#windows installations offered by

[windowanddoorinstallation]

UPVC Windows Installations – Making Your Property Winter-Ready

The swiftly approaching winter season is a sign that property owners should gear up to face chilling cold winds and harsh winters for a long time. In these situations, uPVC windows offered by windows suppliers in Sydney can be beneficial. They allow us to keep the interiors warmer and eliminate the need for artificial heating solutions. Apart from keeping the interiors warmer, they also enhance the level of security and not to mention, add value to any property. Let us understand how double-glazed uPVC windows work.

How Does Double Glazing Work?

Double glazing is a combination of two glass panes fitted in a single frame by window manufacturers. While installing these two panes, they keep a slight gap between them and often leave it vacuum or fill it with dense gases. These dense gases, along with the glass panes, block thermal energy from transferring. Remember, glass is a good conductor of heat and a poor insulator. In other words, heat can easily pass through the glass, and science tells us that heat will always try to eliminate cold quickly. This means that since it's warm inside and cool outside, the heat from inside will try to move out to warm the area. 

You can stop this heat transfer with uPVC double-glazed window installations. They trim down the speed of heat transfer or stop it completely to keep interiors warmer in the winter season. During the summer, the insulating effect works opposite to keep excessive heat out of the property and keeping interiors cool.

The Frames

Double glazing works best when high-quality uPVC window installations are present, and this means the frame should be made from uPVC or unplasticized polyvinyl chloride. UPVC is a combination of 57% chlorine and 43% ethylene, and the result is an incredibly lightweight material. Windows suppliers in Sydney and window manufacturers use uPVC for window installations due to its lightweight nature, cost-effective availability, high-performance delivery, etc. According to top window manufacturers, uPVC is ideally suited for the harsh Australian climate and has several advantages over other materials.

The first advantage is that it is exceptionally low maintenance and a very economically available material.

UPVC windows installations will not degrade as quickly as wooden or aluminium windows.

With proper care and maintenance, uPVC windows installations offered by windows suppliers in Sydney can last up to three decades.

Proper care and maintenance include wiping away the entire frame with a cloth to remove dirt, dust, and dust.

UPVC windows installations will have a natural resistance against weather and water.

With this material used in window installations, you can be assured of a long-lasting solution for your property.

[charulein]

Update on the pc issues: the Mainboard is dead! Everything else still works, so that is great!!

[skeletalheartattack]

happy almost birthday :o)

:) thank you!!! there's gonna be a bounce castle at my birthday party and every body is invited

[aspendruid]

oooo we installing

[jackhalljrs]

Screen rooms by Jack Hall Jr’s Professional Fortified Installation Tampa, FL & Throughout the Bay Area 813-754-7930 Ask for Jack

Why pick jack?

1.Screen Rooms provide energy efficiency,long-lasting home solutions Tampa,FL (Hillsborough,Pasco,Pinellas).

2.Screen Rooms create needed space and can add more value to your Tampa,Florida home.

3.Screen Rooms by Jack Hall Jr’ protect your family from mosquito’s and other annoying pests.

Remodeling your family home,energy efficient windows and doors, a new space for a sunroom, a new Pool Enclosure or interior remodeling, many renovation projects inside or out. Jack Hall Jr’s is the best contractor for your remodeling job. Jack Hall Jr’s Construction a Remodeling Contractor Tampa FL, can help make your vision a reality. A certified state licensed residential contractor in Florida with 36 years A+ BBB, Accredited Top contractor.

Jack Hall Jr’s Aluminum, servicing Tampa, Tampa Bay & Central FL, offers pool enclosures, screen rooms, vinyl siding, metal roofs, & patio windows,Custom Pool enclosures,Screen room and Lanai’s.

Jack Hall Jr’s provides the highest quality vinyl replacement windows in Florida. Jack Hall Jr’s also maintains the best customer satisfaction after the sale. Jack Hall Jr’s installs the best Impact Windows and Doors installs impact windows and doors in Florida. Our professional installers replace your existing windows with very little mess or bother.

Improving energy efficiency with new replacement windows and doors can reduce the cost of your already expensive electric costs but it also protects your home in high wind conditions like Hurricanes and Tornado’s and will lower your homeowners insurance costs.

Your go-to Florida contractor for replacement windows and doors, impact windows, professional installation in Central and  West Florida.

We recommend the “King” line of vinyl  Impact replacement windows with all the latest technology but with a down to earth price. We sell, Furnish and install only the best because our family has been trusted with Florida homeowners over 42 years.

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Contact Jack Tampa, FL & Throughout the Bay Area: 813-754-7930

Se Habla Espanol

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Landlord x Reader

You move to New York because you have no reason to stay anywhere else.

After the breakup—after him—there was no home left. The apartment in Chicago had grown cold, not just in winter, but in the way it echoed with silence even when you were still living there. So, when the hospital called with a residency offer, you packed fast and drove faster, your old car chugging like it resented the weight of your regret.

You arrive in Brooklyn with three suitcases, a secondhand coffee maker, and too many scars to count. Internally. Externally, you’ve always passed for composed, professional. Polished even, when you put in the effort. People don’t see what you don’t let them.

The apartment is perfect. Too perfect. That’s the first red flag, but you don’t want to see it. The rent is suspiciously affordable. Hardwood floors. High ceilings. An antique clawfoot tub. When you visit the unit, sunlight pours in like a promise. You pause at the window, tracing the skyline in your mind like you’re sketching a new future.

The landlord is handsome in that quiet, overlooked kind of way. He introduces himself as Andy, says he inherited the building from his grandfather. Says he’s doing some renovations—you’ll hear some noise now and then, hope that’s not a dealbreaker. He smiles like he’s nervous. Like he isn’t used to people looking directly at him.

You don’t ask too many questions. The building feels safe. Andy feels harmless. You’re tired of running.

So you sign the lease.

You don’t notice the way he watches you. Not at first.

The first few weeks are a blur of hospital rotations and late-night subway rides. You’re barely home long enough to unpack. When you do sleep, it’s dreamless, like your mind’s been rinsed clean by exhaustion. You only vaguely remember Andy helping you carry your boxes upstairs, his fingers brushing yours when he handed over the keys. You’d thanked him. Smiled.

Sometimes you hear footsteps in the hallway at odd hours. A whisper of movement. But you tell yourself it’s just another tenant. You haven’t met your neighbors yet. You don’t plan to.

The first time something feels off is when you find your toothbrush slightly damp at 7 p.m. You haven’t used it since morning. You think maybe you’re being paranoid. Then your shampoo is in a different spot. Your towels are folded differently. The window in the bathroom is open when you never open it.

You change the locks.

Andy drops by with a bottle of wine a few days later. Says it’s a welcome gift. You accept it awkwardly, standing half-behind your door. You never drink it.

That night, you hear a thud inside the walls. You tell yourself it’s the pipes. Old buildings do that.

You feel eyes on you when you sleep.

You can’t explain it. It’s like your body knows something before your mind can catch up. You start waking up in cold sweats. You start locking your bedroom door. You stop using the bathtub.

Then one night, you wake up to the sound of breathing.

Not your own.

You freeze, heart pounding. You listen. It’s faint, ragged. Almost desperate. You flick on the light.

Nothing.

You check every room. You look under the bed, in the closet, behind the shower curtain. You find nothing but shadows. Still, you feel it. Someone has been in here.

You go to Andy the next day. You try to be casual, but your voice trembles. You ask if there’s any chance someone has access to your apartment. He frowns, concerned. Says he’ll change the locks personally. Says he’ll install extra security. Says it with the same calm voice a doctor might use before slipping in a needle.

You almost believe him.

Then you find the camera.

It’s hidden behind the vent in your bedroom. You only see it because the grate is slightly ajar. Tiny. Barely noticeable. You wouldn’t have noticed it at all if the wind hadn’t shifted the angle of light on the wall.

You don’t scream. You sit there, your heart slowly collapsing in your chest. Your skin prickles with invisible hands. Every second you’ve ever spent in this apartment flashes through your mind—every moment alone, every private breath.

He’s been watching you.

You leave that night.

You get a hotel. You call the cops. You tell them everything.

But by the time they investigate, the camera’s gone. The vent is closed. The apartment is clean. No signs of forced entry. No fingerprints. Just you and your paranoia.

You try to stay at a friend’s, but you can’t stop looking over your shoulder. You can’t stop imagining him slipping into your room in the middle of the night. You start seeing Andy’s face in crowds. In reflections. In your sleep.

You change your phone number. You quit your residency.

But he still finds you.

He waits for you in your hotel room. You come back from a late dinner, fumbling with your keycard, and he’s just there, inside. Like he’s always belonged there. Like you’re the one intruding.

He doesn’t threaten. He just talks.

He tells you he didn’t mean to scare you. That he just wanted to be close to you. That he fell in love the moment he saw you. That he made your apartment perfect because you deserved it.

That he watched you cry after phone calls and wanted to hold you.

That he listened to your breathing because it was the only sound that ever made him feel calm.

You back away slowly. You have a knife in your purse. You never used to carry one.

You draw it as he steps closer.

He doesn’t stop.

You stab him in the side.

He gasps. Bleeds. Smiles.

And still, still, he tries to touch your face like it’s the last thing he’ll ever see.

AN: I stole the plot from The Resident.

Masterlist

[lirotation]

Mortal Astarion X F! Human Tav. Ummm, angst.👀

For decades, this manor offered him a place to call home in the truest sense. 

The hallway was a sacred gallery, adorned with paintings that were not mere canvases, but tangible echoes of their life together. Each brushstroke, lovingly rendered by her hand, captured the essence of cherished memories.

Whenever he opened the door at the end of the hallway, he was greeted by the radiant smile of his beloved, and the hearth beckoned him to surrender to its comforting embrace. Yet, it was the vast window next to it that held the greatest significance. The tender caress of sunlight danced across his skin as he lost himself in the pages of a book beside her. It was here, bathed in the golden rays, that he could truly revel in the miracle she had bestowed upon him – the cure to his vampiric curse, a gift of life, a reminder of the depths of her love and the power it held to transcend even the most insurmountable of boundaries.

Here at home, he had found everything his heart desired.

But nothing is ever truly perfect. Life simply doesn't work that way.  Even the mightiest of fortresses cannot withstand the relentless march of time.

He thought he was ready for it, but not like this.

Never like this.

_________

The poem cited is "When You Are Old" BY W.B. Yeats. One of my favorites.❤️

Alright, thanks for reading the second installment of my "this did not really happen to my couple". After delving into the mortality of my Tav, Amaara, I found myself confronting a fear more profound than death itself – the fear of morbidity, of life's vibrancy fading before its inevitable end. So I decided to yank my CP around this theme. Self-indulgence at its finest.😊

[maskedbyghost]

Simon clearly doesn’t understand what divorce means because, despite the legal paperwork saying otherwise, he seems to think he's still your guardian, shadow, or both. When he heard about your date with a co-worker, he didn’t just crash the restaurant—he made himself comfortable at the bar, stared daggers at your date, and casually ordered a drink like he wasn’t blatantly stalking you. Your poor date barely lasted ten minutes before bolting, muttering something about “unfinished business.”

Then there was the time you came home from work to find your trash cans neatly pulled to the curb—except it wasn’t trash day yet. When you checked the security camera, there he was, in full tactical gear, shaking his head at your "lack of preparedness."

One morning, you woke up to the sound of a drill. Groggy and confused, you stumbled into the living room to find Simon installing reinforced locks on your windows. “Your security’s a joke,” he said, ignoring the fact that you hadn’t asked for his help—or even let him in.

Another time, he called you at 2 a.m., claiming he’d “heard something” outside your house. You told him it was probably the wind, but when you checked the window, his truck was parked across the street. He waved like this was completely normal.

He’s also developed a habit of showing up when you least expect it: at the dog park (despite not having a dog), the grocery store (silently restocking your cart with “essentials” you didn’t ask for), and even at your gym, where he once offered to “spot” you during your workout.

His most unhinged moment, though, had to be the time you came home to find your fridge fully stocked with all your favorite foods—even the fancy yogurt you only buy on payday. At first, you thought you’d forgotten a shopping trip, but the security footage told a different story: Simon, lugging in bags of groceries, meticulously organizing your shelves like he was running a cooking show. When you confronted him about it, he just said, “You’ve been skipping meals. Thought I’d help.”

And when you dared to bring up boundaries, he just shrugged, looking genuinely confused. “You don’t stop caring about someone just because of some papers,” he said, as if that justified breaking into your house, fixing your roof, or leaving a bouquet of wildflowers on your porch “because they reminded me of you.”

-------------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah

[cressidagrey]

White Horse - Chapter 5: July 2023

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

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

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

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

Warnings and Notes: 

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

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

Text Conversation: Max Verstappen & Jos Verstappen

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

Jos: …And you’re only telling me now?

Max: Yes.

Jos: How long?

Max: Four months.

Jos: Jesus, Max. Who is she?

Max: Isabelle.

Jos: Isabelle who?

Max: Isabelle Leclerc.

Jos:

Jos: LECLERC??

Max: Yes.

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

Max: Yes.

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

Max: Why would I?

Jos: Because she’s a Leclerc.

Max: And?

Jos: And that’s complicated.

Max: No, it’s really not.

Jos: Do her brothers know?

Max: No.

Jos: They’re going to lose their minds.

Max: Probably.

Jos: And you don’t care?

Max: Not really.

Jos: …You’re serious about her.

Max: I am.

Jos: Huh.

Max: That’s all you have to say?

Jos: What do you want me to say?

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

Jos: Would it change anything?

Max: No.

Jos: Exactly.

Jos: Don’t let her distract you.

Max: She’s not a distraction.

***

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

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

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

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

She was different here.

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

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

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

Max nodded, but didn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

“You should move in.”

She stilled.

“Belle.”

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

“I’m serious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked. “What are you—”

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

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

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

“Max…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m scared,” she admitted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. They’d earned it.

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max asked me to move in.

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

Isabelle: I said yes.

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

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

Emilie: AAAAAAAAAAAA

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

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

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

Emilie: So when do we pack?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilie: And Max is completely in love with you.

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

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

Isabelle: That’s a little mean.

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

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

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

***

Emilie Abadie had always believed that homes told stories.

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

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

Emilie knew what careful looked like.

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

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

Highlights included: 

A desk plaque that said Think Like a Leader.

A collection of self help books. 

A coffee mug that read Worlds Okayest Sister. 

A heavy coffee table book about golf. 

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

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

A bright red umbrella. Ferrari merchandise. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was the thing about Isabelle.

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

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

But sometimes she wanted to scream on her behalf.

Because Isabelle Leclerc was brilliant. Quietly, devastatingly brilliant.

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

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

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

The support system.

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

Emilie wanted to shake her sometimes. 

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

Isabelle just hummed noncomittingly.

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

And then Max Verstappen had shown up.

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

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

Or no—that wasn’t it.

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

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

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

The possibility of being seen. Fully. Without apology.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max didn’t just love her.

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

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

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

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

With someone better.

And that made all the difference.

***

Isabelle didn’t expect it to feel like this.

The shopping trip was meant to be practical.

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

And now… for them.

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

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

They weren’t just purchases.

They were choices.

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

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

This was real.

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

She would be there when he got home.

She would be there when he left.

She would be home.

That thought made her pause.

The nerves came creeping in—quiet but insistent.

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

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

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

Would Max care?

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

But Isabelle cared.

Because this wasn’t just shopping.

This was settling.

Belonging.

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

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

Which was why she came.

When she needed to think.

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

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

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

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

But she wanted this one.

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

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

The words were quiet, but steady.

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

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

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

Max: Define “a few things.”

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

Max: Was it whispering to you in the store?

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

Max: Then obviously you had no choice.

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

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

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

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

Max: Are the throw pillows neutral or secretly pink?

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

Max: That’s not even a real difference.

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

Max:  Touché.

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

Isabelle: That was dangerously sweet.

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

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

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

***

Instagram Story – @/isabelleleclerc

Instagram Post – @/isabelleleclerc

Comments: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, eyes down.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a long silence—warm, safe.

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

“Okay,” she said softly.

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

***

Isabelle hadn’t meant to hide it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She blinked. That was… accurate.

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

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

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

She looked at him quickly. “Max…”

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

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

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

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

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

“What kind?”

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

***

Text Conversation: Isabelle Leclerc & Max Verstappen

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

Max: …What?

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

Max: I’m sorry… what?

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

Max: I do love that wall.

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

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

Isabelle: You say that like it’s obvious.

Max: Why would it not be obvious??

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

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

Max: ...Your brother is completely insane. 

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

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

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

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

Isabelle: Noted. Trophies first. You second.

Max: I’ll take it.

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

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

***

The flight back had been mostly quiet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was… insane.

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

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

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

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

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

Lando blinked. “Wait, what?”

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

Lando stared. “Your what?”

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

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

Max shrugged. “About… four months?”

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

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

“I’m your friend, Max!”

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

Lando turned.

In stepped Isabelle Leclerc.

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

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

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

Lando’s soul evacuated his body.

He turned to Max.

Then to Isabelle.

Then back to Max.

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

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

“You’re joking.”

“No.”

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

She smirked. “Clearly.”

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

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

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

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

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

Max nodded. “Yes.”

“Sophie?”

“Yep.”

“Jos?”

“Yes.”

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

“Right.”

“—and none of hers knows?”

“Correct.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Noted.”

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

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

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

Because, apparently, this was his life now.

***

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

Isabelle’s Emilie.

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

Max was… a little afraid.

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

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

So Emilie was the gatekeeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max blinked. “I mean… yes?”

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

Isabelle grinned. “Both.”

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

Emilie studied him for a beat. “Coffee?”

“Coming right up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Smart man.”

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

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

“I know,” Max said quietly.

Emilie studied him a moment longer.

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

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

Emilie stared at him.

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

“Better or worse?”

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

Max raised a hand. “Understood.”

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

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

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

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

That meant he was doing something right.

 Which mattered.

 Because Isabelle?

She was everything worth getting right.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: Need vacation recommendations.

Lando: Oh no.

Max: What?

Lando: This is about her, isn’t it?

Max: …So do you have suggestions or not?

Lando: I knew it.

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

Lando: But Charles doesn’t.

Lando: And I would like to stay alive.

Max: This has nothing to do with Charles.

Lando: It has everything to do with Charles.

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

Lando: SAME THING.

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

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

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

Max: Lando.

Lando: FINE. Seychelles.

Max: That was fast.

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

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

Max: Thanks.

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

Max: Got it.

Lando: Seriously.

Max: Okay.

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

Max: Then you knew nothing.

Lando: Exactly.

Max: Thanks, Lando.

Lando: I hate you.

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript 

Stream starts, Max joins the call.

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

Chat:

WAIT.

NEW ROOM??

WHERE TF IS HE

TROPHY WALL HELLO???

Bro has a museum behind him

That’s not the old sim room 😭

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chris: “Wait, what?! Since when?”

Max: “Few weeks ago.” shrugs

Chat:

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

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

Bro didn’t even hint at it???

NEW SIM ROOM???

OH MY GOD THE MONACO TROPHY IS ON A LITTLE TURNTABLE

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

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

Luke Crane: "Clearly."

Chris: "Okay, but like… why?"

Max: shrugs again "Just wanted a change."

Chat:

He’s so unserious about major life events.

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

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

Max: "Never."

Chris: "Figured."

Chat:

That was the fastest rejection ever.

LMAOO Max really said NOPE.

Someone check the Monaco real estate listings 😭😭😭

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

Max: “Hold on, check this out.”

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

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

Enzo Bonito: NO WAY.

Luke Bennett: Did you just change the color?

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

Gianni: That’s actually ridiculous. 

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

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

Chat: 

max literally lives in a batcave

 this is a SIM LAIR

 rich people don’t build houses they build race temples

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

 WHY DOES THIS LOOK LIKE A NETFLIX SET

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

Max (grinning): Anyway. Let’s race.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isabelle had barely spoken since they sat down.

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

Still, she tried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isabelle bit her tongue.

Hard.

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

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

They never did.

Until, several minutes later, Arthur mentioned Max.

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

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

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

They all turned.

“I designed it.”

Silence. Actual silence.

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

Charles blinked. “You—what?”

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

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

“Yes.”

Lorenzo frowned. “Like… the Max Verstappen?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one had an answer for that.

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

Max raised an eyebrow. “Shopping?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He let the silence hang, waiting.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isabelle closed her eyes and let herself lean into him.

The silence was softer now. Safer.

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

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

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

***

Quadrant Stream Transcript 

Lando Norris: Okay, I’m in. Finally.

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

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

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

Lando : That’s because Isabelle did it.

Max F: …Isabelle who?

Lando: Isabelle Leclerc.

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

Lando: Mhm.

Chat: 

LANDO WHAT

 BACK UP

ISABELLE LECLERC DESIGNED MAX’S SIM ROOM???

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

Lando: Yep.

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

 Lando: Have you got Max Verstappen money, mate?

Max F: …Right. So that’s a no.

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

Max F: Ouch. No, but seriously, that room looks like a race car museum had a baby with an interior design Pinterest board.

Lando: It’s ridiculous. He’s got like… hidden drawers, ambient color modes for quali, race, cooldown—mood lighting for his championship mood swings.

Max F: You’re telling me my man gets P1 and then sets the room to gold sparkle mode?

Lando: Wouldn’t even be surprised.

Max F: And Isabelle did all that?

Lando: Yeah. Interior architect. Like… architectural degree, portfolio, the works.

Max F: I’m gonna DM her my IKEA shopping list and see what happens.

Lando: All she’ll say is “please never contact me again.”

Max F: Worth it.

Chat: 

 “do you have max verstappen money” LMAO

 lando fully spilling the tea again i love him

ISABELLE IS THE INTERIOR ARCHITECT???

makes so much sense now why it has taste

Max F: This stream just turned into an episode of MTV Cribs: F1 Edition and I’m emotionally unprepared.

Lando: You and me both, mate.

***

The rooftop club was loud—bass pulsing through glass walls, drinks flowing freely, and the scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Monaco glittered below, and the whole world above felt like it had hit pause: one final blowout before the second half, before the summer break. 

Charles had been halfway through a conversation with Pierre when he heard it—faint, over the music, slipping in between thudding bass and the occasional shout of laughter.

French.

With a Monegasque accent.

He turned instinctively, blinking through the crowd.

Who the hell—

It was Max.

Max Verstappen.

Speaking fluent French. 

Not just French—Monegasque-accented French. Clean. Polished. Lightly clipped consonants in the way Charles had grown up hearing around every market stall and café table. Max’s cadence had shifted too—not quite native, but not clumsy either. 

Max was leaning slightly over the bar, talking to a bartender Charles recognized. His posture was relaxed, like it was normal. Like he’d done this a hundred times. His accent wasn’t perfect, but it was close—soft R’s, local cadence, the kind that didn’t come from a Duolingo app.

Charles couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away.

He didn’t even know Max spoke French.

Pierre elbowed him, confused. “What?”

Charles shook his head, blinking. “Is he speaking French?”

Pierre followed his gaze, did a double take, then frowned. “Oh. Huh.”

“Where the hell did he learn that?” Charles muttered.

“Don’t look at me,” Pierre said. “Last I checked he couldn’t even pronounce ‘quiche’ properly.”

Lando strolled up then, already laughing at something Oscar had said. “What’s going on?”

“Max is speaking French,” Charles said, still stunned.

Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, he does that now.”

“What do you mean now?”

Lando shrugged like it was obvious. “He’s been learning. Says it’s good for Monaco. And, you know with…” He trailed off.

Charles narrowed his eyes. “And?”

Lando opened his mouth to respond and then suddenly blanched. “Nothing! Just…I need another drink!” and off he went. Charles stared after him. 

What was that about now? 

Charles frowned deeper, watching Max accept his drink with a quiet merci, bonne soirée like it wasn’t the most confusing thing Charles had witnessed all summer.

It wasn’t just the French.

It was the accent. The ease. 

Charles couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—that Max was speaking French… or that he was doing it like a local.

And somewhere in the back of his head, a quiet, suspicious thought began to form:

Why would Max Verstappen bother learning Monegasque-accented French?

[orthogonal-slut]

windows users love complaining about microsoft to me and when i suggest linux they're all like nooo installing it is too harddddd and when i offer helping them going through this process that is as easy as installing windows (while having none of the drawbacks) they're all like. but im scareddddd

of what? actually owning your computer???

[thepencilnerd]

The Story Never Ends

pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x F!Reader summary: From coffee and first glances to slow unraveling and quiet return—this is a story of love across changing seasons, of what’s lost, and what still lingers; healing is neither linear nor pretty, but it’s real—and sometimes, that's enough. warnings: references to unprocessed trauma and grief, emotional burnout, relationship conflict, brief mention of a mass casualty event (off-screen) genre/notes: meet-cute, slow burn, fluffy, heavy angst, miscommunication, hurt/comfort, HEA (but the H stands for hopeful), robby finally confronting his demons, might as well just be angst but i promise there's comfort word count: 9.5k a/n: i write to cope

The coffee shop buzzed with its usual afternoon chaos: the hum of espresso machines, baristas calling names, sunlight spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. You stood in line, scanning the chalkboard menu like it might change, trying to decide between something familiar or something new.

It was supposed to be a regular afternoon—nothing remarkable.

Then you noticed him.

He stood near the counter, hunched slightly in a hoodie with the sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, fingers absently tugging at the seam of his cup sleeve. Not someone who stood out. But he felt like someone who carried weight. Like he’d seen too much, held too much, and hadn't yet figured out how to set it down. There was a quiet intensity to him, the kind you couldn’t explain—like he’d just come from somewhere heavy.

He must’ve felt your gaze, because he looked up. His eyes—dark brown, a little hollow—met yours.

You gave him a small, instinctive smile. Not recognition. Just something human.

He blinked, caught off guard, and then—tentatively—smiled back.

You looked away quickly, heat rising to your cheeks. But when you stole another glance, he was still watching you, his curiosity softening the tired lines of his face.

He turned back to the menu and stared at it like it might bite.

“The caramel macchiato’s pretty solid here,” you offered, voice low so only he could hear.

He looked over again, brow lifting in faint surprise.

You nodded, a little sheepishly. “If you’re into sweet. It’s my go-to after a long day.”

He considered you for a moment, then gave a small nod. “That sounds about right.” He turned to the barista. “Caramel macchiato, please. Large.”

When you picked up your drink, you glanced around for a seat—and found him already settled near the window, one hand cradling his cup. He looked up as if he’d been waiting. Then he gestured—an unspoken offer.

You hesitated, just for a second, then walked over.

“Mind if I...?”

“Please,” he said, and the word sounded like relief.

You sat across from him, hands curling around your iced drink. There was a pause—comfortable, almost—and then you smiled. “Thanks for not thinking I was weird.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “You did recommend a drink to a total stranger so I wouldn't discount that just yet.”

“Well, you looked like you could use a little help.”

His smile faded, just a little. “Yeah,” he said. “I guess I did.”

You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. And something about that seemed to make his shoulders relax. You started talking about the little things. Comfort meals. The awkward barista who always spelled your name wrong. The new park nearby with the strange modern art installation shaped like an egg roll. 

He caught you looking at his badge—Michael Robinavitch, doctor, Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.

“I’m off the clock,” he offered, voice low.

You smiled. “Well, thanks for sharing it with me.”

—

You didn’t exchange numbers that day. But you ran into him again the following week, same coffee shop, same time. It happened again the week after that. Eventually, it stopped feeling like coincidence. 

He finally introduced himself. "Dr. Robby," as he was affectionately called by his colleagues, Michael by his close social circle or when his grandmother was scolding him. That he was an attending for the emergency room’s day shift crew. That his sleep schedule was a mess, and that he liked his coffee way too sweet for someone who looked like he never let himself enjoy anything.

Your first date wasn’t anything planned. It was a shared walk to the bus stop that turned into dinner at the Vietnamese place a few blocks over. He’d been quieter than usual at first, eyes heavy with something he didn’t name, until you asked him what the best hospital vending machine snack was. That made him laugh—really laugh—and he said, “You have to try the orange peanut butter crackers. Horrible, but somehow perfect at 3 a.m.”

He had a way of making you laugh—quick, offhand comments delivered so seriously you almost missed the punchline. "You're one of those people who actually reads the coffee shop signs, aren't you?" he asked once, teasing, as you squinted at the seasonal drinks board.

"Only the ones with bad puns," you fired back, and he’d smirked like you’d passed some secret test. 

"Are you one of those people who judges others by their coffee order?"

"Only if it's decaf," you replied with a mock-serious look. "That’s a cry for help."

He grinned. "Guess I shouldn’t tell you about my chai latte phase."

"Only if you're ready to be judged accordingly."

"Brutal," he muttered, shaking his head, but his eyes were bright. "You’re lucky you’re cute."

That made your eyebrows lift. "So, you admit it. I’ve won you over."

"I’m saying nothing without my lawyer present," he said, sipping his drink to hide the smile pulling at his lips.

There was a rhythm between you, like banter was its own language, and even the smallest exchange left you smiling until your cheeks ached. And just like that, the air between you warmed a little more.

Robby opened up slowly, in millimeters, not miles. Told you about college, about hating anatomy lab but loving the rush of a trauma case. About his years before med school, about the heat and chaos of field hospitals while volunteering for Doctors Without Borders, and the people he couldn’t save. 

You never asked questions. Always listened.

By the end of the night, when he walked you home, there was a gentleness to him that you hadn’t expected, a softness that made you feel safe. He stopped just outside your door, his hand still holding yours, and he looked at you with a warmth that made your heart swell.

“Thanks for making me feel normal,” he confessed, his eyes searching yours. The vulnerability in his voice caught you off guard, but it made you smile.

“You are normal,” you whispered, reaching out to touch his hand. He hesitated for a moment before interlacing his fingers with yours.

“Thank you,” he said softly, his eyes shining with something unspoken. And in that moment, you knew you were falling for him. 

There was no big kiss that night, no fireworks. Just two people sharing space and silence in a beginning of something.

He texted you the next morning.

Robby: Morning. Hope I didn’t say too much. Or not enough. I meant every part of it.

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe maybe this could be something real.

—

It happened on a quiet night after your fourth date. Robby had invited you over to his apartment for a movie night. His place was spacious but cozy, tucked into a narrow walk-up with sloped ceilings and mismatched furniture that somehow worked. The couch had seen better days, but it was soft, and the throw blankets were well-worn with affection. A stack of unread books leaned precariously on the coffee table beside a half-finished crossword puzzle. The scent of cedarwood lingered faintly in the air, blending with the buttery warmth of popcorn.

You took a slow glance around when you stepped inside, letting the space sink in. "This place is very you," you said, a soft smile tugging at your lips. "Cozy. Quiet. Looks like it holds secrets."

Robby raised an eyebrow, amused. "I’m not sure whether to be flattered or mildly offended."

You laughed. "It’s a compliment. It feels... like someone lives here. Not just crashes between shifts."

"High praise coming from someone who judged my choice of hospital snacks," he said, already moving toward the kitchen.

"You earned that judgment," you quipped, grinning as you bumped his shoulder with yours. "I stand by it."

You’d helped him make snacks in the kitchen—microwaved popcorn, yes, but also cutting up fruit and arguing over the right chocolate-to-salty-snack ratio. "You can’t just put Chex Mix and M&Ms in the same bowl without a proper ratio," you protested, watching him pour each haphazardly like he was mixing concrete.

"Why not? It's all dry snacks. They're meant to mingle," he said, completely unbothered.

"You’re disrespecting the science," you defended. "That’s way too much grain and not enough chocolate."

"So... you're saying you want a bowl of candy with a side of crunch?"

"Exactly. Glad we understand each other."

"It’s called contrast," he defended, utterly serious. "Like plot twists for your taste buds."

Choosing the movie had been its own saga. You held up two options. "Rom-com or action?"

Robby narrowed his eyes, pressing his lips into a soft pout. "Define action."

"Explosions. Sweaty men. Poor communication."

He smirked. "So, basically... a rom-com but louder?"

You threw a pillow at him. "We’re watching the one where no one dies."

"Do you mean emotionally or literally?"

You responded with an exaggerated scowl.

He grinned at that—wide and a little crooked, the kind of smile that snuck up on you. "Yes, ma'am," he said, mock serious, pressing play. 

By the time you settled onto the couch, your knees nearly brushing, the teasing had softened into something quieter—comfortable, expectant. The screen glowed softly against the far wall, the room dim but warm, and the distance between you gradually disappeared. But neither of you were really watching. Your mind wandered with every shift he made, every time his arm nudged yours.

Halfway through, you felt yourself leaning into him. He didn’t move away. In fact, he adjusted, slipping his arm around your shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. His warmth seeped into you, steady and reassuring, like the rest of the world had quieted. You could smell the faint trace of cedar and laundry detergent on his shirt, something familiar and grounding. 

Your head rested lightly against his chest, where the soft fabric of his tee brushed your cheek and his heartbeat thudded in a slow, steady rhythm. As you relaxed into him, you caught the moment his nose dipped closer—just slightly—like he was taking in your perfume. Robby let out a soft sigh, his body relaxing into yours, and you felt his thumb gently tracing the outside of your arm, like even the quiet was something he wanted to savor.

“I’m not really following the plot,” he murmured after a while, voice barely above the hum of the dialogue onscreen.

You laughed softly. “Not really sure there is one.”

He turned slightly to look at you, kind eyes catching the faint light. “You always pick movies like this?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress a guy,” you said, smiling.

He raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “And how’s that working out for you?”

You tilted your head toward him, heart fluttering. “Jury’s still out.”

There was a pause—just a moment, but charged with something new. Slowly, Robby leaned in, eyes flicking from your lips back to your eyes. He hesitated, giving you the chance to back away.

You didn’t.

Your lips met in a soft, tentative kiss. It wasn’t perfect—more breath than pressure, more searching than certain—but it was warm and real. His beard tickled your skin as he leaned in, grounding the moment in something tangible. His hand came up to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your eye, and you melted into him like it was where you’d always belonged.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads touched, both of you smiling in the quiet.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he murmured.

You nodded, breath catching a little. “Me too.”

He kissed your forehead gently, then wrapped both arms around you, pulling you close.And in the dim light, wrapped up in each other, it felt like—for now—everything else could wait.

—

It was late one night, the two of you sprawled across his couch, the city lights twinkling through the large windows, bathing the room in a soft glow. Robby lay beside you, his head resting on your shoulder, and your fingers moved slowly through his hair, absent and affectionate. He was unusually still, like the quiet had settled into his bones. You felt him shift slightly now and then, like he was trying to work up to something.

His hand found yours, his fingers lacing with yours in a tentative, careful way. When you glanced at him, you caught the soft furrow of his brow, the way his gaze flickered toward the windows, then the floor, then finally—hesitantly—to your face.

You waited. Letting him take his time.

He took a slow breath, like it might steady the ache in his chest, and when he spoke, his voice was quieter than you’d ever heard it. "You make things feel easy when everything else is hard."

Your throat tightened. You turned to face him fully, brushing his hair gently back from his forehead.

He looked up at you, and for the first time, there was nothing guarded in his expression. Just rawness. Hope. Fear. All of it naked in the space between you.

Then, finally—voice rough and low—he said, "I love you."

Your heart skipped. The words landed between you with all the weight of something unspoken for too long. You cupped his cheek, thumb brushing across his beard, your own voice cracking with emotion. "I love you too, Michael."

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for days. A slow, soft smile broke across his face, eyes growing glassy. He leaned in and kissed you—gentle and lingering, no rush, no performance. Just truth.

—

He’d given you a spare key to his place ages ago—an unceremonious handoff after your third night staying over, when leaving in the early morning had felt wrong. You’d been flustered, caught mid-yawn and still wearing one of his hoodies, and when he held it out, your brain short-circuited.

"You don’t—are you sure? I mean, not that I wouldn’t want to—but I don’t want to, like, intrude, or assume, or—"

“Breathe,” Robby said, already grinning—that slow, lopsided smile that always made your stomach flutter. He was leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, clearly enjoying every second of your spiraling… until he wasn’t.

You didn’t even realize you'd stopped talking until his arms were around you, warm and grounding. He pulled you in gently, tucking your head beneath his chin, his voice low near your ear. “You’re okay. Just breathe.”

"I just—I don’t usually get this far into relationships," you mumbled, finally taking it, fingers brushing his. "Feels like... a milestone or something."

"It is," he said softly, and the shift in his tone made your heart stutter. "One I’m glad to have reached with you."

You’d slipped it onto your keyring like it was no big deal. But he could tell by the way you couldn’t quite meet his eyes after that, the way your fingers nervously toyed with the chain, or how you pressed your lips together to hold back your smile. And he loved you a little more for it.

You didn’t use it often. But on the hardest nights, when you knew he was working overtime, you did.

Sometimes he’d come home late, bone-deep exhaustion in his eyes, still smelling faintly of antiseptic. He wouldn’t say anything—just step into the apartment and find you already there, barefoot in the kitchen, cooking quietly by the stove. He would wordlessly come up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, and bury his face into the crook of your neck. His beard tickled your skin, but you didn’t move. You just let him hold on.

You never pried. Never asked what had happened or who he’d lost. You just stood still and let him breathe.

Some mornings, you’d wake up to the smell of breakfast—coffee already brewing, eggs soft in the pan. The light through the windows was always softest then, catching the curve of his shoulders as he stood at the stove, hair still tousled from sleep. He’d glance over and freeze for half a second, his eyes softening the moment they landed on you.

You, barefoot in his kitchen, drowning in one of his shirts, rubbing sleep from your eyes and blinking toward the smell of coffee like it was the only thing tethering you to the mortal world.

“Morning,” you’d mumble, voice still thick with sleep.

And he’d just shake his head with a quiet smile, barely audible as he murmured, “You’re gonna kill me looking like that.”

He never said more than that, never needed to. But the way he’d step over to press a kiss to your temple, or slide a mug into your hands like it was second nature—it was all soft, sacred routine. Like seeing you there made the weight on his chest just a little lighter. Like it reminded him there was still good to come home to.

You never got used to casual Robby. Eventually, you moved in—not all at once, but in slow, familiar steps: a drawer, a toothbrush, a mug that became yours. By the time you were sharing bills and arguing over which laundry detergent smelled better, it felt more like breathing than change.

The first time you saw him in glasses—framed in dark tortoiseshell, hair damp from a shower and curling slightly at his temples—you’d practically short-circuited.

He’d emerged from the bathroom in a faded t-shirt and joggers, yawning, and caught you staring from your spot on the couch.

“What?” he asked, squinting as he adjusted his glasses with the heel of his hand.

“Nothing,” you said way too fast. “Just—wow. You look so... smart.”

“Smart?” he echoed, amused.

“And cozy,” you added quickly, rambling now. “Like, approachable professor energy. You know, in a hot way. Not in a—never mind.”

He laughed then—low and genuine, crossing the room to nudge your knee with his. “You’re ridiculous.”

You grinned up at him, cheeks burning. “You love it.”

“I really do,” he said, and leaned down to kiss you on the forehead, glasses bumping lightly against your skin.

During evenings when he settled beside you on the couch, arm slung casually around your shoulders, your fingers found his left bicep beneath the worn cotton of his t-shirt. You traced the ink there—the delicate script of memento mori, bold and grounded—until he turned slightly, offering his other arm too.

You switched sides, brushing your thumb over the words on his right: amor fati.

“I forget they’re there, sometimes,” he murmured, watching you with a soft sort of curiosity.

“I don’t,” you said, quietly. “You carry both.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes—but his hand found yours and gave it a gentle squeeze. You turned your palm to meet his, lacing your fingers together, your thumb brushing over the scar just beneath his knuckle. A quiet pause stretched between you, full of the kind of knowing that didn’t need words.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to your temple, eyes closed, breath unsteady. You shifted closer, letting your head rest on his shoulder, your free hand still ghosting along the ink on his arm.

There was pain here—still. But also comfort, and the kind of closeness that aches in the best way. The kind that says: I see you. I’m staying.

Some nights, you'd fall asleep tangled together—his arm draped over your waist, your legs tangled under the blanket in ways neither of you could explain come morning. You’d fall asleep with your face tucked under his chin, only to wake up sprawled out diagonally across the bed, one of you stealing all the covers.

He’d grumble when you yanked the blanket away in your sleep; you’d mutter sleepy apologies and pull him back into your arms. One night, you twitched in the middle of a dream and accidentally swatted him across the face.

“Rude,” he murmured, half-asleep, rubbing his cheek.

“Reflex...” you mumbled, eyes still closed. “Fighting zombies...”

He laughed, voice thick with sleep, and kissed the top of your head. “Please try not to knock me out next time.”

Even in those clumsy, chaotic hours, you never felt anything but safe in each other’s space. The kind of intimacy that came not from candlelight or declarations—but from breathing the same quiet air and fitting, without trying, into each other’s lives.

And then there were the nights he couldn’t sleep. When his mind wouldn’t stop replaying whatever it refused to let go. He’d lie down on the couch with his head in your lap, his body tense at first, breath shallow like he was trying to stay composed. You’d run your fingers through his hair in slow, gentle motions, your touch featherlight but deliberate.

Sometimes he’d drift. But other nights, he’d break. His shoulders would shake almost imperceptibly, and you'd feel his tears start to warm your skin—silent, steady, soaking through the fabric of your shorts where his cheek was pressed.

You could feel how hot his face would get, how hard he tried to hold himself together. His breath would hitch against your thigh, soft and ragged, like every inhale cost him something. And still, he wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t explain.

You never filled the quiet with questions. You just stayed, your hand still in his hair, your other one smoothing down his back in slow, reassuring lines. You’d whisper little nothings sometimes—just enough to let him know you were there, that he could let go. And even when he couldn’t say it, you felt it in the way he curled into you, in the way he finally breathed just a little easier. He never talked about it. But you always knew.

And then there were the quiet nights after. The ones where nothing hurt, and nothing ached, and you could just exist together.

You’d curl up together on the couch with no agenda, his hand resting on your thigh, your head against his shoulder, sharing whatever movie or show you’d already seen three times. His fingers would absently trace shapes into your knee. You’d hum quietly, not even realizing you were doing it until he said, soft and amused, “You always do that when you’re happy.”

Sometimes he’d look over at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. Like he didn’t understand how someone like you had ended up here, with someone like him.

And sometimes you’d catch him mid-laugh, glasses slipping down his nose, hair sticking up in a way that made your heart ache with how much you loved him. You’d kiss him just because, and he’d melt like he always did—like every time was the first.

“God,” you’d murmur against his cheek, “you’re everything.”

And he’d pull you in tighter, breath catching just slightly like he didn’t know how to hold something that felt this good. But he always tried.

—

But even love like that isn't always easy.

It started small—the way his responses got shorter on the nights he came home late. How he stood in the doorway a little longer, like something heavy waited outside and he hadn’t decided whether to bring it in. The way he flinched when you reached for his hand one evening and then apologized immediately, shaking his head like he didn’t know why he’d done it.

You’d always known he carried more than he shared. But lately, it felt like even his silences were starting to shut you out.

“Robby,” you said softly one night, after he’d barely touched his dinner. “Talk to me. Please.”

He didn’t look up right away. Just kept his eyes on the edge of the plate, shoulders stiff. “I’m tired.”

You sat back slightly, watching him. “I know. But this is different, and you know it.”

He exhaled through his nose, then pushed his chair back and stood, running a hand over his face. “I don’t want to fight.”

“We’re not fighting,” you said gently, standing too. “I just—I don’t know how to help when you keep shutting me out.”

“I’m not trying to,” he muttered. “I’m just... tired.”

You crossed your arms. “You said that already.”

He turned then, finally meeting your gaze. “What do you want me to say? That I see too much? That I’m not sleeping because I keep hearing their voices when I close my eyes? That I’m afraid I’m going to bring all of that home and ruin the one good thing I have left?”

Your breath caught.

He shook his head, stepping back like he could shove the words back in. “Maybe I don’t need you to fix it.”

That one hit. You felt it like a slap, your throat going tight.

Robby froze. The regret was immediate—visible in the slump of his shoulders. He reached out like he could take it back, fingers flexing midair, but you stepped away, not out of anger—just ache.

“I know I can’t fix it,” you said, voice trembling. “But I thought you trusted me enough to let me try. Not to fix. Just to be here.”

He didn’t answer. Just stood there, looking at you like he wanted to apologize but didn’t know how.

And for the first time in a long time, the silence between you didn’t feel safe.

—

It was hours later when he finally came to you.

You were in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed, folding laundry just to have something to do with your hands. The door creaked open, and Robby stood there like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed in.

He didn’t say anything. Just walked over slowly, his shoulders tense, eyes glassy with exhaustion—not just from the day, but from carrying it all alone.

You didn’t move. You didn’t need to. Because the moment he was close enough, he sank to his knees at the edge of the bed and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face against your stomach.

You dropped the shirt in your hands and gently cupped the back of his head.

“It’s okay,” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair. “You don’t have to say anything.”

He didn’t. Just held you tighter, his breath shaky as he tried to hold himself together. You could feel the weight in his grip, the apology in his silence.

You bent forward, pressing a soft kiss into his hair.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you murmured.

He exhaled into you, like the only thing he’d needed was to hear that.

Later, you curled into each other under the covers, the weight between you finally shifting into something softer. Robby lay on his side, eyes half-lidded, one arm around your waist, his fingers tracing the hem of your shirt like it grounded him.

Neither of you spoke much. The silence had changed—less sharp, more like a shared exhale. He pressed a kiss to your shoulder and stayed there, breath warming your skin.

“You’re still the one good thing,” he said eventually, voice rough and low.

You reached back to touch his arm. “And you don’t have to carry everything alone.”

“I know,” he whispered, like it still scared him to say it aloud.

You turned in his arms to face him, resting your forehead gently against his. “Then we’ll figure it out. One bad day at a time.”

Robby let out a shaky laugh—just a breath, really—but it was something. He pulled you closer, held you like an anchor in the dark.

And eventually, tangled up in each other, you both fell asleep—not because the weight was gone, but because it had shifted. Because it was shared.

—

Your mind flashed back to the times when everything felt simpler. You remembered the way his eyes lit up as he looked at you, the warmth that had filled those moments, making you forget the world outside. You thought of the nights spent waiting for his calls, the whispered conversations that ended with him walking through the front door and into your arms, the promises made in hushed tones, hoping the world would never hear.

There were days where nothing was wrong—no missed calls, no bad news waiting on the other end of a shift. Just you and Robby, a day off together, the sun warming the hardwood floors, and the smell of fresh laundry in the air.

He’d pull you out of bed late, already dressed in soft sweats and a mischievous grin, tugging the blanket away until you whined. “C’mon,” he’d tease. “You promised me pancakes and an embarrassing dance break while flipping them.”

“I said that once, half-asleep,” you’d grumble, dragging your feet to the kitchen. “It doesn’t count.”

“Still legally binding,” he’d say, wrapping his arms around your waist and swaying you gently, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I take all sleepy promises very seriously.”

You’d cook together, music playing low in the background, hips brushing, fingers stealing bits of fruit off the cutting board. He’d lean against the counter with a mug in hand, watching you like you were his favorite part of the morning.

And later, after breakfast, you’d collapse on the couch together, limbs tangled, sunlight spilling across your bare feet. He’d trace circles onto your thigh and tell you stories from med school, the kind that made you laugh until your stomach hurt. You’d kiss him between sentences, just because you could.

You never forgot the heavy days—but God, the light ones were magic.

—

Magic has a way of fading when one person keeps their pain locked behind silence.

The pattern had established itself. Missed texts. Longer showers. The way Robby would go quiet even in the middle of a sentence, zoning out like he was watching something only he could see.

You noticed. Of course you did.

You tried to bring it up gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine,” he said, not unkindly—but it was clipped. Automatic. A reflex he’d honed too well.

You started to keep count. How many times in one week he said he was fine. How many times he didn’t say anything at all.

One night, after a particularly long shift, he came home later than usual. You were curled up on the couch waiting, a soft blanket over your legs, a cup of tea gone cold in your hands. When he walked in, you stood up—tentative. Hopeful.

“Hey,” you said softly. “You stayed late.”

He shrugged out of his coat. “I stayed to finish some charts.”

You nodded, following him into the kitchen. “Want me to heat something up?”

“No. I’m good.”

That word again. Good. Like it meant something real.

“Robby,” you tried, voice quiet. “You haven’t been sleeping. You barely talk anymore. You come home and shut down like I’m not even here. I know you’re hurting, but—”

“I said I’m fine,” he snapped. It was louder than either of you expected. The kind of loud that made everything else stop.

You blinked, the words catching in your throat.

He didn’t look at you. Just stood there, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling too fast.

“Do you even hear yourself anymore?” you asked, the hurt breaking through. “Every time I try, you shut me out. Every time I reach for you, you flinch. I’m not asking you to bleed in front of me—I’m asking you to let me in.”

He turned, finally, but his eyes were stormy. “And what if I can’t? What if letting you in means dragging you down with me?”

You shook your head, your voice breaking. “Then let me choose that. Don’t decide for me.”

Silence stretched between you, taut and cracking at the edges.

And then it built to the moment that cracked something in both of you.

You were pacing, voice trembling as you spoke through the hurt. "I feel like I’m tiptoeing around a version of you that won’t look me in the eye. I miss you, Robby. Even when you’re right here, I miss you."

He stood still in the kitchen, hands braced on the edge of the counter like he might break it with his grip. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” you said, softer now, pleading. “Why do you keep shutting me out?”

His head dropped forward, jaw tight. “Because every time I let something slip, you look at me like I’m falling apart.”

“No,” you said, a little sharper now, voice thick with emotion. “I look at you like I love you. I want to help you carry it, but you make it impossible.”

Robby’s brow furrowed, defensiveness creeping in. “I never asked you to.”

You stepped back like his words physically knocked the air out of you. “I know. But you let me think I could. That I was helping. And now you act like all of this—us—was better before I got too close.”

His eyes flickered, like he wanted to take it back but didn’t know how. Like he was stuck between retreat and surrender.

“I’m trying,” he muttered, jaw tight.

“You’re not,” you said, breath hitching. “You’re pretending nothing’s wrong, and every time I try to reach for you, you pull farther away. And I’m tired, Robby. I’m so tired of feeling like loving you is something I have to earn over and over again.”

He didn’t respond at first. And when he did, it was quiet—so quiet you almost didn’t hear it:

“Maybe it was easier before you were always here.”

You froze. A breath—gone.

His face crumpled as soon as the words left his mouth. “I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late. Because even if he hadn’t meant it, he’d thought it.

You turned away, the tears already spilling—hot, silent, and fast. Your throat was tight, your hands shaking as you moved without thinking, heading for the bedroom.

You grabbed a bag from the closet and started stuffing clothes into it—not carefully, not thoughtfully, just enough to get through the night somewhere else. You weren’t sure where you'd go yet, but it didn’t matter. You just needed space. Air.

Behind you, Robby stood frozen in the kitchen doorway for a breath, then bolted forward, panic overtaking disbelief. "Wait—please, just—wait," he said, his voice cracking as he caught up to you.

He reached for your arm, hesitating before he touched you, as if afraid you'd flinch. "Don’t go," he whispered. "Please, just talk to me. I didn’t mean it like that."

You didn’t turn around. Your jaw clenched, eyes blurry as you shoved another shirt into the bag.

“I said something stupid, I was angry—I didn’t mean it,” he rushed, voice rising with desperation.

“I need space, Robby,” you replied, your voice shaking.

But Robby pulled you into him before you could take another step. His arms wrapped tightly around your shoulders, one hand rising to cradle the back of your head as if you might vanish if he let go.

“Please,” he whispered, breath warm against your temple. “Please don’t go.”

You stood stiff for a second, your hands still clenched around the fabric of the bag, heart pounding.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to do this right, I just—can’t lose you.”

You didn’t say anything right away. Just let yourself sag into his chest, trembling, as he held you like an apology.

“I don’t want to,” you whispered. “But I don’t know how to stay when it hurts like this.”

Robby pressed his forehead to yours, breath shaky, his hands gripping the back of your shirt like it was the only thing keeping him standing. “Then don’t,” he begged, voice cracking. “We’ll figure it out. Together. Just—stay.”

You closed your eyes, tears spilling freely now. “I’m so tired of being the only one trying.”

“I know,” he said, the words crushed between guilt and fear. “I know. I’m trying now. I swear. I’ll do better. Just don’t give up on me.”

His voice broke on the last word, and you felt it—every fracture in his armor finally showing. He held you tighter, like he could anchor you to the floor, to him, with sheer desperation.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t know how to show it. Even when I get in my own way. I love you so damn much.”

You swallowed, forehead still resting against his. Your voice was numb, not angry—just tired. Bruised from the inside out. “Then show me. Not tonight. Not with words. But show me.”

Because you couldn’t keep holding both of you upright anymore. It wasn’t just the arguments or the silences, it was how they chipped away at the space between you until even comfort felt like pressure.

Robby didn’t say anything right away, but you felt him nod—slowly, brokenly—his fingers twitching where they clutched the hem of your shirt. You were both worn raw, clinging to each other not because it made sense, but because letting go felt worse.

He was always the one who froze when things got too heavy. Who went silent instead of soft. Who drowned quietly so no one would have to watch him go under.

And you—you were the one who filled the silence, who tried to anchor both of you with warmth and patience, until you had nothing left to give.

You didn’t know what came next. But when his breath hitched against your skin, when his lips ghosted a promise across your temple, it wasn’t resolution—it was need. A shared ache that lived in the spaces where words had failed.

The tension between you was thick, your emotions raw and desperate. You curled up on the bed together, the blanket falling in soft waves over your legs as you lay facing each other, breath shallow and eyes red-rimmed. No words were exchanged—there were none left to say. Just the soft beat of your heart against his chest and the ache of being too close and too far away all at once.

But then his lips found yours—not gentle, not sweet. Desperate. A plea to stay tethered to something real. You kissed him back like you needed it to survive, like if you didn’t feel him now you’d vanish entirely.

He cupped your face, hands trembling slightly as he whispered your name, his voice so full of longing it nearly broke you in half. His forehead pressed to yours, the rhythm of his breath uneven.

Clothes were pushed aside, discarded with the same urgency that carried his hands across your skin. There was no finesse, no choreography—just aching, reckless need. You wrapped yourself around him, limbs tangled and breath shared, moving together like you’d forgotten how to be separate.

His hands roamed your body with a reverence sharpened by pain, like he was trying to memorize every inch, every sound you made. And when he buried his face into your neck and whispered broken apologies—"I’m sorry, please forgive me, I love you, I need you"—you kissed him harder, silencing the guilt with your mouth.

It wasn’t about lust. It wasn’t even about comfort. It was about needing to be known. Needing to be held in a way that made the world go quiet.

Afterward, you stayed tangled together, legs overlapping, his arm curled tight around your waist. Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. His fingers traced your spine like he was still trying to say something without words.

Nothing had been solved. Everything still ached. But in that fragile, flickering space between exhaustion and need, you held each other like it was the only truth that hadn't slipped through your fingers.

—

The days that followed blurred.

You still shared a bed. Still exchanged small gestures, the ghost of what once was: coffee waiting by the sink, a brief graze of fingers in the hallway, the habitual kiss on the temple that neither of you felt anymore. But the air between you had shifted. Thick, not with tension—but with the kind of quiet that feels like waiting for something to break.

Robby tried. You saw it in how he stood in doorways like he was working up the courage to speak, in the way he’d squeeze your hand under the blanket at night as if that one touch could undo the distance. But whatever he was reaching for, it never quite made it to you. His grief lived like a second skin, and no matter how close you got, you could never peel it back far enough to breathe with him.

And you—you were tired. So tired of shrinking yourself so he wouldn’t have to face the wreckage. You softened everything: your tone, your expectations, your joy. Until you felt like a whisper of the person you used to be. Even your patience had started to sour.

The silences weren’t loud. They didn’t scream. They just pressed, heavy and constant. And in that pressure, you both stopped speaking—not out of anger, but out of resignation. What was left to say?

You still looked at him like you loved him. Because you did. But more and more, that love felt like grief with a heartbeat.

And you wondered, in the quiet, how long a person could stay in something that made them feel so alone.

You stopped trying to talk first.

Not out of spite—just self-preservation. You couldn’t keep opening a door that never swung back your way.

Some mornings, Robby would kiss your shoulder before he left for work. Soft. Automatic. And maybe that was what hurt the most—how even love had become muscle memory.

You weren’t angry. Not really. Just tired in a way that felt marrow-deep. You woke up with it. Carried it like weight in your chest. The version of you that used to fight for every little connection had grown so quiet lately you hardly recognized yourself.

And Robby—he was still there. Still kind, still careful. But careful in the way people are when they know a glass is cracked and one wrong move might shatter it.

The worst part wasn’t the fighting. It was the lack of it. Like you'd both agreed to live in the ache instead of pulling each other out.

You still set the table for two. Still folded his laundry. Still turned on the porch light when you knew he’d be home late.

But you stopped waiting up.

You stopped hoping the door would open and he’d walk in like he used to—eyes tired, but lit with something soft when they landed on you.

Because it had been a long time since he looked at you like that.

—

After the breakup, Robby buried himself in work.

He picked up every extra shift. Charted until his fingers cramped. Slept in call rooms. Survived on caffeine and convenience store sandwiches. He didn’t go home unless he had to—and even then, he made it quick. Just enough time to shower, change, and leave again.

Abbott noticed first. He always did. He tried to check in after shifts, lingering by Robby’s car, offering dinner or a beer or just some silence on a park bench.

“You need a break,” Jack said one night, when Robby looked particularly worn down. “You look like shit.”

“I’m fine,” Robby muttered, not meeting his eyes.

Jack didn’t buy it. “You’re not. And don’t tell me this has nothing to do with her.”

Robby said nothing. Just stared ahead, jaw tight.

The others noticed too—nurses leaving snacks outside the on-call room, the new med student nervously asking if Robby was always like this. But no one said what they were all thinking: he looked like a man unraveling. A man trying to outrun something that lived in his own skin.

He barely ate. He barely slept. He didn’t talk unless he had to.

He just kept moving, like stillness might break him in half.

And the apartment? It stayed dark. Quiet. Cold. Empty.

—

“He’s not okay,” Dana said one evening as she leaned against the coffee machine in the break room, arms crossed, concern etched deep across her brow. “He’s always been a workhorse, but this... this is something else.”

“I’ve tried to talk to him,” Abbot added, toying with the serrated edge of an unopened protein bar. “He brushes it off every time. Says he’s ‘good.’ But I caught him charting the same patient twice this morning.”

Dana sighed. “You can see it all over him. It’s like he’s just... surviving. Going through the motions.”

“I’ve never seen him like this.” Abbot shook his head.

“We should do something,” Dana said gently. “Get him to go home. At least sleep. Eat something.”

Then Abbot added, softer still, “Won’t matter unless he wants to help himself.” He paused. “Maybe we should call her.”

Dana shook her head slowly. “I don’t know if she’s the answer right now. He’s got to want to come back to himself first.”

A beat of silence stretched before the soft click of a door behind them made them freeze.

Robby stood at the edge of the break room entrance, a coffee cup dangling from his fingers, shoulders drawn tight beneath his jacket. His eyes were blank, unreadable, but his knuckles were white around the handle.

“No need to whisper,” he said, voice low. “I can hear just fine.”

The tension crackled instantly.

Abbot was the first to speak. “Robby—”

“Don’t,” Robby cut in, setting the cup down a little too hard on the counter.

His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The weight in it was enough to make them all go still.

“I know I’m not okay,” he said, looking down at the floor like he hated saying it aloud. “I know I’ve been a mess. I know she’s not coming back.” He swallowed, jaw shifting. “But I need to keep moving, because if I stop… I don’t know what’s left.”

No one said anything. Not at first.

Then Dana stepped forward, her voice gentler now. “You don’t have to stop. But you don’t have to do it alone either.”

Robby didn’t respond. He just stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the floor like it might hold him up better than anyone else could.

—

Later that night, Jack texted you against Robby’s wishes.

Jack: Please. Just consider coming by. He’s not himself.

You: Jack, you know it might make things worse...

Jack: I know. But we’re all worried. He’s not eating. He’s barely sleeping. He needs something familiar. Someone who’s home.

You: ...Okay. But I’ll only come if you’re there to let me in. I don’t want to make it harder.

Jack: Thank you. I’ll text when he’s out cold.

You stared at your phone for a long time after that.

They’d had beers at Robby’s place that night. Jack had swung by after shift with a six-pack and takeout neither of them touched. They sat on the floor because the couch felt too formal, drinking in silence, the television flickering in the background. Robby had barely said five words.

When he finally passed out—curled on his side, still wearing his hoodie, mouth parted slightly like he hadn’t slept in days—Jack fireman-carried him to the bedroom, laid him gently on the bed, and grabbed his phone.

Hours later, a message buzzed in:

Jack: He’s asleep. Been out for almost an hour. Come now if you’re still up for it.

When you arrived at Robby’s apartment, Jack let you in quietly. The place smelled faintly of takeout and stale beer, the air still holding the weight of a long day. Jack didn’t say much—just pulled you into a tight hug, holding on for a beat longer than usual. His arms wrapped around you with the kind of quiet reassurance that said everything he couldn’t put into words. He nodded once and squeezed your shoulder before heading out, leaving you alone in the dim light.

The kitchen table was cluttered with unopened mail and a few empty takeout containers, the chairs askew like they'd been left in a hurry. A light layer of dust clung to the counter near the fridge, and a clean shirt hung over the back of a chair as if forgotten mid-morning.

The rest of the apartment told the same story—kitchen sink filled with dishes, clothes draped over the couch arm, blankets kicked into a corner, a half-full water bottle left beside the couch. It wasn’t dirty, exactly, just… untended. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it. A space abandoned by someone barely surviving inside it.

So you cleaned. Quietly. Carefully. The way you used to when he had rough weeks and couldn’t lift his head, let alone fold laundry.

You weren’t sure how much of it was for him or for you. If the meditative rhythm of straightening, wiping, sorting was meant to soothe his unraveling—or to calm your own.

You wiped down the counters, sorted the mail into a neat pile, folded the blanket he always left crumpled on the couch. You didn’t do it for recognition. You did it because when he woke up, you wanted the first thing he saw to be something soft. Something familiar. Something that looked like care.

Once you were done, you slipped into the kitchen, your movements slow and deliberate. You found the familiar ingredients tucked behind newer groceries he hadn’t touched. It was muscle memory, the way your hands moved—preparing the dish Robby always asked for when he came home too late, too tired, too wired to sleep.

Soon, the scent filled the apartment, warm and grounding. You left the plate on the counter, neatly covered, the light above the stove left on.

Then you stood by the door for a moment—just breathing—before you left the same way you came.

Quiet. Careful. Hoping, maybe, when he woke up, something in him would remember the version of you that used to feel like home.

—

Months passed, and life went on. You tried to focus on yourself—on healing, on finding something steady again. You kept your head down. You worked. You saw friends. Some days even felt okay.

But no matter where you went, no matter what you did, the memory of Robby clung to you like a phantom ache. You’d be fine, and then a scent would knock the wind out of you. Or a patient would mutter something in the same cadence he used to. Or you'd catch yourself turning to text him something funny, only to remember.

One evening, you were out for dinner with your best friend at a cozy little restaurant, tucked away from the noise of downtown. The conversation was light, your laughter real. You were almost starting to feel normal again—until the TV above the bar switched to the news.

“Breaking update out of Pittsburgh tonight,” the anchor began, and your attention barely flicked upward—until you caught the words PittFest and shooting in the same sentence.

Your stomach dropped.

Your fork clattered against the plate. You didn’t even hear your friend asking what was wrong. The footage was grainy, chaotic—sirens, a shot of the emergency bay at PTMC, a flashing banner at the bottom of the screen.

Your friend reached across the table, squeezing your hand. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. Are you okay?”

You shook your head once. "Yeah," you said, your voice barely audible. "I just... I need a minute."

—

Across the city, Robby stood frozen in the middle of Trauma 2, his gloved hands still bloodstained, his pulse pounding in his ears.

The ER was silent now. Cleared. Stabilized. But the aftermath sat heavy on his shoulders—every scream, every gurney that rolled in, every second he had to pretend he was made of steel.

He leaned forward, bracing both hands against the wall just outside the bay, eyes closed. Someone handed him a bottle of water. He didn’t drink it.

It wasn’t until hours later, when the shift finally thinned out and the lights dimmed to their late-night hum, that he found a corner of the supply closet and finally let himself breathe. Not cry. Not yet. Just… sit. Just exist.

He thought of you.

He didn’t have to check the news. He’d lived it. But part of him—some deep, fractured part—wondered if you’d seen it. If you’d hear about the chaos. If you’d wonder where he was.

Or if he was okay.

His fingers tightened around the edge of the shelf behind him, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

God, he hoped you weren’t watching. He didn’t want you to worry.

But a small part of him also hoped you thought about him—if only for a second.

—

It was spring. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom, petals littering the sidewalks, drifting through the air like soft snow. The familiar scent of roasted espresso beans and warm bread filled the air as you stepped into the café.

You ordered a caramel macchiato this time. Something sweet. Something that might help anchor you.

You didn’t see him at first.

But he saw you—walking in with sunlight in your hair, shoulders tucked against the spring breeze. You scanned the café absently, completely unaware that you’d stepped right into the same orbit again. Robby felt the moment shift, like the air had thickened, like the city outside had gone silent.

His breath caught.

And when you finally turned, looking for a table, your eyes landed on him.

Robby was sitting in the exact same seat where you’d met. Shoulders hunched forward, hands curled loosely around a coffee cup that had long gone cold. His hoodie was pushed up to the elbows—a different one, but worn in the same places, frayed slightly at the cuffs.

You could see the moment recognition hit him, like a current moving through his chest. His breath hitched. His lips parted, as if to speak, but no words came. But this time, he looked different. Brighter. Less weighed down. Like the heaviness he used to carry in his eyes had finally lightened—like something inside him had softened in your absence, not hardened. And still, there was something raw in the way he looked at you—like he’d spent months trying to forget your face only to find it right there, exactly where he’d hoped to see it again.

His fingers tightened slightly around the cup, knuckles going pale. The city outside blurred behind him in soft motion, petals drifting past the window like the whole world had slowed just for this.

And in that stillness, his expression shifted—not shock anymore, but something softer. Something braver.

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The world blurred around the edges, like the city was holding its breath.

His eyes softened. Just slightly. Enough to undo you.

He gestured to the empty seat across from him. The same way he had all that time ago.

And when you sat down—heart loud in your chest, hands wrapped tight around the warmth of your drink—you noticed it: the silver ring still on his finger. A quiet, familiar weight that mirrored the one still circling your own.

He looked down at his hands as if he hadn’t realized he was still wearing it, then up at you, the corners of his mouth twitching with something that wasn’t quite a smile yet.

“Hey,” he said, his voice rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything tender in a while. “It’s been a while.”

You nodded slowly, your throat thick. “Yeah,” you said, your voice softer than you'd meant. “It has.”

Silence hovered between you—not heavy, but tentative. Like the hush before a held breath.

Then, quieter: “You look good.”

A real smile this time, just a flicker. “So do you.”

Then, after a pause, Robby glanced down and gave a soft huff of breath, like he was working up to something. “I, uh... I took Abbott up on that therapist offer. After PittFest.”

His eyes flicked back up to meet yours, searching.

“It was long overdue,” he added, quieter now. “I didn’t know how bad I’d let it get until I started saying things out loud.”

Your heart ached, caught somewhere between heartbreak and relief. To hear him say it—to know he had started to find a way through the darkness—you could feel the pressure in your chest begin to ease, just slightly.

“I’m glad you did,” you said softly, your voice trembling despite your smile. “I’m really glad.”

Robby reached across the table, fingers brushing yours with the kind of tentative hope you hadn’t felt in so long. You didn’t pull away. You laced your fingers through his, slowly, like you were relearning the shape of something familiar.

His thumb moved gently over your knuckles, and when your eyes met again, both of you were blinking back tears.

“I’m so sorry,” Robby said, voice barely above a whisper. “For everything I put you through. For shutting down. For pushing you away when all you wanted to do was pull me out.”

He looked like he might say more, but the words caught in his throat.

“I want to try again,” he continued, steadier now. “If you’ll let me. If there’s still a part of you that thinks we could get it right.”

Your breath hitched, your grip tightening gently around his hand.

“I'd like that,” you whispered, a smile curling at the edges of your lips.

There were smiles too—real ones. Small and soft and a little broken. But full of something bright.

Hope, maybe.

And just like that, something shifted—something warm and incandescent blooming quietly between you, like the first dawn breaking through after a long, hard winter.

You didn’t know what would come next. Neither of you did. 

But as you looked at him across that small table—amid the swirl of petals, the smell of coffee, and the quiet echo of something old and aching—you felt it settle into your chest.

The spark. The ache. The what-ifs. The maybe.

And sometimes, that was enough to begin again.

ㅇㄴㄴㅇㅊㅅㄹ

[kirlicues]

Maxis Lost & Found and Default Replacement List | Resources: Sims 2 | Improving the Look of the Game

Here is a resource list of the Default Replacements I use to improve the look of my game, as well as "Maxis Lost & Found items" to add a little more variety.

I play a mostly CC-free game but I've also included a list of the tiny amount of "Maxis match" CC that I use, so if you download my lots and you have these things installed the houses should look like they do in the previews.

Can you believe the Sims 2 is over 20 years old!? It will look like it's hardly aged a day after you put these defaults in. 🤭 I also recommend Reshade for a truly up-to-date experience.

** This post might get updated from time to time. 💗 **

Build Mode Defaults:

Bay Tree texture default by @tvickiesims

Greener Gardens bush defaults by @peppermint-ginger

Greener Gardens Part 2 by @peppermint-ginger

Phlox by @tvickiesims

Plant Texture Defaults from this pack by @pforestsims

Default Garden Plot by @fwaysims

Less Square Waterlilies by @lvstndhrt

Brighter leaves, less square scattered leaves by @shastakiss and TheNinthWave Sims

White Roof Trim Defaults by Phaenoh at ModtheSims

Wall top texture defaults by Maranatah at ModtheSims

Window Fixes by Honeywell at ModtheSims

Mesh replacements for "Border of Helier" fences and the "Near the Floor" half wall by @crispsandkerosene

Buy Mode Defaults:

Custom Computer Screens Default Replacement by @eddysims

Custom Computer Screen - Term paper default add-on

Smaller Cash Register by @pforestsims

Better BBQ by @pforestsims

Useable TSS Coat Hangers (Outerwear, requires Seasons) by Richi3frog at ModtheSims

Keister Kompanion by @pforestsims

White Euro Stairs and Rail OFB (no more aqua line!), open underneath by Rosie. See a picture of it in use here.

Holy Smoke stairs clear glass (as opposed to blue) by @tvickiesims

Upwardly Mobile, Sweeping Success, Stair to Remember Fixes by @simblrnova

Black and White Bare Bath by @tvickiesims

Loft Shower clear glass (as opposed to blue) by @honeywellsdownloads

Clear glass on most objects by Corax at ModtheSims

Clear glass for windows and doors by Slig

Clothing Racks by @withlovefromsimtown

Mission Redux by Leefish

Teak Double Bed by HugeLunatic

Neighborhood Defaults:

Terrain Defaults - @curiousb

No more Blurriness - Beach, Cliff, and Snow defaults - Voeille

Criquettes Linden Trees as Default Replacements

Neighborhood Tree Default Replacements (specifically Ginko,

Redbud, and Walnut) by Honeywell at ModtheSims

Beautified Birch Trees by SixFootSims

CS Seasonal Pines as BG Pine Default by @lowedeus

Snow enabled Seasonal Pines by @lowedeus

Maxis BG Clouds made Global by @lazyduchess and @lowedeus

Effects Defaults:

Prettier Plumbobs by Ambular

Better Thought/Conversation Bubbles by @eddysims

Prettier Bubble Bath by @pforestsims

Sink and Basin Water Revised by @pforestsims

Fountain Water (clear and foamy) by @pforestsims

Clean Skill Meters Default by @pforestsims

Clean OFB Buy Bar Default by @pforestsims

Eye-friendly Countertops by @pforestsims

No Sheen On Ivy by @tvickiesims

Maxis Match Custom Content I use:

Maxis Match Wall Cabinets by CTNutmegger at ModtheSims

Creeping Ivy 3t2 Conversion by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims

3t2 Functional Washer/dryer by MustLuvCatz at ModtheSims

LG Dryer & Washer Machine by Fresh-Prince at ModtheSims

Maxis Match Chimney Recolors by Kimsie at ModtheSims

I also use some skyboxes and skylines to add interest to preview pictures but those are not included in any of the lot files I offer.

"Maxis Lost & Found" objects converted into usable items by various modders:

Floral Modern Sofa recolor

The Stainless Barbecue - Grey Recolor

Five Studio Lamps

Numica 2x2 card table

Dielectric Electrobreeze Windmill

Broken Snow Globe

18th Century Portrait

Will Wright painting and grouped photos from CAS

"Vacation" recolor for Maxis painting

Ball Obelisk and Monolith Decorative Topiaries

Seven new trees

Modern Print

Souvenir Cabinet

International Sectional Booth

Cricket Bat

Floral Centerpiece

Race Car Bedroom

Lit Clothing Shop Sign

Ikea Pictures

Stockholm Bowl

BASKIS Ceiling Light

Ikea Lights ORGEL, ORGEL VRETEN, DUNO, LYRA

SKIMRA Lamp

Billy Wall Shelf

BENNO Coffee Table (Ikea Stuff)

Washboard (BV)

Plumbob Arch

Loft CAS Window, 2-story Timber column

Loft CAS Window - Fixed

Pinegultcher and Longhorn Balustrade Fences

Nouvelle Fences - "Brass" and "White" recolors

Art Nouveau gate - "White" recolor

Zecutine's "Step Away With Me" Stairs - "Olive" recolor

ValueWood Lumber's "Justa Door" - "Grey" recolor

Yellow Community Phone Recolor

Brick Wall (plus non-Maxis add-on textures)

Nightlife Tile Wall covering

Worn "Bamboo Fever" Wallpaper

Eat At Tiles - Red and White Tile walls

Misc floors

Jungle Rocks Neighborhood Décor (BV)

Bohemian Moldings Diagonal Mesh + Default

How to find more lost and found walls and floors and fences (There are quite a few duplicates that are already in your game if you unlock all of these, so just beware.)

Maxis Pre-Order Bonuses and Old TS2 Site Downloads

Additional useful links:

Must-have mods list for TS2. Compiled especially for Sims 2 Legacy Edition players, but useful for anyone no matter what version of TS2 you play.

Sims 2 Object Default Database Spreadsheet - this includes a whole bunch of defaults that I do not use.

A huge thank you to all the talented creators and modders who keep this game looking fresh after 20 years!

[minranghae]

Taste | 18+

》 pairing: c.san x f!reader

》 genre: fluff, smut, angst if you squint really hard

》 warnings: friend’s brother!san, female reader, general silliness, stubborn reader, san loves to tease, hes a sweetie too ofc, smut, piv, oral (f. receiving), fingering, pet names (angel, baby, etc.), coworkers, san bites reader one (1) time, barely proofread, unprotected, lmk if i missed any

》 wc: 5.2k

》 hello! i am back from the dead with my second fic and second installment in the senses series. i do apologize that this took so long, but i do plan on releasing more stuff soon-ish. i'm working on a longer series, so who knows what'll hapen lol. finally, i just want to say thank you for reading and i hope you enjoy this!

 “God, I really can’t stand you, San! Stop following me, pervert!”

“Yeah, whatever, just get in so we can talk,” he yells to you with his arm hanging out the window of his car, an annoyed, yet amused smirk covering his face.

“No way!” You yell over your shoulder, too embarrassed to face him both physically and figuratively. 

Really, how could you? Not after you found him with your diary in his hands, reading it like it was his favorite novel. At first, you tried to convince yourself that he didn’t see those pages, but the blush on his cheeks told you otherwise. 

And that’s why you’re here: running away from San in the middle of the night.

“I’ll make you a milkshake,” San coos from the car, causing you to turn your head in interest, “You know you love ‘em,” he offers, as if you’re a dog and he’s holding a treat in front of your face. 

And god damn it, it works.

“Fine, but I’m not talking to you until I get one,” you say, opening the car door and climbing in.

“You’re talking to me now,” he quips, earning a look from you that he thinks would’ve killed him if it had the ability.

“Alright, tough crowd,” he murmurs to himself with a dry laugh, hoping to earn a giggle- or at least a smile- from you, but to no avail.

The whole situation was so embarrassing. And degrading, and stupid, and embarrassing-

“Stop thinking so much,” he swats at your arm playfully, noticing the clear look of discomfort and sheer, unabashed embarrassment on your face, “you don’t even know what I have to say yet.” 

You answer him with a small hum, deciding against giving him a verbal response, because no matter how much you’d like to curl up in a hole and die, you’re still as stubborn as the day San met you. 

You officially met him the first day you worked at the diner. Your best friend’s family had owned it since the old owners left, leaving the significantly smaller family of four looking for new employees. College debt had already begun sneaking its way into the back of your mind, and Eunbi needed to work with someone other than her nagging parents or annoying older brother. It was the perfect opportunity for you.

“C’mon! Just try it!” The boy working with you begged.

“I already told you, I have trauma with milkshakes!”

San laughed to himself, trying to hide the amusement evident on his face.

“Look, I’m sorry you found a hair in your milkshake however long ago, but I can assure you that my milkshake is hairless,” he held his little finger up to you, “pinky promise.”

Rolling your eyes, you locked your pinky with his. Your hands lingered together for a moment too long, until San pulled his away to push the drink closer to you.

“San, you know, I’m not really a huge fan of chocolate-” 

“Didn’t you and Eunbi make chocolate cupcakes for your birthday though?”

You freeze, cheeks heating up at his question, unsure if it was the fact that he’d caught you in a lie or that he knew and remembered what you and Eunbi had done for your birthday bringing the blush to your face. Attempting to hide your embarrassment, you shot him a small smirk, gently pursing your lips.

“‘Gotcha there, honey.”

Ever since that day, San always had a milkshake waiting for you at the end of each shift. And maybe it was that kindness that made you blush, or maybe it was the fact that his eyes smiled along with his lips every time he greeted you. It could’ve been the way he always knew how to make you giggle, but whatever it was, it was clear that you’d fallen for San.

Which is weird. Weird because he’s older than you, he’s your coworker, he’s out of your league, and worst of all: he’s Eunbi’s brother.

Really? How cliche is that? It’s not even like you could tell Eunbi about it. That would’ve made everything so much worse. It’s embarrassing enough to be so head over heels for a guy who just sees you as his little sister’s best friend, but to have people know about it too? There’d be no coming back from that.

And that’s exactly why you decided to start keeping a diary, or mindful journaling as you called it. That sounded better than keeping a diary.

You originally started it to confess some of your feelings about San. You wrote how embarrassed you were to have a crush on him. You wrote about the milkshakes he made you and the times he defended you against angry customers. You wrote about how stressed you felt about life in general. Your worries, your fears, the moments of your days that you wanted to forget, but your mind wouldn’t let you. You wrote about anything you couldn’t confess to another person. 

On particularly late nights full of hopeless pining and horny desperation, you’d write about your fantasies, some involving random celebrities or TV characters, but most involving San. 

It was nothing too in depth, it was more about how much you wanted just a taste of him. You knew you could never have him for good, but if you could just feel his strong arms around you or his lips on your skin just once, maybe that’d be good enough. Just a little taste. It felt dirty thinking about him in that sort of way, but who would see it anyways? 

Little did you know, San himself would.

It had slipped out of your bag. And being the kind, and relatively organized coworker he is, San picked it up to put it back in your bag for you. The way it landed on the floor, though, left it open on its spine with its pages just begging to be read. 

He wasn’t going to read it. That would be an invasion of privacy, and San wasn’t that kind of guy. He wouldn’t do that.

But when he picked it up, he couldn’t help but notice his name on the page. And unfortunately, as it does most of us, curiosity got the best of him. 

San tried to stop himself, he really did. But, knowing just how eager you were for him put his head in a spin. He just couldn't help but picture you underneath him, with that adorable blush and shy smile that only appears when he starts teasing you. He wanted so badly to hear how you whimper, to feel how warm you are, to see how sweet you taste. He had a feeling you liked him, but he never would've guessed you reciprocated the feeling so strongly.

He saw this as more of an opportunity for you two. He wasn’t going to tell you what he’d seen; he’d just confess to you one night. And maybe it’d have to be secret for a bit, but eventually you could be his, and he wanted nothing more than that.

No big deal.

But, as soon as he heard a small gasp from the doorway and looked up to see your eyes welling with tears, he knew that plan was well fucked. 

San always thought you were pretty. From the moment Eunbi first brought you over, he couldn’t help but notice your expressive eyes and beautiful hair. But what he liked most was that shining smile you had. And seeing that he’d wiped it from your face as soon as you walked in, he just had to chase you.

And so, as you sat across from him in a booth in the dimly lit diner, he studied your face: the embarrassed blush and sweaty gleam sheening your forehead, your pouty lips wrapped around the straw of a chocolate milkshake as your eyebrows furrowed.

Even your beauty was stubborn.

He began softly, so as not to scare you, his fingers drumming against the table in a gentle rhythm, “So… do you like the milkshake?”

You looked up at him, an eyebrow quirked, “Yeah, it’s good.”

San pushed out a sigh at your icy reply, settling back in his seat as he let his palm fall flat against the table. He knew what he wanted to say, he just couldn’t find the words. You broke the silence a moment later.

“Look, we can both pretend like you saw absolutely nothing at all and I’ll ask to work different times of the day so we won’t even have to see each other. I’m not weird, I promise, I just-”

“Shh,” he cooed, grabbing one of your hands, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into the back of it, “you didn’t even let me talk yet.”

San’s gaze scanned your pretty face for a moment, falling onto those eyes and lips he adored. His heart pounded against the back of his ribs, and yet, you seemed so nervous. Had he read it wrong?

“Did you mean it? What you wrote?” he asked, his voice holding a subtle tone of insecurity. His gaze fell to the table where your hands met, his grip tightening just slightly.

You looked up at him, your wide eyes sweeping over his strong face and your breath picking up. Of course you meant it, but did he want you to mean it? 

“Why are you asking that?” you mumble, pulling your hand from his shyly. Your entire face was tinged pink from embarrassment and guilt, so anxious. San couldn’t stand it.

He made an effort to grab your hand again, his other hand lifting your chin gently so you’d look at him. He shook your head a little, trying to bring out a tiny smile again. 

“You said you needed my face between your thighs…”

Your body went rigid. Out of all the entries, he just had to read that one? You remember writing it after watching him open something with his teeth one day, his jaw flexing as he used his teeth to rip open the plastic packet. Unfortunately, your mind was clouded by unsavory thoughts later that night, and so, into the journal those fantasies went. 

“I’m just saying, I’ve needed a taste for a while now, too. Just give me a chance. Don’t run, please,” he pleaded softly, his grip tightening on your hand ever so slightly. He gave you that look, the one where his eyebrows would furrow so gently and his eyes gleamed softly, a desperation hidden in them. San wasn’t one to beg, but he couldn’t let you think he didn’t like you.

To his surprise, the confession didn’t make you smile. Instead, you felt your eyes well up with tears and a heavy weight lift off your shoulders. Slowly, you snaked around the table to San’s side of the booth, immediately wrapping your arms around one of his as you cried into his shoulder. He received you warmly, his free hand coming up to pat your head softly with sweet coos leaving his mouth, calming and affectionate.

“I thought you were gonna hate me forever, Sannie. I’m so sorry,” you sobbed, hiccuping softly, no even noticing your snot blotting San’s shirt. Such a mess.

San let out a breathy laugh, guiding your face up and off of his shoulder. He grabbed a napkin from the holder at the end of the table and wiped your nose with it gently, an affectionate air about him. He’d never seen you so emotional, and though his heart constricted seeing your tears, he was just happy to be the one taking care of you: his precious one. In a way, seeing you so worked up over something he saw as no big deal was endearing. Then again, almost everything about you was endearing to San. 

He smiled down at you after wiping your nose, mumbling, “Pretty girl.” You could feel your cheeks go red instantly, feeling like it was your first time having a crush all over again. 

He continued, his deep voice soft and sweet suddenly, “I could never hate you. Never, never,” he shook his head a bit, leaning in so that your foreheads were pressed together, “what I read only surprised me, but it would never make me hate you. So, don’t apologize for liking me. I like you, too.”

You swore your heart skipped a beat as he said that. In fact, it seemed like cardiac arrest would be the next step if he didn’t stop looking at you with those soft eyes.

“Never knew you had such a dirty mind,” he teased, rubbing your arm with his free hand gently.

And just like that, your eyebrows furrowed again and you hit his arm gently, too embarrassed to be sappy for long.

“Stop that! It’s not good to hold in all your thoughts, you know. You should write your feelings down,” you scolded, face bright red and lips pouting. San took the scolding at first, but it wasn’t much use. He was too focused on how cute your face looked all scrunched up. 

And, he couldn’t deny it. Being scolded was pretty hot.

“There you go again,” San interrupted, sighing playfully. He couldn’t help but tease. You stopped mid-sentence, unsure of what you were even scolding him about now.

“Hm? What?” you asked softly, a little pout remaining on your lips.

San giggled a little, his eyes squeezing shut as he threw his head back. It was just too much fun for him. He leaned in closer to your face, close enough that your noses nearly met in the middle, whispering, “You’re too busy being angry to let me give you a taste of me.”

That cocky bastard. Cocky, and teasing, and sexy…

Your eyebrows quirked up and your cheeks burned even hotter as he leaned in closer, his mouth just next to your ear. 

“That’s what you wanted, right? What you wrote in your diary… ahem, journal,” he whispered, need dripping from his words. 

And yet, you were too embarrassed to speak. Or, maybe flustered was the right word. Either way, your brain didn’t quite work when San teased you normally, and especially not when his hands traveled to your waist, thumbs pressing into you gently.

“W-well, yes, but it was just a fantasy! I was just imagining! If you read more, you’d see I wrote about celebrities also…” you stammered, your hands searching for a place to rest along with your eyes. 

“Oh, so you’re saying I’m not special?” San asked, biting his lip to hold back a cocky smile.

You gasped a little, hands instinctively finding San’s firm chest, “No, no! I just meant, just,” you panicked a bit, somehow losing your words yet again as San put his hands over yours.

“So, I am special? Am I special enough to have a taste of you?” San asked softly, still teasing, though there was an undercurrent of seriousness in his voice, something like an invitation.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea, Sannie… What would Eunbi think?” You ask softly, eyes round and full of worry. Unintentionally, you leaned further into San’s chest, prompting him to pull you into a hug. He cradled the back of your head, petting your hair softly.

“She doesn’t have to know yet. And you can always say no, baby. I know I tease you a lot, but it’s just because you’re so cute when you’re worked up. We can take things slow if you want. It’s just that journal entry… it made me…” San trailed off towards the end, his own cheeks getting pink now.

Softly, you reached up and ran your fingers through San’s hair, finally offering him a big smile, “Look at you blushing now.”

San blew a bit of air out of his nose, suppressing a shy laugh. “How couldn’t I blush? The thought of you wanting me that way…” He trailed off again, voice high and squeaky now that he was being teased. He pulled you close and buried his face in your neck, letting his lips place a soft kiss before he continued.

“I want to hear you say it, angel. Tell me I’m special and it’s more than just a fantasy. Tell me how you want me,” he mumbled into your neck, using every ounce of self restraint to stop himself from kissing it again.

And, in that moment, months of yearning for, pining over, and wanting San in every way came back to you. Your heart ached a bit, and so did the space between your legs. Everything you had imagined and told yourself was just a dream was coming true. It was true that it would be difficult to hide this whole thing considering Eunbi could read you like a book, but you couldn’t let this opportunity go.

“God, San, I want you in every way possible,” you breathed out, tilting your head back to give him better access to your neck. As soon as you did, he latched on to it, sucking a small bruise into it. You trembled a little, involuntarily letting a tiny whimper cross your lips as you whispered, “But I really need you to fuck me right now.”

“That’s all I need to hear, baby. Here,” he murmured, detaching himself from you quickly. He swiftly switched spots with you, leaving the booth seat and pulling you to the edge of it. He kneeled in front of you, one hand on your thigh and the other gripping the table still. Pushing the table towards the other side of the booth, San ran his hands up and down your thighs, eyes pleading and lust filled. “It’s alright if I taste you?”

“Please, need it so bad, Sannie,” you pleaded as he slowly undid your jeans, pulling them off your legs along with your panties in one fatal swoop. You were already dripping onto the seat and he hadn’t even touched you yet. 

San pressed gentle kisses up your bare thighs, using a thumb to rub gentle circles into your clit. You gripped the top of the seat, already feeling a pulsing need in your heat as San’s mouth inched closer to it. His breath tickled the area, making your squirm, but what was worse was the look in his eyes. He stopped just in front of your cunt and looked up at you with dark, lustful eyes. In that moment, you understood San wanted this just as much as you did.

It was true. San couldn’t even recount the amount of times he pumped his fist in bed or in the shower thinking about you and your sweet pussy. And as much as it made him blush just thinking about it, he wanted nothing more in life than to bury his face in between your thighs some days, making you squirm and hearing what noises he could pull out of you. He wanted to have you, to know you on a deeper level. And what was more intimate than knowing the way a person tastes?

“Pretty,” he murmured into his direct line to heaven, his nose nudging your clit 

gently. A long, hot stripe was licked up your pussy, making you twitch expectantly. Instantly, your mind began to grow foggy and your hips bucked, San whispering, “It’s alright, just relax, baby.”

And so, you did. You let your torso fall all the way back against the booth seat and your fingers tangle in his hair, a soft grunt leaving him as he dove in deeper. His tongue swirled around your entrance, dipping inside every once in a while as a quiet hum vibrated against you. He kept up his agonizingly slow pace on your clit with his thumb, savoring that way you tasted on his tongue.

Soon, though, San needed more of you. He needed to see you squirm more, hear you moan just for him. He pulled you even closer to the edge of the booth, another grunt leaving him as he had to pull his face away for a moment. He hoisted your legs up onto his broad shoulders, instantly attaching his lips to your clit, kissing it softly before sucking it. 

A thick finger found its way inside of you, knuckle deep and wriggling. You squirmed, unable to hold back your noises. Even with just one finger, he filled you up better than you’d ever been before. He added a second finger a moment later, getting familiar with your body inside and out. Scissoring his fingers, he stretched your pussy out, mumbling something about how perfect it was.

“Fuck, San, even your fingers are big,” you slurred, back arching up in the air. San answered with another hum against your pussy, one you could tell was a shy giggle. He curled his fingers, letting his lips pulse around your clit now that he could tell you would finish soon. He slowed his pace down for a second, lifting his head to look up at you.

“You wanna cum? Want Sannie to make you cum?” He asked with a condescending pout, mirroring the one on your own lips. You nodded fervently, but it wasn’t enough for San.

“Gotta hear you say it, angel,” He furthered, eyes darkening as he held back another sly smile. You whined, kicking your legs gently. San tutted, swatting your thigh gently, “Don’t be so stubborn. Just tell Sannie.”

“Please, San, make me cum. Wanna cum all over your tongue,” you relented, hips bucking back up towards San’s face, nudging his chin against your clit. San cooed gently before diving back in. Lapping at your hole, he circled your clit relentlessly with his thumb. He wasn’t going to let you cum anywhere but his tongue.

It didn’t take long for you to do just what you’d asked for. Suddenly, your entire body began to tingle, radiating from the place between your thighs. Your toes curled and your knees tried to squeeze together, locking San’s head in place so that he could lap up every last bit of your essence that was flowing out of you. He made sure he got every last bit, taking his time to lick and kiss every last part of your slick, throbbing cunt.

Eventually, he pried your legs open and helped you sit up, smiling hard at your flushed out face. He swiped his chin with his thumb, bringing it up to his lips before licking off that last bit of you. He sighed, “Could live in that little hole forever, baby.”

You blushed gently, turning away from him shyly, prompting him to sit next to you. He grabbed you by your waist, pulling you onto his lap so your back was flush against his chest. “Hey, you can’t get all shy on me now. Where’s the feisty girl I know, hm?”

“How could I be mean after you just did that to me,” you pouted, making San laugh. 

“You’re always mean to me,” he told you dramatically, grabbing your chin and turning your face towards his. Carefully, he grinded his hips up so that you could feel how hard he was. And he was. Just the taste of you had San throbbing, and the only reason he let you cum so quickly was so that he didn’t cum in his own pants. 

You gasped softly, feeling San’s cock pulsing against your ass, then again when his thick fingers began circling your clit again. He rested his chin on your shoulder, speaking so softly into your ear, “And what’s really mean is how you made me so hard, I almost came from how good you tasted. You wouldn’t leave me like this, right, baby?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes and turning around in San’s lap. His hands went straight to your ass, cupping it and pulling you down to grind against the tent in his pants. Your eyebrows furrowed gently as your hips moved back and forth on him, concentrated huffs falling from your tongue.

“Greedy girl,” he teased, nudging your jaw with the side of his head gently, “you want my cock in you?”

You nodded, pouting at him, “Please, San. Need you in me bad.”

San just laughed, guiding your hands to unzip his pants. He lowered his voice, looking down at where your crotches met, “Alright, you can have it. But, you gotta do the work now. You really tired me out there before.”

You whined again, this time out of pure exhilaration. Wasting no time, you unzipped San’s fly, yanking down his pants and boxers as best as you could. His cock sprung out, hard and red, begging you to take it.

But first, you giggled mischievously as you gave it a few pumps, enjoying its weight in your hand. San groaned, throwing his head back and cursing under his breath. It didn’t take long for him to grow impatient. He grabbed your waist and guided you to sit up better, right above his manhood.

You moved your hips around just to antagonize San as he’d done to you so many times. He let out a frustrated groan, burying his face against your neck yet again, kissing it softly as he pleaded, “Cmon, baby, don’t make me crazy here.”

“Wanted this for so long, Sannie,” you breathed out as you finally sunk down on him, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. San chuckled, pushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I know, baby, read all about it,” he smirked, that smug look on his face melting into a lovesick smile as you swatted at his chest. He couldn’t help but suck another bruise into the side of your neck before chiding, “Just teasing you, been thinkin’ about this for a while, too.”

He rutted up into you, hungry and needy, filling your slick heat completely. Your body twitched with each thrust, languid and deep, San’s silent confession. He was savoring his meal, taking it slowly and enjoying it wholly.

The only sound in the room was that of skin on skin, San’s hips snapping up into yours. He knew just the spot to hit inside of you. You cried out in pleasure, prompting San to speed up. The two of you, hungry and desperate to cum, moved together in a near perfect harmony. 

“Fuck, this pussy was made for me,” San stuttered, trying to keep himself inside you, but it was hard with your bouncing and his thrusts, not to mention the wetness you spilled each time he left your body for a moment. San grunted in your ear, biting down on your shoulder a moment later. He was close. It didn’t help that everytime he thrusted up into you, you let out the sweetest sounds. San wanted to listen to them all the time, but even the thought of doing this again with you made him harder. 

Honestly, his cock kept getting harder with each second it spent inside you. You were so warm, so tight. San was normally a patient man, but it was hard to take his time with you.

You couldn’t be helped either. As soon as he sunk his teeth into you, you came all over him. Wetness poured out of your cunt, coating San as you cried out his name. He followed suit soon afterwards, pulling out and cumming on your thigh. Quickly, San pulled you into a hug, still heaving as a big hand came up to cradle your head. 

For a few minutes, the two of you sat together, your form still tucked into San’s warm embrace as he rocked you back and forth. You both tried to regain your breath, but every little touch made either one of you gasp softly before you turned your head the other way, embarrassingly lovesick. 

San was warm, physically and figuratively. Sweat dripped off his forehead and fell onto yours, but you couldn’t care less if it meant being held by him. It was strong, secure, surreal… it was everything you had written about before. There were days when all you needed was a firm hug, to be held without the fear of falling, somewhere warm and safe. San was all of that, and you could feel it now. It wasn’t just something you wrote about anymore. It was real.

San noticed the face you made when you were thinking and his heart rate picked up. Was it not good? Did he disappoint you? He nudged your head with his shoulder, pouting, “What’s wrong? Was it not good?”

“What? No! It was amazing, I just… I like you a lot. And I like that I don’t have to imagine things anymore… Well, that is if you want to continue this,” you trailed off, blabbering embarrassedly. Maybe all he wanted was a hookup. Uneasiness settled into your features while amusement settled into San’s.

“Silly girl,” he scoffed, enamored by everything you were, “Do you want to be my girlfriend?”

Your eyebrows shot up and your heart fluttered. You were never one to get so worked up so easily, but San had a way of making it happen. You cleared your throat, trying to regain some composure.

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” you mirrored, acting coy now. San cupped your face, dimples on full display as he smiled at you, meeting your gaze. He leaned in and gave you his first real kiss of the night. Your lips molded together perfectly, San’s tongue swiping across your lower lip occasionally. You felt his warm cheeks against yours, which made you giggle sweetly. San’s heart melted.

The boy pulled away a moment later, letting his forehead rest against yours, “Does that answer your question, baby?”

You snorted in response, shaking your head bashfully. You wanted to hear him say it. San rolled his eyes in response, his hands moving down your back to rest on either side of your ass. Still, he smiled and whispered, “Yes, I want to be your boyfriend.”

You sighed sweetly, unable to hold back the big smile on your face. San delivered a little spank to your ass, playful and teasing, “Happy now?”

You nodded, allowing a little squeal of excitement to leave you. “Very happy, Sannie. Very happy,” you whispered back, laying your head on his shoulder to look around the dark diner. 

Just then, your eyes spotted a little red light up in the corner of the diner, seemingly connected to a security camera. You jumped, whisper yelling at San, “Fuck! Fuck, the cameras, San!”

San jumped as soon as you did, following your gaze up to the security camera. He mirrored your panic for just a moment before pulling you further into the booth, pulling his jacket off to cover up your still bare bottom half. 

And just as you thought you were going to have a heart attack, San laughed, and somehow, the uneasiness melted away. He ruffled your hair playfully, moving you off his lap and onto the seat before zipping his pants back up. He stood up, leaning down to your level, “I'll go take care of it, honey. Just clean up and get dressed. And finish your shake,” he told you, motioning to the table where your half empty, half melted chocolate shake sat.

But as soon as he turned around, he turned back and pressed a chaste kiss to your lips before scurrying off to the office, ready to delete the footage. You couldn’t help but smile knowing San would take care of it. What a dream boy.

[urbaebarnes]

flowers

summary: who'd ever imagine that the big bad mob boss would be such a softie when it comes to a defiant flower shop owner

mob boss bucky barnes x fem flower shop owner reader

warnings: curse words, reader uses she/her pronouns, no use of y/n (thats it I think?)

this is my first fic i'm actually putting on here and i'm scared icl

word count: 4.7k words

This shop was everything to you. You’d bought it just under a month ago, the old owner was more than happy to hand over the keys, something about having family in a different state. The walls that were once decorated in peeling wallpaper were now filled with flowers, arranged on different shelves. 

Sure, it took a few weeks to fix up, but after only a few days, business was bustling. Old couples came in to pick some tulips to brighten their sitting rooms, teenagers picked bouquets of roses and lilies for their first dates, it was just as you’d imagined. 

The area was lovely too, the owner of the bakery from the other side of the street was a frequent visitor. You quickly became friends, Wanda would often buy flowers from your store and set them on her counter, and you would always buy your lunch from her, bringing back pastries and cupcakes to eat in your quieter moments.

The only strange thing you’d noticed was the kid who seemed to linger out the front of your store. He couldn’t be more than nineteen, and he often paced out the front of the store, head down as he paced back and forth, as if rehearsing a speech. At first, you’d figured he must just be anxious, but as he returned for the fourth time, your concern grew.

Truth be told, everybody you’d met so far had been so kind, asking how you were, checking up on you. Wanda was always especially adamant about asking if you’d seen anybody suspicious during the day and messaging you on a night to make sure you’d locked all your doors and windows. You’d never bothered to mention the kid outside, he still looked like a baby really and didn’t seem as though he would cause any harm.

The fourth day he appeared outside was different though. As soon as you opened the shutters of the shop, he was on the other side of the street dressed in all black, leaning against a building as he looked down at his phone. He hadn’t been here this early before. In the first hour of the sign on your door reading ‘open’, he moved around, inching closer but still not close enough. That was until mid-day.

After waving off the last person from the store, you were free to sit down on the swivel chair in the corner and let your eyes rest just for a second. A car alarm had been going off all night about a street away from your apartment about the bakery meaning you hadn’t caught a wink of sleep. However, your moment of peace and quiet didn’t last long as the small bell you’d installed above the door rang out again.

You quickly stood up, placing a smile on your face as you turned, unable to see the visitor due to the arrangement you had in the middle of the store. You walked through the plants, frowning as you noticed a particularly droopy looking fressia. “Hello, are you looking for anything…” Your voice trailed off as you took in the visitor. The kid from outside, his hood now up as he pinched at his fingers. “...in particular?”

He looked up, hand going to lower his hood before seemingly second guessing the action and lowering his hand so it now hovered awkwardly by his head. “Erm, I’m P- wait no, I’m not supposed to introduce myself.” You frowned as he muttered, scrunching his face. “I’m here on behalf of the Barnes family. We’re aware you recently moved to the area and we’re… we offer, uhm, we offer protection for a price.” His voice got progressively quieter the more he talked.

“I’m sorry, who are the Barnes family, do they need flowers for something?” You questioned, eyebrows hunched together as the kid groaned.

“No, no it’s, we’re like, has nobody really told you about this? You’ve been here a few weeks now and-” He stopped seeing as you shrugged and he seemed to say "Bad things happen to people who don’t pay us, okay?”

“But why am I paying you?”

“For protection.” He reiterated.

“Protection from whom?” You asked, fiddling with the corner of your cardigan sleeve.

“Us and them, the other mobs, mostly the other guys, well sort of, sometimes the boss-”

“You’re in a mob?” You cut him off mid sentence as you took him in. His hands were now awkwardly stuffed in the pocket of his hoodie, eyes wide as he looked at you. “How old are you? Shouldn’t you be in school or something?”

His face flushed pink as he yanked his hood down, “No, we… this is my first job and I’m supposed to collect the first amount today, and if I don’t then I don’t-”

You sighed, picking up an arrangement from the left of you and placing the pot in his hands, pausing his rambling. “Look, I’m not paying you anything. Take the flowers, they’re on the house I guess, I can protect myself, kid.” You smiled sincerely as you placed your hands on his shoulders ,which had hunched up towards his head, and led him out of the shop. “Have a nice day!” You said cheerily as he landed on the pavement, blinking in confusion as you waved and let the blue door shut.

You took a deep breath in as you flipped the small sign in the glass window around to show you were closed before shaking your head. You distracted yourself from the fact you apparently needed protection by clipping the fressia from before, reopening the store half an hour later.

Wanda found herself in your shop as you were both closing up that night, a bag of leftovers in her hand as she opened the door, meeting you with a smile. “Where were you today?” She questioned, placing the bag down on the countertop. “You haven’t found somewhere better for lunch have you?”

You appeared from the back quickly, a smile forming at the smell of the baked goods. “Of course not, just had a weird… thing happen over lunch.”

Her ever present grin dropped at that, “Oh yeah, who was it?” She asked cautiously, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.

After rifling through the bag to find a cookie, you glanced up at her, “Somebody about protection or something like that.” You quickly dismissed it with a shake of your head, but Wanda continued to watch you carefully.

“You agreed, right?”

You screwed up your face at her, taking a bite from one of the cookies, “No, obviously not, I can protect myself.” Her mouth fell open as you groaned at the baked goods. “This is so good, Wan!”

“Uh uh.” She shook her head, glancing out the window as she said your name once over, “You can’t protect yourself from these people, the last dude that owned this place missed out on two payments so he sold this place to pay it off and left as quick as possible.”

“Well, these people haven’t met me yet, and I’m not paying them shit.” She sighed again, taking the bag off the counter and turning towards the door, “Hey, where’re you going?”

“You’re staying at mine tonight.” She declared. “Close up the shop and lock everything, I mean it.”

[⭐]

“I’m so sorry Mr Barnes, I don’t even know what happened, I just, she gave me the flowers and I-” 

Peter stood in the centre of the room, eyes wide and frantic as he obviously feared getting into trouble with his boss. After all, Bucky Barnes wasn’t somebody you wanted to dislike you.

In fact, Bucky Barnes wasn’t somebody most wanted to be associated with. He was feared by most, including most of his people. He was known for being ruthless and cold blooded, a job was a job in his eyes.

Which is what made Peter so twitchy, this was his first time going on a mission and even though he wasn’t necessarily sure about what to do or how to intimidate people, it seemed he’d drawn the short stick and had been handed with a defiant mission. People who went against Barnes’ orders didn’t usually end up in a good condition, sometimes there wasn’t a condition at all.

“Peter.” He shut up quickly as Bucky said his name, fingers massaging his temple. “So she just… gave you flowers and you left?” His voice drawled around the empty room as he leant back into his chair. His frown was deep, people didn’t usually say no to this sort of thing, and whether he could pin it on Peter’s age or this woman’s sheer pride, he couldn’t tell.

“Well, she put her hands on my shoulders and like, walked me out of there?” Peter questioned his own words as his head tilted, “She told me she wouldn’t pay us but the flowers were on the house, so, there’s that.”

Steve couldn’t hold in a chuckle as he looked to Bucky, “I can go down tomorrow if you want.” He offered, white teeth flashing in a smile. Steve was the only person Bucky trusted- really trusted. This had all been passed down to him, this life had all been in his family for generations, but Steve didn’t know that when they were children, neither of them had any idea what his father was up to, and more importantly, Steve had no idea who Bucky would become. 

Their friendship was genuine, something that had become a rarity as time went on and they grew up. 

He shook his head, taking a sip of amber from the glass, “I’ll handle it.”

“Buck,” Steve started, raising his eyebrows, “I don’t think-”

“It’s been quiet, and I’m getting bored of sitting in this room all day. It’ll do some good for me.” He downed the rest of his drink as Steve nodded, Peter still stood, hands fidgeting. “Peter, go home, get some rest. I’m going to partner you with someone more senior next time. Maybe Stark?” He mumbled the last part to himself as Peter opened the mahogany doors and made himself scarce.

Bucky lent across the table, sliding the photo of your shop into his view as he squinted, seeing your figure through the window, standing with a customer, holding up a bouquet. He flipped it over, tracing the information for your name, running it over his tongue once.

“I don’t think she’ll agree easily.” Steve stated, eyes flickering over your picture, “Sounded pretty stubborn according to Peter.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, standing up from his chair. “It’ll be a piece of cake.”

[⭐]

Wanda was reluctant to even let you leave her apartment that morning, let alone go across the street, but you’d quickly reassured her that you would be fine. In fact, you’d be more than fine, the bat by your desk and nine years of karate weren't for nothing after all.

It had been a normal day, sweet customers, one angry woman who found flowers from your shop her husband had bought for his side piece, the usual, and no sight of the kid. Wanda came to check on you every hour, leaving her brother, Pietro, in charge of the tills, even though he mostly just flirted with the customers in her absence.

But seemingly, trouble had latched itself onto your door and by the time three o’clock struck, disaster came calling. You first noticed something was happening when the couple you were talking to exited the shop, stopping your conversation. Then, the others all filtered out with wide eyes until it was just you and a single other man in the shop.

His hair was combed back, jacket thrown over a button up shirt left unbuttoned at the top. As you approached him, he fiddled with an alstroemeria between his thumb and forefinger. The door shut as the last customer shut it behind them.

He turned to face you with a smirk, faltering slightly as he took in your appearance, the flower in between his thumb and forefinger pausing as he looked you up and down. You looked backwards towards the door, exasperated at the sudden abandonment of your shop. “Hi there, is there anything I can help you with, Sir?” You asked with a wary smile, eyes flickering to where you know you kept your bat.

He was a handsome man, you’d be blind not to notice that, in fact, as your eyes met his steel blue ones, you felt your breath escape you for a second. His voice was deep as he said your name, never tearing his eyes from yours, “You have a lovely place here.”

“Thank you.” You smiled, feeling yourself relax a little as a smile clawed at the corner of his lips. “It’s still new, but it’s going good so far.” He hummed, staring intently at your face as you shifted on your feet, face flushing at the attention. “Is there anything that’s caught your eye?”

He blinked twice quickly, the hint of a smile playing at his lips quickly dropping, “I’m not here about the flowers, sugar.”

Your heart fluttered at the pet name before frowning, processing his words. “If you're here about the kid yesterday, I’m going to tell you the exact same thing, I’m afraid.” You pursed your lips, “I can look after myself.”

“I don’t think you really understand.” He said, taking a step closer.

“I think I do, and if that’s all you're here for, I suggest you leave quickly.” 

He looked down at you, watching as your breath hitched at the proximity, “There are bad things that happen around here, bad people that do bad things. All you have to do is pay me and I make sure you're safe, doll. That’s how it works around here.”

His head bent down as you looked up at him, swallowing and holding your nerve, “What, you gonna hurt me?”

He frowned at that, something that you didn’t fully expect after what the kid had said yesterday. You were expecting a laugh or something, not for his forehead to crease and eyebrows to pull together. “No, no. Couldn’t ruin a pretty face like that.” He seemed to catch himself as he stared at your lips, raising his head and taking a step back, face returning to a neutral expression as you could see the cogs turning in his head.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I’m still not going to pay you.” 

The bell on the door rang as Wanda’s voice rang out, “You all-”

You turned around to see Wanda stood, a foot in the door as she stared at the two of you, eyes narrowed at the man in front of you.

He looked between you and Wanda, tongue in cheek before stepping further away from you, still clutching the flower as he made his way out the door, Wanda side-stepped out of his way as he looked at the flower, glancing back at you in the doorway. “Be careful.”

His voice held a sort of sincerity you weren’t expecting, a warning but not necessarily meant towards him. The door shut as Wanda quickly hurried over to you, “Shit, holy fucking shit, please tell me you agreed to pay them.”

You frowned as he disappeared from your sight through the window before looking back to Wanda, “Huh?”

She cursed under her breath once more, “That was Bucky Barnes, you know that right?” Your eyes squinted in recognition at the surname. “That’s the guy you're supposed to be paying, and he did a home visit, he doesn’t do that. He has people to do that for him, Jesus Christ, please tell me you just nodded along.”

You shook your head, letting out a shocked laugh, “No, I said the same thing as yesterday. I won’t be bullied into paying him, no Wanda!” She groaned loudly as your speech, hand resting on the top of her hair, “He didn’t seem, I don’t know, threatening or whatever.”

Wanda quickly studied your face, hands resting on your shoulders, “Nope, that is a mob boss, we are not doing the whole cutesy blushing over a man in a suit.” She gently shook your shoulders as you laughed.

“I’m not doing that.” You shook your head with a smile, picking a flower from that morning’s delivery that you hadn’t had a chance to sort through yet and placing it in her hair, smiling as she gave you a knowing look.

It was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous how you just couldn’t stop thinking about that goddamn flower, or more importantly, how it looked in between his fingers. How the bright colours offset his dark suit, the grin on his lips as he looked at you with the sort of intensity that made your stomach feel like it was on the verge of erupting. And his eyes, oh the eyes spoke for themselves. Every movement, every thought could be seen just by the smallest of movements. 

He had perfect eyes, you thought.

You blinked at the sound of Wanda’s voice, snapping from your gaze as she stood at the door, “I have to get back before Pietro offers to take somebody else on a ‘private tour’ around the bakery.” She rolled her eyes as you could just make out her brother through the window, staring at a woman intently as he leant up against the counter, arms crossed.

“Have fun!” You teased as you watched her walk across the street, wrapping her long, multicoloured cardigan around her body.

You couldn’t help but let your mind wander back to him and the way his voice sounded and the way he walked and the way he looked- everything about him, truthfully. Every time you heard the bell chime, a part of you hoped it would be him, even if that probably didn’t mean anything remotely good.

Instead, you helped a woman  -Natasha - pick out some flowers for her sister, who’d just moved into a new apartment somewhere downtown, and a girl named Kate who’d broken something or other valuable of her mother’s and thought flowers might soften the blow. And who could forget your favourite customer, Stan, an elderly man who came in mostly just for a chat, but also to pick out his own flowers and have her arrange them as they talked over a tub of biscuits.

But none of them could fully distract you, not even when Wanda forced you to sleep over at hers, or her and Pietro’s constant bickering over what TV show they should watch, even though they both know he’d give in eventually and agree to whatever Wanda wanted. And especially not as you lied on a mattress in Wanda’s room, her soft breathing the only sound that filled the room as your imagination went wild, your mind filling with what you would do or say if he appeared on your doorstep the next morning, or even right now, and what if he was wearing a giant croissant costume, and what if he had a pet iguana named Tom, and what if Tom could talk… 

Eventually, you drifted off with the promise of Bucky Barnes showing up at your shop’s door dressed in all manner of strange costumes with a whole gang of talking animal sidekicks. 

Yet, when you exited the bakery the next morning and found an all too familiar looking man standing outside, glancing at his watch every few seconds, you were all but too sure that he could show up in a tracksuit and cap and your stomach would still make the strange fluttery feeling. It didn’t really matter about his costume or masses of talking pets, your excitement seemed to rest in seeing him.

“The shop doesn’t open for another half an hour, Mr Barnes.” You said as you walked across the street, feeling for your keys in your pocket. 

His head raised at the sound of your voice, a wide smile adorning his features, saying your name like it was the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. “You sure you can’t let me in a smidge early.” He held his fingers up, pinching them fairly close together as you paused opening the door.

“That depends, are you here to buy flowers or here to tell me to pay you?” You questioned, letting your keychain rattle against the door. He felt closer than he actually was as you let your tongue run over your tongue.

He seemed to smirk at your question, tilting his head so you could see him from the corner of your eye, looking you up and down once, “Well, what if I just wanted to come see you?” He asked, shifting on his feet as he let his hands bury themselves in his pockets, eyes never straying from the side of your face.

“And why would you wanna do that?” You challenged, keeping your face forward as he neared your ear, trying to keep your smile at bay and breaths even. He was supposed to be the big bad wolf, so why couldn’t he stop making your heart beat faster than a race car?

It wasn’t even as if he was your type. Back home, you’d dated the perfect jock, high school football team captain, straight A student and hair reminiscent of the sun. That was until he broke your heart into a million pieces and you’d sworn off men after graduation and after years of saving, you’d finally moved here. Yet here you were, feeling as though his stare could make you melt into a puddle.

“Maybe because I couldn’t keep your pretty face out of my dreams.” He smiled, lips close to your ear as his warm breath fanned your face, the cool temperature finally catching up to you as you tugged on the sleeves of your jacket and unlocked the door with a twist of your keys.

“We open in half an hour Mr Barnes.” You giggle as you slip inside, watching through the window as his mouth formed a small circle before licking his lips and waving at you through the glass as you shut the blinds, disappearing around the arrangements and resting your arms on the desk. 

Breathe, you repeat to yourself, it’s not as if the guy you only met yesterday just tried to flirt with you. And it’s not as if he’s currently standing outside. 

Oh you were screwed.

By the time it came to opening, you opened the blinds, finding him leant against the wall beside the window outside, looking down at his watch again. He turned to you almost immediately, tugging down his sleeve as you flipped the sign over, signalling you were open as he pretended to queue in front of the door, rocking back and forth on his feet as you opened the door with a grin.

“You’re thirty-two seconds late, doll.” He smirked, biting his bottom lip as you moved to one side to let him in. He thanked you politely as he stepped in, inhaling deeply as you watched him expectantly, the door shutting. “I do have a bone to pick with you.” 

He leant up against the wall as you swallowed thickly. Truth be told, your pride wasn;t the only reason you were against paying him, between bills and running the shop, after your first week, you weren’t exactly in a position to be giving anybody anything.

“It’s not about money, don’t you worry about that.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand, shaking his head as he saw your worried expression. “You’ve picked up a nasty habit of calling me Mr Barnes.” He said the name mockingly, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer to you.

You struggled to hide your surprise. Wanda had definitely said Bucky Barnes, that had been his name, you were sure of it. “My friend Wanda said that you-”

“Well, your friend Wanda isn’t you.” He said, placing his hand on your shoulder, his fingers going to the collar of your t-shirt and fiddling with the hem, “You call me Bucky.”

You were lost for words as you took in the name. You absentmindedly leant into his touch on your shoulder. He hummed in response, letting his thumb run over your shoulder. “That seems awfully informal for a man who was attempting to get me to pay him yesterday.”

He paused, absorbing your words, seemingly surprised by your response. “I like that about you.” Bucky stated, hand pausing as he attempted to find your eyes which still avoided his, instead tracing over the shelves behind him. “You’re not afraid to speak your mind, but I guess it makes it better when you have a voice as sweet as yours.”

You look down, lips struggling not to grin widely at his flirty comments, instead you bite the inside of your cheek before glancing back up at him. “So you’re not here to try and sweet talk me into paying you?”

He chuckled at that, and god was his laugh something you’d try to commit to memory. “That’s what my people think I’m here to do.”

“Well, what do you think you’re here to do?” You were careful to keep your voice levelled.

“I think I’m here to see a beautiful flower shop owner-” His voice trailed off as the doorbell chimed and you took a step back seeing the girl from yesterday, Kate, walk in. Your body missed his hand on your shoulder instantly, but you forced your legs to move anyway, rounding the corner to see her in a long purple coat.

“I’m gonna need more flowers.” She stated with a sigh as you laughed softly at her annoyed expression. You showed her to a small section, spotting Bucky watching you intently from the corner behind Kate.

He was holding two bouquets of flowers, one in each hand as they nearly covered his face. You shook your head, telling Kate you’d be back in a minute before wandering over to his side. “Are you using them to hide behind or are you making a purchase?” You questioned with a light laugh seeing his chin poke up between the two.

“I’m making a purchase, doll. Thought these would brighten up my kitchen nicely.” He exclaimed with a smile, walking over to your desk with the till on it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be collecting my money, not giving me it?” You asked hesitantly as he put the flowers down on the desk and rummaged through his pocket for a wallet before holding his hand full of far too much cash out to you. It was more than enough for the two bouquets, probably more than enough for ten, and as much as you weren’t one for turning down generous amounts, this all felt a little too good to be true.

“What did I say earlier, sugar, you don’t need to worry about that money thing, I’ll take care of it, on one condition.” He added the last part in a whisper as you took the money and put it in the till, leaning against the counter with a small smile on your face.

“And what’s that, Mr Barnes?” You asked, squinting playfully at him as he picked up the colourful bouquets.

“You have to call me Bucky.” 

You laughed, standing up from the counter, “Okay then, Bucky.”

His head leant backwards as you said his name, scrunching his nose as he grinned, “You say it like that and I might just have to come back.” 

You walked towards the door with him, silently offering to carry one of the bouquets as you outstretched your hands, but he quickly shook his head and insisted he could do it himself until you finally got to the door, holding it open so he could exit. “Whatever you say, Bucky.”

His grin was impossibly wide as he turned backwards on the sidewalk, parting the flowers as much as possible to spot you through the masses of colours. “I’ll see you soon, doll.” He said, turning around and walking back down the street. He looked quite the sight, carrying the abundances of flowers down the path until you couldn’t spot him anymore, leaving you wondering how exactly he was going to get anywhere if he had to carry them all the way.

You let the door shut as you shook your head to yourself. “Who was that?” Kate asked curiously, wiggling her eyebrows as you grinned, hand tracing over your shoulder where his had been moments ago.

“Bucky.”

read part two here!

[1d1195]

Buttercup - Extra I

Read Buttercup here ~2.6k words

From me: most of the asks and follow up requests were for showing how in love they are and how Harry' s going to treat her right after she wasn't for so long. Hopefully this will work 💕

Warnings: a little angsty, but fluffy overall. Maybe a little TOO fluffy. Nauseating, if you will. Like eating too many peanut buttercups.

Summary: Moving in next to Harry is one of the best thing that's ever happened to her.

It seemed like it had been raining for weeks. The wind provided an eerie soundtrack to her dreams. The rain sheeting against her window didn’t help either. She wished she had taken Harry’s offer to install a doorbell camera. However, she worried she would stare at it excessively, worried about who could be approaching her house.

Staring at the ceiling she sighed covering her eyes with her palms groaning to herself. The house was too quiet. Of course, she felt safe. It was just the wind and rain adding to her anxious mind. All she needed to do was fall asleep and in the morning everything would be fine. Her phone said it was just after two she still had ample time to sleep before her alarm went off.

Stupid Levi.

She thought she was a pretty independent person. Given that she kept her secret of leaving Levi for a couple months she felt she deserved the title. It took careful planning. Her heart had been in her throat for well over a year prior to her escape.

A little wind and rain shouldn’t have bothered her.

But it did. Every extra sound made it feel like someone was breaking in. They weren’t and she knew it. There was only one person that would try to break in and despite his threat, he hadn’t been back in the months since he showed up unexpectedly.

Two in the morning was too early. It had to be. There had to be a limit. For God’s sake they’d hardly been dating long at all. Swallowing, she put the phone to her ear and sighed as she listened to the quiet ring. One, two, not even three. “’Lo?” He murmured. Clearly, she woke him. Part of her thought she should just hang up and let him sleep. “Buttercup, baby, y’okay?” His voice clearer as she didn’t answer.

Great. Now he’s worried. “Hi,” she whispered.

He chuffed out a breath of laughter. “Hi kitten,” his voice sounded way too good. It should have been illegal to sound that good half asleep. What was the reason? “Y’okay, Buttercup?”

“Yes.”

There was a pause, and she hoped Harry fell back asleep so he wouldn’t worry about her. She could hang up and he wouldn’t even notice. She would tell him he dreamt the whole thing in the morning. “Jus’ wanted t’hear m’voice, then?” He asked.

She sighed heavily. “No...” she shook her head. “Not... no. I woke up and... forget it. I’m sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“Buttercup,” he practically cooed. “Tell me.”

His voice was too soothing. Too enticing. She was pretty sure as independent as she was that if Harry asked or said it, with his pretty voice, she was doomed. He could convince her to rob a bank just by asking. Or quit her job and rub his shoulders all day.

“M’jus’ gonna come over, kitten,” she heard the rustling of his comforter and sheets. The creak of his bedroom door and his quiet footsteps around his house.

“No!” She said quickly, sitting up and pressing a hand to her forehead. “That’s ridiculous, Harry.”

“No, s’not,” he yawned. “S’actually a great idea. This weather keeps waking me up. I need someone t’snuggle with if I want t’save any remainder of m’sleep. I’ll use m’key. See y’in a minute.”

He was gone before she could respond. She threw her covers off and hurried to the front door switching on every light she passed. As she reached the front door, Harry was closing and locking the deadbolt. “Hi, Buttercup,” he grinned, kicking his shoes off. He was soaked from the short walk, the tips of his curls that didn’t stay in his hood dripped on his face. His jacket dripped on her floor (not that she cared). “Let’s go t’bed,” he hung up his coat and pulled her by the hand as he walked back toward her room.

He switched off each light she just turned on, saying nothing about the impromptu visit. In her room he stripped his shirt off making her gulp because even though she had seen Harry many times without a shirt on, he was stunning and made her speechless. He slipped out of his sweats next and all but tossed himself beneath the covers. The poor thing seemed totally exhausted.

“C’mere, kitten,” he mumbled and lifted the covers for her to fall into his arms.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered when she was settled into his embrace. He pulled her in, so she was spooned into his body. He was so warm it was insane. She threaded her fingers between his and tucked his hand beneath her chin. His other hand outstretched below her pillow. His lips were at the back of her head. Softly he pressed kisses along the spot on her neck he could reach.

“What are y’apologizing for, Buttercup?”

“For waking you—”

“Y’didn’t wake me,” he interrupted. She huffed because she knew he was lying. Lying to make her feel better. “S’not a big deal,” he decided after a moment. “Getting t’sleep with you s’a great reward.”

“But you had to go out in the rain and it’s late—”

“M’not gonna melt, baby.” She huffed again, irritation evident in the tone of just her breath. “Talk t’me, kitten.”

“I was scared,” she whispered.

He inched his body closer to hers. It seemed impossible as the heat of his thigh on the back of hers felt like she was suntanning in the tropics. “Scared of what, Buttercup?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “The weather was just loud I guess, and every little noise bothered—”

“M’sorry,” he mumbled and kissed her skin. “I’ll stay when we have bad weather from now—”

“Harry, that’s not your responsibil—”

“You’re m’girlfriend, Buttercup. S’not a chore or anything. S’what m’supposed to do and more than that, I want t’do it. Sleeping with you is one of m’favorite things,” he explained.

“It’s silly. I’m a grown, independent woman and I shouldn’t need my boyfriend to sleep with me because I’m scared of a little weather.”

There was a long pause. She would have thought Harry had fallen asleep if it wasn’t for the fact that he released her hand to use his fingers to trace the skin on her arm. “Y’not scared of weather, Buttercup,” he whispered. She felt her cheeks warm at his accurate statement. “Y’don’t have t’be brave for me. Y’had t’deal with a really scary thing and frankly I’m scared for you. Not because I think he’s going t’come back, but because I know y’think he might, and it scares you and s’not fair for you t’live like that. S’why I sleep with m’phone on full volume. I would sleep over every night if y’asked. I would love t’do that. Jus’ because y’don’t need a lot from me, doesn’t mean y’can’t ask nor deserve it. Y’can be independent and still need me,” he spoke slowly, his reassuring words felt elongated by the night. She felt her eyes sting with tears. Harry saw her so clearly and easily. He didn’t even have to see her to know he needed her. He was willing to lie to her about her own emotions so she wouldn’t feel embarrassed.

“Can you tell me you love me already so I can say it back?”

He chuckled and twisted her around until she faced him in the dark. He cupped her face stroking his thumbs along her cheeks. “Y’could have said it first at any time, baby.”

“Absolutely not. You would have said something mean if I said it first.”

“Mean? Like what?”

“Like... thank you or something, I don’t know. Some silly prank that would make you laugh.”

He chuckled. “S’a good idea.”

“Exactly. Laugh exactly like that. I’m not saying it first. I don’t care how ridiculous that is.”

He brushed his thumb on her lip and leaned in blindly in the dark to press a gentle, warm, firm, and lovely kiss on her lips. It made her dizzy and she couldn’t believe he liked her so much despite her bad attitude and her stubbornness. “I love you, Buttercup,” he whispered softly, his breath fanning across her face.

She couldn’t believe he loved her.

“Thank you,” she sighed dreamily. He snorted, shook his head, and kissed her forehead. “I love you, too.”

“Go t’sleep, Buttercup,” he murmured and tucked her into his chest. “S’jus’ a little wind and rain.”

She fell asleep before he finished his sentence.

*

When she came home from work, Harry was on her front step. However, he wasn’t waiting for her this time. His attention was fixed right next to the handle of her door. “Hi Buttercup,” he grinned over his shoulder as she approached. “How was your day?” He asked. She stared at him as he continued installing the doorbell camera. “What did y’have for lunch?”

She watched him silently as he worked. “What are you doing?”

He smiled sheepishly. “Nothing, baby,” he shrugged. “Jus’ making sure y’feel safe.”

She swallowed the lump in her throat. Harry made her feel so safe all the time. “How—”

“I should’ve done this when we discussed it the first time,” he shrugged one shoulder and then put the screwdriver he was using in the small toolbox he laid on the porch at his feet. “Can I see your phone?” He asked. She opened the bag on her shoulder and handed off her phone. He unlocked it with her passcode. “Now y’can see,” he put a hand on her lower back. “Y’can adjust the sensitivity. Y’probably don’t need t’know every time a squirrel runs across the porch,” he kissed her temple while the back of her eyes started to sting with the threat of tears. “What do y’want t’do for dinner, Buttercup?” She shrugged and turned toward him. She pressed her face into his chest. “Hey, s’matter, kitten?” He hummed kissing the top of her head. “Hey,” he chuckled. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re so nice,” she sniffled.

“Buttercup,” he sighed and squeezed her tighter. “S’what a boyfriend is supposed t’do. I love taking care of you,” he promised her. “S’normal things t’do for you. S’what y’do when we’re in love.”

“I don’t do anything like this for you.”

“Oh, Buttercup, s’not true...” he frowned. “Y’make dinner, y’rub my back, y’made our garden look so much better than I ever could’ve done. And, not t’mention y’kiss me and let me do naughty things t’your pretty body,” he smiled impishly. “So y’do sweet things all the time.”

“But you make me feel safe and I don’t—”

“Buttercup, your existence makes me feel safe. S’my job t’make y’feel safe.”

“Are you guys making out in front of the doorbell to save for later?” Louis called from the yard. “That’s weird.”

Harry flipped him off and tipped her chin up. “S’a good idea,” he winked and pressed his lips against hers.

“I love you,” she sighed.

“Thank you,” he grinned.

She shoved him and he chuckled, pulling her back to his chest. “I love you so much, Buttercup.”

*

Harry woke up to the smell of something coming from the kitchen. It seemed unlikely that Louis was cooking something because the last time he tried, he thought they were going to need a fire extinguisher. He headed down the hall. “El are y’cooking breakfast?” He yawned rubbing his eye as he did.

“Not quite,” she giggled.

Harry perked up excitedly and quickened the last steps to the kitchen. “Good morning, Buttercup, t’what do I owe the pleasure?” He asked, coming up behind her at the counter. He pressed kisses to the crook of her neck while she worked with the waffle maker. There was an upturned bowl beside her little work station. “This is sweet of you, Buttercup. S’it our anniversary already and I forgot?”

“No,” she smiled. “I just, wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You’re always nice t’me, baby.”

“Well really nice then.”

She pulled the waffle from the iron and placed it under the bowl with three others before putting the bowl back to keep them warm. Harry’s couldn’t stop his hands from roaming her hips and sides. “M’in love with this,” he sighed dreamily. He tucked his face into her neck and wrapped his arms around her waist.

“Me making breakfast?” She laughed.

“S’jus’ nice, Buttercup. I would never expect you t’make me breakfast, but s’jus’ thoughtful. You’re perfect.”

“Do you want something extra? You’re being super complimentary.”

“I love you, kitten. Take the compliments,” he chuckled, his words mumbled and obstructed by the way he pressed his mouth to her skin. She focused on the waffle again and remained quiet for a few moments. Then Harry realized the error of his words. “S’probably hard to take the compliments, hmm?” She shrugged one shoulder but didn’t say anything; confirming exactly what Harry already knew. “Well, s’a good thing I like complimenting you. S’good practice for you t’get used to it,” he peppered her cheek with kisses. “Can I help y’with something?” He asked.

She smiled. “No, I’m just going to put this on the table.”

Harry was so distracted by how pretty she looked in his kitchen early in the morning, making him breakfast, he didn’t even notice how cute the table looked. There were flowers in a vase in the middle. Four plates and sets of silverware set up like they were at a restaurant. There were strawberries, blueberries, chocolate chips, whipped cream, and butter. Orange juice and a tray of four coffees from their favorite shop nearby.

“You’re incredible,” he pulled her away from the waffle iron as she set the last one. He wrapped one arm around her waist, cupped her face with the other and tipped her back to kiss her. Her lips were so soft and so warm. his heart started pounding like he had never kissed anyone before. She tasted so good, sweeter than the yummy waffles they were about to eat. He couldn’t help but smile as he kissed her. He used to love pranking her; the joy he felt was unmatched when he made her grumpy. God, kissing her was triple the dopamine, quadruple the serotonin. It felt almost illegal to be so happy. It spread all through his body.

“Harry,” she giggled against his mouth. “Breakfast.”

“You taste better,” he mumbled not pausing his kisses against her mouth.

“At least taste the waffles before you insult them,” she whispered pulling back slightly while he dotted kisses along her face while she spoke.

He squeezed her tight to his body, tucking his face back into her neck as he did. “Hey Buttercup?” His voice muffled once more by her skin and his reluctance to move from her body.

“Yeah?”

It warmed Harry how easily she answered to the little name. She was lovely. Perfect. The best thing to happen to Harry. While he hated why she had to move into their neighborhood, he was so grateful her pretty self created a home right next door. He pulled back to cup her face, skimmed his thumb on her cheek. “You deserve compliments.”

He didn’t follow it up with anything cute. Didn’t even compliment her afterwards. He wanted it to sink into her brain—even if it only sank in an inch. He would tell her every day. She deserved all the best and Harry was happy to remind her of such and do whatever he needed to make her feel that way.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

He kissed her forehead. “I’ll go get El and Lou.”

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“I love you lots.”

“Me too, Buttercup. So much,” he winked heading down the hall.

--

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[indulgentdaydream]

protective!jason hcs or blurb 🥰

Ok so I kinda touched on these in my latest fic but anyways i WILL elaborate bc those were just background

We all know that man is touch starved. We ALL know it.

We also all know he’s hesitant with sharing touch

It’s only once you both have been dating for a bit already, maybe three months in, that he really starts to show his protectiveness through his touch

Or at least when you notice it

He’s always at least holding your hand as you guys walk around Gotham. Depending on exactly whereabouts in Gotham is when he changes whether he’s between you and the road, or you and the alleyways.

You watched him change it up one time halfway through your shared walk, him letting go of your left hand, stepping behind you and around to grab your right instead.

“Oh? So you want me to get hit by a car and die?”

Jason only keeps his eyes on the passing buildings and the ones coming up, “The chance of that is much lower than somebody trying to mug you in this area, love.”

One day you’re both out at the bar together. He’s sitting on a stool behind you as you babble to oke of yours friends.

From over their shoulder, you see a man approaching, but don’t think anything of it.

Suddenly, you see the man stop in his tracks, freezing. You glance over at him. He looks terrified. He glances at you, his original target, then behind you again. He spins on his heel and walks back the way he came.

You look behind you, feeling Jason’s hand still resting on your hip. You almost feel a little scared yourself, seeing that killer glare that Jason’s pointing at the guy’s back.

He switches immediately the second he looks down to you, a soft smile and kind eyes, not a hint of the previous bloodlust a mere second ago. “What?” He asks, like watching his expression change wasn’t the biggest turn on in the world.

You’re sitting in your apartment at your desk typing away on your laptop. You’re trying to file your taxes, and Jason had come over to help you with it (surprisingly he knows how even though he’s still legally dead at this point and hasn’t had to pay any taxes. Ever.)

He had stood and was wondering around your room a bit while he waited for you to fill the next part out. You can hear shuffling, but you’re too focused to tune into it.

“Jay? What does this line mean?”

Jason grunts for a moment and you hear your window slide open.

You turn back around, “Jay?”

“One second.” He shuts your window again. You watch as he fiddles with the lock before easily sliding the window back open. He throws his hands in the air and looks at you. “How long have you lived here?”

You shrug, confused, “You helped me move in.”

Jason waves his hand through the air, “When?”

“Almost a year? Last November.”

Jason fiddles with the window again, slamming it back down, “This lock doesn’t work. You been sleeping in here and anyone could’ve just broken in?”

You shrug again, “I didn’t know it was broken! I don’t really lock my window often.”

Jason looks like he almost broke his neck by how fast his head whipped back to you, “You don’t lock your window????”

He finishes your taxes for you before he leaves, saying he’ll be back. Within the hour he’s knocking on your door again, a duffle bag in hand full of power tools, screws, and different assortments of heavy duty locks. He spends the rest of the night installing them.

A new one on your bedroom window that actually consisted of two different locks. A similar two on your kitchen window. Another three on your bedroom door itself. Then four on your front door.

As he leaned over your kitchen sink, screwing in the lock and blocking your way as you tried to make you both dinner.

“Is this really necessary?”

“I’m not having you practically open to every bad thing the city has to offer, love.”

“Then how are you going to come in through my window now?”

“I’ll learn to knock.”

That’s all I can think of right now okay byeee