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rubysunnday · 2 months ago

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summer of '17

summary: (sequal to summer of '16) One year on and Y/N Bridgerton is doing just fine... well, she'd like to think so. She hasn't thought about Kieron Williams in almost a year and she's even started courting again. But then Kieron returns to London, viscountcy in hand. And Y/N just can't help but fall back into his arms.

requested by anon: do you think you could possibly do a sequel to summer of ‘16??? I need those two to have the happy ending they deserve

a/n: brought to you by an entire 8 pack of popadoms from sainsburys , hell's kitchen clips on youtube and the ten hour loop of coconut mall

It had been almost a year since Y/N Bridgerton had suffered her first heartbreak. The emotions had been burnt into her memory, taunting her in the middle of the night when sleep failed to come.

Thankfully, the end of the 1816 season had come quickly after. Y/N had retreated to Aubery Hall along with the rest of her family, using their time in the country to heal and try to move on.

She hadn't shared the exact details of what had occured with many people. Her mother knew some of what had happened, as did Benedict. But none knew just how deeply Y/N had fallen for Kieron.

Y/N had never been one to believe in love at first sight. She had scoffed at the fairytales and at Marianne Dashwood saying "time alone does not determine intimacy". Y/N always found it hard to imagine setting eyes on someone for the first time and knowing, from the very start, that they loved them

But the moment she saw Kieron at Lady Danbury's ball last season, all sensabilites went out the window. She took one look at him and felt as if they had known one another for years. It was the sort of romance Daphne and Anthony had both found - a romance that happened once in a lifetime.

Which was why Y/N knew, deep down, that she was unlikely to ever find it again.

As she stepped out into Lady Danbury's ballroom with her family, watching the eyes of the ton turn their way, Y/N didn't feel anything. Her nerves had gone and instead, all she felt was emptiness.

If it had been one of her siblings, Y/N would have been sympathetic. She would have told them 'it's natural. You went through a big, emotional upheavel."

Instead, all she could think was how ridiclous it was that she felt that way. She'd known Kieron for all of four months - there was no reason for her to feel as broken as she did.

"Sister," Colin said quietly, nudging her arm with his elbow, "are you quite alright?"

Y/N inhaled deeply, snapping herself out of her mind. She glanced at Colin and gave him a false smile. "Of course. I am simply admiring the ballroom. It is rather beautiful, is it not?"

Colin raised his eyebrows, entirely unconvinced. "Yes, it is," he murmured. He shuffled closer to Y/N and lowered his voice as he said, "Y/N, you can be honest with me."

Y/N opened her mouth and then closed it again. She exhaled softly, posture relaxing. "I think I am just tired, that is all," she told him. "I do not feel any emotions toward this ball. Just emptiness."

"That's a good thing," Colin said, a laugh in his words. "It means you can see through the glamour and see the balls for what they really are. Tedious."

Y/N gave him a smile, though it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yes, of course. That must be it."

Colin took Y/N's arm as they began to make their way down the stairs. He winked at his sister as he stepped away, making a bee line for a group of his friends standing by the refreshment table.

Y/N stood at the foot of the stairs for a moment, unsure of what she was supposed to be doing. A warm, soft hand grabbed hers, fingers threading together and squeezing reassuringly. Y/N looked to her left and smiled at Kate, squeezing her hand back.

"Come," Kate said, gently tugging Y/N toward her, "why don't we go get some food? Anthony missed tea and he is already complaining."

"I am not complaining," Anthony grumbled, sounding very much like he had been. "I just wish Lady Danbury had scheduled a later start."

Y/N let out a huff of laughter, feeling her anxiety begin to fade. They began to slowly walk across the room, Anthony following behind them.

"Perhaps you should improve your time-keeping brother," Y/N told him, throwing the jibe over her shoulder, "then maybe you'll -"

Y/N trailed off abrutply, coming to such a sudden halt that Anthony walked directly into the back of her and nudged her forward. As she had looked away from Anthony, her gaze had swept across the ballroom, catching on a figure at the other end of the room.

There, dressed in a dark claret tailcoat and a black waistcoat, was Kieron Williams.

He looked older. His hair had grown longer and he looked slightly tanner but it was still Kieron.

It was as if he knew she was looking at him. Kieron's head lifted up slightly and turned, eyes searching the room.

The moment their eyes met, Y/N felt as if time had stopped. Kieron stared at her, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. Y/N could feel her heart racing, she could hear it in her ears.

Here he was, the man she had fallen deeply in love with, looking almost exactly the same as he had a year ago.

And all of a sudden, every emotion she had tried to squash for so long came flooding back.

"Sister?'

Y/N blinked, turning her head away. Anthony was looking at her, puzzlement and concern written on his face. "Sorry," she cleared her throat, "thought I saw someone I knew."

"Did you?" Anthony asked, looking across the room.

Y/N glanced back at Kieron, who had returned to his group of friends, and shook her head. "No, just someone who looks like them. Apologies, I fear my mind is elsewhere."

Over the years, Y/N had gotten fairly good at deceiving her elder brother. It had helped that he had oftenbeen pre-occupied with other things, his mind often wandering away from her shennaigans.

But one look from Anthony - one tilt of the head and raise of the eyebrows - and Y/N found herself telling him everything.

She was pretty sure he'd learnt it from Kate.

"Kieron Williams," Y/N told Anthony, nodding her head in the vague direction of where Kieron was stading. "I was..." She trailed off.

Anthony moved next to Y/N, his arm brushing hers. "You were what?" He asked softly.

"Courting," Y/N told him, her voice faint. "We courted last season. But he left for America and we decided to end things there. We decided that we weren't grown up enough just yet."

The only sign of surprise was the slight widening of Anthony's eyes. He was quiet for a moment, his eyes watching Kieron from afar. "Why did you not mention it?"

Y/N shrugged. "Everyone was busy. It never seemed like a good time."

Anthony's gaze softened as he looked at his little sister. "Oh, Y/N."

"I'm fine, Anthony," Y/N told him, nodding her head several times in an attempt to make herself believen it. "Truly."

It was obvious that Anthony didn't believe her. But thankfully, he pushed it no further. Together, they rejoined Kate, and made their way over to Violet. Y/N stood slightly to the side of her family, attention firmly elsewhere.

Despite the emotions running wild inside her, Y/N wanted to seek Kieron out. Even though she knew it would likely end in heartbreak again, she had to see him. She had to put her daydreams to bed so that she could finally move on with things.

Yet, as she summoned the courage to begin walking toward him, a hand on her wrist stopped her. Suddenly, Y/N realised she was being spoken to and that Kate had silently grabbed her wrist to try and catch her attention.

"And this is my daughter, Y/N," Violet said, turning and smiling at her.

Y/N blinked. A man stood in front of her. Automatically, she smiled and curtseyed to him. He was closer to Anthony's age than hers and looked slightly annoyed but Y/N didn't particularly care.

"It is lovely to meet you, Miss Bridgerton," the man said, bowing to her. "My mother has told me much about you."

"Has she?" Y/N said, surprise colouring her voice.

"Yes, she is very fond of you. She had a wonderful time at Aubery Hall last season and throughly enjoyed the tour you gave her of the gardens."

Y/N still had absolutely no idea who this man was.

"I was wondering if you would do me the honour of a dance this evening?" He asked, gesturing to the dance card dangling from her wrist. "If you are free, that is."

"She is indeed, Mr Hughes," Violet said. "I am sure Y/N would be honoured - wouldn't you, dearest?"

Y/N nodded, extending her arm out to Mr Hughes. His name ran a vague bell in the back of her mind but she still wasn't entirely sure who he was.

Mr Hughes scribbled his name down, claiming one of the later dances for himself. Then, he bowed to them and strolled away.

"Kate," Y/N whispered, leaning into her sister-in-laws side. "Who was that?"

"Mr Tomas Hughes," Kate told her quietly, "wealthy landowner from Suffolk. You met him last year... or so your mother says."

Y/N nodded. "I have absolutely no recollection of him," she muttered. "How can my mother remember him but not that I can't eat strawberries."

Kate had to turn slightly away from Y/N in an almost failed attempt at stiffling her laughter. Anthony glanced over at his wife, amusement in his eyes. He sidled up to them, hands clasped behind his back.

"May I know what is so amusing?" He asked, a smirk curling his lips up.

Kate sighed, turning to face him. She reached a hand out, cradling his face gently. "No, my love. You may not."

Anthony's smirk dropped. "What? Why ever not?"

"Because... well, because I do not think I want to tell you," Kate replied, brushing her thumb across his cheek. "Now, come. I should like to dance with my husband. Maybe I will tell you then."

Kate took Anthony's hand in hers and gently pulled him closer to her. Anthony glanced at Y/N as he passed, confusion clear on his face. But there was so much adoration and love in his eyes that it masqued whatever confusion was left.

Y/N watched them go, longing aching in her heart. As cruel as it was, she almost preferred Anthony being single. At least then it didn't hurt to watch them both so in love.

But that was mean-spirited. Of course she was glad Anthony had found Kate. She had brought him back to life and given them all back the brother they had desperately been searching for.

Yet, it gave her broken heart little comfort.

Y/N looked away from Kate and Anthony as they gently swayed about the dancefloor, her eyes instinctively finding Kieron.

He was stood against the wall, an elder woman standing beside him. She bore a striking resemblacne to Kieron and Y/N had to presume that it was his mother. No sign of his father, however.

Kieron looked up from the floor, his eyes scanning the room and coming to a stop at Y/N's.

For a moment, they simply looked at one another from across the room. Utterly transfixed, Y/N could do nothing by watch him simply exist. It was as if a magnetic force was pulling her toward him and no matter how hard she tried, how hard she tried to move on, he kept pulling her back to him.

A sudden surge of bravery took over her senses and Y/N found herself taking a step forward, toward Kieron.

"Oh, thank god I found you."

Eloise snatched her by the wrist and tugged her back. Y/N stumbled backward to her sister's side, eyes narrowing in annoyance.

"Eloise, I am -"

"I need you to pretend being ill," Eloise told her.

Y/N frowned. "I thought you were spending time with Cressida?"

"I was."

"And?"

"Well," Eloise shrugged, "I decided to find someone else."

"This is hardly finding someone else, Eloise, " Y/N said, gently pulling her wrist from Eloise's grip, "this is finding someone else to act as your scapegoat."

Eloise tapped her foot against the floor, nibbling the bottom of her lip. "I just... I do not know why but I did not expect to see Penelope here. Cressida was awful to her and now I feel..."

"Uncomfortable? Guilt? Like you are going to hell for spending time with the bully of the ton?"

Eloise glowered at her twin sister.

Y/N had done little to play down her disapproval of Eloise's new found friendship with Cressida Cowper. She knew why she had sought at the blonde's friendship - to upset Penelope. But in doing so, Eloise had seeingly forgot just how cruel Cressida had been to not only Y/N herself but Daphne.

"Will you please do this for me, Y/N?" Eloise asked, all but begging. "Just this once?"

Y/N glanced over at where Kieron had been, only to find that he had disappeared. She looked around the ballroom but there was no sign of him anywhere.

Disappointment seeping in, Y/N turned back to Eloise and nodded. "On one condition, however," Y/N said, cutting Eloise off as she opened her mouth to cheer. "You get to pretend to be ill. I have done it enough times, it is your turn."

Eloise pouted, crossing her arms. But she relented, a smile forming on her face. "Thank you."

"Ahuh," Y/N muttered.

Since they had made their debuts last year, Y/N and Eloise had done their fair share of faking illness to escape boring balls, passionless promenades and stuffy soiress. It was usually Y/N doing the faking and Eloise doing the caring - the two falling so naturally into their assigned roles that doing the oppposite felt foreign.

"Mama," Y/N said, gently tapping her mother on the shoulder to attract her attention. "Sorry for disturbing you."

Violet glanced at her daughter, eyes concerned. "What is it, dearest?"

"Eloise is not feeling very well," Y/N said, gesturing to her sister who was doing a fairly good impression of someone who had drunk far too much. "She has a headache. I was wondering if it would be okay to take her home? I am sure Samuel will not mind dropping us off and returning for everyone else?"

Violet was silent for a moment. She looked at Eloise with an intense gaze, clearly evaluating her for herself. Eloise groaned, trying to make her fake illness seem worse.

If anything, it made her look more like a drunk woman stumbling about town.

"Fine," Violet conceeded. "But take Benedict with you, just in case."

Y/N nodded. "Of course, mama."

She grabbed Eloise's arm and began walking her away from the wall and toward the staircase. "You are doing a terrible impression of being ill. You look like you drank too much.."

"If anything," Eloise grumbled, "I ate too much."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Of course you did."

Violet watched her two daughters leave. She knew Eloise was faking it. You didn't get have eight children and not know when they were truly ill. It was a surprise to see Eloise fake it, for once. It was usually Y/N.

Though, Violet mused, there was that one time where Y/N was not faking it and ended up collapsing in the foyer. Scared Eloise for a while.

"Excuse me, Lady Bridgerton?"

Violet's eyes snapped up. A young man stood before her, hands clasped behind his back, looking as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

"Dowager Bridgerton now," Violet said, smiling. "How can I help you..."

"Viscount Kieron Williams," the young man said. He bowed to Violet. "You might not remember but we met -"

Recgonition appeared in Violet's eyes. "Yes, I do remember."

Of course she remembered. The boy, well man now, who her daughter had fallen in love with. The one who had left for America. Yet, here he was with a new title and a haircut.

"Your title is new since we last spoke, my lord. Was it recent?"

Kieron nodded stiffly. "February, my lady."

Violet tutted sympathetically. "My condolances."

"I thank you but, believe me, it is no loss." Kieron gave her a grim smile. "But if I may change the subject?"

"Of course."

"I was wondering where Miss Y/N had gotten to?" Kieron asked. "I was hoping to ask her for a dance."

Violet felt her heart sink. "She has just left, I am afraid. Her sister, Eloise, was not feeling well so she escorted her home."

Kieron's shoulders slumped. "Ah."

"But, she will be at the next ball," Violet told him quickly. "If you too will be in attendance?"

"I will be, my lady."

Violet smiled and nodded once. "Well, then, I will make sure she reserves a dance for you, my lord."

The Haddon family home, situated at the other end of Hyde Park, was lit up with candles. All around the grand staircase leading to the front entrance were glass stars and hand carved crescet shaped moons. A dark blue carpet had been laid out up the stairs, marking the way inside the red brick building.

Colin exited the carriage first, pulling down his waistcoat and tailcoat which had gotten rumpled on the ride over. He turned to the door and held out an arm to Y/N, helping her down from the carriage.

"Are you escorting me in tonight?" Y/N asked, surprise colouring her words.

Colin gave her an insulted look. "You sound so surprised," he retorted.

"Well, you and Benedict normally run away as soon as we arrive," Y/N countered, nestling her arm into the crook of Colin's.

"You wound me, sister," Colin drawled, a smile tugging at his lips.

They stepped inside Haddon Hall and were immedately hit with the aroma of rosemary, thyme and something warm. The hall itself had been decorated within an inch of its life. Blue and silver stars hung from the ceiling, white rose petals were scattered across the floor and hanging down every wall were long bolts of dark blue and purple fabric.

"How much do you think this cost?" Colin muttered, staring around in a mixture of awe and horror.

"A lot," Y/N replied. "I suspect the fabric along cost your monthly allowance."

Colin chuckled. He looked around the room, his gaze abrutply snagging on one person in particular. Penelope.

Y/N smiled. "Go talk to her," she said, taking her arm from his.

Colin heistated. "I do not know if -"

"Of course she does," Y/N said softly. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him gently. "Go talk to her."

With a boyish grin over his shoulder at her, Colin all but strutted across the room and to Penelope.

Y/N stood by herself, quietly observing the room. She wasn't sure where the rest of her family had ended up but the solitude was welcome. Especially at a ball as awe-inspiring as thie one the Haddon's had put on.

She tilted her head back, staring up at the extravgant chandelier hanging over the dance floor. It sparkled in the candleight, tiny rainbows of colour dotting the walls.

"Miss Bridgerton?"

Y/N looked down, making the mistake of moving her head to quickly. The room tilted and, disorientated, Y/N stumbled to the side.

A warm hand grabbed her arm, steadying her as she swayed. Y/N blinked, her dizzy spell fading, and looked at the person who had saved her.

Kieron Williams stood beside her, bare hands gently clasping her arm where her silk gloves ended. They were inches apart and Y/N could smell his cologne.

"Hello," Y/N whispered softly, unable to say anything else.

Kieron grinned at her. "Hello, again."

For a moment, they stayed like that. Kieron holding her arm, his dark brown eyes staring into hers. Y/N could barely remember to breathe as she looked at him - properly looked at him - for the first time in a year.

"Will you keel over if I let go?" Kieron asked, squeezing her arrm.

Y/N shook her head, not trusting herself to speak.

Slowly, Kieron released his grip on her arm. But he didn't move away. He stayed exactly where he was, at her side.

"You came back," Y/N said quietly, her voice hoarse and almost breaking with emotion.

Kieron nodded. He swallowed, his Adam's apple moving as he did so. "I said I would."

"I did not expect it so soon. If at all."

"Well..." He shrugged. "Things happened."

Y/N frowned. Kieron smoothed his tailcoat down with his left hand and as he did so, she caught a glimpse of the signet ring on his pinky finger.

The signet ring of his father. Of his title.

"Oh, Kieron, I mean, my lord, I am so -"

"Miss Bridgerton," Kieron said, words broken by laughter, "you do not have to address me by my title. I would actually prefer you not to. Everyone else does, it would be a nice change."

Y/N nodded. She took a deep breath in, calming herself. "May I ask what happened?"

"Heart attack," Kieron told her, his tone non-plussed. "Keeled over at dinner one night. He was dead before he hit the floor."

"My condolences," Y/N said softly, "even if you did not get along, he was still your father. I know how hard it is to lose one."

Y/N found Kieron's gaze, his eyes full of understanding and sympathy. Though they had different relationships with their fathers, the grief was the same. Mourning a father neither of them got to have and wondering what it would have been like.

"I tried to find you," Kieron said, breaking the silence which had encased them. "At Lady Danbury's ball."

A smile pulled at Y/N's lips. "Blame Eloise," she told him, her smile growing wider. "She needed a quick escape and apparently I was vital to her plan."

Kieron raised his eyebrows, slight surprise colouring his face. "Which was?"

"Faking illness," Y/N replied, "though... she went more toward the drunk end of the spectrum, I must admit."

Someone called Kieron's name from the across the room. Y/N glanced over and spotted the older woman from the other night, waving a hand at them.

"Oh," Kieron said, turning his head to look over his shoulder. "My mother is calling me. I apologise, Miss Y/N I wanted to talk to you but -"

"No, do not apologise," Y/N said, shaking her head. "Go to your mother. I am not going anywhere."

Kieron heistated for a moment. He then bowed to her and moved across the room, squeezing through small groups and oblivious couples.

"Who was that?"

Y/N glanced to her left as Benedict sidled up to her. She smiled at him. "Since when do you care?"

Benedict gasped, his mouth dropping open. "I care! You are my little sister, of course I care. I just don't always show it."

Y/N nodded, unconvinced. "Ahuh."

"Now. Who was he?"

Y/N hesitated for a moment. Benedict knew who Kieron was, he'd undoubtedly recgonise his name. She didn't want him going over the top and acting honourable and causing chaos.

But, she trusted Benedict. He wasn't Anthony, nor was he Colin. Benedict was calm and never judged. Well, most of the time.

"Kieron Williams," she told him.

"The one who...?"

"Yes, him."

"He's back? Why?"

"His father died," Y/N said, looking at Benedict. "Kieron came home to inheritate his viscountcy."

Benedict crossed his arms, an amused smile forming on his face. "Y/N Bridgerton, are you telling me that you have fallen in love with a viscount?"

Y/N smiled as she shrugged. "Maybe. Perhaps. I do not know, brother." She sighed. "We shall have to see what happens, I suppose."

Benedict nudged her with his elbow. "I may have yet to find a wife," he began, "but I recgonise the look of adoration on your face, sister. You love him, there's no issue with that."

"Perhaps I do," Y/N said softly. "But I'm not sure I want to."

Violet Bridgerton liked to consider herself fairly perceptive. Especially when it came to the romantic lives of her children. On occasion, she knew they had fallen in love before they even suspected it.

But as Violet watched her daughter dance with Viscount Williams, even she had to admit that it was surprising.

Y/N finding love wasn’t the surprising part. The surprising part was that Kieron Williams had come back.

It was an old tale - men promising young debutantes that they will come back for them to only disappear into the night and return a year or two later with a wife and three children.

Violet had never admitted it but she had been almost certain that Y/N would become another one of those debutantes. Yet, here she was… and here he was.

The music came to a gradual conclusion, the last notes stretching out into the humid ballroom. Only when they were certain that the musicians had finished did the attendees applaused politely.

Y/N looked around the room, nibbling on her lower lip as she did. Her posture relaxed as soon as she spotted her mother and she quickly made her way over to her.

"You seem very friendly with him," Violet said. She smiled as her daughter ducked her head shyly.

"I am," Y/N said softly. She sighed. "Mama," she began, threading her fingers through her mother's, "can I ask you a question?"

Violet's brow furrowed. "Of course you can, dearest."

"I like him," Y/N told her. "I like him quite a bit."

"But," her mother prompted.

Y/N heistated for a moment. "What if he leaves again? I do not think I can cope with that again, mama."

Violet sighed softly, reaching up and brushing a hair off her daughter's forehead. "Oh, my darling."

"It hurt so much," Y/N continued. "I hid it because you were busy with Anthony and now Colin and Frannie but... I am scared."

"That, my darling," Violet said, taking both of Y/N's hands in hers, "is how you know your love is genuine. Last season, your brother was so scared of causing more pain with his marriage that he nearly married the wrong woman entirely. But, what he needed to understand, and what you need to understand my dear is that love hurts."

"Why, though? Why must it hurt so much?"

Violet smiled sadly. "Because we love so much."

In the week that followed, sleep was hard to find. Y/N lay awake at night, her mind swirling with memories of how hurt she had been when Kieron had left. But along with them, were the memories of now. He had come back, he had seeked her out and at every ball since then they had danced.

But it did nothing to quell the fear bubbling inside her.

The night before Colin and Penelope's wedding, Y/N lay on top of her bed, still in her dress from that evening's celebration. The house had gone to bed, trying to catch as much sleep as they could before the wedding in the morning.

Y/N sighed, sitting up and swung her legs over the edge of her bed. If sleep was nowhere near, then maybe a walk in the garden would help.

At the very least, it gave her a way to spend an hour or two.

Y/N crept out of her bedroom and quietly padded down the corridor. She carefully walked down the stairs, avoiding the creaky step, and into the foyer.

"Sister?"

Y/N jumped and tripped over the edge of the carpet, catching herself on the table in the centre of the foyer, almost knocking over a vase of flowers.

"Good God, Anthony," Y/N said, hand pressed to her chest. She turned to her brother. "Did you have to do that?"

Anthony grinned, eyes lit up. "Apologies, but the opportunity was too good."

Y/N glowered at him as she straightened up. "I didn't think you were back until tomorrow?"

"We left earlier," Anthony replied. "Kate's just wrestling Newton from the carriage - he's very stubborn when he's comfortable."

"Bit like you," Y/N supplied with a cheeky smile.

Anthony rolled his eyes. "I need to keep you away from Kate. She's rubbing off on you."

Y/N chuckled, but it was a half-hearted one. Anthony frowned, noticing his sister's withdrawn attitude.

"Have you been to bed?" Anthony asked, moving toward Y/N.

Y/N shook her head, rubbing a hand down the side of her face. "No. I just... laid on top of my bed. Sleep is hard to come by at the moment."

Anthony's frown deepened. "Why, what's going on?"

"I don't want -"

"You're not bothering me," Anthony said, pre-empting her excuse. "Y/N, come on, why don't we go sit in my study and chat."

Y/N heistated. But all it took was for Anthony to hold his hand out to her and she conceeded.

It wasn't until she had seen Anthony that she had realised just how much she needed him. Her other brother's were brilliant - she adored them to pieces.

But Anthony and her were two peas in a pod. He had always been the one she turned to in crisis. Anthony was her brother, like Benedict was Eloise's.

Anthony shut the study door as quietly as he could. The fire was still lit and it provided a welcome, reassuring warmth.

Y/N took a seat in front of his desk, breathing in deep. The room smelt of books and whiskey - a scent so Anthony is hurt.

"Right," Anthony said, taking his jacket off and draping it over the back of his chair. "What is going on with you. I can see something's on your mind from a mile away."

Y/N shrugged, picking at the studs on the chair. "I... do not know where to begin."

"Y/N, look at me."

Reluctantly, Y/N raised her gaze. Anthony looked at her with concern and love - there was something so fatherly in his eyes that Y/N gave in instantly.

"Start from the beginning," he said gently as Y/N huffed. "I'm listening, sister."

And so she did.

She told her older brother everything. From the moment she met Kieron, to the latest ball where they had danced together three times and walked under the stars, hand in hand.

"So, what's the problem?" Anthony asked, leaning back in his chair. "You clearly love him, Y/N."

Y/N pressed her lips together. "When he left," she said softly, poking the arm chair with her index finger, "it... hurt me. A lot."

Anthony nodded. "I understand."

"And... I'm scared that if I fall in love with him and he leaves... or something happens to him... Anthony, I don't think I can go through that pain again. It'll be so much worse because now... now I truly love him."

Anthony was quiet for a moment. He looked at Y/N, his eyes focused on her.

"You are so much like me, Y/N," Anthony said eventually. He exhaled heavily, leaning back in his chair. "God, it's like looking in a mirror."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"No," Anthony said, shaking his head, "no, not at all. If you had asked me that last year, however, I might have said yes. But now... no."

"I don't know what to do, Anthony," Y/N said quietly. "Mama is too busy with Francesca to help me, Benedict will give me some poetic lecture and Colin is far too occupied to be of any help. But even if they were all avaliable... I'd still only want you, Anthony."

Anthony inhaled deeply. He cleared his throat quietly. "Come here," he said, patting the arm of his chair.

Y/N raised her eyebrows. "Am I not too big for this?"

"It's a big chair."

A laugh escaped Y/N's lips. "Okay, okay."

She stood up and walked around the table. Anthony turned his chair and opened his arms up. Awkwardly, Y/N folded herself onto Anthony's lap. It wasn't remotely comfortable, the arms of his chair were digging into her back and legs.

But the moment Anthony wrapped his arms around her, she felt safe. Despite her age, despite the fact she hadn't curled up in Anthony's lap for a long time, Y/N found herself settling back into the familar position.

She rested her head against his chest, his heartbeat a reassuring sound. "What do I do, Anthony?" Y/N asked quietly, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat.

Anthony's thumb brushed up and down her arm, a reassuring sensation. "Do you love him?"

Y/N nodded. "I fear I do."

"Why do you fear it?"

Y/N exhaled softly, dropping her hand. "What if he leaves me again?"

"I doubt that he will, Y/N," Anthony said. "I have seen him with you, he is besotted."

"I know. I'm just scared, Anthony."

Anthony nodded. "I understand that. I remember how it felt to lose our father. I remember how absent our mother became, how broken she was. I made a vow to myself that I would never inflict that pain upon anyone else. And in doing so I made myself miserable.

"See, the thing with love, my darling, is that it will hurt. We have so much love within us and barely enough time to use it. Which is why, when we lose someone we love, it hurts so much. Grief is the price we pay for love.

"It will hurt," Anthony said, gently pressing a kiss to Y/N's head. "And that's okay. Because it is supposed to. Trust me when I say this, sister, that love is worth the pain."

Y/N lifted her head up. She found Anthony's gaze and smiled at him. "I'm so glad you found Kate, brother."

A chuckle reverbarated through him. "Me too." He paused. "So, should I be expecting a certain viscount to be asking my permission soon?"

Y/N laughed, burying her head into Anthony's shoulder. "Anthony," she whined, "stop it."

"I have to ask!" He exclaimed. He nudged her. "Well?"

Y/N sighed. "Maybe," she said quietly. "I don't know."

"Well," Anthony said, patting her leg, "we shall wait and see, shan't we?"

"Will you give him permission," Y/N asked, her voice muffled by Anthony's waistcoat. "When he asks?"

Anthony rested his chin on Y/N's head. "As much as I don't want to let you go," he said softly. "Of course I will say yes. You love him and that is all that matters, sister."

Y/N tilted her head up, finding Anthony's eyes. "I love you, brother. Truly."

Anthony smiled. "I know."

He pressed a kiss to her head, relishing the moment a little longer. Soon, she would no longer be around. But for now, here she was, curled up in his lap as if she was six years old once more.

Notes: I was going to have reader get engaged and make it a whole thing but I wanted to focus on the sibling relationships more so I took it out. So, yes, they get engaged and it's all cute and lovey etc etc.

#reblog

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rubysunnday · 3 months ago

Text

· · · · ♡ NO LOVE IN NEW YORK

… starring oscar piastri x f!reader ... 5.2k words ... in which your good samaritan tendencies, and some loser forgetting to show up on your first date, lead you to the most bizarre yet exhilarating nyc commute of your life. ... featuring fluff, humor, meet cute, some forced proximity. female reader (wears 'feminine' clothing). language, reader gets stood up on a date, suspension of disbelief for manhattan geography and the logistics of the mta (please forgive me new yorkers i went ten years ago). english is not my first language. ... author notes tadaaa oscar piastri debut who cheered!!!! not me because i'm scared to death of getting him wrong lowk. i was bemoaning the absence of oscar pictures at the f1 premiere and thought, "i know he just couldn't be bothered to go, but wouldn't it be funny if he'd just gotten lost?" and thats how this fic happened. ngl this is very much out of my comfort zone, i know oscar less than other drivers + much more romcom than i'm used to and idk how i feel about it so feedback would be VERY appreciated! very much open for a part 2 if you'd like that tho!!! enjoy ヘ(≧▽≦ヘ)♪ MASTERLIST / ASK BOX

There was no valid reason dating in New York City should have been this complicated.

Yet you prided yourself on being quite smart—smart enough to survive in the hostile urban jungle as a twenty-something on her own; definitely smarter than the national average judging by the (frankly depressing) headlines you heard pinging on your phone every morning. Outstanding high school GPA, reading comprehension way above your grade as a kid, and still no damn clue how to score a date in Manhattan.

Well, rather, how to score an agreeable date. Or perhaps just one that turned out to be real.

Monday morning had risen with a yawn from the sun, as though it were remembering only now that June was well underway but the streets remained chilly. Weak light shimmered over the fire escape when you’d drawn your curtains open. Ramen was sitting on the railing, licking his cream paw and staring at you with unimpressed nonchalance, and you’d grinned. Ramen—your downstairs neighbor’s cat, a sandy little imp whose real name you’d never found out but had baptized so after he’d stolen your instant dinner right off your kitchen counter—only showed up on mornings with importance. Like the day you’d aced Introduction to Statistics with nothing but two hours of sleep and five Monsters.

This was a good omen.

So yes, you were enthusiastic by the time you got home from class, scrambled together an omelet, and disemboweled your apartment looking for your favorite earrings. You were optimistic, and that sometimes sounded like the worst thing anyone could be in New York City.

But this first date promised to be nothing like the others, your inner voice hammered home as you tried to cram your feet into shoes half a size too small. He was cute, funny, not a fascist, he waited exactly the right amount of time in between replies—neither psychopathic nor disinterested—, and he’d told you to dress up because it was only fair that real-life art should match the paintings on the wall. After half a dozen insipid dinners at every other pizza place in Little Italy, and as many ghostings, a museum first date sounded more promising than you’d dared to hope.

Even though he dropped off the radar at ten p.m. the prior evening. Even though you shot him a bubbly, “you said 2:30pm right? can’t wait!” at eleven (the appointed time was but a scroll away, but you just needed to say something, diffuse the nerves somehow). Even though you double-texted him at two fifteen, “omw!”.

But Ramen was there this morning, blinking his slow blinks at you. The date had to go well.

The sun was fully awake, undeniable, blazing above the trees and endless spires piercing the sky beyond Central Park, by the time you sat down on the steps in front of the museum. Alone.

It wasn’t until two fifty-seven that you accepted to face the glaring truth.

First miss for Ramen.

You collected yourself in a clumsy torpor. Nothing to do with your heels, or the stupidly long dress you’d picked out and whose skirt you now had to lift with every step—this was the inescapable, crushing feeling of disappointment.

Of course New York City would punish the optimistic. The naïve. The superstitious, who put the outcome of their days into the hands of some feline apparition, scan the sky for four-leaf clover clouds. Served you right for still believing in things falling into place.

Your face burned from the sun and the humiliation, eyes prickling from unshed tears as you stuffed your phone into your purse. Pretended not to notice the group of tourists snapping shots of you, perhaps thinking you some roaming Millais muse. Disappeared into the shade of 103rd Street station, green gown flowing behind you like a pennon.

Every step down the long stairway stung more than the last, but you kept your gaze firmly to the ground, careful not to trip—and bury any ounce of dignity left in you for good. Blend in with the jaded city folk, you thought as you swiped your Metrocard; act as if you know exactly where you are going and go there with purpose, even if you could not be more stranded. Where to now? Back to your disordered, sweltering apartment, its haphazard pile of dishes in the sink and Ramen gauging you silently from the windowsill? Or to the campus library, trying to glean whatever productivity lies within heartbreak? And risk bumping into your friends, who’d teased you all day about the giddy bounce to your step, and having to explain you weren’t even worth showing up for?

“Excuse me?”

You looked up and met hazel. A mop of chestnut hair, that he had manifestly tried to arrange before giving up; discreet moles on an otherwise pale face, and brown eyes where danced flecks of gold and the most gripping kind of urgent resignation. The stranger was cute, and for some incomprehensible reason he matched you: he, too, was dressed to the nines like he’d run off from some wedding, and he also distinctly looked like he wished more than anything for the Earth to swallow him.

“Are you going to the F1 movie premiere?”

“What?”

“The, uh, the F1 movie red carpet thing? Are you going there right now?”

You were starting to worry your foreign-accent (British, or perhaps Australian?) comprehension skills had gotten alarmingly bad, or maybe the shrieking of MTA wagon brakes had finally rendered you deaf.

“No, uh... I…” Oh, what the hell. Like there was any use lying to a beautiful stranger who seemed like he was somehow having a worse afternoon than yours. “I got stood up by my date. F1, you mean like Formula 1?”

What a formidable and ridiculous scene you two must’ve painted—two kids in formalwear, standing in the middle of a New York City subway platform, stuck amidst the pungent smell of piss and nonsensical conversation.

“I’m sorry about your date, they sound like a bit of a dropkick,” the stranger replied, and although you weren’t entirely sure what a dropkick was you were surprised to find him genuine. “But, uh… I think I’m lost, and I hoped you might help me, or else I’m gonna be the one doing the standing up. On about two thousand people.”

You had no time to furrow your brow, or chew on his words. Suddenly everything clicked with an audible bang, right in sync with the train doors closing to your left. The reason you’d felt so familiarly drawn to that cherub face, and why he had mentioned Formula 1… None of the downright lubricious Instagram edits your best friend had ever sent you featured him in a suit, but he was unmistakable.

“Oh my god, you’re Oscar Pia—”

“Please don’t tell all of Manhattan,” Piastri interrupted, grimacing as he glanced around the platform. You suffocated your voice, though found his dread of being heard a little pointless. Two people standing idly in black-tie garments as metros passed them by were eye-catching, for sure, but nowhere near NYC eye-catching standards. “It’s already pretty bad how late I am to my own premiere, I don’t want to have to take selfies in the subway.”

A million questions jostled about inside your head, but all you could do was stare at him, mouth agape in incomprehension. You didn’t keep up with Formula 1, hardly saw any point in cars going in circles, and perhaps a McLaren (was it McLaren or Mercedes?) superfan might have known better than you what the fuck Oscar Piastri was doing there. Not the film premiere gimmick, you were willing to believe that was the kind of fanfare F1 drivers spent their off-days doing—what the fuck he was doing alone at three in the afternoon, asking for your help in some acrid station on Lexington Avenue.

“Couldn’t you just drive to the damn premiere?”

“Oh, right, so I should just steal a car off the street?” he deadpanned.

“No, I mean… don’t you have a chauffeur? An… an agent or something? A team? How do you even end up…” you trailed off, finding no words that wouldn’t bring you to astonished frustration. Instead, you opened your arms wide, encompassing all of New York’s rickety railways. “Here?”

Piastri parted his lips to retort with one of his impassive quips, but his whole face fractured then with tremendous vulnerability.

“I’ll tell you if you help me find my way. Please?”

He did not look like the type of man who’d ever begged anyone to do anything for him—you expected a high-adrenaline junkie like him to pray for neither forgiveness nor permission—and the contrast made you consider. That, and the sheer absurdity of the situation. And the fact the only other way you could see your afternoon ending was with an onslaught of messages from some guy assuring you life had gotten “sooo hectic” in the last ten to twelve hours.

Piastri was much cuter than him anyway.

“You know what, yeah, sure, what the hell,” you shrugged with a growing smile. “I’ll help you. I could use the good karma. I’m Y/N, by the way.”

This whole plan was utterly ridiculous, and you had no idea how you’d possibly explain that to your friends when they’d ask how your date had gone, but the way Piastri deflated with relief, like his whole body was exhaling, had you convinced you’d made the right call.

“Thanks, Y/N.” He said your name with the slightest of accents, and you caught yourself wishing he could say it again. “Maps said this was the shortest path to Times Square, but I think it’s a little confused—”

“Times Square? Oh, you’re not getting anywhere near that on the 6. We need to get to Central Park North. You coming?”

You tilted your head to the side, to the staircase drenched in hazy summer light, and Piastri seemed to be weighing the pros and cons for a split second—you couldn’t fault him, to be fair; you could’ve been a stalker, or a lunatic, or the lowest echelon to a weird MLM scheme. Still, he must’ve decided whatever you were recruiting him for was less dangerous than missing this premiere, because he took off after you.

When he billowed out of the station and back into the city, Piastri winced, and at first you assumed it due to the piercing sunlight reverberating on glassy panels, or the cacophony of horns and engines. However, you quickly noticed him glancing at the passersby with frantic interest… and looking puzzled at their utter disinterest in him.

“Relax, no one’s looking at us,” you reassured him, striding down the street on autopilot. He jogged two steps to catch up.

“You sure?”

“Certain. There’s so many people in New York City, and so many of those people do weird shit, that practically anyone can go unnoticed. I assure you that this,” you gestured down at your long dress, catching the light like rippling topazes, then at the silver cufflinks on his jacket, “does not even make the top 5 weirdest things any of these people have seen today.”

But the Australian looked unsure still, twisting his thin lips in a crooked zigzag, so you stopped in your tracks and hailed a young lady passing you by on the sidewalk, Airpods firmly bolted inside her ears.

“Excuse me, do you know who this guy is—”

She strode past you with the most furtive glance biologically possible and a mechanical Nothankyouhaveagoodday. You turned back to Piastri.

“See? No one cares.”

He chuckled, face breaking like dawn, and you chuckled too with no real reason. You weren’t too sure what was funny about typical New York callousness, but the way Piastri’s eyes crinkled, still somewhat strained from stress but illuminating all his features, made you all fuzzy inside. Up close and under sunlight, he looked even younger than you’d thought, no more than twenty-five, and the shadows on his face had lifted, rounding the angles and softening the corners. Like he’d been oil-painted on canvas, ochres and whites melting into each other at the edges.

“Okay, I guess you’re the local,” he conceded, and you resumed your brisk walk.

Maybe you really were at the museum, after all.

“So,” you spoke up after a bit. “I was promised a story.”

“Right,” he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, clearly regretting his bartering skills.

“How do you, Oscar Piastri, end up late to a movie premiere and alone in a subway station?” You stepped across a grate on the sidewalk, careful not to wedge your heel in the holes. “They just left you behind? Did you oversleep or what?”

No reply, but his dry laughter morphing into a cough was a flagrant enough response.

“Oh my God, Piastri,” you gasped merrily. “Did you seriously sleep through your movie premiere?”

“No! … It’s not over yet. I’m just late for the red carpet part. I can still make it to the screening.”

You stared, unconvinced, and he stared back, unconvincing. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched your smile grow wider until he couldn’t take your teasing anymore. For heaven’s sake—you’d known him a grand total of five minutes and were already tormenting him!

“What?”

“How do they let you get away with this?”

“I was racing in Canada yesterday! God forbid a guy wants a nap,” he stressed the last as though it were some capital punishment and rolled his eyes.

Something in his demeanor was fabulously amusing. He was all relaxed tension, calculated coldness akin to what you’d expect from a person who’s constantly scrutinized; yet there was something more, a sort of agitation bubbling within, under the pores of his handsome face. Feeling so deeply and letting a stranger see so much was not in his nature, that much was clear. Every microexpression, in the lift of his brows, the curve of his lips, the arc of his eyes betrayed a kind of imbalance. He was losing his footing, like a glacier abraded from the top by the sun.

New York City had trained you for all sorts of people, including still waters like him. How to ripple their surface.

“Does this happen to you often?”

“No. Never.”

“Never missed a flight?”

“Just once. My mom woke me up screaming one hour before boarding the second ti—watch out.”

Swiftly, he grabbed your elbow and switched your spots on the sidewalk, pushing you closer to the wall. Before you could open your mouth to protest, the ground rattled from a firetruck barreling past you, ruffling Piastri’s hair and the lapels of his jacket.

“But I set three different alarms on my phone and I figured, Lando will probably break my door down if I sleep through them, so I’m safe,” he resumed, entirely unfazed. You looked up at him like he’d just performed actual magic. “But… apparently not. I woke up… twenty minutes ago?” That explained the slim, red pillow mark on his face you’d mistaken for a fading sunburn. “I wanted to call a taxi, but they’ve cut off traffic. It’s a big deal, you know? Brad Pitt’s gonna be there.”

The way he said Brad Pitt, with a tone so level it became thick with meaning and the littlest of jazz hands, made it abundantly clear there were few people on Earth Oscar Piastri would’ve been less excited about than Brad Pitt.

“Are you in it?”

“What?”

“The movie. Are you even in it?”

“Uh, my elbow is. Minute fifty-three.”

“Wow,” you giggled, arching your eyebrows in a playful wave. “So am I talking to Oscar Piastri the pro athlete, or Oscar Piastri the movie star?”

“Eh, just Oscar Piastri’s fine,” he shrugged, non-committal, though the glint of a smile now flickered uninterrupted on the corner of his lips, almost real enough to remark upon.

Your steps had carried you to the subway entrance north of Central Park already—too soon, far too soon, you thought with a faint ache in the chest. Piastri stirred in your body some kind of early-summer warmth, soft and shimmering like a drowsy morning. As soon as he would vanish to the far side of the platform, only the icy wind would remain, howling endlessly through the corridors…

Piastri, however, did not seem set on giving you up. At least judging by the tiny, tentative steps he took as he walked up to the turnstile, as though the machine could eat him the way it did cardboard tickets. You saw him take out a small, green-lettered card from his pocket… and stopped him.

“Wait, that’s not gonna work.”

“Huh?”

“Your ticket, it’s a single ride. You used that back there on Lexington, right?”

“Uh, I guess?”

“You don’t have a Metrocard?”

He turned to you, puzzled, and almost slammed into a hurried businessman in the process. Thankfully for Piastri, even assault was too inconsequential to reroute the average New Yorker, and the man just breezed past the turnstile and into the guts of the Earth with a nasty glare and a taunting beep!

“Why would I have a Metrocard, Y/N, I’m in this city about twelve hours a year.”

You glanced toward the entrance, where a faint trickle of light still seeped in. A flock of little old ladies, perhaps en route to a high-stakes bingo showdown, had laid siege to the terminals. Judging by their furrowed brows and squinting eyes, no one else in the station would be seeing so much as a hint of a ticket anytime soon.

Goodness gracious. Your helpfulness would be your undoing.

“How late are you to this thing?”

Piastri checked his watch. “Very.”

“And how much do you care about being late to this thing?”

“Normal dude Oscar Piastri? Not so much, to be honest. Formula 1 driver Oscar Piastri…”

“Say less.”

Veritable horror surfaced on Piastri’s face at your confident strides, as if he imagined you were about to vandalize your way through the gates.

“Come on! Hop over,” you signaled.

“Uh…”

“Or we could wait in line. Your call.” Like trying to get a puppy to jump through a hoop. What was he waiting for, a treat?

Or perhaps the patrol of inspectors coming down the hallway at the exact same second as Piastri gathered momentum and jumped the turnstile. That, too, seemed like a sensible thing to be on the lookout for.

The two men cried out right as his dress shoes hit the ground.

“Oh come on!” you whined. “They’re never here!”

“What do we do?!” he cried.

“What do you mean, what do we do? Just book it!”

You heard a cacophony of footsteps behind your back, promptly echoed by lighter sounds as Piastri ran down the corridor. Without a second glance, you pushed down on your hands, swung your legs forward, and… came to an abrupt halt mid-air. Looked down. Sage green fabric had wrapped around the metal blades of the turnstile, like snakes constricting their branches.

“Oscar!” you yelped.

If you’d had any doubt Oscar Piastri was the real racing deal until now, they were all silenced at once from the way he spun on his heels, ran back to you and, without a split second’s hesitation, not even the span of a breath, picked you up from your perch and took off. Instinctively your arms wrapped around the taut base of his neck as you felt his clammy hands slide down your back: the glossy fabric offered no grip to hold on to, yet his strong arms held you into place as tightly as they could. You gritted your teeth, prayed to God your heels would not fall off, and watched in stunned silence as Oscar raced down the stifling hallways.

It seemed like but an instant had passed when Oscar threw himself into the belly of the train, its imminent departure chime his very own chequered flag, and the old doors rattled shut behind you. For the first time, New Yorkers shot you strange looks. Finally you had crossed their threshold for urban bizarrerie.

And you were still in Oscar’s arms, flushed and panting even though he was the one who’d done all the running. And had barely broken a sweat.

You were about to clear your throat and kindly—begrudgingly, perhaps?—request he put you down… when the announcer’s perky voice began chirping out the next stops through the loudspeakers. You snapped your head at the line map above the doors. No matter what language she said it in, your next stop was always wrong.

“Oscar,” you murmured.

“Yeah?” he breathed out.

“We got on the wrong way.”

“There’s no oil in New York City.”

Oscar remained silent for a few seconds, as if in a trance. His jittery leg did not.

“What?” he mumbled when he broke out of his reverie.

You simply pointed at his knee, bouncing up and down since he’d sat.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to drill a hole in the ground with your shoe for. There’s no oil in New York City. If there was, Trump would’ve sucked it dry already.”

Oscar sighed, throwing his head back against the glass panel, but your heart swelled with satisfaction when you caught a glimpse of his smile.

Rippling anyone’s surface had seldom proven as easy as it was fun.

You leaned a little closer to him, and he closed his eyes with a faint grunt. His leg, however, was now still.

“Why are you so nervous about being late? You’re the main attraction, it’s not like they’re going to hold it against you.”

Hearing his reply proved difficult over the train’s thundering racket, glass windows and moist handles vibrating within their sockets like charged electrons. His eyes, mercifully still closed, allowed yours to linger on his mouth—to decipher each word as it formed, and to savor the quiet contemplation.

“Being fashionably late usually draws more attention than I like to get.”

“So why bother going? You don’t look like you enjoy being in the public eye that much anyway.”

Only one eye opened, tentatively so, and met your small, expectant smile, chin resting on your fist and your crossed legs imperceptibly brushing his. Any story he could’ve told you right then would’ve been riveting, it seemed, and for the first time in weeks Oscar found that for you, he did not mind sharing one.

“I told Lando I’d go. We collided yesterday on track and they thought it would maybe look bad if one of us showed up and not the other. Like we’re avoiding each other or something. I don’t know, PR stuff. But I promised Lando, so.” He pursed his lips then, and blew air through his nose, holding back a giggle. “Also, I don’t know, I felt like I had to go. I had a… a premonition.”

“A premonition?”

“Yeah, I don’t know, some kind of hunch. In my cereal.”

You stared at him long, assessing him and the likelihood of a lie, but he was a master of the unreadable smile, the one that could mean anything from I’m one look away from bursting into laughter to I have never dissociated more than I am currently, and even, perhaps, I wish this train ride with you would never end.

“In your cereal?”

“This morning, at the breakfast buffet, I had cereal and there was this kinda cornflake clump that looked like a clapperboard. You know,” he mimed it with his hands and the click of the tongue to match. “So I thought that was some… sign? The universe was telling me to go to this premiere, or something.” His neck tensed abruptly as he suddenly remembered himself. Who he was, and what he believed in. “But uh, that’s a little stupid. Forget it.”

The subway doors opened and closed, chimes rang and accordion tunes from the platforms faded in and out of the background chatter. You had close to lost count of how many stops were left until Times Square. The incessant ballet of New York’s illustrious unknowns would still play out, with or without your attention.

When Oscar looked down at you, almost entirely hunched over his lap and taking him in like he was an August rainshower, he found you beaming.

“No, I totally get you. This date I was supposed to go on before I ran into you… I went because Ramen showed up, even though there were so many red flags that I could’ve seen coming.”

“Who?”

“Ramen.”

“Who’s Ramen?”

“The neighbor’s cat. That’s not his real name, just what I call him.”

Oscar stared at you, expression frozen in one of delightful incomprehension, the one you get when you are not entirely sure a miracle is destined for you just yet. And you stared back, awaiting his next words for as long as it’d take them to come.

“So you went on a date because a cat told you to?”

“He didn’t tell me anything, silly, he’s a cat,” you retorted like it was the most obvious thing in the universe, to which Oscar rolled his eyes and muttered Of course. “He just stared, and every time he does it, I know I’m gonna get lucky that day. He’s never failed me before. Well, until today.”

A beat passed, during which you refused to elaborate further out of fear you’d betray the words lingering at the front of your mouth. Maybe this hadn’t been a miss for Ramen, after all. Maybe his magic had worked in unexpected ways. Oscar, on the other hand, just basked in the whole of you, and his lips slightly parted without a sound, as though they didn’t quite know where to begin.

“What?”

“It’s just… My job, this whole universe I live in, there’s no room for good luck charms or silly little superstitions. They’re just… distractions. All the answers are in the data. Our only faith is in the numbers.” And you sensed him about to say something else, something he had to wring out of the very cloth of his ribcage, but suddenly the deep wells in his pupils were sealed off with his favorite lid of deadpan humor. “Well, except the Italians. But they suck, so I wouldn’t take them as an example.”

“Oh my God, Oscar,” you gasped, “you can’t say that, do you know how many Italians there are in New Y—”

A sudden jolt shook the entire train, knocking the carriage back onto its breathless tracks; the momentum sent a teenage girl flying into a tall gym guy, who in turn crashed into you—your hands were too slow to catch you, not lighting-fast and gloved in greatness—you fell on top of Oscar, your nose buried against the open buttons of his shirt.

You were upright in less than a second, locked in a litany of Oh my God sorry’s to which Oscar replied his own recitation of No worries it’s not your fault’s. The train resumed its journey through the depths of Manhattan as if nothing had happened, and truthfully nothing had—except you were now a little closer to each other than you’d been before, and you hoped with all your might that he wouldn’t notice the way your eyelids fluttered, or how your fingertips had started burning up, or how the air was now thicker, or maybe you hoped he did, so you wouldn’t have to speak it aloud—nothing had happened, and truthfully everything had.

“Why did you think I was going to the F1 premiere back there?” you asked softly, not sure why that was the question you’d elected to go with now.

Oscar’s face was impassible—he’d found his calm, collected control back. But he didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, that you could hear his heartbeat louder than the railroad racket below.

“You looked funny.”

“Okay, you’re literally wearing a bowtie, and it’s crooked, by the way.”

“No, I mean, you looked pretty.” The faintest flick of his tongue showed above his bottom lip, undoubtedly accidental. “You looked really pretty, so I assumed you were a guest or something.”

Maybe what you’d heard and thought was his heart pulsating in sync with the wobbly tracks had not been his, but yours. Somewhere indistinct, the lady’s mechanical voice crackled something about Times Square.

“Thank you,” you smiled, with no mischief attached, this time.

“I’m… pretty glad that your date didn’t show up in the end, huh,” he laughed half-heartedly.

“Oscar, Times Square,” you sprung to your feet, nearly twisting your ankle. “That’s you!”

The doors almost chewed down on the hem of Oscar’s pants when he jumped out of the train. Without so much as a glance back or a single word of forgiveness, all the carriages vanished into heavy shadows, and the world was back to normal again.

Or almost. If there was anything even remotely normal about Times Square.

Every single light blinded you—no matter how many times you came you could never wrap your head around how the place managed to dazzle you even in broad daylight—as you both exited the metro station. Summer lay heavily on the commotion of cars, police whistles, loud music, and… screaming bloody murder?

“Ah, I think that’s my cue.”

Oscar held his hand over his eyes as he took in the scene, and only then did you notice the race cars parked in the middle of the street, some fifty meters ahead. It was probably a fair assumption, then, that the thousands of people massed near the makeshift stage, underneath gigantic screens, were all waiting for him. A fair assumption, and an incredibly odd one; to think you had spent such a mundane moment with the man they would soon shout themselves hoarse for!

“Yeah, good luck with that, I’m not going any nearer,” you forced between clenched teeth. “I hope you don’t get into too much trouble.”

When you spun on your heel, you found Oscar extending his hand out for you to shake, squinting his eyes against the sun. Or maybe it was an excuse not to have to look you in the eye more than absolutely necessary. In the same way you couldn’t tell whether your hand was slightly clammy from the heat or the nerves.

“Thanks for saving the day. Or at least mine,” he said, a little too solemn, a little too final. Like this was a farewell rather than an acknowledgment.

“Thanks for saving mine,” you replied, hoping the little smile you forced on your lips looked appropriately warm, and not inexplicably aching. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

To anyone else Oscar would’ve replied the truth—Probably not—but that was not what his bowl of cereal would have wanted of him, so he said:

“Maybe.”

He gave you a wink half a second too long, and immediately looked horrified at what he’d done, which made you double over in a flurry of giggles. When you opened your eyes, he was a few steps ahead, waving you goodbye, and you returned the salute. You watched him jog the distance to the first cameras until he was but one more black and white dot in a sea of elegant millionaires, your throat hollow save for a funny kind of longing.

Then you walked back the way you came, carrying the end of your skirt down the stairs of the metro station.

Thirty minutes later, as you rummaged through your purse for your keys in front of your apartment complex, you noticed your phone lighting up. Usually, when you went on a date, you’d put it on Do not disturb so as to not be tempted—basic education, you reckoned, and something not many dates of yours had had the courtesy of reciprocating—, but you always sent your best friend your location beforehand and allowed her and only her to go through. She knew better than to text you unless it was life or death.

Clearly, this was of the utmost importance, and the fact there were only three messages instead of the fifty-seven you were expecting did not reassure you one bit.

“bitch” “who tf is that with oscar” “and why tf is it you??????”

A link to a TikTok came up mere seconds later.

The sage green gown was unmistakable. Anything else could’ve been explained otherwise, maybe blamed on some uncanny resemblance, a fortuitous angle—it looked like the video had been shot from very far away, and the protagonists not at all aware of the recording; but you would’ve recognized that lilypad-bright dress anywhere. Just like you knew that the blurry mass of pixels near the man’s face was a pathetic excuse for a wink, and the woman doubling over for no reason was actually laughing. That she’d watched him disappear into the crowd, immobile and longing, to commit to memory the very way his bones moved when he walked.

“Oscar Piastri’s Mystery Date Gets Cold Feet Right Before Red Carpet Debut?? 👀”

You stared at your phone even as it kept going off, its vibrations tickling your palm. A series of interrogation marks, each its individual message, popped up one after the other on your notification bar, and all you could do was clutch the screen as though you could shatter it with your bare hands.

This meant nothing, you calmed yourself down. This would blow over soon, you swore. As soon as they realized Oscar Piastri would never be seen again with this mysterious woman, and that it was never anything serious. Anything at all, even. That the New Yorker in apple green was just a mirage on his path, pertaining only to him and for a split instant.

And even if things didn’t smooth over… you had a feeling Oscar’s team would have no problem tracking you down.

⤷ liked this fic? then you might enjoy... endless giggles (ln4)!

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