still young. There’s so much we haven’t even seen yet.”

Charles listened, quietly mesmerized. Your voice, your ease, your honesty. There was something magnetic about it. Even as you rambled—especially as you rambled—he found himself hanging on to every word.

And before he even realized it, he was smiling for no reason at all.

“So,” he said, his tone soft and curious. “What made you try blind dating? If I’m being honest… you don’t strike me as the type to use an app either.”

You laughed gently. “Touché. My best friend and his girlfriend—they staged a whole intervention. Said I needed to get out more, live a little. I figured one night wouldn’t hurt.”

He chuckled. “Sounds familiar. My brother did the same. Said I needed to stop moping and… well, try again.”

There was a brief pause. Not awkward. Just full. Like you were both taking in the quiet revelation that, somehow, through the pressure of others and the unpredictability of timing… you ended up here.

“Guess the universe was doing us a favor,” you said softly.

Charles looked at you for a long moment, his eyes warm.

“Maybe it was.”

Dinner had stretched far longer than you'd planned. Hours melted away like butter on warm bread. The rooftop lights glowed softer now, Monaco twinkling behind you, a lull of laughter and clinking glasses surrounding the two of you like distant music.

The wine bottle sat almost empty between your glasses, and the plates were half-cleared—forks pushed aside as conversation carried on like it always belonged there.

He’d told you everything. Not all at once, but in pieces—his voice soft and slow when he spoke of his last relationship, the way it unraveled, how he tried to hold it together. You listened, not because you had to, but because it was easy. It was natural.

You shared your own past, the guys who hadn’t taken your dreams seriously, who made you feel like you were too much and never enough all at once. Somehow, he didn’t flinch at any of it. He just listened.

And somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like a blind date… and started feeling like the beginning of something else entirely.

You leaned back slightly, your laughter fading into a warm smile as you looked at the nearly empty bottle of wine. “So, Charles…”

He raised an eyebrow, mirroring your smile. “Yes?”

“I think we’ve officially finished that bottle,” you mused, tapping the neck of it lightly.

He glanced at it and laughed. “We definitely have.”

“And yet…” you tilted your head slightly, teasing, “we barely even scratched the surface of our lives.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “I’m a driver. That’s the easy part. You’re a fashion designer. Also easy. But you’re right... we haven’t really dug yet.”

You lifted your glass, swirling what was left. “Well, if you’re a driver…” you said casually, smirking slightly, “then you should drive me home.”

Charles grinned, eyes gleaming with mischief. “I would love that.”

You blinked, cheeks flushing slightly. “I—I was joking.”

“I wasn’t,” he said smoothly, his gaze lingering on yours just long enough to make your stomach flutter.

You let out a nervous laugh, eyes dropping to your glass. “God, I don’t usually flirt like this.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and sincere. “Then I feel lucky to be the exception.”

You looked at him then—really looked. This man you hadn’t known existed a day ago was somehow already making your heart beat differently. And while you didn’t want to fall too fast… you couldn’t deny the feeling.

“We should have just one more romantic little nightcap,” you said with a lazy smile, your voice soft, the wine making your words just a touch warmer than usual.

Charles mirrored your grin, eyes still sparkling under the soft rooftop lights. “I’ll order us one more,” he said.

But one became two. Two became three.

The line between strangers and something more blurred under the Monaco stars. Your cheeks were flushed, his eyes softer, looser with each glass. Every laugh melted into another. Every glance lingered longer than the last.

Your clutch sat untouched beside your chair, your phone buzzing silently inside with texts and calls—Carmen, George… even Lewis, probably. But none of it reached you. None of it mattered in this moment.

“You are too sweet,” you giggled, cheeks aching from how much you'd been smiling.

Charles leaned closer, voice low and laced in charm. “You make me that way.”

Somewhere in the swirl of tipsy teasing, flirty banter, and honest smiles, something real had started to bloom. Neither of you named it—but it sat there, quiet and heavy and humming between your glances.

Eventually, the check came. Charles paid with no hesitation, and you stood with your roses gently tucked under your arm, the gift bag holding your necklace swinging lightly in your grip. You walked out with him still talking—still laughing—still feeling something unfamiliar but magnetic.

The moment you reached his car, your thoughts were hazy but clear enough to know what you wanted.

Your eyes flicked up to meet his, and without another word, you leaned in—and kissed him.

It was warm and slow and unexpectedly perfect. He tasted like wine and something softly unfamiliar, but it settled in your chest like a secret you’d been waiting to uncover.

When you pulled back, you couldn’t help but giggle. “Okay, so… change of plans, back to your place?”

Charles smirked, the kind that was both sweet and sinful. “I don’t see why not.”

He opened the car door for you, that same gentleman streak never breaking—no matter how drunk on the moment he was. You slid in, glancing over with a coy smile.

He slid into the driver’s seat, the engine purring softly as Monaco blurred behind you.

Meanwhile, across town…

Carmen paced back and forth across your living room like she was expecting the floor to crack under her next step. “This is bad. This is so bad.”

George sat on the couch, arms crossed, trying to appear calm—but the slight twitch in his eye betrayed him. “We need to breathe. Just—breathe. She hasn’t texted, okay? So maybe she’s fine.”

Carmen threw her arms in the air. “She’s fine? She’s with a stranger, George. A stranger we convinced her to meet on an app! And if we don’t get her back in one piece, you know what’s going to happen?”

George sighed, bracing for it. “Angry Lewis?”

“Angry Lewis,” she repeated dramatically. “Do you want to see Lewis Hamilton show up at our door with that big brother energy and a whole lifetime of ‘I told you so’ in his pocket?!”

George clicked his tongue. “Fair point…”

They both stared at the door in silence.

“Call her again,” Carmen said.

“I already did—twice.”

“Then text her. And pray.”

George grabbed his phone with a groan. “This is how it ends, isn’t it? We try to be good friends, and we get taken down by a serial killer on a blind dating app.”

Carmen glared. “You don’t even know if it’s a serial killer!”

George raised a brow. “You don’t know that it’s not.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The morning sun spilled across the large bed, golden and far too bright for the subtle pounding in your head. You stirred beneath the sheets, stretching your arms and legs only to find the other side of the bed cold. Empty.

A quiet wince left your lips. Wine headache. Classic.

“God... what time is it…” you mumbled, blindly reaching for your clutch bag tossed by the nightstand. You pulled your phone free, tapped the screen—and immediately froze.

12 missed calls. 28 unread messages.

Carmen. George. Lewis. Toto?!

“Shit.”

You sat up abruptly, blankets clinging to your bare chest. Your head pulsed. Your heart thudded.

Call 1: Carmen.

She picked up on the first ring.

“You have got to be kidding me!” she half-screamed. “I thought you were dead, Y/n!”

You winced. “Okay—ow—Carmen, calm down. I’m sorry. I’m alive, okay?”

“We didn’t know that! George and I literally slept on your couch waiting for you to show up or text or anything!”

You rubbed your temple, guilt sinking in. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“Where are you? We’ll come get you.”

You looked around. The room was… nice. Too nice. Expensive sheets, floor-to-ceiling windows, an ocean view that made you want to weep.

“I… think I’m at his place. My date’s.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

“Okay,” Carmen said slowly. “You better come home in one piece. I love you, but please call Lewis before he comes here breathing fire.”

“I will.”

She hung up before you could say more.

Call 2: Lewis.

He answered with no hello.

“Have you lost your entire mind?”

You flinched. “I’m sorry! I was out on my date, my phone was silenced. I didn’t think—”

“You never think when it comes to this stuff,” he cut in, exhaling hard. “You scared the hell out of me. I didn’t sleep.”

“I get it, Lew. I messed up.”

“I’ll tell Dad you’re okay,” he said flatly. “But I’m coming over later. You and I—we’re having a long talk.”

Click.

You groaned, tossing the phone aside and dropping flat against the bed again. “Fantastic.”

You flung the blanket off—then squeaked, immediately pulling it back up.

You were naked.

Eyes wide, cheeks heating up, you squeaked, “Oh my god. My clothes… where are my clothes? Did we—oh my god did we?”

Just then, you heard a muffled voice from the hallway. “Leo, stop—hey—come back here…”

Seconds later, Charles appeared in the doorway, following a tiny, bouncing puppy into the room. His hair was tousled, his shirt wrinkled, and the smile he gave you was soft and sleepy.

“You’re awake.”

You blushed furiously, clutching the blanket to your chest. “Where are my clothes?”

Charles ran a hand over his jaw, chuckling softly. “Last night was… really nice.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Charles. What. Happened.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Relax, mon cœur. We didn’t do anything like that. No full-on... you know.”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “We made out. A lot. There was some... other stuff. But nothing more. Just… the basics.”

You stared at him, heart pounding.

“Oral?” you asked, voice a whisper.

He gave a guilty smile. “...Yeah.”

You fell back into the pillows, groaning into your hands. “I’m so irresponsible.”

Charles chuckled. “You were charming. And a little tipsy. I wasn’t going to push things. Trust me—I liked last night just the way it was.”

You peeked out at him, still red in the face. “You promise you didn’t, like... use me or something?”

He tilted his head with a soft smile. “Non, mon ange. I think you used me.”

You let out a tiny laugh despite yourself.

“Your dress and heels are in the laundry room,” Charles said from the doorway, one hand braced on the frame, his voice soft and low. “Shower’s all yours, mon cœur. Feel free to wear something of mine. I’ll take you home whenever you’re ready.”

You let out a sigh of relief, your body still tucked beneath the sheets. “You’re dangerously perfect, you know that?”

He chuckled. “Don’t give me too much credit yet. Wait until you see my hoodie collection.”

You smiled faintly, your cheeks still slightly warm as he gave you one last reassuring glance before closing the door, giving you privacy. You peeled yourself from the bed, wrapping the blanket around you as you padded into the bathroom.

The moment you saw the large glass shower and warm steam rising from the polished tiles, your shoulders relaxed. It was exactly what you needed. Quiet. Warm. Private.

As water poured down, washing away the wine, nerves, and lingering lipstick, Charles made his way to the living room, ruffling his hair and settling onto the couch.

His phone buzzed just as he grabbed it.

Lewis Hamilton.

Charles answered casually. “Bonjour.”

“Hey, Charles,” Lewis’ familiar voice came through, cool and easy. “Just a heads up—I’ll be a bit late today. I’m heading to my sister’s place first.”

Charles leaned back on the couch, his gaze momentarily drifting to the hallway. “No worries, mate. I’ve got… a guest here anyway. Won’t be leaving until I pull myself together.”

Lewis chuckled lightly on the other end. “Alex?”

Charles sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “No. Definitely not Alex. I’m not going back there.”

“Fair enough,” Lewis said. “Just thought I’d check. Take care.”

“You too.”

Click.

Charles dropped his phone onto the cushion beside him, stretching an arm across the back of the couch, eyes trailing up to the ceiling. The irony hadn’t hit him yet. Not even close.

Back in the bathroom, steam curled around your shoulders as you turned off the water, wrapping yourself in the soft towel provided. You felt better—clearer—yet still utterly unaware of the name “Charles Leclerc,” still unaware of his world of speed, podiums, and red Ferrari suits.

He didn’t recognize your last name either. Not with the haze of the night before, your profile missing a photo, and the intimacy of the date distracting him from logical connections.

The truth hung above both of you like a ticking clock—neither of you hearing it yet.

You were just two people—two strangers, sweetly tangled in something brand new—too caught up in the glow of it all to realize just how complicated this was about to become.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

The ride to your place was quiet, but comfortably so. Monaco rolled by outside the car window in soft golden tones, morning light catching the sparkle of the sea and rooftops. You sat with the roses delicately balanced in your lap, the velvet necklace box resting beside you like some kind of secret treasure.

“I’m still really sorry,” you said quietly, turning to look at Charles, guilt flickering behind your smile. “I didn’t mean to make everyone panic.”

Charles glanced at you briefly, eyes kind. “No worries. Truly. I had fun. I needed it—even if you don’t realize it.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “I needed it too,” you admitted, your fingers brushing over the petals of the roses.

When he pulled up in front of your flat, he shifted into park but didn’t move to open his door. Instead, he looked at you with a faint smile. “Wait. Let me have your number.”

You blinked, pleasantly surprised, and nodded. “For another date?” you asked, your tone soft, a little playful.

He leaned slightly toward you, resting an arm on the steering wheel. “Another date,” he confirmed, “and to have a very good excuse to keep in contact.”

You smiled, exchanging numbers, your fingers brushing as you passed the phone between you. “I had fun. Truly,” you said.

He gave a small nod, his voice low and warm. “Me too… Y/n.” He winked at the end, and your heart did a little somersault you tried to ignore.

You stepped out, roses in hand, clutch under your arm, and turned to wave as he drove off. For a moment, you just stood there—smiling like a fool in love… even though you’d promised yourself not to fall too fast.

You pushed open the door to your Monaco flat, and before you could even step fully inside, George was storming toward you.

“Do not hey me! I thought you DIED,” George exclaimed, immediately wrapping his arms around you like a human seatbelt.

“Oh my god—Russell, put me down!” you laughed, nearly dropping the roses. “I’m not a missing child!”

“I cannot do that,” he said dramatically, squeezing tighter. “I am clinging to life itself right now.”

Carmen stood off to the side with her arms crossed, but her eyes were soft and worried. “We were really worried. You didn’t text. You didn’t call.”

“I know, I know,” you said, finally breaking free of George’s hug. “I messed up. My phone was on silent, and the date just… kind of swept me away.”

“I told you not to trust blind dates,” Carmen huffed, but her voice betrayed relief.

“I’m fine. He was sweet. Gentle. Thoughtful. He even gave me these.” You set the roses on the table delicately, placing the necklace box beside them. “He drove me home, made sure I was okay. Like, I got very lucky.”

George leaned over the roses suspiciously. “So what’s his name, hmm? Did he lie about having a yacht or something?”

“Charles,” you said casually, walking toward your room. “Charles... something.”

George and Carmen froze. “...Charles what?”

You shrugged. “Didn’t ask for his last name. Should I have?”

George looked at Carmen. Carmen looked at George.

“Oh my god,” George whispered.

“You’re kidding,” Carmen mouthed.

You turned back, confused. “It's weird to ask for last names on first dates." you said.

“Doesn’t matter,” Carmen grinned, settling beside you on the couch with wide eyes and eager energy. “Give us all the details!”

You laughed lightly, waving a hand. “Okay, okay. Let me have a snack first—and then we’ll get cozy.”

A few minutes later, you returned to the living room with a plate of buttery croissants and a glass of sparkling water, curling up between them as if the night before hadn’t completely flipped your world upside down.

“So,” you began, “we met at this fancy rooftop restaurant. Like, chandelier-fancy. He’d already gotten a table, and there were roses waiting for me.”

George raised his brows. “Roses? Wow. Straight out the gate.”

“He gave me a necklace, too,” you said, nodding toward the box on the table.

Carmen’s eyes sparkled. “Shut up. On a first date? Who is this man—and does he have brothers?”

You laughed again. “It was really sweet. He didn’t come off pushy or weird. We just… talked. About everything. His last relationship, my work, what we both want. It didn’t feel like a date from an app. It felt like…” you paused, searching for the word.

“Like you’d known each other longer than a night,” Carmen offered, smiling gently.

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“I cannot wait to meet him someday,” she said dreamily.

“One day, you will,” you promised, biting into your croissant. “Just give him some time. I want to see how things play out. Keep it real.”

George leaned back. “Only right.”

Just then, the front door clicked open. You didn’t even need to look up to know who it was.

“You,” Lewis said, walking in with all the exhaustion of a man who hadn’t slept.

You groaned softly. “I just started telling them about the date, can I have five minutes of peace—?”

Lewis cut in, frustration simmering beneath his voice. “That doesn’t matter, Y/n. You can’t just disappear and leave your phone on silent.”

“I wasn’t disappearing,” you said, setting your glass down. “It was one date. I didn’t think I needed to check in every hour.”

“I don’t care if it was dinner or a weekend getaway,” he said firmly, stepping further in. “I’m your brother. I need to know you’re safe. You didn’t text anyone. Not me. Not Dad. Not even Toto—and that man wakes up at four in the morning worried about tire strategy and you.”

You winced, guilt tugging at your expression. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Carmen interjected gently, “She’s safe. She’s here. And the guy treated her really well.”

Lewis narrowed his gaze. “And you met him?”

“Not yet,” George said, before flashing a guilty look. “But we, uh, helped her get the date.”

"Oh great! So you guys could have set her up with a serial killer and never known." Lewis said.

"I'm okay, Lew." You assured. "I'm here and I'm okay and it won't happen again, I won't silence my phone again, so take a deep breath...and relax."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll relax. Later, I have to meet with the team at the paddock for the upcoming GP," he said.

You hum. "I have to work on some of my fashion designs, but I'd love to stop by. See you on your Ferrari team at work, and of course, to stop in and see Toto and Susie, and maybe squeeze my way to McLaren to see my two favorite boys," you stated.

George hums. "Wow, so you're going to paddock hop today? How nice," he mumbled. "It's just practice," he said as you hum. "And I'm going."

"touche"

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was just a simple practice today—nothing grand, nothing too loud. No interviews. No press chaos. Just the subtle buzz of engines and the clean Monaco breeze blowing through the paddock. You figured it wouldn’t hurt to be there, to watch your brother do what he loved. After all, you needed some air before diving back into your designs and the endless piles of fabric and sketches.

Even if… your mind was still dancing with the warmth of last night’s memories. The wine. The laughter. His kiss.

You shook it off.

You walked alongside George, his presence always calming, always familiar. He was rambling about Carmen—his usual lovestruck, slightly dramatic way of doing so—and you smiled as you listened.

"You two are like... the best couple ever," you said warmly. “And my best friends.”

He smirked. “We try our best. She mostly tolerates me.”

You both chuckled, the sound light and comfortable. The air between you was filled with that easy rhythm of close friendship—bouncing between jokes and stories, effortlessly killing time as you strolled near the edge of the paddock.

Until—

Your laughter died in your throat. Your heart skipped. Your eyes widened.

You stopped walking.

Your arm shot up and pointed before you could think.

“Him. George—him. He races?”

George followed your line of sight, eyebrows raising casually. “Yeah… that’s Charles Leclerc.”

You blinked. “He races?”

George turned to you, confusion painting his face—right up until he saw the way your expression crumbled. The way your breath caught.

“Oh,” he muttered.

Then louder. “Oh no.”

You grabbed his arm and pulled him with you, away from the walkway, ducking just behind one of the garage walls out of view of anyone passing by.

“Whoa—hey—Y/n, breathe,” he said, hands gently on your arms now. “What’s going on?”

You stared at him, practically whispering now. “George. That’s him. That’s the guy. From last night.”

His eyes blinked rapidly, doing the math. Then his mouth fell open in slow-motion horror. “Wait… wait. You went on a blind date with—Charles Leclerc?”

You nodded frantically.

He ran a hand down his face. “And Charles Leclerc is your brother’s teammate—now. After the transfer.”

You stared blankly at him. “Why didn’t I know that?! I didn’t recognize him last night—I didn’t even think!”

George looked around, as if Lewis might appear out of nowhere like a thundercloud. “Okay. So. What was Lewis’s number-one, carved-in-stone, hell-will-freeze-before-it-breaks rule?”

You swallowed hard. “…No dating F1 drivers. Or anyone in the paddock. Ever.”

George pointed a finger at you. “Exactly.”

You groaned, dragging your hand down your face. “This is a disaster. George. George. What do I do?!”

He placed both hands on your shoulders. “Okay, okay. Don’t freak out. It’s fine. Maybe he won’t recognize you.”

You looked at him like he was insane. “He kissed me, George. Twice. And I woke up in his bed.”

George blinked. “Okay yeah, you're screwed.”

“Oh, thank you, George! Just what I needed—pure panic and doom,” you hissed as you paced in a small circle behind the garage, clutching your bag and trying not to scream.

George held up a finger with dramatic flair. “Okay, listen, we can hide you.”

You gave him a flat stare. “George, you cannot hide me in a paddock. We’re literally surrounded by cameras, drivers, mechanics, and people who probably know my last three hairstyles.”

Without another word, George yanked off his hoodie and tossed it over your head. “There. Crisis averted. You’re Carmen now.”

You squawked. “I am not Carmen, I’m clearly taller—”

“Relax. I got this.” he whispered, already pulling you by the wrist around the back of the Mercedes garage like this was a military-level operation.

You had zero time to protest before you heard a familiar voice, calm and charming as ever:

“George.”

George spun around like a kid caught sneaking out. “Charles! Charles Leclerc! My man—Monaco’s shining prince,” he blurted with a tense grin.

Charles blinked at him, clearly thrown off by the greeting. “Right…”

Then his eyes flicked to you—well, to the hoodie-covered version of you—and he raised a suspicious brow. “Why are you hiding Carmen under a hoodie?”

George’s laugh was painful. “What? This?” he gestured vaguely at you, stepping in front of your body like a malfunctioning security system. “She was just—uh—complaining about the sun. Brutal sunburns, you know how women get—fragile and dramatic about, uh…melanin!”

You audibly groaned under the hoodie.

Charles tilted his head. “Carmen’s not that dramatic.”

“She is today!” George insisted, nudging you hard. “Babe, say something!”

You froze. Then in the worst, most broken Carmen impression imaginable, you muttered, “Uhm… oui… soleil… bad.”

George clapped a hand to his face.

Charles blinked slowly. “She doesn’t even speak French.”

George laughed way too hard. “No, no! That’s the new her. French Carmen! Embracing the local culture. Anyway—look at the time! Gotta go! Carmen and I have to—uh—rub aloe on each other!”

He began dragging you away, your legs barely cooperating under the weight of panic and secondhand embarrassment.

Charles stood there for a beat, brow furrowed, watching you both stumble away like two guilty middle schoolers sneaking out of class.

“…That’s not Carmen,” he muttered.

Charles turned the corner quickly, eyes narrowing as he tried to brush off the odd encounter with George. But just as he stepped forward, his shoulder bumped gently into someone else. He turned instinctively, already ready to apologize.

“Oh—je suis désolé—” He froze.

“Carmen?” he blinked hard, confusion thick in his voice.

Carmen tilted her head, mirroring his expression. “Charles? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

He stared at her. Really stared.

She wasn’t in a hoodie. She wasn’t with George. And she certainly hadn’t just called the sun ‘bad’ in broken French.

Charles took a slow step back. “Wait... if you’re here… then who—” He spun around, eyes scanning the paddock in search of the hoodie-covered mystery woman George had practically thrown into another dimension.

Carmen squinted. “What’s going on? You look rattled.”

“I think...” he muttered, brows pinched, “I think George just tried to pass someone off as you.”

Carmen’s lips parted, curious and amused. “Why would he—”

Charles’s eyes flicked back to her, then widened slightly.

“No... no way...” he breathed. “It was her. The girl from the date.”

Carmen furrowed her brow. “Wait—Y/n?”

He blinked.

“…Y/n?” he echoed slowly, like the name had just been unlocked in a memory vault.

Carmen’s eyes grew wide. “Oh God, you don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?”

“She’s Lewis’s sister.”

Charles’s face dropped.

Silence.

The entire paddock suddenly felt louder. Engines in the background, chatter from the media zone, radios buzzing. But none of it reached him. Only that single, horrifying realization echoed in his mind:

He kissed Lewis Hamilton’s sister.

He almost slept with Lewis Hamilton’s sister.

“Oh no,” Charles whispered, visibly paling. “I’m going to die.”

“Charles—DO NOT TELL LEWIS!” Carmen whisper-yelled, chasing after him like a woman on a mission, her boots clicking furiously against the paddock asphalt.

“I’m not!” Charles called over his shoulder, already weaving through people. “But I have to see her—I need to talk to her!”

“CHARLES!” she groaned, practically running now. “Wait! We can make a deal! Negotiate! Mediate! Don’t go rogue!”

But Charles was gone—darting like he’d just seen a yellow flag in qualifying.

As Carmen sprinted after him, a pair of familiar red-clad legs stepped out from the Ferrari garage. Lewis had just finished a debrief, earphones dangling from his neck, a towel slung around his shoulders. He paused, watching Charles fly past, with Carmen hot on his heels.

He squinted. “...Charles?”

Then blinked as Carmen flew by. “...Carmen?”

“What in the—?”

But instead of chasing them down like a brother with questions should, Lewis just pulled his towel tighter around his neck, shook his head, and muttered under his breath, “Nope. Not my circus today.” He popped one earbud back in and resumed his casual walk like chaos wasn’t screaming right behind him.

Further down the paddock—

“You are—Charles?” Toto turned around just in time to be nearly shoulder-checked by a panicked Monegasque man in full Ferrari red.

“Sorry! Can’t stop!” Charles blurted, not even breaking stride as he zoomed past the Mercedes team principal.

Carmen followed behind, panting. “Just—let him go, I’ll sedate him later!” she called to Toto. “Oh! Hey Kimi!” she added as she flew by.

Kimi Antonelli, halfway through biting into an energy bar, slowly lifted his hand to wave. “Uh…hi?”

He looked up at Toto, who was still standing stunned.

“...Do I ask?”

Toto didn’t look away from where Charles disappeared around a corner. “Absolutely not.”

You stood near the back of the paddock with George, trying your best to act like everything was fine. He was mid-story about Carmen when your eyes suddenly locked on someone in the distance. Your stomach dropped.

“Shit…” you mumbled, grabbing George’s arm.

He looked up. “What?”

You didn’t respond right away, watching as Charles made a beeline toward you — fast, determined, and clearly not just here to say hello.

George followed your gaze, and his expression fell into place. “Ah. Okay. Yep. That’s a situation.” He straightened up, then glanced around awkwardly. “Um… I’ll grab Carmen. We’ll, uh—give you two space.” He gently guided Carmen a few steps back as she gave you a sympathetic look.

Charles didn’t wait for pleasantries. His eyes were intense, his jaw tight. “You should’ve told me.”

You blinked. “Charles—”

“No, seriously, Y/n. I told you I was a driver! you told me you were a fashion designer and nothing else!"

Your lips parted in disbelief. “You’re joking, right?”

“No! You knew exactly who I was once you saw me, and you didn’t say a word until after.” His voice was rising with frustration. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

You clenched your fists, your voice rising to meet his. “Because I can’t date Formula 1 drivers! It’s a rule — my brother’s rule. And when you said you were a driver, I didn’t think F1! You could’ve been a track-day racer or a damn Uber driver for all I knew!”

Charles stared at you, clearly not expecting that level of honesty. But he pressed further. “Still doesn’t matter. You didn’t tell me. You should have. So why?”

You finally snapped.

“Because I’m tired of people only liking me for my brother!” you yelled, your voice cracking as your emotions spilled out. “Do you have any idea what it’s like? To constantly wonder if someone wants me, or if they want access to Lewis Hamilton?”

His brows softened, but you weren’t finished.

“Do you know how exhausting it is to meet people, men especially, and realize halfway through that they’re only interested because of my last name? Because of the clout? Because I’m ‘Hamilton’s sister’ and not Y/n?” You pointed to yourself, frustrated tears brimming.

“I didn’t tell you because... for once, I wanted someone to see me. Not the name. Not the family. Just me. And last night, I thought you did.”

A heavy silence fell between you.

Charles looked like he wanted to speak, but for a moment, he couldn’t. The truth of your words hit him harder than he expected, and you—standing there, angry, vulnerable, and shaking—looked like someone whose walls had been forced down after too long of holding them up.

George and Carmen stood back quietly, watching, not daring to interrupt.

Finally, Charles said softly, “I didn’t know… I didn’t realize you felt that way.”

You wiped your cheek roughly. “Yeah, well. Now you do.”

Before you could say anything else, Charles reached out and gently cupped your face in his palms. The warmth of his touch startled you, but you didn’t pull away.

“Y/n,” he whispered, holding your gaze. “Last night… it meant something. I don’t care if sneaking around his back gets us killed by Lewis himself,” he added with a small, crooked grin. “I want to see you again. Another date. Just you and me. No labels, no pressure, just... time to keep laughing like we did. It felt good to just be with someone who didn’t care about the cameras or the chaos.”

You let out a shaky breath, your heart pounding under your ribcage. His thumbs brushed your cheeks softly, and for a fleeting moment, the world around you quieted.

“You’re serious?” you asked, a whisper of disbelief in your voice.

He nodded. “As long as you can keep this a secret... I’ll keep it too.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “Okay… another date,” you said, your voice firmer now. “But this doesn’t make us a couple. I want to move slow. I don’t want this to be fast or messy or reckless.”

He smiled, dropping his hands slowly but still close enough that you could feel his warmth. “Then slow it is,” he said. “No pressure. Just... us. One step at a time.”

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

Keeping your relationship with Charles a secret from Lewis was never easy. The guilt lived quietly in the corner of your heart, even when you smiled, even when Charles cupped your face and told you everything was okay. That it was worth it. That you were worth it.

And maybe he was right.

Because a week after that first chaotic paddock run-in, your second date happened — and it was nothing like the first. There was no tension. No foggy wine haze. Just you, him, and the gentle sway of the ocean as his yacht floated under the Monaco moonlight.

The sea shimmered like spilled glitter beneath the stars, and you wore a soft, silk dress he couldn’t take his eyes off of. Charles, in a white linen shirt that danced in the wind, held you gently as music played from a vintage speaker tucked in the corner of the yacht deck. Your bodies swayed in rhythm, barefoot and easy, your cheek resting against his shoulder. You had never laughed more freely. You had never danced with your eyes closed.

He kissed your forehead that night and whispered, "This feels right. Doesn’t it?"

And it did.

From then on, the dates became routine, like a secret rhythm only the two of you shared. Dinners in tucked-away corners of Monaco. Walks along the beach with Leo pulling at his leash while you both talked about everything and nothing. Movie nights where you'd end up tangled together on his couch, half-watching the screen, too busy studying the way he looked when he was relaxed.

Within a month, it wasn’t just dating. It was existing together.

There were nights you fell asleep in his bed and mornings you woke in yours with his arms wrapped around your waist. His necklace occasionally sat on your nightstand. Your lipstick showed up on his coffee mugs. Leo would climb onto your lap like he belonged there — and he did.

When work consumed you — when sketches blurred into seams and fabric — Charles always had perfect timing. He’d show up with your favorite drink, a little croissant, and kiss the top of your head. "Breathe, mon cœur," he’d whisper. “Come lie down. Just ten minutes.”

You’d argue, and every time, he’d win. You’d end up wrapped in a blanket on your couch, your sketch pad abandoned, your head on his chest as his heartbeat lulled you into the first rest you’d had in hours.

He’d clean up after himself at your place, and you did the same at his. The unspoken rhythm became: love in little things. Folding his hoodie and placing it neatly over the back of a chair. Gathering your sketch papers and placing them in piles. Wiping down his countertops. Picking up Leo’s toys. When you looked at him now, you didn’t see just a fling. You saw someone.

But the secret — the heaviness of keeping it from your brother — it lingered.

Even as the months passed, even when Charles officially asked you to be his girlfriend — sometime in the third month, over breakfast on his balcony, with orange juice in one hand and your hand in the other — you still hadn't told Lewis.

You’d stared at him, sleepy and warm in one of his Ferrari shirts, and said, “Is this you making it official?”

“It’s me trying to stop pretending I don’t already think of you that way.”

You said yes, with a smile too big for your face.

And yet... every time Lewis called, every time he asked how you were, something inside you twisted. Because he didn’t know. And he would hate it. And it was getting harder to lie.

George saw it coming before you did.

“You’re getting careless,” he said one day, eyes flicking up from his phone as you sat across from him in a little Monaco café. “He leaves your place late. You smile when his name comes up. You hum Ferrari songs.”

You laughed, but George didn’t. “I’m serious, Y/n. Be careful. You two… you’re like… in love or something.”

You looked away. You couldn’t even deny it.

Because maybe, just maybe, you were.

The snow outside blanketed the streets of Monaco in soft white, a rare sight that made everything feel quieter, softer — almost like the city itself was holding its breath. You stood by the tall window of your flat, the soft layers of your sweater pulled tight around your frame as steam curled from your untouched mug of tea on the windowsill.

Behind you, Lewis stood, also watching the falling snow. His cup of hot chocolate rested in his hands, warming his fingers. The soft instrumental music playing in the background barely filled the space between your shared silence.

"You know," he spoke, his voice calm and thoughtful, "your winter fashion show is going to do good."

You turned slightly to look at him, your face lit by the soft glow of string lights decorating the room. He offered a half-smile, nudging your shoulder. "Even if it’s just a small event."

You took in a quiet breath, eyes lingering on the flakes outside. "Actually..." you began, your voice low, "...it's not going to be a small event."

Lewis turned to you fully, his brows raising with interest. "Wait—what? You got a bigger show?"

You nodded, biting your lower lip as the smile threatened to take over your whole face. He blinked once, processing, before gently setting his mug down on the nearby table and wrapping his arms around you in a warm hug. "I'm so proud of you! I knew my little sister was capable of something amazing!" he said into your ear.

You chuckled against his shoulder, burying your face there for a moment. He was so proud, so encouraging, and your heart ached with the weight of what you weren’t saying.

Because deep down, you knew exactly how this opportunity came to you. It wasn’t luck or coincidence.

It was Charles.

You could still remember it so clearly — the way he told you over dinner one night, casually mentioning he pulled a few strings to get your portfolio into the right hands. He tried to act cool, like it wasn’t a big deal, but the moment he said “they want your work in the main showcase,” you had squealed, leapt into his lap, and tackled him back onto the couch.

He laughed so hard that Leo barked in confusion, circling around the both of you.

You’d kissed every inch of his face, hands in his hair, overwhelmed by the happiness he’d brought you. He didn’t do it to impress you. He did it because he believed in you. He told you, "They didn’t say yes because of me, they said yes because your work speaks louder than I ever could."

You had never loved someone more in that moment.

The warmth of the memory made your chest tighten. You cleared your throat and pulled slightly back from Lewis’s embrace, trying to keep your voice steady.

"Well, you know… Lewis," you started, eyes on your hands, "I actually… had some help getting it."

He tilted his head. "Was it Dad?"

You shook your head slowly, avoiding his gaze. "No… just… someone. Someone who believed in me, I guess."

He watched you for a moment, lips pursed in thought, but he didn’t press. "Well, whoever it was, I owe them a drink." He reached for his mug again. "Just tell me the date of your show, I’ll be there — front row."

You smiled. "Thanks, Lew."

But even as the snow fell gently outside, even as warmth filled the room, your mind couldn’t help but linger.

One day, you thought, he’ll know. One day I’ll have to tell him.

But today wasn’t that day.

So you could proceed to spend careless time with Lewis.

Even if guilt kept eating at you.

Two hours into the night, the apartment was warm, filled with the low hum of music and the soft crackle from the faux fireplace video on the TV. Your mug of hot tea sat empty beside Lewis’s finished hot cocoa, the lingering steam gone, but laughter still echoed between the two of you.

It was one of those rare, peaceful evenings—just you and your older brother, sharing old stories, poking fun at each other, and letting the world slow down for once.

Then your phone buzzed on the coffee table.

You glanced down instinctively, lifting it as you continued laughing—but the smile faded fast as your eyes scanned the message:

“I’m on my way up.”

Your heart dropped.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You sat up a little too quickly, phone still in hand, panic tightening your chest. “Hey, Lewis!” you said, voice pitched just a little too high. “Aren’t you ready to head home?”

He looked at you with a slight frown, blinking slowly. “Hm? Not really, no. I was actually thinking I might crash here tonight.” He stretched and leaned back against the couch, completely at ease. “The couch is nice, the atmosphere’s chill, and I get to hang out with my favorite sister. Why would I leave?”

You let out a nervous laugh, nodding, then immediately regretting how frantic it sounded. “Yeah, that’s…great. Just…I mean, you don’t have to, you know? Your bed’s probably way comfier.”

He raised a brow at you. “Are you kicking me out?”

“No! Not at all!” you said quickly, your hand tightening around your phone. “I just, um… remembered I have to do some stuff tonight. Work stuff.”

Lewis squinted at you, suspicion now creeping onto his face. “At 9:30 at night?”

You froze. Your mouth opened—then closed.

Knock knock.

The knock at the door sent an immediate bolt of panic through you.

“Who’s that?” Lewis asked, leaning forward slightly.

You jumped to your feet. “I’ll get it!”

You rushed to the door and cracked it open with your body half blocking the view. Standing there in a casual black coat and a teasing smile, was Charles.

Of course he looked devastatingly handsome.

And of course he knew what was going on the moment he saw the sheer panic in your eyes.

“Lewis is still here?” he whispered.

You nodded furiously, stepping out and shutting the door gently behind you. “I thought he’d leave hours ago!”

Charles grinned. “What do you want me to do? Wait downstairs?”

“No, just…” you looked around in every direction like a spy on the run. “Give me five minutes. I’ll...make something up.”

“I can pretend to be your neighbor dropping off sugar,” he offered, amused.

“Charles.”

He smirked. “Five minutes. I’ll be just down the hall.”

You turned back toward your apartment and inhaled deeply.

Time for the Oscar-winning performance.

You stepped back into the living room with a big, fake yawn. “Wow, I think the tea’s hitting me. I’m getting so tired…”

Lewis looked at you like you were slowly losing your mind. “Okay?”

“I should probably get to bed,” you continued, too cheerily. “You sure you don’t wanna head home? You have Roscoe, who needs care! right?”

He folded his arms. “Y/N, seriously—what is going on?”

You faltered for a beat.

Then, before your mouth could betray you even more, your phone buzzed again.

Charles.

“I’m down the hall, leaning against the wall, looking very cool. No pressure 😇”

You groaned, rubbing your face.

Lewis was staring now. “Do you have a guy coming over or something?”

You choked. “Wha—what? No. I—of course not. That would be absurd. I don’t even like guys. I mean, I do, but not like tonight—I mean, not that I wouldn’t—Oh my God.”

Lewis’s eyes widened. “Y/N…”

“I have to open the door,” you said, walking away in defeat. “Please don’t freak out.”

You opened it again.

Charles leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, and greeted you with a smug, “Your sugar delivery has arrived.”

You stepped aside wordlessly and let him in.

Lewis stood from the couch. His jaw dropped. “You?!”

Charles raised both hands like a man caught red-handed. “Bonsoir.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

You sighed, rubbing your forehead. “So… Lewis. This is Charles.”

Charles gave a half-wave. “The blind date.”

Lewis blinked between the two of you.

“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You stepped firmly in front of Charles, your brows knitting tightly as you faced Lewis. “Just listen,” you said, voice steady but heavy with frustration.

Lewis’s eyes burned with anger, his jaw clenched tightly. “You broke my rule! My number one rule! No F1 drivers. No one from that world!” His voice rose, filled with disbelief. “But Charles? My teammate? My friend?!” His words cut sharp through the tense air.

He took a step closer, voice shaking with barely contained rage. “And you,” he said, glaring straight at Charles, “you knew. You smiled in my face at every race. And you were with my sister the whole time.”

Lewis’s voice cracked as he looked between the two of you, the hurt evident beneath the anger. “So what? What were all those excuses you gave me to leave early? What was the truth behind them?”

Before Charles could open his mouth, Lewis’s temper snapped. He grabbed Charles by the collar, slamming him hard against the wall. The sudden force echoed in the room.

“Lewis! Stop!” you shouted, stepping forward, panic threading through your words.

Lewis’s glare didn’t waver as he spat, voice thick with betrayal, “You lied to me! You fucking lied! You kept this a secret from me.”

Charles met Lewis’s glare evenly, voice calm but firm. “You can be mad at me all you want, but I love her.”

Lewis scoffed bitterly, his eyes flashing with venom. “Yeah, like you love every woman you’ve ever been with.” His words were harsh, a cruel jab meant to sting. The room crackled with tension, the weight of years and broken trust pressing down on all of you

Lewis’s voice cracked with raw emotion, anger burning in his eyes. “My sister is not the fucking rebound to Alex! Not to any of your problems!” His grip tightened on Charles’s collar, the frustration and protectiveness colliding in his tone.

Charles met Lewis’s glare, equally fierce. “I’m not using her as a rebound. We’ve been together for months—months! I spent her birthday with her! I was her blind date! I’ve been seeing her behind your back, and look at how you’re acting right now. No wonder she didn’t want to tell you!”

Lewis’s hold became even firmer, the tension thickening the air.

You stepped between them, voice shaking but resolute. “Lewis, this is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

At that, Lewis finally loosened his grip, stepping back and locking eyes with you, his breath heavy and uneven. “You tell me everything! It’s trust between us—you and I! We’re best friends, siblings—we trust each other.”

You squared your shoulders, pointing a finger firmly at his chest. “We do! But you can’t keep telling me what’s allowed and what’s not allowed! You can’t control who I see.”

Lewis’s expression shifted, the anger softening just enough to reveal the deep worry beneath. You sighed, trying to bridge the divide. “You need to go home, calm down, and we’ll talk in the morning.”

He scoffed, eyes still burning. “Save it. I don’t want to talk in the morning. You lied to me. You both kept this from me. I was only looking out for you. Because I didn’t want you to get hurt like you have been before.”

You groaned, exasperated. “Lewis, don’t start this.”

“No,” he shot back, voice cracking with frustration. “I have to be honest. You didn’t tell me—you lied to my face. And all I’ve ever done was protect you—from guys who would only hurt you. I kept you safe because all you ever know is heartache. I was scared! And you lied to me.”

Charles shook his head, stepping forward calmly but firmly. “She’s fine with me. She’s been safe with me. And she’s nothing like Alex. I love Y/n for who she is.”

Lewis sneered, unable to hide his anger. “Save it. You were lying to me! Smiling in my face at every practice, every team meeting, every media day, every race. You smiled at me—what the hell were you doing behind closed doors?”

He knitted his brows tighter, voice bitter. “Playing with my sister?”

Charles rolled his eyes, unfazed by the jab. “Actually, we were doing very intimate things. In fact, on the very couch you sat on.”

Lewis lunged toward Charles, rage spilling over, but you stepped sharply between them, voice ringing out with authority.

“ENOUGH!”

The word stopped them both in their tracks. Your voice trembled but held power. “Both of you go home. Right now. Both of you. Just go.”

You could see the anger and frustration still burning in their eyes, but also the weight of your words sinking in. Neither moved for a moment, tension thick in the room, until slowly, both turned away, retreating from the battle you never wanted but now had to face.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

That night, you lay awake in bed, the silence pressing down on you like a heavy weight. One lonely night stretched into days—days filled with unanswered messages and missed calls, Charles wasn't talking to you, his name lingering in your mind like a bittersweet echo. Lewis didn’t reach out either, his absence only deepening the ache in your chest. You hated this feeling—this unbearable tug-of-war inside your heart—as if you were being forced to choose between two worlds, neither of which you wanted to lose.

You threw yourself even more into work, day after day, trying to bury everything else. George would stop by, try to reach out, but you barely responded—words caught in your throat, eyes distant. He’d make you snacks, quietly setting them down, but you never touched them. Watching you like this tore at his heart. He hated seeing his best friend so lost, so closed off. But deep down, he knew he had to do something.

Despite the cold snow falling outside, George called Charles and Lewis, insisting they meet him at the café—you loved that place. When they arrived, the tension between them was thick—staring daggers, barely a word exchanged.

George finally broke the silence. “Alright, enough of this childish nonsense,” he said firmly. Both men turned to him.

“He started it,” Charles shot back, defensive.

Lewis scoffed. “Says the fake friend and teammate who’s sleeping with my sister.”

George rolled his eyes. “No, seriously. Enough. Both of you—zip it. She’s drowning in work, pushing herself harder than ever with that winter fashion show coming up. And you two need to be there. But first, you’ve got to stop this stupid tension you’ve created.” He pointed at Lewis. “You’re her brother, not her babysitter or her dad. Of course you care, but you can’t chain her down. She’s a grown woman making choices that make her happy.”

Turning to Charles, he added, “And if you love her, you should want the same. Who cares if it’s you? It could be some reckless playboy like Lando, or some creepy old guy looking for a sugar baby. But it's you.” His voice hardened. “As her boyfriend, you should be ashamed for not answering her calls and texts. She loves you, and you love her. I’ve watched her before and after you came into her life—she smiled more, relaxed more.”

They both fell silent, the truth sinking in.

“Now,” George continued gently, “Say whatever you want from now on, but forcing her to choose between you? That’s just childish.”

Charles glanced over at Lewis, a hint of remorse in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

Lewis exhaled, shoulders softening. “I’m sorry too. I’ve just seen her hurt before—badly. I guess I tried too hard to protect her… maybe more than I should have.”

Charles gave a small nod. “You’re her brother. I understand. I should’ve told you earlier. But please believe me when I say—I love her. More than you probably know. When I’m with her, I see her for everything she is. Being with her… it’s the best part of my life. I look at her and I see my future. One day, I want to marry her. So no, Lewis, I’m not going to break her heart. I know how lucky I am.”

Lewis cracked a small smile. “Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

George leaned back with a satisfied hum. “Great. You two finally made up. Now I expect both of you front row at her show. And if you're not—well, don’t make me come after you. My fist has your names on it.”

That day marked a turning point for both Lewis and Charles. The tension that once stood like a wall between them had crumbled, replaced by understanding and mutual respect. They realized that your happiness mattered more than any pride or past disagreements. Now, it was you who deserved the apology—and you would get it.

The night of the fashion show arrived, wrapped in the hum of chatter and clinking glasses, the venue sparkling with elegance and wealth. The kind of crowd that made your stomach twist. Every polished face, every scrutinizing eye—it all made your nerves hum with electricity. You were scared. Anxious. Drowning in thoughts of everything that could go wrong.

This couldn’t fail. Not tonight. Not when you had poured your heart, your soul, and every waking hour into this. This was your dream. Your moment.

Backstage, you gathered the models, trying to keep your voice steady. “Alright, remember—every piece is art. Walk like you're wearing something timeless. Elegant,” you said, scanning each of their faces. “You know what you’re doing.”

Your throat was dry, your nerves transparent to anyone who looked closely enough. But even as you tried to focus, a familiar thought lingered in the back of your mind—Lewis and Charles. Would they come? Had they really listened?

Suddenly, you felt a warm hand on your shoulder. Turning, you were met with your dad’s reassuring smile as he pulled you into a hug. “Breathe, sweetheart. You’ve got this.”

You let out a quiet hum, forcing a small smile. “I just… I really hope people like my designs.”

He laughed softly, ruffling your hair like he used to when you were a kid. “They’re going to love them. I know they will. How could they not?”

And just like that, a little bit of the weight lifted from your shoulders.

Your father gently handed you the microphone, offering a soft, encouraging nod. You took it with a quiet “thank you,” your heart pounding as you stepped onto the runway. Dressed in one of your own handmade designs—a stunning gown that shimmered under the lights like freshly fallen snow—you looked every bit the visionary you were. Elegant. Poised. A living introduction to the art you were about to unveil.

You took a breath, eyes scanning the sea of faces before you. Then, with a steady voice, you spoke:

“Thank you all for being here tonight. This moment means everything to me. Each of these designs you’re about to see—each stitch, each detail—was crafted with love, passion, and purpose. My Winter Wonderland collection isn’t just fashion. It’s a reflection of emotion, of creativity, of elegance that I hope will ripple not only through Monaco, but across the world.”

You paused, letting your words land.

“My name is Y/n Hamilton… and tonight, you’ll witness what elegance and royalty look like—through my eyes. Through my art.”

The room erupted in applause, camera flashes beginning to flicker. You smiled faintly, nerves still swirling, and turned to make your way backstage. As you disappeared behind the curtain, the lights dimmed to a soft, icy blue. Music swelled through the venue like a cold, enchanting breeze, and one by one, the models began to emerge—each one wearing a piece of your soul, walking the runway like royalty, like winter itself.

And just like that, your dream was coming to life.

From backstage, you peeked through the curtain, heart racing as each model stepped into the spotlight. The soft blue lighting cast a magical glow across the runway, your designs gliding down the catwalk like snowflakes—each one unique, powerful, unforgettable.

Then, out in the crowd, your eyes found them.

Charles and Lewis had arrived.

They sat beside your father in the second row—close enough to see every detail, every stitch. Lewis was dressed in a sleek black suit, no longer guarded or cold, just watching, quietly moved. And Charles… Charles looked completely taken. His eyes didn’t leave the runway, not for a second. He saw you in every piece—your mind, your hands, your heart.

Lewis leaned over to your father. “She really did this…” he murmured, a mixture of awe and pride in his voice.

Your dad smiled. “Told you she would.”

Charles sat with his hands folded, gaze locked on the next model, who wore the same silhouette you had walked out in—only in silver, encrusted with crystals that caught the light like frost on glass. He could see your soul in the fabric. The emotion in the movement. This wasn’t just a fashion show. It was your story being told in silence, and he was listening with every breath.

Backstage, your team moved with care, each model perfectly timed. You watched your vision unfold from the shadows, nerves slowly melting into pride. You didn’t know they had come—not until you saw them with your own eyes. And just like that, the ache you'd carried for days began to loosen.

You hadn’t lost them.

They were here.

And they saw you—truly saw you.

The night had finally begun to slow, the music faded, the last model had walked, and your Winter Wonderland show had come to a magical close. The adrenaline was still coursing through you, but now it was mixed with something even more powerful—pride, love, and relief.

Backstage, laughter and soft conversations filled the air, and you were suddenly pulled into a warm, emotional hug by Carmen.

"You did it," she whispered, voice thick with tears. "Y/n, that was beyond amazing."

George was right behind her, wrapping both of you in his arms before pulling back just enough to look at you. “I’ve never been more proud of you,” he said, sincerity written all over his face. “Every single second of that show—you owned it. You were powerful. You were you.”

You held the bouquet they had given you close to your chest, heart full. “You two are the best friends I could ever ask for,” you said softly, overwhelmed. “I’m so happy you were here.”

George let out a mock scoff, blinking fast to hide the shine in his eyes. “Miss Hamilton, please. I would’ve fought the snowstorm with my bare hands to be here tonight.”

Carmen smiled tearfully and took your hand. “And when George and I get married someday—you’re making my dress. No one else. It has to be you.”

You blinked, heart catching for a moment before breaking into a watery smile. “I would be honored. It'll be the most beautiful gown anyone’s ever seen. I promise.”

The three of you stood there for a moment—laughing, sniffling, holding each other—wrapped in friendship, in history, in a kind of love that few people are lucky enough to find in this life.

Then, just behind them, you saw Lewis.

He walked toward you with your dad beside him, and the look in his eyes—soft, humbled, proud—made your heart twist.

Without a word, you stepped into his arms. He held you tightly, his hand cradling the back of your head like he had when you were little.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered into your hair. “For what I did. For what I said. For not trusting you to know your own heart. I let my fear speak for me… and I hurt you.”

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes. “It’s okay,” you said quietly. “You were trying to protect me. You’ve always done that.”

He nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “But I can’t protect you from everything. I shouldn’t. I need to let you grow, even if that means letting you fall sometimes. And… if Charles is who you choose—then I’ll support you. I’ll accept it. Because it’s your life. Your happiness. And that’s what matters most to me.”

Tears brimmed in your eyes, and your voice cracked just a little. “Thank you, Lewis. That means everything to me.”

He smiled and touched your cheek gently. “I may not always get it right. But I’ll always be your big brother. And I’ll always love you.”

You hugged him again—longer this time—and for the first time in days, your heart felt whole.

In that moment, everything felt right. The people who loved you had shown up. They’d hugged you, cheered for you, and made amends. One by one, they left you with warmth in your heart and a smile on your face. But now, as the crowd thinned, the energy faded, and the cold crept in… you were alone.

You looked around, eyes scanning the space in quiet hope.

But Charles was nowhere in sight.

A wave of disappointment hit you unexpectedly. You wrapped your fur coat tighter around yourself and stepped out into the quiet night. Snow blanketed the streets like a painting—soft, serene, and cold. Winter had a way of being both harsh and breathtaking.

Then, from across the way, a voice broke through the silence.

“Hey... no need to walk home, mon ange.”

You turned, heart skipping.

There he was.

Leaning against his car, hands in his coat pockets, that soft smile on his face—the one that only appeared when he was looking at you.

“Charles…” you breathed, a smile tugging at your lips.

He walked toward you, gently wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you in. His lips brushed yours in a kiss that was warm despite the cold all around you—like home.

“You were incredible tonight,” he said against your mouth. “Every design, every detail… it was all so you. Beautiful.”

You exhaled, pressing your forehead lightly to his. “Thank you.”

He took your hands in his, his voice lowering with sincerity. “And I’m sorry. For what I said to your brother. I let my frustration get the best of me. But George… well, George made sure we heard him loud and clear.”

You let out a breathy laugh, nodding.

Charles continued, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “What I’m trying to say is… I love you. I love you so much. And I hope we can move forward—together. Because you’re not a rebound. You’re the love of my life.”

Your heart clenched at his words, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes.

“I’m glad I went through all that heartache,” he said, voice cracking just a little. “Because it led me to you. If I hadn’t listened to my brother, if I hadn’t gone on that blind date… I never would’ve met you. And now, I can’t imagine my life without you in it.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and kissed him again, deeper this time—full of every word you didn’t have to say. And in the middle of that snowy street, in your fur coat and heels, with Charles holding you close…

You felt more loved than ever.

ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

It was a beautiful morning in Monaco, the golden light spilling softly through the windows of the flat. The scent of cinnamon and rosemary drifted in from the kitchen, wrapping the home in warmth. The Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, fully decorated with delicate ornaments and soft lights. Leo was curled up contentedly on the couch, watching the room with lazy interest.

You smiled warmly as you glanced into the kitchen. Charles’ mother was there, gently stirring something on the stove. “Do you need a hand?” you asked, stepping closer.

She turned to you with a kind smile. “Lewis is helping me, dear. I think I’ve got more help than I need.”

You laughed softly and looked toward the living room, where Arthur and Lorenzo stood by a half-opened box of decorations. “Arthur, Lorenzo,” you called with a grin, “could you two hang up some garland around the windows and staircase?”

“On it,” Arthur replied, and Lorenzo gave a playful salute as they got to work.

You turned to your father with a warm smile. “Where’s the star?”

He retrieved it from a small box on the side table, handing it to you carefully like it was made of glass and gold. You took it gently in your hands, then looked to Charles, who was just behind you.

“Little help?” you asked with a smile.

He chuckled, moving beside you. The two of you reached up together, carefully placing the star at the top of the tree, your hands brushing, your eyes meeting for a moment too long. A simple gesture, but filled with so much more.

You—the fashion designer, the rising name in elegance and winter collections. Lewis Hamilton’s sister, a title you wore with pride. And now… Charles Leclerc’s girlfriend. The woman who had unknowingly become the center of his world.

But in his heart, you were more than that.

Much more.

Tucked away in a drawer in the bedroom was a small velvet box—an engagement ring, hidden safely, waiting for the right moment. He hadn’t told anyone. Not yet. But he knew. He knew what he wanted. And it was you.

In this moment, everything felt exactly as it should. Lewis was in the kitchen, laughing with Charles’ mom as they worked together on breakfast. Your dad was tying garland around the banister with Arthur and Lorenzo, full of smiles and quiet joy. And just as George and Carmen stepped through the door, arms full of drinks and cheer, the room filled with even more light.

Every piece of your heart was here.

And every piece of his.

In a warm Monaco flat, surrounded by love, family, and future promises, you couldn't have been happier.

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