iimplicitt

[iimplicitt]

just @theonottsbxtch and i being unhealthy and unhinged

[iimplicitt]

please please please hungry eyes part 2 for whennn

i’m working on it i swear 😭 it’s gonna be LONG too i got ambitious and carried away

[iimplicitt]

i do love you enough

Hi writer, hope you're doing well rn. I have a request, can you write an angsty fic again but this time with a happy ending and a smut too 🥺🥺 *you don't have to add the smut if you dont want too

hello

i live angst however i need more vibes gimmie vibes or drivers or more bc i need more help pls

and i shall see if @iimplicitt loves me enough to help me write smut

[iimplicitt]

my envy is going to be my downfall istg GET ME OUTTT

[iimplicitt]

i WILL be posting the firefighter oscar art TRUST

THE FLAT NEXT DOOR | OP81

an: @iimplicitt started drawing a firefighter oscar and next thing i knew, i was writing this story. it's so dear to me, firefighter!oscar you mean so much to me. also ive written something similar to this called sunflower syndrome (i dont think ive posted) which i can post, its next door neighbours and shes a single mum as well, its completed just never been posted lol - lemme know if you want it

summary: a firefighter with a soft heart & no idea what he’s doing with his life. a single mum who gave up everything for a tiny pair of shoes. a six-year-old matchmaker with a butterfly painted on her cheek. and the slow, aching kind of love that feels like coming home.

wc: 14.1k

Oscar hadn’t planned on becoming a firefighter. In fact, he hadn’t really planned on anything. Life, so far, had been a series of decisions made more out of avoidance than ambition. Moving to England from Australia at fifteen had felt like starting over in the middle of a film, he’d missed the beginning and had no idea what the plot was meant to be. His accent had softened over the years, but the disorientation never quite left.

By the time he finished school, uni felt like a trap more than an opportunity. He wasn’t academic, not really. His girlfriend back then had big dreams and a UCAS application filled out before the rest of them even figured out their predicted grades. She wanted him to come with her. Scotland, maybe, or Manchester, but he couldn’t pretend to want something just to stay close. Long distance sounded like a slow death, and he was already tired of pretending to care about futures he couldn’t picture. They broke up in late spring, somewhere between the last exam and prom. He barely remembered the conversation now, only the strange mix of guilt and relief afterwards.

The fire service had been a suggestion from someone he barely knew, his mate’s older brother or a careers advisor he met once. The idea stuck, though. It felt solid, practical. So he moved to a town just outside London, somewhere not too fast but not too sleepy either. Now, in his mid-twenties, he still wasn’t sure it was what he wanted, but it was something. A job, a flat, a rhythm.

The flat was part of a red-bricked terrace that hadn’t aged gracefully but wore its wear with a sort of tired charm. Peeling paint on the railings, a communal garden mostly made of grass that didn’t grow right, and neighbours you recognised before you knew their names.

For a while it was quiet on his floor until his neighbour moved in not long after he did, though they didn’t speak properly for months, he always saw her. She was quiet, but not unfriendly. Always rushing, school runs, shopping bags, the sort of tired that didn’t come from lack of sleep but from doing everything yourself. She had a daughter, six years old and full of questions, the kind who shouted hello from the doorstep and thought Oscar was a superhero just because he had boots by the door and came home smelling faintly of smoke.

He didn’t know much about her. She kept to herself, didn’t bring people round, and handled things with a quiet efficiency that made Oscar feel both impressed and slightly in the way. He saw her most often on Sunday mornings, pyjama bottoms tucked into socks, mug in hand while she coaxed the little one into her coat. He wondered, sometimes, if she had ever had a plan, or if she, like him, had simply found herself in a life that looked like it belonged to someone else.

The town had a softness to it in the early mornings, before the cars filled the roads and the high street buzzed with prams and pensioners. The air still held a trace of mist, clinging to hedgerows and the slate roofs that lined the close. Oscar liked this time of day, even if he wasn’t a morning person by nature. There was a quiet permission in the hush, like the world was still deciding what kind of day it wanted to be.

His flat smelled faintly of laundry detergent and burnt toast. He tugged on his jacket, the navy fire service one with the embroidered badge half-unpicked from where it had snagged last month. His boots were by the door, laces loose from habit. The station wasn’t far, a ten-minute walk if he didn’t stop for a coffee or get caught by someone with too many questions.

He swung the door open and nearly collided with her.

“Sorry—” they said at the same time, both stepping back, the awkward shuffle of neighbours not expecting to meet in the narrow shared walkway.

She was crouched beside Aurelia, zipping up a purple puffer coat that was already streaked with breakfast. Her hair fell forward as she glanced up at him, blinking through the unexpected encounter.

Oscar straightened, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t see you there.”

“That’s alright,” she said, standing up. Her voice was warm, light, with the kind of casual tiredness that didn’t sound like complaining.

Aurelia grinned up at him, gap-toothed. “Are you going to fight fires today?”

He chuckled, crouching a little to her level. “If they start, yeah. Hopefully not too many, though. I’ve just cleaned my helmet.”

She giggled at that, and her mum gave him a grateful sort of smile, small, quick, like she wasn’t used to people being gentle with them.

Oscar stood again, unsure what else to say. The kind of silence that stretched just a second too long settled between them.

“School run?” he asked, just to fill it.

“Yeah. She’s already tried to convince me she’s sick twice.”

“I am sick,” Aurelia insisted. “Sick of spelling tests.”

That made her mum laugh, the kind of laugh that sounded like it didn’t come often enough.

Oscar smiled, then pointed toward the road. “I’d better get going before Zak starts calling. My boss has the patience of a gnat.”

She nodded. “Alright. Have a good shift.”

He hesitated for half a beat. “You too. I mean—have a good school run. And day. And… everything.”

She raised an eyebrow, amused. “You too, firefighter.”

As he walked down the path, he heard Aurelia whisper, “Mummy, I think he’s cool.”

He grinned all the way to the station.

The station smelled of instant coffee, damp gear, and the faint chemical tang of smoke that never really washed out. Oscar pushed through the side entrance, nodding at the watch crew already gathered in the mess room. The TV was on mute, rolling through the morning headlines, and someone had burned toast again, the fire alarm had a nasty habit of reacting more to that than actual emergencies.

He dumped his bag in his locker and shrugged off his jacket, already feeling the dry warmth of the place settling into his bones. There was a comfort to the station, rough around the edges, but reliable. It reminded him of the school changing rooms back in Melbourne: paint chipped from too many boots, the faint echo of shouts in the corridor, the shared understanding that none of it was glamorous, but it was theirs.

“Morning, mate,” came a voice from across the room.

Oscar looked up to see Andrea, one of the senior firefighters on his watch, cradling a mug with World’s Okayest Firefighter printed in peeling letters. He had salt and pepper hair, always grumbling about overtime, and somehow managed to be everyone’s uncle without trying.

“Morning,” Oscar replied, reaching for the kettle. “Anything going on?”

“Not yet. Callout at half three, car in a ditch near the A-road, but that’s about it. Oh, Zak wants a word when you’ve got a sec.”

Oscar groaned quietly. “Do I need to be nervous?”

Andrea grinned. “Always.”

He found Zak in his office, chewing on a pen lid and frowning at a stack of paper that looked older than both of them. He waved Oscar in without looking up.

“You busy this weekend?” Zak asked, without preamble.

Oscar blinked. “Uh, not really. Why?”

Zak finally looked up. “We’ve been asked to send someone to this community thing at Chestnut Grove Primary. Little safety talk, couple of demos, let the kids have a go with the hoses, all that, see the truck.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “Chestnut Grove? The one down the road”

“Yeah. Saturday morning. Council’s pushing the whole community engagement thing again. You up for it?”

He could’ve said no. He wasn’t the best with big groups, especially ones full of excitable children and clipboard-wielding parents. But something about the name clicked in his head, a flicker of memory. Hadn’t he seen little Aurelia in a forest green uniform?

“I’ll go,” he said, surprising even himself.

Zak blinked. “Right. Well. That was easy. Cheers.”

He left the office feeling oddly restless. Community events weren’t usually his thing, too many people, too many eyes. But he figured it was just one morning. How bad could it be?

Back in the mess, Andrea glanced up from the paper. “You’ve got that face on.”

“What face?”

“The one where you’ve agreed to something and immediately regretted it.”

Oscar shrugged, pouring himself a coffee that tasted vaguely of plastic and burnt hopes. “Just volunteered for the school event.”

Andrea gave a low whistle. “Brave man. Good luck dodging flying juice cartons.”

Oscar smiled to himself, thinking of Aurelia’s grin that morning, the way she’d looked up at him like he was some kind of action figure come to life. If nothing else, maybe it would be nice to see some children think he was a hero he 100% wasn’t.

It was one of those spring mornings where the sun tried its best, but the chill hadn’t quite loosened its grip yet. The air was sharp, fresh with that faint green smell of grass and new leaves, and the sky had that washed-out blue that promised warmth later, maybe.

Oscar parked the spare appliance near the edge of the school field, just where the tarmac gave way to a patch of uneven grass. The truck was technically out of use, something to do with the hydraulics, Zak had said, but it looked the part and that’s what mattered. He unfolded the little step ladder and opened up a few side panels to make it look more interactive. A pop-up banner flapped in the wind beside him, showing a smiling child in a tiny fire helmet with the slogan Be Cool, Stay Safe in cheerful red letters.

The fair itself was already in full swing: bunting strung between gazebo poles, the smell of frying onions from a burger van, and a trail of small children darting between stalls clutching glittery cupcakes and face paint flyers. Oscar had been given a little corner to himself on the edge of the field, which suited him fine. He liked watching the buzz of it all from a slight distance, present, but not in the thick of things.

He was in full kit except for the heavy jacket and helmet, both left hanging neatly inside the cab. Just his white fire service shirt rolled up at the forearms, and the braces of his overalls snug over his shoulders. He leaned against the side of the truck, hands in his pockets, the breeze tugging gently at the hem of his shirt.

A few curious kids had wandered over already. Two boys who’d wanted to climb inside the cab and press every button, a shy little girl who’d asked if he had ever rescued a cat from a tree, while he hadn’t, he said yes, and a boy who only cared about the siren.

Oscar found himself smiling more than he expected. There was something easy about it. Maybe it was the way kids didn’t expect anything except enthusiasm and the occasional high five. Maybe it was the way parents hovered a few feet away, grateful for five minutes of peace while someone else answered the never-ending questions.

He took a sip from his coffee flask, just as he heard the unmistakable patter of small feet sprinting across grass.

“Neighbour firefighter!”

He turned, and there she was, Aurelia, bounding across the field with a neon butterfly painted across one cheek and a balloon animal in one hand. Her plimsolls were slightly muddy and her coat was half unzipped.

Oscar laughed, straightening up. “Oh, I know you!”

She skidded to a stop in front of him, breathless with excitement. “Mummy said we might see you but I didn’t really think you’d be here!”

“Well, I don’t lie about fire engines,” he said, crouching down to her level. “That’s a very serious thing.”

She grinned, already peering into the open side of the truck. “Can I go in?”

“Course you can—but hang on a sec, where’s—?”

And then he saw her. Walking at a slower pace across the grass, hands deep in her coat pockets, eyes already on him. The breeze lifted the edge of her scarf, and her hair glinted slightly in the sun. She looked different here, more relaxed somehow, out of the usual early morning rush and into something softer.

“Hi,” she said, when she reached him. “Looks like you’ve got an assistant now.”

“Yeah,” he said, smiling, “bit short for the uniform, but she’s got enthusiasm.”

Aurelia had already clambered halfway up the step ladder, peeking into the cab with the confidence of someone who fully expected to be given the keys. Her balloon animal was now tucked under one arm like a sidekick.

Her mum laughed, folding her arms loosely as she watched. “She’s been bouncing off the walls since breakfast. I think she thought she’d get to drive it.”

Oscar grinned. “Could probably teach her. Might be more focused than some of the lads at the station.”

She gave him a look, one of those amused half-smiles he was starting to recognise, a little dry, a little warm. “You here all day?”

“No, just the morning. Couple of hours, bit of leafleting, bit of ‘don’t play with matches’ chat. Then I get to drag all this lot back to the station and pretend it never happened.”

“Well,” she said, glancing toward Aurelia now balancing with one foot on the step and the other poised mid-air, “you’re already a highlight. She’s going to talk about this for weeks.”

Oscar watched Aurelia for a beat, her complete absorption in twiddling the dials on the dashboard, and then turned back to her mum, catching the moment her eyes dipped.

Just for a second.

A quick flicker downward, over the rolled sleeves, the broad line of his shoulders beneath the white shirt, the dark straps of his overalls snug against his chest.

He smirked. “Careful, you’re staring.”

Her eyes snapped up, sharp and just slightly horrified. “I am not.”

“You are. It’s alright. Happens all the time,” he said, leaning casually back against the truck, utterly insufferable now. 

She scoffed, but her ears had gone pink. “No! I just think it’s a nice shirt. Very crisp. Good cotton, probably.”

Oscar chuckled, folding his arms. “I’ll let the fire service know. Get one sent out to you.”

“Oh, good,” she said dryly. “Nothing says flattering like free uniform merch.”

Aurelia’s voice rang out before he could reply. “Mummy! Come look at the back bit! There’s hoses!”

She gave him a look that said this isn’t over, then stepped past him to help Aurelia down. Oscar caught a whiff of her perfume as she moved, something light and clean, like citrus and soap, and tried not to look too pleased with himself.

He crouched again beside the little girl. “Want to hold the thermal imaging camera?”

Aurelia gasped like he’d offered her a crown. “Can I?”

“Course you can. Let me just grab it.”

While he disappeared momentarily into the side compartment, her mum looked after him, one eyebrow raised, like she was still debating whether to be annoyed or amused. Maybe both.

When he returned, holding the chunky bit of kit with both hands, he caught her smirking to herself.

“What?” he said, passing the camera to Aurelia.

“Nothing,” she said sweetly. “Just admiring the shirt again.”

Oscar grinned. “Thought so.”

And if he stood a little straighter for the rest of the morning, well, no one could blame him, really.

By midday, the fair was starting to wind down. The bouncy castle had deflated into a sad, crumpled mess, and a few stalls were already packing away jars of pick ’n’ mix and rain-speckled flyers. The sun had climbed properly now, still not warm, but bright enough to squint against.

Oscar stood by the truck, arms folded loosely, watching as Aurelia gave the thermal imaging camera a final, dramatic sweep across the grass, pretending to detect imaginary fires. Her mum hovered a few steps behind, rummaging in her bag, trying to locate a missing glove.

He caught her voice, half-muffled by the breeze. “Alright, Rels, we’ve got to go soon. Last bus is at twelve and I’m not chasing it again.”

Oscar straightened a little. She was looking at her watch, already slipping back into that quiet, slightly hurried rhythm he recognised from mornings in the shared walkway.

He pushed off from the side of the truck and wandered over, deliberately soft-footed across the grass. He stopped just behind her.

“Boo.”

She jumped about a foot in the air and turned, hand instinctively going to her chest. “God, don’t do that!”

He grinned. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

She exhaled sharply, trying not to smile. “You’re a menace.”

Oscar nodded toward the road beyond the fence. “You’re heading off?”

She gave a small nod, still a little breathless. “Yeah. Got to catch the bus before it disappears into the void. It’s only once an hour out here.”

“Don’t bother,” he said, hands back in his pockets now. “Let me give you a lift.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I’ve got to drive the truck back to the station anyway, and Aurelia’ll love it. And I brought my car in this morning, first time in ages, I was running late, so I can just take you both home after.”

She stared at him, clearly caught off guard. “Oh. I mean, that’s kind of you. I don’t want to, um…”

“Inconvenience me?” he finished, one brow raised. “You wouldn’t be. It’s just a lift.”

She hesitated, glancing at Aurelia, who was now poking at the truck’s steering wheel with something close to reverence. “We don’t usually talk this much.”

Oscar gave a soft laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Thought I’d change that.”

She looked like she might say no, just on instinct, like she didn’t want to be a bother, but the words never quite came. Instead, she sighed and gave him a resigned sort of look.

“Fine. But only because Aurelia will probably combust if you offer.”

Oscar turned to the little girl, crouching again beside her with mock seriousness.

“Hey, Aurelia,” he said, “want to ride in the fire truck?”

Her eyes went wide. “What? Really?”

“Really,” he said, gesturing grandly toward the cab. “I need a co-pilot.”

She shrieked in delight and immediately threw herself at her mum, already halfway into the truck in her head. “Mummy, mummy, we’re going in the fire engine!”

Her mum shook her head with a quiet laugh, murmuring as she passed Oscar, “You’re going to regret this.”

But he was still smiling, already opening the cab door, like he doubted that very much.

Once he checked that everything was back in place, Oscar jogged over to the headteacher, a harried-looking man in a tweed jacket with a clipboard under one arm, who, thankfully, tended right to it and began talking to the stall holders.

When he turned back, he found Aurelia had already jumped in and her mother was right behind her attempting to get up herself. He came up behind her quietly, hand brushing gently around her waist as she shifted her weight.

“Easy,” he said near her ear, low and careful. “Didn’t want to startle you again.”

She tensed slightly, then let out a breath that was half a laugh, half something else. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

He tightened his hands around her waist and hopped her up into her seat then stood on the ledge. “Right then, Aurelia you’ll have to sit on your mum’s lap,” he told her, lifting her up onto her mother’s lap. “I haven’t got a booster seat, and I reckon you’d get swallowed up by that seatbelt on your own.”

“Okay!” Aurelia chirped, already clambering in. She nestled against her mum, legs swinging slightly, her face bright with excitement.

“Hold still a sec,” Oscar said, reaching in to pull the seatbelt across both of them. His arm brushed hers as he clicked it in, and when their eyes met briefly, he gave her a look that was pure cheek.

“Safe and sound.”

She raised a brow. “You enjoy this far too much.”

“I really do,” he grinned.

He stepped back, shut the door with a solid thunk, and jogged round to the driver’s side. Once inside, he leaned over and handed Aurelia a chunky black handset.

“Alright, Firefighter Aurelia,” he said, reaching for the cab’s radio. “We’ve got a very important mission.”

He pressed the button and spoke into it in his best dramatic voice. “Control, this is Unit Seventeen. We've received reports of a rogue ice cream van, repeat, rogue ice cream van, causing mayhem in the residential zone. Suspect is armed with sprinkles. Requesting permission to pursue.”

Aurelia squealed with laughter and clutched the handset like it was made of gold. Her mum shook her head, but Oscar caught the smile she was trying not to show as he flicked the ignition.

The old appliance groaned slightly as it rolled off the grass and onto the gravel path. The gate swung open ahead of them, and they bumped gently onto the road.

The drive was short, fifteen minutes or so, but it was quiet, in a good way. Aurelia made soft siren noises under her breath the whole time, practically vibrating in place, and her mum kept a steady hand around her middle to stop her launching herself at every passing tree or pigeon.

When they finally pulled into the station yard, the engine still humming beneath them, Oscar spotted Lando through the open shutters. He was parked in a camp chair just inside the bay, arms folded, head tipped back, fast asleep with a half-eaten bag of crisps in his lap.

Oscar flicked his gaze up to Aurelia, then caught her mum’s eye.

“Wanna wake up Sleeping Beauty?”

Aurelia’s face lit up. “Can I? Really?”

“Go on then,” he said, reaching up to the dash. “Just one burst, yeah?”

She bounced in her seat as he tapped the siren switch. The wail screamed to life, echoing through the yard. Lando nearly fell out of his chair, crisps flying in every direction.

Oscar killed the siren after two seconds, laughing as Lando stood up blinking, dazed and scandalised.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Lando shouted, wiping crumbs off his shirt.

Oscar stuck his head out the window. “Community engagement, mate.”

Aurelia was giggling so hard she nearly dropped her balloon animal.

Her mum shook her head, smiling despite herself. “You’re going to get sacked.”

Oscar smirked. “Not unless he grasses.”

He parked the truck, turned off the engine, and helped them both down one at a time.

As he pulled up, he looked at her sideways. “Worth it?”

She gave him a wry look. “You’re completely ridiculous.”

He grinned. “And yet, look at the smile on your daughter’s face”

She didn’t respond straight away, just looked at him, that same half-smile playing at her lips, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes yet. Not because she wasn’t happy, but because she wasn’t used to all this. The ease of it. The way he fit so seamlessly into an afternoon that wasn’t supposed to be anything more than a spring fair and a sugar crash.

Aurelia, oblivious to the grown-up moment passing quietly over her head, was already tugging at her mum’s hand.

“Mum! Look! Look, it’s like Fireman Sam! The pole! Can we slide down it? Can we?”

Oscar chuckled and crouched beside her. “You’ve got a good eye, Aurelia. That’s the real thing. Only the grown-ups are allowed on it though, bit dangerous, that one.”

She pouted, considering the injustice, then lit up again. “When I’m a grown-up, I’m going to work here with you.”

“Deal,” he said, offering her a pinky. “You’ll be the best firefighter in the place.”

She pinky-swore with great ceremony, and then launched into an intense interrogation about hoses, helmets, and whether or not he’d ever saved a dinosaur (he hadn’t, but he’d chased a very angry goose once, which she seemed to find acceptable).

Eventually, the sugar high began to dip and she slumped a little, thumb sneaking toward her mouth before her mum gently steered her hand away. Oscar caught the silent exchange and didn’t say anything, just gestured toward the far end of the garage.

“Car’s parked out the back. You ready?”

Her mum nodded, brushing a stray curl off Aurelia’s forehead. “Yeah. Let’s go before she falls asleep standing up.”

Oscar got changed out of his gear and wore just a hoodie and a pair of shorts as the girls walked to his car. They bundled into his car, Oscar making a show of unlocking the door like it was a limo and she was royalty, and within five minutes, they were on the road again, the fire truck a quiet memory behind them.

Aurelia was asleep before they turned onto their street.

Her head lolled against her mum’s arm, soft snores escaping in little puffs. Her butterfly face paint had mostly faded, a faint smudge of pink and glitter under one eye.

Oscar pulled into the car park behind the flats and cut the engine. The stillness after the hum of the engine felt sudden, like stepping into a moment that didn’t quite belong to the day.

She shifted carefully, not waking Aurelia, and glanced over at him.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For all of that. You didn’t have to.”

He leaned back in his seat, eyes still on the dashboard for a moment before he looked at her.

“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”

They got out quietly, and he came round to open the door for her, taking Aurelia gently from her arms and settling her against his shoulder without fuss. She stirred but didn’t wake, hand fisting into the fabric of his shirt as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

They climbed the stairs together, slow and careful, her just a step ahead as they reached their landing. She unlocked her door quietly, reaching out to take her daughter back.

Oscar passed her over gently. “She’s heavier than she looks.”

“She’s all legs,” she whispered, smoothing Aurelia’s hair.

He nodded, hands slipping back into his hoodie pockets. For a second, neither of them moved.

The corridor was still. Just the hum of an old light overhead and the faint smell of fabric softener from someone’s laundry down the hall.

“I should… put her down,” she said, but her voice didn’t carry much urgency.

He looked at her then, really looked at her. “This was nice,” he said. “Spending time. With you.”

She held his gaze, surprised by how much that simple truth settled somewhere deep in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said after a moment, soft and honest. “It was.”

Neither of them quite knew what to say next. But it didn’t feel awkward, just quiet. Comfortable.

Then she smiled, just a little, and nodded toward her door.

“See you tomorrow, neighbour.”

He smiled back, stepping slowly away.

“Sweet dreams, Aurelia,” he said, softly, before turning and heading for his own door, the warmth of the moment still clinging to the edges of him.

And behind her closed door, she stood for a beat longer than she needed to, heart ticking just a little louder than usual.

A couple of days had passed, and the brightness of the spring fair had faded into a more typical grey sort of morning. The kind that didn’t quite rain, but threatened to at any moment. Oscar was shrugging into his station fleece, keys already in hand, when he stepped out into the corridor and nearly tripped over something on the doormat.

He blinked down at the small tupperware tub sitting neatly against his door, like it had been placed there with great care.

Inside, through the foggy plastic lid, he could just about make out a few slightly lopsided fairy cakes, frosting a bit wonky, a generous scattering of rainbow sprinkles on top. They weren’t shop bought. Not a chance. They had that unmistakable homemade charm, the kind that didn’t care about appearances but would taste better than anything in a bakery.

Tucked underneath the corner of the lid was a small card, folded over like a secret note passed in class. His name was scrawled across the front in purple felt-tip, the letters slightly uneven. 

He crouched down, picked it up, and flipped the card open.

Dear Mr Oscar,

Thank you for letting me drive the fire truck. You are the best firefighter in the world. I made you fairy cakes. Mummy helped but I did the mixing.

Love from,

Aurelie (age six and a HALF)

Oscar stared at the note for a long moment, a smile spreading slowly, unstoppably across his face.

He glanced at their door, tempted to knock, but it was early, and quiet behind the wood. Probably the usual hushed breakfast rush in there, uniforms, pony tails and cereal on the floor. He didn’t want to interrupt. Not yet.

So he tucked the card into his jacket pocket and examined the container, before heading off down the stairs with the kind of ridiculous warmth in his chest that made even a dreary Tuesday feel a little golden around the edges.

By the time Oscar got home, it was well past eight. His shift had overrun, as they often did, from a small domestic fire to someone’s car keys that were stuck in the car. He was knackered, hungry, and somehow still smiling like an idiot every time he glanced at the now empty cake tub in his hands.

He’d saved one. The best one, in his opinion. A bit sunken in the middle, heavy on the sprinkles, the icing smudged at the side like someone small had licked their thumb and tried to fix it. It was tucked into a bit of kitchen roll in the pocket of his coat.

The corridor light flickered as he climbed the stairs, his boots quiet on the worn carpet. Their doors faced each other, and for a moment, he just stood there, unsure if he was about to come off charming or really quite tragic.

But then he knocked.

Soft, just enough to be heard over whatever bedtime might sound like on the other side.

A pause. Then the click of the latch, and she opened the door just a crack before widening it when she saw him. She looked cosy, oversized hoodie, hair up, bare feet. The kind of comfort people didn’t wear unless they felt safe at home.

“Hi,” she said, surprised but not in a bad way. “Everything alright?”

Oscar held up the empty container like a peace offering. “Official return of government property. Wouldn’t want to be accused of fairy cake theft.”

She smiled, hand resting on the doorframe. “Did she really give you those?”

“Left them on my doormat. Full note and everything. Genuinely the highlight of my week.”

“She was very serious about it,” she said, laughing gently. “Kept asking if I thought you’d know they were from her. I told her you’d probably figure it out from the purple pen.”

“There was a lot of purple,” he nodded solemnly. “It was a full forensic giveaway.”

She laughed properly then, a hand over her mouth, and the sound curled around his ribs like a warm drink.

“I, um…” he shifted a little, suddenly aware of his own nerves, “I saved one. If she wants it back.”

She raised a brow. “You saved one?”

He held up his hands. “For sentiment, not greed.”

“Mm-hm,” she said, amused. “Well, she’s out like a light. Crashed in the middle of Matilda. Completely missed the part where Miss Trunchbull throws a child across the playground.”

“Shame. That’s the best bit.”

They stood there for a second longer than was casual, silence stretching warm between them.

Then, soft as anything, she said, “You want to come in?”

Oscar blinked. “Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “If it’s not weird.”

She stepped aside to let him pass. “It’s a little bit weird,” she said honestly, then smiled. “But not bad-weird.”

He slipped inside, brushing past her in the doorway, and something about the quiet of the flat, the low lamplight, the faint scent of strawberry shampoo in the air, it made him feel like he was somewhere he wasn’t quite ready to leave.

She shut the door behind them, and for the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like just the neighbour with a fire truck.

He felt like someone she wanted to keep close.

The flat was warm in a lived-in sort of way. Not spotless, but comfortable. A couple of cushions on the floor, a half-folded blanket draped across the back of the sofa, a mug left forgotten on the coffee table with a teabag still inside. It felt like somewhere someone lived, not just existed.

Oscar stood a little awkwardly in the middle of the room at first, unsure whether to perch or hover. She motioned towards the sofa, already heading into the kitchen.

“Put the telly on if you want. I’ve got, like, two channels that work properly and one that just plays antiques shows.”

He chuckled, watching her disappear round the corner. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He heard the clink of mugs and the whirr of the kettle. The sofa gave slightly under him when he sat, still warm where she’d been earlier, and he glanced around, a framed photo on the side, probably her and her daughter at the beach. Wind-swept hair, noses sun-pink, a proper grin on Aurelia’s face. That same grin she’d worn all day at the spring fair.

She came back in with two mugs, one hand curled round each handle.

“I wasn’t sure how you take it, so it’s builder’s,” she said, offering him one. “Strong enough to put hairs on your chest.”

He took it with both hands, the warmth of the ceramic seeping into his fingers. “I’ll risk it.”

They sat, not far, not quite close, but comfortably between. The telly was on in the background, some low-budget crime drama no one was really watching. The soft light pooled across her legs where she’d folded them under her, and the sleeve of her jumper kept slipping over her knuckles as she held her tea.

“Thanks,” he said eventually, nodding at the mug, then motioning towards the kitchen. “And for the cakes. And the note. That really made my day.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “She loves you, you know. Keeps calling you our firefighter.”

“Our?” He raised a brow, teasing. “Possessive, that.”

“Well,” she said, drawing out the word. “You did give her a lift in an actual fire engine. Might’ve set the bar a bit high.”

“Bugger,” he muttered playfully. “Should’ve started with something less exciting. Bin lorry, maybe.”

They both laughed, a quiet, comfortable sound. The kind that filled the little flat without echoing, like it belonged there.

There was a lull then, not awkward, just gentle. She reached down to pull the blanket from the floor and tossed one end over his legs without a word, settling the other across her own.

He blinked down at it, then looked at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Sharing blankets now, are we?”

She didn’t even look at him. “You’re the one who looked cold.”

“Right. Humanitarian effort. Got it.”

He sipped his tea to hide the grin, eyes on the telly though he couldn’t have said what was happening. Every so often, her knee brushed his. Not enough to make a thing of, but enough to notice.

Eventually, she said, quiet enough that he almost missed it, “It’s nice. Having you here.”

He turned to her then, properly, softly. “Yeah,” he said. “It is.”

The telly droned on. Outside, the wind rustled the trees. Inside, two mugs slowly cooled on the table, and two people who hadn’t meant to mean anything to each other found themselves sitting shoulder to shoulder beneath a blanket, realising maybe they did.

It had been just over a week since that quiet evening on the sofa, and things had shifted in the sort of way you only noticed once it had already happened. There hadn’t been any grand declarations, no big talk, no labels. Just little things.

Oscar now offered her a lift any time he saw her out shopping, even if she only had a single bag. He’d insist it was on his way, even when it clearly wasn’t. He started carrying her parcels up without being asked, shoulder-barging the stairwell door open with a grin and a “Special delivery!” like it was no big deal. He always handed them over with one hand and a joke but his eyes always lingered just a beat too long. She didn’t seem to mind.

She didn’t say no to him, either.

It wasn’t just about her, though. He was clearly soft on Aurelia too, somehow managing that delicate balance between fun and dependable, chaos and calm. He never tried too hard, never made her feel like a chore. Just… showed up. It mattered.

So when he spotted the two of them coming back from school one afternoon, something in his chest twisted.

Aurelia wasn’t bouncing the way she usually did. Her hand was tucked tightly into her mum’s coat, and her face was blotchy in that telltale just-finished-crying sort of way. She wasn’t sobbing now, but she wasn’t smiling either.

Oscar frowned, stepping out of his doorway just as they reached the landing. “Alright?” he asked gently, eyes flicking between the two.

She gave him a small, weary look, and then crouched to Aurelia’s level. “Go on, love. Go get changed into your pyjamas, yeah? I’ll be in in a minute.”

Aurelia nodded mutely, her little lip still trembling, and padded through the front door. It clicked softly shut behind her.

Oscar stayed quiet for a beat. Then, low and careful, “What happened?”

She let out a slow breath, leaning back against the wall, arms folded. “It’s nothing big. At least, not to anyone else. But to her…”

He waited.

She glanced down at the floor. “It’s bring your dad to school day tomorrow. They’re doing some assembly thing. A lot of the kids’ dads have these big jobs —marine biologist, police, pilot, someone even works at a zoo. And obviously she doesn’t have anyone. She asked if she could take her god father, but he’s away, and my brother’s not really around.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together slightly, the picture forming. He could feel the weight of it even now, the pressure that sort of thing put on a kid. Everyone else parading a parent around like a badge of honour. And her? Just trying to smile through it.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s a lot for her to carry.”

“Yeah,” she said, voice quiet. “She didn’t say anything about it until just now. Said she didn’t want to upset me.” She scoffed lightly at herself, blinking fast. “She’s six, for God’s sake. She shouldn’t be worrying about me.”

Oscar’s gaze dropped to the floor, then lifted slowly to meet hers. “Why don’t I go?”

She blinked. “What?”

“To the school. For the thing. I mean.” he shrugged, awkward now, eyes flicking away “If she wants me to. I’m technically a firefighter. That’s still cool, right?”

She stared at him.

He gave a small, crooked smile. “I’ve got the day off. And I’ve got the uniform. Not the proper helmet, that’s locked up, but I could bring the jacket. Talk about smoke alarms and what happens if you leave your toast in too long.”

“You’d really do that?”

Oscar looked at her properly now, really looked, and all the gentle affection in him softened his voice. “Yeah. If it’ll help. I’d do a lot for her. And you.”

Her lips parted like she might say something, but nothing came out straightaway. Instead, she just nodded, slowly, almost like she didn’t quite trust her voice yet.

“I’ll ask her,” she murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “But thank you, Oscar.”

He gave a half-shrug, like it was nothing, but his heart was thudding behind his ribs.

“Tell her I expect a very professional introduction,” he said, backing away toward his flat, trying to keep it light.

And just before he stepped inside, she called after him, voice soft but sure.

“She’ll be over the moon.”

He didn’t say anything back.

He just smiled.

And his whole chest felt full.

Oscar had never had stage fright in his life. He’d once crawled through a burning pub roof, half convinced it was going to come down on his head, and hadn’t flinched. But standing outside the Year Two classroom, fiddling with the zip on his fire service fleece while a sea of tiny faces peered through the glass?

Yeah. That did it. 

Aurelia stood proudly beside him, hand firmly in his, like she was escorting a VIP. “Don’t be nervous,” she whispered with complete sincerity. “You’re the best one.”

That undid him a bit.

The door opened and a teacher with a rainbow lanyard and a kind smile welcomed them in. Oscar ducked slightly out of habit, as though the ceiling might lower to match the size of the furniture. The classroom was bright and chaotic in the way only a primary room could be. Walls plastered with glittery artwork, phonics charts, paper bunting with all the kid’s faces and a corner reading nook with two bean bags that had seen better days.

Aurelia immediately tugged him by the hand to the back wall. “These are mine,” she said, pointing to a messy collage of tissue-paper flowers, a painted hedgehog, and a bright crayon rainbow. “And that’s my favourite one.”

He leaned in, smiling, and then paused. Nestled in the middle of the display, in a wonky black felt-tip frame, was a drawing of three stick figures.

One tall with brown hair and blue scribbles on his shoulders. One with long lines of hair and a dress in Aurelia’s favourite shade of pink. And one, small and neat, holding both of their hands.

His throat did something strange.

Aurelia tapped it with pride. “That’s you,” she said. “That’s me. And that’s Mummy.”

He blinked. Swallowed. “Right.”

No one had ever drawn him before. Not like that. Not part of something. Not holding hands.

She didn’t notice his pause, already rifling through a drawer of coloured pencils, humming quietly. The rest of the class buzzed around them, but in that little corner, time felt like it had narrowed.

“We’re allowed to make a new picture for home if we want,” she said. “I’m going to do one for Mummy.”

He crouched beside her, watching her draw two wonky hearts and a triangle house with smoke coming from the chimney.

“Can I help?”

She nodded and handed him a green pencil.

He added a little tree with apples. Then, below the drawing, in his slanted, firefighter has to fill forms handwriting, he wrote carefully:

Mummy is the prettiest of them all.

Aurelia giggled and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I think mummy is going to love that.”

He smiled at her, warm and full. “I hope so.”

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of picture books, wide-eyed questions from excitable children, and a slightly panicked moment when one kid asked how many people he'd "seen explode." 

But through it all, it was Aurelia's face he kept coming back to. The way she looked at him with pride, like she’d brought in something precious to share. The way she whispered his name to her friends, like she was letting them in on a secret. The way she slid her hand into his without even looking, like it was just the natural place for it to be.

And maybe the strangest bit?

It felt like home.

After the school visit, Oscar hadn’t quite been ready to say goodbye. Not yet. So when Aurelia mentioned, rather loudly and unsubtly, that she fancied an ice cream, he’d raised a brow in her mum’s direction and said, “Well, I suppose it is practically summer…”

She didn’t protest.

So they ended up walking to the corner shop, Aurelia skipping ahead with a swirl cone in one hand and rainbow sprinkles already melting down her fingers. He paid for the lot, obviously, brushing off any protests with a lazy, “Call it my speaker’s fee.”

When they got back, Aurelia darted inside first, cone long gone and hands sticky, only to stop dead in the kitchen.

“Mummy! Look!”

Aurelia pulled out the paper from her book bag with sticky hands, but her mum took it delicately, like it was something rare. Her eyes softened as she read the words beneath the sketch. Then, without a word, she reached for a magnet and pinned it to the fridge, pride of place, just above the shopping list.

Oscar watched from the doorway, the weight of something quiet settling in his chest. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

That night, just before he was about to settle in for a late dinner and a bit of telly, there was a soft knock at his door.

He opened it to find her standing there in joggers and an oversized hoodie, a small container in her hands.

“I made this,” she said. “It’s not much. Just lasagne. But it’s a thank you. For today.”

His lips curled into a slow, lopsided smile. “I see where Aurelia gets it from.”

She rolled her eyes, but didn’t deny it. He took the container from her, their fingers brushing for a second too long, and the air between them shifted—just slightly, but enough to notice.

They stood in the corridor for a moment. It was quiet. Still. A pause between heartbeats.

Then, softly, almost shyly, she leaned in and kissed his cheek.

He froze, just for a second. Her lips were warm, gentle. She was already pulling back, the beginnings of an embarrassed smile forming as she started to turn away.

But he caught her.

“Wait.”

His hand came up, firm but tender, fingers tilting her chin towards him. His thumb brushed her cheek, and then—

He kissed her.

Not tentative. Not uncertain.

He kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for weeks. Because he had.

She gasped just a little and then melted into him, her hands sliding up into the front of his hoodie, bunching in the fabric like she needed something to hold onto. And when she let out the tiniest, breathy moan against his mouth, he smiled into the kiss, cocky and utterly undone all at once.

“Alright there?” he murmured against her lips, his forehead resting lightly against hers.

She was breathless. “It’s been a while.”

His eyes softened, thumb still stroking along her jaw. “Worth the wait, though.”

She nodded.

And neither of them moved. Not for a long while.

Just them. Just warmth. Just… something that felt very, very real.

They stood there for a while, neither of them quite ready to let go.

Eventually, she nudged her nose against his cheek and whispered, “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

He blinked at her, lips still curved from the kiss. “Yeah,” he said, voice quiet. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

She led him back into her flat, closing the door softly behind them. The hallway light cast a warm, golden glow over the walls, and the familiar smell of home. He followed her into the living room, everything dim and quiet. Aurelia’s newer drawings were still scattered across the coffee table. A soft throw had been kicked half off the sofa.

She turned to him, suddenly sheepish, running a hand through her hair. “I feel like I’m at uni, sneaking someone in,” she said with a small laugh.

He grinned. “I never went.”

She tilted her head, surprised. “Me neither.”

He looked at her for a second, then nodded towards the closed door down the hall. The one with a glittery star-shaped sticker on it.

“That why?”

She glanced back at the door. Something shifted behind her eyes. A quiet sadness, old but not forgotten.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “I was supposed to. Got in and everything. Nottingham. English Lit. But I was nineteen and stupid and thought I was in love.”

She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and he followed. Their knees brushed. She stared at her hands for a moment before continuing.

“Didn’t know I was pregnant until I’d already turned down the offer. Was going to reapply the next year. But then she happened. And everything got really real, really fast.”

He didn’t say anything. Just listened, his body angled towards her, giving her the space and the safety.

“Her dad left when she was four months old,” she said, with a small, almost apologetic shrug. “Just sort of disappeared. Too young, too overwhelmed, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter now.”

He was quiet for a moment, then leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. His voice was gentle.

“Of course it matters.”

She gave him a tired smile. “Not in the way people expect it to. I’m not bitter. I’m just tired sometimes. It’s a lot. But then she does something like draw me with a crown and a sparkly dress and labels it Queen of Mummies and I forget everything else.”

Oscar looked at her for a long moment. Then, softly, “You’re incredible, you know.”

She let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sigh. “I’m tired and a bit moody and have approximately seventeen loads of laundry waiting, but thanks.”

He reached out, his hand brushing gently over hers. “I meant it.”

She looked up at him, eyes soft and a little glassy in the low light.

There was a pause, weightless but full of something.

“You’re not sneaking me in,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “You’re letting me in.”

And that, God, that did something to her.

She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he tucked her in without thinking, arms coming round her like they’d always belonged there.

They sat there like that. Still. Quiet. Her fingers tracing absent-minded shapes on his forearm. The world outside fell away, no alarms, no homework, no long nights of dishes and lost socks.

Just this. Just him. Just her.

And the hum of something beginning to bloom.

It had been about a month since that first kiss in the corridor.

Oscar still had his own place, but he spent two, sometimes three, nights a week at hers now. It wasn't official, they hadn’t talked about labels, but the toothbrush beside hers in the bathroom said enough. So did the way he’d taken to calling her flat home without thinking, or how Aurelia would lean sleepily against his leg in the mornings while she waited for her eggs to finish cooking.

They had a rhythm now, dysfunctional but quiet and real.

He’d learnt how not to wake Aurelia when he rolled in late, how to turn the key in the lock with just the right amount of pressure and not let the hinge on the bathroom door creak when he showered after a night shift. She, in turn, had mastered the morning shuffle. Tiptoeing around the flat while he slept off the early hours, even closing cupboard doors with that soft, deliberate touch only mothers and night nurses seemed to perfect.

Some mornings, if his shift ended early and she had a bit more time, she’d curl back into bed beside him for a half hour. No words. Just warm limbs tangled together under the duvet while the outside world waited.

It was gentle, it was something he’d never thought he’d get, something he’d never thought he’d deserve.

That night, though, the fire station ws quiet and all he could think about was home. He was half slumped in one of the chairs in the rec room, sipping lukewarm tea from a chipped mug and watching some repeat quiz show on mute. It was just him, Lando, and two of the more senior lads, all of them looking somewhere between exhausted and wired.

Then the alarm started blaring.

The tone was different, lower, more urgent. Not a false alarm or a test. Not a bin fire or a smoke detector in a student flat.

Oscar was already on his feet before Control came through the speaker. 

“House fire reported, scratch that, pub fire, multiple reports of visible flames, location. The Fox and Hound, Chapel Lane.”

That made him pause. The Fox and Hound was a big one. Old building. Thatched roof. Always busy on weekdays and visible from his little flat.

It was 2am.

“Let’s go!” Andrea shouted, already moving. Oscar hauled his gear on, the straps familiar and fast now. His thoughts flicked to her, to Aurelia, how they were safe at home but bound to wake up to the sound of sirens. He tucked it away. Couldn’t think about that. Couldn’t think about anything but getting there.

The engine roared to life, tyres heavy on wet tarmac. Blue lights bounced across empty roads and shuttered shopfronts. No one spoke. Lando checked the comms, while Oscar stared out the front window, jaw tight.

As they got closer, they could already see the glow. Not just smoke, flames. Licking skyward in bright, vicious tongues.

He felt it then. That buzz in his blood. Not fear, exactly, something sharper. Something colder.

They pulled up just outside the pub. Heat rushed at them as soon as the doors opened. People were gathered at a safe distance, coats over pyjamas, phones in hand, eyes wide.

Oscar jumped down, helmet secure, heart thudding.

“All right,” came the voice in his earpiece, “we’ve got reports of staff inside, one maybe trapped, two might’ve made it out the back.”

Oscar didn’t hesitate. “Which floor?”

“Upstairs flat. Left side.”

And just like that, they moved. Through the smoke, through the roar and the crack and the chaos.

He didn’t think of her again until they were inside. But when he did, it was like armour.

She’s waiting. You get out. You go home.

The heat hit him like a wall.

By the time Oscar got inside, the fire had already taken hold of the bar. Bottles of spirits cracked and burst like fireworks, sending shards and fuel across the floor. The wood panelling burned fast—too fast. There was a reason fire crews hated pub jobs. Alcohol and timber made for a nasty combination.

His mask filtered the worst of the smoke, but visibility was poor. He ducked low, sweeping the hose with one hand while shouting into the crackling dark, “Fire and Rescue! Anyone inside?”

There was no reply, just the moaning groan of the ceiling starting to go.

They cleared the ground floor quickly. A member of staff had managed to stumble out the back, coughing and panicked, mumbling about another one unaccounted for.

Oscar was halfway out, half a breath from turning back, when he caught sight of the stairs through the smoke.

Stairs.

He froze, then turned back to Control. “This place has rooms. It’s an inn.”

There was a pause in his earpiece.

“Confirmed. It’s a pub with letting rooms. Upstairs. Go careful.”

He didn’t wait for permission. He ran.

The heat intensified as he climbed. Fire moved like a living thing, chewing through floorboards, plaster, lives. The smoke was blacker here, thicker, laced with that acrid sting of burning plastic and varnish.

He moved fast, sweeping left and right. Doors half-open. Sheets scorched. The moan of fire too close.

And then he heard it.

A sob.

Small. Choked. From the far room, left corner.

He found her curled up on a narrow bed, knees hugged to her chest, cheeks streaked with soot and tears. Couldn’t have been more than eight. Long brown hair stuck to her face, and she was shaking.

“Mum?” she whimpered.

Oscar’s breath caught.

For half a second, she wasn’t a stranger. She was Aurelia. She was his little one. In a different place, a different time, but just as small. Just as scared.

He didn’t hesitate. Ripped off his oxygen mask and crouched down beside her, voice steady.

“Hey, hey—it’s okay. I’m here to help. We’re getting out of here, alright?”

She nodded, hiccupping sobs now. He wrapped her in his jacket, pulled her close, and hoisted her into his arms.

“Close your eyes for me, alright? Tight. Don’t look.”

She did.

The flames were close now. He felt the blistering heat crawling up the corridor behind them as he turned, shielding her with his body.

The ceiling above the stairwell was starting to sag. There wasn’t time to think. Only move.

He bolted.

Smoke seared his lungs. His mask hung useless at his hip. He pressed her tighter to his chest, ducked as a beam groaned and crashed just behind him, sparks flying past his shoulders.

The front exit was blocked. Too hot.

He spotted a smashed window in the corridor off the landing—low enough. Maybe.

He didn’t think, just acted.

He lunged for it, twisted his body to take the brunt, and threw his arm over her head as he pushed through.

Glass scraped his back. A cry tore from his throat, but he held her steady.

And then—

Air.

Cool, blessed air.

He stumbled out onto the pavement, coughing, the girl still cradled tight against him.

A medic ran forward and took her. She was sobbing, but alive. Alive.

Oscar slumped to his knees, gasping.

Lando was beside him in seconds. “Mate—what the hell?!”

Oscar waved him off, catching his breath, throat burning.

“She was in there. A kid.” He looked up. “Could’ve been her, Lan.”

Lando didn’t need to ask who her was.

It took another hour to put the fire out completely. They lost the roof, and two rooms, but no lives. None.

Oscar sat on the pavement long after the hoses went still, his turnout gear soaked through, back bleeding, lungs scorched, but he was upright.

He couldn’t stop seeing the girl’s face.

Couldn’t stop seeing Aurelia in it.

By the time they got back to the station, Oscar was soaked through with sweat and soot. His shirt stuck to the grazes along his back, stiff with smoke. His hands trembled when he took his gloves off.

The station was quieter than usual. No jokes. No kettle boiling. No telly. Just that heavy silence that follows the worst kind of shout.

Zak caught his eye as he stepped down from the truck.

“You’re done for the night, Piastri,” Zak said quietly, hand on his shoulder. “Go home, Oscar.”

Oscar opened his mouth to argue, to say he was fine, standard procedure, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t fine. He didn’t feel anything close to fine.

So he nodded. Wordless. Stripped off his gear and shoved it in the drying room. Pulled a hoodie from his locker and walked out of the doors with the smell of burny wood still clinging to his hair.

The cab ride home was a blur. He didn’t remember much except asking the driver to leave him on the corner, needing the walk to clear his head.

But it didn’t help.

Because all he could see was her. That little girl, curled up in the bed, sobbing for her mum. The one he carried out. The one who had Aurelia’s eyes.

He didn’t even realise his key had missed the lock twice until the door opposite his flat opened.

And then she was there.

She took one look at him and moved without thinking. “Oh my God—Oscar—”

He barely got the door open before she crossed the hallway, hands on his chest, eyes scanning him like she needed to count all his fingers and toes just to believe he was still whole.

“I heard there was a fire. We could see it from here, someone said it was your station that went out and—” Her voice cracked as she clung to his hoodie. “You didn’t answer your phone so I assumed you’d gone but—”

He didn’t mean to. But his arms went round her like instinct, and his voice finally gave out as he buried his face into the side of her neck.

“I need to see her.”

She didn’t ask who. She just nodded.

He stepped inside her flat and moved straight to the bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, the way it always was. Soft light from her nightlight spilled onto the hallway carpet.

Aurelia was fast asleep, curled on her side, clutching that stuffed bunny she never went to bed without.

Oscar watched her chest rise and fall. Just breathing.

Just alive.

And that was all it took.

His knees buckled slightly, hand braced on the doorframe, and tears spilled hot down his cheeks. She was there in an instant, arms around his waist, and he didn’t try to stop it.

He wept quietly, forehead resting against hers, chest heaving as every unspoken terror bled out of him.

She reached up and cupped his face gently. “Come on,” she said softly, “let me take care of you, yeah?”

He didn’t argue.

She led him by the hand to the bathroom, flicked the light on low, and turned the tap to fill the bath.

Without a word, she reached for the hem of his hoodie, and he let her lift it over his head. Her fingers brushed the grazes on his back, and she exhaled, not quite a gasp, but almost.

He looked down at himself. Soot-stained, battered, worn thin.

She didn’t say anything. Just tugged his joggers off gently, like she was handling something fragile.

When he was bare before her, she stepped closer, pressed a kiss to his sternum, and wrapped her arms around his middle.

He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing her in. Clean. Warm. Real.

“You’re home,” she whispered.

“I thought she was going to die,” he choked. “She was crying for her mum. She was—she looked just like—”

“I know,” she murmured, and her hand found his. “You saved her.”

She helped him into the bath, then climbed in behind him, still in her top having discarded her leggings, gathering him close like he was the one who needed holding now. And maybe he was.

No more sirens. No more shouting. No fear.

Just soft water. Warmth. Her.

Home.

The steam had fogged up the mirror, and the water had gone lukewarm by the time she pulled the plug. Neither of them moved for a moment. Limbs heavy, breath slow, her arms still wrapped around him from behind. His back rested against her chest, and her cheek was pressed to the crown of his head.

Eventually, she stirred first, nudging his shoulder gently.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice hushed like she didn’t want to wake the world. “Let’s get you dry.”

He let her guide him up, hands loose in hers. She reached for a towel and wrapped it round his waist, then took another and ran it through his hair, careful and slow like she was unravelling the knots of the day with each movement. His eyes stayed on hers the whole time, soft and unreadable. She dried herself as he put some clothes on, watching him as he slipped on the pyjamas he left yesterday, while she opted for a pair of shorts and a tank top.

She led him into her bedroom with nothing but the quiet creak of floorboards between them. Her hand rested on the small of his back, grounding him.

When she turned to face him, he didn’t speak. He just looked at her like she was something he still didn’t quite believe was real.

“Lie down,” she said softly.

He did, not like it was an order, more like a suggestion he’d been waiting for. He lay back against the pillows, hair damp, skin warm. He looked younger in the low light. Unarmoured. All soft edges and tired eyes.

She climbed in beside him and straddled his hips, in the vest and shorts she’d pulled on a second ago. Her fingers ghosted over the scrapes on his shoulder, her brow creasing.

“You’re hurt.”

“I’ll live.”

“Still.” She leaned down, brushed her lips over one graze like it deserved an apology. “You gave too much of yourself tonight.”

He let out a slow breath, hands resting on her thighs. “Didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

“I know.” She kissed another spot. Then another. “But you don’t always have to carry everything alone, you know.”

He swallowed, his throat tight. “I don’t know how to do this slowly,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not with you. Not after tonight.”

She leaned forward until her forehead rested against his. “It doesn’t have to be slow,” she murmured, lips brushing his. “It just has to be soft.”

And it was.

No rush. No fumbling. Just touch, and breath, and the quietest kind of yes in every movement.

His fingers curled around her hip, grounding himself, and when he kissed her back it was like he needed her to know. I’m here. I’m yours. I came home to you.

She smiled at him, the warmest smile he’d ever seen.

It wasn’t fireworks or declarations.

Just warmth. 

Home.

She kissed him again, this time slower. Deeper. Her fingers slid into his damp hair, anchoring him to her, and his hand found the curve of her hip again, drawing her in without thought.

The air between them felt thick with warmth, not heat, like the moment before a storm breaks, all hush and anticipation. There was no rush in it. No fumbling. Just the steady build of something that had been waiting in the quiet between them for weeks.

She shifted a little, her legs bracketing his, the hem of her vest brushing the tops of his thighs. His hands slid up, tracing her shape like he was learning it by heart. The small of her back, the line of her waist, the softness of her ribs. She leaned down, her breath warm against his cheek.

“Is this alright?” she asked, voice low.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his nose along hers. “More than alright.”

She kissed him again, deeper this time, and he responded with a soft noise at the back of his throat, his hands gripping a little tighter, his body rising to meet hers. Their movements found a rhythm, gentle, reverent. He helped her lift her vest, pulling it slowly over her head, and she let it fall to the floor beside the bed. There was no embarrassment in her. No hesitation. Just trust, and something else, something fragile and burning beneath the surface.

He sat up, mouth brushing her collarbone, then lower, until she gasped, not from surprise, but from the quiet ache of being seen. Wanted. He pressed kisses down her chest, hands steady on her waist, as if every part of her mattered. Like she wasn’t just something beautiful, but something sacred.

Her fingers found the waistband of his joggers and tugged them down with a quiet smile. “I think you’re overdressed.”

He huffed a laugh against her neck. “Been saying that about you for weeks.”

When they came together it wasn’t fireworks. It was warmth, and weight, and breath. Her hand slid into his, fingers laced tightly, like she needed the grounding. He moved slowly, gently, his forehead resting against hers, his free hand stroking up the length of her spine in time with the soft rhythm between them.

Neither of them spoke, not because there was nothing to say, but because everything important was already there, in the way their bodies met, and parted, and met again. In the way she whispered his name like it meant something. In the way he held her like she was the only safe thing left in the world.

And when it was over, when her body relaxed against his, and his arms came around her like instinct, they stayed there, skin to skin, tangled in sweat-damp sheets and the quiet hum of something that felt a lot like love.

He brushed his fingers through her hair, soft and absent.

She pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, her voice barely more than a breath.

“I’ve never had this,” she said.

He kissed the top of her head. “You’ve got it now.”

And she did.

The flat was filled with the kind of early morning stillness that only came after a long night. The light outside hadn’t quite brightened, but it wasn’t dark either, that muted, silvery sort of grey that hinted at a day gently waking up.

Oscar stirred first, arms curled around her, legs tangled in the duvet. Her head was on his chest, one of her hands tucked beneath his shirt like it belonged there, like it always had. He blinked slowly, heart still steady in the after-glow of everything, and let the moment stretch.

No alarms. No radios crackling to life.

Just breath. Just her.

Then came the familiar shuffle of small feet padding across the hallway, a door creaking ever so slightly, the rustle of a blanket being dragged along the floor.

Aurelia.

He felt her tense slightly against him, just a flicker, the instinct of a mum on alert, but she didn’t move to untangle herself from him. Instead, she sighed, soft and sleepy, and whispered, “She’ll come to the kitchen first.”

Sure enough, a cupboard door opened with a tiny clatter. A pause. Then the quiet clink of a cereal bowl.

He smiled. “She does this every time, doesn’t she?”

“She thinks she’s sneaky.”

“Is she?”

“Not even slightly.”

He laughed gently and kissed her hairline before slipping out of bed. He pulled on his joggers and one of her hoodies that hung by the door, the sleeves a little short on him, then padded into the kitchen.

Aurelia looked up from the kitchen table, spoon halfway to her mouth. Her eyes went wide for a second, not surprised, just curious, and then her face broke into a grin.

“You slept over again.”

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly a bit shy. “Yeah. That alright?”

She nodded, chewing thoughtfully. “You’re in mummy’s hoodie.”

Oscar laughed. “I am. D’you reckon it suits me?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Yeah. But your sleeves are funny.”

Just then, her mum appeared in the doorway behind him, wrapped in one of his T-shirts, hair tousled, still sleepy-eyed.

Aurelia beamed.

Oscar glanced back at her, and something in his chest pulled, that same quiet tug he’d felt last month, in the classroom, staring at a child’s drawing of a life he hadn’t known he’d wanted until he saw it sketched out in crayon.

The three of them. A little sun in the corner. Lopsided hearts.

She came up behind him and pressed a kiss to his shoulder, a soft morning kind of kiss, and brushed past to the kettle.

Aurelia watched them both, spoon hanging from her mouth. Then, very simply, she said,

“You should just live here now.”

They both looked at her.

She shrugged. “You always make mummy smile.”

Oscar blinked, caught a little off guard. He looked over at her, the woman who’d somehow become the best part of his days, and saw the faint blush creeping up her neck.

“We’re working on it,” she said gently, reaching to ruffle her daughter’s hair.

And maybe they were.

They didn’t have a grand plan, or timelines, or promises inked in stone, but they had something. And in typical child nature, after dropping a bomb like that, Aurelia left her bowl and moved onto drawing.

Oscar was mid grabbing the butter from the fridge when his phone started to buzz with a FaceTime call.

He frowned at the screen, then smiled. “It’s my mum.”

She raised her eyebrows slightly, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “You gonna answer?”

“Suppose I’ve got to now,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck and tapping the green button.

His mum’s face filled the screen, tanned and bright-eyed, her hair swept back, sunshine spilling in behind her through the windows of her kitchen in Melbourne.

“Oh! Look who it is!” she grinned. “Took you long enough to answer. I was starting to think you’d moved to the moon.”

Oscar chuckled. “No, still Earth-side.”

She narrowed her eyes, playful. “That is not your flat, Oscar Jack. I know your tiles. Is this Lando’s place?”

He opened his mouth to reply, but just then, Aurelia let out a small triumphant cheer as she held up her finished drawing. “Look, Oscar, it’s us in the fire engine again!”

His mum’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, that’s not Lando either.”

Oscar looked down at the floor for a moment, then gave a sheepish smile.

“Right,” he said, shifting a little. “So… bit of a life update.”

He turned the phone round gently, showing his mum the cosy kitchen, the mess of crayons, the fireman sticker Aurelia had slapped onto the fridge, and finally, her.

She smiled warmly, caught off guard for just a second by being the centre of attention, but not pulling away. She gave a small wave. “Hi.”

Oscar cleared his throat, a little hoarse with nerves. “Mum… meet the woman who’s kept me sane the last couple of months.”

His mum blinked, a beat of silence, and then she smiled so wide it softened every line in her face.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Now that makes sense.”

He laughed, a quiet, breathless sort of sound, and she leaned into his shoulder slightly, her hand resting on the table beside his. Aurelia had already resumed drawing, now completely absorbed in adding stars to the day sky.

His mum nodded, still smiling. “She’s beautiful.”

“She is,” he said, before he could even think to stop himself.

There was no panic in it, no need to explain further. Just truth, warm and steady between them all.

“You look happy, love,” his mum said at last. “Properly happy.”

He glanced sideways, saw the way she was looking at him, like he’d finally landed somewhere soft.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I think I am.”

Just as he was about to speak up again, Aurelia called his name demanding his immediate attention, and to Oscar, she deserved immediate attention so he left the phone on the island with her and wandered off into the living room to see what she needed.

“So,” his mum said, leaning her chin on her hand, “you’re the one that’s brought my son back to life huh.”

She laughed softly, brushing a crumb from the table. “I don’t know about that. He’s done plenty of the heavy lifting.”

His mum tilted her head. “You’ve got no idea, have you?”

She looked up, brow furrowed just slightly.

“That boy,” his mum said, with the fondness she recognised as a parent, “has always been kind. But I haven’t heard him sound like that in years. Like there’s a little bit of sunshine in his voice again.” Her eyes stung, just a little, but she kept her smile. “He makes it easy to be kind to him.” “I’m glad he’s got you,” she said, voice quieter now. “And I’m glad he’s got her too. It seems your little one is a bundle of magic.”

She nodded, looking toward the living room where they were both laughing. “She’s my whole world.”

There was a pause, and then Oscar’s mum said, not unkindly, “Must’ve been hard. Doing this all on your own.” “It was,” she admitted, honest without bitterness. “Still is, some days. But it’s better now. Easier, with him.”

His mum’s smile turned into something a little misty. “Well. If he’s half as good to you as he was to his little cousins back home, you’re in very safe hands.”

“I think I am,” she said, quietly.

Oscar’s voice called from down the hallway then, something about star stickers and him being promoted to co-pilot of the living room space rocket, and they both laughed.

“I should go help him survive his new role,” she said, pushing her chair back.

Oscar’s mum smiled. “Tell him I said he’d better ring again soon. And you, look after each other, yeah?”

“We will.”

And as she ended the call and stood, walking towards the warm sound of her two favourite voices down the hall, she realised it had been a long time since things felt this much like home.

Seven months had passed, and life had woven itself into something steady, soft edges and everyday joy.

Oscar had sold his flat back in April, after a lot of faffing and a surprisingly emotional trip through storage boxes. Now, all his belongings lived here, in the flat that had once felt like hers and hers alone, but now smelled like them. His mugs were in her cupboards, her shoes were tangled up with his by the door, and there were three toothbrushes in the bathroom, hers, Aurelia’s, and his. One day, quietly, it had stopped feeling like he was staying over, and started feeling like home.

They had routines now. Quiet ones. Aurelia would burst into the bedroom at seven on the dot if it was his day off. On early mornings, he’d creep in at six, just off a night shift, and she’d leave the landing light on for him like a lighthouse. He knew how she took her tea, and she’d learnt not to make noise until he’d actually had some of it. He made dinner most nights, unless she’d had a good day at work and was feeling ambitious.

It was simple. Not perfect, not glossy, not always easy. But it was theirs. And it was good.

This morning, the flat was busy with the chaos of first-day-back energy. Year Three. New backpack. New lunchbox. New plaited hairstyle that had taken them two goes to get right.

Aurelia had been buzzing from the moment she opened her eyes.

“Am I late? Is it time? I’m going to forget cursive. I bet I’ve forgotten cursive!”

“You can write better than most adults, you’ll be fine,” Oscar said, dropping a kiss to her forehead as she wriggled into her shoes.

Her mum gave her one last once-over by the door, brushing a bit of fluff off her shoulder. “You look beautiful, baby.”

Oscar grinned. “You look cool. Very Year Three.”

She beamed. “I’m going to boss Year Three.”

He dropped her off that morning, gave her a high five at the gates, and watched her disappear into the swarm of backpacks and bright socks and morning yawns.

But it was that afternoon that stopped him still.

He’d offered to do pick-up. Thought it’d be a nice surprise. He stood by the railings, hands in his jacket pockets, feeling strangely nervous in a sea of parents and buggies and scooters.

Then she came running out of the gates.

Pointed straight at him.

And with the biggest grin, shouted, “My dad is here to pick me up!”

Oscar froze.

The word rang out in his head like a church bell. Like something he wasn’t quite supposed to hear.

Dad.

His chest tightened. Not with panic. Not with fear. But something much bigger. Something messier.

She ran straight into his arms and he lifted her with a small laugh, though it came out shaky. She chattered the whole way home, about spelling tests and Miss Price’s new earrings and how someone brought in a tarantula, but he barely caught any of it.

Because one word had wrapped itself around his ribcage.

Later, once she was tucked up on the sofa with a biscuit and the telly on low, he stepped into the kitchen, where she was rinsing mugs by the sink.

“Hey,” he said, voice a little quieter than usual.

She turned, drying her hands on a tea towel. “Hey, you alright?”

He just looked at her for a moment. His eyes were glassy.

“She called me her dad.”

She paused. Slowly put the towel down.

“I went to pick her up and she saw me and said it. My dad is here to pick me up. Just like that.”

He let out a shaky breath, a small, astonished sort of laugh. “I thought I was going to cry right there in the playground like an idiot.”

Her heart clenched. She stepped toward him, and he pulled her in like a lifeline.

“She meant it, didn’t she?” he whispered into her hair.

“She did,” she said softly. “She really, really did.”

That night, after the dishes had been done and the flat had settled into its usual hush, Oscar found himself stood in the doorway to Aurelia’s room.

She was half asleep already, the telly's low hum from the living room barely audible through her door. She stirred slightly, sensing him, blinking one eye open.

“Hey,” she mumbled.

He stepped in, crouched beside her bed. “Just checking in on you.”

“You always do,” she said sleepily, reaching for his hand.

He smiled. “Habit now.”

She squeezed his fingers. “You’re the best one, you know. I’m really glad you’re mine.”

Oscar swallowed. “I’m really glad I’m yours too, pickle.”

She wriggled a bit, yawning into her blanket. “Love you, Oscar.”

He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Love you more.”

And in the quiet of that room, with the soft rise and fall of her breathing, he stayed just a minute longer, heart full in a way he never thought it could be.

Over the years, things changed. For the better and never the worst.

They got married in a small ceremony at the register office, all low-fuss and laughter and Aurelia dropping petals like she was queen of the world. He wore his uniform jacket, she wore a soft blue dress that matched her eyes, and Aurelia insisted on holding both their hands the whole way through the vows.

He officially adopted her not long after that. There was paperwork, a hearing, signatures, all formal, all necessary, but what he remembered most was the moment she looked up at him, fidgeting with the sleeve of her cardigan, and said, “Can I have the same name as you?”

He cried. Fully. In public. No shame.

“You sure?” he’d asked, voice thick.

She nodded with a smile that could’ve split the sky. “I want to be the same as you.”

After that, life kept growing. Gently, beautifully.

They hadn’t planned on having another child. Not because they didn’t want to, more that they’d built a home already, and it felt enough. But life, as ever, had other plans. It happened one quiet spring, and when she told him, he’d gone very still and said, “Are you serious?” and when she nodded, he sank to his knees with his arms round her middle like she was something holy.

That pregnancy was nothing like the first. It wasn’t fraught with fear or pain or the weight of being alone. This time, she had someone holding her hair back when the sickness kicked in. Someone who learnt how to make the weird toast she liked at four in the morning. Someone who ran baths and rubbed her back and whispered “you’ve got this” against her skin when she needed it most.

He took proper paternity leave too, remembering how he told Zak, “Don’t give me grief, Zak, it’s the law”, and when he finally did go back to work, he did it dragging himself out of bed with bags under his eyes, a half-eaten banana in one hand and a tiny sock stuck to the back of his uniform trousers.

But he was happy.

Proper, head-to-toe, bone deep happy.

Oscar, who used to dread going back to his childhood home, now booked flights to Australia every year like clockwork. Family trips, beach towels, squabbles over carry-ons, and Aurelia teaching her little brother how to build sandcastles while their mum took pictures and Oscar applied suncream with the seriousness of a soldier preparing for war.

And when he looked back, years later, in the slow quiet of a Sunday morning, coffee in hand and the flat filled with life, he sometimes thought of the school fair. Of the day he met her. Of balloon animals, and face paint, and one very small girl yelling “Neighbour firefighter!”

And he’d smile, every single time.

Because somehow, against all the odds, it had been the beginning of everything.

the end.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

[iimplicitt]

this fic feels like a day dream

PARADISE | LANDOSCAR

an: i felt things i shouldn't have felt writing this, this was based off of that monaco video mclaren posted as if those aren't two husbands on their honeymoon bro

summary: monaco, 1984. summer drips gold. lando wears linen and legacy, oscar smells like cigarettes and cash, and their lover? soft-spoken, sun-drenched, dangerously adored. they sip champagne on balconies and ruin each other in bed sheets. it’s love, but it tastes like lust and salt and something that can’t last past september.

wc: 4k

IN THE SUMMER OF 1984, Monaco shimmered with a kind of wealth that didn’t need to shout. It whispered, behind the smoked glass windows of Lamborghinis crawling through narrow streets. It flashed discreetly on wrists and collarbones in casino salons, and it echoed between the walls of penthouse suites high above the Mediterranean. It was a decade that believed in indulgence without apology, and for Lando and Oscar, indulgence had become something of a religion. 

Lando had grown up with money. English money. The kind that came with decaying country houses, Savile Row tailors, and inherited attitudes. His wealth was old, but Lando wasn’t. He was young enough to charm, rich enough to own, and clever enough to keep the world guessing. He’d made his first fortune in commodities, his second in art, and his third in what the people never spoke of. Something that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Lando knew how to spend money in a way that made other men feel poor.

Oscar, by contrast, was noise to Lando’s hush. An Australian with the easy magnetism of someone who’d never known cold winters or self doubt, he spoke with the unbothered confidence of a man who had made himself. No old estates in Surrey for him, Oscar’s wealth was fresh, minted in the fast, wild corners of the oil trade and tech before anyone else saw it coming. He’d turned his first million into a billion almost by accident, and then, for sport, bought a vineyard in Marlborough he never visited.

The two of them together made a kind of sense that didn’t need explaining. They were opposites, and exactly the same. Competitive but loyal. Brilliant but restless. And then, there was the girl, the third point in their quietly scandalous triangle. She was younger, though not foolish, and unlike the men, she’d arrived in Monte Carlo not with a bang but with grace. Monegasque by birth, though rarely by presence, she moved like someone who’d never been told no, and didn’t care for the world anyway.

She was never introduced to high society. Not to strangers, not properly. The locals pretended not to gossip, the expats didn’t bother pretending. But all of them watched when she walked into the room, between Lando’s English elegance and Oscar’s Australian charm, a question mark dressed in diamonds.

They weren’t secretive, the three of them, but they weren’t careless either. They lived like royalty on the fringes of a very public world. Champagne breakfasts on the deck of their yacht moored in Port Hercule, sun-drenched afternoons in villas hidden in the cliffs, nights that blurred into each other between the Casio de Monte-Carlo and the back rooms of Hotel de Paris.

It wasn’t just money. It was romance. It was lust. It was a kind of closeness that didn’t fit into polite society’s definitions. They were, in every sense, theirs.

They didn’t worship at altars, unless you counted the marble vanity in the villa’s marble bath, where her lipstick stained the rim of a half-drunk coupe and Lando’s cufflinks glinted like relics in the low morning light. Still, there was something devotional in the way they moved around each other. As if each touch was a kind of prayer, every sigh a hymn half-remembered from some more honest, more ancient faith. 

Desire, for them, wasn’t messy. It was choreographed. Sacred. And not because they were restrained, God, no. But because they understood the weight of leisure when it was shared without shame. She had a way of pressing her hand against Oscar’s chest, fingers splayed just so, like she was checking for a heartbeat, or maybe proving to herself that he still had one. And when Lando bent to kiss the inside of her wrist, it wasn’t casual. It was ritual, like anointing a relic. 

Their bed, one of several, had seen things that could damn them in three languages. But there was no guilt here. Only indulgence, and something else. Reverence. The kind that only exists when love and lust refuse to stand apart. In another century, someone might have painted them onto a cathedral ceiling: Oscar, the brute angel with wine-dark eyes; Lando, a fallen saint dressed in silk; and her, always her, the holy centre of their orbit, both Madonna and Magdalene, untouchable and entirely touched.

Sometimes, they barely spoke. Monaco outside their window glittered and blinked like a blessing, but inside the villa, it was silence and breath and skin. She’d stretch like a cat in the morning sun, the sheet falling low, and Oscar, always the more impulsive, would murmur something obscene in that thick, drawling voice that made even sin sound charming. Lando, slower, more deliberate, would light a cigarette and watch them, eyes narrowed like he was trying to remember if he believed in heaven after all.

If he did, it was here. Not beyond. Not above. But here, in this villa, in this bed, in this unorthodox trinity that answered to no god but their own appetites.

By day, they played their roles. Lando in his linen suits and watchmaker’s smile. Oscar, loose-limbed and sunburnt, grinning at strangers like he wasn’t scandal in human form. She, the quiet storm between them, never trying to belong, because she didn’t have to. They belonged to her.

No one dared ask how it worked. Not really. People speculated, of course, they always do, when they’re too afraid to admit their own wants. But the truth was simpler than scandal allowed: it worked because it was true. Because the world outside might’ve been ruled by money and manners, but theirs was ruled by touch, trust, and a kind of love that didn’t need translation.

Morning didn’t come loudly in their villa above the port. It slipped in, soft and unapologetic, curling between linen curtains and dappling across skin like a whispered confession. The light touched her first. It always did. She lay half on Oscar’s chest, half draped over the scattered remains of last night, a silk camisole, a pair of cuffed trousers, the unmistakable scent of something rich and forbidden. 

Oscar stirred beneath her, not with a groan but with a breath, the kind that pulled from the bottoms of the sea. One arm looped lazily around her waist, the other reaching back to tug at Lando, who’d turned in sleep, one leg tangled in the sheet, lips parted as if in prayer or defiance. He blinked awake slowly, the way someone might rise from a dream they weren’t ready to leave.

No one spoke. They never did, not straight away. It would have broken something sacred, this first, suspended moment, where bodies remembered each other before words had the chance to cheapen it.

She shifted, deliberately, her thigh brushing Oscar’s. A small sound escaped him, half laugh, half groan. Lando’s gaze, hazel-green and heavy lidded, slid from her to Oscar, then back. He sat up, slow as sin, and reached for the cigarette case on the nightstand, pausing only to drag the backs of his fingers across her spine. Goosebumps bloomed like flowers after rain.

Oscar rolled onto his side, fingers skating down the curve of her hip. “You’re dangerous in the daylight,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep and sex.

She tilted her head, smiling without showing teeth. “You always say that.” Lando lit his cigarette, exhaled the smoke through his nose, and gave her a look that was part adoration, part warning. “That’s because it’s always true.”

There were no boundaries, not really. Oscar leaned in, catching her mouth with his, and it was unhurried, open-mouthed, full of that quiet, aching hunger that didn’t fade with sleep. Lando, still watching, reached out, his hand curling in her hair, guiding her mouth away from Oscar’s and toward his own. There was no jealousy here, only rhythm. Repetition. Worship.

She moved between them like she was born to it. A shared indulgence. A private ritual. It was never rushed. Desire had space to stretch out in their bed, to breathe, to build itself slowly into something that didn’t need naming. Fingers traced the same paths they'd taken the night before, mouths mapped new ones. There were gasps and half-formed words, hands knotted in sheets, a body arched against another, and somewhere between Lando’s whisper and Oscar’s growl, the morning folded in on itself.

Eventually, they collapsed back into each other like a cathedral ceiling falling gently inward.

They didn’t dress right away. There was no need. Monaco could wait. The world always did.

Breakfast was served on the terrace, as it always was, white linen tablecloth, chilled citrus in crystal glasses, a basket of croissants that no one touched until at least the second espresso. The sea below glittered like a promise someone might actually keep, and from this height, the principality looked like a toy version of itself.

Lando wore a dressing gown that hadn’t been fastened properly in years. Oscar had pulled on yesterday’s shirt, left open, sleeves rolled, like some Mediterranean sailor lounging between conquests. She sat between them in nothing but a man’s shirt, whose, no one ever bothered to check, legs tucked beneath her, sunglasses pushing her hair back like a crown.

They didn’t speak much. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was companionable, indulgent. A silence full of everything that had already been said without words.

Oscar topped up her glass. Lando buttered her toast. She laughed at something neither of them had quite said, and in that moment, as the breeze from the sea stirred the corners of the tablecloth and the sun warmed their bare knees, the whole world felt like it belonged to them.

And for now, it did.

The rest of the morning drifted by like a silk scarf caught in the breeze. The villa had its own rhythm, a kind of hush reserved for the very rich and the very loved, where time bowed politely out of the room and left them to it. 

They moved slowly, as though afraid to disturb the spell. She wandered barefoot through the hallways, the marble cool beneath her feet, one of the boy’s shirts brushing her thighs. The scent of vetiver and orange blossom lingered in the air like memory. Oscar followed, eventually, buttoning his shirt for no one in particular, his hair still damp from a half-hearted rinse in the en-suite. He didn’t speak, just watched her, his mouth curled in that half-smile he wore when he was thinking something filthy and poetic all at once.

Lando, meanwhile, lingered on the terrace, cigarette balanced between his fingers, eyes hidden behind tortoiseshell sunglasses. He looked like he’d stepped off a Riviera film set, all limbs and indifference, the sea behind him like a painted backdrop. There was something of the priest about him in moments like these, the high priest of pleasure, maybe, or of decadence. He didn’t move quickly, he never raised his voice, but when he turned his head and said her name, just once, low and slow, it was enough to stop her where she stood.

She came to him without needing to be told. Oscar followed, wordlessly, until the three of them stood together in the dappled light, the scent of coffee and salt air wrapping around them like silk. Lando kissed her then, not urgently, but reverently, as though she were something sacred and rare. Oscar kissed the back of her neck at the same time, his hands warm against her bare thighs, and it was all choreographed without choreography, like something they’d rehearsed in a dream.

There was no rush to their afternoons. Nothing to prepare for. They were the main event. The world outside their villa didn’t intrude; it waited, like an obedient understudy. She lay stretched across a velvet chaise while Oscar read aloud from a novel he'd only half-finished, his voice laced with mockery and charm. Lando poured another round of champagne, the bottle sweating in its bucket like it had been running late.

They touched each other constantly, not always to provoke, sometimes just to remind. A hand on the small of the back, a kiss to the shoulder, a thumb drawn lazily over a pulse 

point. Every moment was a small ceremony, a quiet act of possession and tenderness.

At dusk, the light shifted, turning the villa gold, then rose, then blue. She dressed slowly, if at all, and always with an audience. Lando might help with a zip, Oscar with a clasp, but neither of them ever hurried the process. Watching her was half the point. It was theatre, and they were its most devoted congregation.

They didn’t go out that evening. Monaco could keep its baccarat and its grand foyers. The villa had everything they needed: music on vinyl, a clawfoot tub drawn too hot, and the kind of curtains that only ever stayed half-closed. She danced in the living room with bare feet and a glass in hand, the hem of her slip catching the light like a whisper. Lando played records, Oscar lit candles, and everything smelt faintly of citrus and bodies.

It wasn’t perfection, what they had. It was too sensual for that, too lived-in. But it was decadent. It was rich. It was everything those old Hollywood pictures had promised and never quite delivered, except here, it was real.

By half past nine, the villa had exhaled into its evening shape. Lamplight low, shadows long, and Ella Fitzgerald pouring softly from the walnut cabinet radio in the corner of the lounge. The windows were open just enough to let in the sea air, salted and warm, carrying with it the faintest sound of the engines down in the port, like distant applause.

She sat curled in one corner of the oversized velvet sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, a glass of Bourgogne in her hand. Lando was stretched beside her, shirt undone to the sternum, watching her with that same unreadable expression he wore in art galleries and auction houses, part admiration, part calculation. Oscar had taken the floor, leaning back against the sofa’s base, his wine balanced on the parquet behind him, head tilted back into her thigh like it belonged there. It did.

Their dynamic wasn’t written down anywhere. It didn’t need to. It was understood in looks, in pauses, in the slow burn of shared breath. She had softness, yes, but it wasn’t fragility. It was control wrapped in velvet. When she moved, they noticed. When she spoke, they listened. And when she lapsed into French, low, careless, lazy as a cat stretching in the sun, it was a kind of spell.

“C’est une soirée pour ne rien faire, sauf être regardée,” she said, eyes half lidded, looking nowhere in particular.

Oscar let out a breath that was almost a laugh, mouthing the words back without understanding them, then nuzzling into her leg like a man prepared to worship his way into fluency. Lando, on the other hand, understood perfectly. Of course he did, he wasn’t raised in the Surrey countryside without a French tutor.

“She says it’s a night for doing nothing,” he murmured, without taking his eyes off her, “except being watched.”

She smiled, slow and secretive. “Exactement.”

Oscar turned his face, kissing the inside of her knee. “You’re impossible,” he whispered.

“Inévitable,” she corrected, and tilted her glass.

The wine was deep red, slow and full bodied, like everything else in the room. Lando leaned forward and took the glass from her hand, raising it to his lips without asking. When he passed it to Oscar, he did it without looking, already busy with the buttons of her shirt.

She didn’t stop him.

There was something theatrical about it, but not rehearsed. They weren’t putting on a show. It was simply how they were, this slow, unfolding ceremony of lust and love and laziness, every moment a continuation of the last.

Oscar moved first, pressing his mouth higher, chasing the trail of Lando’s fingers left behind. She arched just enough to let him, her hand slipping through Lando’s hair, tugging, not harsh but firm. Commanding. 

It was always like this. Lando with his deliberateness, Oscar with his heat and her somewhere between the two, orchestrating without lifting more than a finger. A single word from her, a hum, even silence, it was enough to draw them in like tide to moon.

She slid lower on the sofa, the shirt parting easily, the curve of her thigh catching the light. Oscar was already halfway between her knees, murmuring things into her skin that had no meaning and every meaning. Lando kissed her collarbone, slow and reverent, like a man tasting communion.

There was no need to rush. They never did. Their intimacy was fluent, learned, full of in-jokes and remembered moments: the way she always gasped, softly, when teeth grazed her hipbone; how Oscar would close his eyes, almost in pain, when she whispered something filthy in French. Lando rarely spoke in these moments, he simply watched, kissed, touched, directed with the smallest shifts of hand and gaze.

Oscar then turned his face up toward Lando, mouth glistening slightly from where he'd kissed the inside of her thigh, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that had nothing to do with breath. Lando, still perched above her, one hand tangled lazily in her hair, looked down at him with that maddening stillness he wore like cologne.

And then, without flourish, without warning, he leaned in and kissed him.

It was unhurried, indulgent. The kind of kiss you gave to someone you knew by scent alone. Their mouths met with a familiarity that was both soft and scorching, as though they'd been doing this forever and would continue doing it long after the wine had dried and the silk had creased. Oscar made a sound, low in his throat, and brought a hand up to the back of Lando’s neck, fingers tightening, pulling him closer.

She watched from beneath half-lowered lashes, her lips parted, hair slipping across her shoulder. The candlelight caught the sheen of her skin, the curve of one breast exposed beneath the fallen edge of her shirt. She shifted, slow and feline, and reached for the camera on the table, the old Leica, silver and black, worn leather strap coiled beside the ashtray.

The click of the shutter was soft but final. A delicate punctuation.

They broke apart at the sound, not startled, but aware. Oscar looked up at her, grinning like sin itself, breath unsteady. Lando didn’t move, just turned his head a fraction, his eyes finding hers, slow as smoke curling from a match just struck.

“What are you doing with that, darling?” he asked, voice low and rough around the edges.

She held the camera up again, one knee drawn beneath her, the shirt slipping further down her shoulder. “Capturing something beautiful,” she said, almost a whisper. “Quelque chose de sacré.”

Something sacred.

Oscar tilted his head. “You gonna keep that one to yourself?”

She smirked. “Maybe.”

“Cheeky.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

Lando reached for her then, hand sliding along her thigh, over the back of her knee, the weight of it grounding. “Let her keep it,” he murmured, eyes still on her. “She sees what the rest of the world doesn’t.”

The camera dangled from her fingers now, forgotten for the moment. She leaned in, pressing a kiss to Oscar’s jaw, then up to Lando’s cheekbone, a line of reverence drawn in lips and heat. The three of them folded in again, arms, hands, skin. A tangle of limbs and desire, lacquered in lamplight.

Somewhere, the jazz track changed. The bass deepened. A saxophone sighed.

And in their villa above the sea, kissed golden by the Riviera night, they became timeless, three parts of a whole, worshipping each other with mouths, with memory, with every quiet, exquisite inch of skin.

The years went on.

Not with fanfare, not with the suddenness that age sometimes brings, but with the long, slow glide of a yacht across calm water. They didn’t rush. Why would they? They had everything they ever wanted.

Money, of course, stayed the same. It always did. In bank vaults and shell companies and discreet portfolios, money sat like a silent fourth in the room, always watching, never needing to be mentioned.

But they changed. Subtly, then not so subtly. Lando’s curls silvered at the temples first, though the tan never faded. Oscar’s frame filled out, more muscle, more gravity, more presence. And she, always slightly younger, slightly unknowable, remained their soft centre. Unchanged in spirit if not in skin. Still their girl, still their flame, still the hand that stirred the glass.

They didn’t settle like the others did. There were no dinner parties with matching crockery, no school runs or shared mortgages with friends who wore linen and said things like we’ve bought in the country. The villa was sold on a sun-washed afternoon, the kind of day where the sea looked painted. They didn’t cry. They packed slowly, kissed each room goodbye, and moved into a terrace flat in the old part of town, slightly crooked floors, a balcony only just wide enough for three chairs and a bottle of wine.

They liked it better that way. Less space, more closeness.

The sensuality never left. It aged with them, like good scotch and secrets. Their touch softened, deepened, became more certain. There was no game, no chase. Just ritual. Just return. Oscar still kissed like he needed to be forgiven. Lando still touched her like he was handling something priceless. And she remained at the centre, still part-muse, part-madonna, part-devil in silk.

They were known, eventually. Not famous exactly, but recognisable in those circles where wealth meets art and no one asks too many questions. They were spoken about in murmurs at parties. You know, the three of them. Still together, apparently. And always followed by a pause. A look. A flicker of envy or desire.

They celebrated the year 2000 on a yacht in the Adriatic. Champagne, stars, a thousand-dollar bottle of something none of them could name. Midnight came in with fireworks over the water, distant cheers from other boats.

And below deck, hot, breathless, skin to skin, she was caught between them again. Oscar above her, his hands braced against the wall as she wrapped her legs around his hips. Lando behind her, mouth pressed to the nape of her neck, then her teeth in Oscar’s shoulder to keep the moan from rising too loud.

“Merde,” Oscar gasped, eyes fluttering. “They’ll hear.”

“They’ll envy,” Lando muttered, voice hoarse.

She just smiled, head thrown back, lit by moonlight and sin.

They visited their respective homes. Oscar’s family in Australia, all wind and green hills and cousins who watched her like she was carved from another world. Lando’s mother in the Cotswolds, in a cottage filled with roses and old jazz records. She brought the wine and wore no bra under her coat. Neither of them apologised for her.

And always, they returned to each other. To the terrace flat, to the chair legs that scraped the tiles, to late breakfasts with no clothes and the clink of cutlery over laughter. The sex became slower. Not softer, never that. But richer, more deliberate, like a song that knew every note didn’t need to be played to be felt.

Their photos filled boxes and books. That old Leica still worked, still clicked in her hands. She never showed the world the ones of the three of them. They weren’t for the world. They were for memory. For quiet nights when the windows steamed, and Oscar’s fingers found her under the tablecloth, and Lando read poetry aloud, pausing only to run his tongue behind her ear.

Time passed. They grew older. The lust remained. Not in spite of the years, but because of them.

And in every room they ever lived in, every bed, every corner of every place they touched each other, there lingered the unmistakable scent of them.

Love. Money. Lust. Still sacred. Still theirs. Always.

taglist: @lilorose25 @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @dragonfly047 @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @sluttyharry30 @n0vazsq @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @iimplicitt @geauxharry @hzstry @oikarma @chilling-seavey@the-holy-trinity-l @idc4987 @rayaskoalaland @elieanana@bookishnerd1132@mercurymaxine

[iimplicitt]

LOVE LOOKS PRETTY ON YOU | CL16

pairings: boxer! charles leclerc x wife! character

a/n: violence/fighting, blood, fixing wounds, charles is flirt, bit of angst, some fluff, mentions of past domestic abuse, smut? (not overly graphic)

requests open!

wc: 7.3k

“Who’s angel face over there?” A man said next to her, his beer sloshing over the rim of his plastic cup and spattering on the floor.

She raised an unimpressed brow at him, but pulled her eyes back to the ring. Back to the person he was referring to.

She watched as he ducked, coming back up again and arcing a fist through the air. Landing a clean hit on his opponent's head. The man stumbled back, dizzy and trying to find his footing. But angel face lunged, his steps light, hitting the man in the ribs and the next second his other fist connected with a temple.

His chest was heaving as he watched the man crumble to the floor, his fists still up and ready, but the ref whistled and reached for his arm, yanking it up to claim victory.

“Charles Leclerc wins again!”

Cheers erupted, some groaned who had placed unlucky bets against him.

Charles was practically glowing. Not just from adrenaline, not just from the sweat glistening off his body or his damp hair. It was the energy around him. Pulsing as he spit out his mouth guard and grinned, waving to the crowd. His face flashing on the large monitors hovering in the arena.

He downed his water before tossing it to the side, not wasting time as he jogged to the edge of the ring and leaned over the side. Smiling wide and ignoring all the cameras.

Looking at her.

She moved on auto pilot, being drawn to him like always. Her feet carried her to the edge of the ring and up to her tiptoes.

The world faded away as Charles tipped over the ropes, grinning into the kiss as he pressed his lips to hers, his hand cradling the back of her neck with bruised knuckles.

Despite the salt from the sweat, there was always that hint of spearmint lingering on his tongue. A little bit of copper too, given his lip was slightly split from a punch.

Charles pulled back, cradling her face in his hands. “I told you, you’re my good luck charm.”

She rolled her eyes, “you just like being stared at.”

He shook his head lightly, ignoring the thousands of people sitting up in the stands, of the cameras that were broadcasting to thousands more.

“I just see you.”

His trainer, Fred, came up behind him then, slapping him on the arm. “Alright lovebirds come on, time for your interview.” His tone was exasperated, but he sent her a wink as he pulled Charles away.

Her eyes flicked from him to the big screens above, watching as he spoke, his words well crafted and breathless. Wondering how she had gotten lucky all those years ago.

THREE YEARS AGO

She winced as the sound of bones cracking echoed across the gym, followed by pained grunts. But before she could even push off the wall she was leaning against, the two men were back at it, circling each other with heads ducked low beneath raised fists.

When she saw the advert posted in the papers she hadn’t thought much of it. Medic as needed for a boxing gym. For some reason, she pictured kids running around learning how to fight. Or maybe beginners classes, which they did have every wednesday and friday evening. What she hadn’t considered, was fully grown men who knew how to knock someone out with one hit. Men who punched like they had a mountain to move. Men who didn’t know how to quit.

She was fine with blood. She was trained to take care of injuries after all. Seeing violence on the other hand, she didn’t have the best stomach for it.

This was a little different. Violent yes, but there was something methodical about it.

Regardless, she wasn’t in the headspace to sit and watch. So she pushed off from the wall and made her way back to her office. A little space that probably used to be a closet shoved into the back corner of the gym.

She’d only been there for a month, so it still felt clinical. Cold. Only a poster from her favorite movie hung on the wall followed by some flowers she routinely switched out on her desk.

For the next hour she clicked through order logs. Any medical supplies they needed more of, maybe some more office decor. She was browsing through lamp options when the door suddenly threw itself open and she jumped half way out of her seat.

Fred, the gym owner, had a man at his side, half way supporting his weight. She didn’t get a clear look at his face because he was holding a cloth to it, the fabric quickly soaking through with blood.

Her mind slipped into that comfortable place of being put to work. She had a patient and they needed her help, simple as that.

“What happened?” She asked, quickly washing her hands at the sink that was in the back corner of the room.

Fred lowered the mystery man onto the examination table, an annoyed look on his face. At least he didn’t seem worried.

“He got carried away, again.” With an annoyed huff, the man left. Already yelling at someone else as he walked out the door.

She raised a brow at the again part, but slipped on her gloves and walked up to the fighter, his breathing a little shallow, probably from the pain.

“Here, let’s see what I’ve got to work with.” She muttered, gently grabbing hold of the bloody cloth and pulling it away. The man's hand dropped into his lap, squinting through an already swelling eye at the light.

She pursed her lips together when she realised who it was. “Are you incapable of a clean fight?”

Charles grinned at her, teeth slightly stained with blood. “Good to see you, too.”

Rolling her eyes, she stepped away and threw the rag into the hazards bin before getting everything she needed together. Looking over her shoulder at him, taking in the cuts and bruises. “You’re going to need stitches.”

Charles leaned against the wall, his feet scuffing the floor lightly as he kicked his legs. Despite how beaten up he was, he seemed to be in a good mood. Her eyes trailed over his form, telling herself it was for medical reasons. His skin was lightly covered in sweat, his knuckles were still wrapped with light flecks of blood seeping through the bandaging, and she watched the rise and fall of his toned chest for a moment. Only a second, really.

He tilted his head, his grin slipping into something more closed mouthed and knowing. “You’re staring.”

“I’m diagnosing.” She clenched her jaw, walking up to him and wiping away the blood around his cuts. The muscles in his stomach clenched at the sting of alcohol.

Now he was the one staring. Watching her face carefully as she got the suture ready, his features falling into something more relaxed but too… intense.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she muttered as she came to stand in front of him again, gently tilting his head up.

He barely flinched as she pierced his skin, beginning to thread the main cut closed. His eyes, startling blue and glowing. “Like what?” His voice was light, his breath lightly fanning over her face. A bit minty.

She dared a glance down, catching his gaze for only a moment. He was a very overwhelming person. “Like I’m the reason you keep walking in here like this.”

He leaned into her touch as she tied off the suture and wiped away more blood. “Maybe you are.”

She sighed, men like him were always trouble. Never serious. Always chasing the next girl who turned their head. Messy. The last thing she needed. “That’s not funny.”

He tilted his head, watching her intently as she dug through a drawer. “Wasn’t a joke.” Charles huffed as he watched her roll her eyes, “is it really so hard to believe I’m utterly head over heels for you?”

She ignored him and grabbed his chin again, using a light and observing his pupils for a moment. It didn’t last very long. She clicked the light off and crossed her arms. “You’re a mess.”

“Yeah, but I’ve got the best hands in the business patching me up.”

“I’m going to stitch your mouth shut next.” Stepping away, she pulled off her gloves and started to scribble instructions for treating his light concussion on the page. Though she knew he’d probably ignore them.

“That oddly sounds like something I’m willing to try if you’re the one doing it to me.”

She ripped the page from her notepad and handed it to him, not amused. “You’re lightly concussed and delusional–”

“Not delusional, that’s just you.” He took the paper from her hands, standing up and smiling down at her. “Always messing with my head.” She pursed her lips, but he soaked up the sight of her blushing. He could get drunk off the sight till the end of his days.

“You’re impossible.”

“How about dinner?”

She walked to the door, holding it open and gesturing him out. “Goodbye, Leclerc.”

He sighed, walking out but pausing next to her, his voice slipping into a whisper. “You’ll say yes one of these days.”

Charles left her with a wink and she slumped against the door after she shut it.

Part of her wanted to throw caution in the wind and say yes. A million times yes. But she knew men like him. That would get her nowhere but heartbreak.

Weeks passed. More stitches. More scolding grown men for being reckless. More declining advances from Charles, the man was committed, she could give him that.

She had just gotten back from her lunch break when someone rapped their knuckles on the door. Looking up, she raised a brow at Arthur. He didn't come around as often as his older brother.

“Can I help you?” He looked fine as she gazed at him. He wasn’t even dressed to fight. Trousers and a jumper hanging on his body.

“Yes, actually.” He walked into her office, leaning against the observation table and giving her an odd look.

“And?”

His eyes narrowed slightly, not in suspicion, but as if he was trying to figure something out. Figure her out. She straightened a bit at his rapt attention.

“Why are you dragging my brother through hell?”

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Arthur gave her a really? expression. “When are you going to give him a chance? I can’t keep listening to him ramble on about you every day, it is getting really annoying.”

“I’m not going to date your brother just so you can get a peace of mind.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with him?”

She balked at him. “Nothing’s wrong with him, it’s just–”

“Just what? Are you seeing someone?”

“I…” she stuttered over her words. “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“So no, then? Then just say yes.”

She was speechless for a moment, looking at him like he’d grown two heads. “Arthur, I’m not going to go on a date with your brother just because you–”

“Don’t do it on my account. Do you like him?”

She felt like throwing something at him. A scalpel maybe. “Why are you so keen on this?”

He shrugged, looking like a copy of his older brother, just less roughed up. “Why aren’t you?”

Biting the inside of her cheek, she leaned back in her chair, tapping her pen on her desk. “No offense to either of you, but I don’t trust him. I don’t trust most men. All of his talk but I’m sure after every fight he a has a line of women to choose from and I–

“You do realise he’s practically in love with you, right?”

She shut her eyes briefly. “Arthur, he doesn’t even know me.”

“He’s trying to.”

Sighing, she considered him. Debating with herself. Wondering if Charles flirted with everyone like the way he did with her. She didn’t want to look like an idiot if she said yes. Didn’t want to fall into the deep end and not have him there to help pull her out. She had been through that before and it was a pitiful embarrassing mess. She should’ve known better.

And she was greedy with her affection. Greedy to have the sole focus of whoever she ended up with.

She didn’t have time for wandering eyes.

Arthur gave a short sigh, pushing himself off the table with a shrug.

“You don’t have to say yes. Just stop pretending you don’t see how hard he’s trying.”

And with that, he turned and left her office, leaving the door ajar. She sat in silence for a long while, pen still tapping against the desk, thoughts louder than the gym noise bleeding in through the corridor.

The following evening, she found herself leaning against the ropes at the side of the ring, watching Charles spar. He hadn’t noticed her yet, focused on his movements, his strikes sharp and precise. Sweat clung to his skin, making every muscle shift and ripple beneath the light.

She should’ve turned and gone, truly. But her feet stayed planted.

Charles glanced over his shoulder and froze mid motion when he spotted her. The grin was immediate, cheeky and familiar.

He jogged over, wiping at his brow with a towel. “What’s this? A surprise visit?”

“I’m your medic, Leclerc. Hardly a surprise.”

“Actually it's 11pm, you’re not on shift,” he said, a little too proud that he noticed. “So, unless you’ve suddenly started caring for Fred’s medical paperwork, I’m calling it, this is a visit.”

She rolled her tongue, looking up to the ceiling for a second, not believing she was about to do this. Her eyes flicked back to Charles, he stood there with hands resting on his hips, sweating, his muscles on show as well as his easy smile. His hair was a mess, sticking up in different directions and his skin was flushed with heat.

“One drink,” she held up her index finger to drive the point home. That’s it. Just to get him to lose interest. Get her out of his system. Get him out of hers.

His tongue wet his bottom lip before he smiled, closed mouthed and cocky. He leaned against the ropes on his elbows, bending his head down to be closer to her eye level. “Just the one?”

“Mhm, that’s all you get to convince me.”

He raised a brow, looking amused. “Convince you?”

“If you’re worth my time.”

He laughed lightly, running a hand through his hair. “Does now work?”

She blinked at him. “Now?”

Charles nodded once, backing away to pick up his stuff and he shrugged a hoodie over his head.

“It's nearly midnight.”

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he walked right up to her, eyes taking in her face and the light blush she always seemed to wear. “And I’m not wasting any time.”

“No.”

He leaned back, brows furrowed. “No?”

She shook her head. “If you want to do this that badly, we’re doing it right. Pick me up from my flat tomorrow like the gentlemen I’m sure you’re going to pretend to be.”

Charles' hands flew to his heart like he’d been shot, but his lips were tugged up slightly. “I am a gentleman.” He winked as he walked around her. “When I want to be, at least. I’ll pick you up at six.”

“But you don’t–”

“Fred gave me your address.”

She huffed, crossing her arms as she saw him walk towards the exit. “That seems highly unprofessional.”

“So is agreeing to date one of your patients.”

“It's a date and you’re not–”

“It’s okay, love, I know you fantasise about me.” He bowed his head, soaking in her flustered face. “Goodnight.”

She stood there for a moment, speechless and trying to ignore the butterflies in her stomach.

The next evening arrived far too quickly for her liking.

She stood in front of the mirror, smoothing down the soft fabric of the navy dress she’d impulsively bought that morning. It wasn’t particularly showy, but it fit well, flattering even. Her hair was down for once, lightly curled, and there was a touch of gloss on her lips she'd tried to convince herself was not for him.

A knock at the door pulled her out of her thoughts.

She opened it, and immediately wanted to shut it again.

Charles stood there, stunned silent for a moment, eyes roaming respectfully, but definitely not subtly, from her face to her legs and back again.

“Fuck me,” he breathed. “You own a dress?”

She raised an unimpressed brow. “You own a shirt?”

He laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “Touché. You look, well. Stunning doesn’t quite cover it.”

“You’re stalling,” she replied, grabbing her coat. “Where’s the Uber?”

He grinned, stepping aside and gesturing down the steps of her flat.

She followed, eyebrows pinched, only to come to a full stop.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

There, parked neatly beneath the streetlamp, was a black motorbike. Sleek. Loud, and predictably him.

He turned to her, eyes glinting with mischief, and held out a helmet from behind his back.

“Come on,” he said, “I promise I’ll go slow.”

“You’re not even wearing leather!”

“And you’re wearing heels,” he said, taking a step closer. “Stop pointing out the obvious. We’re both a little out of our element tonight, come on.”

She stared at the helmet like it had insulted her. “This wasn’t part of the deal.”

He leaned in, his voice a notch lower now. “I’ll drive like a saint, I swear on my mother’s life. Besides…” His eyes flicked to her lips, then back up. “We’re not that far. And I’d never let anything happen to you.”

It was the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like he’d burn down cities before letting a scratch land on her.

She snatched the helmet from his hands with a sigh. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

He helped her onto the bike, his hands lingering just a second too long at her waist. When he climbed on in front of her, she hesitated, then wrapped her arms around his middle. His torso was solid, warm, and smelled unfairly good.

As the bike roared to life beneath them, she tightened her grip. She could feel his laugh more than she could hear it, and her cheeks flushed under the helmet.

Maybe she was already in trouble.

By the time they pulled up outside the restaurant, her legs were a bit wobbly, her dress slightly creased from the ride, and her heart still thudding in her chest, not from the speed, but from the way he’d felt between her arms.

He gently took the helmet off her head, laughing at the state of her hair before smoothing it down with his hand.

God, she felt like a teenager all over again, it was ridiculous.

She looked past his shoulder, not wanting to read too much into the intensity of his gaze. “Greek?” The restaurant had a blue neon light flickering with the name, the flag of Greece swaying softly beneath it right next to the Monaguesque one.

“Best one in town, come on.” Without another word he grabbed her hand and led her in.

His skin was warm, his hand much larger than hers and she felt an electric shock shoot up her arm. Her heart was stuttering. Which was absurd. She’d touched him numerous times while stitching him back together. But all of those moments had been clinical. Years of practise and steady hands. Touches simply meant to mend.

It was just hand holding, she knew that. It was nothing to get excited about.

She followed Charles to a table, white and blue checkered table cloth covering it. The lights were glow and twinkling, the walls covered in pictures from the family who owned the restaurant. He pulled the chair out for her, really laying the chivalry on thick but she sat without complaint.

“So,” he said as he sat himself across from her, not wasting any time. “What changed your mind?”

She traced a nail on the table cloth, not wanting to admit his little brother talked her into it. So she shrugged, “curiosity.” It was a half truth. She couldn’t wrap her mind around why he’d be actually interested. Sure, attraction is one thing. Surface level. But she was over and done with flings. Of awkward good mornings after one night stands and crying on the floor of her bathroom. Tired of being scared when she stayed up too late, staring at her door like he was about to break it down.

She’d been too trusting in the past and not careful with her heart. Not caring about her safety if it meant someone loved her. Wanted her. Was there a difference?

And Charles… he was a puzzle she was trying to figure out.

The small talk was easy, it usually was with him. That didn’t mean she wasn’t blushing or avoiding meeting his eye as she focused on her food or wine. He didn’t push, wasn’t necessarily groveling. He seemed equally curious about her.

“What got you into healthcare?” He asked, leaning back in his chair, his own cheeks flushed from the wine. His eyes glowing in the soft light as he looked at her.

There was a softness about him that night she wasn’t used to seeing on him. She’d only seen him with his chest heaving, sweaty, knuckles bruised and fists swinging. Everything about him and his movements in the ring were sharp. A shark who just caught a whiff of blood in the water. The violence in his eyes palpable. Dangerous.

But as he sat across from her… he felt like a daydream her mind made up. Blue eyes light, looking like he was gazing at heaven's gates. Brown hair clean from a fresh shower, looking soft to the touch. A navy blue crew neck with a white collar popping out. On the ride to the restaurant the wind blew past them, and the smell of his cologne was still fresh in her mind. Sandalwood and salt, maybe a hint of vanilla.

Everything about him was addicting. Temptation in every sense of the word. Thus, her conscience was screaming at her to be careful.

She shrugged, twirling her wine, looking at her reflection in the deep red. “I don’t know. Being able to help people, for one thing. Knowing how to help. The security in it too, maybe? Doctors and nurses are always needed.”

Charles hummed, “I understand the feeling of wanting to be needed.”

Her eyes flicked up for a second, a little breathless at the look on his face. He’d leaned forward, elbows on the table and looking at her. Really looking.

“It sounds selfish when I put it like that,” she mumbled, looking away again.

Charles tilted his head. ‘We’re only human.”

“I suppose… What about you? What got you into beating people up for a living?’

He clicked his tongue, “you know, voicing this all out loud is making me realise our professions are on the opposite sides of a spectrum.”

She laughed lightly. That was true enough. He lived day to day breaking people apart while her job was to stitch those people back together. Put him back together.

“I don’t know,” he continued. “It started out as an outlet, still is, I suppose. It helps clear my head, you know? The world gets too loud and my body needs to be doing something or else I feel like I’m going to explode. And my father…” he trailed off, looking down at his plate but he shook his head, smiling at her but it held a hint of grief in it. “How about ice cream?”

She considered Charles for a moment, wondering what else lay beneath his exterior. He always seemed so untouchable, but now she was starting to see the fissures. The hairline fractures running beneath the surface of his features. Held tightly together by sheer force of will..

Smiling lightly, she nodded. ��Sure.”

They walked side by side down the winding streets of Monte-Carlo, Charles picked coffee flavored gelato while she went with her favorite. The dessert was cold on her tongue but did nothing to cool the furnace going off inside her.

It was a comfortable silence as they passed by bands playing from open-window restaurants, the moon and stars glittered on the Mediterranean sea. They found a ledge to lean against that overlooked the pier lined with yachts both of them could only ever dream about owning.

He finished off his ice cream, looking at her, a little mischief underlining his expression. Charles’ shoulder bumped hers, “you don’t like eye contact very much, do you?”

Her face was apparently permanently blushed at this point. She licked her ice cream, briefly looking at him, only proving his point.

“Come on,” he turned towards her slightly. “If you can hold eye contact with me and not break it first, I’ll stop bothering you at work.”

She scoffed, “that’s a lose-lose on my part, you know that.”

“So little faith in yourself,” he tsk-d. He then leaned forward, voice dropping to a whisper. “Or maybe you like me bothering you at work.”

She finished her ice cream, wiping her hands together. “Fine, only so I can finally have peace at work and your brother will stop complaining to me.”

His brows furrowed. “Arthur spoke to you?”

She waved him off, not meaning to let that out but maybe the wine was making her tongue loose. And reckless. She should not be doing this.

The moment their eyes met she immediately regretted it. He looked too smug. Too soft around the edges. Dimples in his cheeks as he stared down at her. His focus going from each of her eyes to her mouth, before trailing back up again. As if trying to memorise her. Commit her to memory.

She felt like she couldn’t breathe. Being able to look at him properly, up close. Of course she’d look at him when he was at the gym, watching from a distance as he fought. Watching from a distance on medical stand-by during tournaments. But this close he was something else entirely. The different shades of blue, green, and gray in his eyes. His pupils blown wide. The sharpness of his nose and jaw, the soft curve of his lips still stained from wine.

When Charles muttered her name, breath low and fanning over her own lips she caved, everything feeling too much. Life suddenly in technicolor.

She went to turn away, but his hands gently took hold of her face and brought it back up, making her look at him. He was smiling. One she hadn’t seen before. A million different reasons behind it but before she could try and decipher the first one he was kissing her.

It wasn’t gentle, but it was soft. Charles held her against him like he didn’t know how to handle her, just cautious, but sure. No hesitancy in the way his mouth moved against hers, one hand sliding down to her throat while the other buried itself in her hair.

When his teeth grazed her bottom lip, he breathed in her gasp, her open lips making room for his tongue to explore hers.

She could feel him smiling into the kiss and she felt more drunk off of him more than any wine ever could.

Charles went slow with her as the weeks bled into months. Hands held her softly, a complete antithesis to the strength behind his punches.

Bruised and cracked knuckles brushing softly against her cheekbone. Rough hands loving to touch her whenever he was able to. Drifting along the back of her neck or on the small of her back. Hands falling to her waist anytime she was stitching him up or wiping away blood.

No one said anything, but it was obvious as time went on. She’d stay later than she was supposed to, watched more training sessions and volunteered to be the medic at tournaments or competitions.

Charles didn’t bother with subtlety. Eyes always going to her, grinning like he’d already won. Winking at her as he downed water after a round. What really sealed it was the first time he hopped over the ropes after winning, striding right up to her and kissing her.

The attention from the crowds was a bit overwhelming but he made it easy to tune them all out. He made everything feel easy.

He’d bring her coffee in the mornings paired with flowers once a week. He didn’t push. Wanting to make sure she was comfortable. He encouraged. They went out for dinner when they could, dancing under string lights and drunk off wine and each other.

All those cautionary sirens eventually dulled in her mind.

On nights they were too tired, he was at her flat or she was at his. It was simple. Secure.

She felt like she was in a day dream every time she woke up at his side or his head resting against her chest, tangled in sheets and smelling of his shampoo. No longer anxiously looking at the door like it might cave in.

One lazy morning, dawn just barely kissing the Monaco skyline, she ran her fingers through his hair as he slept partly on top of her. Arms wrapped securely around her middle with his head rested against her sternum. It was his favorite position. He said her heart beat helped him sleep.

“Charles?” She muttered, voice low and it swirled around them.

He hummed, his grip tightening.

She ran her nails lightly up and down his back. “I want to learn how to fight.” She felt his eyelashes flutter as he blinked, waking slowly and he lifted his head to rest his chin on her chest, looking at her with tired eyes and furrowed brows.

Charles’ voice was rough with sleep as he spoke. “Okay, but why?”

Shrugging, she messed with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I want to know how to protect myself.”

He turned his head to the side, kissing the inside of her wrist. “I won’t let anything happen to you, you know that right?”

She couldn’t help it as her eyes drifted to her bedroom door. Picturing the wood splintering as it was being kicked in. Of shouting.

His hands threaded in her hair as he leaned up, pressing a kiss to her forehead as he muttered, “come back to me.”

Shutting her eyes, she leaned into him. “I know that, but when you’re not around I need to know I can protect myself.”

Charles looked at her, his lips tugging down slightly. “I’ll teach you, but is there something I should know? Why–”

Shaking her head she sat up, slipping out of the bed. “It’s nothing to worry about, I just want to learn. Really.” She wasn’t sure if he believed her, given she didn’t look at him as she shut the bathroom door behind her.

Her gloved fists collided with the boxing pads Charles was wearing.

She was drenched in sweat. Feeling her pulse in every muscle and her breathing too tight. But with each sharp sound of a hit, it drove her forward.

Charles walked her through the motions. Easy things first. Steps. Dodges. Good practise rhythms. How to angle her arms when she swung so she didn’t hurt herself.

Simple.

And she was furious at herself for not knowing any of this before. Wondering if it would’ve helped her.

When she messed up the rhythm again, fist missing the pad and grazing his shoulder he groaned. The sound on the cusp of a scream as it echoed around the empty gym.

“Hey, what is it?” Charles lowered his hands to his sides, looking every part the trainer instead of the fighter. A snug t-shirt with the gym's name plastered across it. Joggers. Trainers he’s had for years.

“It’s nothing,” her tone was sharp. A bit bitter and she didn’t mean for it to come out that way, but it was already in the air.

He looked down at her pointedly. Not believing her. Not pushing either, he needed her to trust him enough to tell him something when she was ready.

Pulling one of the boxing pads off his hands, he reached up and brushed away some hair that was stuck to her sweat covered skin. Leaning forward and pressing a kiss to her temple. “I’ve got you, okay?”

Shutting her eyes and still trying to calm down her breathing, she suddenly felt cold and leaned against him. Burying her head beneath his jaw. Trying to summon the courage to just spit it out.

He deserved to know her. Completely. Every ugly part of her past, regardless if it was her fault.

Over the months he had let her in. Let her help or just offer comfort. Telling her of his bad days. Why he really got into fighting. How it started underground before Fred scouted him out. Of drunken nights spent on cliffs. Pain was a creature comfort to him. But she’d never forget that night… a few months in and she was regretting taking things so slow, worried he was getting bored but a cord snapped almost as violently as his punches.

It happened under sheets heated up with their breaths. Skin sliding against each other. Exploring and remapping. Charles tracing over the bruises he’d left on her days before. Muttering low in French against her hip and between her legs. Hands shaking as he held her, guided her, worked her up to a tipping point with his hips flush against hers.

Thumbs wiping away her tears as she cried out and his voice was nearly inaudible as he spoke into her neck, teeth grazing her throat, “Je suis amoureuse de toi.”

She held onto him tighter. Her life line. Crying for a whole other list of reasons.

Using the memory to fuel her courage, she sighed and leaned her head back. Searching his eyes, always so soft with her, before looking down. She was still dreadful at eye contact.

“I had an ex,” she began, fiddling with the boxing gloves just to occupy her hands and try and ignore how still Charles had gone.

“I was young and naïve… I thought, or maybe just tried to convince myself, that he acted the way he did because he cared so much.” She could practically hear the memories of him shouting at her. Of objects flying, shattering against the wall by her head. Wincing from sore wrists of where he’d grabbed her. The splintering of wood as he kicked in her door when she’d finally left him.

Shaking her head, she continued. “I’m fine now, really. I know I’m safe. I have a restraining order against him. Not to mention you’ve helped.” Chancing a glance up at him, she herself stilled.

His experience was unreadable. Jaw clenched, eyes dark and unblinking. She’d seen him angry and worked up on adrenaline in the ring before, but this… this was silent as it stirred beneath him. Those fissures she noticed that first night they spent together beginning to shift and crack.

“Charles—“

“What’s his name?” His voice was quiet. Not icy. Not venomous. Not even a bite to it. Just smooth, oil-like in its softness.

She pressed her lips together. “No.”

Now, his eyes narrowed. Not in any sort of accusation. More so determination. “No?”

Pulling off her gloves and letting them drop to the floor, she gently held his face with her hands, thumbs running softly along his cheekbones. Making herself meet those eyes of his that saw too much. “I’m okay.”

She felt his jaw shift beneath her hands. A moment later he let out a slow breath before wrapping his arms around her, resting his chin atop her head.

They didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to.

A few days later, when she had been utterly bored after work and waiting for Charles to be done training, she decided to bake something while a movie played in the background.

She’d been in a good mood. Lighter. A weight off her chest.

She felt a little silly as she decorated the cookies. Childish. But she was learning to allow herself moments like these. Healing her inner child or whatever it is that therapists ramble about.

She drew hearts in icing. Did some other poorly attempted art that she then tried to mask with too many sprinkles. Wrote each of their initials.

Soon she heard the door open and shut. The thud of Charles dropping his gym bag by the door and his feet padding into the kitchen.

“Hey,” she mumbled, still aptly focused on decorating.

His steps halted, silence greeting her, and when she looked up she paused.

Charles was staring. Really staring at the cookies laid out in front of her on the table. He looked furious.

She frowned. “I made cookies.” She looked down at them all. They really did look awful. And the longer she looked she realised how much of a mess she’d made. Flour was coating everything like dust, colored frosting was smeared, dishes were piled in the sink… “I know they’re not bakery level or anything. But I promise they’re good. My mum and I used to always make them from scratch when we needed something to smile about.” She reached over to the cookie with both their initials written inside a lopsided heart and held it up for him to see.

Charles exhaled, “jesus fucking christ.”

She froze. Stomach sinking a little. Watching as his hand rubbed at his jaw as he looked away from the cookies. Looking away from her.

“What?” Although she was trying to shove down the hurt bubbling up her throat, a little bit of frustration seeped into her tone.

He let out another long sigh. Nearly sounding distraught. Furious.

She dropped the cookie on the table. The world suddenly tilted beneath her feet. “What the hell did I do?”

Charles looked back at the cookies, not meeting her eyes and she shook his head, running a hand through his hair and tugging at the root. “I can’t fucking do this tonight.”

Her brows furrowed. “Do what?”

“You’re-“ Charles shut his eyes for a moment. “I need a minute, I can’t breathe in this fucking place.” With that he turned around and left, door shutting behind him and she stood there, the edges of her vision starting to blur.

Time had passed. Maybe an hour. Maybe two.

She packed up all the cookies, shoving them in the fridge before forcing herself to do the dishes. Needing to keep herself busy.

Showered just to do something. Shrugged on one of his oversized gym shirts and crawled under the sheets that smelt like him.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark and ears pricked when she heard the front door softly open and close. Of slow footsteps. Pausing before the bedroom door. A breath or two before he opened it gently.

Holding her breath, wondering what he would do.

When he walked to the bed and gently lowered himself onto the edge, fingers softly brushing back her still damp hair, she couldn’t help it as she leaned into him.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, his voice swirling in the dark.

“Do you have a hatred of cookies I wasn’t aware of?” She needed to make this light. Manageable. Her heart calmed a fraction when his laugh softly met her ears.

“No, I love them. It was just…” he trailed off, as if to calm himself down all over again.

Charles then reached out for her, maneuvering her easily so she was laying against him, her head against his thigh as he played with her hair. “I don’t know. Seeing you like that. Seeing what you made and you’re just… I want to beat his head in for laying a hand on you.”

She considered his words for a moment before lifting herself up, fingers meeting his neck in the dark, pure muscle memory at this point. “I’m okay, Charles. Just stay.”

As time went on he was fighting harder than before. Not pulling any punches. A new rage bubbling beneath his skin.

The thought of anyone thinking it was okay to hurt her was driving him into a bloodlust every time he stepped in the ring.

It caused him a few penalties. Shouts from Fred. Fines from tournaments.

But his eyes would meet hers through the ropes. The rest of the crowd fading into blurs. Her eyes were knowing. Brows furrowed at the violence.

It made his heart swell to know she trusted him so much despite what she’d been through. Trusted him enough not to hurt her. Not to raise his voice. Not to add pressure unless she asked.

Christmas lights twinkled above the bed.

It happened slowly yet all at once. Their lives bleeding into one another so seamlessly as another year went by.

He had moved into her flat months ago but he still felt his breath catch every time he texted her he was heading home.

The holidays were his favorite, though they didn’t used to be.

After dinner with his mother and brothers, they’d come back home to unwind. A bottle of merlot opened and music played softly.

He leaned against the headboard of the bed, sheets falling low on his waist as he watched her move around, arranging lights anywhere she pleased. For the ambience, she kept saying.

She was on her toes hanging up a string of lights, one of his shirts falling low over one of her shoulders.

How perfectly she fit into his life.

Charles voice was soft as he spoke, “veux-tu m’épouser?”

Slowly, her hands lowered, the lights gently falling to the ground as she turned to look at him. That crease between her brows.

Her voice was quiet. “What?”

“Come here,” he held out his arm and gestured for her to come closer. Eyes intent as he watched her approach, lifting one knee up before the other as she climbed onto the mattress, sitting before him, hesitant, not quite meeting his eye.

He wet his bottom lip, smiling a bit as he took hold of her chin, making her look at him. He said it again. Slow. Purposely. A promise in every syllable.

“Veux-tu m’épo—“

Her lips collided with his, arms wrapped around his neck and he rolled them over, grinning into her mouth. Meeting each move of hers with equal intensity.

His bruised and freshly cut knuckles ached with each movement but he didn’t mind. It made it sweeter.

Him and Arthur decided to pay her ex a visit two days ago.

If she ever asked him, he’d just say it was an early engagement present.

Charles tugged at her bottom lip as he pulled back, taking in her flushed features and eyes that glowed in the Christmas lights.

“I’d still like a yes, if it’s all the same to you.”

She laughed, the sound filling him up with bliss. “I don’t see a ring.”

He didn’t waste any time as he leaned over her and slid open the drawer of the night stand. In all honesty, he’d been wanting to ask for over a year now. But he wanted it to be perfect for her. For it to be comfortable, genuine.

And at the dinner with his mother early that night he was finally able to get the ring he’d asked her about all those months ago.

Charles took hold of the box and then slid off the bed and down to his knees, elbows resting on the edge of the mattress, looking up at her with heaven in his eyes as he popped it open.

And he said it for the third time, but different.

“Marry me.”

She yes about a hundred times against his lips, falling back into the sheets and a new ring on her finger that glinted in the lights.

_____________

i’m half away right now so if there’s typos i’m SORRY

tag list: @dragonfly047 @lovehollandy12 @moofilms @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @ashbone @c8lapinto @taasgirl @stopeatread @dying-inside-but-its-classy @lewishamiltonismybf @honethatty12 @sweetwh0re @colmathgames2 @xoxomansee

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[iimplicitt]

ASKING WITH MY WHOLE HEART FOR CARLOS FOOTBALL AU FICS

if anyone knows of any or by GOD WANTS TO WRITE ONE PLSSSS

[iimplicitt]

i’m back from the dead… i will be uploading requests soon!!

[iimplicitt]

i’m in italy right now and guys…

what happened:

very attractive italian man covered in tattoos

me: i like your tattoos

him: and i like you

to say i SCREAMED in my head

[iimplicitt]

checking your blognl hourly for boxer charles fic <333 im so excited

i’m working on it i promise!! just trying to get a few more requests posted and then i’ll be posting boxer charles!

[iimplicitt]

ENJOY THR SILENCE WAS SOOOOOOOOO GOOOD you're such a good writer!!!

thank you!! i really appreciate it, it was my first max fic so it was a little intimidating but was really fun to write, i love getting requests i feel like they help so much with creativity

[iimplicitt]

helllooooo!! do you write for max?

howdy! yes i do! i actually posted my first max fic yesterday it can be found here! it’s spy! max x reader 🤭

[iimplicitt]

i love writing smut for my pookie 😫 ESPECIALLY charles. pure slut behavior

ANXIETY FINAL PART | CL16

an: and this series comes to wrap! thank you to all of those who were interested in following it - i hope this end does it justice, thank you for supporting my writing. much love <3 i may have some drabbles in mind lemme know what you guys think

wc: 8.6k

warnings: smut, mdni 18+ hehe written by the beloved @iimplicitt

part one | part two | part three |

SHE WAS DRIVING HIM CRAZY.

This was her form of revenge, it had to be.

Charles sat in his usual chair in the library, the book in his hands long forgotten. He hadn't turned a page in at least twenty minutes. His jaw was tight, his fingers gripping the edges of the paper, but his mind wasn’t with the words. It was on her.

It had only been a day since that conversation—since she'd looked at him with those eyes, seeing through him, picking him apart, laying him bare without even trying.

And now?

Now she was everywhere.

Floating in and out of the room, trailing her fingers along the spines of books, standing too close behind him when she reached for something on a higher shelf. She let her touch linger when she passed by, featherlight, barely there. But he felt it like a brand.

She was testing him.

He wasn't stupid.

He knew she had read those books in his library, knew she had picked apart his weaknesses, dissected his mind the way a scientist would a specimen under a microscope. And now—now she was toying with it.

Because she had realised.

She had realised that he was the one teetering on the edge now. That the dynamic had shifted. That she held all the control.

It terrified him.

And worse?

It thrilled him.

He had spent weeks keeping her in place, watching her movements, calculating her reactions, ensuring she never tipped too far one way or another. But now.

Now she was the one watching him.

Now he was the one bracing himself every time she stepped near, unsure if she would touch him, unsure if he wanted her to or if he’d crumble beneath it.

And she knew.

He could see it in the way her lips curved ever so slightly whenever he tensed. The way her fingers skimmed his sleeve just long enough to make him ache with the need to either pull her closer or bolt from the room entirely.

She was relentless.

And he was losing.

The book snapped shut in his hands, the noise breaking the quiet hush of the library.

She turned from where she stood by the window, blinking at him.

He forced his voice to remain steady. "Do you need something?"

She tilted her head, studying him like she was debating how far to push.

"No," she said eventually, "I was just thinking."

"About?"

Her gaze flickered over him, slow and deliberate.

"You."

His throat went dry.

He stood abruptly, turning away before she could see the effect she was having on him. "I need to—" He didn’t even bother finishing the sentence before striding from the room.

Her quiet laughter followed him down the hall.

It was taunting.

Charles barely made it to his room before closing the door behind him.

His breathing was uneven, his hands shaking as he raked them through his hair.

She was doing this to him. On purpose.

He knew it.

The worst part? He couldn't even blame her. He had stolen her life, caged her like some helpless bird, played mind games with her for weeks. And now?

Now, she was winning.

Because she knew.

She had figured him out, unravelled his layers with every book she had read. She knew about his disorder, knew how his mind worked, knew that deep down, beneath the cold, calculated exterior he had worn for so long—

He was desperate.

He needed.

And she was testing just how far that need ran.

Charles sat on the edge of the bed, gripping his knees, trying to breathe. He had spent years trying to suppress it, trying to push down the unbearable, gut-wrenching fear of being left, of being unwanted, of being a burden.

But she saw it now.

She saw him.

And she wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming or fighting or trying to claw her way back to the life she had before.

She was staying.

And worse than that—

She was pulling him in.

Charles squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn’t help.

He felt her everywhere.

In the walls, in the shadows, in the air thickening around him like a noose.

He clawed at his own skin, nails biting into the flesh of his arms as if he could peel her out of him—out of his head, his thoughts, his bones.

His breathing was erratic, chest rising and falling too fast, too sharp, like he couldn’t get enough air no matter how hard he tried.

She knows. She knows. She knows.

The thought was a drumbeat in his skull, relentless, suffocating.

She had seen him. Seen every pathetic, twisted, needy part of him. And she wasn’t running, she wasn’t screaming, she wasn’t even fighting anymore.

She was just watching.

Toying with him like he had once toyed with her.

And he deserved it.

He deserved all of it.

A sob tore its way out of him, raw and broken, and he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, as if he could force the shame back inside. His chest ached with the weight of it, the suffocating, unbearable weight of himself.

He was evil.

He had taken her.

He had played with her mind, broken her down, twisted her into something else just to make her stay.

And now—

Now, she was the one in control.

His fingers fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting.

You’re disgusting.

You’re a monster.

You don’t deserve—

A quiet knock at the door.

His whole body stiffened, breath shuddering to a halt.

She was there.

Right outside.

And she had heard him.

The knock at the door came again, softer this time.

“Charles?”

Her voice.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to breathe, but it only made it worse. His chest locked up, his throat tightening like a fist was closing around it.

No, no, no—she couldn’t see him like this. Not her.

He pressed himself back against the headboard, his body curled in on itself, hands still tangled in his hair, his skin burning where his nails had dug too deep.

The door creaked open.

He wanted to tell her to go away. Wanted to force out something—a warning, a snarl, leave me alone. But all that came was a wrecked, gasping sound as he struggled against the panic clawing its way through him.

She hesitated in the doorway, then stepped inside, shutting the door quietly behind her.

He couldn’t look at her. He could feel her gaze, though—steady, unreadable.

He turned his face into his knees, but it was too late. She had already seen.

The way his shoulders trembled. The way his whole body was curling in like he was trying to disappear.

Like he had nowhere to run.

And then—

A soft rustle of fabric. A shift of weight on the bed.

She sat down beside him.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

His breaths were short and fast, hitching in his throat, his heart slamming against his ribs like a caged animal.

Then—

“Breathe,” she said quietly.

He let out a sharp, broken laugh, but it only made his chest tighten more.

“Breathe?” he choked. “You—” Another gasping breath. “You’re telling me to—?”

But he couldn’t even finish the sentence.

He felt her move before he saw it—slow, deliberate. A hand, warm and steady, holding his.

He flinched.

She didn’t pull away.

Just kept her hand there, a grounding touch, not demanding, not forcing—just offering.

His mind was spinning.

His body wasn’t used to this—her being the calm one. Her being the steady one.

“Breathe in,” she said again, quieter this time. “Hold for four.”

Her voice was gentle, measured. The same way he had spoken to her that time in the office—when she had been the one gasping for air, when she had been the one drowning in panic.

His chest was tight, painful.

But he listened.

He dragged in a breath—ragged, unsteady—held it.

“Now out,” she murmured.

He let it go, but it shuddered on the way out.

“Again.”

He obeyed.

In. Hold. Out.

Again.

Again.

His head was still spinning, but—slowly, slowly—the crushing weight on his chest loosened.

The air started to return.

The trembling in his hands softened.

He swallowed hard, then finally, finally let his head tip back against the headboard, his eyes fluttering shut. His pulse was still too fast, his breathing still uneven—but he wasn’t drowning anymore.

For a long moment, there was silence.

Then, he forced himself to look at her.

She was watching him, her expression unreadable.

The strangest, sickest part was—he had never felt more exposed in his life.

Not even when she had been his prisoner. Not even when he had forced her into submission, played with her mind, made her his.

This—this—was so much worse.

Because she had seen him.

The real him.

The weak, pathetic, broken him.

And she hadn’t run.

She hadn’t screamed.

She had stayed.

And he didn’t know what to do with that.

The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged. His breathing had steadied now, though his hands still trembled faintly at his sides. He felt drained—like something had been ripped out of him, leaving him raw and aching.

And then, out of nowhere—

"Why me?"

His stomach twisted.

He didn’t look at her. He didn’t want to look at her. Not while she pulled her hands away.

Her voice had been quiet, but there was an edge to it—something sharp, something demanding.

He exhaled slowly, pressing the heel of his palm against his temple.

"I don't—" His throat tightened. "Don't do this."

"I need to know."

His jaw clenched. He forced himself to his feet, suddenly desperate to put distance between them.

But she followed.

"Charles," she said, and there was something different in her voice now—something that sent a cold shiver down his spine. Understanding.

He looked down, facing his sheets, but it didn't matter. He could feel her gaze burning into him.

"You planned this," she said, and it wasn’t a question.

He swallowed hard. "I took advantage."

She stilled.

The words hung between them, thick and suffocating.

Her voice, when she spoke again, was barely above a whisper. "Explain."

He let out a low, bitter laugh. Explain? How could he possibly—

But he owed her this much.

His hands curled into fists at his sides. His voice was hollow when he finally answered.

"I saw your meds." His throat was dry. "I saw your emails with your therapist."

A sharp inhale from behind him.

"I knew you were vulnerable," he went on, hating himself with every word. "I knew how to break you."

A pause. Then, she whispered, "You chose me because you knew I’d crumble."

His eyes squeezed shut.

He wanted to tell her no, that she was wrong, that it had never been about that.

But wasn’t that exactly what he had done?

Used her struggles against her. Bent her mind to need him.

And now—

Now she was sitting in front of him, not running, not screaming—just sitting there.

And somehow, that was worse than if she had put a knife through his heart.

The air between them felt razor-sharp, stretched too thin, like it might snap at any moment. Charles kept his gaze down, his eyes focused on the sheets, but he wasn’t seeing them. He could hear her breathing, steady but too quiet, as if she were holding something back.

She should be screaming at him. She should be trying to run.

Instead, she just sat there.

"You knew how to break me," she repeated, softer this time.

His fingers twitched at his sides. "Yes."

"And yet... here we are."

That made him turn. He expected anger, disgust—anything but the look she was giving him. It wasn’t quite pity, but it wasn’t hatred either. It was something else. Something he couldn’t decipher.

His pulse pounded in his ears. "I never wanted you to know."

"But I do."

His breath hitched.

Her eyes scanned his face like she was trying to see inside of him, and he hated how bare he felt beneath her gaze.

"I thought I was going insane," she murmured. "The dreams, the way I started needing you, the way I made excuses for you even when I knew I shouldn’t. You made me this way."

His stomach twisted painfully. "I know."

She inched closer. "And yet you were the one falling apart tonight."

He exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "I—"

"You pulled at your hair," she interrupted. "Just like I did, that time in the office."

Charles swallowed hard.

She kept going, her voice quiet but relentless. "You couldn’t breathe. You thought you were being watched. You felt like you were losing yourself."

His jaw clenched.

"That’s what you did to me."

Her words landed like a punch to the ribs. He shut his eyes for a second, as if that might shield him from the weight of them.

But then, before he could say anything, she did something he didn’t expect.

She touched him.

A light press of fingers against his wrist. Not forceful. Not demanding.

Just there.

His entire body went rigid.

Her voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper. "You knew exactly how to break me, Charles. Because you are just as broken."

His breath hitched.

And she wasn’t wrong.

Charles felt like he was standing on the edge of something—something vast, something dangerous. Her touch on his wrist was barely there, but it burned like a brand. He should move away. He should make her move away.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let himself look at her, really look at her. The defiance was still there, flickering beneath the surface, but something else had taken root alongside it. A dangerous, quiet understanding.

"You think you’ve figured me out," he murmured. His voice sounded rough, unsteady.

Her fingers twitched against his skin. "Haven’t I?"

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I don’t know."

It was the truth. He didn’t know anything anymore.

She studied him, her gaze tracing the shadows beneath his eyes, the tightness in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. And then, in a voice so soft it was almost cruel, she asked, "What happens now?"

Charles stiffened.

She wasn’t asking him to let her go. She wasn’t demanding freedom.

She was asking what happens next—as if she already knew there was no escape.

He should tell her that nothing happens. That she should still hate him. That whatever shift had begun between them was wrong, twisted, sick.

But when he opened his mouth, all that came out was, "I don’t know."

Her head tilted slightly, as though she’d expected that answer.

Then, before he could stop her, she did something that made his stomach flip.

She turned his wrist over, palm up, and pressed her thumb lightly against his pulse.

Charles shuddered.

His heart was pounding.

"You’re scared," she murmured.

He flinched. "I’m not—"

She squeezed his wrist, just enough to make him stop talking. "You are."

She was right. Of course she was right.

Because for all the control he had taken—stolen—from her, for all the ways he had manipulated her, somehow, against all logic and reason, she was slipping through his fingers.

And he was letting her.

No, worse.

He wanted her to.

The silence between them stretched, thick and unsteady, like a fragile thread pulled too tight. She hadn’t let go of his wrist. She hadn’t moved away.

Charles could feel the warmth of her fingers against his skin, the steady press of her thumb against his pulse. It was unbearable. It was intoxicating.

She was still watching him, waiting—though for what, he wasn’t sure.

"You're doing it again," she said quietly.

His brow furrowed. "Doing what?"

"Pulling away."

Charles inhaled sharply, only just realising that he was—not physically, not yet, but in the way he tensed, in the way his breath had caught, like he was bracing himself for something inevitable.

She didn’t let him.

Instead, she shifted, closing the space between them, her legs tucked beneath her as she faced him fully. Her presence was overwhelming, a quiet force pressing against every carefully built wall he had left.

"You’re not supposed to be this close," he murmured, though he didn’t move.

"Neither are you," she countered.

His mouth went dry.

Charles had always been the one in control. From the very beginning, he had dictated how close she was allowed to get, how much she was allowed to see. But now—now—the balance was shifting, tilting wildly in a way that made his chest ache.

She was letting him see her.

Worse still, she was choosing to see him.

Her touch trailed from his wrist to his forearm, fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve. It sent a shiver up his spine.

She noticed.

Charles swallowed hard, his breath coming a little faster now, a little less steady. "You should stop."

Her lips parted slightly. "Do you want me to?"

No.

God, no.

But he didn’t say it. He couldn’t say it.

Her touch moved again, fingertips ghosting over the back of his hand before curling lightly around his fingers.

He closed his eyes for half a second, and when he opened them, she was even closer.

"Tell me to stop, Charles."

His pulse thundered.

He couldn’t.

His free hand lifted of its own accord, trembling slightly as his fingers brushed against the curve of her jaw.

She exhaled, her breath warm against his skin.

It was maddening. It was inevitable.

She leaned in first.

And then he closed the distance.

The second their lips met, it was like something broke. The tension that had been simmering beneath the surface for weeks—months—finally cracked open, spilling over in a way neither of them could control.

Charles barely had time to process the heat of it, the way her mouth moved against his, before panic clawed at his chest.

He tore himself away, breath ragged, heart hammering.

"This is—" His voice was hoarse, like he had been drowning in her and had only just come up for air. "This is wrong."

She didn’t even hesitate.

Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt, gripping tight, and before he could talk himself out of it, she pulled him back in.

The second kiss was nothing like the first.

It was desperate, heated, intentional.

She felt him stiffen for a split second before he gave in with a low, shuddering whimper, his hand coming up to cup the side of her face, fingers slipping into her hair as though he had wanted to do it for far too long.

She kissed him harder.

A noise escaped him—something between a gasp and a groan—and then suddenly, he was the one pulling her closer, pressing her down against the bed until she was beneath him.

He was shaking.

She could feel it in the way his hands hovered, in the way his breath hitched when she parted her lips against his.

Charles had spent so long controlling everything—controlling her—and yet here he was, completely at her mercy.

And she knew it.

Her fingers skimmed the nape of his neck, feeling the slight tremor there, the way he whimpered at the contact.

He broke away for a second, forehead pressing against hers as he tried to steady himself.

"You're not afraid," he murmured, half-disbelieving, half-dazed.

She could feel his breath on her lips, still uneven, still wrecked.

"Should I be?"

His grip on her tightened.

"Yes."

But he didn’t move away.

She wasn’t sure she had ever seen such unadulterated longing before. It was an odd thing to try and come to terms with. 

“I want you in a way I’m not sure either of us can handle,” his voice was rough and gravelly. A rasp dancing up from the back of his throat.

When his grip tightened on her, perhaps to ground himself, the sound that left her made them both freeze.

Only a moment. A tick of the clock.

Charles was all over her.

His hands slid from her face, down and down, dancing over her throat as his mouth collided with hers harshly. Two stars crashing into one another and lighting up the night sky in diamonds. 

Charles twisted them around, guiding her as if they were in a pas de deux. Her mind was spinning and rationality was cut right off her shoulders. All she felt was him. All she could think about was him. How he was touching her. How wonderful it felt. 

Stumbling through space, she wasn’t scared as she fell because she knew Charles had her. The way his rough hands held her as he laid her down on the sheets beneath them, making sure she knew she wasn’t going to get hurt. 

Her breath was coming out hot and heavy, erratic as her fingers dug into his hair and pulled slightly. Delighting in the way he moaned into her mouth,

tongue sliding against hers. Exploring and greedy. 

Charles climbed over her, slowly, giving her time so she didn’t think she was being trapped. She felt the mattress dipping with each adjustment and it made her heart stumble over itself. Not in fear. But in anticipation. Closer and closer.

She could still tell between the kisses and needy hands. He was still hesitating. Terrified he’d frighten her. Scared she’ll change her mind and leave. 

“Charles,” she spoke his name softly, her own hands trailing down from his unruly brown hair to his face. Taking in how truly stunning he was and the technicolor that were his eyes. 

She brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones, watching him as he watched her. His shoulders slightly coiled in tension. 

For the first time in what felt like ages she smiled, “I want all of you. Every piece.” She could physically see the relief pulse through his veins at her words. His eyes glowing as he pressed his forehead against hers, her heart beat thrumming in her ears as she felt the weight of his hips settle against hers.

The hardness of him. How warm he was. The comfort of his body so close to hers.

“Give me everything,” she whispered. 

He kissed her again, a little bit harder. His fingers pressed a little bit further into her neck. Inching but not quite. Being treated so delicately while knowing he was trying to hold back was driving her crazy. She wanted to know. Needed to know. What he was like.

Sudden determination slammed into her, making her lose her breath for a moment before it caught up again. 

Her hand danced up into his hair again, and then she yanked. Hard. 

A wince left him but something else lingered. Darker. More sinful. 

“Charles,” she practically bit out the plea. “Everything. Please.”

His eyes flicked between hers, his pupils blown wide with desire. “I don’t want to hurt you, mon ange.”

“You won’t.” She didn’t hesitate in her response.

So neither did he. 

She cried out into his mouth as he ground his hips into her. One hand tight on her throat and she immediately felt dazed. His other hand snaked down to her knee,

hiking it up around his waist so he could grind into her harder. A better angle. His cock running directly over where she needed it most and the sounds that we’re leaving her didn’t seem real. 

Her head was spinning. Her mouth falling open on its own accord as he explored every inch of her mouth with tongue. His hand still squeezing. Applying the perfect amount of pressure to cut off blood flow but not

air. 

Charles’ mouth found her jaw, danced down her throat, teeth grazing against her skin. Wanting to take in all of her. Terrified this was some dream he might wake up from. His breathing was unsteady, frenzied. Hungry. 

Her own breathing came out in stuttered gasps, her hands everywhere. All over him. Dancing over his back, shoulders, his face. His wild hair. Her fingers tugged at his roots as he sucked on a space just below her jaw, getting carried away. A clear bruise being left by his mouth. 

It was clear she wanted him to be rough with her. The trust she was handing him made his heart stutter. 

He could. Be rough. It’s what he was good at. What he was familiar with. But with her… his heart was aching. Feeling as though it was lodged in his throat as he explored her sweet skin with his mouth. He wanted this to last. 

Charles’ fingers danced under her shirt, feeling her gasp and responding to his touch. Arching as he slowly pushed the fabric up and out of the way. His tongue slowly ran a line up from her navel to her throat. She tasted heavenly. Sweet. 

He was unraveling. Her soul pulling at the threads of his own, yanking and yanking. 

He wanted to kiss more of her but her stupid fucking clothes were in the way and before his brain could catch up with what he was doing he had torn her skirt off, ripping her underwear in the process and the threads of cotton were frayed in his hands.

His eyes met hers, wild and glittering. 

Her chest was heaving. “Please.”

Charles leaned down, tossing the torn fabric aside and brought her bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently. Eyes glowing. A dragon unfurling at the sight of gold. 

“Beg me to.”

She inhaled sharply, her pupils blown wide and lips swollen. 

It was twisted. Fucked up. A horrible, awful thing to ask her. 

She did it anyway, words tumbling out and greedy hands reaching, nails digging into his skin and he practically shattered in her palms. Her fingers hooked into the belt loop of his trousers, yanking him closer. Desperate. 

When he freed himself, he took in her face as she stared down at him. Her hair falling over her shoulders, eyes glazed, swallowing. Looking like an angel. 

He took hold of her chin, making her look at him as positioned himself before sinking into her, shuddering and a moan left him as his forehead fell against hers. Always watching, taking in how her lips fell apart, her brows furrowed, the sharp intake of breath as he bottomed out. 

She was warm. Tight. Hot velvet and he felt like he was slipping under an opium induced haze as he slowly pulled back out. Finally he looked down at where he was connected to her, gripping her chin to tilt her head. He needed her to see. 

“Look at you.” Charles sank his cock back into her. “You take me so well.” 

“Charles,” his name left her lungs in a trembling breath, her nails raking down his back. Leaving red streaks he wanted imprinted into his flesh for forever. 

He leaned back, taking hold of her hips in a bruising grip. He wanted her to feel everything. Every touch. Wanted her to remember everywhere he had touched her. The thought of marking her up would’ve terrified him, but when he looked at her and she nodded, he snapped. 

His fingers dug into the flesh and bone of her hips, his own nails digging crescents into her skin as he pulled out and thrust back in. Setting a brutal pace. Each roll of his hips was barely tempered, dancing on the edge of violence. 

She clenched down hard around him, throwing her head back into the sheets and crying out. His name dancing out into the heated air. 

The lewd sound of skin hitting and how wet she was, was echoing around the room. Sounding like the bells of heaven in his ears. 

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” He pressed one hand down just below her navel to feel his cock as he fucked her, his other hand rubbing circles into her clit and the combined sensations made her hips buck into him. 

“Oh my god—“

He laughed lightly, drowning in her. “Not quite.” He pressed down a bit harder, feeling the way his cock dragged in and out of her. “But you can pray to me, if you’d like.”

frewffgghjfdx

Her own laugh left her, but it was cut off by a choking cry of pleasure. “I’m going to—“ her hips rose to meet his. 

Charles snapped into her harder, leaning down on his elbows to drive his hips forward, rolling, dizzying. Pressing his forehead into hers as he caught her mouth in a kiss, breathing in her moan with his own as he felt her come undone beneath him. Stars danced behind her eyes as she came. 

Her cunt squeezed him and he shut his eyes, shuddering. “Fuck me,” he lowered his head and bit into her neck, his pace now sloppy and erratic. Messy. Sweat coating their bodies. 

Her nails dragged against his scalp, trembling beneath him. Her voice shaky, delicate. “I’ve got you, my love.”

He came with a cry of his own, teeth sinking even further into her throat and her wince turned into a near mewl as he rode through his high. His stomach clenching as he buried himself as deep as he could. 

Their panting breaths danced in the air and he felt light headed as he lifted himself with his arms, his eyes taking in the marks he left, scattered constellations of bruises and broken blood vessels. 

His eyes danced down, down, hissing as he slowly pulled out and watched as his cum spilled out of her. 

Charles’ body acted on its own accord, his conscious on the back burner as his fingers danced down her stomach, grazing over her clit and gathering what had spilled out, fucking it back into her pussy with two fingers. 

“Charles,” her moan was guttural. 

He seemed to snap out of it, rationality catching back up to him and he only just realised what he was doing. He flinched back, trepidation crawling up his spine. Too much, too much—

“Don’t you dare,” her hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, bringing his hand back to her scorching skin. 

God, how he had gotten so lucky? 

Charles let his body guide itself again, his fingers trailing up. 

“Open.”

Her lips parted, her eyes glazed over as she did as told. 

His breath hitched as his fingers slid into her mouth, dragging against her warm tongue and he felt like he could come again as she sucked on his fingers. 

He dragged the digits back out, the pads hooking on her teeth to pull her towards him and he kissed her. Tasting a mixture of them both and he groaned.

His hand slipped around her neck, hands twining in the hair at the nape of her neck. His other arm snaked under her waist, flipping them around so she straddled him and his hands fell to her hips, gently tracing the bruises that were starting to develop and the crescents of his nails he had left. Marks of greed. 

Charles looked up at her, stars in his eyes. 

And they started again. 

Charles lay awake.

The room was silent, save for the steady rhythm of her breathing beside him. The sheets were tangled around their bodies, clinging to sweat-dampened skin, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere—fractured, spiraling, unable to settle.

She had undone him.

Not just physically—though the memory of her hands, her mouth, the way she had taken control still burned through his nerves like a brand—but something deeper than that. Something irreversible.

His fingers twitched against the sheets.

She was asleep, or at least pretending to be. He didn’t dare turn to look. If he saw her eyes, saw the quiet calculation in them, he didn’t know what he would do.

Because she had him now. Completely.

Charles swallowed against the tightness in his throat. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was the one who had taken her, manipulated her, crafted every careful thread of her dependency. He was the one who had made her need him.

So how had it come to this?

Why was he the one who felt like he was unravelling?

She shifted beside him, just slightly, and his pulse spiked. The movement was small, barely noticeable, but he felt it like a ripple in his bloodstream.

For a terrifying moment, he thought about reaching for her. Pulling her closer. Burying his face in her hair and breathing her in until his mind stopped racing.

But he didn’t.

Because he knew—he knew—if he touched her now, it wouldn’t be him holding her in place.

It would be her letting him.

And that was worse. So much worse.

Charles exhaled shakily and closed his eyes. But even in the darkness, he felt her presence pressing in on him, inescapable.

She wasn’t running.

She wasn’t screaming.

She was staying.

And for the first time, he wasn’t sure whether that was his victory—

Or his downfall.

He lay rigid, staring at the ceiling, his mind an endless loop of static.

The room was too quiet. Too still.

He could hear the faintest sounds—the whisper of her breath, the rustle of fabric when she shifted in her sleep—but it wasn’t enough to anchor him. It only made the thoughts spiral faster.

His body ached, not from exertion but from something deeper, something he refused to name.

He had given in.

He had let her pull him under, let her take control, let her do to him what he had once done to her.

And he had wanted it.

That was the part that unsettled him the most.

He had wanted it.

Needed it.

Somewhere between her lips on his skin and her voice in his ear, he had stopped being the one holding her in place. And now, lying here in the aftermath, he felt something curdling inside him, something dangerously close to desperation.

Because she could leave.

She had always been able to leave, he knew that now. The locks, the walls, the carefully constructed prison—it had never been those things keeping her here. It had been him.

And if she ever decided she no longer wanted to stay, he would have nothing left to hold her.

A slow exhale.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to steady, but then—

A shift.

A quiet inhale.

And then the subtle change in her breathing that told him she was awake.

He felt it before she moved, before she even opened her eyes. The weight of her awareness pressing against the space between them.

He didn’t turn to look at her.

Didn’t dare.

But then—softly, tentatively—

"Are you awake?"

Her voice. Groggy with sleep but clear enough to cut through the silence like a blade.

His fingers twitched.

"Yes."

A pause.

He could feel her looking at him. Studying him in that unnerving way of hers, peeling him open with nothing but silence.

"Charles."

The sound of his name sent something sharp through his chest. He exhaled carefully, measuring his voice before he spoke.

"What?"

Another pause.

And then, quieter—

"What now?"

The words settled heavily between them.

He swallowed. What now? As if he had an answer.

For months, he had dictated the course of things. Had controlled every moment, every breath between them. But now, in the aftermath, it wasn’t his decision to make.

He didn’t know what was worse—the uncertainty or the fact that he was waiting for her to decide.

After a moment, he finally turned to face her.

She was watching him, eyes unreadable, her hair a tangle against the pillow. She looked different. Not softer—no, she had never been soft—but something had shifted.

She looked like she knew.

Like she had all along.

His throat tightened.

"What do you want it to be?" he asked, the words tasting foreign in his mouth.

Her gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. She was silent for so long he thought she wouldn’t answer.

But then—

"I don’t know," she admitted.

Something in his chest twisted.

Neither of them knew.

For the first time, they were on even ground.

And that terrified him.

The silence between them stretched, taut and expectant.

Charles felt the weight of it pressing down on his ribs, making it harder to breathe. He had spent so long crafting their dynamic, pulling her strings, manipulating every interaction to keep her where he wanted her. But now…

Now she was the one leading.

"You never answered me," she said at last.

His brows pulled together. "About what?"

She studied him, head tilting slightly against the pillow.

"What now."

Charles exhaled through his nose, glancing towards the ceiling as if it might have the answer.

"I don't know," he admitted. The words felt foreign. He wasn’t used to not knowing.

"Liar," she murmured.

His jaw tensed.

Of course he knew. Of course he had spent the past hour running through every possibility, every outcome, every way this could all fall apart. He had been raised to plan ahead, to anticipate, to always have control.

And yet, here he was, utterly at her mercy.

He turned his head slightly, looking at her properly now. Her gaze was steady, unnervingly perceptive.

"Tell me about them," she said suddenly.

His stomach twisted.

"Who?" he asked, though he knew exactly who she meant.

"Your family."

Charles stilled. His fingers curled slightly against the sheets.

"Why?"

She shrugged, but there was intent behind it. "I just… want to know."

His throat felt tight. He had spent so long keeping her separate from that world, keeping everything controlled. His family was expectation, obligation, duty. She was chaos, unpredictability, something that he had slipped through the cracks of his carefully constructed life.

He shouldn’t let the two overlap.

And yet—

"They expect things from me," he found himself saying.

Her brows lifted slightly. "Like?"

He swallowed, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. "Like a wife. An heir. A life that fits into the perfect little box they’ve built for me."

She blinked. "And do you want that?"

He hesitated. Then— "I want the inheritance."

A humourless huff of laughter left her. "Honest, at least."

Charles shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to talking about this, not in any real way. Not with someone who actually wanted to listen.

"My father left conditions in place," he went on, voice tight. "If I want my inheritance, I have to be married before I turn thirty."

Her expression didn’t change, but something in her posture did. A slight shift. A subtle awareness.

"How old are you?" she asked.

"Twenty-eight."

Another pause. She sat with that for a moment, then—

"So you're running out of time."

He didn’t answer.

Because she was right.

Another silence settled between them, thicker than before. But then—she moved.

She sat up slowly, the sheets pooling around her waist, bare skin catching in the dim light.

Charles stilled.

He looked—just for a second—before guilt curled through his chest like something rotten.

He shouldn’t. He had already taken too much from her.

His gaze dropped away, jaw tightening.

But then—fingertips, warm and soft, trailing over his cheek.

He flinched, just slightly, but didn’t pull away.

Her thumb brushed over the sharp edge of his cheekbone, slow and deliberate, and when she spoke, her voice was quiet. Measured.

"Why don’t we then?"

His breath caught.

His eyes snapped to hers, searching, desperate, trying to figure out if she was toying with him again, if this was just another way to tip the scales back in her favour.

But her gaze was steady.

Unwavering.

His pulse hammered in his throat.

He had wanted control over her. Had wanted to make her his.

But now, looking at her, watching the way her lips curved just slightly, the way she ran her thumb over his skin like she was memorising him—

He realised she had already won.

And he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop her.

Charles swallowed, his throat tight, his mind caught between a dozen conflicting instincts.

Her words hung between them, weighty and deliberate. Why don’t we then?

He should have laughed. Scoffed. Told her she was insane.

Instead, all he could feel was the unbearable pressure of his own pulse.

His fingers curled into the sheets.

"I’m scared," he admitted.

It was barely a whisper, but it felt like a confession, like something ripped from the darkest part of him.

Her gaze didn’t waver. She was still close, still watching him like she could see straight through his skin.

"Why?" she asked, voice soft.

Charles forced out a breath. His thoughts tangled, chaotic, but she was waiting. Expecting.

"Because," he said, voice strained, "you already have too much of me."

A flicker of something passed through her expression. Not triumph, not cruelty—just something knowing.

She didn’t move her hand from his cheek. Instead, her thumb traced over the skin again, slow and deliberate.

"You know how I work better than I do," she murmured. "I know how you do. It’s perfect almost, no?"

His chest tightened.

Perfect.

The word lodged itself inside him, curling in the spaces between his ribs.

She wasn’t wrong.

He had built this. Had shaped her mind to fit against his own, had twisted and moulded her fears until she couldn’t breathe without thinking of him.

And now—

Now she had done the same.

Not by force, not by manipulation.

By knowing him.

By understanding him in a way no one else ever had.

His stomach twisted painfully.

It should have terrified him.

Maybe it still did.

But as he looked at her, bare and unflinching before him, something else stirred beneath the fear.

Something far, far worse.

He wanted it.

He wanted her.

And perhaps, in some strange, awful way—

She wanted him too.

What Charles hadn’t expected was for things to go the way they did.

For the shift to be so seamless.

For her to stay.

And yet, here they were.

She slept in his room now. Not because he made her, not because of some unspoken rule, but simply because she did. Because she climbed into his bed at the end of the day, settled against the pillows like she had always belonged there.

She moved around the house with familiarity, no longer stepping carefully, no longer treating it like a place she was trapped in. It unnerved him.

Because it wasn’t control keeping her here anymore.

It was something else.

Something he didn’t know how to name.

He still caught himself slipping. The disorder was a living, breathing thing, curled in the depths of his chest, waiting for a reason to claw its way out.

Every time she left the room for too long, every time she didn’t respond to something he said, the thoughts would creep in—She’s leaving. She’s changing her mind. She’s going to realise what you are and run.

But then—her hand on his arm, her voice pulling him back.

"I’m here, Charles."

"I’m not going anywhere."

"Breathe."

It was unnatural, this thing between them.

It shouldn’t have worked.

And yet, it did.

Somehow, it did.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen now, watching as she stirred sugar into her tea. She was still in her nightdress, her hair loose, her bare feet silent against the tiled floor. She looked soft in the morning light, nothing like the girl he had taken all those months ago.

She caught him watching.

Her lips twitched slightly. "What?"

Charles shook his head, exhaling. "Nothing."

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was this.

The domesticity of it. The ease. The way his world had been rearranged without him even noticing.

And the strangest part?

He wasn’t sure he minded.

He had never thought this would be his life.

Not because he hadn’t wanted something like it—not because he hadn’t craved the warmth of another body in his bed, the certainty of knowing someone was there—but because he had always known he was broken.

He had known it since childhood, since he first realised that his love felt different from other people’s, that his need for closeness was something raw, something desperate, something people recoiled from when they saw it too clearly.

He had never imagined there would be someone who stayed even after seeing the worst of him.

Yet she had.

She had stayed through every manipulation, every cruel game, every attempt he had made to own her, to keep her.

And now, somehow, impossibly—she wanted to stay.

This time he watched her across the room, curled in the corner of the sofa with a book in her lap, one leg tucked beneath the other. She looked so at ease, as if this had always been her place.

It still startled him sometimes, how quickly things had shifted.

How easily she had taken control of him.

And when his parents next came unannounced, he wasn’t forcing her to play a role.

He thought of the time he had put a knife to her throat and forced her to be his fiancée. The way he had held her so tightly, whispering threats in her ear, making sure she played along.

And now?

Now she did it willingly.

He hadn’t even had to ask.

She had smoothed down her dress, glanced at him once, and slipped into the part as though she had always belonged in it.

His mother kissed her cheek. His father nodded in approval. The conversation flowed.

Charles sat beside her, his fingers twitching slightly against his knee, his mind caught between past and present.

He had made her into this.

But she had remade him in return.

It was late. The kind of late where the house felt like it existed in its own pocket of time, separate from the rest of the world.

The fire had burned low, the glow casting flickering shadows along the walls. She was sitting at the foot of the bed, her legs crossed beneath her, watching him.

"When was the last time you left the house?"

Charles blinked. The question was so unexpected, so out of place in the quiet, that it took him a moment to process it.

His fingers flexed against his knee. "I went into the garden last week."

She gave him a flat look. "Out, Charles."

His jaw clenched slightly. "Since the day at the office."

Her expression didn’t change, but he saw the flicker of understanding behind her eyes.

"Because of me."

It wasn’t a question.

He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "Because I was scared that if I left, you’d be gone when I came back."

Silence settled between them. Not heavy, not uncomfortable. Just there.

Then, after a moment, she tilted her head. "We should go out."

Charles tensed. "Out?"

"To celebrate our engagement."

His stomach twisted.

It’s a trick.

That was his first thought. His immediate, panicked, irrational thought. That she would get him out of the house, that she would leave—slip away, disappear into a crowd, and he’d come back to an empty home, to silence, to nothing.

She must have seen it on his face, because she sighed, lifting her left hand, holding it up between them.

Her ring finger was bare.

"I won’t leave," she murmured. "And anyway—" she glanced towards the door, then back at him—"the front door has been unlocked for far too long. I would have done it earlier."

His breath hitched.

She wasn’t lying. He knew she wasn’t lying.

She had seen the worst of him, and she was still here.

And now, she was asking him to trust her.

He swallowed hard.

Maybe it was time to see what happened when he did.

Charles stood, dousing the last of the fire with the poker, watching as the embers faded into darkness. The warmth in the room dulled, but the air between them remained thick with something unspoken.

She was waiting for him. Already beneath the sheets, watching as he moved through the motions of closing the house for the night. It was strange, how natural this had become. How effortless.

He slid into bed beside her, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.

Then, as he did every night, his fingers reached for her hand.

And, as she did every night, she placed it on his chest.

The tension in him melted—just enough. Just enough to let sleep take him.

Morning came gently. Light filtered through the curtains, spilling golden across the room. Charles stirred, feeling the absence of warmth beside him before he heard the soft shuffle of movement.

He blinked up at her.

She was standing near the dresser, pulling her hair away from her face, already dressed.

In the clothes he had bought her.

A simple dress. Modest. Nice. Something unassuming, something she had never objected to, never even commented on.

And yet, seeing her in it now, he felt something shift inside him.

Because she had chosen to wear it.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

His throat felt tight as he sat up, watching her.

"You’re staring," she murmured.

"It suits you."

She glanced at him in the mirror, eyes unreadable. Then, after a pause—"Good."

Charles watched her move around the room, the quiet rustling of fabric filling the space as she finishing taming her hair. She didn’t need to ask for help, didn’t need his input. She simply got ready, as though it was something so ordinary, so simple. Yet for him, it was another reminder of how much had changed.

He sat up slowly, still watching her from the bed, the sunlight streaming in through the gap in the curtains. The golden light made her skin glow, made everything in the room feel warmer, more familiar. Her movements were so natural now, and it unsettled him—this—the way she seemed to fit, like a puzzle piece finally snapping into place.

When she finished adjusting the dress and her hair, she turned to him, meeting his gaze. There was something different in her eyes now, something more certain.

She wasn’t running. She wasn’t pretending.

He cleared his throat, his voice suddenly thick. "You look…"

She raised an eyebrow, a quiet smile tugging at her lips. "I know."

He couldn’t help but chuckle, even if it was a small, dry sound. There was no need for words anymore, was there? They had learned each other so well, learned how to communicate in the silences between their sentences.

She walked towards him, the hem of her dress brushing the floor with each step, and paused just before him. Her eyes flickered to his hand, then back to his face.

"Do you think we’re ready?" Her voice was soft, steady.

He didn’t know what he was ready for—what they were ready for—but he reached for her, his hand trembling slightly. When she placed her fingers in his, there was an unspoken understanding between them, something that hadn’t been there before.

"I think so," he replied, his voice low. "But I’m still scared."

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she placed her hand gently over his, holding him as if to steady him, as if she were the one in control now.

"We’re both scared," she whispered. "But that doesn’t mean we have to stop."

The front door loomed before them.

Charles hesitated. He hadn’t stepped beyond it in months.

But then—her fingers in his, firm, grounding.

"Come on," she murmured.

And so, together, they stepped outside.

The air was sharp, cool against his skin. The world stretched out before them, vast and open.

And for the first time, Charles didn’t feel like he was losing her.

Not as long as she was still holding his hand.

the end.

taglist: @charlesgirl16 @lilorose25 @obxstiles @mimiastroos @theoslove @taetae-armyyyyy @fastandcurious16 @iimplicitt @carlossainzapologist @iamred-iamyellow @curseofhecate @number-0-iz @dozyisdead @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @n0vazsq @dying-inside-but-its-classy @hzstry8 @oikarma @amyelevenn

[iimplicitt]

🐴 ooh okay I’m here to infest your blog with max requests then. I come from Anna’s blog.

I have been wanting spy!max. What if reader gets caught in the crossfire as an innocent and Max had to intervene to save the reader. As a result he had to protect her and somewhere along the way he ended up falling for her

ENJOY THE SILENCE | MV1

pairings: spy! max verstappen x fem! reader

a/n-warnings: violence, blood, mentions of su!cide, criminal underworld, spy/government organizations, charles runs a crime syndicate, language, sherlock! inspo, slightly suggestive themes, hea!, if typos i apologize i’m out of it, collab with pookie @theonottsbxtch

wc: 9.9k

Leclerc.

A name whispered by few and not known by many unless they were involved in work God would frown upon.

Max leaned back in his chair, orchestral music swirling in the air along with light conversation and rich laughter. The banquet was still buzzing even though the hour began to run late. His fingers thrummed on the tablecloth, eyes flickering over the crowd.

Guards were posted at each entrance.

His eyes danced up to the terraces above. The police had men patrolling as well.

The night was still young and vulnerable.

Leclerc was a known terrorist. Or businessman. Same thing these days.

He was just a name. An idea. A phantom that lurked in shadows. Pulled strings. Swayed the market. Played a dirty hand in elections.

No face or even a voice could be attached to him.

He was like a Boogeyman, but far too real with drastic consequences.

Leclerc.

Men he had taken down over the years had screamed the name after Max had all but beat them into submission. Nearly half of them committing suicide right after. Fear for the infamous criminal greater than any other alternative.

A man who liked to play games. Toy with people.

Max had landed on his radar.

It seemed as if every big assignment he was put on, there were traces of him everywhere. Ties. Strings. Deaths all leading back to one man.

He swallowed the last dregs of his champagne as he watched the Prince of Monaco being escorted out of the ballroom. His instructions simple. Keep an eye out. Clear the trail.

Keep it clean.

Max stood, rolling his shoulders slightly as his suit adjusted around him. The smells of rich colognes and whiskeys wafting in the air, glittering diamonds winking at him from the chandelier lights.

He lingered off to the side as he existed, the cool night air hitting his skin and the heat from the earlier summer sun was still warm on the pavement. Max leaned against the wall, watching as a sleek car pulled up and the door was opened for the Prince.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a lighter and a cigarette, the sharp sound of the flame igniting greeted his ears and warm light bathed his face as he placed the tobacco between his lips. Breathing in, the rich nicotine provided a blanket over his nerves as he watched the car slowly roll away.

Max was about to walk off to get his bike to follow when something on top of a nearby building caught his eye. It was quick. A glint of something metallic. His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the darkness. He never ignored his intuition.

Slowly, he walked towards the building, sticking to the shadows and smoke slowly plumed into the air, pouring out of his nose as he kept a steady pace. Stalking. Each step careful.

When he saw the shadow quickly dart against the roof, he didn’t hesitate.

Tossing the cigarette, he made quick work down the street, his dress shoes sharp against the stone lined road, eyes following the figure.

Another glint of metal.

He darted to the side, the silent sound of a bullet biting through the air next to him not a second later. A silencer. Gunman. Hopefully only one. He could work with that.

Only issue is why hadn’t they taken the shot when the Prince was–

“Shit,” he whispered as he took off in a run again.

Another bullet grazed the air.

Max quickly rounded the corner of the building, he knew the angle would be difficult, If he could just get inside.

He ducked beneath windows he passed, about to turn under the awning when he ran directly into someone. Their startled scream knocked him slightly askew.

Worse, alerting the gunman where he was.

His eyes flicked down, taking note of the woman he had knocked over. Civilian by the looks of it, in a work uniform. His mind was running a mile a minute, reaching a hand down to quickly help you up and keep moving.

“You should leave,” he muttered, about to breeze past you and through the door.

“That’s what I was doing until you practically ran me over-”

A bullet ricocheted off the ground, shattering a window.

You screamed again and he tried his best not to roll his eyes as he took hold of your arm and yanked you inside of the building.

“What the fuck–”

“Be quiet,” he snapped, darkness swallowing them up in the hallway and he struggled to listen for any approaching footsteps over the sound of your rapid breathing.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Are you incapable of shutting up?” He bit.

You balked at him. “We were just shot at-”

“And we’re going to be again if you don’t be quiet.”

Even though it was dark he could read your expression easily. You wanted to slap him. He hoped your annoyance would overshadow the fear of the current situation, making you more compliant.

“Come on,” he whispered. Looking for somewhere you could hide. The last thing he needed was casualties.

Max was about to reach for a door handle to what he assumed was a closet when another bullet flew past him. He yanked you down, realising he wasn’t being that gentle but surely you wouldn’t care given someone was out to murder you both.

“Get inside,” he managed to say before he quickly got up, a person appearing from the shadows like a phantom deciding to finally make an appearance,

He dodged a punch, his own arm swinging out and managing to land a blow in the assailant's side.

Max barely resisted the grunt as his fist connected, already pivoting on the balls of his feet to avoid the counterstrike. The assailant recovered fast, swinging a knife in a tight, brutal arc. Max twisted, feeling the blade whisper past his ribs, slicing fabric but missing flesh.

Close. Too Close.

He liked this jacket, pity.

He grabbed the bastard’s wrist, yanking them forward, using their own momentum against them. A sharp twist. A pained snarl. The knife clattered to the floor.

The other man struck out in desperation, a wild jab aimed for Max’s ribs with another smaller knife he hadn’t seen. The glint of the blade flickering as it caught the light. Max deflected with a swift parry, stepping in close- too close. He could smell the sweat and gunpowder, see the flicker of uncertainty in the assailant’s eyes just before he drove his knee hard into his stomach. The man reeled back, breath stolen, shoulders heaving. He barely had time to blink as the man threw the knife with such force he could hear it rip through the air, lodging itself into Max’s thigh.

He grunted, clenching his teeth and ripped the knife out. It wasn’t deep but he’d need stitches.

Max didn’t give him time to recover. A sharp kick to the chest sent him crashing into a stack of wooden crates, the impact splitting the air with a satisfying crush. He began to get up, but Max rammed his head forward, headbutting him with years of practise. The bastard slumped. Unconscious. Thank fuck.

He stalked forward, quick on his feet and he kicked the man again for good measure. Mostly to make sure he was actually unconscious. Once satisfied, taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest through tactical gear, Max reached down and yanked the balaclava up.

He couldn’t help but smile as he took in the man's features.

“So that’s who…” he whispered.

Max exhaled slowly as he stood, rolling his shoulders, the tension in his muscles easing. He wiped the blood from his knuckles against the front of his jacket, then-

Shit.

His haze snapped to you. You were still standing there, standing frozen in the doorway, eyes blown wide, breath uneven.

Of course you were. He should’ve known nothing was ever that simple.

“Right, move,” he said, already striding towards you. Ignoring the way warm blood was beginning to soak into his trousers.

You blinked up at him. “What?”

“We’re leaqving.”

“No, we’re not. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Max let out a slow breath, patience hanging by a thread. He could hear sirens in the distance. Time was short.

“You’ve got two choices,” he said, voice flat. “Walk, or I carry you.”

Your expression flickered with outrage. “You wouldn’t dare-”

He grabbed your wrist.

You fought him, really you tried, heels digging in, but Max was stronger, faster and had far less interest in arguing. With barely any effort, he hoisted you over his shoulder, ignoring the flurry of fists against his back.

“Put me down, you absolute-”

“Later.”

Max strode down the alley, barely registering the way you kicked and struggled against his grip. His focus was on getting the hell out before someone else decided to have another go at killing him.

He reached his sports bike - sleek, black, and built for speed - and dumped you onto the seat.

You immediately tried to slide off.

His hand shot out, fingers curling around your wrist. “Stay.”

You glared at him. “I’m not a bloody dog.”

“No, but you’re a pain in my ass.” He leaned in slightly, voice low and edged with irritation. “That man back there wanted me dead. He’d want anyone who witnessed that dead.” He watched the fight in your eyes, the defiance, the disbelief. Then his gaze dropped to your uniform-blue scrubs, a name badge slightly askew. “Do you want to live another day to work at your…” He tilted his head “Your veterinary?”

You swallowed. Hard.

“Yes,” you muttered.

“Good.” He yanked a helmet over your head before you could argue, pulling the strap tight under your chin.

You smacked his hand away, “Get your hands off-”

“Hold on.”

“What?”

The engine roared to life as he revved the throttle.

“Hold. On.”

You barely had time to react before he twisted the grip, the bike surging forward, tyres screeching against the ground. You yelped, arms snapping around his waist as you two tore through the streets, wind whipping past you.

Max’s lips tugged back.

Sassy or not, you were holding on for dear life now.

The city blurred into a mess of neon and streetlights as Max weaved through traffic with the kind of precision that came from years of needing to be faster than the people trying to kill him. You clung onto him tight, despite all your earlier defiance, self-preservation had finally kicked in.

He kept the smirk to himself.

Good.

You tore through backstreets, out onto a motorway, and then further still, into the countryside where the roads were empty, dark, and winding. The roar of the engine echoed through the trees as he pushed the bike harder, faster, leaving everything behind in a blur of tarmac and moonlight.

You didn’t say a word, not that you could over the wind. He could feel you tense against him, probably still weighing up whether you had made the right decision getting on the bike in the first place.

Didn’t matter.

You were too far out from the city now to turn back.

The road narrowed, the air thickening with the scent of pine and earth. The stars were brighter out here, uninterrupted by streetlights. The bike tore though the last stretch of road, tyres crunching over gravel as you approached a villa nestled in the woods.

It was an old house, sprawling yet quiet, the kind of place that looked like it belonged in the Italian countryside rather than where you were. Ivy climbed the stone walls, warm lights glowed behind shuttered windows, and the scent of night blooming jasmine hung in the air.

Was this a safe house?

Is this what they looked like? If they were, the movies portrayed them incorrectly.

Max cut the engine. Silence crashed in.

For a long moment, you didn’t move. Then, slowly, you peeled yourself away from him, yanking the helmet off. Your hair was a mess, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

“What the fuck,” you breathed.

He swung a leg off the bike, shaking out his hands, rolling his shoulders like they hadn’t just spent the last however many kilometers nearly breaking the sound barrier.

You stared at him, then at the house, then back at him. The blood.

“What- Where- How-”

“Not a fan of full sentences, are you?”

Your eyes narrowed. “Where the fuck are we? Who are you?”

Max ran a hand through his hair, glancing at the house before looking back at you. “Safe.”

You let out a sharp laugh, disbelieving. “You just kidnapped me at God knows what speed, drove me to some random place. What even is this? Some murder house in the middle of nowhere?” You threw your arms out. “Where even are we? This isn’t even the same country anymore, is it?”

Max didn’t answer. He just walked past you, up towards the door.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, arsehole!”

He stopped at the entrance, casting you a glance over his shoulder.

“Are you coming in, or do you want to sleep in the woods?”

Your jaw clenched, “How do I know you aren’t going to kill me–”

He let out an exasperated breath. “I just saved your life, or did that escape your notice?”

Your jaw ticked, arms crossing over your chest. He tried to understand how confusing this probably was, but after so many years the effects of how dangerous his job actually was lost on him.

He continued to stare at you, sighing. “We’re in northern Italy. This is a safe house. You’re fine.”

You bit the inside of your cheek. Considering him. “Who are you?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

You huffed, the puff of air making some of your hair fall in your face.

Slowly, like a wounded animal approaching, you made your way towards him, eyes flicking down to his leg. “Do you need help?”

Max raised a brow. You couldn’t seem to make up your mind. Half of you was terrified, the other sympathy towards his wounds.

“I’ll be fine.”

You raised your own brow, ever defiant as you came to a stop on the step right below him. The moonlight caught in your eyes as he stared down at you, seeing you properly for the first time.

You raised your chin, eyes dancing from his legs to his face. “I have medical training.”

“On animals, maybe.”

You sighed through your nose. “Fine, bleed out. Super glue your flesh together.” You shoved past him, entering in through the door with caution thrown in the wind.

He followed you inside, watching you carefully as you looked around. The interior was simple. Lightly decorated. Giving the impression it was lived in, but clean. A holiday home, maybe. In case anyone came looking.

Your fingers traced along the edge of an ornately carved table, catching his eyes in the mirror hung above the mantle of the fireplace. He was leaning in the doorway of the living room, arms crossed over his chest. Critiquing.

“Are you taking me back tomorrow? I have a life you know, people are going to wonder–”

“Sorry, but that’s not happening anytime soon.”

You paused, muscles coiling in tension. You then looked at him over your shoulder. “What am I then? A hostage?”

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “No,” how to word this? “Listen. that man we just encountered is more dangerous than you can even imagine.”

You turned. “Who is he?”

“You know the bombings that happened last month?”

You nodded, eyes going slightly wide. “That person was responsible? I thought it had been a suicide bombing?”

“It was made to look like one. But that poor man was a victim like everyone else. He was a pawn. A puzzle for the government to solve. Bombs strapped to his chest, and they’d be set off if we failed.”

“So, you work for the government? And you what? Failed? Failed what?”

“That’s the thing, we didn’t fail.”

“I don’t understand.”

Max walked over to the kitchen attached to the room, sitting himself down. He knew he needed to close the wound soon. Adrenaline was wearing off. “There was an earpiece the man was wearing, and he had been on the phone with us. We figured it out, what he wanted. The man was just supposed to tell us where he was so a bomb squad could get him but then…” he rubbed at his eyes. Exhaustion creeping in. “He started to describe him.”

Slowly, you approached. Eyes flicking down to his leg again. “Do you have a medical kit?”

Max debated for a moment, he wasn’t fond of people touching him. The most contact he got these days was dealt in punches. The pain pulsed, though, making him relent and he gestured to the cupboard under the sink.

When you came back, he felt a strange jump in his stomach. Like a rope was being yanked as you kneeled in front of him, your eyes focused on the contents of the box as you rummaged through it.

“What’d he say?” You asked, making him snap out of it.

“Not much. Didn’t even say what he looked like. Didn’t give a name. Just said his voice sounded so soft– and the line went dead.”

You paused as you slid sanitary gloves on, eyes going up to his and a crease formed between his brows. “Why’d the government put out a terrorist statement? Surely his family knows–”

Max shook his head, reaching his hands down to tear a large rip into his pants so you could get better access to his wound. “No, no one is supposed to know what’s actually happening. The real threat. Leclerc has been causing chaos across multiple countries' governments for years now, he’s just getting louder. He’s bored.”

“Leclerc? Is that his name?” You leaned, in, your warm breath softly brushed against his thigh, the dried blood feeling cold against his skin and he fought back as shiver as you pierced his flesh with the needle.

“Not many know of him. Barely anyone even knows what he looks like.”

You paused, looking at him. “But now we do.”

He nodded. “Thus, the safehouse.”

“What have you dragged me into?”

He smiled at her, though it wasn’t friendly. “Trust me, if I could be rid of you, I would leap at the opportunity.”

You yanked the wound closed a little harder than necessary and he winced. “The sentiment is shared, you prick. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No,” he stood up, watching you lean back while you were still down on your knees. “You were in the way.”

Your eyes narrowed as you stared up at him. A challenge. Seeing who would cave first. His eyes traced the contours of your bent throat, up across your lips, to your angry gaze.

He sighed. “We’re stuck with each other, lieve. For the time being. He knows we’ve seen his face. He won’t be letting that go.”

“So, we just wait here?”

“No, we’re leaving tomorrow.” He stepped around you. Finally breaking the eye contact and he made his way down the hall, hearing you follow after him and cursing under your breath.

“What? But what about my–”

“I’ll have it handled, but we can’t stay here. Or anywhere for a long time, for that matter. Leclerc is powerful. He doesn’t just have money, he has blackmail. That’s enough to make any government topple.” Max turned, watching as you froze, eyes wide. Disassociating. Not being able to come to terms with your new reality.

He felt bad. A little, as much as he could manage. But this is what happened when people stumbled into his life. Everything gets ruined. Upturned.

‘What am I supposed to do?” You whispered, mostly talking to yourself.

Max walked up to you, his steps light. “Right now, you need to rest. There should be toiletries in the bathroom.”

You laughed, though it sounded more like a scoff. “Such a nice host.”

He bowed his head in mock virtue. “You’re welcome. I’ll wake you up.”

With that he turned, disappearing down the hall and shutting his door behind him. He needed to call Christian and let him know.

He was compromised.

–

You didn’t sleep. How were you supposed to? Your mind was spinning. Thinking about everything and nothing. Pacing the room in the dark, the moon glinting at you through the window. You had no idea what time it was. There was no clock, and you had lost your phone in the chaotic events that unfurled earlier.

You kept staring at your scrubs that lay in a neat, folded pile on the bed. Now adorning a too big shirt and baggy boxers you’d found in a drawer. You felt nauseous, a sense of foreboding as you stared at your work uniform with your name stitched onto the front packet. It felt like you were severing something. And maybe you were. Your life. Any sense of normalcy.

It didn’t feel real.

There was a sharp knock on the door, and you jumped, half expecting the strange man to barge in. It occurred to you that you never asked for his name. But after a few seconds passed, you realised he was waiting.

Swallowing thickly, you reached for the door handle and took a breath before opening it.

There he stood, mouth opening to say something but his eyes quickly took in your appearance, and if your mind wasn’t playing trick on you, you could’ve sworn his neck went a little red.

He then looked past you onto the bed, at the fabric of your past life. “Good, we need to burn it.”

“What?”

“Your name’s on it. Grab it and let's go.”

He began to walk away and you blinked at him. “I’m supposed to go out like this?”

He looked back at her, biting his cheek as he took in her bare legs. “It’s not like we’re going out in public. Now move.”

You wanted to throw something at his head, but you quickly slipped on your shoes and grabbed your scrubs. When you walked into the living room a fire was already going in the hearth with him kneeling in front of it.

He held out his hand, looking at you expectantly.

You held your breath, fingers tightening on the cloth for a moment before you finally handed it to him.

Feeling something break a bit inside of you as he tossed them in, the fabric beginning to char.

–

A week had passed, and he barely talked to you.

Max.

That was his name.

Not that he told you, he never told you anything. In fact, he avoided you like the plague.

Bits of information fell into your lap. Like his name as he talked to some man named Horner over the radio on the small private jet you had been on. Your eyes watching as he flew it with precision. His hands maneuvering over hundreds of controls as if it were muscle memory.

You didn’t know what to do with yourself.

This was your third relocation, somewhere in the Swiss Alps maybe, you didn’t know. You just sat curled cup with your chin resting on your knees by the window. Looking at the snow-covered mountains. Drawing patterns into the fogged-up mirror.

He felt like a ghost.

Or maybe you did. A presence he was wanting to pretend wasn’t there. Haunting him.

It’s not like you weren’t being taken care of. New clothes had been laid out, all in your size but you tended to op for the shirt you’d found that first night. Feeling like it was your last tether. When you woke up in the morning, breakfast was made. The fridge full. No note as to where he had gone. But you supposed the less you knew the better.

A few more days passed before there was a knock on your door again.

Time to go.

His eyes only met yours for a moment before he walked away.

–

It was late, the moon hanging high in the night and winking at him as he unlocked the door. But he paused as he realised there was loud noise coming from inside the house. 

Leaning forward, he realised it was music and his brows furrowed. You were usually asleep by then. He tried to plan his outings to avoid you. He was sure you didn’t want to be around him so it was a common courtesy. 

Walking inside, a song from the seventies was pouring through the speakers. If there were nearby houses there would surely be complaints, but they were tucked away in a large house resting on a mountain's edge in southern Mexico. Away from prying eyes or ears. 

His steps were quiet and light, though the beat was covering him well enough. 

Max passed by the kitchen, brow raising at the sight of an empty bottle of wine and the liquor cabinet doors were left open, bottles rummaged through. 

Christian was going to kill him. 

His feet carried him to the living room and he abruptly stopped when he caught sight of you. 

You were wearing his damned shirt again. A glass of wine in your hand, eyes closed as you swayed around. Singing along to whatever song you had put on. A drunken blush on your cheeks.

He couldn’t stop staring at you. A little dumbfounded at how carefree you looked. How relaxed. Hips swaying and a thoughtless smile on your lips. A daydream in the form of a woman. 

You turned, taking another sip of wine and your eyes caught his. He expected you to jump. Scream. 

Instead your eyes lit up, knocking him off balance. 

“Max!” You exclaimed, making your way over to him, your bare feet padding against the expensive rug. 

He blinked down at you as you came to a stop right in front of him. Closer than you had been in weeks. He had been keeping you at an arm's length for both your sakes. But with the mischievous glint in your eye he had a feeling that was going to crumble tonight.

“What are you doing?” He eventually managed to get out. 

You took another drink, your eyes locked on him as you did so. As you pulled the glass away, your lips were stained with wine. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Stealing.”

You raised a brow.

He gestured to your glass. “I don’t recall telling you the liquor was up for grabs.”

“Is it not?”

“No.”

You smiled. “That’s too bad.” And you finished off your glass, twirling around and walking to the coffee table where you had another bottle. Pouring yourself another one. 

He bit his cheek. Watching you. Cautious. Ignoring that weird tug he got in his stomach when he was around you. “You do realise how much that bottle costs?”

You shrugged, taking a drink “Not my problem.”

“Yeah, well it will be my problem if you run through every bottle in this house.”

“Careful Max, you sound aggravated.” You tsk-d, a playful smile tugging at your lips and he looked away as he leaned against the entryway. 

“I don’t get aggravated.”

“Really?” 

“Yep.”

He felt you approach. The smell of the shampoo you had used wafting around him paired with the wine. Enticing. Dangerous. 

You leaned into your hip, the grin on your lips anything but innocent. 

“I could push all your buttons right now if I wanted to.”

He flicked his eyes down to you, feeling a little breathless but he pushed onward. “No, you couldn’t actually–”

“I think actually I could.”

“No–”

“Sorry, what was that?”

“No,” he bit out your name, eyes narrowing at your growing grin. “If you would just–”

“I can’t seem to hear you.” He huffed as he watched you grab the remote and turn the music up louder.

“”Just listen to me–”

“I’m trying to listen to you–”

“I can tell–”

“So tell me,” the song ended, and they stared at one another. He’d gotten closer without realising it and you craned your neck back. Voice soft. “Is that making you mad?”

He clenched his jaw, eyes dancing from your mouth to your eyes. Slowly, the word left him. “No.” 

“No,” you whispered. With a hum you stepped back as the next song played, and before he realised it you had grabbed his wrist and pulled him further into the room. “Dance with me.”

“Absolutely not.” 

Your skin was warm against his and he felt his nerves go into a frenzy. Part of him wanted to tear himself away from you, the other half wanted to be more reckless. Hold on. 

Ridiculous. 

You frowned at him, though it was more of a drunken pout. 

He nearly frowned himself when you let go, your drunken mind getting caught up in the song, singing the lyrics and you closed your eyes. Stepping along with the beat to the Nancy Sinatra song that was pouring out into the room. 

Max lowered himself on the sofa, leaning back with an arm draped over the back as he watched you. He didn’t really know what to think. It was an odd predicament he found himself in. New territory that came with being hunted by Leclerc. He knew they were being trailed, though a bit slower than he expected. 

He was glad you weren’t curled up in fear, knowing he had upended your life by running into you on that night that seemed so long ago now. You were finding little ways to cheer yourself up. Every other night when he’d come home– to the safehouse– he’d find dishes or desserts you made. A note scrawled on top, Help yourself, followed by your first initial. 

Max’s eyes danced up your legs as you moved, watching how his shirt hung on your body, not liking how much he enjoyed seeing you in it. 

He knew this was reckless. Sitting there, watching you. Harmless from the outside, but he felt that tug again and he wasn’t pulling away from it. 

He knew he should get up. Walk away. Avoid you like he had been the past month. 

Max didn’t move. 

His eyes traced you like an obsessed artist. 

“Max,” you sighed, setting your glass down, but you stumbled. The alcohol rushed through your veins and he easily caught you, breath hitching as you fell into his lap. 

Eyes locked onto each other. Ensnared. Caught in a trap. 

Max swallowed thickly, overwhelmed by you. “I think it’s time you went to bed.”

‘Why?” Your voice was a whisper, breath fanning over his lips.

“Because I’m about to do something incredibly stupid.” 

Your eyes searched his, fingers twined in his shirt. Your grip tightened, leaning in, making his heart lurch, then you leaned back.

His hands slowly fell from your waist as you stood up, his fingers grazing your thighs. Dazed as you muttered a goodnight and walked away.

Max watched you go, alone and the music echoed.

One of these days these boots are gonna walk all over you.

–

You were haunting his dreams. Every night he seemed to wake up in a sweat, sheets pooling around his hips and he’d rub his eyes, forcing the images away. 

Reckless.

Stupid. 

He started joining you for dinner. Sitting at the counter, glass of whiskey in hand as he watched you move around the kitchen.

Wearing another shirt of his.

He gave it to you a week ago. Left it folded on your bed after you two had landed in Argentina.

Leclerc felt like an approaching shadow. He could feel the tick of the clock matching the beat of his heart. 

Closer and closer. 

Your fingers trailed along the nape of his neck as you walked behind him, setting down his plate. 

He shut his eyes.

He was slipping.

–

You lowered your book a bit, squinting against the sun despite the fact you were wearing sunglasses. The Miami sun unforgiving.

Max walked out onto the back patio and you watched him silently, scared that if you made a noise he’d retreat back into the house. He was always treading so carefully around you. 

You watched as he lifted his shirt over his head, his hair looking blond in the sun and his skin tan and corded with muscle. Swim shorts low on his hips. 

It seemed so… casual. 

You liked it. 

He dove into the pool, the water aquamarine and shimmering. 

Max broke the surface, shaking his head to rid himself of water and wiped at his eyes, looking at you over the ledge of the pool. He had a habit of staring when he thought you weren’t looking. It felt like a game of cat and mouse with him. Never knowing when he’d let go of his reins a little bit. He’d let you in a little bit but then would take five steps back.

What was he so scared of? 

He rested his arms on the edge of the pool. water beading up on his biceps and shoulders, eyes narrowing at you and you lowered your book, raising a brow. 

“Get in.”

You blinked and lowered your glasses down your nose. “What?”

“Get in, lieve.” 

Your brow furrowed. He called you that sometimes and you had no idea what it meant.

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.” 

Despite your scoff, you found yourself getting up anyway. His eyes watched you as you walked closer, each leg lowering into the water, goosebumps covering your flesh even though it was warm. 

The water wasn’t too deep, but you were still on your toes as you neared him, water dewed up on his lashes. His eyes glowing as he briefly looked at your mouth. 

Part of you was tempted to grab his neck and just say to hell with it. 

It was hard to breathe when he was around. 

–

They had only been in Rio for a few days. He didn’t know how you managed to convince him, but he found himself being dragged to a night club as the sun set behind the waves. 

It was idiotic. 

But seeing your smile as he caved made him reckless. 

The music was loud. The club dark, figures flickering in and out of focus as lights flashed. 

This really was a horrible idea. 

Your hand found his wrist, tugging him towards the dance floor but he didn’t budge. 

You looked over your shoulder at him. “Oh come on, live a little.”

He shook his head. “I’ll keep watch.” Max’s heart sank a little when he saw your expression falter a bit, clearly upset. But before he could even scramble for a response you dropped his arm and kept walking. Other bodies swept you up. 

Biting his cheek, he leaned back against the bar. Careful to keep an eye on you. On the entrance and exit. 

Ignoring that tug in his stomach. 

- 

You had a headache. One that was free of alcohol. You weren’t risking that tonight. 

Every now and again you’d catch Max’s eye, the stoney expression he always wore. Unreadable. 

It was infuriating. Exhausting. You felt like a fool. 

You were probably just lonely. Forcing something that wasn’t there. He was practically your keeper. Nothing more, nothing less. 

It almost felt like he always went out of his way to make that point. 

You could look all you wanted but that was it. Only fleeting touches and tense conversation. 

It was maddening. You felt like you were going insane. Imagining things with the way he was looking at you. 

Like he wanted you. 

Clearly he didn’t. 

You had no idea what he wanted. 

The music thrummed. Loud in your ears and making your heart lurch in your throat. You wanted to forget for a little while. Forget what your life had turned into, or lack thereof. 

Your hands were in the air, hips swaying, letting the crowd guide you. 

You spun, heels catching and you stumbled a bit but someone behind you caught you easily. 

The smell of rich cologne met you first and you turned, taken slightly aback from the man who was now standing in front of you. 

He was devastatingly handsome. 

And grinning lightly. 

At you. 

Dimples in his cheeks, blue eyes looking dark, and his brown hair was a mess. 

“Sorry,” you finally managed to spit out, blushing like an idiot. 

He shook his head, leaning down so you could hear him better. His voice soft. 

“You’re alright, darling.” He had a slight french accent and you returned his smile. 

Not denying that you liked the sudden attention you were getting. 

The moment was tense, his eyes not leaving yours as he took a step closer, a question in his gaze as his arm reached out and wrapped around your waist. 

You sucked in a breath. Debating. 

Your eyes trailed to where Max had been but he was gone, walking off somewhere. 

Running your tongue along the inside of your cheek, you looked back up at the handsome mystery man and wrapped your arms around his neck. 

Permission. 

You knew exactly what he wanted. The reassurance felt nicer than it should’ve. 

You two began to move to the music, lights flashing and bodies pressed tight together. His voice low in your ear as his lips brushed against it. Making light conversation. Making you laugh. 

He was wickedly charming. 

He asked your name and you felt like you had to practically shout it over the music. 

“Yours?” You asked, feeling a bit dazed with the way he was looking at you. Shivering as one of his hands snaked up your back and into your hair, his other arm tightening around your waist. 

“Charles,” he spoke it into your mouth.

Lips colliding. Messy. Electric. 

God, you were touch starved. 

You practically melted into him as his tongue slid into your mouth. 

The taste of him strangely sweet.

-

After he had caught the sight of a shadow moving upstairs, he debated leaving you alone for a moment before deciding it was better to be safe than sorry. 

What he hadn’t been expecting as he looked over the upstairs railing, was to see you making out with someone. 

But it wasn’t just someone. 

His stomach dropped as the flickering lights shone over the man’s face. 

Leclerc. 

Just as he turned around a knee was suddenly being lodged into his diaphragm.

Max stumbled back, coughing violently. Barely having time to blink before he dodged another kick, this time a foot coming straight for his head. 

He quickly dodged, hooking his own arm out in an arc and landed a fist across the person face. 

Lights shone into the balcony and he caught sight of a woman, grunting as she wiped blood off her cheek. 

Fuck. 

He knew exactly who this was. 

Leclerc’s personal murder weapon. 

Ex-MI5. Now enemy of the state. 

She didn’t hesitate, darting forward, throwing another kick and as he went to block her, her hands gripped his shoulder and she swung up and around, cinching her legs around his neck. 

His head spun a bit from the force, adrenaline making him barely take notice of how she dug a knife somewhere in his back. 

Max’s hands flew up, grip tightening around her waist before slamming her down onto a near by table, knocking the wind out of her but her legs remained a vice around his neck. 

His hand shot out, putting his own death grip around her throat. Seeing red. 

She wheezed. Clawing at his hand, eyes going red and bleary. 

He grit his teeth as she grinned at him. 

“Been a while, babe.”

Max was about to just say fuck it and snap her neck when someone suddenly whistled. 

“Kinky, I like it.”

His eyes flicked to the side before widening. 

Leclerc was setting your unconscious body down on a nearby couch, your arm slipping from his shoulder and slumping to the side. 

He didn’t have much time to take in the smug expression Leclerc was wearing before there was a sharp blow to his skull. 

-

The second he was awake a sharp pain ricocheted around his skull, making him wince. 

He blinked a few times, eyes burning, trying to see in the low light provided only by a few lamps. 

The room was simple. Neat. A hotel maybe, given the carpet.

When he saw you, tied to a chair across from him, duck tape over your mouth with blood dripping down the side of your head, your eyes dilated in fear. 

He bit out your name, attempting to crawl to you out of sheer desperation before he realized his own hands were tied. 

The longer Max took in your fear stricken expression, he realised you weren’t even looking at him. But past his shoulder. 

Long legs were adorned by an expensive black suit and one ankle was perched up on the other knee. Italian leather graced his feet that looked as frightfully expensive as the black leather gloves that covered his long fingers, resting on the armrests of the chair. 

Leclerc looked painfully casual. 

Save for the cold look in his eyes and cruel smile on his lips. 

His blue eyes flicked down Max’s frame. An invisible string pulled at the corner of his lips as he rested his chin in the palm of his hand. “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”

Max clenched his jaw, looking at you, how your hair stuck to your sweat drenched skin. His eyes flicked back to Leclerc. 

“Why don’t you come here and find out?”

Leclerc laughed. Though it was more so an exhale of air and his own gaze drifted to you, making Max’s blood boil. 

The man hummed, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Max. 

“Charles Leclerc.” He let his name sit heavy in the air for a moment. “Hello,” the way he said it, almost in a sing-song voice… like their current situation was amusing. 

His eyes danced to you, and your confused expression. “Charles? From the club?” You continued to simply stare at him, blood crusting on your wounds and hummed. “Do I really make such a fleeting impression? That’s a shame. I rather enjoyed our kiss.”

Max thrashed against his restraints. 

“Easy now.” Leclerc tsk-d. He then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve given you a glimpse, Max. Just a small one. Of what I’m capable of.” Before Max could even think about what he was saying a red dot appeared on your forehead. 

He tried to turn around to see where it was coming from but he couldn’t move. Yanking against the rope but it was useless. 

Leclerc sighed, as if taking pity on him. 

“I’ve got a lot going on out there in the world. I’m a specialist, I suppose.” He raised his brows, gesturing to Max. “Like you.” 

“A consulting criminal,” Max bit. 

Leclerc shrugged. “Brilliant, isn’t it? No one ever gets to me.”

“I did.”

He hummed, “you’ve come the closest. Now you’re in my way.” 

“Thank you,” Max muttered, his anger making him reckless.

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“Yes, you did.”

Leclerc shrugged, smiling. Looking bashful. “Yeah, okay I did.” He then stood up, rolling his shoulders and fixing his cuff links. “But the flirtings over, Max. Daddy’s had enough now and there’s business to be done. I’ve shown you what I’m capable of. Remember the royal family fiasco? Oh, the princess. What a naughty girl.” He laughed. “Or when I drained the Vatican's vaults. All that money just to get you to come out and play.” 

He walked over to Max, looking down at him. “So take this as a friendly warning, mon cher.” Leclerc placed his hands in his pockets, unblinking as the next words slid out of his mouth like oil. “Back off.”

He stepped back, walking in a circle around your chair. “Although I’ll admit, it has been fun hasn’t it? This little game of ours.”

“People have died.”

“I hate to tell you this, but that’s what people do.” He then wound a hand in your hair and yanked your head back, smiling into your neck as a knife suddenly appeared in Leclerc’s hand, pressing it against your throat. His eyes flicked up, meeting Max’s rage filled expression. “Would you like a reminder of that?”

“I will kill you,” Max ground out. 

Leclerc leaned back, dropping the knife as if he was suddenly bored. His voice calm. “No you won’t.”

Max’s eyes drifted to you. “Are you alright?”

You were quiet. Deathly still. 

Leclerc leaned down, his lips dusting your ear. “You can talk, honey. Go ahead.” And he ripped off the tape. 

You winced. Voice cry and cracking. “I’m fine.” 

“See?” Leclerc leaned against the back of your chair. Hovering. A demon waiting to collect his bargain. “She’s a tough one, you know how to pick them. I’m a little envious, actually.” 

“What do you want?” Max snapped. Getting desperate. “Money? Missile plans?” 

Leclerc tapped his hands on the chair. Whistling. “Missile plans? Wow.” He acted like he was considering it but sighed. “Boring. I can get those anywhere.” He leaned down, pressing a chaste kiss to the top of your head and Max’s stomach sank as he watched you flinch. 

But then you suddenly threw your head back, ramming your head back into Leclerc’s nose and he stumbled, blood beginning to pour out and into his mouth. Staining his lips and teeth. 

He laughed, looking crazed as he made a weak attempt to wipe the crimson away. “Good, very good. She’s sweet, I can see why you like having her around. But then again, people do get so sentimental about their pets.” 

Max threw himself back, the wooden chair shattering below him and he darted forward, ignoring the pain and slamming Leclerc into the wall. Not caring as an array of red glowing dots covered his back. 

“Max!” you cried out, struggling against your restraints. 

Leclerc wouldn’t stop laughing. A mad man. “So touchy and loyal. Maybe you’re her pet.”

A bullet shot through the window and he heard you cry out as it grazed your leg.

Max threw himself back, raising his hands in the air. 

Leclerc smiled. “Gotcha.” He then smoothed down his suit, giving Max an offended look. “Armani, please be gentle with it.” He then sighed, tilting his head to the side. “Do you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Max? Hm?” He stepped forward, getting in his personal space. “Do you?”

“I get killed?”

“Kill you?” He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “No, no no. Don’t be so obvious. I mean yes I will kill you, eventually. But I don’t want to rush it. I want to save that for something special. Just you and I. But if you don’t stop prying,” his eyes drifted to you, smiling wistfully. “I will burn the heart out of you. And I’ll enjoy it.” He closed his eyes, as if savoring it. “Very much.” 

Leclerc began to step back, hands back in his pockets. Smirking. “Ciao, Max.”

And he left out the door.

-

Max was being so delicate with you, you wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or both. 

Tremors still ran through your body. Mostly in shock. You couldn’t believe how stupid you had been. You almost got Max and yourself killed and for what? A night out—

“It’s not your fault.” Max said as he wiped away the blood on your leg, his stitches clean and your heart tugged. All those times you fixed his wounds and he let you. He didn’t need to. He knew how to do it. 

“I should’ve listened to you the first time.” You whispered, watching how bruises already began to bloom across your leg from where the bullet had grazed you. 

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Simply staring at you before his hands gently reached out, cupping your face to tilt your head down and he pressed a light kiss to your freshly washed hair. 

He’d cleaned you up. Nothing about it felt remotely sexual. Just… comforting. Letting you know that he had you. You didn’t have the energy to feel even an ounce of embarrassment that he had finally seen you naked. 

“It’s not your fault,” Max repeated. 

You shut your eyes, leaning into him and his arms slowly wrapped around you in a hug as he stood between your legs as they dangled off the sink. 

You hugged him back in your own time, finding comfort in his warmth and you sighed. Wondering who you had pisssed off in your past life to end up here. 

“Do you think it’s over?”

Max traced light circles into your back. You were wearing another shirt of his. 

Eventually you felt him shake his head. “No,” he said quietly. “Not until he’s dead. But even then, it might take months or even years to dismantle his network.”

You clenched your jaw. Your new reality sinking in. Leaning your head back, you looked up at him. “What do we do now?”

One of his hands reached up, the rough skin of his palm a comfort as he cupped your jaw, his thumb lightly running over your cheekbone. He looked lost. These were new waters, even for him. 

“What we’ve been doing.”

“Biding our time?”

He shook his head, eyes flicking to your mouth. 

“Being patient.”

-

The Shanghai safe house was quiet. Too quiet.

Max shoved the door open, blood dripping from the gash on his cheekbone. His T-shirt clung to him, damp from sweat, and his hands were sore from throwing too many punches and landing too few. His head ached, and he wanted nothing more than to shower and sleep. 

This was what he got for wanting to train against his teammate - his teammate that hadn’t missed a singular training session while Max was jetting off from country to country evading Leclerc.

But training was more important now than it had ever been now that Leclerc was a constant weight on his mind. Eventually, he’d start training you as well. He wanted you to be able to protect yourself if he wasn’t there. 

He’d kill himself if a repeat of Rio happened. 

You were perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging lazily, his oversized T-shirt slipping off one shoulder. You had a glass of water in your hand, but you weren't drinking it—just watching him.

Your gaze flicked to his face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Nothing.” He wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his skin.

You exhaled sharply, hopping down to pull the first aid kit from the cabinet. “Sit.”

“I’m fine.”

“Max.”

He didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you. Just strode towards the bathroom, already pulling his shirt over his head. All he wanted was a shower.

“Fine.”

The word was clipped, laced with something unreadable, and it made him stop. He turned back, brow furrowing as he watched you push herself back onto the counter, setting the first aid kit beside you. Then you just… waited.

No arguing. No chasing him down. Just waiting.

His jaw tightened. His fists curled.

And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he stepped between your knees.

You were already reaching for him, fingers cool as they cupped his jaw, tilting his face to the light. He let out a slow, steady breath as you pressed a damp cloth to the cut, the sting sharp but distant compared to the warmth of you between his arms.

You were focused, careful. Too careful.

He swallowed. “You don’t have to—”

“Shut up.”

His lips twitched despite himself.

Your thumb brushed his cheek as you adjusted your grip, and then—just for a second—your breath caught.

He felt it. Saw it.

You hesitated, your fingers stilling against his skin.

He looked down.

You weren't breathing. Not properly. Not anymore.

Your eyes darted to his mouth. Just for a second. But he caught that, too.

His hands flexed against the counter’s edge.

Silence.

Something thick. Something unspoken.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you broke.

But something had just snapped.

And there was no coming back from it.

His grip on the counter tightened.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just stared at you, feeling the weight of something shift between you—something heavy, something inevitable.

When had this started?

The first safe house? The second? Or had it been there from the moment he dragged you into this mess, when you clung to him on the back of the bike, shaking but unbroken?

You were still looking at him, your fingers trembling just slightly against his skin. Your lips parted like you were about to say something, but nothing came out.

He wondered when you’d last been with someone. When someone had last touched you like this. When you’d last let them.

Max rolled his jaw as he thought about Leclerc that night in Rio. How he has managed to get his hands on you. His mouth. Charles, he had called himself. 

He saw black for a moment and shoved the memory away. 

His mind flicked back to himself, to the months of running, of waiting, of trying to force this thing between you into something manageable. It had been over a year since he’d had a moment to himself, since he’d even considered wanting something outside of the mission, of survival.

But now—right now—he couldn’t think about anything else.

Then you moved.

Slowly, carefully—giving him time to stop you.

He didn’t.

Your lips brushed his, just barely. A whisper of a kiss. A question.

And he almost answered. Almost let himself sink into it.

But then he pulled away.

Your hand dropped from his face instantly, the space between you rushing back in like a cold slap.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back. “I—”

He saw it in your eyes before you even said it. The regret. The walls slamming back up.

“I shouldn’t have—”

He surged forward.

No hesitation this time. No space left to second-guess.

His hand caught your jaw, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as he crushed his mouth to yours. Nothing soft. Nothing tentative. Seven months of waiting, of fighting it, of pretending he didn’t feel you in every room, in every breath—poured into one kiss.

You gasped against him, your hands flying to his shoulders, but he didn’t let you pull away. Didn’t let you think.

His other hand gripped your thigh, pulling you closer, and you melted against him—just for a second—before you kissed him back just as hard.

Your nails dug into his arms, his teeth scraped your ower lip, and then it was all hands and heat and need. No more distance. No more games.

Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth, and he answered by dragging you forward on the counter until there was nothing left between you.

He could feel your breath hitch again, just like before. Only this time, you didn’t pull away.

This time, neither of you did.

And there was no pretending this hadn’t just changed everything.

His hand slid up, fingers curling lightly around your throat. Not squeezing—just enough for you to feel it, to know he could.

You let out a sound, soft and breathy, barely even real—except it was, because he felt it against his lips.

A fucking moan.

His grip tightened just slightly, his own breath catching in his chest.

And then—he smirked.

You wanted this. Badly. He could feel it in the way you were clinging to him, in the way your legs tightened around his hips, in the way you practically melted into his hands.

So he pulled back.

Just enough to make you whimper at the loss of him, just enough to see your lips part in something dangerously close to frustration.

Your eyes flicked open, dazed, hazy with it. “Max,” you breathed.

He raised a brow, deliberately slow, deliberately smug.

“Not fair,” you muttered, voice edged with irritation, your chest still rising and falling too fast.

No, it wasn’t. But it was fun.

Then something shifted in your expression—something sharp, something knowing.

Your lips twitched. “Fine,”you she said lightly, fingers sliding up his chest, nails scraping just enough to make him feel it. “My turn.”

Before he could react, you moved.

You tilted your head, brushing your lips along his jaw, feather-light, barely there. Your hands trailed lower, over the tense muscles of his stomach, your nails pressing just enough to make his pulse hammer.

His breath hissed through his teeth.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing, taunting, and then pulled back just slightly, waiting. Daring him.

His patience snapped.

His hand shot back to your throat, fingers tightening as he pushed forward, crashing his mouth to yours.

This wasn’t careful anymore. Wasn’t measured.

This was hunger. Months of it.

You gasped against him, but he didn’t let you speak. Didn’t let you do anything but feel him, take him, match him.

He bit your lip. You tugged his hair. He swallowed every sound you made, kissed you like he was trying to take the air from your lungs, like he was trying to burn through every second you’d wasted not doing this.

You gripped his shoulders, dragging him closer, but it wasn’t close enough. It would never be close enough.

He lifted you, dragged you against him, let himself lose control in a way he never did, never allowed, because nothing had ever felt like this before.

The way he kissed you, it was like he wanted to wipe that smug little smirk off your face, like he wanted to remind you exactly who was in control here. But the truth was, he wasn’t. Not anymore.

Your hands were in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your mouth, and he answered by pressing you back against the wall of the kitchen, swallowing every sound you made.

Your legs tightened around him. He could feel your heartbeat, rapid against his chest, matching his own.

Another kiss, deeper this time. Another sharp intake of breath.

Then finally—finally—he forced himself to pull back, just enough to see your face, to watch the way your lips were swollen, your breath uneven, your pupils blown wide.

You blinked up at him, dazed.

And then—

“Wow.”

A breathless laugh escaped you, and his lips twitched.

“If I’d known you could kiss that well,” you murmured, your fingers still tangled in his hair, “I would’ve done it in Italy.”

His brow lifted, his hands still braced against the counter on either side of you. “Italy?”

You smiled. “When you said you needed to burn my uniform. Something about that all black ensemble made me feel something.”

His jaw tensed. He knew exactly what you were talking about.

That night, the dim glow of the chandeliers, the fire in front of them, the warmth of the room.

He had wanted to shoot himself in the foot for thinking of her in ways he shouldn’t have.

And now you were telling him you’d thought about this then?

His fingers curled against the wood. “You’re playing a dangerous game,” he muttered.

You tilted your head, all mock innocence. “Am I?”

His hands shot back to your thighs, dragging you forward, forcing another gasp from your lips as he leaned in close, his mouth hovering over you.

“You have no idea,” he murmured.

tag list: @dragonfly047 @lovehollandy12 @moofilms @theonottsbxtch @fortunapre @ashbone @c8lap1nto @taasgirl @stopeatread @dying-inside-but-its-classy (let me know if you’d like to be added to the tag list!)

[iimplicitt]

enjoy the silence | secret agent max verstappen

will be posted soon hopefully i’ve tried like 8 times now 😭

[iimplicitt]

anxiety charles series by @theonottsbxtch

writing smut for her fics always brings me joy (the doc for part 4 is currently at 11k words y’all buckle up😭)